13762	----	Team REPORT OF MR W. E. CORMACK'S JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF THE RED INDIANS IN NEWFOUNDLAND Read before the Boeothick Institution at St John's, Newfoundland Pursuant to special summons, a meeting of this Institution was held at St John's on the 12th day of January 1828; the Honourable A.W. Desbarres, Vice-Patron, in the chair. The Honourable Chairman stated, that the primary motive which led to the formation of the Institution, was the desire of opening a communication with, and promoting the civilization of, the Red Indians of Newfoundland; and of procuring, if possible, an authentic history of that unhappy race of people, in order that their language, customs and pursuits, might be contrasted with those of other tribes of Indians and nations;--that, in following up the chief object of the institution, it was anticipated that much information would be obtained respecting the natural productions of the island; the interior of which is less known than any other of the British possessions abroad. Their excellent President, keeping all these objects in view, had permitted nothing worthy of research to escape his scrutiny, and consequently a very wide field of information was now introduced to their notice, all apparently highly interesting and useful to society, if properly cultivated. He was aware of their very natural anxiety to hear from the president an outline of his recent expedition, and he would occupy their attention farther, only by observing, that the purposes of the present meeting would be best accomplished by taking into consideration the different subjects recommended to them in the president's report, and passing such resolutions as might be considered necessary to govern the future proceedings of the Institution. The President, W.E. Cormack, Esq. then laid the following Statement before the meeting. Having so recently returned, I will now only lay before you a brief outline of my expedition in search of the Boeothicks or Red Indians, confining my remarks exclusively to its primary object. A detailed report of the journey will be prepared, and submitted to the Institution, whenever I shall have leisure to arrange the other interesting materials which have been collected. My party consisted of three Indians, whom I procured from among the other different tribes, viz. an intelligent and able man of the Abenakie tribe, from Canada; an elderly Mountaineer from Labrador; and an adventurous young Micmack, a native of this island, together with myself. It was difficult to obtain men fit for the purpose, and the trouble attending on this prevented my entering on the expedition a month earlier in the season. It was my intention to have commenced our search at White Bay, which is nearer the northern extremity of the island than where we did, and to have travelled southward; but the weather not permitting to carry my party thither by water, after several days delay, I unwillingly changed my line of route. On the 31st of October 1828 [Sic: 30th of October 1827] last, we entered the country at the mouth of the River Exploits, on the north side, at what is called the Northern Arm. We took a north-westerly direction to lead us to Hall's Bay, which place we reached through an almost uninterrupted forest, over a hilly country, in eight days. This tract comprehends the country interior from New Bay, Badger Bay, Seal Bay, &c.; these being minor bays, included in Green or Notre Dame Bay, at the north-east part of the island, and well known to have been always heretofore the summer residence of the Red Indians. On the fourth day after our departure, at the east end of Badger Bay-Great Lake, at a _portage_ known by the name of the Indian Path, we found traces made by the Red Indians, evidently in the spring or summer of the preceding year. Their party had had two canoes; and here was a _canoe-rest_, on which the daubs of red-ochre, and the roots of trees used to fasten or tie it together appeared fresh. A canoe-rest is simply a few beams, supported horizontally, about five feet from the ground, by perpendicular posts. A party with two canoes, when descending from the interior to the sea-coast, through such a part of the country as this, where there are troublesome portages, leave one canoe resting, bottom up, on this kind of frame, to protect it from injury by the weather, until their return. Among other things which lay strewed about here, were a spear-shaft, eight feet in length, recently made and ochred; parts of old canoes, fragments of their skin-dresses, &c. For some distance around, the trunks of many of the birch, and of that species of spruce pine called here the Var (_Pinus balsamifera_), had been rinded; these people using the inner part of the bark of that kind of tree for food. Some of the cuts in the trees with the axe were evidently made the preceding year. Besides these, we were elated by other encouraging signs. The traces left by the Red Indians are so peculiar, that we were confident those we saw here were made by them. This spot has been a favourite place of settlement with these people. It is situated at the commencement of a _portage_, which forms a communication by a path between the sea-coast at Badger Bay, about eight miles to the north-east, and a chain of lakes extending westerly and southerly from hence, and discharging themselves by a rivulet into the River Exploits, about thirty miles from its mouth. A path also leads from this place to the lakes, near New Bay, to the eastward. Here are the remains of one of their villages, where the vestiges of eight or ten winter _mamateeks_ or wigwams, each intended to contain from six to eighteen or twenty people, are distinctly seen close together. Besides these, there are the remains of a number of summer wigwams. Every winter wigwam has close by it a small square-mouthed or oblong pit, dug into the earth, about four feet deep, to preserve their stores, &c. in. Some of these pits were lined with birch-rind. We discovered also in this village the remains of a vapour-bath. The method used by the Boeothicks to raise the steam, was by pouring water on large stones, made very hot for the purpose, in the open air, by burning a quantity of wood around them; after this process, the ashes were removed, and a hemispherical frame-work, closely covered with skins, to exclude the external air, was fixed over the stones. The patient then crept in under the skins, taking with him a birch-rind-bucket of water, and a small bark-dish to dip it out, which, by pouring on the stones, enabled him to raise the steam at pleasure[A]. At Hall's Bay we got no useful information from the three (and the only) English families settled there. Indeed we could hardly have expected any; for these, and such people, have been the unchecked and ruthless destroyers of the tribe, the remnant of which we were in search of. After sleeping one night in a _house_, we again struck into the country to the westward. In five days we were on the high lands south of White Bay, and in sight of the high lands east of the Bay of Islands, on the west coast of Newfoundland. The country south and west of us was low and flat, consisting of marshes, extending in a southerly direction more than thirty miles. In this direction lies the famous Red Indians' Lake. It was now near the middle of November, and the winter had commenced pretty severely in the interior. The country was everywhere covered with snow, and, for some days past, we had walked over the small ponds on the ice. The summits of the hills on which we stood had snow on them, in some places many feet deep. The deer were migrating from the rugged and dreary mountains in the north to the low mossy barrens and more woody parts in the south; and we inferred, that if any of the Red Indians had been at White Bay during the past summer, they might be at that time stationed about the borders of the low tract of country before us, at the _deer-passes_, or were employed somewhere else in the interior, killing deer for winter provision. At these passes, which are particular places in the migration lines of path, such as the extreme ends of, and straights in, many of the large lakes,--the foot of valleys between high or rugged mountains,--fords in the large rivers, and the like,--the Indians kill great numbers of deer with very little trouble, during their migrations. We looked out for two days from the summits of the hills adjacent, trying to discover the smoke from the camps of the Red Indians; but in vain. These hills command a very extensive view of the country in every direction. We now determined to proceed towards the Red Indians' Lake, sanguine that, at that known rendezvous, we would find the objects of our search. Travelling over such a country, except when winter has fairly set in, is truly laborious. In about ten days we got a glimpse of this beautifully majestic and splendid sheet of water. The ravages of fire, which we saw in the woods for the last two days, indicated that man had been near. We looked down on the lake, from the hills at the northern extremity, with feelings of anxiety and admiration:--No canoe could be discovered moving on its placid surface in the distance. We were the first Europeans who had seen it in an unfrozen state, for the three former parties who had visited it before, were here in the winter, when its waters were frozen and covered over with snow. They had reached it from below, by way of the River Exploits, on the ice. We approached the lake with hope and caution; but found to our mortification that the Red Indians had deserted it for some years past. My party had been so excited, so sanguine, and so determined to obtain an interview of some kind with these people, that, on discovering, from appearances every where around us, that the Red Indians--the terror of the Europeans as well as the other Indian inhabitants of Newfoundland--no longer existed, the spirits of one and all of us were very deeply affected. The old mountaineer was particularly overcome. There were every where indications that this had long been the central and undisturbed rendezvous of the tribe, where they had enjoyed peace and security. But these primitive people had abandoned it, after having been tormented by parties of Europeans during the last eighteen [Sic: thirteen] years. Fatal rencounters had on these occasions unfortunately taken place. We spent several melancholy days wandering on the borders of the east end of the lake, surveying the various remains of what we now contemplated to have been an unoffending and cruelly extirpated people. At several places, by the margin of the lake, are small clusters of winter and summer wigwams in ruins. One difference, among others, between the Boeothick wigwams and those of the other Indians is, that in most of the former there are small hollows, like nests, dug in the earth around the fire-place, one for each person to sit in. These hollows are generally so close together, and also so close to the fire-place, and to the sides of the wigwam, that I think it probable these people have been accustomed to sleep in a sitting position. There was one wooden building constructed for drying and smoking venison in, still perfect; also a small log-house, in a dilapidated condition, which we took to have been once a store-house. The wreck of a large handsome birch-rind canoe, about twenty-two feet in length, comparatively new, and certainly very little used, lay thrown up among the bushes at the beach. We supposed that the violence of a storm had rent it in the way it was found, and that the people who were in it had perished; for the iron nails, of which there was no want, all remained in it. Had there been any survivors, nails being much prized by these people, they never having held intercourse with Europeans, such an article would most likely have been taken out for use again. All the birch trees in the vicinity of the lake had been rinded, and many of them and of the spruce fir or var (_Pinus balsamifera_, Canadian balsam tree) had the bark taken off, to use the inner part of it for food, as noticed before. Their wooden repositories for the dead are what are in the most perfect state of preservation. These are of different constructions, it would appear, according to the character or rank of the persons entombed. In one of them, which resembled a hut, ten feet by eight or nine, and four or five feet high in the centre, floored with squared poles, the roof covered with rinds of trees, and in every way well secured against the weather inside and the intrusion of wild beasts, there were two grown persons laid out at full length on the floor, the bodies wrapped round with deer-skins. One of these bodies appeared to have been placed here not longer ago than five or six years. We thought there were children laid in here also. On first opening this building, by removing the posts which formed the ends, our curiosity was raised to the highest pitch; but what added to our surprise, was the discovery of a white deal coffin, containing a skeleton neatly shrouded in white muslin. After a long pause of conjecture how such a thing existed here, the idea of _Mary March_ occurred to one of the party, and the whole mystery was at once explained[B]. In this cemetery were deposited a variety of articles, in some instances the property, in others the representations of the property and utensils, and of the achievements, of the deceased. There were two small wooden images of a man and woman, no doubt meant to represent husband and wife; a small doll, which we supposed to represent a child (for _Mary March_ had to leave her only child here, which died two days after she was taken): several small models of their canoes; two small models of boats; an iron axe; a bow and quiver of arrows were placed by the side of _Mary March's_ husband; and two fire-stones (radiated iron pyrites, from which they produce fire, by striking them together) lay at his head; there were also various kinds of culinary utensils, neatly made, of birch-rind, and ornamented; and many other things, of some of which we did not know the use or meaning. Another mode of sepulture which we saw here was, where the body of the deceased had been wrapped in birch rind, and with his property, placed on a sort of scaffold about four feet and a-half from the ground. The scaffold was formed of four posts, about seven feet high, fixed perpendicularly in the ground, to sustain a kind of crib, five feet and a-half in length by four in breadth, with a floor made of small squared beams, laid close together horizontally, and on which the body and property rested. A third mode was, when the body, bent together, and wrapped in birch-rind, was enclosed in a kind of box on the ground. The box was made of small squared posts, laid on each other horizontally, and notched at the corners, to make them meet close; it was about four feet by three, and two and a-half feet deep, and well lined with birch-rind, to exclude the weather from the inside. The body lay on its right side. A fourth, and the most common mode of burying among these people, has been, to wrap the body in birch-rind, and cover it over with a heap of stones, on the surface of the earth, in some retired spot; sometimes the body, thus wrapped up, is put a foot or two under the surface, and the spot covered with stones; in one place, where the ground was sandy and soft, they appeared to have been buried deeper, and no stones placed over the graves. These people appear to have always shewn great respect for their dead; and the most remarkable remains of them commonly observed by Europeans, at the sea-coast, are their burying-places. These are at particular chosen spots; and it is well known that they have been in the habit of bringing their dead from a distance to them. With their women, they bury only their clothes. On the north side of the lake, opposite the River Exploits, are the extremities of two deer fences, about half a mile apart, where they lead to the water. It is understood that they diverge many miles in north-westerly directions. The Red Indians make these fences to lead and scare the deer to the lake, during the periodical migration of these animals; the Indians being stationed looking out, when the deer get into the water to swim across, the lake being narrow at this end, they attack and kill the animals with spears out of their canoes. In this way they secure their winter provisions before the severity of that season sets in. There were other old remains of different kinds peculiar to these people met with about the lake. One night we encamped on the foundation of an old Red Indian wigwam, on the extremity of a point of land which juts out into the lake, and exposed to the view of the whole country around. A large fire at night is the life and soul of such a party as ours, and when it blazed up at times, I could not help observing, that two of my Indians evinced uneasiness and want of confidence in things around, as if they thought themselves usurpers on the Red Indian territory. From time immemorial none of the Indians of the other tribes had ever encamped near this lake fearlessly, and, as we had now done, in the very centre of such a country; the lake and territory adjacent having been always considered to belong exclusively to the Red Indians, and to have been occupied by them. It had been our invariable practice hitherto to encamp near hills, and be on their summits by the dawn of day, to try to discover the morning smoke ascending from the Red Indians' camps; and, to prevent the discovery of ourselves, we extinguished our own fire always some length of time before day-light. Our only and frail hope now left of seeing the Red Indians lay on the banks of the River Exploits, on our return to the sea-coast. The Red Indians' Lake discharges itself about three or four miles from its north-east end, and its waters from the River Exploits. From the lake to the sea-coast is considered about seventy miles; and down this noble river the steady perseverance and intrepidity of my Indians carried me on rafts in four days, to accomplish which otherwise, would have required, probably, two weeks. We landed at various places on both banks of the river on our way down, but found no traces of the Red Indians so recent as those seen at the portage at Badger Bay-Great Lake, towards the beginning of our excursion. During our descent, we had to construct new rafts at the different waterfalls. Sometimes we were carried down the rapids at the rate of ten miles an hour or more, with considerable risk of destruction to the whole party, for we were always together on one raft. What arrests the attention most while gliding down the stream, is the extent of the Indian fences to entrap the deer. They extend from the lake downwards, continuous, on the banks of the river at least thirty miles. There are openings left here and there in them, for the animals to go through and swim across the river, and at these places the Indians are stationed, and kill them in the water with spears, out of their canoes, as at the lake. Here, then, connecting these fences with those on the north-west side of the lake, is at least forty miles of country, easterly and westerly, prepared to intercept all the deer that pass that way in their periodical migrations. It was melancholy to contemplate the gigantic, yet feeble efforts of a whole primitive nation, in their anxiety to provide subsistence, forsaken and going to decay. There must have been hundreds of the Red Indians, and that not many years ago, to have kept up these fences and ponds. As their numbers were lessened so was their ability to keep them up for the purposes intended; and now the deer pass the whole line unmolested. We infer, that the few of these people who yet survive, have taken refuge in some sequestered spot, still in the northern part of the island, and where they can procure deer to subsist on. On the 29th November we were again returned to the mouth of the River Exploits, in thirty days after our departure from thence, after having made a complete circuit of about 200 miles in the Red Indian territory. * * * * * I have now stated generally the result of my excursion, avoiding, for the present, entering into any detail. The materials collected on this, as well as on my excursion across the interior a few years ago, and on other occasions, put me in possession of a general knowledge of the natural condition and productions of Newfoundland; and, as a member of an institution formed to protect the aboriginal inhabitants of the country in which we live, and to prosecute inquiry into the moral character of man in his primitive state, I can, at this early stage of our institution, assert, trusting to nothing vague, that we already possess more information concerning these people than has been obtained during the two centuries and a-half in which Newfoundland has been in the possession of Europeans. But it is to be lamented that now, when we have taken up the cause of a barbarously treated people, so few should remain to reap the benefit of our plans for their civilization. The institution and its supporters will agree with me, that, after the unfortunate circumstances attending past encounters between the Europeans and the Red Indians, it is best now to employ Indians belonging to the other tribes to be the medium of beginning the intercourse we have in view; and indeed I have already chosen three of the most intelligent men from among the others met with in Newfoundland to follow up my search. In conclusion, I congratulate the institution on the acquisition of several ingenious articles, the manufacture of the _Boeothicks_, some of which we had the good fortune to discover on our recent excursion;--models of their canoes, bows and arrows, spears of different kinds, &c. and also a complete dress worn by that people. Their mode of kindling fire is not only original, but as far as we at present know, is peculiar to the tribe. These articles, together with a short vocabulary of their language consisting of 200 to 300 words, which I have been enabled to collect, prove the Boeothicks to be a distinct tribe from any hitherto discovered in North America. One remarkable characteristic of their language, and in which it resembles those of Europe more than any other Indian languages do, with which we have had an opportunity of comparing it,--is its abounding in diphthongs. In my detailed report, I would propose to have plates of these articles, and also of the like articles used by other tribes of Indians, that a comparative idea may be formed of them; and, when the Indian female _Shawnawdithit_ arrives in St John's, I would recommend that a correct likeness of her be taken, and be preserved in the records of the institution. One of the specimens of mineralogy which we found in our excursion, was a block of what is called _Labrador Felspar_, nearly four one-half feet in length, by about three feet in breadth and thickness. This is the largest piece of that beautiful rock yet discovered any where. Our subsistence in the interior was entirely animal food, deer and beavers, which we shot. * * * * * "_Resolved_,--That the measures recommended in the president's report be agreed to; and that the three men, Indians of the Canadian and Mountaineer tribes, be placed upon the establishment of this institution, to be employed under the immediate direction and control of the president; and that they be allowed for their services such a sum of money as the president may consider a fair and reasonable compensation: That it be the endeavour of this institution to collect every useful information respecting the natural productions and resources of this island, and, from time to time, to publish the same in its reports: That the instruction of _Shawnawdithit_ would be much accelerated by bringing her to St John's, &c.: That the proceedings of the institution, since its establishment, be laid before his Majesty's Secretary of State for the Colonial Department, by the president, on his arrival in England. (Signed) "A.W. des BARRES, Chairman and Vice-Patron." Footnotes: [Footnote A: Since my return, I learn from the captive Red Indian woman _Shawnawdithit_, that the vapour-bath is chiefly used by old people, and for rheumatic affections. _Shanawdithit_ is the survivor of three Red Indian females, who were taken by, or rather who gave themselves up, exhausted with hunger, to some English furriers, about five years ago, in Notre Dame Bay. She is the only one of that tribe in the hands of the English, and the only one that has ever lived so long among them. It appears extraordinary, and it is to be regretted, that this woman has not been taken care of, nor noticed before, in a manner which the peculiar and interesting circumstances connected with her tribe and herself would have led us to expect.] [Footnote B: It should be remarked here, that Mary March, so called from the name of the month in which she was taken, was the Red Indian female who was captured and carried away by force from this place by an armed party of English people, nine or ten in number, who came up here in the month of March 1809.[Sic: 1819] The local government authorities at that time did not foresee the result of offering a reward to _bring a Red Indian to them_. Her husband was cruelly shot, after nobly making several attempts, single-handed, to rescue her from the captors, in defiance of their fire-arms and fixed bayonets. His tribe built this cemetery for him, on the foundation of his own wigwam, and his body is one of those now in it. The following winter, Captain Buchan was sent to the River Exploits, by order of the local government of Newfoundland, to take back this woman to the lake where she was captured, and, if possible, at the same time, to open a friendly intercourse with her tribe. But she died on board Captain B.'s vessel, at the mouth of the river. Captain B., however, took up her body to the lake; and not meeting with any of her people, left it where they were afterwards likely to meet with it. It appears the Indians were this winter encamped on the banks of the River Exploits, and observed Captain B.'s party passing up the river on the ice. They retired from their encampments in consequence; and, some weeks afterwards, went by a circuitous route to the lake, to ascertain what the party had been doing there. They found _Mary March's_ body, and removed it from where Captain B. had left it to where it now lies, by the side of her husband. With the exception of Captain Buchan's first expedition, by order of the local government of Newfoundland, in the winter of 1810, [Sic: 1815] to endeavour to open a friendly intercourse with the Red Indians, the two parties just mentioned are the only two we know of that had ever before been up to the Red Indian Lake. Captain B. at that time succeeded in forcing an interview with the principal encampment of these people. All of the tribe that remained at that period were then at the Great Lake, divided into parties, and in their winter encampments, at different places in the woods on the margin of the lake. Hostages were exchanged; but Captain B. had not been absent from the Indians two hours, in his return to a depot left by him at a short distance down the river, to take up additional presents for them, when the want of confidence of these people in the whites evinced itself. A suspicion spread among them that he had gone down to bring up a reinforcement of men to take them all prisoners to the sea-coast; and they resolved immediately to break up their encampment and retire farther into the country, and alarm and join the rest of their tribe, who were all at the western parts of the lake. To prevent their proceedings being known, they killed and then cut off the heads of the two English hostages; and, on the same afternoon on which Captain B. had left them, they were in full retreat across the lake, with baggage, children, &c. The whole of them afterwards spent the remainder of the winter together, at a place twenty to thirty miles to the south-west, on the south-east side of the lake. On Captain B.'s return to the lake next day or the day after, the cause of the scene there was inexplicable; and it remained a mystery until now, when we can gather some facts relating to these people from the Red Indian woman _Shawnawdithit_.] 
14866	----	Commission of Conservation Canada ANIMAL SANCTUARIES IN LABRADOR AN ADDRESS PRESENTED BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C. Before the Second Annual Meeting of the Commission of Conservation at Quebec, January, 1911 OTTAWA: CAPITAL PRESS LIMITED, 1911 _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_ An Address Presented BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD BEFORE THE SECOND ANNUAL MEETING OF THE COMMISSION OF CONSERVATION HELD AT QUEBEC, JANUARY, 1911 An Appeal All to whom wild Nature is one of the greatest glories of the Earth, all who know its higher significance for civilized man to-day, and all who consequently prize it as an heirloom for posterity, are asked to help in keeping the animal life of Labrador from being wantonly done to death. There is nothing to cause disagreement among the three main classes of people most interested in wild life--the men whose business depends in any way on animal products, the sportsmen, and the Nature-lovers of every kind. There are very good reasons why the general public should support the scheme. And there are equally good reasons why it should be induced to do so by simply telling it the truth about the senseless extermination that is now going on. Every reader can help by spreading some knowledge of the subject in his or her home circle. Canada, like all free countries, is governed by public opinion. And sound public opinion, like all other good things, should always begin at home. The Press can help, as it has helped many another good cause, by giving the subject full publicity. Free use can be made of the present paper in any way desired. It is left non-copyright for this very purpose. Experts can help by pointing out mistakes, giving information, and making suggestions of their own. And if any of them will undertake to lead, the present author will undertake to follow. It is proposed to issue a supplement in 1912, containing all the additional information collected in the mean time. Every such item of information will be duly credited to the person supplying it. All correspondence should be addressed-- COLONEL WOOD, 59, Grande Allée, Quebec. Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador BY LIEUT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD, F.R.S.C., ETC. MR. CHAIRMAN AND GENTLEMEN:-- To be quite honest I must begin by saying that I am not a scientific expert on either animals, sanctuaries or Labrador. But, by way of excusing my temerity, I can plead a life-long love of animals, a good deal of experience and study of them--especially down the Lower St. Lawrence, and considerable attention to sanctuaries in general and their suitability to Labrador in particular. Moreover, I can plead this most pressingly important fact, that a magnificent opportunity is fast slipping away before our very eyes there, without a single effort being made to seize it. I have repeatedly discussed the question with those best qualified to give sound advice--with naturalists, explorers, missionaries, fishermen, furriers, traders, hunters, sportsmen, and many who are accustomed to look ahead into the higher development of our public life. I have also read the books, papers and reports written from up-to-date and first-hand knowledge. And, though I have been careful to consult men who regard such questions from very different points of view, and books showing quite as wide a general divergence, I have found a remarkable consensus of opinion in favour of establishing a system of sanctuaries before it is too late. I should like to add that any information on the subject, or any correction of what I have written here, will be most welcome. The simple address, Quebec, will always find me. The only special point I would ask correspondents to remember is that even the best recommendations must be adapted to the peculiarities of the Labrador problem, which is new, strange, immense, and full of complex human factors. Perhaps I might be allowed to explain that I speak simply as a Canadian. I am not connected with any of the material interests concerned. I do not even belong to a Fish and Game club. My only object is to prove, from verifiable facts, that animal life in Labrador is being recklessly and wantonly squandered, that this is detrimental to everyone except the get-rich-quickly people who are ready to destroy any natural resources forever in order to reap an immediate and selfish advantage, that sanctuaries will better conditions in every way, and that the ultimate benefit to Canada--both in a material and a higher sense--will repay the small present expense required, over and over again. And this repayment need not be long deferred. I can show that once the public grasps the issues at stake it will supply enough petitioners to move any government based on popular support, and that the scheme itself will supply enough money to make the sanctuaries a national asset of the most paying kind, and enough higher human interest to make them priceless as a possession for ourselves and a heritage for all who come after. If, Sir, you would allow me to make one more preliminary explanation, I should like to say that I have purposely left out all the usual array of statistics. I have, of course, examined them carefully myself, and based my arguments upon them. But I have excluded them from my text because they would have made an already long paper unduly longer, and because they are perfectly accessible to every member of the Commission which I have the honour of addressing to-night. SANCTUARIES. A sanctuary may be defined as a place where Man is passive and the rest of Nature active. Till quite recently Nature had her own sanctuaries, where man either did not go at all or only as a tool-using animal in comparatively small numbers. But now, in this machinery age, there is no place left where man cannot go with overwhelming forces at his command. He can strangle to death all the nobler wild life in the world to-day. To-morrow he certainly will have done so, unless he exercises due foresight and self-control in the mean time. There is not the slightest doubt that birds and mammals are now being killed off much faster than they can breed. And it is always the largest and noblest forms of life that suffer most. The whales and elephants, lions and eagles, go. The rats and flies, and all mean parasites, remain. This is inevitable in certain cases. But it is wanton killing off that I am speaking of to-night. Civilized man begins by destroying the very forms of wild life he learns to appreciate most when he becomes still more civilized. The obvious remedy is to begin conservation at an earlier stage, when it is easier and better in every way, by enforcing laws for close seasons, game preserves, the selective protection of certain species, and sanctuaries. I have just defined a sanctuary as a place where man is passive and the rest of Nature active. But this general definition is too absolute for any special case. The mere fact that man has to protect a sanctuary does away with his purely passive attitude. Then, he can be beneficially active by destroying pests and parasites, like bot-flies or mosquitoes, and by finding antidotes for diseases like the epidemic which periodically kills off the rabbits and thus starves many of the carnivora to death. But, except in cases where experiment has proved his intervention to be beneficial, the less he upsets the balance of Nature the better, even when he tries to be an earthly Providence. In itself a sanctuary is a kind of wild "zoo," on a gigantic scale and under ideal conditions. As such, it appeals to everyone interested in animals, from the greatest zoologist to the mere holiday tourist. Before concluding I shall give facts to show how well worth while it would be to establish sanctuaries, even if there were no other people to enjoy the benefits. Yet the strongest of all arguments is that sanctuaries, far from conflicting with other interests, actually further them. But unless we make these sanctuaries soon we shall be infamous forever, as the one generation which defrauded posterity of all the preservable wild life that Nature took a million years to evolve into its present beautiful perfection. Only a certain amount of animal life can exist in a certain area. The surplus must go outside. So sanctuaries are more than wild "zoos", they are overflowing reservoirs, fed by their own springs, and feeding streams of life at every outlet. They serve not only those interested in animal life, but those legitimately interested in animal death, for business, sport or food. I might mention many instances of successful sanctuaries, permanent or temporary, absolute or modified--the Algonquin, Rocky Mountains, Yoho, Glacier, Jasper and Laurentides in Canada; the Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Cañon, Olympus and Superior in the United States; with the sea-lions of California, the wonderful revival of ibex in Spain and deer in Maine and New Brunswick, the great preserves in Uganda, India and Ceylon, the selective work of Baron von Berlepsch in Germany, the curious result of taboo protection up the Nelson river, and the effects on seafowl in cases as far apart in time and space as the guano islands under the Incas of Peru, Gardiner island in the United States or the Bass rock off the coast of Scotland. Yet I do not ignore the difficulties. First, there is the universal difficulty of introducing or enforcing laws where there have been no operative laws before. Next, there is the difficulty of arousing public opinion on any subject, however worthy, which requires both insight and foresight. Then, we must remember that protected species increasing beyond their special means of subsistence have to seek other kinds of food, sometimes with unfortunate results. And then there are the several special difficulties connected with Labrador. There are three British governments concerned--Newfoundland, the Dominion and the province of Quebec. There are French and American fishermen along the shore. The proper protection of some migratory species will require co-operation with the United States, perhaps with Mexico and South America for certain birds, and even with Denmark for the Greenland seal. Then, there are the Indians, the whole trade in animal products, the necessity of not interfering with any legitimate development, and the question of immediate expense, however small, for a deferred benefit, however great and near at hand. And, finally, we must remember that scientific knowledge is not by any means adequate to deal with all the factors of the problem at once. LABRADOR But in spite of all these and many other difficulties, I firmly believe that Labrador is by far the best country in the world for the best kinds of sanctuary. The first time you're on a lee shore there, in a full gale, you may well be excused for shrinking back from the wild white line of devouring breakers. But when you actually make for them you find the coast opening into archipelagoes of islands, to let you safely through into the snug little "tickles," between island and mainland, where you can ride out the storm as well as you could in a landlocked harbour. This is typical of many another pleasant surprise. Labrador decidedly improves on acquaintance. The fogs have been grossly exaggerated. The Atlantic seaboard is clearer than the British Isles, which, by the way, lie in exactly the same latitudes. And the Gulf is far clearer than New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and the Banks. The climate is exceptionally healthy, the air a most invigorating tonic, and the cold no greater than in many a civilized northern land. Besides, there is a considerable range of temperatures in a country whose extreme north and south lie 1,000 miles apart, one in the latitude of Greenland, the other in that of Paris. Taking the Labrador peninsula geographically, as including the whole area east of a line run up the Saguenay and on from lake St. John to James bay, it comprises 560,000 square miles--eleven Englands! The actual residents hardly number 20,000. About twice as many outsiders appear off the coasts at certain seasons. So it would take a tenfold increase, afloat and ashore, to make one human being to each square mile of land. But, all the same, wild life needs conservation there, and needs it badly, as we shall presently see. Most of Labrador is a rocky tableland, still rising from the depths, with some old beaches as much as 1,500 feet above the present level of the sea. The St. Lawrence seaboard is famous for its rivers and forests. The Atlantic seaboard has the same myriads of islands, is magnificently bold, is pierced by fiords unexcelled in Norway, and crowned by mountains higher than any others east of the Rockies. Hamilton inlet runs in 150 miles. At Ramah the cliffs rise sheer three thousand five hundred feet and more. The Four peaks, still untrodden by the foot of man, rise more than twice as high again. And the colouration, of every splendid hue, adds beauty to the grandeur of the scene. Inland, there are lakes up to 100 miles long, big rivers by the score, deep canyons and foaming rapids--to say nothing of the countless waterfalls, of which the greatest equals two Niagaras. This vast country is accessible by sea on three sides, and will soon be accessible by land on the fourth. It lies directly half-way between Great Britain and our own North West and is 1,000 miles nearer London than New York is. Its timber, mines and water-power will be increasingly exploited. It should also become increasingly attractive to the best type of tourist, naturalist and sportsman. But supposing all this does happen. The mines, water-powers and lumbering will only create small towns and villages. There will surely be some conservation to have the forests used and not abused especially by fire: and the white man should remember that he is the worst of all in turning a land from green to black. Except in the southwest and a few isolated spots, the country cannot be farmed. At the same time, the urban population must have communications with the outside world, by which regular supplies can come in. This will make the settlers independent of wild life for necessary food; and wild life, in any case, would be too precarious if exploited in the usual way. The traders in wild-animal products, as well as the naturalists, sportsmen and tourists, are interested in keeping the rest of the country well stocked. So that, one way and another, the human and wild-animal life will not conflict, as they do where farming creates a widespread rural population, or wanton destruction of forests ruins land and water, and human and animal life have to suffer for it afterwards. All the different places required for business spheres of influence in the near future, added to all the business spheres of the present, can hardly exceed the area of one whole England, especially if all suitable areas are not thrown open simultaneously to lumbering, at the risk of the usual bad results. So there will remain ten other Englands, admirably fitted, in all respects, to grow wild life in the most beneficial abundance, and quite able to do so indefinitely, if a reasonable amount of general protection is combined with well-situated sanctuaries. The fauna is much more richly varied than people who think of Labrador as nothing but an arctic barren are inclined to suppose. The fisheries have been known for centuries, especially the cod, which has a prerogative right to the simple word "fish." There are herring and lobsters in the Gulf, plenty of salmon and trout in most of the rivers, winninish in all the tributary waters of the Hamilton, as well as in lake St. John, whitefish in the lakes, and so forth. Then, the stone-carrying chub is one of the most interesting creatures in the world.... But the fish and fisheries have problems of their own too great for incidental treatment; and I shall pass on to the birds and mammals. Yet I must not forget the "flies"--who that has felt them once can ever forget them? Labrador is not a very happy hunting-ground for the entomologist. But all it lacks in variety of kinds it more than makes up in number of individuals, especially in the detestable trio of bot-flies, blackflies and mosquitoes. The bot-fly infests the caribou and will probably infest the reindeer. The blackfly and mosquito attack both man and beast in maddening millions. The mosquito is not malarious. But that is the only bad thing he is not. Destruction is "conservation" so far as "flies," parasites and disease germs are concerned. Labrador has over 200 species of birds, from humming-birds and sanderlings to eagles, gannets, loons and herons. Among those able to hold their own, with proper encouragement, are the following: two loons, two murres, the puffin, guillemot, razor-billed auk, dovekie and pomarine jæger; six gulls--ivory, kittiwake, glaucous, great black-back, herring and Bonaparte; two terns--arctic and common; the fulmar, two shearwaters, two cormorants, the red-breasted merganser and the gannet; seven ducks--the black, golden-eye, old squaw and harlequin, with the American, king and Greenland eiders; three scoters; four geese--snow, blue, brant and Canada; two phalaropes, several sandpipers, with the Hudsonian godwit and both yellowlegs; two snipes; five plovers; and the Eskimo and Hudsonian curlews. These two curlews should be absolutely closed to all shooting everywhere for several seasons. They are on the verge of extinction; and it may even now be too late to save them. The great blue heron and American bittern are not common, but less rare than they are supposed to be. Except for the willow and rock ptarmigans the land game-birds are not many in kind or numbers. There are a fair number of ruffed grouse in the south, and more spruce grouse in the north. The birds of prey are well represented by a few golden and more bald-headed eagles, the American rough-legged and other hawks, the black and the white gyrfalcons, the osprey, and eight owls, including the great horned owl, the boldest bird of all. The raven is widely distributed all the year round. Several woodpeckers, kingfishers, jays, bluebird, kingbird, chickadee, snow bunting; several sparrows, including, fortunately, the white-crowned, white-throat and song, but now, unfortunately, the English as well. There are blackbirds, red-polls, a dozen warblers, the American robin, hermit thrush and ruby-throated humming-bird. Both the land and sea mammals are of great importance. Several whales are well known. The Right is almost exterminated; but the Greenland, or Bow-head, is found along the edge of the ice in all Hudsonian waters. The Pollock is rare, and the Sperm, or Cachalot, as nearly exterminated as the Right. But the Little-piked, or _rostrata_, is found inshore along the north and east, the Bottle-nose on the north, the Humpback on the east and south; and the Finback and Sulphur-bottom are common and widely distributed, especially on the east. The Little White whale, or "White porpoise," is fairly common all round; the Killer is widely distributed, but most numerous on the east, where the Narwhal is also found. The Harbour and Striped porpoises, and the Common and Bottle-nosed dolphins, are chiefly on the east and south. There are six Seals--the Harbour, Ringed, Harp, Bearded, Grey and Hooded. The Harbour seal is also called the "Common" and the "Wise" seal, and is the _vitulina_ of zoology. It is common all round the coasts, and the Indians of the interior assert that many live permanently in the lakes. Big and Little Seal lakes are more than 100 miles from the nearest salt water. The Ringed seal is locally called "floe rat" and "gum seal." It is the smallest and least valuable of all, and fairly common all round. The Harp seal is "seal," in the same way as cod is "fish." It has various local names, five among the French-Canadians alone, but is specifically known as the Greenland seal. The young, immediately after birth, have a fine white coat, which makes them valuable. The herds are followed on a large scale at the end of the winter season, which is also the whelping season, and hundreds of thousands are killed, females and young preponderating. They are still common along the east and south, but diminishing steadily, especially in the St. Lawrence. The Bearded, or "Square-flipper," seal is rare in the St. Lawrence and on the Atlantic, but commoner in Hudsonian waters. It is a large seal, eight feet long, and bulky in proportion. The Grey, or Horse-head, seal runs up to about the same size occasionally and is one of the gamest animals that swims. It is rare on the Atlantic and not common anywhere on the St. Lawrence. The "Hoods" are the largest of all and the lions of the lot. They run up to 1,000 pounds and over, and sometimes fourteen feet long. They are rare on the Atlantic and decreasing along the St. Lawrence, owing to the Newfoundland hunters. The Walrus, formerly abundant all round, is now rarely seen except in the far north, where he is fast decreasing. Moose may feel their way in by the southwest to an increasing extent, and might possibly be reinforced by the Alaskan variety. Red deer might possibly be induced to enter by the same way in fair numbers over a limited area. The woodland caribou is almost exterminated, but might be resuscitated. The barren-ground caribou is still plentiful in the north, where most of the herds appear to migrate in an immense ellipse, crossing from west to east, over the barrens, in the fall, to the Atlantic, and then turning south and west through the woods in winter, till they reach their original starting-point near Hudson bay in the spring. But this is not to be counted on. The herds divide, change direction, and linger in different places. Their tame brother, the reindeer, is being introduced as the chief domestic animal of Eastern Labrador, with apparently every prospect of success. Beaver are fairly common and widely distributed in forested areas. Other rodents are frequent--squirrels, musk-rats, mice, voles, lemmings, hares and porcupines. There are two bats. Black bears are general; polars, in the north. Grizzlies have been traded at Fort Chimo in Ungava, but they are probably all killed out. The lynx is common wherever there are woods. There are two wolves, arctic and timber, the latter now rare in the south. The Labrador red fox is very common in the woods, and the "white," or arctic fox, in the barrens and further south on both coasts. The "cross," "silver" and "black" variations of course occur, as they naturally increase towards the northern limits of range. The "blue" is a seasonal change of the "white." The wolverine and otter are common. The skunk is only known in the southwest. The mink ranges through the southern third of the peninsula. The Labrador marten, or "sable," is a sub-species, generally distributed in the forested parts, like the weasel. The "fisher," or Pennant's marten, is much more local, ranging only between the "North Shore" and Mistassini. From the St. Lawrence to the Barren Grounds three-fourths of the land has been burnt over since the white man came. The resultant loss of all forms of life may be imagined, especially when we remember that the fire often burns up the very soil itself, leaving nothing but rocks and black desolation. Still, there is plenty of fur and feather worth preserving. But nothing can save it unless conservation replaces the present reckless destruction. DESTRUCTION When rich virgin soil is first farmed it yields a maximum harvest for a minimum of human care. But presently it begins to fail, and will fail altogether unless man returns to it in one form some of the richness he expects to get from it in another. Now, exploited wild life fails even faster under wasteful treatment; but, on the other hand, with hardly any of the trouble required for continuous farming, quickly recovers itself by being simply let alone. So when we consider how easily it can be preserved in Labrador, and how beneficial its preservation is to all concerned, we can understand how the wanton destruction going on there is quite as idiotic as it is wrong. Take "egging" as an example. The Indians, Eskimos and other beasts of prey merely preserved the balance of nature by the toll they used to take. No beast of prey, not even the white man, will destroy his own stock supply of food. But with the nineteenth century came the white-man market "eggers", systematically taking or destroying every egg in every place they visited. Halifax, Quebec and other towns were centres of the trade. The "eggers" increased in numbers and thoroughness till the eggs decreased in the more accessible spots below paying quantities. But other egging still goes on unchecked. The game laws of the province of Quebec distinctly state: "It is forbidden to take nests or eggs of wild birds at any time". But the swarms of fishermen who come up the north shore of the St. Lawrence egg wherever they go. If they are only to stay in the same spot for a day or two, they gather all the eggs they can, put them into water, and throw away every one that floats. Sometimes three, four, five or even ten times as many are thrown away as are kept, and all those bird lives lost for nothing. Worse still, if the men are going to stay long enough they will often go round the nests and make sure of smashing every single egg. Then they come back in a few days and gather every single egg, because they know it has been laid in the mean time and must be fresh. When we remember how many thousands of men visit the shore, and that the resident population eggs on its own account, at least as high up as the Pilgrims, only 100 miles from Quebec, we need not be prophets to foresee the inevitable end of all bird life when subjected to such a drain. And this is on the St. Lawrence, where there are laws and wardens and fewer fishermen. What about the Atlantic Labrador, where there are no laws, no wardens, many more fishermen, and ruthless competitive egging between the residents and visitors? Of course, where people must egg or starve there is nothing more to be said. But this sort of egging is very limited, not enough to destroy the birds, and the necessity for it will become less frequent as other sources of supply become available. It is the utterly wanton destruction that is the real trouble. And it is just as bad with the birds as with the eggs. A schooner captain says, "Now, boys, here's your butcher shop: help yourselves!" and this, remember, is in the brooding season. Not long ago the men from a vessel in Cross harbour landed on an islet full of eiders and killed every single brooding mother. Such men have grown up to this, and there is that amount of excuse for them. Besides, they ate the birds, though they destroyed the broods. Yet, as they always say, "We don't know no law here," it may be suspected that they do know there really is one. These men do a partly excusable wrong. But what about those who ought to know better? In the summer of 1907 an American millionaire's yacht landed a party who shot as many brooding birds on St. Mary island as they chose, and then left the bodies to rot and the broods to perish. That was, presumably, for sport. For the same kind of sport, motor boats cut circles round diving birds, drown them, and let the bodies float away. The North Shore people have drowned myriads of moulting scoters in August; but they use the meat. Bestial forms of sport are many and vile. "C'est un plaisir superbe" was the description given by some voyageurs on exploring work, who had spent the afternoon chasing young birds about the rocks and stamping them to death. Deer were literally hacked to pieces by construction gangs on new lines last summer. Dynamiting a stream is quite a common trick wherever it is safe to play it. Harbour seals are wantonly shot in deep fresh water where they cannot be recovered, much as seagulls are shot by blackguards from an ocean liner. And the worst of it is that all this wanton destruction is not by any means confined to the ignorant or those who have been brought up to it. The men from the American yacht must have known better. So do those educated men from our own cities, who shoot out of season down the St. Lawrence and plead, quite falsely, that there is no game law below the Brandy Pots. It is, of course, well understood that a man can always shoot for necessary food. But this provision is shamelessly misused. Last summer, when a great employer of labour down the Gulf was telling where birds could be shot to the greatest advantage out of season, and I was objecting that it was not clean sport, he said, "Oh, but Indians can shoot for food at any time--_and we're all Indians here!"_ And what are we to think of a rich man who used caribou simply as targets for his new rifle, and a scientific man who killed 72 in one morning, only to make a record? We need the true ideal of sport and an altogether new ideal of conservation, and we need them very badly and very soon. We have had our warnings. The great auk and the Labrador duck have both become utterly extinct within living memory. The Eskimo curlew is decreasing to the danger point, and the Yellowlegs is following. The lobster fishing is being wastefully conducted along the St. Lawrence; so, indeed, are the other fisheries. Whales are diminishing: the Cape Charles and Hawke Harbour establishments are running, but those at L'Anse au Loup and Seven islands are not. The whole whaling industry is disappearing all over the world before the uncontrolled persecution of the new steam whalers. The walrus is exterminated everywhere in Labrador except in the north. The seals are diminishing. Every year the hunters are better supplied with better implements of butchery. The catch is numbered by the hundreds of thousands, and this only for one fleet in one place at one season, when the Newfoundlanders come up the St. Lawrence at the end of the winter. The woodland caribou has been killed off to such an extent as to cause both Indians and wolves to die off with him. The barren-ground caribou is still plentiful, though decreasing. The dying out of so many Indians before the time of the Low and Eaton expedition of 1893-4 led to an increase of fur-bearing animals. But renewed, improved, increased and uncontrolled trapping has now reduced them below their former level. Hunting for the market seems to be going round in a vicious circle, always narrowing in on the quarry, which must ultimately be strangled to death. The white man comes in with better equipment, more systematic methods and often a "get-rich-and-get-out" idea that never entered a native head. The Indian has to go further afield. The white follows. Their prey shrinks back in diminishing numbers before them both. Prices go up. The hunt becomes keener, the animals fewer and farther off. Presently hunters and hunted will reach the far side of the utmost limits. And then traded, traders and trade will all disappear together. And it might so well be otherwise. There is another point that should never be passed over. In these days the public conscience is beginning to realize that the objection to man's cruelty towards his other fellow-beings is something more than a fad or a fancy. And wanton slaughter is very apt to be accompanied by shameless cruelty. To kill off parents when the young are helpless.... But I have already given enough sickening details of this. The treatment of the adults is almost worse in many typical cases. An Indian will skin a hare alive and gloat over his quivering death-agonies. The excuse is, "white man have fun, Indian have fun, too." And it is a valid excuse, from one point of view. When "there's nothing in caribou" except the value of the tongue, the tongue has been cut out of the living deer, whose only other value is considered to be the amusement afforded by his horrible fate. And, fiendish cruelty like this is not confined to the outer wilds. When some civilized English-speaking bird-catchers get a bird they do not want, they will deliberately wrench its bill apart, so that it must die of lingering starvation. Sometimes the cruelty is done to man himself. Not so many years ago some whalers secured a lot of walrus hides and tusks by having a whole herd of walrus wiped out, in spite of the fact that these animals were, at that very time, known to be the only food available for a neighbouring tribe of Eskimos. The Eskimos were starved to death, every soul among them, as the Government explorers found out. But Eskimos have no votes and never write to the papers; while walrus hides were booming in the markets of civilization. Things like these are not much spoken of. They very rarely appear in print. And when they are mentioned at all it is generally with an apology for introducing unpleasant details. But I am sure I need not apologize to gentlemen who are anxious to know the full truth of this great question, who cannot fail to see the connection between wanton destruction and revolting cruelty, and who must be as ready to rouse the moral conscience of our people against the cruelty as they are to rouse its awakening sense of conservation against the destruction. CONSERVATION All the sound reasons ever given for conserving other natural resources apply to the conservation of wild life--and with three-fold power. When a spend-thrift squanders his capital it is lost to him and his heirs; yet it goes somewhere else. When a nation allows any one kind of natural resource to be squandered it must suffer a real, positive loss; yet substitutes of another kind can generally be found. But when wild life is squandered it does not go elsewhere, like squandered money; it cannot possibly be replaced by any substitute, as some inorganic resources are: it is simply an absolute, dead loss, gone beyond even the hope of recall. Now, we have seen verifiable facts enough to prove that Labrador, out of its total area of eleven Englands, is not likely to be advantageously exploitable over much more than the area of one England for other purposes than the growth and harvesting of wild life by land and water. How are these ten Englands to be brought under conservation, before it is too late, in the best interests of the five chief classes of people who are concerned already or will be soon? Of course, the same individual may belong to more than one class. I merely use these divisions to make sure of considering all sides of the question. The five great interests are those of--1. Food. 2. Business. 3. The Indians and Eskimos. 4. Sport, and 5. The Zoophilists, by which I mean all people interested in wild-animal life, from zoologists to tourists. 1. FOOD.--The resident population is so sparse that there is not one person for every 20,000 acres; and most of these people live on the coast. Consequently, the vast interior could not be used for food supplies in any case. Besides, ever since the white man occupied the coast, the immediate hinterland, which used to be full of life, has become more and more barren. Fish is plentiful enough. A few small crops of common vegetables could be grown in many places, and outside supplies are becoming more available. So the toll of birds and mammals taken by the present genuine residents for necessary food is not a menace, if taken in reason. In isolated places in the Gulf, like Harrington, the Provincial law might safely be relaxed, so as to allow the eggs of ducks and gulls to be taken up to the 5th of June and those of murres, auks and puffins up to the 15th. Flight birds might also be shot at any time on the outside capes and islands. There is a local unwritten law down there--"No guns inside, after the 1st of June"--and it has been kept for twenty years. Similar relaxations might be allowed in other places, in genuine cases of necessity. But the egging and out-of-season slaughter done by people, resident or not, who are in touch with the outside world, should be stopped absolutely. And the few walrus now required as food by the few out-living Eskimos should be strictly protected. Of course, killing for food under real stress of need at any time or place goes without saying. The real and spurious cases will soon be discriminated by any proper system. 2. BUSINESS.--Business is done in fish, whales, seals, fur, game, plumage and eggs. The fish are a problem apart. But it is worth noting that uncontrolled exploitation is beginning to affect even their countless numbers in certain places. Whales have always been exploited indiscriminately, and their wide range outside of territorial waters adds to the difficulties of any regulation. But some seasonal and sanctuary protection is necessary to prevent their becoming extinct. The "white porpoise" could have its young protected; and whaling stations afford means of inspection and consequent control. The only chance at present is that when whales become too scarce to pay they are let alone, and may revive a little. The seals can be protected locally and ought to be. The preponderance of females and young killed in the whelping season is a drain impossible for them to withstand under modern conditions of slaughter. The difficulty of policing large areas simultaneously might be compensated for by special sanctuaries. The Americans are protecting their seals by restrictions on the numbers, ages and sex of those killed; and doing so successfully. The fur trade is open to the same sort of wise restriction, when necessary, to the protection of wild fur by the breeding of tame, as in the fox farms, and to the benefits of sanctuaries. Marketable game, plumage and eggs can be regulated at out ports and markets. And the extension of suitable laws to non-game animals, coupled with the establishment of sanctuaries, would soon improve conditions all round, especially in the interest of business itself. No one wants his business to be destroyed. But if Labrador is left without control indefinitely every business dealing with the products of wild life will be obliged to play the suicidal game of competitive grab till the last source of supply is exhausted, and capital, income and employment all go together. 3. INDIANS AND ESKIMOS.--The Eskimos are few and mostly localized. The Indians stand to gain by anything that will keep the fur trade in full vigour, as they are mostly hunters and trappers. Restriction on the number of skins, if that should prove necessary, and certainly on the sale of all poisons, could be made operative. Strychnine is said to kill animals eating the carcases even so far as to the seventh remove. Close seasons and sanctuaries are difficult to enforce with all Indians. But the registration of trappers, the enforcement of laws, the employment of Indians as guides for sportsmen, and other means, would have a salutary effect. The full-bloods, unfortunately, do not take kindly to guiding. Indians wishing to change their way of life or proving persistent lawbreakers might be hived in reserves with their wives and families. The reserves themselves would cost nothing, the Indians could find employment as other Indians have, and the expense of establishing would be a bagatelle. As a matter of fact, in spite of all the bad bargains having always been on the Indian side when sales and treaties were made with the whites, there is enough money to the credit of the Indians in the hands of the Government to establish a dozen hives and keep the people in them as idle as drones on the mere interest of it. But good hunting grounds are better than good hives. 4. SPORT.--Sport should have a great future in Labrador. Inland game birds, except ptarmigan, are the only kind of which there is never likely to be a great abundance, owing to the natural scarcity of their food. But, besides the big game on land and game birds on the coast, there are some unusual forms of sport appealing to adventurous natures. Harpooning the little white whale by hand in a North Shore canoe, or shooting the largest and gamest of all the seals--the great "hood"--also out of a canoe, requires enough skill and courage to make success its own reward. The extension and enforcement of proper game laws would benefit sport directly, while indirectly benefitting all the other interests. 5. ZOOPHILISTS.--The zoophilist class seems only in place as an afterthought. But I am convinced that it will soon become of at least equal importance with any other. All the people, from zoologists to tourists, who are drawn to such places by the attraction of seeing animal life in its own surroundings, already form an immense class in every community. And it is a rapidly increasing class. Could we do posterity any greater injury than by destroying the ten Englands of glorious wild life in Labrador, just at the very time when our own and other publics are beginning to appreciate the value of the appeal which such haunts of Nature make to all the highest faculties of civilized man? The way can be made clear by scientific study. The laws can be drawn up by any intelligent legislators, and enforced quite as efficiently as other laws have been by the Mounted Police in the North West. The expense will be small, the benefits great and widely felt. The only real hitch is the uninformed and therefore apathetic state of public opinion. If people only knew that Labrador contained a hundred Saguenays, wild zoos, Thousand Islands, fiords, palisades, sea mountains, cañons, great lakes and waterfalls, if they only knew that they could get the enjoyment of it for a song, and make it an heirloom for no more trouble than letting it live, they might do all that is needed to-morrow. But they don't know. And the three Governments cannot do much without the support of public opinion. At present they do practically nothing. The Ungavan Labrador has neither organization nor laws. The Newfoundland Labrador has organization but no laws. And the Quebec Labrador has laws but no observance of them. However, Quebec has laws, which are something, legislators who have made the laws, and leaders who have introduced them. The trouble is that the public generally has no sense of responsibility in the matter of enforcement. It still has a hazy idea that Nature has an overflowing sanctuary of her own, somewhere or other, which will fill up the gaps automatically. The result is that poaching is commonly regarded as a venial offence, poachers taken red-handed are rarely punished, and willing ears are always lent to the cry that rich sportsmen are trying to take the bread out of the poor settler's mouth. The poor settler does not reflect that he himself, and all other classes alike, really have a common interest in the conservation of any wild life that does not conflict with legitimate human development. There is some just cause of complaint that the big-game reserves are hampering the peasants in parts of India and the settlers and natives in parts of Uganda. But no such complaint can be raised against the Laurentide National Park, so wisely established by the Quebec Government. The worst of it is that many of the richer people set the example in law-breaking. The numbers of big game allowed are exceeded, out-of-season shooting goes on, and both out-of-season and forbidden game is sold in the markets and served at the dinner tables of the very class who should be first in protecting it. Partly because Quebec has taken the lead in legislation, and partly because an ideal site is ready to hand under its jurisdiction, I would venture to suggest the immediate establishment of an absolute sanctuary for all wild birds and mammals along as much of the coast as possible on either side of cape Whittle. The best place of all to keep is from cape Whittle eastward to cape Mekattina, 64 miles in a straight line by sea. The 45 miles from cape Mekattina eastward to Shekatika bay are probably the next best; and, next, the 35 from cape Whittle westward to Cloudberry point. As there are 800 miles between Quebec and the Strait, I am only proposing to make from one-tenth to one-fifth of them into a sanctuary. And this part is the least fitted for other purposes, except sea-fishing, which would not be restricted at all, the least inhabited, and the most likely to succeed as a sanctuary, especially for birds. Cape Whittle is 550 miles below Quebec, 70 below Natashkwan, which is the last port of call for the mail boats, and 50 below Kegashka, the last green spot along the shore. It faces cape Gregory, near the bay of Islands in Newfoundland, 130 miles across; and is almost as far from the north-east point of Anticosti. It is a great landmark for coasting vessels, and for the seal herds as well. A refuge for seals is absolutely necessary to preserve their numbers and the business connected with them. Of course, I know there is a feeling that, if they are going to disappear, the best thing to do is to exploit them to the utmost in the meanwhile, so as to snatch every present advantage, regardless of consequences. But is this business, sense, or conservation? Even if any restriction in the way of numbers, sex, age or season should be imposed on seal hunting, a small sanctuary cannot but be beneficial. While, if there is no other protection, a sanctuary is a _sine qua non_. It is possible that some protection might also be afforded to the whales that hug the shore. The case of the birds is quite as strong, and the chance of protection by this sanctuary much greater. With the exception of the limited egging and shooting for the necessary food of the few residents--the whole district of Mekattina contained only 213 people at the last census--not an egg nor a bird should be touched at all. The birds soon find out where they are well off, and their increase will recruit the whole river and gulf. A few outlying bird sanctuaries should be established in connection with this one, which might be called the Harrington Sanctuary, as Harrington is a well-known telegraph station, a central point between cape Whittle and Mekattina, and it enjoys a name that can be easily pronounced. In the Gulf the Bird rocks and Bonaventure island to the south; one of the Mingan islands, the Perroquets and Egg island to the north; with the Pilgrims, up the River, above the Saguenay and off the South Shore, are the best. The Pilgrims, 700 miles from the Atlantic, are probably the furthest inland point in the world where the eider breeds. They would make an ideal seabird sanctuary. On the Atlantic Labrador there are plenty of suitable islands from which to choose two or three sanctuaries, between Hamilton inlet and Ramah. The east coast of Hudson bay is full of islands from which two corresponding sanctuaries might be selected, one in the neighbourhood of the Portland promontory and the other in the southeast corner of James bay. There is the further question--affecting all migratory animals, but especially birds--of making international agreements for their protection. There are precedents for this, both in the Old World and in the New. And, so far as the United States are concerned, there should be no great difficulty. True, they have set us some lamentable examples of wanton destruction. But they have also set us some noble examples of conservation. And we have good friends at court, in the members of the New York Zoological, the Audubon and other societies, in Mr. Roosevelt, himself an ardent conserver of wild life, and in Mr. Bryce, who is an ex-president of the Alpine Club and a devoted lover of nature. Immediate steps should be taken to link our own bird sanctuaries with the splendid American chain of them which runs round the Gulf of Mexico and up the Atlantic coast to within easy reach of the boundary line. Corresponding international chains up the Mississippi and along the Pacific would be of immense benefit to all species, and more particularly to those unfortunate ones which are forced to migrate down along the shore and back by the middle of the continent, thus running the deadly gauntlet both by land and sea. Inland sanctuaries are more difficult to choose and manage. A deer sanctuary might answer near James bay. Fur sanctuaries must also be in some fairly accessible places, on the seaward sides of the various heights-of-land, and not too far in. The evergreen stretches of the Eastmain river have several favourable spots. What is needed most is an immediate examination by a trained zoologist. The existing information should be brought together and carefully digested for him in advance. There are the Dominion, Provincial and Newfoundland official reports; the Hudson Bay Company, the Moravian missionaries; Dr. Robert Bell, Mr. A.P. Low, Mr. D.I.V. Eaton, Dr. Grenfell, Dr. Hare, Mr. Napoléon Comeau, not to mention previous writers, like Packard, McLean and Cartwright--a whole host of original authorities. But their work has never been thoroughly co-ordinated from a zoological point of view. A form of sanctuary suggested for the fur-bearing Yukon is well worth considering. It consists in opening and closing the country by alternate sections, like crops and fallow land in farming. The Indians have followed this method for generations, dividing the family hunting grounds into three parts, hunting each in rotation, and always leaving enough to breed back the numbers. But the pressure of the grab-all policy from outside may become irresistible. The one great point to remember is that there is no time to lose in beginning conservation by protecting every species in at least two separate localities. A word as to the management and wardens. Two zoologists and twenty men afloat, and the same number ashore, could probably do the whole work, in connection with local wardens. This may seem utterly ridiculous as a police force to patrol ten Englands and three thousand miles of sea. But look at what the Royal North West Mounted Police have done over vast areas with a handful of men, and what has been effected in Maine, New Brunswick and Ontario. Once the public understands the question, and the governments mean business, the way of the transgressor will be so hard--between the wardens, zoologists and all the preventive machinery of modern administration--that it will no longer pay him to walk in it. Special precautions must be taken against that vilest of all inventions of diabolical ingenuity--the Maxim "silencer." No argument is needed to prove that silent firearms could not suit crime better if they were made expressly for it. The mere possession of any kind of "silencer" should constitute a most serious criminal offence. The right kind of warden will be forthcoming when he is really wanted and is properly backed up. I need not describe the wrong kind. We all know him, only too well. BENEFITS I am afraid I have already exceeded my allotted time. But, with your kind indulgence, Sir, I should like, in conclusion, simply to enumerate a few of the benefits certain to follow the introduction and enforcement of law and the establishment of sanctuaries. First, it cannot be denied that the constant breaking of the present law makes for bad citizenship, and that the observance of law will make for good. Next, though it is often said that what Canada needs most is development and not conservation, I think no one will deny that conservation is the best and most certainly productive form of development in the case before us. Then, I think we have here a really unique opportunity of effecting a reform that will unite and not divide all the legitimate interests concerned. What could appear to have less in common than electricity and sanctuaries? Yet electricity in Labrador requires water-power, which requires a steady flow, which requires a head-water forest, which, in its turn, is admirably fit to shelter wild life. Except for those who would selfishly and shortsightedly take all this wealth of wild life out of the world altogether, in one grasping generation, there is nobody who will not be the better for the change. I have talked with interested parties of every different kind, and always found them agree that conservation is the only thing to do--provided, as they invariably add, that it is done "straight" and "the same for all." Fourthly, a word as to sport. I have invoked the public conscience against wanton destruction and its inevitable accompaniment of cruelty. I know, further, that man is generally cruel and a bully towards other animals. And, as an extreme evolutionist, I believe all animals are alike in kind, however much they may differ in degree. But I don't think clean sport cruel. It does not add to the sum total of cruelty under present conditions. Wild animals shun pain and death as we do. But under Nature they never die what we call natural deaths. They starve or get killed. Moreover, town-bred humanitarians feel pain and death more than the simpler races of men, who, in their turn, feel it more than lower animals. A wild animal that has just escaped death will resume its occupation as if nothing had happened. The sportsman's clean kill is only an incident in the day's work, not anxiously apprehended like an operation or a battle. But pain and death are very real, all the same. So death should be inflicted as quickly as possible, even at the risk of losing the rest of one's bag. And, even beyond the reach of any laws, no animal should ever be killed in sport when its own death might entail the lingering death of its young. A sportsman who observes these rules instinctively, and who never kills what he cannot get and use, is not a cruel man. He certainly is a beast of prey. But so is the most delicate invalid woman when drinking a cup of beef tea. Sport has its use in the development of health and skill and courage. Its practice is one of life's eternal compromises. And the best thing we can do for it now is to make it clean. We have far too much of the other kind. The essential difference has never been more shrewdly put than in the caustic epigram, that there is the same difference between a sportsman and a "sport" as there is between a gentleman and a "gent." I believe that the enforcement of laws and the establishment of sanctuaries will raise our sport to a higher plane, reduce the suffering now inflicted when killing for business, and help in every way towards the conversion of the human into the humane. Besides, paradoxical as it may seem to some good people, the true sportsman has always proved to be one of the very best conservers of all wild life worth keeping. So there is a distinctly desirable benefit to be expected in this direction, as in every other. Finally, I return to my zoophilists, a vast but formless class of people, both in and outside of the other classes mentioned, and one which includes every man, woman and child with any fondness for wild life, from zoologists to tourists. There are higher considerations, never to be forgotten. But let me first press the point that there's money in the zoophilists--plenty of it. A gentleman, in whom you, Sir, and your whole Commission have the greatest confidence, and who was not particularly inexpert at the subject, made an under-valuation to the extent of no less than 75 per cent., when trying to estimate the amount of money made by the transportation companies directly out of travel to "Nature" places for sport, study, scenery and other kinds of outing. There is money in it now, millions of it; and there is going to be much more money in it later on. Civilized town-dwelling men, women and children are turning more and more to wild Nature for a holiday. And their interest in Nature is widening and deepening in proportion. I do not say this as a rhetorical flourish. I have taken particular pains to find out the actual growth of this interest, which is shown in ways as comprehensive as educational curricula, picture books for children, all sorts of "Animal" works, "zoos", museums, lectures, periodicals and advertisements; and I find all facts pointing the same way. The president of one of the greatest publishers' associations in the world told me, and without being asked, that the most marked and the steadiest development in the trade was in "Nature" books of every kind. And this reminds me of the countless readers who rarely hear the call of the wild themselves, except through word and picture, but who would bitterly and justifiably resent the silencing of that call in the very places where it ought to be heard at its best. Now, where can the call of wild Nature be heard to greater advantage than in Labrador, which is a land made on purpose to be the home of fur, fin and feather? And it is accessible, in the best of all possible ways--by sea. It is about equidistant from central Canada, England and the States--a wilderness park for all of them. Means of communication are multiplying fast. Even now, it would be possible, in a good steamer, to take a month's holiday from London to Labrador, spending twenty days on the coast and only ten at sea. I think we may be quite sure of such travel in the near future; that is, of course, if the travellers have a land of life, not death, to come to. And an excellent thing about it is that Labrador cannot be overrun and spoilt like what our American friends so aptly call a "pocket wilderness". Ten wild Englands, properly conserved, cannot be brought into the catalogue of common things quite so easily as all that! Besides, Labrador enjoys a double advantage in being essentially a seaboard country. The visitor has the advantage of being able to see a great deal of it--and the finest parts, too--without getting out of touch with his moveable base afloat. And the country itself has the corresponding advantage of being less liable to be turned into a commonplace summer resort by the whole monotonizing apparatus of hotels and boarding houses and conventional "sights". And now, Sir, I venture once more to mention the higher interests, and actually to specify one of them, although I have been repeatedly warned by outsiders that no public men would ever listen to anything which could not be expressed in "easy terms of dollars and cents!" And I do so in full confidence that no appeal to the intellectual life would fall on deaf ears among the members of a Commission which was founded to lead rather than follow the best thought of our time. I need not remind you that from the topmost heights of Evolution you can see whole realms of Nature infinitely surpassing all those of business, sport and tourist recreation, and that the theory of Evolution itself is the crowned brain of the entire Animal Kingdom. But I doubt whether, as yet, we fully realize that Labrador is absolutely unique in being the only stage on which the prologue and living pageant of Evolution can be seen together from a single panoramic point of view. The sea and sky are everywhere the same primeval elements. But no other country has so much primeval land to match them. Labrador is a miracle of youth and age combined. It is still growing out of the depths with the irresistible vigour of youth. But its titanic tablelands consist of those azoic rocks which form the very roots of all the other mountains in the world, and which are so old, so immeasurably older than any others now standing on the surface of the globe, that their Laurentians alone have the real right to bear the title of "The Everlasting Hills". Being azoic these Laurentians are older than the first age when our remotest ancestors appeared in the earliest of animal forms, millions and millions of years ago. They are, in fact, the only part of the visible Earth which was present when Life itself was born. So here are the three great elemental characters, all together--the primal sea and sky and land--to act the azoic prologue. And here, too, for all mankind to glory in, is the whole pageant of animal life: from the weakest invertebrate forms, which link us with the illimitable past, to the mightiest developments of birds and mammals at the present day, the leviathan whales around us, the soaring eagles overhead, and man himself--the culmination of them all--and especially migrating man, whose incoming myriads are linking us already with the most pregnant phases of the future. Where else are there so many intimate appeals both to the child and the philosopher? Where else, in all this world, are there any parts of the Creation more fit to exalt our visions and make us "Look, through Nature, up to Nature's God"? But, Sir, I must stop here; and not without renewed apologies for having detained you so long over a question on which, as I have already warned you, I do not profess to be a scientific expert. I fear I have been no architect, not even a builder. But perhaps I have done a hodman's work, by bringing a little mortar, with which some of the nobler materials may presently be put together. Bibliography This short list is a mere indication of what can be found in any good library. General information is given in _Labrador; its Discovery, Exploration and Development--By W.G. Gosling: Toronto, Musson._ The Atlantic Labrador is dealt with by competent experts in _Labrador: the Country and the People--By W.T. Grenfell and Others: New York, The Macmillan Company, 1910._ This has several valuable chapters on the fauna. The Peninsula generally, the interior especially, and the fauna incidentally, are dealt with in the reports of _A.P. Low_ and _D.I.V. Eaton_ to the _Geological Survey of Canada, 1893-4-5._ An excellent general paper on the country is _The Labrador Peninsula, By Robert Bell_, in _The Scottish Geographical Magazine_ for July, 1895. The N. of the S.W. part is more particularly described in his _Recent Explorations to the South of Hudson Bay_ in _The Geographical Journal_ for July, 1897. The Quebec Labrador is the subject of a recent Provincial report, _La Côte Nord du Saint Laurent et le Labrador Canadien--Par Eugène Rouillard: Quebec, 1908--Ministère de la Colonisation, des Mines et des Pêcheries._ An excellent account of animal life on the W. half of the Quebec Labrador is to be found in _Life and Sport on the North Shore--By Napoléon A. Comeau: Quebec, 1909._ The zoology of the Mammals, though not particularly in their Labrador habitat, is to be found in _Life-Histories of Northern Mammals--By Ernest Thompson-Seton: London, Constable, 2 Vols., 1910._ The birds, similarly, in the _Catalogue of Canadian Birds--By John Macoun and James M. Macoun: Ottawa, Government Printing Bureau, 1909._ Some books about adjacent areas may be profitably consulted, like _Newfoundland and its Untrodden Ways--By John Guille Millais,_ and American official publications, like the _Birds of New York--By Elon Howard Eaton: Albany, University of the State of New York, 1910._ No. 34 of the _New York Zoological Society Bulletin_--for June, 1909--is a "Wild-life Preservation Number." The best general history and present-day summary of the world's fur trade is to be found in a recent German work, a genuine _Urquellengeschichte._ French and English translations will presumably appear in due course. The statistical tables are wonderfully complete. The illustrations are the least satisfactory feature. This book is--_Aus dem Reiche der Pelze. Von Emil Brass: Berlin, Im Verlage der Neuen Pelzwaren-Zeitung, 1911._ 
14014	----	No. 556 DANGERS ON THE ICE OFF THE COAST OF LABRADOR With Some Interesting Particulars Respecting the Natives of that Country Printed for the Religious Tract Society London [Price One Penny] [Illustration] The Moravian Missionaries on the coast of Labrador (a part of North America) for many years suffered much from the severity of the climate, and the savage disposition of the natives. In the year 1782, the brethren, Liebisch and Turner, experienced a remarkable preservation of their lives; the particulars show the dangers the Missionaries underwent in pursuing their labours. To this Narrative are added some further particulars, which show their labours were not without success. Early on March the 11th, they left Nain to go to Okkak, a journey of 150 miles. They travelled in a sledge drawn by dogs, and another sledge with Esquimaux joined them, the whole party consisting of five men, one woman, and a child. The weather was remarkably fine, and the track over the frozen sea was in the best order, so that they travelled at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. All therefore were in good spirits, hoping to reach Okkak in two or three days. Having passed the islands in the bay, they kept at a considerable distance from the shore, both to gain the smoothest part of the ice, and to avoid the high and rocky promontory of Kiglapeit. About eight o'clock they met a sledge with Esquimaux driving towards the land, who intimated that it might be well not to proceed; but as the missionaries saw no reason for it, they paid no regard to these hints, and went on. In a while, however, their own Esquimaux remarked, that there was a swell under the ice. It was then hardly perceptible, except on applying the ear close to the ice, when a hollow grating and roaring noise was heard. The weather remained clear, and no sudden change was expected. But the motion of the sea under the ice had grown so perceptible as rather to alarm our travellers, and they began to think it prudent to keep closer to the shore. The ice in many places had fissures and cracks, some of which formed chasms of one or two feet wide; but as they are not uncommon, and the dogs easily leap over them, the sledge following without danger, they are terrible only to new comers. As soon as the sun declined, the wind increased and rose to a storm. The snow was driven about by whirl winds, both on the ice and from off the peaks of the high mountains, and filled the air. At the same time the swell had increased so much, that its effects upon the ice became very extraordinary and alarming. The sledges, instead of gliding along smoothly upon an even surface, sometimes ran with violence after the dogs, and shortly after seemed with difficulty to ascend the rising hill; for the elasticity of so vast a body of ice, of many leagues square, supported by a troubled sea, though in some places three or four yards in thickness, would, in some degree, occasion a motion not unlike that of a sheet of paper upon the surface of a rippling stream. Noises were now likewise heard in many directions, like the report of cannon, owing to the bursting of the ice at some distance. The Esquimaux drove with all haste towards the shore, as it plainly appeared the ice would break and disperse in the open sea. When the sledges approached the coast, the prospect before them was truly terrific. The ice, having broken loose from the rocks, was forced up and down, grinding and breaking into a thousand pieces against the precipices, with a tremendous noise, which, added to the raging of the wind, and the snow driving about in the air, nearly deprived the travellers of the power of hearing and seeing any thing distinctly. To make the land at any risk, was now the only hope left, but it was with the utmost difficulty the frighted dogs could be forced forward, the whole body of the ice sinking frequently below the rocks, then rising above them. As the only moment to land was that when the ice gained the level of the shore, the attempt was extremely nice and hazardous. However, by God's mercy, it succeeded; both sledges gained the shore, and were drawn up the beach, though with much difficulty. The travellers had hardly time to reflect with gratitude to God for their safety, when that part of the ice from which they had just now made good their landing, burst asunder, and the water forcing itself from below, covered and precipitated it into the sea. In an instant, the whole mass of ice, extending for several miles from the coast, and as far as the eye could reach, burst, and was overwhelmed by the rolling waves. The sight was tremendous and awfully grand; the large fields of ice raising themselves out of the water, striking against each other, and plunging into the deep, with a violence not to be described, and a noise like the discharge of innumerable batteries of heavy guns. The darkness of the night; the roaring of the wind and the sea, and the dashing of the waves and ice against the rocks, filled the travellers with sensations of awe and horror, so as almost to deprive them of the power of utterance. They stood overwhelmed with astonishment at their miraculous escape, and even the heathen Esquimaux expressed gratitude to God for their deliverance. The Esquimaux now began to build a hut with snow, about thirty paces from the beach, but before they had finished their work, the waves reached the place where the sledges were secured, and they were with difficulty saved from being washed into the sea. About nine o'clock all of them crept into the snow-house, thanking God for this place of refuge; for the wind was piercingly cold, and so violent, that it required great strength to stand against it. Before they entered this habitation, they could not help once more turning their eyes to the sea, which was now free from ice. They beheld with horror, mingled with gratitude for their safety, the enormous waves driving furiously before the wind and approaching the shore, where with dreadful noise they dashed against the rocks, foaming and filling the air with spray. The whole company now got their supper, and having sung an evening hymn in the Esquimaux language, lay down to rest about ten o'clock. The Esquimaux were soon fast asleep, but brother Liebisch could not get any rest, partly on account of the dreadful roaring of the wind, and partly owing to a sore throat, which gave him much pain. His wakefulness proved the deliverance of the whole party from sudden destruction. About two o'clock in the morning, he perceived some salt water dropping from the roof of the snow-house upon his lips. On a sudden, a tremendous wave broke close to the house, discharging a quantity of water into it; a second soon followed, and carried away the slab of snow placed as a door before the entrance. The missionaries having roused the sleeping Esquimaux, they instantly set to work, One of them with a knife cut a passage through the house, and each seizing some part of the baggage, threw it out on a higher part of the beach; brother Turner assisting them. Brother Liebisch and the woman and child fled to a neighbouring eminence. The latter were wrapt up by the Esquimaux in a large skin, and the former took shelter behind a rock, for it was impossible to stand against the wind, snow, and sleet. Scarcely had the company retreated, when an enormous wave carried away the whole house. They now found themselves a second time delivered from the most imminent danger of death; but the remaining part of the night, before the Esquimaux could seek and find another and safer place for a snow-house, were hours of great distress and very painful reflections. Before the day dawned, the Esquimaux cut a hole in a large drift of snow, to serve as a shelter to the woman and child and the two missionaries. Brother Liebisch, however, owing to the pain in his throat, could not bear the closeness of the air, and was obliged to sit down at the entrance, being covered with skins, to guard him against the cold. As soon as it was light, they built another snow-house, and miserable as such an accommodation must be, they were glad and thankful to creep into it. The missionaries had taken but a small stock of provisions with them, merely sufficient for the short journey to Okkak. Joel, his wife and child, and Kassigiak, a heathen sorcerer, who was with them, had nothing. They were obliged therefore to divide the small stock into daily portions, especially as there appeared no hopes of soon quitting this place and reaching any dwellings. They therefore resolved to serve out no more than a biscuit and a half per day to each. The missionaries remained in the snowhouse, and every day endeavoured to boil so much water over their lamps, as might supply them with two cups of coffee a-piece. Through mercy they were preserved in good health, and, quite unexpectedly, brother Liebisch recovered on the first day of his sore throat. The Esquimaux also kept up their spirits, and even Kassigiak, though a wild heathen, declared; that it was proper to be thankful that they were still alive; adding, that if they had remained a little longer on the ice yesterday all their bones would have been broken in a short time. Towards noon of the 13th, the weather cleared up, and the sea was seen as far as the eye could reach, quite clear and free from ice; but the weather being very stormy, the Esquimaux could not quit the snow-house, which made them very low-spirited and melancholy. They, however, possess one advantage, namely, the power of going to sleep when they please, and, if need be, they will sleep for days and night together. In the evening of the 15th, the sky became clear, and their hopes revived. Mark and Joel went out to reconnoitre, and reported that the ice had acquired a considerable degree of solidity, and might soon afford a safe passage. The poor dogs had now nearly fasted four days, but in the prospect of a speedy release, the missionaries allowed to each a few morsels of food. The temperature of the air having been rather mild, it occasioned new source of distress, for, from the warmth of the inhabitants, the roof of the snow-house began to melt, which occasioned a continual dropping, and by degrees made every thing soaking wet. The missionaries considered this the greatest hardship they had to endure, for they had not a dry thread about them, nor a dry place to lie in. On the 16th, early, the sky cleared, but the fine particles of snow were driven about like clouds. Their present distress dictated the necessity of venturing something to reach the habitations of men, and yet they were rather afraid of passing over the newly frozen sea, and could not determine what to do. Brother Turner went again with Mark to examine the ice, and both seemed satisfied that it had acquired sufficient strength. They therefore came to a final resolution to return to Nain, committing themselves to the protection of the Lord. Notwithstanding the wind had considerably increased, accompanied with heavy showers of snow and sleet, they ventured to set off at half past ten o'clock in the forenoon of the 19th. Mark ran all the way round Kiglapeit before the sledge to find a good track, and about one o'clock, through God's mercy, they were out of danger and reached the Bay. Here they found a good track upon smooth ice, and made a meal upon the remnant of their provisions. Thus refreshed, they resolved to proceed without stopping till they reached Nain, where they arrived at twelve o'clock at night. It may easily be conceived with what gratitude to God the whole family at Nain bade them welcome. During the storm, they had considered with some dread, what might be the fate of their brethren, though its violence was not felt so much there. Added to this, the hints of the Esquimaux had considerably increased their apprehensions for their safety, and their fears began to get the better of their hopes. All, therefore, joined most fervently in praise and thanksgiving to God, for this signal deliverance. For many years the conversion of the heathen in Labrador, not only proceeded very slowly, but was attended with many discouraging circumstances. The missionaries had patiently persevered in preaching to the natives, and watching every opportunity to make them attentive to the best interests of their soils: but reaped little fruit from their labours. Visits were frequent, and there was in general no want of hearers to address, but they showed no disposition to be instructed. If even a salutary impression was occasionally made on their minds, it was not abiding. Some families were indeed collected in the different settlements, but after staying there the winter, they mostly moved away again in summer, and apparently forgot all they had heard. Before the close of the year 1804, a new period commenced. A fire from the Lord was kindled among the Esquimaux, accompanied with the clearest evidence of being the effect of the operations of the divine Spirit on their hearts. It commenced at Hopedale, the very place which presented the most discouraging prospect. When the Esquimaux of that place returned from their summer excursions, the missionaries were delighted to find, that they not only had been preserved from sinful practices, but had greatly increased in the knowledge of divine truth. They had obtained an humbling insight into the corruption and deceitfulness of their hearts, and the wretched state of a person void of faith in Christ. This constrained them to cry for mercy, and gladly to accept salvation on the terms of the gospel: and some afforded encouraging hopes, that they had found forgiveness of sins in the blood of Christ, by which their souls were filled with peace in believing. Out of the abundance of the heart their mouths spake of the love and power of Jesus. Their artless but energetic declarations impressed the rest of the inhabitants. They began to feel the necessity of true conversion; and in a short time all the adults appeared earnestly to seek peace with God. Even several of the children were awakened. The missionaries were daily visited by people, who either inquired "what they must do to be saved," or testified of the grace of God manifested to their souls. The progress of the mission, in the sequel, supplies sufficient proof, that the effect of the gospel, just related, was not a wild fire, or the mere consequence of a momentary impression, but a divine work wrought in the hearts of the natives by the Spirit of God himself. The missionaries frequently mention the attention and diligence shown in the schools, both by adults, and children, and the delight and fervour with which they engage in their family devotions, and in conversations with each other respecting the influence of the gospel on their own souls. Their behaviour at public worship likewise very strikingly differed from that of former years, with regard to the eagerness with which they now attended the house of God, and their deportment during the performance of divine service. On one occasion the missionaries remark, "We no longer see bold, undaunted heathen sitting before us, with defiance or ridicule in their looks; but people expecting, a blessing, desirous to experience the power of the word of life, shedding tears of repentance, and their whole appearance evincing devotion and earnest inquiry." Christians! does not this narrative present us with some useful subjects for reflection? London: Printed for THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 
15003	----	_For private circulation only_ DRAFT Of A Plan for Beginning ANIMAL SANCTUARIES In LABRADOR BY LT.-COLONEL WILLIAM WOOD (_to be submitted to the Fourth Annual Meeting of the Conservation Commission of the Dominion of Canada in 1913._) I. RECAPITULATION. The original address on _Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador_ was published in the spring of 1911. The _Supplement_ was published in the summer of 1912. The present _Plan_, or _Second Supplement_, is now being submitted for consideration to the Fourth Annual Meeting of the Commission of Conservation at the beginning of 1913. These papers are published for free distribution among those who are interested in the preservation of wild life. They are to be obtained on application to _The Secretary, Commission of Conservation, Ottawa, Canada_. But both the _Address_ and _Supplement_ are almost out of print. Communications on the subject itself should be addressed direct to me:--_Colonel Wood, Quebec, Canada._ * * * * * I gladly take this opportunity of thanking the many experts whose kind help has given my papers whatever real value they possess. Some of these experts have never been called so in their lives, and will be greatly astonished to find that they are called so now. But when I know they are the thing, why should I hesitate about the name? In any proper meaning of the word there are several first-class "experts" among my friends who go fishing, sealing, whaling, hunting, trapping, "furring" or guiding for their livelihood. And I hereby most gratefully acknowledge all I have learnt during many a pleasant day with them, afloat and ashore. The other kind of experts, those who are called so by the world at large, have been quite as generous with their information and advice. In fact, they have been so very generous that perhaps I should call myself the editor, rather than the author, of the _Supplement_, as more than half of it is occupied by extracts from their letters concerning the _Address_. It might be as well to restate the argument of this _Address_ in the fewest possible words. An eagerly exploiting people in an easily exploited country, we are only too apt to live on the capital of all our natural resources. We are also in the habit of developing one thing at the expense of everything else connected with it. The value of these other things often remains unrecognised till too late. For instance, reckless railways burn forests which ensure a constant flow of water for irrigation, navigation, power plant, and fish, besides providing wood for timber and shelter for bird and beast. The presence of a construction gang generally means the needless extermination of every animal in the neighbourhood. The presence of mills means the needless absence of fish. And the presence of ill-governed cities means the needless and deadly pollution of water that never was meant for a sewer. The idea is the same in each disgraceful case. It is, simply, to snatch whatever is most coveted for the moment, with least trouble to one's self, and at no matter what expense to Nature and the future of man. The cant phrase is only too well known--"Lots more where that came from". Exploitation is destroying now what civilisation will long to restore hereafter. This is lamentably true about material things. It is truer still about the higher than material things. And it is truest of all about both the material and higher values of wild life, which we administer as if we were the final spendthrift heirs and not trustees. Animal sanctuaries are places where man is passive and the rest of Nature active. A sanctuary is the same thing to wild life as a spring is to a river. In itself a sanctuary is a natural "zoo". But it is much more than a "zoo". It can only contain a certain number of animals. Its surplus must overflow to stock surrounding areas. And it constitutes a refuge for all species whose lines of migration pass through it. So its value in the preservation of desirable wild life is not to be denied. Of course, sanctuaries occasionally develope troubles of their own; for if man interferes with the balance of nature in one way he must be prepared to interfere in others. But all experience shows that an easily worked system will ensure a _maximum_ of gain and a _minimum_ of loss. Up till quite recently Nature had her own animal sanctuaries in vast and sparsely settled lands like Labrador. But now she has none. There is no place left where wild life is safe from men who use all the modern means of destruction without being bound by any of the modern means of conservation. And this is nowhere truer than in Labrador, though the area of the whole peninsula is equal to eleven Englands, while, even at the busiest season along the coast, there is not one person to more than every ten square miles. Since the white man went there at least three-quarters of the forests have been burnt, and sometimes the soil burnt too. Wild life of all kinds has been growing rapidly less. The walrus is receding further and further north. Seals are diminishing. Whales are beginning to disappear. Fur-bearing animals can hardly hold their own much longer in face of the ever increasing demand for their pelts and the more systematic invasion of their range. The opening up of the country in the north will mean the extinction of the great migrating herd of barren-ground caribou, unless protection is enforced. The coast birds are going fast. Some very old men can still remember the great auk, which is now as extinct as the dodo. Elderly men have eaten the Labrador duck, which has not been seen alive for thirty years. And young men will certainly see the end of the Hudsonian and Eskimo curlews very soon, under present conditions. The days of commercial "egging" on a large scale are over, because eggs of the final lay were taken like the rest, and the whole bird life was depleted below paying quantities. But "egging" still goes on in other ways, especially at the hands of Newfoundlanders, who are wantonly wasteful in their methods, unlike the coast people, who only take what the birds will replace. The Newfoundlanders and other strangers gather all the eggs they see, put them into water, and throw away every one that floats. Thus many more bird lives are destroyed than eggs are eaten or sold, because schooners appear towards the end of the regular laying season, when most of the eggs are about to hatch out--and these are the ones that float. But even greater destruction is done when a schooner stays several days in the same place. For then the crew go round, first smashing every egg they see, and afterwards gathering every egg they see, because they know the few they find the second time must have been newly laid. Many details were given of other forms of destruction, and some details of the revolting cruelties practised there, as in every other place where wild life is grossly abused instead of being sanely used. All classes of legitimate human interest were dealt with in turn; and it was shown that the present system--or want of system--was bad for each one: bad for such wild life as must still be used for necessary food, bad for every kind of business in the products of wild life, bad for the future of sport, bad for the pursuits of science, and bad for the prospects of wild "zoos". The _Address_ ended with a plea for conservation, and pointed out that the only class of people who could possibly be benefitted under present conditions were those who were ready to destroy both the capital and interest of any natural resources for the sake of snatching a big and immediate, but really criminal, profit. The _Address_ was sent out for review to several hundreds of general and specialist newspapers, and, thanks to the expert help so freely given me, ran the gauntlet of the press without finding one dissentient voice against it. Copies were also sent to every local expert known, as well as to those experts in the world outside who were the most likely to be interested. Three classes of invaluable expert opinion were thus obtained for the _Supplement_. The first class may be called experts on Labrador; the second, experts on wild life in general; and the third, experts on the public aspects of the question. All three were entirely in favour of general conservation for the whole of Labrador and the immediate establishment of special sanctuaries, as recommended in the _Address_. Among the experts on Labrador were the following:--DR BELL, late head of the Geological Survey of Canada, who has made seven expeditions into Labrador and who has always paid particular attention to the mammals; DR CLARKE, Director of Science Education in the State of New York, who has spent twelve summers studying the natural history of the Gulf; MR. COMEAU, a past master, of fifty years experience as a professional hunter, guide, inspector and salmon river warden on the North Shore; DR GRENFELL, whose intimate acquaintance with the Atlantic Labrador is universally recognised; DR HARE, whose position on the Canadian Labrador corresponds to that of Dr Grenfell on the Atlantic; DR TOWNSHEND, author of the standard work on _The Birds of Labrador_; and COMMANDER WAKEHAM, head of the Fisheries Protection Service, who knows the wild life of the whole coast, from the River St. Lawrence round to Hudson Bay. Among the experts on animal life in general were:--THE BOONE AND CROCKETT CLUB, whose one hundred members include most of the greatest sportsman-naturalists in the United States, and whose influence on wild-life conservation is second to none; THE CAMP FIRE CLUB OF AMERICA, whose larger membership includes many of the best conservationists in Canada as well as the United States; MR. GRINNELL, one of the greatest authorities in the world on the Indians and wild life of North America; MR. MACOUN, Dominion Naturalist and international expert on seals and whales, who lately examined the zoogeographical area of Hudson Bay; MR. CLIVE-PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY, author of standard books on big game in the _Badminton Library_ and elsewhere; MR. THOMPSON SETON, whose _Life-history of Northern Mammals_ is the best work of its kind on the area to which the Labrador peninsula belongs; MAJOR STEVENSON HAMILTON, superintendent of the great Government Game Reserves in South Africa; and MR. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE, whose original and creative work on the theory of evolution inseparably connects him with his friend Darwin for all time to come, who is now the last of the giants of the Victorian age, and who is the founder and greatest exponent of the science of zoogeography, which has a special bearing on Labrador. Among the experts on the public aspects of the question were:--MR. BRYCE, who has been an ardent lover of the wilds throughout his distinguished career on both sides of the Atlantic; LORD GREY, who paid special attention to the subject during his journey to Hudson Bay in 1910; MR. KIPLING, whose _Jungle Books_ revealed the soul of wild life to so many readers; and MR. ROOSEVELT, a sportsman-naturalist of world-wide fame, during whose Presidential terms more wild-life conservation was effected in the United States than during all other Presidential terms put together, before or since. To this I am graciously permitted to add that HIS MAJESTY THE KING was pleased to manifest his interest in the subject by taking the _Address_ with him to read on his way to India; and that HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT, Governor-General, who has shown his own keen interest on several occasions, has marked his approval by writing the following letter for publication here:-- Dear Colonel Wood, I have been reading with the greatest interest your address on Animal Sanctuaries in Labrador and also the draft of the Supplement which you were good enough to send me for perusal. You have certainly been so far rewarded for your trouble by having collected a great weight of testimony and of valuable opinions, all endorsing the useful cause to which you are devoting yourself. I know from reports that many varieties of game, which were threatened with extinction in South Africa ten years ago, have, by the timely establishment of game reserves, been saved, and are now relatively numerous. I may add that this end has not been obtained simply by the establishment of the reserves and by the passing of game-laws, but by enforcing those laws in the most rigid manner and by appointing the right men to enforce them. From personal experience I know what the game reserves have done for East Africa. In these reserves the wild animals are left to breed and live in peace, undisturbed by any one but the game-warden. From them the overflow drifts out into the surrounding districts and provides a plentiful supply for the hunter and settler. What has been done in Africa could be done in Canada and elsewhere. You have so much land which is favourable to birds and beasts, though unfavourable to the settler, that it would seem to be no hardship to give up a suitable area or areas for the purpose of a reserve. This, with the infliction of heavy penalties for the ruthless destruction of animal life, should secure a fresh lease of existence for the various species whose extermination now appears to be imminent. Please accept my best wishes for the success of your work, in which you may always count upon my greatest sympathy. Believe me, Yours truly, ARTHUR. II. VERIFICATION. In order to make quite sure about conditions up to date, I spent two months last summer examining some 1500 miles of coast line, from Nova Scotia, round by Newfoundland to the Straits, and thence inwards along the Canadian Labrador and North Shore of the St. Lawrence. On the whole, I found that I had rather under- than over-stated the dangers threatening the wild life there, and that I had nothing to retract from what I said in my _Address_ and _Supplement_. As I spent one month among the fishermen of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, who commit most of the depredations, and the other month among the people along the Canadian Labrador, on whom the depredations are committed, I enjoyed the advantage of hearing both sides of the story. It was very much what I had heard before and what I said it was. The argument is, that so long as there is no law, or no law put in force, every man will do what he likes--which is unanswerably true. I am also afraid that there is no practical answer to the logical deduction from this, that so long as bad men can do what they like good men must do the same or "get left". Good, bad and indifferent, all alike, are squandering the capital of the wild life as fast as they can, though the legitimate interest of it would soon yield far better returns if conservation was to replace the beggaring methods in vogue to-day. I would urge the earliest possible extension of thoroughly well enforced wild-life conservation laws to the whole Labrador peninsula; and I would venture to remind the Commission again, as I did in my _Supplement_, that the wild life of Arctic Canada is even now in danger and ought to be efficiently protected before it is too late. But, for the present purpose, I shall revert to Labrador only; and, for a practical beginning, recommend the immediate adoption of conservation only in the "Canadian Labrador". So far as I could judge from talking things over with the south coast trappers, most of the fur-bearing animals seem to be holding their own fairly well in the market. But it should be remembered that, with the recent great rise in prices, fewer skins may mean more money, and that even the establishment of fox farms, and the probable establishment of other fur farms, may not overtake the present increasing demand, which, in its turn, must tend to deplete the original source of supply still further, unless strict conservation is enforced. There was a wonderful supply of foxes a year ago, though nothing to the muskrats which swarmed down south last fall. But failure of food further north may have had more to do with those irruptions than any outburst of unusual fecundity. Caribou apparently remain much as they have been lately. But the hunger of wolves and the greed of men are two enemies that nothing but conservation can keep in check. Of course, genuinely "necessary food" is not at all in question. I know an old hunter, living at Pokkashoo in summer and St. Augustine in winter, who brought in sixteen caribou last season. But he gave fifteen away to really necessitous families and kept only one for himself. The whale factories at Lark Harbour and Hawke Bay, on the west coast of Newfoundland, were both closed for want of whales. The only one in the Gulf that was working last year was at Seven Islands, on the North Shore, 300 miles below Quebec. I happened to be almost in at the death of the biggest finback ever taken. But, speaking generally, the season was not really prosperous. The station of Seven Islands is worked by Norwegians, who are the most exterminatingly efficient whalers in the world. They worked their own whaleries to exhaustion and raised so much feeling against them among the fishermen that the Norwegian government forbad every factory along the shore. They then invented floating factories, which may still be used in Canadian waters with deadly effect unless we put whaling under conservation. The feeling among the fishermen here is the same as elsewhere, strongly in favour of the whales and strongly against the exterminating kind of whaler, because whales are believed to drive the bait fish close inshore, which is very "handy" for the fishermen. The spring sealing of 1912 was a failure on the Canadian Labrador, as the main "harp" herd was missed by just one day. The whole industry is carried on by Newfoundlanders and men whose vessels take their catch to Newfoundland, because the only working plant is concentrated there. The excessive spring kill greatly depletes the females and young, as it takes place in the whelping season, when the herds are moving north along the off-shore ice; and this depletion naturally spoils not only the Newfoundlanders' permanent industry itself but the much smaller inshore autumn catch by our own Canadian Labradorians, when the herds are moving south. The Canadians along the North Shore and Labrador look upon the invading Newfoundlanders, in this and other pursuits, very much as a farmer looks upon a gipsy whose horse comes grazing in his hayfield. And the analogy sometimes does hold good. When men under a different government, men who do not own a foot of land in Canada, men who do not pay specific taxes for Canadian rights, when these men slaughter seals on inshore ice, use land and inlets for cleaning fish and foul the water with their "gurry", and when they also "egg" on other peoples' islands in defiance of the law, then the analogy is perfect. It does not hold good, of course, in ordinary fishing, which is conducted under Dominion licence and vigilantly watched by Commander Wakeham. But whether Canada is not giving away too much for what she gets in licences is quite another question. The excessive spring kill by the Newfoundlanders does not seem to be the only reason why the local seal hunt is not so good as it used to be. The whites complain that the Indians along the coast kill an undue number of seals on the one hand and of caribou on the other. But fishermen all the world over are against the harbour seals; and generally exaggerate their depredations, as they exaggerate the depredations of most kinds of seabirds. Whatever the fate of the harbour seals should be, there can be no doubt that the harps or Greenland seals, the bearded or square-flippers, the grey or horseheads, and the gigantic and magnificently game hoods, should all be put under conservation. I am also inclined to think that the walrus could be coaxed back to what once were some of his most favourite haunts. Just now he has no chance whatever; and he is so extremely rare that the one I nearly rowed the dinghy into last August, down at Whale Head East, was only the second seen inside the Straits during the present century. III. PLAN OF CONSERVATION FOR THE CANADIAN LABRADOR. Whaling, sealing and deep-sea fishing are Dominion and international affairs; and whaling, at all events, is soon to engage the attention of statesmen, experts and the public--let us hope, to some good end. The inland birds and mammals from the St. Lawrence to Ungava now come under the Province of Quebec; though no effective protection has ever reached the Canadian Labrador. Beyond this, again, lies the Atlantic Labrador, which is entirely under Newfoundland. So I would suggest that the Commission should try a five-year experiment in the conservation of seabird life along the Canadian Labrador, because this would not come into overlapping contact with any other exercised authority, because it is bound to be successful, because it will only cost a sum that should be had for the asking, because it is most urgently pressing, and because it can be begun at once, to the lasting advantage of all concerned. The "Canadian Labrador" is the last remaining vestige of the No-Man's-Land which, only a hundred years ago, began at the Saguenay, within 120 miles of Quebec. Then, as the organised "North Shore" advanced down stream, the unorganised "Canadian Labrador" receded before it. Fifty years ago the dividing line was at Seven Islands, 300 miles below Quebec. To-day it runs just east of Natashquan and is a full 500 miles below. There is no stranger country anywhere than this Canadian Labrador. Dr Grenfell's Labrador, which has nothing to do with Canada, is known to everyone. But the very existence of our own Labrador, with its 200 miles of coastline and its more than 20,000 islands, is quite unknown, as a separate entity, to all but a very few outside of its little, but increasing, population of 1200 souls. It lies on the north shore of the Gulf, just inside the Straits of Belle Isle, and runs from Bradore in the east to Kegashka in the west. Here, close beside the crowded track of ocean liners, and well below the latitude of London, is by far the most southerly arctic region in the world. It is a land of rock and moss; for, except along the river valleys, there are neither grass nor trees. No crops are grown or ever can be grown. There are no horses, cattle, poultry, pigs or sheep. Reindeer are said to be coming. But there are none at present. The only domestic animals are dogs, that howl like wolves, but never bark. And yet it is a country which is rich, and might he richer still, in fish and fur, and which seems formed by Nature to be a perfect paradise of all that is most desirable in the wild life of the north, especially in the seabirds that are now being done to death among its countless archipelagoes. Its natural features are not the only strange things in it. It is a curiosity of government, or, rather, of the want of government. It is _in_ the Province of Quebec and _in_ the Dominion; yet, in one sense, not _of_ either. For it in the only place of its kind inhabited by educated whites, in any part of the self-governing Empire, where no man has ever cast a single vote or ever had the right to cast one. The electoral line stops short at Natashquan, 36 miles west of Kegashka. So 1200 good Canadians have no vote. They are dumb and their two governments are deaf. They have bought their little holdings from the Province; and they pay Canadian custom dues to the Dominion, on everything they get from the Quebec truck traders or the Hudson Bay posts, in exchange for their fish and fur. But they do not enjoy even the elementary right of protection from depredation committed by men who have no claim on Canada at all. Let me add that by this I do not mean for one moment to abuse my friends the Newfoundlanders. A kindlier people I have never met. Nor do I mean to abuse the Americans and Nova Scotians who sometimes slink inside the three-mile limit. But I do mean to draw attention to the regrettable fact that the absence of all wild-life conservation is becoming ruinous to everyone concerned--even to the exterminating Newfoundlanders, who are now making our shores as bleak a desert as they have made their own. Of course the Canadian Labrador should help itself. Let it form a "Neighbourhood Improvement Association" under the Commission. There are good leaders in Dr Hare, the head of the medical mission; in the three religious missions--Anglican, Presbyterian and Roman Catholic; and among the principal fishermen, who are mostly Anglo- but partly French-Canadian. What the coast needs is not coddling and charity but conservation and protection against depredators from outside. The best way to begin is to protect the seabirds. And the best body to do this is the Commission of Conservation. The Province of Quebec has just put the finishing touch to a great work by establishing an animal sanctuary in the heart of the Laurentides National Park. It is also doing good work by making the game laws more effective elsewhere. But, being dependently human, it can hardly pass over the whole North Shore of voters in order to give special protection to the little, voteless No-Man's-Land of the Canadian Labrador; though immediate special protection is a very vital concern to that most neglected part of Canada. The Dominion stops short by water as decidedly as the Province does by land. So an ideal place is left defenceless between the two, as if expressly made for the Commission to conserve. I know that the Commission cannot undertake any executive work of a permanent character. But it can undertake an experimental investigation for a term of years. And, here again, the Canadian Labrador offers a perfect field. For if only five years' effective conservation is extended to the bird life of that coast the whole situation will be saved. I do not presume to lay down the law on the subject. But I would venture to suggest that some such plan as the following would probably be found quite effective at the very moderate cost of five thousand dollars a year. 1. The residents to form their own "Neighbourhood Improvement Association" under the Commission of Conservation. 2. The Commission to protect the bird life of the coast experimentally for five years, from the 1st of May, 1913. 3. The 200 miles of coast, from Kegashka to Bradore, to be divided into 5 beats. One local boat and two local men to each beat, from the 1st of May to the 1st of September, by contract, at $600 a boat = $3,000. Each boat to have a motor capable of doing at least 6 knots an hour. Local men are essential. Strangers, however good otherwise, would be lost in that labyrinth of uncharted and unlighted islands. $2 a day a man is not too much for these men, who would have to give up their whole time in the busy season, the only season, in fact, when they make money, except for the chance of "furring". $1 a day a boat is equally reasonable. The five beats might be called the Romaine, Harrington, Tabatière, Shekattika and Bradore. 4. A sixth boat should move about inspecting the whole coast during the season. It should have a trained naturalist as Inspector, the local game warden of the Province of Quebec, and a crew of two men. The Quebec warden would be paid by the Province. The men and boat, in view of the larger size of the boat and the greater expenditure of fuel, would be, say, $6 a day, instead of $5, which, for 4 months, would mean $720. The Inspector's salary and the incidental expenses of the service would make up the $5,000. The Province would pay the cost of punishing offenders. Fines should be divided between the Province and the men who effect the arrests. 5. One necessary expense would be officially warning the Newfoundlanders and other depredators through their own press. 6. Arrange co-operation with the Dominion Fisheries Protection Service and Dominion Government telegraph line; also with the Provincial Government, which would naturally be glad to have red-handed offenders consigned to it for punishment. The Commission's boats might be very useful in giving information to the Fisheries Protection Service, and _vice versa_. All conservation telegrams should be free. 7. Forbid all outsiders to take eggs or young birds, or to shoot anything before the 1st of September, or to shoot after that without a license. 8. Allow genuine residents of the Canadian Labrador to take ducks' and gulls' eggs up to the 1st of June, and murres', auks' and puffins' eggs up to the 15th of June. Allow them to take young birds only in case of sickness: (gull broth is the local equivalent of chicken broth). Allow them to shoot after the 1st of September without a license. The conditions of the coast require these exceptions, which will not endanger the bird life there. 9. Establish one bird sanctuary on the inshore islands between Fond au Fecteau and Whale Head East, and another on the inshore islands round Yankee Harbour (Wapitagun). 10. These islands are favourite haunts of the American eider ("sea-duck", "metik", _Somateria dresseri_.) Perhaps the Northern or Greenland eider (_Somateria mollissima borealis_) might also be induced to concentrate there. There seems to be no reason why an eider-down industry should not be built up by the end of the five years. The eider ought to be specially protected all the way up to the Pilgrims, which are only 100 miles below Quebec. The Province might do this from Natashquan west. 11. Begin by protecting all birds except the Great Blackback Gull ("Saddleback", _Larus marinus_) which is very destructive to other bird life. Let its eggs and young be taken at all times; but prevent adult birds from being shot before the 1st of September, so as not to starve the helpless young to death. When other species become really noxious it will be time enough to treat them in the same way. As a rule, the harm done by birds popularly but falsely supposed to live on food fishes, and by birds of prey, is grossly exaggerated. Birds and beasts of prey often do good service in keeping up a breed by killing off the weaklings. 12. It would be well worth while to keep the Inspector on for the eight months between the 1st of September, 1913, and the 1st of May, 1914, so that he and the Provincial warden might make a thorough investigation of conditions all the year round, inland as well as on the coast, and of the mammals as well as of the birds. One man from each of the five local boats and two men from the Inspector's boat would make seven assistants already trained in conservation. They would have to be paid enough to counterbalance their strong desire for the rare but sometimes relatively enormous profits of "furring". Perhaps $50 a man a month would do, the men to find themselves in everything, as during the summer. This, for seven men for eight months, would be $2,800. The incidental expenses and Inspector's salary would bring the total up to $5,000. The Inspector cannot be too good a man. He should be a good leader as well as a trained naturalist. The Province should send him the best warden it can find, to act as his chief assistant. After a year's work, afloat and ashore, in summer and winter, with birds and mammals, he ought to be able to make a comprehensive and unbiassed report, which, by itself, would repay the Commission for introducing conservation into such a suitable area. Zoogeographic maps and charts would be an indispensable part of this report. * * * * * To sum up:-- I beg to propose that the Commission should bring the Canadian Labrador under conservation by protecting bird life on the coast for a term of five years, as an experimental investigation, and by examining, for one year, the whole question of the birds and mammals, inland as well as on the seabord, and in winter as well as summer. The cost of the first would be $5,000 a year for five years = $25,000. The cost of the second would be $5,000 for one year only. The total cost would be $30,000. I would never have ventured to suggest this plan to the Commission if I had not been encouraged by one of your own most valued members, Dr Robertson. But as soon as he told me what your powers were I saw clearly that, in this particular case, the Commission and the Canadian Labrador were each exactly suited to the other. Under all these circumstances I have no hesitation in making the strongest possible appeal for action before it is too late. The time has come when the seabird life must be either made or marred for ever. And I would ask you to remember what seabird conservation means down there. It means fresh food, the only kind the people ever get, apart from fish. It means new business, if the eiders are once made safe in sanctuaries; for we now import our eider down from points outside of Canada. And it means the quickening of every human interest, once you encourage the people to join you in this excellently practical form of "Neighbourhood Improvement". There is another and very important point, which I discussed at considerable length in my _Address_, but to which I return here, because it can only be settled by a body of men, who, like this Commission, are national trustees. This point is that certain parts of Labrador are bound to become ideal public playgrounds, if their wild life is only saved in time. The common conception of Labrador as being inaccessibly remote is entirely wrong. It is accessible all round a coast line of 3000 miles at the proper season and with proper care; and its vast peninsula lies straight between the British Islands and our own North West. So there is nothing absurd in expecting people to come to Labrador to-morrow when they are going to Spitzbergen, far north of the Arctic Circle to-day. Of course, Spitzbergen enjoys an invincible advantage at present, as its wild life is being carefully preserved. But once Labrador is put under conservation the odds will be reversed. And I what is true of Labrador in general is much truer still of the Canadian Labrador. Here is a country which is actually south of London, which is only 2000 miles from England, 1000 from New York, and 500 from Quebec; which stands beside one of the most frequented of ocean highways; and which has a labyrinth of islands, a maze of rivers, and an untamed hinterland, all formed by Nature for wild "zoos", preserves and open hunting grounds. And here, too, all over the civilized world, are city-bound men, turning more and more to Nature for health and recreation, and willing to spend increasingly large sums for what they seek and find. Surely, it is only the common sense of statesmanship to bring this country and those men together, in the near future, under conditions which are best for both, by making the Canadian Labrador an attractive land of life and not a hopelessly repellant land of death. One good, long look ahead to-day, and immediate action following, will bring the No-Man's-Land of the Canadian Labrador into its rightful place within the fellowship of the Province and Dominion. You will never find cause for vain regret. There is a sound basis of material value in the products of the coast already; and material value is always increased by conservation. But there is more than material value involved. We still have far too much wanton destruction of wild life in Canada, not only among those who have ignorantly grown up to it, but among the well-to-do and presumably well-educated sham sportsmen who go into any unprotected wilds simply to indulge their lust of slaughter to the full. Both these classes will be stopped in their abominations and shown a better way; for whenever man is taught a lesson in conservation he rises to a higher plane in his attitude towards all his humbler fellow-beings, and eventually becomes a sportsman-naturalist and true lover of the wilds. Then, but not till then, he will see such a drama of Creation along the Canadian Labrador as the whole world can never show elsewhere. On the one hand lies the illimitable past, a past which actually existed before the earliest of living creatures: on the other, the promise of a great human future. The past is in the hills, the true, the only "everlasting hills of time"; for they are of the old, the immeasurably old, azoic rock of the Laurentians, which forms the roots of other mountains, and which here alone appears to-day, on the face of a young Earth, the same as at the birth of Life itself. The future lies within the ships that sail the offing of these hills, crowded with those hosts of immigration who are so eager to become a part of what may be a mighty nation. And there, between and round the ships and hills, in sea and sky and on the land, our kindred of the wild are linking these vastly different ages close together in what should be a present paradise. Shall one, short, heedless generation break that whole chain of glorious life and make that paradise a desert? 
15126	----	provided by www.canadiana.org LECTURE ON THE ABORIGINES OF Newfoundland, _Delivered before the Mechanics Institute, at St. John's, on Monday, 17th January,_ BY THE HON. JOSEPH NOAD, _Surveyor-General._ ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND: R.J. PARSONS, PRINTER. 1859. Lecture _DELIVERED BEFORE THE MECHANICS' INSTITUTE AT ST. JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND._ BY THE HON. JOSEPH NOAD, _Surveyor-General,_ Of the various theories advanced on the origin of the North American Indians, none has been so entirely satisfactory as to command a general assent; and on this point many and different opinions are yet held. The late De Witt Clinton, Governor of the State of New York, a man who had given no slight consideration to subjects of this nature, maintained that they were of Tatar origin; others have thought them the descendants of the Ten Tribes, or the offspring of the Canaanites expelled by Joshua. The opinion, however, most commonly entertained is, that the vast continent of North America was peopled from the Northeast of Asia; in proof of which it is urged that every peculiarity, whether in person or disposition, which characterises the Americans, bears some resemblance to the rude tribes scattered over the northeast of Asia, but almost none to the nations settled on the northern extremity of Europe. Robertson, however, gives a new phase to this question; from his authority we learn that, as early as the ninth century, the Norwegians discovered Greenland and planted colonies there. The communication with that country, after a long interruption, was renewed in the last century, and through Moravian missionaries, it is now ascertained that the Esquimaux speak the same language as the Greenlanders, and that they are in every respect the same people. By this decisive fact, not only is the consanguinity of the Greenlanders with the Esquimaux established, but also the possibility of peopling America from the north of Europe demonstrated, and if of America, then of course of Newfoundland also, and thus it appears within the verge of possibility, that the original inhabitants of this Island may be descendants of Europeans, in fact merely a distinct tribe of the Esquimaux. At a meeting of the Philosophical Society held in England some few years ago, the subject of the Red Indians of Newfoundland was brought under discussion by Mr. Jukes, the gentleman who conducted the geological survey of this Island; and Dr. King, a name well-known among scientific men, gave it as his opinion, founded on historical evidence, going so far back as the period of Sebastian Cabot, that they were really an Esquimaux tribe. Others are of opinion, founded on some real or presumed affinity between the vocabulary of the one people with that of the other, that the Indian tribes of North America and the original inhabitants of Newfoundland, called by themselves "Boeothicks," and by Europeans "Red Indians," are of the same descent. The enquiry, however, into the mere origin of a people is one more curious in its nature than it is calculated to be useful, and failure in attempting to discover it need excite but little regret; but it is much to be lamented that the early history of the Boeothick is shrouded in such obscurity, that any attempt to penetrate it must be vain. All that we know of the tribe as it existed in past ages, is derived from tradition handed down to us chiefly thro' the Micmacs; and even from this source, doubtful and uncertain as such authority confessedly is, the amount of information conveyed to us is both scanty and imperfect. From such traditionary facts we gather, that the Boeothicks were once a powerful and numerous tribe, like their neighbouring tribe the Micmacs, and that for a long period these tribes were on friendly terms and inhabited the western shores of Newfoundland in common, together with other parts of the Island as well as the Labrador, and this good understanding continued until some time after the discovery of Newfoundland by Cabot; but it was at length violently interrupted by the Micmacs, who, to ingratiate themselves with the French, who at that time held the sway in these parts, and who had taken offence at some proceedings of the Boeothicks, slew two Red Indians with the intention of taking their heads, which they had severed from the bodies, to the French. This wanton and unprovoked outrage was discovered by the Boeothicks, who gave no intimation of such discovery, but who, after consulting together, determined on revenge. They invited the Micmacs to a feast, and arranged their guests in such order that every Boeothick had a Micmac by his side; at a preconcerted signal every Boeothick slew his guest. War of course ensued. Firearms were but little known to the Indians at that time, but they soon came into more general use among such tribes as continued to hold intercourse with Europeans. This circumstance gave the Micmacs an undisputed ascendancy over the Boeothicks, who were forced to betake themselves to the recesses of the interior and other parts of the Island, alarmed, as well they might be, at every report of the firelock. What may be the present feelings of the Red Indians, supposing any of the tribe to be yet living, towards the Micmacs we know not; but we do know that the latter cherish feelings of unmitigated hatred against the very name of "Red Indian." When Cabot discovered Newfoundland in 1497 he saw Savages, whom he describes as "painted with red ochre, and covered with skins." Cartier in 1534 saw the Red Indians, whom he describes "as of good stature,--wearing their hair in a bunch on the top of the head, and adorned with feathers." In 1574 Frobisher having been driven by the ice on the coast of Newfoundland, induced some of the natives to come on board, and with one of them he sent five sailors on shore, whom he never saw again; on this account he seized one of the Indians, who died shortly after arriving in England. As soon after the discovery of Newfoundland as its valuable fisheries became known, vessels from various countries found their way hither, for the purpose of catching whales, and of following other pursuits connected with the fishery. Among those early visiters was a Captain Richard Whitburne, who commanded a ship of 300 tons, belonging to "one Master Cotton of South-hampton" and who fished at Trinity. This Captain Whitburne, in a work published by him in 1622, describing the coast, fishery, soil, and produce of Newfoundland, says, "the natives are ingenious and apt by discreet and moderate government, to be brought to obedience. Many of them join the French and Biscayans on the Northern coast, and work hard for them about fish, whales, and other things; receiving for their labor some bread or trifling trinkets." They believed, according to Whitburne, that they were created from arrows stuck in the ground by the Good Spirit, and that the dead went into a far country to make merry with their friends. Other early voyagers also make favourable mention of the natives, but notwithstanding this testimony, it is evident, even from information given by their apologist Whitburne himself, that the Red Indians were not exempt from those pilfering habits which, in many instances, have marked the conduct of the inhabitants of newly discovered Islands on their first meeting with Europeans. Whitburne, when expressing his readiness to adopt measures for opening a trade with the Indians, incidentally mentions an instance where their thievish propensities were displayed.--He says, "I am ready with my life and means whereby to find out some new trade with the Indians of the country, for they have great store of red ochre, which they use to colour their bodies, bows, arrows, and canoes. The canoes are built in shape like wherries on the river Thames, but that they are much longer, made with the rinds of birch trees, which they sew very artificially and close together, and overlay every seam with turpentine. In like manner they sew the rinds of birch trees round and deep in proportion like a brass kettle, to boil their meat in; which hath been proved to me by three mariners of a ship riding at anchor by me--who being robbed in the night by the savages of their apparel and provisions, did next day seek after and came suddenly to where they had set up three tents and were feasting; they had three pots made of the rinds of trees standing each of them on stones, boiling with fowls in each; they had also many such pots so sewed, and which were full of yolk of eggs that they had boiled hard and so dried, and which the savages do use in their broth. They had great store of skins of deer, beaver, bears, otter, seal, and divers other fine skins, which were well dressed; they had also great store of several sorts of fish dried. By shooting off a musquet towards them, they all ran away without any apparel but only their hats on, which were made of seal skins, in fashion like our hats, sewed handsomely with narrow bands and set round with fine white shels. All the canoes, flesh, skins, yolks of eggs, bows, arrows, and much fine ochre and divers other things did the ship's company take and share among them." And from Whitburne's time up to 1818 have complaints been made of thefts committed by the Indians. To the Northward the settlers, as they allege, had many effects stolen from them--one individual alone made a deposition to the effect that he had lost through the depredations of the Indians, property to the amount of £200. Now whether in such thefts (although they were only of a petty character) we are to trace the origin of that murderous warfare so relentlessly carried on by the Whites against the Red Indians, or whether the atrocities of the former, were the result of brutal ignorance and a wanton disregard of human life, cannot how be determined,--we have only the lamentable fact before us, that to a set of men not only destitute of all religious principle, but also of the common feelings of humanity, the pursuit and slaughter of the Red Indian became a pastime--an amusement--eagerly sought after--wantonly and barbarously pursued, and in the issue fatally, nd it may be added, awfully successful. For the greater part of the seventeenth century the history of the Red Indians present a dreary waste--no sympathy appears to have been felt for them, and no efforts were made to stay the hands of their merciless destroyers. In their attempts to avoid the Micmac, their dire enemy, they fell in the path of the no less dreaded White, and thus year after year passed away, and the comparatively defenceless Boeothick found, only in the grave, a refuge and rest from his barbarous and powerful foes. During the long period just adverted to, the Red Indian was regarded by furriers, whose path he sometimes crossed; and with whose gains his necessities compelled him sometimes to interfere, with as little compassion as they entertained for any wild or dangerous beast of the forest, and were shot or butchered with as little hesitation. And barbarities of this nature became at length so common, that the attention of the Government was directed to it; and in 1786 a proclamation was issued by Governor Elliot, in which it is stated "that it having been represented to the King that his subjects residing in this Island do often treat the Indians with the greatest inhumanity, and frequently destroy them without the least provocation or remorse; it was therefore his Majesty's pleasure that all means should be used to discover and apprehend all who may be guilty of murdering any of the said Indians, in order that such offenders may be sent over to England to be tried for such capital crimes." In 1797 Governor Waldegrave issued a proclamation of a similar character, which document also adverts to the cruelties to which the Indians were subject at the hands of hunters, fishermen and others.--And again in 1802 a proclamation of a like description was also issued. In 1803 a native Indian was for the first time taken alive--this was a female,--she was captured at the northern part of the Island, being surprised by a fisherman while paddling her canoe towards a small island in quest of birds' eggs. She was carried to St. John's and taken to Government-house, where she was kindly treated. She admired the epaulets of the officers more than any thing she saw, but appeared to value her own dress more highly, for although presents were given her, and indeed whatever she asked for, she would never let her own fur garments go out of her hands. In the hope that if this woman were returned to her tribe, her own description of the treatment she had received, and the presents she would convey to her people, may lead to a friendly communication being opened with the Red Indians, a gentleman residing in Fogo, (Mr. Andrew Pearce) in the vicinity of which place the woman was taken, was authorised to hire men for the purpose of returning her in safety to her tribe. She was accordingly put under the care of four men, and the manner in which they dealt with her is recounted in the following copy of a letter, written by one of them, and addressed to Mr. Trounsell, who was the Admiral's Secretary:--He says, "This is to inform you that I could get no men until the 20th August, when we proceeded with the Indian to the Bay of Exploits, and there went with her up the river as far as we possibly could for want of more strength, and there let her remain ten days, and when I returned the rest of the Indians had carried her off into the country. I would not wish to have any more hand with the Indians, in case you will send round and insure payment for a number of men to go in the country in the winter. The people do not hold with civilizing the Indians, as they think that they will kill more than they did before. (Signed,) WILLIAM CULL." This letter, or at least the latter part of it, is not easily understood; but there is nothing either in its diction or its tone to remove the doubt which, at the time the letter was written, was entertained as to the safety of the poor Indian, and which still rests upon her fate--a strong suspicion was felt, and which has never been removed, that Cull had not dealt fairly with her. Cull heard that such an opinion was entertained, and expressed a strong desire to "get hold of the fellow who said he had murdered the Indian woman." A gentleman who knew Cull well, said, "if ever the person who charged him with the crime, comes within the reach of Cull's gun, and a long gun it is, that cost £7 at Fogo, he is as dead as any of the Red Indians which Cull has often shot." Cull received £50 for capturing the woman, and a further sum of £15 for her maintenance. In 1807 a proclamation was issued by Governor Holloway, offering a reward of £50 "to such person or persons as shall be able to induce or persuade any of the male tribe of native Indians to attend them to the town of St. John's; also all expenses attending their journey or passage," and the same reward was offered to any person who would give information of any murder committed upon the bodies of the Indians. In 1809, the Government, not satisfied with merely issuing proclamations, sent a vessel to Exploit's Bay, in order if possible to meet with the Indians. Lieutenant Spratt, who commanded the vessel, had with him a picture representing the officers of the Royal Navy, shaking hands with an Indian chief--a party of sailors laying goods at his feet--a European and Indian mother looking at their respective children of the same age--Indian men and women presenting furs to the officers, and a young sailor looking admiration at an Indian girl. The expedition, however, did not meet with any of the tribe. In the following year, 1810, several efforts were made to open a communication with the natives, and to arrest the destruction to which they were exposed--first, a proclamation was issued by Sir John Duckworth, stating that the native Indians, by the ill treatment of wicked persons, had been driven from all communication with His Majesty's subjects, and forced to take refuge in the woods, and offering a reward of £100 to any person who should, to use the words of the proclamation, "generously and meritoriously exert himself to bring about and establish on a firm and settled footing an intercourse with the natives; and moreover, that such persons should be honorably mentioned to His Majesty." In the same year a proclamation was also issued, addressed exclusively to the Micmacs, the Esquimaux, and American Indians frequenting the Island, recommending them to live in harmony with the Red Indians, and threatening punishment to any who should injure them; and early in the same year, William Cull, the same person who has been spoken of, with six others, and two Micmacs, set out upon the river Exploits, then frozen over, in quest of their residence in the interior of the country. On the fourth day, having travelled 60 miles, they discovered a building on the bank of the river, about 40 or 50 feet long, and nearly as wide. It was constructed of wood, and covered with the rinds of trees, and skins of deer. It contained large quantities of venison, estimated to have been the choicest parts of at least 100 deer--the flesh was in junks, entirely divested of bone, and stored in boxes made of birch and spruce rinds--each box containing about two cwt. The tongues and hearts were placed in the middle of the packages. In this structure, says the celebrated William Cull, we saw three lids of tin tea kettles, which he believed to be the very same given by Governor Gambier to the Indian woman he was entrusted to restore to her tribe. Whether Cull, by this very opportune discovery, removed the suspicion that attached itself to the manner in which he discharged the trust committed to him, does not appear. On the opposite bank of the river stood another store-house considerably larger than the former, but the ice being bad across the river, it was not examined. Two Indians were seen, but avoided all communication with the Whites. The two store-houses stood opposite each other, and from the margin of the river on each side there extended for some miles into the country, high fences erected for the purpose of conducting the deer to the river, and along the margin of the lake in the neighbourhood of those store-houses, were also erected extensive fences, on each side, in order to prevent the deer when they had taken the water from landing. It would appear that as soon as a herd of deer, few or many, enter the water, the Indians who are upon the watch, launch their canoes, and the parallel fences preventing the re-landing of the deer, they become an easy prey to their pursuers, and the buildings before described are depots, for their reception. Captain Buchan's expedition, too, which is generally, but erroneously spoken of as having been made in the winter of 1815 and 1816, in the course of which two of his men were killed, was also commenced in the autumn of this same year, 1810. Subsequently, indeed, he made one or two journeys into the interior, but only on the one occasion did he meet with any of the natives. The official account of his chief excursion is dated the 23rd October, 1811, and is as follows:-- "Mr. Buchan went in the autumn, to the entrance of the River Exploits, and there anchored his vessel, which soon became fixed in the ice. He then began his march into the interior, accompanied by 24 of his crew and three guides, and having penetrated about 130 miles, discovered some wigwams of the Indians. He surrounded them, and their inhabitants, in number about seventy-five persons, became in his power. He succeeded in overcoming their extreme terror, and soon established a good understanding with them. Four men, among whom was their chief, accepted his invitation to accompany him back to the place, where, as he explained to them by signs, he had left some presents, which he designed for them. The confidence by this time existing was mutual, and so great, that two of Mr. Buchan's people, marines, requested to remain with the Indians; they were allowed to do so, and Mr. Buchan set out on his return to his depot with the remainder of his party and the four Indians. They continued together for about six miles, to the fire-place of the night before, when the chief declined going any further, and with one of his men took leave, directing the other two to go on with Mr. Buchan. They did so, until they came near the place to which they were to be conducted, when one of them became apparently panic-struck and fled, beckoning to his companion to follow him. But the tempers of the two men were different, the latter remained unshaken in his determination, and with a cheerful countenance, and air of perfect confidence in the good faith of his new allies, he motioned to them with his hands to proceed, disregarding his companion and seeming to treat with scorn Mr. Buchan's invitation to depart freely if he chose to do so. Soon afterwards the party reached their rendezvouz--slept there one night, loaded themselves with the presents and returned again towards their Wigwams. The behaviour of the Indian remained the same--he continued to show a generous confidence, and the whole tenor of his conduct was such as Mr. Buchan could not witness without a feeling of esteem for him. On arriving at the wigwams they were found deserted, which threw the Indian into great alarm. Many circumstances determined Mr. Buchan to let him be at perfect liberty, and this treatment revived his spirits. The party spent the night at the Wigwams, and continued their route in the morning. They had proceeded about a mile, when, being a little in advance of the rest, the Indian was seen to start suddenly backwards; he screamed loudly and then fled swiftly, which rendered pursuit in vain. The cause of flight was understood when Mr. Buchan the next moment, beheld upon the ice, headless and pierced by the arrows of the Indians, the naked bodies of his two marines. An alarm had, it is evident, been given by the savage who deserted the party at the rendezvouz, and it is supposed that to justify his conduct in so deserting, he had abused his countrymen with a tale which had excited them to what they perhaps considered a just retaliation. Thus ended an enterprise which was conducted with an ability, zeal, perseverance and manly endurance of extreme hardship, which merited a better success.--When the spring became sufficiently advanced Mr. Buchan returned with his vessel to St. John's, and at once sought and obtained permission from the Governor to return in the summer, in the hope that as the natives came in that season down the rivers to fish and hunt, he might the more easily fall in with them. In this expectation, however, he was disappointed, as he only succeeded in merely discovering some recent traces of them. Captain Buchan, still sanguine of success, requested permission to winter in St. John's, that he may be in readiness to take the earliest of the ensuing spring to go in quest of them again. This was acceded to; but of the movements of Captain Buchan, in consequence of this arrangement, there is no record, it is only known that no additional discoveries were made--but from the facts ascertained by Captain Buchan in his first excursion, the authorities felt satisfied the number of the Indians had been greatly underrated. Captain Buchan was of opinion they could not be less (in the whole) than three hundred persons. Now this is an important fact, as it goes far to disprove the generally received opinion that the tribe is extinct, inasmuch as that opinion was formed from the representations of the decreased numbers of her tribe, made by the Indian woman taken in 1823, but the accuracy of the whole statement there is much reason to doubt. In the course of this narrative we shall be brought to the details of her statement, when a closer comparison of the conflicting accounts can be made. The several proclamations issued, in favor of the Red Indian, seem to have been entirely disregarded--the work of extermination proceeded, and the Government again thought it necessary to express its abhorrence of the murders that were continually being perpetrated, and to threaten punishment to the guilty. Accordingly a proclamation, in the name of the Prince Regent, was issued by Sir R. Keats in 1813, to the same effect, and offering the same reward as the previous ones. For the next four years, or from 1814 to 1818, no additional efforts were made for the benefit of the Indians; but complaints were made by various persons during that period,--residents to the northward,--of thefts, which it was alleged were committed by the Indians. In consequence of these repeated losses, the person who had sustained the greatest injury, amounting to about £150, made application to the Government for permission to follow the property and regain it, if possible. This permission being given, a party of ten men left the Exploits on the 1st of March, 1819, with a most anxious desire, as they state, of being able to take some of the Indians, and thus, through them, to open a friendly communication with the rest. The leader of the party giving strict orders not on any account to commence hostilities without positive directions. On the 2nd March a few wigwams were seen and examined, they appeared to be frequented by the Indians during spring and autumn for the purpose of killing deer. On the 3rd a fire placed on the side of a brook was seen, where some Indians had recently slept. On the 4th the party reached a store-house belonging to the Indians, and on entering it they found five traps belonging to and recognized as the property of persons in Twillingate, as also part of a boat's jib--footsteps also were seen about the store-house, and these tracks were followed with speed and caution. On the 5th the party reached a very large pond, and foot-marks of two or more Indians were distinctly discovered, and soon after an Indian was seen walking in the direction of the spot where the party were concealed, while three other Indians were perceived further off and going in a contrary direction. The curiosity of the whole party being strongly excited, the leader of them showed himself openly on the point. When the Indian discovered him she was for a moment motionless, then screamed violently and ran off--at this time the persons in pursuit were in ignorance as to whether the Indian was male or female. One of the party immediately started in pursuit, but did not gain on her until he had taken off his jacket and rackets, when he came up with her fast; as she kept looking back at her pursuer over her shoulder; he dropped his gun on the snow and held up his hands to shew her he was unarmed, and on pointing to his gun, which was some distance behind, she stopped--he did the same, then he advanced and gave her his hand, she gave her's to him, and to all the party as they came up. Seven or eight Indians were then seen repeatedly running off and on the pond, and shortly three of them came towards the party--the woman spoke to them, and two of the Indians joined the English, while the third remained some one hundred yards off. Something being observed under the cassock of one of the Indians, he was searched and a hatchet taken from him. The two Indians then took hold of the man who had seized the Indian woman, and endeavoured to force her away from him, but not succeeding in this, he tried to get possession of three different guns, and at last succeeded in geting hold of one, which he tried to wrest from the man who held it; not being able to accomplish this, the Indian seized the Englishman by the throat, and the danger being imminent, three shots were fired, all so simultaneously that it appeared as if only one gun had been discharged. The Indian dropped, and his companions immediately fled. In extenuation of this, to say the least of it, most deplorable event, it is said, "could we have intimidated him, or persuaded him to leave us, or even have seen the others go off, we should have been most happy to have been spared using violence--but when it is remembered that our small party were in the heart of the Indian country, a hundred miles from any European settlement, and that there were in our sight at times, as many Indians as our party amounted to, and we could not ascertain how many were in the woods that we did not see, it could not be avoided with safety to ourselves. Had destruction been our object, we might have carried it much farther." The death of this Indian was subsequently brought before the Grand Jury, and that body having enquired into the circumstances connected with it, in its report to the Court makes the following statement:--"It appears that the deceased came to his death in consequence of an attack on the party in search of them, and his subsequent obstinacy, and not desisting when repeatedly menaced by some of the party for that purpose, and the peculiar situation of the searching party and their men, was such as to warrant their acting on the defensive." Now, taking the foregoing report as given by the leader of the expedition, and in which there can be no question but that the conduct of the English party is as favourably represented as it possibly could be, yet does the statement detailed afford no excuse for the Indian, and is the word "obstinacy" as applied by the Grand Jury, applicable to him? It may not be forgotten that the Indian was surprised in the "heart of his own country"--treading his own soil--within sight of his home--that home was invaded by armed men of the same race with those who had inflicted on his tribe irreparable injuries--his wife was seized by them--his attempts to release her, which ought to have been respected, were violently resisted,--and then, maddened by the bonds and captivity of his wife, he continues, with a courage and devotion to her which merited a far different fate, singly his conflict with ten armed men--he is shot, and his death is coldly ascribed to his "obstinacy." Had the Indian tamely permitted his wife to have been carried away from him--had he without feeling or emotion witnessed the separation of the mother from her infant child, then indeed little sympathy would have been felt for him--and yet it is precisely because he did show that he possessed feelings common to us all, and without the possession of which man becomes more degraded than the brute, that he was shot. Thus perished the ill-fated husband of poor Mary March, and she herself, from the moment when her hand was touched by the white man, became the child of sorrow, a character which never left her, until she became shrouded in an early tomb. Among her tribe she was known as "De mas do weet,"--her husband's name was "No nos baw sut." In an official report Mary March is described as a young woman of about twenty-three years of age--of a gentle and interesting disposition, acquiring and retaining without any difficulty any words she was taught. She had one child, who, as was subsequently ascertained, died a couple of days after its mother's capture. Mary March was first taken to Twillingate, where, she was placed under the care of the Revd. Mr. Leigh, Episcopal Missionary, who, upon the opening of the season, came with her to St. John's. She never recovered from the effects of her grief at the death of her husband--her health rapidly declined, and the Government, with the view of restoring her to her tribe, sent a small sloop-of-war with her to the northward, with orders to her Commander to proceed to the summer haunts of the Indians; from this attempt, however, he returned unsuccessful. Captain Buchan, in the _Grashopper_, was subsequently sent to accomplish the same object. He left St. John's in September, 1819, for the Exploits, but poor Mary March died on board the vessel at the mouth of the river. Captain Buchan had her body carried up the lake, where he left it in a coffin, in a place where it was probable her tribe would find her,--traces of Indians were seen while the party was on its way up,--and in fact, although unaware of it, Captain Buchan and his men were watched by a party of Indians, who that winter were encamped on the river Exploits, and when they observed Captain Buchan and his men pass up the river on the ice, they went down to the sea coast, near the mouth of the river, and remained there a month; after that they returned, and saw the footsteps of Captain Buchan's party made on their way down the river. The Indians, then, by a circuitous route, went to the lake, and to the spot where the body of Mary March was left--they opened the coffin and took out the clothes that were left with her. The coffin was allowed to remain suspended as they found it for a month, it was then placed on the ground, where, it remained two months; in the spring they removed the body to the burial place which they had built for her husband, placing her by his side. A narrative of the circumstances which attended the capture of Mary March was published in Liverpool in 1829, and written, as is alleged, by a person who formed one of the party when the capture was effected. Although this narrative contains some inaccuracies, yet it bears internal evidence of being the production of a person who really witnessed the scenes he describes, and though differing in several particulars from the account as before detailed, yet it describes many events which the leader of the party may have omitted, and states nothing absolutely irreconcileable with his account--with some omissions, not necessarily connected with the main object of the expedition, this second record of the circumstances associated with it is now inserted, in so far at least as the same were published:-- TRIBE OF RED INDIANS. _To the Editor of the Liverpool Mercury_. SIR.--Observing among the details in the _Mercury_ of September 18, that of "Shawnadithit, supposed to be the last of the Red Indians," or Aborigines of Newfoundland, I am tempted to offer a few remarks on the subject, convinced as I am that she cannot be the last of the tribe by many hundreds. Having resided a considable time in that part of the north of Newfoundland which they most frequented, and being one of the party who captured Mary March in 1819, I have embodied into a narrative the events connected with her capture, which I am confident will gratify many of your readers. Proceeding northward, the country gradually assumes a more fertile appearance; the trees, which in the south are, except in a few places, stunted in their growth, now begin to assume a greater height and strength till you reach the neighbourhood of Exploits River and Bay; here the timber is of a good size and quality, and in sufficient quantity to serve the purposes of the inhabitants:--both here and at Trinity Bay some very fine vessels have been built. To Exploits Bay it was that the Red Indians came every summer for the purpose of fishing, the place abounding with salmon. No part of the Bay was inhabited; the islands at the mouth, consisting of Twillingate, Exploits Island, and Burnt Islands, had a few inhabitants. There were also several small harbours in a large island, the name of which I now forget, including Herring Neck and Morton. In 1820 the population of Twillingate amounted to 720, and that of all the other places might perhaps amount to as many more;--they were chiefly descendants from West of England settlers; and having many of them been for several generations without religious or moral instruction of any kind, were immersed in the lowest state of ignorance and vice. Latterly, however, churches have been built and schools established, and, I have been credibly informed that the moral and intellectual state of the people is much improved. While I was there the church was opened, and I must say that the people came in crowds to attend a place of worship, many of them coming fifteen and twenty miles purposely to attend. On the first settlement of the country, the Indians naturally viewed the intruders with a jealous eye, and some of the settlers having repeatedly robbed their nets, &c., they retaliated and stole several boats' sails, implements of iron, &c. The settlers, in return, mercilessly shot all the Indians they could meet with:--in fact so fearful were the latter of fire-arms, that, in an open space, one person with a gun would frighten a hundred; when concealed among the bushes, however, they often made a most desperate resistance. I have heard an old man, named Rogers, living on Twillingate Great Island, boast that he had shot, at different periods, above sixty of them. So late as 1817, this wretch, accompanied by three others, one day discovered nine unfortunate Indians lying asleep on a small island far up the bay. Loading the large guns[A] very heavily, they rowed up to them, and each taking aim, fired. One only rose, and rushing into the water, endeavoured to swim to another island, close by, covered with wood; but the merciless wretch followed in the boat, and butchered the poor creature in the water with an axe, then took the body to the shore and piled it on those of the other eight, whom his companions had in the meantime put out of their misery. He minutely described, to me the spot, and I afterwards visited the place, and found their bones in a heap, bleached and whitened with the winter's blast. I have now, I think, said enough to account for the _shyness_ of the Indians towards the settlers, but could relate many other equally revolting scenes, some of which I shall hereafter touch upon. In 1815 or 1816, Lieutenant, now Captain Buchan, set out on an expedition to endeavour to meet with the Indians, for the purpose of opening a friendly communication with them. He succeeded in meeting with them, and the intercourse seemed firmly established, so much so, that two of them consented to go and pass the night with Captain Buchan's party, he leaving two of his men who volunteered to stop. On returning to the Indians' encampment in the morning, accompanied by the two who had remained all night, on approaching the spot, the two Indians manifested considerable disquietude, and after exchanging a few glances with each other, broke from their conductors and rushed into the woods. On arriving at the encampment. Captain Buchan's poor fellows lay on the ground a frightful spectacle, their heads being severed from their bodies, and almost cut to pieces. In the summer of 1818, a person who had established a salmon fishery at the mouth of Exploits River, had a number of articles stolen by the Indians; they consisted of a gold watch, left accidentally in the boat, the boat's sails, some hatchets, cordage, and iron implements. He therefore resolved on sending an expedition into the country, in order to recover his property. The day before the party set off, I arrived accidentally at the house, taking a survey of numerous bodies of woodcutters belonging to the establishment with which I was connected. The only time anyone can penetrate into the interior in the winter season, the lakes and rivers being frozen over; even the Bay of Exploits, though salt water, was then (the end of January) frozen for sixty miles. Having proposed to accompany the party, they immediately consented. Our equipments consisted of a musket, bayonet, and hatchet; to each of the servants a pistol; Mr. ---- and myself had, in addition, another pistol and a dagger, and a double-barrelled gun, instead of a musket: each carried a pair of snowshoes, a supply of eight pounds of biscuit and a piece of pork, ammunition, and one quart of rum; besides, we had a light sled and four dogs, who took it in turns in dragging the sled, which contained a blanket for each man, rum and other necessaries. We depended on our guns for a supply of provisions, and at all times could meet with plenty of partridges and hares, though there were few days we did not kill a deer. The description of one day's journey will suffice for all, there being but little variation. The snow was at this time about eight feet deep. On the morning of our departure we set off in good spirits up the river, and after following its course for about twelve miles, arrived at the Rapids, a deer at full speed passed us; I fired, and it fell; the next instant a wolf, in full pursuit, made his appearance; on seeing the party, he halted for an instant, and then rushed forward as if to attack us. Mr. ---- however, anticipated him; for taking a steady aim, at the same time sitting coolly on an old tree, he passed a bullet through the fellow's head, who was soon stretched a corpse on the snow; a few minutes after another appeared, when several firing together he also fell, roaring and howling for a long time, when one of the men went and knocked him on the head with a hatchet. And now, ye effeminate feather bed loungers, where do you suppose we were to sleep? There was no comfortable hotel to receive us; not even a house where a board informs the benighted traveller that there is "entertainment for man and horse;" not even the skeleton of a wigwam; the snow eight feet deep,--the thermometer nineteen degrees below the freezing point. Every one having disencumbered himself of his load, proceeded with his hatchet to cut down the small fir and birch trees. The thick part of the trees was cut in lengths, and heaped up in two piles; between which a sort of wigwam was formed of the branches: a number of small twigs of trees, to the depth of about three feet, were laid on the snow for a bed; and having lighted the pile of wood on each side, some prepared venison steaks for supper, while others skinned the two wolves, in order, with the dear skin, to form a covering to the wigwam; this some opposed, as being a luxury we should not every day obtain. Supper being ready, we ate heartily, and having melted some snow for water, we made some hot toddy, that is, rum, butter, hot water and sugar; a song was proposed, and acceeded to: and thus, in the midst of a dreary desert, far from the voice of our fellow men, we sat cheerful and contented, looking forward for the morrow, without dread, anxious to renew our toils and resume our labours. Alter about an hour thus spent the watch was appointed, and each wrapped in his blanket. We vied unconvincing each other, with the nasal organ, which was in the soundest sleep; mine was the last watch, about an hour before daybreak. The Aurora Borealis rolled in awful splendour across the deep blue sky, but I will not tire my readers with a description. When the first glimpse of morn showed itself in the light clouds floating in the eastern horison, I awoke my companions; and by the time it was sufficiently light we had breakfasted, and were ready to proceed. Cutting off enough of the deer shot the night before, we proceeded on our journey, leaving the rest to the wolves. Each day and each night was a repetition of the same; the country being in some places tolerably level, in general covered with wood, but occasionally barren tracts, where sometimes for miles not a tree was to be seen. Mr. ---- instructing the men in which way he wished them to act, informing them that his object was to open a friendly communication with the Indians, rather than act on the principle of intimidating them by revenge; that if they avoided him, he should endeavour to take one or more prisoners and bring them with him, in order that by the civilization of one or two, an intercourse might be established that would end in their permanent civilization. He strictly exhorted them not to use undue violence: every one was strictly enjoined not to _fire_ on any account. About three o'clock in the afternoon the two men who then led the party were about two hundred yards before the rest;--three deer closely followed by a pack of wolves, issued from the wood on the left, and bounded across the lake, passing very near the men, whom they totally disregarded. The men incautiously fired at them. We were then about half a mile from the point of land that almost intersected the lake, and in a few minutes we saw it covered with Indians, who instantly retired.[B] The alarm was given; we soon reached the point; about five Hundred yards on the other side we saw the Indian houses, and the Indians, men, women, and children, rushing from them, across the lake, hereabout a mile broad. Hurrying on we quickly came to the houses; when within a shirt distance from the last house, three men and a woman carrying a child, issued forth. One of the men took the infant from her, and their speed soon convinced us of the futility of pursuit; the woman, however, did not run so fast. Mr. ---- loosened his provision bag from his back and let it fall, threw away his gun and hatchet, and set off at a speed that soon overtook the woman. One man and myself did the same, except our guns. The rest, picking up our things, followed. On overtaking the woman, she instantly fell on her kness, and tearing open the cassock, (a dress composed of deerskin lined with fur,) showing her breasts to prove that she was a woman, and begged for mercy. In a few moments we were by Mr. ----'s side. Several of the Indians, with the three who had quitted the house with the woman, now advanced, while we retreated towards the shore. At length we stopped and they did the same. After a pause, three of them laid down their bows, with which they were armed, and came within two hundred yards. We then presented our guns, intimating that not more than one would be allowed to approach. They retired and fetched their arms, when one, the ill-fated husband of Mary March, our captive, advanced with a branch of fir tree (spruce) in his hand. When about ten yards off he stopped and made a long oration. He spoke at least ten minutes; towards the last his gesture became very animated, and his eye "shot fire." He concluded very mildly, and advancing, shook hands with many of the party--then he attempted to take his wife from us; being opposed in this he drew from beneath his cassock an axe, the whole of which was finely polished, and brandished it over our heads. On two or three pieces being presented, he gave it up to Mr. ----, who then intimated that the woman must go with us, but that he might go also if he pleased, and that in the morning both should have their liberty. At the same time two of the men began to conduct her towards the houses. On this being done, he became infuriated, and rushing towards her strove to drag her from them; one of the men rushed forward and stabbed him in the back with a bayonte: turning round, at a blow he laid the fellow at his feet; the next instant he knocked down another, and rushing on ----, like a child laid him on his back, and seizing his dirk from his belt brandished it over his head; the next instant it would have been buried in him, had I not with both hands seized his arm; he shook me off in an instant, while I measured my length on the ice; Mr. ---- then drew a pistol from his girdle and fired. The poor wretch first staggered, then fell on his face; while writhing in agonies, he seemed for a moment to stop; his muscles stiffened: slowly and gradually he raised himself from the ice, turned round, and with a wild gaze surveyed us all in a circle around him. Never shall I forget the figure he exhibited; his hair hanging on each side of his sallow face; his bushy beard clotted with blood that flowed from his mouth and nose; his eyes flashing fire, yet with the glass of death upon them,--they fixed on the individual that first stabbed him. Slowly he raised the hand that still grasped young ----'s dagger, till he raised it considerably above his head, when uttering a yell that made the woods echo, he rushed at him. The man fired as he advanced, and the noble Indian again fell on his face: a few moments' struggle, and he lay a stiffened corpse on the icy surface of the limpid waters.--The woman for a moment seemed scarcely to notice the corpse; in a few minutes, however, she showed a little emotion; but it was not until obliged to leave the remains of her husband that she gave way to grief, and vented her sorrow in the most heart-breaking lamentations. While the scene which I have described was acting, and which occurred in almost less space than the description can be read, a number of Indians had advanced within a shore distance, but seeing the untimely fate of their chief, halted. Mr. ---- fired over their heads, and they immediately fled. The banks of the lake, on the other side, were at this time covered with men, women, and children, at least several hundreds; but immediately being joined by their companions all disappeared in the woods. We then had time to think. For my own part I could scarcely credit my senses as I beheld the remains of the noble fellow stretched on the ice, crimsoned with his already frozen blood. One of the men then went to the shore for some fir tree boughs to cover the body, which measured as it lay, 6 feet 7½ inches. The fellow who first stabbed him wanted to strip off his cassock, (a garment made of deer skin, lined with beaver and other skins, reaching to the knees,) but met with so stern a rebuke from ----, that he instantly desisted, and slunk abashed away. After covering the body with boughs, we proceeded towards the Indian houses--the woman often requiring force to take her along. On examining them, we found no living creature, save a bitch and her whelps about two months old. The houses of these Indians are very different from those of the other tribes in North America; they are built of straight pieces of fir about twelve feet high, flattened at the sides, and driven in the earth close to each other; the corners being much stronger than the other parts.--The crevices are filled up with moss, and the inside entirely lined with the same material; the roof is raised so as to slant from all parts and meet in a point at the centre, where a hole is left for the smoke to escape; the remainder of the roof is covered with a treble coat of birch bark, and between the first and second layer of bark is about six inches of moss; about the chimney clay is substituted for it. On entering one of the houses I was astonished at the neatness which reigned within. The sides of the tenement were covered with arms,--bows, arrows, clubs, axes of iron, (stolen from the settlers) stone hatchets, arrow heads, in fact, implements of war and for the chase, but all arranged in the neatest order, and apparently every man's property carefully put together. At one end was a small image, or rather a head, carved rudely out of a block of wood; round the neck was hung the case of a watch, and on a board close by, the works of the watch, which had been carefully taken to pieces, and hung on small pegs on the board; the whole were surrounded with the main spring. In the other houses the remainder of the articles stolen were found. Beams were placed across where the roof began; over which smaller ones were laid: on these were piled a considerable quantity of dried venison and salmon, together with a little codfish. On ---- taking down the watch and works, and bringing the image over the fire, the woman surveyed him with anger, and in a few minutes made free with her tongue, her manner showing us that she was not unused to scolding. When Mr. ---- saw it displeased her, he, rather irreverently, threw the log on one side: on this she rose in a rage, and would, had not her hands been fastened, have inflicted summary vengeance for the insult offered to the hideous idol. Wishing to pacify her, he rose, and taking his _reverence_ carefully up, placed him where he had taken him from. This pacified her. I must here do the poor creature the justice to say, that I never afterwards saw her out of temper. A watch was set outside; and having partaken of the Indian's fare, we began to talk over the events of the day. Both ---- and myself bitterly reproached the man who first stabbed the unfortunate native; for though he acted violently, still there was no necessity for the brutal act--besides, the untaught Indian was only doing that which every _man_ ought to do,--he came to rescue his wife from the hands of her captors, and nobly lost his life in his attempt to save her. ---- here declared that he would rather have defeated the object of his Journey a hundred times than have sacrificed the life of one Indian. The fellow merely replied, "it was only an Indian, and he wished he had shot a hundred instead of one." The poor woman was now tied securely, we having, on consideration, deemed it for the best to take her with us, so that by kind treatment and civilization she might, in the course of time, be returned to her tribe, and be the means of effecting a lasting reconciliation between them and the settlers. After the men had laid themselves down around the fire, and the watch was set outside, the door, Mr. ---- and myself remained up; and, in a low voice, talked over the events of the day. We then decided on remaining to rest three or four days; and, in the meantime, to endeavour to find the Indians. I would I could now describe how insensibly we glided from one subject to another;--religion--politics--country--'home, _sweet, sweet_, home'--alternately occupied our attention; and thus, in the midst of a dreary waste, far away from the haunts of civilized man, we sat contentedly smoking our pipes; and, Englishmen like, settled the affairs of _nations_ over a glass of rum and water--ever and anon drinking a health to each _friend_ and _fair_, who rose uppermost in our thoughts. From this the subject turned to "specific gravity." Here an argument commenced. When illustrating a position I had advanced, by the ascension of the smoke from my pipe, we both turned up our eyes to witness its progress upwards: on looking towards the aperture in the roof what was our astonishment at beholding the faces of _two Indians_, calmly surveying us in the quiet occupation of _their_ abode. In an instant we shouted--"The Indians!" and in a moment every one was on the alert, and each taking his arms rushed to the door--not a creature was to be seen; in vain we looked around;--no trace, save the marks of footsteps on the snow, was to be discovered, but these seemed almost innumerable. We fired about a dozen shots into the woods, and then retired to our dwelling. ---- and I then resolved to take alternate watch, and every half hour, at least to walk round the house. During the night, however, we were not again disturbed, save by the howling of wolves and barking of foxes. E.S. After the capture of Mary March, the next attempt, in order of time, to discover the Red Indians was made by JAMES CORMACK, Esq., in 1822, and for that purpose he crossed the whole interior of the Island--starting from Random Bar on the Eastward on the 6th September, and finding his way out at St. George's Bay, on the 2nd November following. During this excursion he suffered great privation,--which few men could have endured, and which few men indeed, would have undertaken with only one companion. Mr. Cormack did not succeed in the main object he had in view, yet was his trouble anything but profitless. We now possess through his means a general knowledge of the interior of our Island--together with a specific account of its soil--its geological and mineralogical aspect--its varied natural productions--of trees, shrubs, plants, flowers, &c., all named and methodically described--the kind of animals met with, and a variety of other useful information. In the following year, 1823, and early in the spring of that year, three females, a mother and two daughters, in Badger Bay, near Exploits Bay, being in a starving condition, allowed themselves in despair, to be quietly captured by some English furriers who accidentally came upon them. Fortunately their miserable appearance, when within gunshot, led to the unusual circumstance of their not being fired at. The husband of the elder woman in attempting to avoid the observation of the white men, tried to cross the creek upon the ice, fell through and was drowned. About a month before this event, and a few miles distant from the spot where this accident occurred, the brother of this man and his daughter, belonging to the same party, were shot by two English furriers. The man was first shot, and the woman in despair remained calmly to be fired at, and incredible as it may appear, this poor woman, far from her tribe--helpless--with her back to her murderers,--excited in them no feeling of compassion--they deliberately shot her,--the slugs passed through her body, and she fell dead by the side of her father. The mind is slow to believe that so brutal an act as this could have been committed, and is willing to doubt the correctness of the report, but the proof of its accuracy is the statement of one of the ruffians who perpetrated the foul act. The three females were brought to St. John's, where they remained four or five weeks, and were then sent back to the Exploits with many presents, in the hope that they may meet and share such presents with their people. They were conveyed up the river Exploits to some distance, by a party of Europeans, and left on its banks with some provisions and clothing, to find their friends as they best might. Their provisions however were soon consumed, and not finding any of the tribe, they wandered down the right bank of the river, and in a few days again reached the Exploits habitations. The mother and one daughter died there shortly afterwards, and within a few days of each other. The Survivor known as "Nancy" here, but among her tribe as "Shaw-na-dith-it," was received and taken care of by Mr. Peyton, jun. and family, with whom she remained several years. She was then brought to St. John's, and as a Society called the "Boeothick Institution" had then been established, Shaw-na-dith-it became the object of its peculiar care and solicitude, and it is to this interesting woman we are indebted for much of the information we possess regarding her race. She remained under the care of the Boeothick Institution for about nine months, during the greater part pf which period she was in bad health. Much attention was shewn her, and attempts were perseveringly made to communicate to her a knowledge of the English language, and this she so far acquired as to be able to communicate with tolerable ease. In person Shaw-na-dith-it was 5 feet 5 inches high--her natural abilities were good. She was grateful for any kindness shown her, and evinced a strong affection for her parents and friends. As she evinced some taste for drawing, she was kept supplied with pencils of various colors, and by the use of these made herself better understood than she otherwise could have done. In her own person she had received two gun-shot wounds at two different times from volleys fired at the band she was with by the English people at the Exploits--one wound was that of a slug through the leg. Poor Shaw-na-dith-it! she died destitute of any of this world's goods, yet, desirous of showing her gratitude to one from whom she had received great kindness, she presented a keepsake to Mr. Cormack, and there is something very affecting under the circumstances in which she was placed, as associated with the simple articles of which her present consisted--they were a rounded piece of granite--a piece of quartz--both derived from the soil of which her tribe were once the sole owners and lords, but which were all of that soil she could then call her own; and added to these, was a lock of her hair. This present has now a place in the Museum of the Mechanics' Institution, and will, it may not be doubted, be an object of interest to many. Shaw-na-dith-it lived in Mr. Cormack's house until he left the colony in 1829, when she was taken to the house of the then Attorney-General. She died in June following, and was interred in the burial ground on the South-side. A Newfoundland paper, of the 12th of June, 1829, notices her death thus:--"Died, on Saturday night, the 6th inst., at the Hospital, Shaw-na-dith-it, the female Indian, one of the aborigines of this Island. She died of consumption,--a disease which seems to have been remarkably prevalent among her tribe, and which has unfortunately been fatal to all who have fallen into the hands of the settlers. Since the departure of Mr. Cormack from the Island, this poor woman has had an asylum afforded her in the house of James Simms, Esq., Attorney General, where every attention has been paid to her wants and comforts, and under the able and professional advice of Dr. Carson, who has most liberally and kindly attended her for many months, it was hoped her health might have been re-established. Latterly, however, her disease became daily more formidable, and her strength rapidly declined, and a short time since it was deemed advisable to send her to the hospital, where her sudden decease has but too soon fulfilled the fears that were entertained for her." Shaw-na-dith-it as before observed, gave much information as to the state of her tribe, and the following is the substance of the statement she made with reference to Captain Buchan's expedition to the Great Lake in the winter of 1811:-- The tribe, she said, at that time had been much reduced in numbers, in consequence of the hostile encroachments and meetings of the Europeans at the sea-coast. But they still had, up to that time, enjoyed, unmolested, the possession of their favorite interior parts of the Island, especially the territory around and adjacent to the Great Lake and Exploits River. There number then it would appear barely amounted to one hundred and seventy two--and these were encamped in their winter quarters, in three divisions, on different parts of the margin of the Great Lake. The principal encampment was at the East end of the Lake, on the South-side. There were here three mamaseeks or wigwams, containing forty-two persons. A smaller encampment lay six or eight miles to the Westward on the North-side of the Lake, containing two mamaseeks with thirteen people, and another lay near the West end of the Lake on the South-side, and consisted of two mamaseeks with seventeen people. It was the principal encampment which Captain Buchan fell in with. He took it by surprise, and made the whole party prisoners. This occurred in the morning; after a guarded and pantomimic interchange for several hours, it was agreed that two hostages should be given on each side, for Captain Buchan wished to return down the river for an additional supply of presents, in order thereby the better to secure the friendship of the Indians. Captain Buchan had no sooner departed with his men and hostages, than the Indians suspected he had gone down the river for an additional force, with, which to return--make them all prisoners, and carry them off to the coast. Their suspicions induced them to break up their encampment immediately and retire farther into the interior, where the rest of the tribe were, and where they would be less liable to be again surprised. To ensure concealment of their proceedings, they first destroyed the two Europeans left as hostages, by shooting them with arrows--then packed up what clothing and utensils they could conveniently carry--crossed the lake on the ice the same afternoon, carrying the heads of the two Europeans with them--one of which they stuck on a pole, and left it on the north side of the lake; they then followed along the margin of the lake westward, and about midnight reached the encampment of their friends--the alarm was given, and next morning they all joined in the retreat westward. They proceeded a few miles in order to reach a secure and retired place to halt at, in the hope soon of hearing something of the two Indians whom Captain Buchan had taken with him. On the second day the Indians appeared among them, and stated to them that upon returning with the white men and discovering the first encampment destroyed, they fled instantly and escaped,--one of these was Shaw-na-dith-it's uncle. All now resumed the retreat, and crossed on the ice to the south-side of the lake, where the only remaining and undisturbed encampment lay. Upon reaching the shore, a party was despatched to the encampment which lay further to the westward to sound the alarm. This encampment was then likewise broken up, and the occupants came east to join the tribe. To avoid discovery, the whole retired together to an unfrequented part of the forest, situate some distance from the shore of the lake, carrying with them all the winter stock of provisions they possessed. In this sequestered spot they built six winter wigwams, and remained unmolested for the remainder of the winter,--about six weeks. They had conveyed with them the head of one of the hostages; this was placed on a pole, around which the Indians danced and sang. When spring advanced and their provisions were exhausted, some of them went back to the encampment at which they had been surprised, and there supplied themselves out of the winter stock of venison that had been left there. After the disaster the tribe became scattered, and continued dispersed in bands frequenting the more remote and sequestered parts of the northern interior. In the second winter afterwards twenty-two had died about the river Exploits, at the Great Lake, and in the vicinity of Green Bay; in the following years also numbers died of hardship and want. In 1819 their numbers were reduced to thirty-one, and in 1823 it consisted of only a remnant of twelve or thirteen. Such is the substance of Shaw-na-dith-it's statement, and which it is said she never related without tears. In 1827 Mr. Cormack renewed his attempt to discover and open a friendly intercourse with the Boeothicks, and for this purpose with a small party, consisting of Europeans and a couple of Micmacs, entered the country at the mouth of the River Exploits, and took a north-westerly direction which led them to Hall's Bay. On the fourth day after their departure, at the east end of Badger Bay, at a portage known by the name of the Indian Path, they found traces made by the Indians, evidently in the spring or summer of the preceding year. Their party had been possessed of two canoes, and they had built a canoe-rest, on which the daubs of red ochre and the roots of trees used to tie or fasten it together appeared fresh. A canoe-rest is simply a few beams' supported horizontally about five feet from the ground by perpendicular posts. Among other things which lay strewed about here was a spear shaft, eight feet long, recently made and stained with ochre--parts of old canoes--fragments, of their skin dresses, &c. Some of the cuts in the trees, made with an axe, were evidently of not more than a year's date. Besides these signs, the party were elated by other encouraging marks. After some further search, but without meeting with any greater success, the party determined to proceed to the Red Indian Lake. On reaching this magnificent sheet of water, they found around its shores abundant evidence that this had been for a long time the central and undisturbed rendezvous of the tribe. At several places by the margin of the lake were found small clusters of summer and winter wigwams, but all in ruins--one large wooden building, presumed to have been used for the purpose of drying and smoking venison, was found in a perfect state. The repositories for the dead were found perfect, and in one of these the party discovered the remains of the ill-fated Mary March, whom the Indians had placed by the side of her unfortunate husband. On the north-side of this lake, opposite the River Exploits, were seen the extremities of two deer fences, about half a mile apart, where they lead to the water--and in gliding down the river, the attention of the traveller is arrested by a continuation of these fences which extend from the lake downwards on the banks of the river at least thirty miles. After spending several days in wandering round the margin of the lake, and having fully satisfied themselves that no encampment of the Indians was to be found there, they returned. Subsequently to this excursion, a party of men under the direction of an Institution termed the "Boeothick Institution," which was established with the view of benefiting the Indians, were sent on the same errand, but they too returned after a fruitless search, and with this attempt ends all efforts that have been made to open a communication with the Red Indians. And now what opinion may be reasonably formed after a careful consideration of all the foregoing facts? Shall it be concluded as many, nay, as most people have done, that the Red Indians are wholly extinct? The mind is slow to entertain so painful a conclusion, and more especially as there is some reason to hope that the tribe, to some extent at least, yet survives. If indeed Shaw-na-dith-it's statement is to be taken as of unquestionable authority, and is not to be subjected to any scrutiny, then indeed but slight hopes can be entertained of the existence of any of her race; but if the information she supplied be compared with that conveyed to us through various other sources, then a very different conclusion may be most legitimately reached. And first let Shaw-na-dith-it's recital of the circumstances connected with Captain Buchan's visit to the Great Lake in the winter of 1810 and 1811 be contrasted with that gentleman's own statement of the same facts. Shaw-na-dith-it when entering into the particulars of the condition of her tribe at the period just referred to, said it consisted of no more than seventy two persons, and whom she thus further described: In the principal encampment, that which Captain Buchan surprised, there were in one mamaseek or wigwam four men, five women and six children--in a second mamaseek there were four men, two women and six children--in a third mamaseek there were three men, five woman, and seven children--in the whole forty-two persons. In the second encampment there were thirteen persons, and in the third seventeen persons, making in the whole seventy-two; the two smaller encampments being several miles distant from the larger one. Now, compare this account with what Captain Buchan saw, bearing in mind that it was only the larger encampment he surprised,--of the two smaller ones, it does not appear that he was at all aware, Shaw-na-dith-it states the encampment contained forty-two persons, of whom nineteen were children. Captain Buchan asserts in his official Report, that it contained seventy-five persons, and it is by no means clear that in this number he included any of the women or children, as in another part of his report, he estimates the number of the Red Indians as consisting at least of three hundred persons--an opinion formed solely from the appearances which the one encampment presented. Then we have the testimony of a writer, an anonymous one it is true, yet it is evidently the testimony of a person who was present at the scenes he describes, and he tells us that in 1819 he estimated the number of Indians he saw, at from three to four hundred, including women and children. Then again, we find Mr. Cormack, in 1827, declaring "that hundreds of Indians must have been in existence not many years ago," otherwise it would be impossible to account for the great extent of deer fences which he found so late as the period above-named, yet in being. And lastly, we have the opinions of the Micmacs, who are so satisfied of the continued existence of the Red Indian tribe, that they can with difficulty be made to comprehend that it is possible to entertain a doubt of a fact, which to them appears so palpable. Their opinion is that the whole tribe of Boeothicks passed over to the Labrador some twenty or twenty-five years since, and the place of their final embarkation, as they allege, is yet plainly discernable. In the _Royal Gazette_, dated the 2nd September, 1828, there appears a statement referring to the Red Indians, of which the following is a copy:--"Nippers Harbor, where the Red Indians were said to have been seen three weeks ago, and where one of their arrows was picked up, after having been ineffectually shot at one of the settlers, is in Green Bay." This accumulation of facts, all of a widely different character from Shaw-na-dith-it's testimony, would seem, to render the latter more than doubtful, and it ought to be borne in mind that Shaw-na-dith-it acquired a knowledge of the English language very slowly; and though it is said that before her death she could communicate with tolerable ease, yet it would be incorrect to assume that she could, without fear of mistake, make such a detailed statement as that which is attributed to her; but even allowing that which is most uncertain,--allowing that she expressed herself with tolerable clearness, and admitting that the parties to whom she made her communication fully understood her broken English, and were acquainted with the Boeothick words, which it was her wont to mingle in all she said--admitting all this--yet even in this view of the case, it may not be difficult to suppose a reason for her giving an incorrect account of the state of her tribe. Shaw-na-dith-it knew from bitter experience, that all former attempts made by Europeans to open a communication with the Red Indians, had to the latter issued only in the most disastrous and fatal results. She knew too the antipathy her own people had to the whites,--so great was this, that she feared to return to them, believing that the mere fact of her having resided among the whites for a time would make her an object of hatred to the Red man.--Knowing all this, is it a violent deduction to draw from all the circumstances surrounding this subject, that Shaw-na-dith-it in very love for her own people, may have purposely given an incorrect account of the numbers of her tribe--lessening it, in the hope that by so doing no further search would be made for then. Supposing it possible that such may have been the case, then, it follows that Shaw-na-dith-it may not have been, as many persons have presumed her to be, the last of the Boeothicks. Some account of the usages and habits of this people, and of such particulars as have special reference to them, will now close this narrative: and first it may be observed that the extensive works which they completed and kept in repair for a number of years, would seem to indicate, and that almost beyond a doubt, that the Boeothicks were once a numerous and energetic tribe. That they were intelligent, their buildings, store-houses, &c., would appear to be a sufficient evidence. Their mamaseeks, for such was the word they used to describe their habitations, were far superior to the wigwams of the Micmacs. The dwellings of the Boeothicks were in general built of straight pieces of fir, about twelve feet high, flattened at the sides, and driven in the earth close to each other, the corners being made stronger than the other parts. The crevices were filled up with moss, and the inside lined with the same material; the roof was raised so as to slant from all parts and meet in a point in the centre, where a hole was left for the smoke to escape--the remainder of thereof was covered with a treble coat of birch bark, and between the first and second layers of bark was placed about six inches of moss--about the chimney clay was substituted for the moss. The sides of these mamaseeks were covered with arms--that is, bows, arrows, clubs, stone hatchets, arrow heads, and all these were arranged in the neatest manner. Beams were placed across where the roof began, over which smaller ones were laid; and on the latter were piled their provisions--dried salmon, venison, &c. That the Boeothicks were a bold, heroic, self-dependant tribe, few will be disposed to question, when it is remembered that they never courted the friendship of, neither were they ever subdued by, any other tribe, or by Europeans--by the combined efforts of both Micmacs and Whites, their numbers were greatly reduced, if not utterly exterminated, but they were never conquered. BOEOTHICK DRESS. This was peculiar to the tribe, and consisted of but one garment--a sort of mantle formed out of two deer skins, sewed together so as to be nearly square--a collar also formed with skins was sometimes attached to the mantle, and reached along its whole breadth--it was formed without sleeves or buttons, and was worn thrown over the shoulders, the corners doubling over at the breast and arms. When the bow is to be used the upper part of the dress was thrown off from the shoulders and arms, and a broad fold, the whole extent of it, was secured round the loins, with a belt to keep the lower part from the ground and the whole from falling off, when the arms were at liberty. The collar of the dress was sometimes made of alternate stripes of otter and deer skins sewed together, and sufficiently broad to cover the head and face when turned up, and this is made to answer the purpose of a hood of a cloak in bad weather--occasionally leggings or gaiters were worn, and arm coverings, all made of deer skins--their moccasins were also made of the same material; in summer, however, they frequently went without any covering for the feet. BOEOTHICK ARMS. These, whether offensive or defensive, or for killing game, were simply the bow and arrow, spear, and club. The arrow-heads were of two kinds, viz.:--stone, bone or iron, the latter material being derived from Europeans, and the blunt arrow, the point being a knob continuous with the shaft--the former of these was used for killing quadrupeds and large birds, the latter for killing small birds--two strips of goose feathers were tied on to balance the arrow, and it has been remarked by many persons who have seen the Red Indians' arrows, that they have invariably been a yard long; the reason of this would seem to be that their measure for the arrow was the arm's length, that is, from the centre of the chest to the tip of the middle finger, that being the proper length to draw the bow--the latter was about five feet long, generally made of mountain ash, but sometimes of spruce. Their spears were of two kinds--the one, their chief weapon, was twelve feet in length, pointed with bone or iron, whenever the latter material could be obtained, and was used in killing deer and other animals. The other was fourteen feet in length and was used chiefly, if not wholly, in killing seals--the head or point being easily separated from the shaft--the service of the latter being, indeed mainly, to guide the point into the body of the animal, and which being effected, the shaft was withdrawn, and a strong strip of deer skin, which was always kept fastened to the spear head, was held by the Indian, and who in this manner secured his prey. CANOES. These varied from sixteen to twenty-two feet in length, with an upward curve towards each end. Laths were introduced from stem to stern instead of planks--they were provided with a gunwhale or edging which, though slight, added strength to the fabric--the whole was covered on the outside with deer skins sewed together and fastened by stitching the edges round the gunwhale. LANGUAGE. The language of the Boeothicks, Mr. Cormack is of opinion, is different from all the languages of the neighbouring tribes of Indians with which any comparison has been made. Of all the words procured at different times from the female Indian Shaw-na-dith-it, and which were compared with the Micmac and Banake (the latter people bordering on the Mohawk) not one was found similar to the language of the latter people, and only two words which could be supposed to have had the same origin, viz.: Keuis--Boeothick--and "Kuse" Banake--both words meaning "Sun,"--and moosin Boeothick, and moccasin, Banake and Micmac. The Boeothick also differs from the Mountaineer or Esquimaux language of Labrador. The Micmac, Mountaineer, and Banake, have no "_r_." The Boeothick has; the three first use "_l_" instead of "_r_." The Boeothick has the dipthong _sh_.--the other languages, as before enumerated, have it not. The Boeothicks have no characters to serve as hieroglyphics or letters, but they had a few symbols or signatures. METHOD OF INTERMENT. The Boeothicks appear to have shown great respect for their dead, and the most remarkable remains of them commonly observed by Europeans at the sea coasts are their burial places. They had several modes of interment--one was when the body of the deceased had been wrapped in birch rind, it was then, with his property, placed on a sort of scaffold about four feet from the ground--the scaffold supported a flooring of small squared beams laid close together, on which the body and property rested. A second method was, when the body bent together and wrapped in birch rinds was enclosed in a sort of box on the ground--this box was made of small square posts laid on each other horizontally, and notched at the corners to make them meet close--it was about four feet high, three feet broad, and two-feet-and-a-half deep, well lined with birch rind, so as to exclude the weather from the inside--the body was always laid on its right side. A third, and the most common method of burying among this people, was to wrap the body in birch rind, and then cover it over with a heap of stones on the surface of the earth; but occasionally in sandy places, or where the earth was soft and easily removed, the body was sunk lower in the earth and the stones omitted. Their marriage ceremony consisted merely in a prolonged feast, and which rarely terminated before the end of twenty-four hours. Polygamy would seem not to have been countenanced by the tribe. Of their remedies for disease, the following were those the most frequently resorted to:-- For pains in the stomach, a decoction of the rind of the dogberry was drank. For sickness among old people--sickness in the stomach, pains in the back, and for rheumatism, the vapor-bath was used. For sore head, neck, &c., pounded sulphuret of iron mixed up with oil was rubbed over the part affected, and was said generally to effect a cure in two or three days. Brief as the foregoing statement is, yet, so scanty are the materials which relate to the subject, that it contains substantially all the facts which can now be gathered together of that interesting people, the original inhabitants of Newfoundland--a people whose origin and fate are alike shrouded in mystery, and of whom, in their passage across the stage of life, but little is certainly known, beyond the cruel outrages, the bitter wrongs they endured at the hands of the white man--before whose power, so mercilessly used, the tribe sank, and was either utterly annihilated, or, as is more probable, a remnant--worn out, harrassed beyond human endurance--left the homes of their fathers, and in another land sought that security for their lives which was denied them in this. FINIS. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: "Large guns." The guns in common use there are what are made for killing seals. The general size is a barrel of five feet long, with a bore from seven-eighths to an inch and a quarter.] [Footnote B: What I saw I should estimate at from three to four hundred, including women and children: of this however hereafter.] 
19044	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | The appendix contains dialect that has been carefully | | reproduced. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * +--------------------------------------+ | By Wilfred T. Grenfell | | | | THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE. | | ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN. Illustrated. | | | | HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY | | BOSTON AND NEW YORK | +--------------------------------------+ ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN [Illustration: (signed) Wilfred Grenfell] ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN BY WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL M.D. (OXON), C.M.G. ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY DR. GRENFELL AND OTHERS BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY COPYRIGHT 1909 BY WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL ALL RIGHTS RESERVED PUBLISHED JUNE 1909 CONTENTS BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ix ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN 1 APPENDIX 59 ILLUSTRATIONS WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL, M.D. (OXON), C.M.G _Frontispiece_ THE SETTLEMENT AT ST. ANTHONY 2 ON A JOURNEY FROM ST. ANTHONY 4 TRAVELLING ON BROKEN ICE 8 PART OF DR. GRENFELL'S TEAM 12 DR. GRENFELL AND JACK 20 WITH THE JACKET MADE FROM MOCCASINS DOC 30 MEMORIAL TABLET, ST. ANTHONY'S HOSPITAL, NEWFOUNDLAND 54 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH "MOST NOBLE VICE-CHANCELLOR, AND YOU, EMINENT PROCTORS: "A citizen of Britain is before you, once a student in this University, now better known to the people of the New World than to our own. This is the man who fifteen years ago went to the coast of Labrador, to succor with medical aid the solitary fishermen of the northern sea; in executing which service he despised the perils of the ocean, which are there most terrible, in order to bring comfort and light to the wretched and sorrowing. Thus, up to the measure of human ability, he seems to follow, if it is right to say it of any one, in the footsteps of Christ Himself, as a truly Christian man. Rightly then we praise him by whose praise not he alone, but our University also is honored. I present to you Wilfred Thomason Grenfell, that he may be admitted to the degree of Doctor in Medicine, HONORIS CAUSA." Thus may be rendered the Latin address when, in May, 1907, for the first time in its history, the University of Oxford conferred the honorary degree in medicine. With these fitting words was presented a man whose simple faith has been the motive power of his works, to whom pain and weariness of flesh have called no stay since there was discouragement never, to whom personal danger has counted as nothing since fear is incomprehensible. "As the Lord wills, whether for wreck or service, I am about His business." On November 9th of the preceding year, the King of England gave one of his "Birthday Honors" to the same man, making him a Companion of St. Michael and St. George (C.M.G.). Wilfred Thomason Grenfell, second son of the Rev. Algernon Sydney Grenfell and Jane Georgiana Hutchinson, was born on the twenty-eighth day of February, eighteen hundred and sixty-five, at Mostyn House School, Parkgate, by Chester, England, of an ancestry which laid a firm foundation for his career and in surroundings which fitted him for it. On both sides of his inheritance have been exhibited the courage, patience, persistence, and fighting and teaching qualities which are exemplified in his own abilities to command, to administer, and to uplift. On his father's side were the Grenvilles, who made good account of themselves in such cause as they approved, among them Basil Grenville, commander of the Royalist Cornish Army, killed at Lansdown in 1643 in defence of King Charles. "Four wheels to Charles's wain: Grenville, Trevanion, Slanning, Godolphin slain." There was also Sir Richard Grenville, immortalized by Tennyson in "The Revenge," and John Pascoe Grenville, the right-hand man of Admiral Cochrane, who boarded the Spanish admiral's ship, the Esmeralda, on the port side, while Cochrane came up on the starboard, when together they made short work of the capture. Nor has the strain died out, as is demonstrated in the present generation by many of Dr. Grenfell's cousins, among them General Francis Wallace Grenfell, Lord Kilvey, and by Dr. Grenfell himself on the Labrador in the fight against disease and disaster and distress along a stormy and uncharted coast. On his mother's side, four of her brothers were generals or colonels in the trying times of service in India. The eldest fought with distinction throughout the Indian Mutiny and in the defence of Lucknow, and another commanded the crack cavalry regiment, the "Guides," at Peshawar, and fell fighting in one of the turbulent North of India wars. Of teachers, there was Dr. Grenfell's paternal grandfather, the Rev. Algernon Grenfell, the second of three brothers, house master at Rugby under Arnold, and a fine classical scholar, whose elder and younger brothers each felt the ancestral call of the sea and became admirals, with brave records of daring and success. Dr. Grenfell's father, after a brilliant career at Rugby School and at Balliol College, Oxford, became assistant master at Repton, and later, when he married, head master of Mostyn House School, a position which he resigned in 1882 to become Chaplain of the London Hospital. "He was a man of much learning, with a keen interest in science, a remarkable eloquence, and a fervent evangelistic faith." Mostyn House School still stands, enlarged and modernized, in the charge of Dr. Grenfell's elder brother, and in it his mother is still the real head and controlling genius. Parkgate, at one time a seaport of renown, when Liverpool was still unimportant, and later a seaside health resort to which came the fashion and beauty of England, had fallen, through the silting of the estuary and the broadening of the "Sands of Dee," to the level of a hamlet in the time of Dr. Grenfell's boyhood. The broad stretch of seaward trending sand, with its interlacing rivulets of fresh and brackish water, made a tempting though treacherous playground, alluring alike in the varied forms of life it harbored and in the adventure which whetted exploration. Thither came Charles Kingsley, Canon of Chester, who married a Grenfell, and who coupled his verse with scientific study and made geological excursions to the river's mouth with the then Master of Mostyn House School. In these excursions the youthful Wilfred was a participant, and therein he learned some of his first lessons in that accuracy of observation essential to his later life work. Here in this trained, but untrammeled, boyhood, with an inherited incentive to labor and an educated thirst for knowledge, away from the thrall of crowded communities, close to the wild places of nature, with the sea always beckoning and a rocking boat as familiar as the land, it is small wonder that there grew the fashioning of the purpose of a man, dimly at first, conceived in a home in which all, both of tradition and of teaching, bred faith, reverence, and the sense of thanksgiving in usefulness. From the school-days at Parkgate came the step to Marlborough College, where three years were marked by earnest study, both in books and in play, for the one gained a scholarship and the other an enduring interest in Rugby football. Matriculating later at the University of London, Grenfell entered the London Hospital, and there laid not only the foundation of his medical education, but that of his friendship with Sir Frederick Treves, renowned surgeon and daring sailor and master mariner as well. With plenty of work to the fore, as a hospital interne, the ruling spirit still asserted itself, and the young doctor became an inspiration among the waifs of the teeming city; he was one of the founders of the great Lads' Brigades which have done much good, and fostered more, in the example that they have set for allied activities. Nor were the needs of his own bodily machine neglected; football, rowing, and the tennis court kept him in condition, and his athletics served to strengthen his appeals to the London boys whom he enrolled in the brigades. He founded the inter-hospital rowing club at Putney and rowed in the first inter-hospital race; he played on the Varsity football team, and won the "throwing the hammer" at the sports. A couple of terms at Queen's College, Oxford, followed the London experience, but here the conditions were too easy and luxurious for one who, by both inheritance and training, had within him the incentive to the strenuous life. Need called, misery appealed, the message of life, of hope, and of salvation awaited, and the young doctor turned from Oxford to the medical mission work in which his record stands among the foremost for its effectiveness and for the spirituality of its purpose. Seeking some way in which he could satisfy his medical aspirations, as well as his desire for adventure and for definite Christian work, he appealed to Sir Frederick Treves, a member of the Council of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, who suggested his joining the staff of the mission and establishing a medical mission to the fishermen of the North Sea. The conditions of the life were onerous, the existing traffic in spirituous liquors and in all other demoralizing influences had to be fought step by step, prejudice and evil habit had to be overcome and to be replaced by better knowledge and better desire, there was room for both fighting and teaching, and the medical mission won its way. "When you set out to commend your gospel to men who don't want it, there's only one way to go about it,--to do something for them that they'll be sure to understand. The message of love that was 'made flesh and dwelt amongst men' must be reincarnate in our lives if it is to be received to-day." Thus came about the outfitting of the Albert hospital-ship to carry the message and the help, by cruising among the fleets on the fishing-grounds, and the organization of the Deep Sea Mission; when this work was done, "when the fight had gone out of it," Dr. Grenfell looked for another field, for yet another need, and found it on that barren and inhospitable coast the Labrador, whose only harvest field is the sea. Six hundred miles of almost barren rock with outlying uncharted ledges,--worn smooth by ice, else still more vessels would have found wreckage there; a scant, constant population of hardy fishermen and their families, pious and God-fearing, most of them, but largely at the mercy of the local traders, who took their pay in fish for the bare necessities of living, with a large account always on the trader's side; with such medical aid and ministration as came only occasionally, by the infrequent mail boat, and not at all in the long winter months when the coast was firm beset with ice,--to such a place came Dr. Grenfell in 1892 to cast in his lot with its inhabitants, to live there so long as he should, to die there were it God's will. As it stands to-day the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, which Dr. Grenfell represents, administers, and animates on the Labrador coast, not only brings hope, new courage, and spiritual comfort to an isolated people in a desolate land, but cares for the sick and injured, in its four hospitals and dispensary, provides house visitation by means of dog-sledge journeys covering hundreds of miles in a year, teaches wholesome and righteous living, conducts coöperative stores, provides for orphans and for families bereft of the bread-winners by accidents of the sea, encourages thrift, and administers justice, and adds to the wage-earning capacity and therefore food-obtaining power by operating a sawmill, a schooner-building yard, and other productive industries. To accomplish this, to make of the scattered settlements a united and independent people, to safeguard their future by such measures as the establishment of a Seamen's Institute at St. John's, Newfoundland, and the insurance of communication with the outside world, and to raise, by personal solicitation, the money needed for these enterprises, requires an unusual personality. Faith, courage, insight, foresight, the power to win, and the ability to command,--all of these and more of like qualities are embodied and portrayed in Dr. Grenfell. CLARENCE JOHN BLAKE. ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN It was Easter Sunday at St. Anthony in the year 1908, but with us in northern Newfoundland still winter. Everything was covered with snow and ice. I was walking back after morning service, when a boy came running over from the hospital with the news that a large team of dogs had come from sixty miles to the southward, to get a doctor on a very urgent case. It was that of a young man on whom we had operated about a fortnight before for an acute bone disease in the thigh. The people had allowed the wound to close, the poisoned matter had accumulated, and we thought we should have to remove the leg. There was obviously, therefore, no time to be lost. So, having packed up the necessary instruments, dressings, and drugs, and having fitted out the dog-sleigh with my best dogs, I started at once, the messengers following me with their team. My team was an especially good one. On many a long journey they had stood by me and pulled me out of difficulties by their sagacity and endurance. To a lover of his dogs, as every Christian man must be, each one had become almost as precious as a child to its mother. They were beautiful beasts: "Brin," the cleverest leader on the coast; "Doc," a large, gentle beast, the backbone of the team for power; "Spy," a wiry, powerful black and white dog; "Moody," a lop-eared black-and-tan, in his third season, a plodder that never looked behind him; "Watch," the youngster of the team, long-legged and speedy, with great liquid eyes and a Gordon-setter coat; "Sue," a large, dark Eskimo, the image of a great black wolf, with her sharp-pointed and perpendicular ears, for she "harked back" to her wild ancestry; "Jerry," a large roan-colored slut, the quickest of all my dogs on her feet, and so affectionate that her overtures of joy had often sent me sprawling on my back; "Jack," a jet-black, gentle-natured dog, more like a retriever, that always ran next the sledge, and never looked back but everlastingly pulled straight ahead, running always with his nose to the ground. [Illustration: THE SETTLEMENT AT ST. ANTHONY] It was late in April, when there is always the risk of getting wet through the ice, so that I was carefully prepared with spare outfit, which included a change of garments, snow-shoes, rifle, compass, axe, and oilskin overclothes. The messengers were anxious that their team should travel back with mine, for they were slow at best and needed a lead. My dogs, however, being a powerful team, could not be held back, and though I managed to wait twice for their sleigh, I had reached a village about twenty miles on the journey before nightfall, and had fed the dogs, and was gathering a few people for prayers when they caught me up. During the night the wind shifted to the northeast, which brought in fog and rain, softened the snow, and made travelling very bad, besides heaving a heavy sea into the bay. Our drive next morning would be somewhat over forty miles, the first ten miles on an arm of the sea, on salt-water ice. [Illustration: ON A JOURNEY] In order not to be separated too long from my friends, I sent them ahead two hours before me, appointing a rendezvous in a log tilt that we have built in the woods as a halfway house. There is no one living on all that long coast-line, and to provide against accidents--which have happened more than once--we built this hut to keep dry clothing, food, and drugs in. The first rain of the year was falling when I started, and I was obliged to keep on what we call the "ballicaters," or ice barricades, much farther up the bay than I had expected. The sea of the night before had smashed the ponderous covering of ice right to the landwash. There were great gaping chasms between the enormous blocks, which we call pans, and half a mile out it was all clear water. An island three miles out had preserved a bridge of ice, however, and by crossing a few cracks I managed to reach it. From the island it was four miles across to a rocky promontory,--a course that would be several miles shorter than going round the shore. Here as far as the eye could reach the ice seemed good, though it was very rough. Obviously, it had been smashed up by the sea and then packed in again by the strong wind from the northeast, and I thought it had frozen together solid. All went well till I was about a quarter of a mile from the landing-point. Then the wind suddenly fell, and I noticed that I was travelling over loose "sish," which was like porridge and probably many feet deep. By stabbing down, I could drive my whip-handle through the thin coating of young ice that was floating on it. The sish ice consists of the tiny fragments where the large pans have been pounding together on the heaving sea, like the stones of Freya's grinding mill. So quickly did the wind now come off shore, and so quickly did the packed "slob," relieved of the wind pressure, "run abroad," that already I could not see one pan larger than ten feet square; moreover, the ice was loosening so rapidly that I saw that retreat was absolutely impossible. Neither was there any way to get off the little pan I was surveying from. There was not a moment to lose. I tore off my oilskins, threw myself on my hands and knees by the side of the komatik to give a larger base to hold, and shouted to my team to go ahead for the shore. Before we had gone twenty yards, the dogs got frightened, hesitated for a moment, and the komatik instantly sank into the slob. It was necessary then for the dogs to pull much harder, so that they now began to sink in also. Earlier in the season the father of the very boy I was going to operate on had been drowned in this same way, his dogs tangling their traces around him in the slob. This flashed into my mind, and I managed to loosen my sheath-knife, scramble forward, find the traces in the water, and cut them, holding on to the leader's trace wound round my wrist. [Illustration: TRAVELLING ON BROKEN ICE] Being in the water I could see no piece of ice that would bear anything up. But there was as it happened a piece of snow, frozen together like a large snowball, about twenty-five yards away, near where my leading dog, "Brin," was wallowing in the slob. Upon this he very shortly climbed, his long trace of ten fathoms almost reaching there before he went into the water. This dog has weird black markings on his face, giving him the appearance of wearing a perpetual grin. After climbing out on the snow as if it were the most natural position in the world he deliberately shook the ice and water from his long coat, and then turned round to look for me. As he sat perched up there out of the water he seemed to be grinning with satisfaction. The other dogs were hopelessly bogged. Indeed, we were like flies in treacle. Gradually, I hauled myself along the line that was still tied to my wrist, till without any warning the dog turned round and slipped out of his harness, and then once more turned his grinning face to where I was struggling. It was impossible to make any progress through the sish ice by swimming, so I lay there and thought all would soon be over, only wondering if any one would ever know how it happened. There was no particular horror attached to it, and in fact I began to feel drowsy, as if I could easily go to sleep, when suddenly I saw the trace of another big dog that had himself gone through before he reached the pan, and though he was close to it was quite unable to force his way out. Along this I hauled myself, using him as a bow anchor, but much bothered by the other dogs as I passed them, one of which got on my shoulder, pushing me farther down into the ice. There was only a yard or so more when I had passed my living anchor, and soon I lay with my dogs around me on the little piece of slob ice. I had to help them on to it, working them through the lane that I had made. [Illustration: PART OF DR. GRENFELL'S TEAM] The piece of ice we were on was so small it was obvious we must soon all be drowned, if we remained upon it as it drifted seaward into more open water. If we were to save our lives, no time was to be lost. When I stood up, I could see about twenty yards away a larger pan floating amidst the sish, like a great flat raft, and if we could get on to it we should postpone at least for a time the death that already seemed almost inevitable. It was impossible to reach it without a life line, as I had already learned to my cost, and the next problem was how to get one there. Marvellous to relate, when I had first fallen through, after I had cut the dogs adrift without any hope left of saving myself, I had not let my knife sink, but had fastened it by two half hitches to the back of one of the dogs. To my great joy there it was still, and shortly I was at work cutting all the sealskin traces still hanging from the dogs' harnesses, and splicing them together into one long line. These I divided and fastened to the backs of my two leaders, tying the near ends round my two wrists. I then pointed out to "Brin" the pan I wanted to reach and tried my best to make them go ahead, giving them the full length of my lines from two coils. My long sealskin moccasins, reaching to my thigh, were full of ice and water. These I took off and tied separately on the dogs' backs. My coat, hat, gloves, and overalls I had already lost. At first, nothing would induce the two dogs to move, and though I threw them off the pan two or three times, they struggled back upon it, which perhaps was only natural, because as soon as they fell through they could see nowhere else to make for. To me, however, this seemed to spell "the end." Fortunately, I had with me a small black spaniel, almost a featherweight, with large furry paws, called "Jack," who acts as my mascot and incidentally as my retriever. This at once flashed into my mind, and I felt I had still one more chance for life. So I spoke to him and showed him the direction, and then threw a piece of ice toward the desired goal. Without a moment's hesitation he made a dash for it, and to my great joy got there safely, the tough scale of sea ice carrying his weight bravely. At once I shouted to him to "lie down," and this, too, he immediately did, looking like a little black fuzz ball on the white setting. My leaders could now see him seated there on the new piece of floe, and when once more I threw them off they understood what I wanted, and fought their way to where they saw the spaniel, carrying with them the line that gave me the one chance for my life. The other dogs followed them, and after painful struggling, all got out again except one. Taking all the run that I could get on my little pan, I made a dive, slithering with the impetus along the surface till once more I sank through. After a long fight, however, I was able to haul myself by the long traces on to this new pan, having taken care beforehand to tie the harnesses to which I was holding under the dogs' bellies, so that they could not slip them off. But alas! the pan I was now on was not large enough to bear us and was already beginning to sink, so this process had to be repeated immediately. I now realized that, though we had been working toward the shore, we had been losing ground all the time, for the off-shore wind had already driven us a hundred yards farther out. But the widening gap kept full of the pounded ice, through which no man could possibly go. I had decided I would rather stake my chances on a long swim even than perish by inches on the floe, as there was no likelihood whatever of being seen and rescued. But, keenly though I watched, not a streak even of clear water appeared, the interminable sish rising from below and filling every gap as it appeared. We were now resting on a piece of ice about ten by twelve feet, which, as I found when I came to examine it, was not ice at all, but simply snow-covered slob frozen into a mass, and I feared it would very soon break up in the general turmoil of the heavy sea, which was increasing as the ice drove off shore before the wind. At first we drifted in the direction of a rocky point on which a heavy surf was breaking. Here I thought once again to swim ashore. But suddenly we struck a rock. A large piece broke off the already small pan, and what was left swung round in the backwash, and started right out to sea. There was nothing for it now but to hope for a rescue. Alas! there was little possibility of being seen. As I have already mentioned, no one lives around this big bay. My only hope was that the other komatik, knowing I was alone and had failed to keep my tryst, would perhaps come back to look for me. This, however, as it proved, they did not do. The westerly wind was rising all the time, our coldest wind at this time of the year, coming as it does over the Gulf ice. It was tantalizing, as I stood with next to nothing on, the wind going through me and every stitch soaked in ice-water, to see my well-stocked komatik some fifty yards away. It was still above water, with food, hot tea in a thermos bottle, dry clothing, matches, wood, and everything on it for making a fire to attract attention. It is easy to see a dark object on the ice in the daytime, for the gorgeous whiteness shows off the least thing. But the tops of bushes and large pieces of kelp have often deceived those looking out. Moreover, within our memory no man has been thus adrift on the bay ice. The chances were about one in a thousand that I should be seen at all, and if I were seen, I should probably be mistaken for some piece of refuse. To keep from freezing, I cut off my long moccasins down to the feet, strung out some line, split the legs, and made a kind of jacket, which protected my back from the wind down as far as the waist. I have this jacket still, and my friends assure me it would make a good Sunday garment. I had not drifted more than half a mile before I saw my poor komatik disappear through the ice, which was every minute loosening up into the small pans that it consisted of, and it seemed like a friend gone and one more tie with home and safety lost. To the northward, about a mile distant, lay the mainland along which I had passed so merrily in the morning,--only, it seemed, a few moments before. By mid-day I had passed the island to which I had crossed on the ice bridge. I could see that the bridge was gone now. If I could reach the island I should only be marooned and destined to die of starvation. But there was little chance of that, for I was rapidly driving into the ever widening bay. [Illustration: DR. GRENFELL AND JACK WITH THE JACKET MADE FROM MOCCASINS] It was scarcely safe to move on my small ice raft, for fear of breaking it. Yet I saw I must have the skins of some of my dogs,--of which I had eight on the pan,--if I was to live the night out. There was now some three to five miles between me and the north side of the bay. There, immense pans of Arctic ice, surging to and fro on the heavy ground seas, were thundering into the cliffs like medieval battering-rams. It was evident that, even if seen, I could hope for no help from that quarter before night. No boat could live through the surf. Unwinding the sealskin traces from my waist, round which I had wound them to keep the dogs from eating them, I made a slip-knot, passed it over the first dog's head, tied it round my foot close to his neck, threw him on his back, and stabbed him in the heart. Poor beast! I loved him like a friend,--a beautiful dog,--but we could not all hope to live. In fact, I had no hope any of us would, at that time, but it seemed better to die fighting. In spite of my care the struggling dog bit me rather badly in the leg. I suppose my numb hands prevented my holding his throat as I could ordinarily do. Moreover, I must hold the knife in the wound to the end, as blood on the fur would freeze solid and make the skin useless. In this way I sacrificed two more large dogs, receiving only one more bite, though I fully expected that the pan I was on would break up in the struggle. The other dogs, who were licking their coats and trying to get dry, apparently took no notice of the fate of their comrades,--but I was very careful to prevent the dying dogs crying out, for the noise of fighting would probably have been followed by the rest attacking the down dog, and that was too close to me to be pleasant. A short shrift seemed to me better than a long one, and I envied the dead dogs whose troubles were over so quickly. Indeed, I came to balance in my mind whether, if once I passed into the open sea, it would not be better by far to use my faithful knife on myself than to die by inches. There seemed no hardship in the thought. I seemed fully to sympathize with the Japanese view of hara-kiri. Working, however, saved me from philosophizing. By the time I had skinned these dogs, and with my knife and some of the harness had strung the skins together, I was ten miles on my way, and it was getting dark. Away to the northward I could see a single light in the little village where I had slept the night before, where I had received the kindly hospitality of the simple fishermen in whose comfortable homes I have spent many a night. I could not help but think of them sitting down to tea, with no idea that there was any one watching them, for I had told them not to expect me back for three days. Meanwhile I had frayed out a small piece of rope into oakum, and mixed it with fat from the intestines of my dogs. Alas, my match-box, which was always chained to me, had leaked, and my matches were in pulp. Had I been able to make a light, it would have looked so unearthly out there on the sea that I felt sure they would see me. But that chance was now cut off. However, I kept the matches, hoping that I might dry them if I lived through the night. While working at the dogs, about every five minutes I would stand up and wave my hands toward the land. I had no flag, and I could not spare my shirt, for, wet as it was, it was better than nothing in that freezing wind, and, anyhow, it was already nearly dark. Unfortunately, the coves in among the cliffs are so placed that only for a very narrow space can the people in any house see the sea. Indeed, most of them cannot see it at all, so that I could not in the least expect any one to see me, even supposing it had been daylight. Not daring to take any snow from the surface of my pan to break the wind with, I piled up the carcasses of my dogs. With my skin rug I could now sit down without getting soaked. During these hours I had continually taken off all my clothes, wrung them out, swung them one by one in the wind, and put on first one and then the other inside, hoping that what heat there was in my body would thus serve to dry them. In this I had been fairly successful. My feet gave me most trouble, for they immediately got wet again because my thin moccasins were easily soaked through on the snow. I suddenly thought of the way in which the Lapps who tend our reindeer manage for dry socks. They carry grass with them, which they ravel up and pad into their shoes. Into this they put their feet, and then pack the rest with more grass, tying up the top with a binder. The ropes of the harness for our dogs are carefully sewed all over with two layers of flannel in order to make them soft against the dogs' sides. So, as soon as I could sit down, I started with my trusty knife to rip up the flannel. Though my fingers were more or less frozen, I was able also to ravel out the rope, put it into my shoes, and use my wet socks inside my knickerbockers, where, though damp, they served to break the wind. Then, tying the narrow strips of flannel together, I bound up the top of the moccasins, Lapp-fashion, and carried the bandage on up over my knee, making a ragged though most excellent puttee. As to the garments I wore, I had opened recently a box of football clothes I had not seen for twenty years. I had found my old Oxford University football running shorts and a pair of Richmond Football Club red, yellow, and black stockings, exactly as I wore them twenty years ago. These with a flannel shirt and sweater vest were now all I had left. Coat, hat, gloves, oilskins, everything else, were gone, and I stood there in that odd costume, exactly as I stood twenty years ago on a football field, reminding me of the little girl of a friend, who, when told she was dying, asked to be dressed in her Sunday frock to go to heaven in. My costume, being very light, dried all the quicker, until afternoon. Then nothing would dry anymore, everything freezing stiff. It had been an ideal costume to struggle through the slob ice. I really believe the conventional garments missionaries are supposed to affect would have been fatal. My occupation till what seemed like midnight was unravelling rope, and with this I padded out my knickers inside, and my shirt as well, though it was a clumsy job, for I could not see what I was doing. Now, getting my largest dog, Doc, as big as a wolf and weighing ninety-two pounds, I made him lie down, so that I could cuddle round him. I then wrapped the three skins around me, arranging them so that I could lie on one edge, while the other came just over my shoulders and head. My own breath collecting inside the newly flayed skin must have had a soporific effect, for I was soon fast asleep. One hand I had kept warm against the curled up dog, but the other, being gloveless, had frozen, and I suddenly awoke, shivering enough, I thought, to break my fragile pan. What I took at first to be the sun was just rising, but I soon found it was the moon, and then I knew it was about half-past twelve. The dog was having an excellent time. He hadn't been cuddled so warm all winter, and he resented my moving with low growls till he found it wasn't another dog. [Illustration: DOC] The wind was steadily driving me now toward the open sea, and I could expect, short of a miracle, nothing but death out there. Somehow, one scarcely felt justified in praying for a miracle. But we have learned down here to pray for things we want, and, anyhow, just at that moment the miracle occurred. The wind fell off suddenly, and came with a light air from the southward, and then dropped stark calm. The ice was now "all abroad," which I was sorry for, for there was a big safe pan not twenty yards away from me. If I could have got on that, I might have killed my other dogs when the time came, and with their coats I could hope to hold out for two or three days more, and with the food and drink their bodies would offer me need not at least die of hunger or thirst. To tell the truth, they were so big and strong I was half afraid to tackle them with only a sheath-knife on my small and unstable raft. But it was now freezing hard. I knew the calm water between us would form into cakes, and I had to recognize that the chance of getting near enough to escape on to it was gone. If, on the other hand, the whole bay froze solid again I had yet another possible chance. For my pan would hold together longer and I should be opposite another village, called Goose Cove, at daylight, and might possibly be seen from there. I knew that the komatiks there would be starting at daybreak over the hills for a parade of Orangemen about twenty miles away. Possibly, therefore, I might be seen as they climbed the hills. So I lay down, and went to sleep again. It seems impossible to say how long one sleeps, but I woke with a sudden thought in my mind that I must have a flag; but again I had no pole and no flag. However, I set to work in the dark to disarticulate the legs of my dead dogs, which were now frozen stiff, and which were all that offered a chance of carrying anything like a distress signal. Cold as it was, I determined to sacrifice my shirt for that purpose with the first streak of daylight. It took a long time in the dark to get the legs off, and when I had patiently marled them together with old harness rope and the remains of the skin traces, it was the heaviest and crookedest flag-pole it has ever been my lot to see. I had had no food from six o'clock the morning before, when I had eaten porridge and bread and butter. I had, however, a rubber band which I had been wearing instead of one of my garters, and I chewed that for twenty-four hours. It saved me from thirst and hunger, oddly enough. It was not possible to get a drink from my pan, for it was far too salty. But anyhow that thought did not distress me much, for as from time to time I heard the cracking and grinding of the newly formed slob, it seemed that my devoted boat must inevitably soon go to pieces. At last the sun rose, and the time came for the sacrifice of my shirt. So I stripped, and, much to my surprise, found it not half so cold as I had anticipated. I now re-formed my dog-skins with the raw side out, so that they made a kind of coat quite rivalling Joseph's. But, with the rising of the sun, the frost came out of the joints of my dogs' legs, and the friction caused by waving it made my flag-pole almost tie itself in knots. Still, I could raise it three or four feet above my head, which was very important. Now, however, I found that instead of being as far out at sea as I had reckoned, I had drifted back in a northwesterly direction, and was off some cliffs known as Ireland Head. Near these there was a little village looking seaward, whence I should certainly have been seen. But, as I had myself, earlier in the winter, been night-bound at this place, I had learnt there was not a single soul living there at all this winter. The people had all, as usual, migrated to the winter houses up the bay, where they get together for schooling and social purposes. I soon found it was impossible to keep waving so heavy a flag all the time, and yet I dared not sit down, for that might be the exact moment some one would be in a position to see me from the hills. The only thing in my mind was how long I could stand up and how long go on waving that pole at the cliffs. Once or twice I thought I saw men against their snowy faces, which, I judged, were about five and a half miles from me, but they were only trees. Once, also, I thought I saw a boat approaching. A glittering object kept appearing and disappearing on the water, but it was only a small piece of ice sparkling in the sun as it rose on the surface. I think that the rocking of my cradle up and down on the waves had helped me to sleep, for I felt as well as ever I did in my life; and with the hope of a long sunny day, I felt sure I was good to last another twenty-four hours,--if my boat would hold out and not rot under the sun's rays. Each time I sat down to rest, my big dog "Doc" came and kissed my face and then walked to the edge of the ice-pan, returning again to where I was huddled up, as if to say, "Why don't you come along? Surely it is time to start." The other dogs also were now moving about very restlessly, occasionally trying to satisfy their hunger by gnawing at the dead bodies of their brothers. I determined, at mid-day, to kill a big Eskimo dog and drink his blood, as I had read only a few days before in "Farthest North" of Dr. Nansen's doing,--that is, if I survived the battle with him. I could not help feeling, even then, my ludicrous position, and I thought, if ever I got ashore again, I should have to laugh at myself standing hour after hour waving my shirt at those lofty cliffs, which seemed to assume a kind of sardonic grin, so that I could almost imagine they were laughing at me. At times I could not help thinking of the good breakfast that my colleagues were enjoying at the back of those same cliffs, and of the snug fire and the comfortable room which we call our study. I can honestly say that from first to last not a single sensation of fear entered my mind, even when I was struggling in the slob ice. Somehow it did not seem unnatural; I had been through the ice half a dozen times before. For the most part I felt very sleepy, and the idea was then very strong in my mind that I should soon reach the solution of the mysteries that I had been preaching about for so many years. Only the previous night (Easter Sunday) at prayers in the cottage, we had been discussing the fact that the soul was entirely separate from the body, that Christ's idea of the body as the temple in which the soul dwells is so amply borne out by modern science. We had talked of thoughts from that admirable book, "Brain and Personality," by Dr. Thompson of New York, and also of the same subject in the light of a recent operation performed at the Johns Hopkins Hospital by Dr. Harvey Cushing. The doctor had removed from a man's brain two large cystic tumors without giving the man an anæsthetic, and the patient had kept up a running conversation with him all the while the doctor's fingers were working in his brain. It had seemed such a striking proof that ourselves and our bodies are two absolutely different things. Our eternal life has always been with me a matter of faith. It seems to me one of those problems that must always be a mystery to knowledge. But my own faith in this matter had been so untroubled that it seemed now almost natural to be leaving through this portal of death from an ice pan. In many ways, also, I could see how a death of this kind might be of value to the particular work that I am engaged in. Except for my friends, I had nothing I could think of to regret whatever. Certainly, I should like to have told them the story. But then one does not carry folios of paper in running shorts which have no pockets, and all my writing gear had gone by the board with the komatik. I could still see a testimonial to myself some distance away in my khaki overalls, which I had left on another pan in the struggle of the night before. They seemed a kind of company, and would possibly be picked up and suggest the true story. Running through my head all the time, quite unbidden, were the words of the old hymn:-- "My God, my Father, while I stray Far from my home on life's dark way, Oh, teach me from my heart to say, Thy will be done!" It is a hymn we hardly ever sing out here, and it was an unconscious memory of my boyhood days. It was a perfect morning,--a cobalt sky, an ultramarine sea, a golden sun, an almost wasteful extravagance of crimson over hills of purest snow, which caught a reflected glow from rock and crag. Between me and the hills lay miles of rough ice and long veins of thin black slob that had formed during the night. For the foreground there was my poor, gruesome pan, bobbing up and down on the edge of the open sea, stained with blood, and littered with carcasses and débris. It was smaller than last night, and I noticed also that the new ice from the water melted under the dogs' bodies had been formed at the expense of its thickness. Five dogs, myself in colored football costume, and a bloody dogskin cloak, with a gay flannel shirt on a pole of frozen dogs' legs, completed the picture. The sun was almost hot by now, and I was conscious of a surplus of heat in my skin coat. I began to look longingly at one of my remaining dogs, for an appetite will rise even on an ice-pan, and that made me think of fire. So once again I inspected my matches. Alas! the heads were in paste, all but three or four blue-top wax ones. These I now laid out to dry, while I searched about on my snow-pan to see if I could get a piece of transparent ice to make a burning-glass. For I was pretty sure that with all the unravelled tow I had stuffed into my leggings, and with the fat of my dogs, I could make smoke enough to be seen if only I could get a light. I had found a piece which I thought would do, and had gone back to wave my flag, which I did every two minutes, when I suddenly thought I saw again the glitter of an oar. It did not seem possible, however, for it must be remembered it was not water which lay between me and the land, but slob ice, which a mile or two inside me was very heavy. Even if people had seen me, I did not think they could get through, though I knew that the whole shore would then be trying. Moreover, there was no smoke rising on the land to give me hope that I had been seen. There had been no gun-flashes in the night, and I felt sure that, had any one seen me, there would have been a bonfire on every hill to encourage me to keep going. So I gave it up, and went on with my work. But the next time I went back to my flag, the glitter seemed very distinct, and though it kept disappearing as it rose and fell on the surface, I kept my eyes strained upon it, for my dark spectacles had been lost, and I was partly snowblind. I waved my flag as high as I could raise it, broadside on. At last, beside the glint of the white oar, I made out the black streak of the hull. I knew that, if the pan held on for another hour, I should be all right. With that strange perversity of the human intellect, the first thing I thought of was what trophies I could carry with my luggage from the pan, and I pictured the dog-bone flagstaff adorning my study. (The dogs actually ate it afterwards.) I thought of preserving my ragged puttees with our collection of curiosities. I lost no time now at the burning-glass. My whole mind was devoted to making sure I should be seen, and I moved about as much as I dared on the raft, waving my sorry token aloft. At last there could be no doubt about it: the boat was getting nearer and nearer. I could see that my rescuers were frantically waving, and, when they came within shouting distance, I heard some one cry out, "Don't get excited. Keep on the pan where you are." They were infinitely more excited than I. Already to me it seemed just as natural now to be saved as, half an hour before, it had seemed inevitable I should be lost, and had my rescuers only known, as I did, the sensation of a bath in that ice when you could not dry yourself afterwards, they need not have expected me to follow the example of the apostle Peter and throw myself into the water. As the man in the bow leaped from the boat on to my ice raft and grasped both my hands in his, not a word was uttered. I could see in his face the strong emotions he was trying hard to force back, though in spite of himself tears trickled down his cheeks. It was the same with each of the others of my rescuers, nor was there any reason to be ashamed of them. These were not the emblems of weak sentimentality, but the evidences of the realization of the deepest and noblest emotion of which the human heart is capable, the vision that God has use for us his creatures, the sense of that supreme joy of the Christ,--the joy of unselfish service. After the hand-shake and swallowing a cup of warm tea that had been thoughtfully packed in a bottle, we hoisted in my remaining dogs and started for home. To drive the boat home there were not only five Newfoundland fishermen at the oars, but five men with Newfoundland muscles in their backs, and five as brave hearts as ever beat in the bodies of human beings. So, slowly but steadily, we forged through to the shore, now jumping out on to larger pans and forcing them apart with the oars, now hauling the boat out and dragging her over, when the jam of ice packed tightly in by the rising wind was impossible to get through otherwise. My first question, when at last we found our tongues, was, "How ever did you happen to be out in the boat in this ice?" To my astonishment they told me that the previous night four men had been away on a long headland cutting out some dead harp seals that they had killed in the fall and left to freeze up in a rough wooden store they had built there, and that as they were leaving for home, my pan of ice had drifted out clear of Hare Island, and one of them, with his keen fisherman's eyes, had seen something unusual. They at once returned to their village, saying there was something alive drifting out to sea on the floe ice. But their report had been discredited, for the people thought that it could be only the top of some tree. All the time I had been driving along I knew that there was one man on that coast who had a good spy-glass. He tells me he instantly got up in the midst of his supper, on hearing the news, and hurried over the cliffs to the lookout, carrying his trusty spy-glass with him. Immediately, dark as it was, he saw that without any doubt there was a man out on the ice. Indeed, he saw me wave my hands every now and again towards the shore. By a very easy process of reasoning on so uninhabited a shore, he at once knew who it was, though some of the men argued that it must be some one else. Little had I thought, as night was closing in, that away on that snowy hilltop lay a man with a telescope patiently searching those miles of ice for _me_. Hastily they rushed back to the village and at once went down to try to launch a boat, but that proved to be impossible. Miles of ice lay between them and me, the heavy sea was hurling great blocks on the landwash, and night was already falling, the wind blowing hard on shore. The whole village was aroused, and messengers were despatched at once along the coast, and lookouts told off to all the favorable points, so that while I considered myself a laughing-stock, bowing with my flag to those unresponsive cliffs, there were really many eyes watching me. One man told me that with his glass he distinctly saw me waving the shirt flag. There was little slumber that night in the villages, and even the men told me there were few dry eyes, as they thought of the impossibility of saving me from perishing. We are not given to weeping overmuch on this shore, but there are tears that do a man honor. Before daybreak this fine volunteer crew had been gotten together. The boat, with such a force behind it of will power, would, I believe, have gone through anything. And, after seeing the heavy breakers through which we were guided, loaded with their heavy ice battering-rams, when at last we ran through the harbor-mouth with the boat on our return, I knew well what wives and children had been thinking of when they saw their loved ones put out. Only two years ago I remember a fisherman's wife watching her husband and three sons take out a boat to bring in a stranger that was showing flags for a pilot. But the boat and its occupants have not yet come back. Every soul in the village was on the beach as we neared the shore. Every soul was waiting to shake hands when I landed. Even with the grip that one after another gave me, some no longer trying to keep back the tears, I did not find out my hands were frost-burnt,--a fact I have not been slow to appreciate since, however. I must have been a weird sight as I stepped ashore, tied up in rags, stuffed out with oakum, wrapped in the bloody skins of dogs, with no hat, coat, or gloves besides, and only a pair of short knickers. It must have seemed to some as if it were the old man of the sea coming ashore. But no time was wasted before a pot of tea was exactly where I wanted it to be, and some hot stew was locating itself where I had intended an hour before the blood of one of my remaining dogs should have gone. Rigged out in the warm garments that fishermen wear, I started with a large team as hard as I could race for the hospital, for I had learnt that the news had gone over that I was lost. It was soon painfully impressed upon me that I could not much enjoy the ride, for I had to be hauled like a log up the hills, my feet being frost-burnt so that I could not walk. Had I guessed this before going into the house, I might have avoided much trouble. It is time to bring this egotistic narrative to an end. "Jack" lies curled up by my feet while I write this short account. "Brin" is once again leading and lording it over his fellows. "Doc" and the other survivors are not forgotten, now that we have again returned to the less romantic episodes of a mission hospital life. There stands in our hallway a bronze tablet to the memory of three noble dogs, Moody, Watch, and Spy, whose lives were given for mine on the ice. In my home in England my brother has placed a duplicate tablet, and has added these words, "Not one of them is forgotten before your Father which is in heaven." And this I most fully believe to be true. The boy whose life I was intent on saving was brought to the hospital a day or two later in a boat, the ice having cleared off the coast not to return for that season. He was operated on successfully, and is even now on the high road to recovery. We all love life. I was glad to be back once more with possibly a new lease of it before me. I had learned on the pan many things, but chiefly that the one cause for regret, when we look back on a life which we think is closed forever, will be the fact that we have wasted its opportunities. As I went to sleep that first night there still rang in my ears the same verse of the old hymn which had been my companion on the ice, "Thy will, not mine, O Lord." [Illustration: MEMORIAL TABLET AT ST. ANTHONY'S HOSPITAL, NEWFOUNDLAND] +----------------------------------------+ | TO THE MEMORY OF | | THREE NOBLE DOGS. | | | | MOODY. | | WATCH. | | SPY. | | | | WHOSE LIVES WERE GIVEN | | FOR MINE ON THE ICE. | | | | April 21st. 1908. | | | | WILFRED GRENFELL, | | ST. ANTHONY. | | | +----------------------------------------+ * * * * * APPENDIX One of Dr. Grenfell's volunteer helpers, Miss Luther of Providence, R.I., contributes the following account of the rescue as recited in the Newfoundland vernacular by one of the rescuing party. "One day, about a week after Dr. Grenfell's return," says Miss Luther, "two men came in from Griquet, fifteen miles away. They had walked all that distance, though the trail was heavy with soft snow and they often sank to their waists and waded through brooks and ponds. 'We just felt we must see the doctor and tell him what 't would 'a' meant to us, if he'd been lost.' Perhaps nothing but the doctor's own tale could be more graphic than what was told by George Andrews, one of the crew who rescued him." THE RESCUERS' STORY "It was wonderfu' bad weather that Monday mornin'. Th' doctor was to Lock's Cove. None o' we thought o' 'is startin' out. I don't think th' doctor hisself thought o' goin' at first an' then 'e sent th' two men on ahead for to meet us at th' tilt an' said like 's 'e was goin' after all. "'Twas even' when us knew 'e was on th' ice. George Davis seen un first. 'E went to th' cliff to look for seal. It was after sunset an' half dark, but 'e thought 'e saw somethin' on th' ice an' 'e ran for George Read an' 'e got 'is spy-glass an' made out a man an' dogs on a pan an' knowed it war th' doctor. "It was too dark fur we t' go t' un, but us never slept at all, all night. I couldn' sleep. Us watched th' wind an' knew if it didn' blow too hard us could get un,--though 'e was then three mile off a'ready. So us waited for th' daylight. No one said who was goin' out in th' boat. Un 'ud say, 'Is you goin'?' An' another, 'Is you?' I didn' say, but I knowed what I'd do. "As soon as 'twas light us went to th' cliff wi' th' spy-glass to see if us could see un, but thar warn't nothin' in sight. Us know by the wind whar t' look fur un, an' us launched th' boat. George Read an' 'is two sons, an' George Davis, what seen un first, an' me, was th' crew. George Read was skipper-man an' th' rest was just youngsters. The sun was warm,--you mind 'twas a fine mornin',--an' us started in our shirt an' braces fur us knowed thar'd be hard work to do. I knowed thar was a chance o' not comin' back at all, but it didn' make no difference. I knowed I'd as good a chance as any, _an' 'twa' for th' doctor, an' 'is life's worth many_, an' somehow I couldn' let a man go out like dat wi'out tryin' fur un, an' I think us all felt th' same. "Us 'ad a good strong boat an' four oars, an' took a hot kettle o' tea an' food for a week, for us thought u'd 'ave t' go far an' p'rhaps lose th' boat an' 'ave t' walk ashore un th' ice. I din' 'ope to find the doctor alive an' kept lookin' for a sign of un on th' pans. 'Twa' no' easy gettin' to th' pans wi' a big sea runnin'! Th' big pans 'ud sometimes heave together an' near crush th' boat, an' sometimes us 'ad t' git out an' haul her over th' ice t' th' water again. Then us come t' th' slob ice where th' pan 'ad ground together, an' 'twas all thick, an' that was worse'n any. Us saw th' doctor about twenty minutes afore us got t' un. 'E was wavin' 'is flag an' I seen 'im. 'E was on a pan no bigger'n this flor, an' I dunno what ever kep' un fro' goin' abroad, for 'twasn't ice, 'twas packed snow. Th' pan was away from even th' slob, floatin' by hisself, an' th' open water all roun', an' 'twas just across fro' Goose Cove, an' outside o' that there'd been no hope. I think th' way th' pan held together was on account o' th' dogs' bodies meltin' it an' 't froze hard durin' th' night. 'E was level with th' water an' th' sea washin' over us all th' time. "When us got near un, it didn' seem like 'twas th' doctor. 'E looked so old an' 'is face such a queer color. 'E was very solemn-like when us took un an' th' dogs on th' boat. No un felt like sayin' much, an' 'e 'ardly said nothin' till us gave un some tea an' loaf an' then 'e talked. I s'pose e was sort o' faint-like. Th' first thing 'e said was, how wonderfu' sorry 'e was o' gettin' into such a mess an' givin' we th' trouble o' comin' out for un. Us tol' un not to think o' that; us was glad to do it for un, an' 'e'd done it for any one o' we, many times over if 'e 'ad th' chance;--an' so 'e would. An' then 'e fretted about th' b'y 'e was goin' to see, it bein' too late to reach un, an' us tol' un 'is life was worth so much more 'n th' b'y, fur 'e could save others an' th' b'y couldn'. But 'e still fretted. "'E 'ad ripped th' dog-harnesses an' stuffed th' oakum in th' legs o' 'is pants to keep un warm. 'E showed it to we. An' 'e cut off th' tops o' 'is boots to keep th' draught from 'is back. 'E must 'a' worked 'ard all night. 'E said 'e droled off once or twice, but th' night seemed wonderfu' long. "Us took un off th' pan at about half-past seven, an' 'ad a 'ard fight gettin' in, th' sea still runnin' 'igh. 'E said 'e was proud to see us comin' for un, and so 'e might, for it grew wonderfu' cold in th' day and th' sea so 'igh the pan couldn' 'a' lived outside. 'E wouldn' stop when us got ashore, but must go right on, an' when 'e 'ad dry clothes an' was a bit warm, us sent un to St. Anthony with a team. "Th' next night, an' for nights after, I couldn' sleep. I'd keep seein' that man standin' on th' ice, an' I'd be sorter half-awake like, sayin', 'But not th' doctor. Sure _not_ th' _doctor_.'" There was silence for a few moments, and George Andrews looked out across the blue harbor to the sea. "'E sent us watches an' spy-glasses," said he, "an' pictures o' hisself that one o' you took o' un, made large an' in a frame. George Read an' me 'ad th' watches an' th' others 'ad th' spy-glasses. 'Ere's th' watch. It 'as 'In memory o' April 21st' on it, but us don't need th' things to make we remember it, tho' we 're wonderful glad t' 'ave 'em from th' doctor." * * * * * The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS U.S.A. * * * * * 
19301	----	+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and unusual spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors have been corrected in this text. | | For a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | | A wide multi-paged table at the end of this document has | | been split, at the end of each page, into two easy-to- | | rejoin parts. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ Church in the Colonies. No. XXXVII. EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL OF A VOYAGE OF VISITATION, IN THE "HAWK," 1859, by THE BISHOP OF NEWFOUNDLAND. [Greek: "Ou toi aneu Theou eptato dexios ornis, Kirkos"]--HOM. _Odys._ London: Printed for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel; and Sold by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields; 4, Royal Exchange; 16, Hanover Street, Hanover Square; Rivingtons, Bell and Daldy, Hatchards, and All Booksellers. 1860. June. London: R. Clay, Printer, Bread Street Hill. EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, _&c. &c._ PREFATORY LETTER BERMUDA, _March 15, 1860._ "MY DEAR HAWKINS, "You are aware that I have ceased for some years to forward to the Society the Journals of my Voyages of Visitation.[1] It did not appear to me that the cause of the Society, or of my diocese, would be much advanced, or individuals much interested or edified by detailed reports of visits and services with which those who had read the former Journals would be familiar. "The sad state of religious destitution in many settlements in Newfoundland and Labrador had been, I thought, sufficiently shown; and the benefits and blessing conferred, and to be conferred, by the Society, thankfully stated and fully demonstrated. I have, therefore, considered it better and more becoming to confine myself to a bare and brief newspaper statement of the places visited, and the services performed, without any particular mention of the condition of the inhabitants, and other incidents of the voyage. "In my late visitation, however, I have been enabled to reach a portion of the island, in which, though several hundred members of our Church have long resided, no clergyman had ever before been seen. I refer to White Bay, a remote district on the so-called French Shore of Newfoundland. A large portion, nearly one-half of the coast of Newfoundland (from Cape St. John on the N.E. to Cape Ray on the S.W.), is called and known in the island by that name (the French Shore); in consequence of the permission, granted by treaty, to the French to fish for cod on, or round that portion. The natives and inhabitants of Newfoundland, and the British generally, have not considered it worth their while to prosecute the fishery to any extent in these parts, or to settle in them; the operations of the French fishermen, being assisted and systematized by their Government, are on such an extensive scale as to exclude competition, and to render their privilege practically an exclusive one. Nevertheless, as the parts of the island so assigned, or given up, are among the most productive, not only in fish, but in game, and occasionally in seals (which are there taken in nets with comparatively little trouble or expense), families have from time to time migrated to and settled in these remote districts, scattering themselves widely, with the view of obtaining the means of subsistence in larger abundance and with greater ease. Now, as there are no roads to, or on, this shore, and each settlement therefore can only be approached by sea, and by sea only for four or five months in the year, in any vessel larger than a boat, it is exceedingly difficult to minister to, or visit the inhabitants. Nevertheless, I have been enabled, by the aid of my Church-ship, to visit, _at intervals of four years_, since 1848, most of the settlements on this shore. In St. George's Bay, indeed, the most thickly or largely inhabited part, a Church has been built, and one of our Society's missionaries stationed for several years; and great, in consequence, is the change, great the improvement in the residents. Here, I have been enabled, as in other parts of the island, to celebrate the services of consecration and confirmation, and to provide for the administration of the Holy Communion. But until the census of 1857, I was not aware of the large number of our people in White Bay and the neighbourhood, or of the large proportion they bear to the whole population. When, at the close of that year, I discovered that more than three-fourths registered themselves members of the Church of England, I resolved, should it please God to permit me, to make another voyage in my Church-ship, that I would myself visit, and minister to, as I might be able, these scattered sheep of my flock. A statement of their condition, and of my services, assisted by the clergy who accompanied me, cannot fail, I think, to interest and affect all those who can feel for the sheep or the shepherd. It is with a view of awakening this Christian sympathy in behalf of my poor diocese, and generally in the cause and fork of your Society (by or through which both sheep and shepherd have been so largely befriended and assisted) that I am desirous of publishing those parts of the journal of my last voyage that relate to White Bay. "I have added the account of two days in the Bay of Islands, a locality only so far more happily circumstanced than, or I should rather say not so unhappily circumstanced as, White Bay, inasmuch as the inhabitants have been twice before visited by myself in the Church-ship, and once by the Missionary of the Belle-Isle Straits. The circumstances of both, or of either, will, I think, justify the application of an apostle's question to him--to any one--who, having an abundance of spiritual goods, can see the need of these his brethren, and shut up his compassion from them;--'How dwelleth the love of Christ in him?' "I am, Yours faithfully, E. NEWFOUNDLAND." THE REV. ERNEST HAWKINS. FOOTNOTES: [1] The last published was that of 1853. EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. PART I.--WHITE BAY. _Thursday, July 7th. At sea, and Little Harbour Deep._--Passed Cape St. John, at eight o'clock; several French vessels in the harbour: passed Partridge Point soon after twelve o'clock, and entered White Bay. I had intended to visit, in the first place, the settlements on the south side of the bay, but the wind being adverse, we stood across to Little Harbour Deep, not knowing that we should find any "livers" there; but hoping to be able from thence to visit, or there to be visited by, the families dwelling in Grande-Vache, or Grandfather's Cove, said to be only one mile distant. On nearing the harbour, we saw and hailed a boat, which proved to belong to the place, and in which were a man and his wife returning from their salmon nets, which they overhaul twice a day. We took them on board, and having no pilot, were glad to avail ourselves of the man's knowledge of the place in beating in, which occupied two hours, as the wind was blowing strongly and directly out. Theirs was the only family living in the harbour. We informed them of the object of our visit, which appeared to please them greatly, and they promised to send to their neighbours in Grandfather's Cove (which proves, however, to be nearly three miles distant) very early to-morrow morning, and acquaint them with our presence, and our intention to have services on board the Church-ship. The appearance of these people was not so wild as might be expected from their wild and lonely life. In the summer they occupy, by themselves, this large harbour, shut in by immense cliffs, which no person ever ascends or descends. In the winter they occupy and possess the Horse-Islands, lying several miles from the shore, surrounded for months by ice. Seldom in either place do they see any human being, except the members of their own family, and not one of the family can read. In summer they catch salmon and codfish; and in the winter kill seals. And yet they are not heathens or savages. The woman, though rowing, was very neatly dressed, with a necklace, but no other superfluous finery; the man was tidy; both were civil. They presented us with two salmon, all they had in their boat, and promised us finer ones to-morrow. They expressed much pleasure at the prospect of attending the services, and of having their youngest child christened or admitted into the Church. All had been baptized; some at Twillingate, some at Herring Neck, in each case by a clergyman, one by a Methodist preacher, one by a fisherman; but all had been admitted into the Church (at Twillingate, or Herring Neck) except this youngest. They left us about 10.30 P.M., after attending our family prayers in the cabin. _Friday, July 8th. Little Harbour Deep._--Before four o'clock, two of my men, with a boy from shore, went to Grandfather's Cove (Grande-Vache) to invite the families (Randalls) living there to our services. Though so early, one of the families had gone to their fishing ground before our men arrived. The others gladly accepted the invitation. This being the first day of missionary work, or services, on board the Church-ship, I had to instruct my friends, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Tucker, how to arrange and deck the large cabin for the congregation. The day, happily, was very fine, so that we were able to put several of the many packages and boxes on deck. The congregation, in the morning, consisted of only the two families (Wiseman and Randall) and our captain. In the afternoon (4.30 P.M.), our crew also attended. One girl was hypothetically baptised, and four children received. The elder Johnson said the prayers and baptized; the younger read the lessons. I addressed the little congregation both morning and evening. There is something of both pleasure and pain in these quiet services; pleasure, in hoping that God, in his mercy, may bless some word of exhortation, or some prayer, to the edification of these forsaken ones; pain, in observing how by the people themselves the prayers and lessons seem to be wholly not appreciated, or not understood. Not one could read, several of them had never heard the service before, so they rose up and knelt down as automatons; and would, I doubt not, have been just as ready to kneel at the Psalms as at the Confession, and to sit at either, or both, as when hearing the lessons or sermon. After the service, one man bought a Prayer-book for his daughter, and we gave them several children's books and tracts. I examined the bigger children after the service; one girl, probably ten or twelve years of age, could not repeat the Lord's Prayer or the Creed; a second imperfectly; a third tolerably well. It was, indeed, pitiful; and enough to fill the heart of any pastor, and specially their chief pastor, with sorrow and shame. After the second service, I accompanied my friends in a boat to the head of the harbour, where it receives a small stream (the drain of some lake, or of the bogs and mosses in the neighbourhood), which winds and creeps between some magnificent mountains. While they were fishing I wandered, climbing over the boulders, along the borders of the stream, to enjoy the solitude and deep silence of the winding valley. The absence of all living creatures, except mosquitoes and dragon-flies, is a striking feature; and the occasional whistle or scream of some sea-bird only renders the prevailing stillness more strange; grateful or painful, according to the disposition and state of mind. We returned to the ship soon after sunset, frightfully eaten by mosquitoes. The fishers had all had plenty of bites, and realized a new phase of "fly-fishing," but carried home among them one trout only. The mosquitoes had got possession of the Church-ship, and paid us off for invading their solitudes. _Saturday, July 9th. At sea._--We left Little Harbour Deep soon after three o'clock A.M., with a fair wind, which died away outside, and we did not reach our next place of call (Little Coney Arm) till five o'clock P.M. There new delay and difficulty awaited us. We fired two guns, but no person came off, and not a single boat could anywhere be seen. The whole shore seemed deserted. Nevertheless, we discerned houses in the harbour, and stood towards the entrance; but finding the water shoal suddenly, the captain let go the anchor, and sent a boat in, with the mate and three of my companions. They brought word, to my great mortification, that nearly all the inhabitants had gone to fish in other parts of the bay, and that but one old man, with the females and children of three families, remained. Him they brought off to be our pilot. Unfortunately, in getting again under way, we went to leeward of the entrance, and immediately after the wind dropped altogether. The tide then drifted us into Great Coney Arm, and every tack took us farther to leeward. It seemed almost certain we should be carried to the head of the Bight, to spend the Sunday in a solitary place; but by keeping a boat ahead, with four hands, sometimes of the crew, sometimes of the clergy, we maintained our ground until, about eleven o'clock, a breeze sprang up in our favour, and we regained the entrance of the Little Arm, and came to anchor just at midnight, whereby I learnt a lesson of patience and perseverance. _Third Sunday after Trinity, July 10th. Little Coney Arm._--Four families reside in this harbour, two of which are returned in the census as Methodists, the other two Church of England. All the men, however, were absent, except the old man who was brought off to us the previous night; besides him were four women, and some seven or eight children, and a sick man (a Roman Catholic), who had been left by a trader. All, however, in the harbour (except the sick Roman) came on board to both our services, and the women (all) expressed a great desire to have their children admitted into the Church. The Gospel for the Sunday gave me occasion to preach to them and myself on the "Parable of the Lost Sheep;" to myself, to make me ashamed of thinking much of serving or ministering to these two or three in the wilderness; and to them, to make them, and each of them, I trust, more grateful to the good Shepherd who came himself on the same errand on which He sends his ministers to seek for every one that is lost and gone astray, and who assures us there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth. The day was as bright and the scene as lovely as could be desired for any Sabbath on earth, and I greatly enjoyed the rest and peace. After tea, we went on shore and visited all the families, and gave medicine to the poor Irishman, and books to the children. I examined the children in the Lord's Prayer and Creed, and found that the child of the Church of England parents (neither of whom could read) was much more perfect than the children of the others, who boasted of their learning and reading; some (ten or twelve years of age) could not say the Lord's prayer. At family prayer, in the evening, I addressed my crew, and explained to them the object of my voyage, and entreated them to co-operate by their example in every place, and warned them against the faults to which I knew them most liable. _Monday, July 11th. Little Coney Arm, at sea, and Bear Cove._--Sailed from Little Coney Arm at four o'clock A.M., wind light, but fair for crossing the bay, and we accordingly passed over to Bear Cove. We found that all the inhabitants (four families) were at home, or on their fishing-grounds, and all professed members of the Church of England, and greatly desirous to be admitted, by baptism or reception as the case might require; and two couples, who had been united by a fisherman, expressed a wish to be duly married. One couple made some difficulty about the fee (having no money), but promised to send the amount (20s.) in money, or fish, to the nearest clergyman, in the fall. The service was to have commenced at five o'clock, but it was with difficulty all were got together and duly arranged at 6.15. We said the Evening Prayers, which I fear must have been parables to these poor people, several of whom had lived here and in the neighbouring coves all their life, and had never before seen a clergyman, or heard the service. After the second lesson, the baptisms had to be performed, and sad and strange were the discoveries made by the question, whether the child or person (for some were fifteen, sixteen, and eighteen years of age) had been baptized or no? Of all it was answered they had been baptized; but some, it appeared, could not tell by whom, some by fishermen, several by a woman,--the only person in the settlement (and she a native) who could read correctly. One woman (married) was baptized, hypothetically, with her infant. Twenty-one in all were admitted, the majority with hypothetical baptism. Both of the women who came to be married had infants in their arms; one of them had three children. Not one person in the whole settlement could read correctly, except the woman before mentioned; her husband (a native of Bay of Islands), a little. He had, however, been employed to marry one of our present couples, which he confessed to me with some shame and confusion of face, saying, "he had picked the words out of the book as well as he could make them out," but he did not baptise, because "that reading was too hard;" in fact, he could scarcely read at all, he left the baptisms therefore to his wife. I addressed the people after the baptisms, trying to make them understand the meaning and purpose of that Sacrament, and again after the prayers, in their obligations as baptized. After this service, Mr. Johnson married the two couples, and I examined the children in their prayers and belief, which I found most of them could repeat more or less correctly, but not one knew a letter of the alphabet. It was considerably after nine o'clock before we could dismiss our visitors, and sorry they seemed to be dismissed as I was to dismiss them. Poor people! the fair faces of the children would have moved the admiration of a Gregory; and the destitute, forsaken condition of all would move the compassion of any one who believed they have souls to be saved; how much more if those souls in any sense were committed to his charge. But what can I do more for them, and, alas! for many others almost equally destitute and forsaken. It is but too probable that never again, either myself, or by others, shall I be able to minister to their wants. To-morrow with the first dawn, the men and boys will be all out on their fishing-grounds, the women busy in their houses, the elder girls nursing the younger children; and I must be on the move to perform a like perfunctory service to others in the same state of ignorance, of whom I believe there are more than two hundred in this bay. _Tuesday, July 12th. At Bear Cove, at sea, at Jackson's Arm, and at Sop's Island._--We warped out of Bear Cove, there being then no wind, at five o'clock A.M., and stood over to Jackson's Cove, on the opposite side of the bay (about nine miles), which we reached by 8.30. It is a capacious and beautiful harbour, easy of approach and entrance. On coming to anchor, I sent on shore immediately, and found that all the men were gone to Sop's Island (about five miles off), except one poor fellow with a diseased hip, to whom I sent some wine and medicine. I proposed to take the only woman left behind, with her children, on board the Church-ship, to join her friends and relations at Sop's Island, to which she gladly assented, and they came on board accordingly. We then weighed anchor again at 12.30, to beat to Sop's Island, which we reached between three and four o'clock. We landed immediately with our poor fisherman's wife, who appeared an intelligent, seriously-disposed person, and she could read. Her children were very wild, hair uncut and uncombed, without shoes and stockings. She had come from the Barred Islands (in the Fogo Mission), and lamented the separation from her Church and clergy. She guided us to the residences and fishing rooms of the different residents and others in Sop's Island, and we appointed a service for them at five o'clock, not, however, expecting to get them together before six o'clock. We commenced at 6.15; seventeen children were received into the Church, and two couples married. We found that the parties whom we had missed at Coney's Arm (as well as those from Jackson's Arm) were in this island, and we sent word to them of our intention to hold service again to-morrow. Here was a repetition of the same melancholy anomalies and irregularities as those of yesterday, except that two or three of the women could read; and a Mr. M----, from St. John's, a small dealer or merchant, who has resided here for several years, has kept up some remembrance of God and his service by reading the Church prayers at a funeral. He resides, however, in the house of a planter, who has brought and lives with a woman from England, in the very neighbourhood of his wife, whom he deserted after she had borne him three children. She (his wife) is still living at Twillingate, and supports herself as a nurse and servant. By the woman he now lives with he has had seven children, most of whom are grown up, and several married. When he saw my vessel with a female on board, he thought his wife was come from Twillingate, and went and hid himself in the woods. Some of his children and grandchildren were among those admitted this day into the Church. After the prayers and two addresses from myself, one in connexion with the baptismal service, and one in place of a sermon, two couples were married. These services were not finished till nearly nine o'clock. _Wednesday, July 13th. Sop's Island, at sea, and at Gold Cove._--I had appointed the service at nine o'clock, being anxious to get forward, if possible, in the afternoon; but it was not till after twelve o'clock that the poor people could arrange their little (to them great) matters, and come with their children properly attired. Some had to go on board a trader lying in the harbour to purchase clothes; several came from a distance against a head wind. Two couples were married before, and two after, the prayers; six children of one of the pairs were admitted into the Church: all had been baptized by lay hands. Two women, neighbours, had each baptized the other's children. After the services, I gave away a number of elementary books for children; three or four Prayer-books, and one Bible were purchased. At two o'clock they all took their departure, with many expressions of pleasure and gratitude. We got away just before a violent north-easter (a wind which always comes, as they say, with the butt end first), which carried us rapidly to Gold Cove, at the head of the bay. It is a snug, well-sheltered place, but the water is deep almost up to the shore; and we moored, for the first time in my experience, to a tree. However, we found bottom at about sixteen fathoms, and plenty of fish upon it. One of my companions jigged nine fine fish in an hour. The others went off to visit the people, who were at some distance, and apprize them, as usual, of our presence and purpose. A more secluded, retired spot could hardly, I think, be found, or more picturesque withal. Wild gooseberries grow on the shore in abundance, and, of course, other fruits, which no hand gathers and no eye sees. Here the people report themselves to have been very successful in their fishery this year. It is the first place where we have heard of success. _Thursday, July 14th. At Gold Cove._--Some of our congregation came on board before nine o'clock, but others, having to contend with a head wind, did not arrive till 10.30. Ten o'clock was the hour named for service; and after all were assembled on deck, it took some considerable time to arrange and prepare the sponsors, &c., and instruct them in the answers they would be required to make. On this occasion, a father of eleven children desired to be baptized, and was baptized conditionally with six of his children. He had never been able to learn that he had received baptism even by lay hands. Nevertheless, he bore the two honoured names of Basil and Osmond, and by that of Basil he was now baptized and received into the Church. Sixteen persons were received; the oldest sixty-five years of age, the youngest four months. One couple was married, and one woman received the Holy Communion. Most of the grown-up persons, all, I believe, except some invalids, came to our second service in the evening. Between the services we sailed in our boat to the head of this bay, where we found three small rivers or brooks meeting and running by one mouth into the sea. The water was very clear and sweet; and nothing of the kind could exceed the picturesque beauty of the lofty and precipitous hills, clothed and covered with trees from the base to the summit. I can hardly fancy a greater treat than to sail for three or four weeks through the reaches and tickles of this bay, which has the singular advantage of being free from rocks and shoals, with abundance of good and safe harbours, almost all surrounded by hills and headlands of picturesque outline, covered with trees, against which no feller has raised his axe. Our harbour this evening appeared alive with fish. _Friday, July 15th. Gold Cove, at sea, Purbeck Cove._--Went on deck at 4.35, and found a fine morning and fair wind, but no captain or crew: the mate in the boat fishing. Called the captain, and recalled the mate, not without some displeasure at both for neglecting to get under way. We got away at 5.30, and had a very pleasant sail to Purbeck Cove, which we reached at nine o'clock. It is a fine harbour, but like most in this bay with very deep water. We found here a Mr. C----, with a vessel and crew from Greenspond for the summer fishery. He reported favourably of his catch, and speaks of the bay as generally very prolific. Besides cod-fish, salmon, and trout in abundance, later in the fall he expects to catch mackerel; and this is the only bay in which, at present, they are found in Newfoundland. Deer also abound in the neighbourhood; some have been killed lately, and more might be found if the people cared to look after them; but they are not yet in season, and the fishing is not neglected for any thing or all things. This is the great harvest; the seals are the first, but more uncertain and less lucrative; late in the fall the deer are slaughtered; and in the winter other game, with foxes, martens, &c., afford sport and means of subsistence. Seeing several boats fishing outside, I despatched my friends to inform the men who and what we were, and to request them, if possible, to bring their families on board in the afternoon. Fortunately they were able to communicate with parties living above and below. All, though the fishery was at its height, accepted the invitation, and Mr. C---- came also with his crew, so that the cabin could not contain them, and several of the men stood round the skylight on the deck, from which they looked down upon us as from a gallery. The day was very fine and warm, and I suffered no inconvenience from open skylight or sky, except when a piece of tobacco descended on my head. Twenty-one children were received into the Church, and one couple married. Very few, if any, except some men of Mr. C----'s crew (who, thanks to their good pastor at Greenspond, had their Prayer-books, and were attentive and well behaved) could read, but most of the children could say the Lord's Prayer and Creed. One woman brought forward her daughter as "a terrible girl" to, say her Creed and Lord's Prayer, and some of the Commandments; and "that hymn you sung below (Evening Hymn), she knows _he_, but she _lips_ (lisps), so she's ashamed before strangers." Another woman, after surveying with, much admiration a large alphabet-sheet (as I should Egyptian hieroglyphics), said, "I suppose, sir, that's the A B C." I gave little books to all who desired them. Though most of them had a considerable distance to return, they seemed unwilling to leave me and the vessel, and I was in no hurry to dismiss them. It was very sad indeed to think that the meeting and intercourse, after so long delay, and with so little prospect of being renewed, should be so short, when so many important things had to be done, and alas! so many left undone! _Saturday, July 16th. Purbeck Cove, at sea, and Seal Cove._--At five o'clock sent letters on board Mr. C----'s vessel, to be forwarded _viâ_ Greenspond to St. John's. Sailed for Seal Cove (fourteen or fifteen miles); for three hours no wind, and then wind ahead, so that we did not reach our harbour till eight o'clock P.M., happy and thankful to reach it then, having in remembrance the difficulties and anxieties of last Saturday night. In this Cove, which, at this season, and all seasons when the wind is not strong from N.W., is a splendid harbour, are only two families; but one boat's load had preceded us from Purbeck Cove to profit by the Sunday services. We found the people on shore (a family of Osmonds), very thankful for our coming, though a Roman Catholic family had just arrived to spend the Sunday with them. How so many people are lodged and accommodated (there must be twenty-five now here) in one small hut is difficult to understand. I know not how to be thankful enough for the mercies and comforts of the past week. This is the eighth harbour I have been anchored in, this week, and in six I have held services; and except in entering Little Coney Arm, have encountered neither difficulty nor delay. The winds have been generally fair, the weather always fine; the people, without exception, grateful for our visits and services. Ninety-two persons of various ages have been formally received into the Church; eight couples married; one person admitted to the Lord's Supper; nearly one hundred and eighty of all ages have been present at the services. The bread has been cast upon the waters, may it be found. _Fourth Sunday after Trinity, July 17th. Seal Cove._--I was pleased to find that two families had followed in their boats, from a harbour we have already visited, to attend the services on board. The head of the family resident here (in Seal Cove) is Joseph Osmond, a younger brother of Basil; he had lost his wife last fall in giving birth to her twelfth child, and he could not speak of her without tears. He pointed out to me the spot, where he had himself committed her body to the ground (the first and only one buried in the place), which he had carefully fenced, and was anxious to have consecrated. The babe had been nursed and kept alive by her sisters, but appeared very sickly and not likely to continue. Nine of his twelve children he had carried to Twillingate to be christened (_i.e._ received into the church after private baptism), but three remained whom he desired now to be received. All of these had been baptized by lay hands; two of them, he said, "_had been very well baptized_," _i.e._ by a man who could read well, the third case did not satisfy him. This was told us before the service, and when, in the service, he was asked, as the Prayer-book directs, "By whom was this child baptized?" he answered, "By one Joseph Bird, and a fine reader he was." This Bird, who on account of his fine readings, had been employed to baptise many children in the bay, was a servant in a fisherman's family. We had two services, as usual, on board; four children were received into the Church, and one couple married. This couple had followed us from Bear Cove; they had before been united by a fisherman, had six children, and were expecting shortly a seventh. The man was he who, at Bear Cove, as before mentioned, had himself married a couple; and his wife was the person who had baptized the children. Whether the couple for whom he had officiated were "very well married," as to the service, must be "very doubtful." Either he wished to be more perfect, or he was doubtful about his own case; whatever was his reason, he very cheerfully paid the fee, twenty shillings. He inquired also whether he ought to be christened, having been baptized only by a fisherman, though, as he said, with godfathers and a godmother. Here was confusion worse confounded; and shame covered my face, while I endeavoured to satisfy him and myself on these complicated points. The poor man was evidently in earnest, and I gladly did all in my power to relieve his mind, and place him and his in a more satisfactory state. But how sad that one who had baptized and married others, should himself apply to be baptized and married, being now the father of six children! The wife appeared to be the general chronicler of all events in the neighbourhood, and was looked up to as a kind of prophetess. After the Evening Service, I went on shore to visit the house which the man Osmond had built himself, and made comfortable for summer and winter: there being abundance of wood for ceiling, &c., and birch-rind to cover the seams. He showed his gardens, full of flourishing potatoes, where the disease had never yet reached. The vegetation is very luxuriant, and there is plenty of pasture for cows. He could at any time, he said, kill a deer, and had killed upwards of two hundred! and as his neighbours in the bay all supply themselves with the same food, the park must be supposed to be pretty large, and well stocked. In the winter he kills foxes and martens for their skins, wild fowls of various sorts for food. Fuel is superabundant. The water produces fish,--salmon, herring, and mackerel; the ice brings the seals. Osmond acknowledges that it was "very easy to get a living," and wanted only the minister to be more than contented. His nearest neighbours (at Lobster Harbour) are Roman Catholics, and with these he lives on very good terms. "There was never a thee, or a thou, passed between them." Such is Joseph Osmond, sole occupier of Seal Cove, in White Bay, and such his condition, physical, social, and religious. It should be added that not one person in the settlement can read. He complains much of the French cutting spars and other sticks, besides what they require for their use on shore; and yet more, of their leaving many fires in the woods, by which the whole neighbourhood is endangered. He has often gone to put out the fires thus carelessly left, by which thousands of acres of wood might be destroyed, and the inhabitants driven from their homes. _Monday, July 18th. At Seal Cove._--This was our first day of delay since coming into the Bay. A strong north-east wind with a heavy lop, made it useless to attempt to proceed. In the afternoon all the people on shore came to our service, and I explained "the articles of our Belief, the Ten Commandments, and the Lord's Prayer." In the evening, Mr. Tucker went on shore to teach the younger ones to repeat the Lord's Prayer and the creed, more perfectly; and I, with the rest of my party, rowed up "the Southern Arm," an indraft of about three miles, winding among the most picturesque mountains I ever saw. They rise almost perpendicularly from the water, are clothed with wood from the base to the summit, and are of most varied shape and outline. They surpass in grandeur the banks of the Wye, and are more thickly clothed with wood, in which, the beech, and birch, and maple, have almost displaced the spruce, and no green could be more fresh and delicate. These mountains are on each side of the Arm, to its extremity, which is nearly closed by a round, or conical hill, similarly covered with trees; on either side of which you may enter into a valley, between lofty rocks, and through which probably a small river or brook conveys the surplus water of some lake or lakes lying farther up the country. The solemn effect of the scenery was heightened by the absence of all traces and signs of men or other animals; and the occasional scream of a gull looking down upon us, made the general silence and solitude more impressive. How prodigal is nature of her beauties and glories, thus repeated and renewed in places where there is no one to admire, and very few to see them! _Tuesday, July 19th. Seal Cove, and at sea._--The wind was not more favourable to day than yesterday, except that it was not so strong; but we thought it better to go out in the hope of some change, in the mean time beating to windward. After standing across the bay and back, a distance of nearly thirty miles (fourteen or fifteen each way), we found we had only gained a mile and a half, and the next tack only advanced us about as much more. The next time we stood across, the wind tailed us altogether. This was trying work, especially to my companions, who all felt the direful effect of the beating, and were recumbent nearly the whole day, and sometimes worse; I, happily, was able to read and write, and only grieved by the sad delay. _Wednesday, July 20th. At sea._--Dead calm nearly the whole day, with occasional interludes of head-wind, which enabled us to run across the bay, and make the unpleasant discovery that we had advanced, or gained, only about five miles since we left our anchorage yesterday! During the greater part of the day we were lying almost motionless. Eight o'clock P.M. found us just where eight o'clock A.M. had left us. A lesson in patience. _Thursday, July 21st. At sea, and Hooping Harbour._--After being becalmed all night, a light breeze sprung up in our favour at four o'clock A.M. (being then just off Little Cat Arm), which sufficed to carry us into Hooping Harbour (about thirty-five miles) by three o'clock P.M. Here are two families only, all the members of which, four in one, and eight in the other, were fortunately at home. One of the mothers is a Wesleyan, with all the scruples of her denomination. She had taught her children the Lord's Prayer, but could not teach them the Creed, because "it would be wrong for them to say, 'I believe in God,' when they did not believe in Him, which she perceived they did not." The truth, I imagine, was, she could not say it herself. She did not like to be godmother to her neighbour's children, because "she had sins enough of her own to answer for; and she could not make a promise she knew she should not perform." As she was the only grown-up woman in the place, except the one whose children, with her own, were to be baptized, it was necessary to overcome, if possible, these scruples, which was no easy matter. And here were fresh complications. Some of the children of both families had been baptized by a French priest, and no one could say "with what words." Some had been baptized by a woman, some by a fisherman. Painful it was to witness, or be certified of, such complications and irregularities, more so to be in any degree answerable for them, most of all to be expected to unravel and rectify them in one visit of a few hours' duration, knowing too that they must all be renewed and repeated. This is the only harbour in White Bay where there are any French, and these, it is worthy of notice, have come here within the last five years, since the two English families established themselves in the place. On their arrival this year, the French took up the Englishman's salmon nets, and prevented his fishing for three weeks, until they were informed by the officer sent from St. John's, that things were to remain this year as in the preceding, and until matters were settled by the authorities. The poor Englishman complains bitterly of being deprived of his three best weeks' fishery, which, if they had been only as good as the subsequent ones, must have been a serious loss. This day he took in his nets about a hundred salmon, and speaks of this as an ordinary catch--and his nets are not large or numerous. It would be very sad and shameful if this branch of the fishery, which clearly was not contemplated in the treaties, should be given up, either wholly or in part, to the French. This is the last harbour in White Bay. _Friday, July 22d. Hooping Harbour, at sea, and Englée._--We weighed anchor soon after four o'clock. The wind so light that our men were obliged to tow for nearly two hours; then it breezed up ahead, and gradually increased, till by the time we had beaten up to Canada Bay, some nine miles, it blew very hard. However, the harder it blows, the better the good Church-ship goes; and before one o'clock we had beaten-round Englée Island, in Canada Bay (our next place of call), to the mouth of the harbour. But as nobody was "acquainted," and the description in the book of directions was not satisfactory, and it was blowing half a gale, we fired a gun, which brought out a boat, with two hands, who showed us the course in, and where to anchor. On being informed who we were, and what was our object in visiting them, they expressed much pleasure; but said it would be difficult, if not impossible, to bring off the children in such heavy weather. We had service at five o'clock, but it was blowing so furiously that only six men and as many women could venture off, and they brought none of the little children. I determined, therefore (though the delay is very grievous), that I ought to remain here to-morrow, which will involve Sunday also. There are two other families in this bay, with whom it was impossible to communicate to-day, in this tempest. We had Evening Prayers, with an address by myself. After the service I conversed with the people, and found that some of the women (one of them a mother of three children) had never before seen a clergyman, and never been in any place of worship. It would be interesting to know what they thought and felt at the first sight of a bishop and two clergymen in their canonicals, and the Church-ship, and yet more at the first hearing of the Word of God read and preached to them, and the prayers of the Church. _Saturday, July 23d. At Englée._--Directly after breakfast my friends went across Canada Bay (three miles) in the boat, to make known our presence to a family on the other side, a man and wife with eleven children. They returned soon enough for the Morning Service, which was attended by most of the inhabitants. A young woman, married and a mother, was, on her own petition and profession, received into the Church, and her behaviour was very becoming and edifying. In the afternoon, when her sister, nineteen years of age, was hypothetically baptized, she was affected even to tears. They both could read, and though they had never before seen a clergyman of their Church, or been present at public worship, they appeared to have an intelligent and devout sense of the sacred nature and importance of the Service. Several others, chiefly children, were admitted; nearly all of whom had been baptized by the French priests, who accompany year by year the fishing vessels from France. They (the priests) had performed this service, without any intention, as it seemed, of bringing either children or parents into the Roman Catholic Church. In one of the families was an idiot son, whom the parents were very anxious to have baptized. He is grown up, and though harmless in other respects, uses very dreadful language. I went on shore and visited one of the houses of a family, the father and mother of which go to St. John's every fall, and while there the woman is a regular attendant at the daily Prayers in the Cathedral. It was gratifying to find the house very clean and well ordered in the absence of both father and mother, who, unfortunately, are gone to some distant fishing station for the summer. The young women who showed so much apparent good feeling at baptism, are their children. Here the people keep cows and sheep, and live in much comfort, and we obtained a small supply of milk and fresh meat: I had not tasted any meat, and only once fowl, for a fortnight. We have had no fresh meat on board, and the fish and salmon, of which we have abundance for nothing, is in my judgment better and more wholesome (not to speak of economy) than the salted and preserved meats. For the same period, or rather longer, we have had milk, and that goat's, only once; and nobody complains, of the privation. _Fifth Sunday after Trinity, July 24th. At Englée._--The fifteenth anniversary of my first Sunday in Newfoundland. Shame that this should be my first, in these fifteen years, which I have given to Englée. And what a contrast! Then I went from Government House in the Governor's carriage, with His Excellency and Lady Harvey, to preach my first sermon, and administer for the first time the Holy Communion (it was the first Sunday in July) in my Cathedral Church. The occasion, with a fine day, brought a crowded congregation. Here, on this fifteenth anniversary, I am at Englée in Canada Bay, on the French Shore, a place inhabited by four families of fishermen, several of whom never saw a clergyman or Church, very few of whom can read, not one able to follow the order of Prayer intelligently, not one confirmed, not one prepared to receive the Holy Communion, nearly half only yesterday received into the Church. To make the contrast greater and more dreary, the day is miserably wet and cold, so that several of the few who otherwise could have attended, were unable to come on board the Church-ship, on which the service was held, there being no convenient place on shore. I celebrated the Holy Communion (as on every Sunday), but no person partook of it except my own companions in the ship. The only novel, or additional service, to mark more strongly the contrast of time and place, was the conditional baptism of the poor idiot boy on shore, between the Morning and Evening Prayers. He behaved very well, knelt down and was quiet, and seemed to be quite aware that something of solemn importance was being done. At the Evening Service (the rain having abated) nearly all the inhabitants came on board. I preached as usual, morning and evening. After the Evening Service, children's books and tracts were distributed, and some Prayer-books sold. Many inquiries were made about persons and subjects connected with the Church in St John's. Such is the fifteenth anniversary of my first Sunday, and first service in my Diocese; and if the day of small things has come at the end rather than the beginning, who can tell which shall be blessed, whether this or that, or whether both shall be alike good? _Monday, St. James's Day. Englée._--I was not sorry to find this morning that the wind was still ahead, so that we could observe the holy day in harbour, and give my new disciples and children an opportunity of again attending the service. This they did very gladly, with my captain and crew, and I addressed them on the Gospel for the day. It was strange to see grown-up people directed how and where to find the places in their Prayer-books. In the afternoon the wind seemed to veer in our favour, and about four o'clock we made an attempt to leave; but the wind was unsteady and soon died away. After Evening prayers, we rowed up to visit two Englishmen, who have lived and fished together for fourteen years, without any family, or female, in their house; the one a widower, the other a bachelor. One of them comes from Southampton, the other from Ringwood. They are supposed to have saved money, and might live in comfort elsewhere, but they prefer this dreary, desolate existence, I presume, for the sake of their worldly gains. I had but little time for conversing with them, but I left them some tracts, &c. One of them has the reputation of a "fine reader." _Tuesday, July 26th. Englée._--Another day of calm and trouble, head-wind and heart-ache, for the delay is very grievous. In the morning I visited all the people on shore, and in the afternoon they all came on board to our service. _Wednesday, July 27th. Englée, at sea._--A light breeze sprung up in our favour at seven o'clock, and at eight o'clock we were under way, and cleared the Heads before ten o'clock. God be praised! * * * * * PART II.--BAY OF ISLANDS. _Seventh Sunday after Trinity, August 7th. At sea, and in Lark Harbour, Bay of Islands._--The wind continued to blow, and the sea to rage and swell all night; and the rolling and dashing of the waves against the side of the vessel were so incessant and violent that I could hardly remain in my berth. At two o'clock the vessel was put about, when I heard such a banging and thumping of the rudder, that I ran on deck to ascertain the cause. I found the wheel deserted, there being only two men on deck, and both engaged in hauling round the yards. I took the wheel, in night-shirt and night-cap only, without shoe or slipper, till the yards were round; fortunately not a long operation. I turned in again till six o'clock, when I found we had just weathered the southern entrance of the Bay of Islands; and, as there was no change in the direction or force of the wind, I was very thankful to have the prospect of a harbour, and of ministering to the poor sheep in this bay, who have not seen a shepherd for four years. We beat into Lark Harbour, against a violent head-wind, and did not get to anchor till ten o'clock. The people on shore seemed to be employed in turning their fish, and other daily labour; but on sending to them, they expressed their readiness and desire to profit by the services. We could not begin our morning service till twelve o'clock, when the people had all come on board. Three children were conditionally baptized. Evening service at half-past four o'clock, after which three couples were married; one of these (couples) had brought two children to be baptized at my first visit, _ten years ago_; but it was nearly ten o'clock P.M., and just as my vessel was leaving the bay. The father, I remember, had gone a great many miles to fetch his children, and showed great desire to have them duly baptized, and was _now_ equally anxious about his own marriage. I had a good deal of conversation with some of the men, who seemed to entertain a lively and grateful recollection of my former visit and services. _Monday, August 8th. Bay of Islands._--The wind being very light I determined to visit some of the settlements in this extensive bay in my boat. Accordingly, Messrs. Johnson and Tucker, with one of the sailors and a boy, rowed me to McIvor's Cove, where reside four families, whom I have visited on each former occasion. They accomplished the distance, about ten miles, in three hours. We arrived at a quarter past one o'clock, after calling on the people, who all recognised me, and with apparent pleasure; and desiring them to prepare themselves and their children, and the best room, for a service, we took our refreshment, which we had brought with us, in a pretty green nook where a little river runs into the sea, using the fallen trunk of a large tree for our table. It would have served for a very large, or rather a very long party. We had our service in the house of old Parks, who is mentioned in my Journal of 1849, as having been visited by Archdeacon Wix. The children of three families were brought to be received into the Church. It was very sad to witness the ignorance, and almost imbecility, into which two of the three mothers, who had been born and brought up in this wilderness, were fallen. The third, who came from a distant settlement, and could read, was different, and superior in every respect. One of the women, married only five years, could not remember what her name was before marriage. It would seem, too, as if the physical constitution degenerated with the mental. Her child, which she brought to be baptized, had on one hand two fingers, on the other only one, and on each foot only three toes. I addressed them after the service; but I believe if my discourse had been in Latin, it would have been as much, perhaps more, attended to. The old woman began to talk to Mr. Johnson's little boy, interrupting her own discourse and mine by occasionally telling the dogs to "jump out," a command which from her, but her only, was always obeyed; obeyed, but soon forgotten; for presently the same dog "jumped in" again. The old man called for a match to light his pipe with, and it was only by preventing his wish being complied with, that I could engage his attention. After this painful service, and more painful separation (for nothing could be more painful than to leave Christian people in such ignorance and unconcern about their souls), we rowed over to Frenchman's Cove (about two miles and a half), a lovely spot, inhabited by two families of a better sort in knowledge and behaviour. The men, unfortunately, were gone out, but they "would not have gone, by no means, if they had known that his reverence was in the bay." The women were very anxious to have their children duty baptized, and listened with much earnestness to some words of advice and instruction, and were very thankful for the books. Since my last visit here a Nova-Scotian has built a store in this cove, and will be, I greatly fear, a cause of misery to at least one of the families. I admonished and exhorted him, and he thanked me for my advice like one who had quite made up his mind not to regard it. I visited one of the houses again, late in the evening, and heard one of the children, a girl of ten or eleven years, say her prayers and Belief. I thought I knew most of the varieties of "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, God bless the bed that I lie on," &c.; but this Bay of Islands' edition contained additions which I had never heard, and could not comprehend. And the poor mother, who stood by (the girl kneeling), sadly perplexed and distressed me by asking whether this and that was right. I had no difficulty in telling her that it was not right, when her child, in repeating the Creed, went straight, as I observed several others did, "I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth," to--"from thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead." _Tuesday, August 9th. Bay of Islands, and at sea._--It was grievous, very grievous, to depart without visiting the other families about in this bay--fully one hundred and twenty professed members of the Church; but I dared not make any longer delay; and Frenchman's Cove, where the Church-ship had joined us and was now anchored, is a difficult place to get out of with a head-wind. It took us nearly three hours to make our escape, not so much, however, through head-wind as no wind. We had then to beat across the bay, and did not reach the open sea till nearly six o'clock P.M. There we found the old, unrelenting S.W. directly ahead, and soon got into a heavy sea; a poor prospect for the night. AN ACCOUNT _Of the Places visited, with the time of Arriving at and Sailing from the same, and of the Distances between them, by the_ BISHOP OF NEWFOUNDLAND, _in his Visitation of the_ NORTHERN _and_ SOUTHERN SHORES _of_ NEWFOUNDLAND, _in the Summer of 1859_. --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Sailed from. | Date. | Arrived at. | | --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- St. John's | June 29, 2 P.M. | Twillingate | | Twillingate | July 6, 9 A.M. | Little Harbour Deep | | Little Harbour Deep | -- 9, 3½ A.M. | Little Coney Arm. | | | | Little Coney Arm | -- 11, 4½ A.M. | Havling Point | | | | Havling Point | -- 12, 5 A.M. | Jackson's Arm Jackson's Arm | -- 12, 1 P.M. | Sop Island | | | | Sop Island | -- 13, 3 P.M. | Gold Cove | | | | | | Gold Cove | -- 15, 6½ A.M. | Purbeck Cove | | | | Purbeck Cove | -- 16, 4½ A.M. | Seal Cove | | | | | | | | Seal Cove | -- 19, 9½ A.M. | Hooping Harbour | | | | Hooping Harbour | -- 22, 5 A.M. | Englée Harbour | | | | | | Englée Harbour | -- 27, 10 A.M. | Forteau | | Forteau | Aug. 2, 5 A.M. | Lark Harbour | | | | Lark Harbour | -- 8, 10 A.M. | McIvor's Cove | | McIvor's Cove | -- 8, 4 P.M. | Frenchman's Cove --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Date. | Distance | Services performed. | | | in Miles. | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | July 1, 9 P.M. | 180 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion. | | -- 7, 9½ P.M. | 75 | Two Services, | | | | Baptisms. | | -- 9, 12 Night. | 19 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Baptisms. | | -- 11, 10 A.M. | 11 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | Marriages. | | -- 12, 11 A.M. | 8 | | | -- 12, 4 P.M. | 5 | Two Services, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | Marriages. | | -- 13, 7½ P.M. | 16 | Two Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | Marriages. | | -- 15, 10 A.M. | 13 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | One Marriage. | | -- 16, 8 P.M. | 15½ | Sunday Service, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | One Marriage, | | | | Afternoon Service, July 18. | | -- 21, 3 P.M. | 42 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | Churching. | | -- 22, 12½ P.M. | 8 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Baptisms, | | | | Daily Service. | | -- 29, 10 A.M. | 122 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion. | | Aug. 7, 10 A.M. | 161 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Baptisms. | | -- 8, 1 P.M. | 10 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Baptisms. | | -- 8, 5 P.M. | 3 | Baptisms. | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Sailed from. | Date. | Arrived at. | | --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Frenchman's Cove | Aug. 9, 10 A.M. | Sandy Point | | | | | | | | Sandy Point | -- 5, 11½ P.M. | Barrysway | | Barrysway | -- 16, 7 P.M. | Codroy | | | | Codroy | -- 19, 10 P.M. | Channel | | | | | | Channel | -- 23, 9 A.M. | Burnt Islands | | | | Burnt Islands | -- 23, 6 P.M. | Channel | | Channel | -- 26, 1 P.M. | Rose Blanche Rose Blanche | -- 27, 12 NOON. | La Poele | | | | | | | | | | La Poele | -- 30, 6 A.M. | Burgeo | | | | | | Burgeo | Sept. 3, 8 A.M. | New Harbour New Harbour | -- 4, 9 A.M. | Rencontre | | | | Rencontre | -- 4, 1 P.M. | New Harbour | | | | New Harbour | -- 5, 8 A.M. | Push-through | | | | Push-through | -- 6, 6 P.M. | Hermitage Cove | | | | --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Date. | Distance | Services performed. | | | in Miles. | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Aug. 13, 7 A.M. | 103 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard, | | | | Afternoon Service. | | -- 16, 2 P.M. | 18 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 18, 5½ P.M. | 40 | Two Services, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 20, 5 P.M. | 24 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 23, 1 P.M. | 10 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 23, 8 P.M. | 10 | Saint's day | | | | Services. | | -- 26, 8 P.M. | 15 | Morning Service. | | -- 27, 5 P.M. | 15 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion & | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Morning Service, | | | | Holy Communion and | | | | Confirmation, Aug. 29. | | -- 30, 10½ A.M. | 33 | Three Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Two Confirmations, | | | | Consecration of Church. | | Sept. 3, 6 P.M. | 47 | | | -- 4, 10 A.M. | 3 | Morning Service, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 4, 2 P.M. | 3 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 5, 7 P.M. | 20 | Two Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 6, 9½ P.M. | 13 | Three Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Two Confirmations. | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Sailed from. | Date. | Arrived at. | | --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Hermitage Cove | Sept. 8, 2 P.M. | Pickaree | | Pickaree | -- 8, 5 P.M. | Gaultois Gaultois | -- 8, 10 P.M. | Hermitage Cove Hermitage Cove | -- 9, 10½ A.M. | Cannaigre Harbour | | Cannaigre Harbour | -- 9, 3 P.M. | Harbour Breton Harbour Breton | -- 10, 10 A.M. | Little Bay Little Bay | -- 10, 2 P.M. | Harbour Breton | | | | | | Harbour Breton | -- 13, 7 A.M. | English Harbour | | English Harbour | -- 13, 4½ P.M. | Belleoram | | | | Belleoram | -- 16, 5 A.M. | Harbour Breton Harbour Breton | -- 17, 8 A.M. | Brunet | | | | | | | | Brunet | -- 18, 3 P.M. | Harbour Breton Harbour Breton | -- 19, 5 A.M. | Lamaline | | | | Lamaline | -- 21, 2½ P.M. | St. Lawrence | | | | St. Lawrence | -- 23, 5 A.M. | Burin | | | | Burin | -- 26, 10 A.M. | Rock Harbour | | Rock Harbour | -- 26, 4½ P.M. | Mortier Bay Mortier Bay | -- 28, 10 A.M. | Oderin | | | | | | | | Oderin | -- 30, 8 A.M. | Harbour Breton --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Date. | Distance | Services performed. | | | in Miles. | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Sept. 8, 3½ P.M. | 3 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 8, 5½ P.M. | 3 | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 8, 10½ P.M. | 3 | | | -- 9, 12 Noon. | 8 | Morning Service, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 9, 4 P.M. | 3 | | | -- 10, 11½ A.M. | 5 | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 10, 3½ P.M. | 5 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 13, 11 A.M. | 15 | Morning Service, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 13, 7 P.M. | 7 | Three Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 16, 3½ P.M. | 22 | Evening Service. | | -- 17, 2½ P.M. | 9 | Prayers, | | | | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 18, 6 P.M. | 9 | | | -- 20, 1 P.M. | 45 | Two Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 21, 6 P.M. | 21 | Two Services, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 23, 1 P.M. | 16 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 26, 1 P.M. | 15 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 26, 6 P.M. | 6 | | | -- 28, 3½ P.M. | 17 | Afternoon Service, Sept. 28, | | | | Saint's day Services, | | | | Sept. 29, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 30, 4 P.M. | 34 | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Sailed from. | Date. | Arrived at. | | --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Harbour Breton | Oct. 1, 10 A.M. | Spencer's Cove | | | | Spencer's Cove | -- 1, 6 P.M. | Harbor Buffet | | | | | | | | Harbour Buffet | -- 5, A.M. | Arnold's Cove | | Arnold's Cove | -- 5, 1½ P.M. | Woody Island | | Woody Island | -- 6, 1 P.M. | Burgeo Burgeo | -- 9, 6¼ P.M. | Isle of Valen | | | | Isle of Valen | -- 9, 5 P.M. | Burgeo Burgeo | -- 11, 5 A.M. | St. John's --------------------+-------------------+--------------------- Places visited 48, of which 34 were visited in the Church-ship, and 14 in boat: Holy Communion, 23 times: Consecrated 1 Church and 13 Cemeteries: Confirmations, 28. ------------------------------------------------------------- +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Date. | Distance | Services performed. | | | in Miles. | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ | Oct. 1, 2½ P.M. | 9 | Afternoon Service, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Consecration of Graveyard. | | -- 1, 11½ P.M. | 9 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation, | | | | Afternoon Services, | | | | Oct. 3 and 4. | | -- 5, 9½ A.M. | 16 | Morning Service, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 6, 12½ A.M. | 9 | Morning Service, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 6, 5½ P.M. | 12 | | | -- 9, 10 A.M. | 9 | Sunday Services, | | | | Holy Communion, | | | | Confirmation. | | -- 9, 8 P.M. | 9 | | | -- 13, 9 A.M. | 153 | | +--------------------+-----------+------------------------------+ * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 23: Purbeck's Cove replaced with Purbeck Cove | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
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16048	----	TROOP ONE OF THE LABRADOR _The Talbot Baines Series_ With fine attractive new wrappers THE FIFTH FORM AT ST. DOMINIC'S. By Talbot Baines Reed THE ADVENTURES OF A THREE-GUINEA WATCH. By Talbot Baines Reed THE COCK-HOUSE AT FELLSGARTH. By Talbot Baines Reed A DOG WITH A BAD NAME. By Talbot Baines Reed THE MASTER OF THE SHELL. By Talbot Baines Reed THE SCHOOL GHOST, AND BOYCOTTED. By Talbot Baines Reed THE SILVER SHOE. By Major Charles Gilson THE TREASURE OF TREGUDDA. By Argyll Saxby THE TWO CAPTAINS OF TUXFORD. By Frank Elias THE RIDERS FROM THE SEA. By G. Godfray Sellick A SON OF THE DOGGER. By Walter Wood A FIFTH FORM MYSTERY. By Harold Avery A SCOUT OF THE '45. By E. Charles Vivian FROM SLUM TO QUARTER-DECK. By Gordon Stables COMRADES UNDER CANVAS. By F.P. Gibbon (_For Complete List see Catalogue_) OF All BOOKSELLERS [Illustration: IT WAS DR. JOE BEYOND A DOUBT!] TROOP ONE OF THE LABRADOR BY DILLON WALLACE AUTHOR OF "GRIT-A-PLENTY," "THE RAGGED INLET GUARDS," ETC., ETC. THE "BOY'S OWN PAPER" OFFICE 4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E.C.4 MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN _Printed by_ UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED LONDON AND WOKING CONTENTS Page I. DOCTOR JOE, SCOUTMASTER 9 II. PLANS 37 III. "'TIS THE GHOST OF LONG JOHN" 51 IV. SHOT FROM BEHIND 63 V. LEM HORN'S SILVER FOX 71 VI. THE TRACKS IN THE SAND 94 VII. THE MYSTERY OF THE BOAT 109 VIII. TRAILING THE HALF-BREED 120 IX. ELI SURPRISES INDIAN JAKE 126 X. THE END OF ELI'S HUNT 135 XI. THE LETTER IN THE CAIRN 147 XII. THE HIDDEN CACHE 165 XIII. SURPRISED AND CAPTURED 179 XIV. THE TWO DESPERADOS 192 XV. MISSING! 198 XVI. BOUND AND HELPLESS 206 XVII. LOST IN A BLIZZARD 220 XVIII. A PLACE TO "BIDE" 232 XIX. SEARCHING THE WHITE WILDERNESS 240 XX. "WOLVES!" YELLED ANDY 251 XXI. THE ALARM IN THE NIGHT 259 XXII. THE IMMUTABLE LAW OF GOD 268 ILLUSTRATIONS IT WAS DR. JOE BEYOND A DOUBT! _Frontispiece_ Facing Page STRETCHED UPON THE FLOOR LAY LEM HORN 70 ON THE RIGHT SEETHED THE DEVIL'S TEA KETTLE 104 "YOU STAND WHERE YOU IS AND DROP YOUR GUN!" 132 IT WAS A FIGHT TO THE DEATH 260 Troop One of the Labrador CHAPTER I DOCTOR JOE, SCOUTMASTER "Doctor Joe! Doctor Joe's comin'! He just turned the p'int!" Jamie Angus burst into the cabin at The Jug breathlessly shouting this joyful news, and then rushed out again with David and Andy at his heels. "Oh, Doctor Joe! It can't be Doctor Joe, now! Can it, Pop? It must be some one else Jamie sees! It can't be Doctor Joe, _what_ever!" exclaimed Margaret in a great flutter of excitement. "Jamie's keen at seein'! He'd know anybody as far as he can see un!" assured Thomas, no less excited at the news than was Margaret. "But 'tis strange that he's comin' back so soon!" Of course Margaret, who was laying the table for supper, must needs follow the boys; and Thomas, who was leaning over the wash basin removing the grime of the day's toil, snatched the towel from its peg behind the door and, drying his hands as he ran, sacrificing dignity to haste, followed Margaret, who had joined the three boys at the end of the jetty which served as a boat landing. A skiff had just entered the narrow channel which connected The Jug, as the bight where the Anguses lived was called, with the wider waters of Eskimo Bay. There could be no doubt, even at that distance, that the tall man standing aft and manipulating the long sculling oar, was Doctor Joe. As the little group gathered on the jetty he took off his hat and waved it high above his head. It was Doctor Joe beyond a doubt! The boys waved their caps and shouted at the top of their lusty young lungs, Margaret, undoing her apron, waved it and added her voice to the chorus, and Thomas, quite carried away by the excitement, waved the towel and in a great bellowing voice shouted a louder welcome than any of them. There was no happier or better contented family on all The Labrador than the family of Thomas Angus, though they had their trials and ups and downs and worries like any other family in or out of Labrador. "Everybody must expect a bit o' trouble and worry now and again," Thomas would say when things did not go as they should. "If we never had un, and livin' were always fine and clear, we'd forget to be thankful for our blessin's. We has t' have a share o' trouble in our lives, and here and there a hard knock whatever, t' know how fine the good things are and rightly enjoy un when they come. And in the end troubles never turn out as bad as we're expectin', by half. First and last there's a wonderful sight more good times than bad uns for all of us." Thomas had reason to be proud and thankful. Jamie could see as well as ever he could, and it was all because of Doctor Joe and his wonderful operation on Jamie's eyes when it seemed certain the lad was to become blind. Through the skill of Doctor Joe, Jamie's eyes were every whit as keen as David's and Andy's, and there were no keener eyes in the Bay than theirs. David was now nearly seventeen and Andy was fifteen--brawny, broad-shouldered lads who had already faced more hardships and had more adventures to their credit than fall to many a man in a whole lifetime. In that brave land adventures are to be found at every turn. They bob up unexpectedly, and the man or boy who meets them successfully must know the ways of the wilderness and must be self-reliant and resourceful, must have grit a-plenty and a stout heart. Margaret kept house for the little family, a responsibility that had been thrust upon her, and which she cheerfully accepted, when her mother was laid to rest and she was a wee lass of twelve. Now she was eighteen and as tidy and cheerful a little housekeeper as could be found on the coast, and pretty too, in manner as well as in feature. "'Tis the manner that counts," said Thomas, and he declared that there was no prettier lass to be found on the whole Labrador. Doctor Joe, whose real name was Joseph Carver, was their nearest neighbour at Break Cove, ten miles down Eskimo Bay. He had come to the coast nine years before, a mysterious stranger, nervous and broken in health. Thomas gave him shelter at The Jug, helped him build his cabin at Break Cove and taught him the ways of the land and how to set his traps. Doctor Joe became a trapper like his neighbours, and in time, with wholesome living in the out-of-doors, regained his health and came to love his adopted country and its rugged life. No one knew then that Joseph Carver was indeed a doctor, but he was so handy with bandages and medicines that the folk of the Bay recognized his skill and soon fell, by common consent, to calling him "Doctor Joe." It was a year before our story begins that Jamie had first complained of a mist in his eyes. With passing weeks the mist thickened, and one day Doctor Joe examined the eyes and announced that only a delicate and serious operation could save the lad's sight. This demanded that Jamie be taken to a hospital in New York where a specialist might operate. It was an expensive undertaking. Neither Thomas nor Doctor Joe had the necessary money, but Thomas hoped to realize enough from his winter's trapping in the interior and Doctor Joe was to add the proceeds of his own winter's work to the fund. Then Thomas broke his leg. Doctor Joe must needs remain at The Jug to care for him, and there seemed no hope for Jamie but a life of darkness. But David was confident that he could take his father's place on the trails, and with some persuasion, for the need was desperate, Thomas consented that David and Andy should spend the winter in the great interior wilderness with no other companion than Indian Jake, a half-breed. That was an experience needing the stoutest heart. Through long dreary months they faced the sub-arctic cold and fearful blizzards that swept the wilderness, following silent trails over wide white wastes or through the depths of dark forests, and falling upon many a wild adventure that tried their mettle a hundred times. It was a man's job, but they both made good, and that is something to be proud of--to make good at the job you tackle. Jamie had pluck too, but pluck alone could not save his eyes. The mist thickened more rapidly than Doctor Joe had expected it would, and there came a time when Jamie could scarcely see at all. Then it was that Doctor Joe announced one day before the return of David and Andy from the trails, that the operation could be no longer delayed if Jamie's eyesight was to be saved, and that to attempt to delay it until the ice cleared from the coast and the mail boat came to bear him away to New York would be fatal. After making this announcement, Doctor Joe revealed the fact that he had once been a great eye surgeon. With Thomas's consent he offered to perform the operation on Jamie's eyes. Thomas had unbounded faith in his friend. Doctor Joe operated and Jamie's sight was saved. In curing Jamie, Doctor Joe discovered that he himself was cured, and that he was again in possession of all his former skill. It was quite natural, therefore, that he should wish to resume the practice of surgery. He was an indifferent trapper, and the living that he made following the trails amounted to a bare existence. He decided, therefore, that it was his duty to himself to return to the work for which, during long years of study, he had been trained. Six weeks before Doctor Joe had sailed away on the mail boat from Fort Pelican, bound for New York, that far distant, mysterious, wonderful city of which he had told so many marvellous tales. Thomas had grave doubts that they would ever see him again, though he had said that he would some day return to visit his friends at The Jug and to see his own little deserted cabin at Break Cove, where he had spent so many lonely but profitable years, for it was here that he had rebuilt his broken health. He had good reason to love the place, and he was quite sure he had no better or truer friends in all the world than Thomas Angus and his family. "Thomas," said he at parting, "if I had the means to support myself I would stay here on The Labrador and be doctor to the people that need me, for there are folk enough that need a doctor's help up and down the coast. But I'm a poor man, and if I stopped here I'd have to make my living as a trapper, and you know how poor a trapper I've been all these years. Back in New York I can do much good, and there I can live as I was reared to live. But I'll not forget you, Thomas, and some day I'll come to see you." "I'm not doubtin' 'tis best you go and the Lord's will," said Thomas. "But we'll be missin' you sore, Doctor Joe. I scarce knows how we'll get on without you. 'Twill seem strange--almost like you were dead, I'm fearin'." "Thomas," and Doctor Joe's voice trembled with emotion, "there's no one in the wide world nearer my affections than you and the boys and Margaret. It hurts me to go, but it's best I should. I might scratch along here for a few years, but I was not born to the work and the time would come when I'd be a burden on some one, and it would make me unhappy. I know that I'll wish often enough to be back here with you at The Jug." "You'd never be a burden, _what_ever!" Thomas declared, quite shocked at the suggestion. "I feels beholden to you, Doctor Joe. There's nary a thing I could ever do to make up to you for savin' Jamie's eyes. You made un as good as new. He'd ha' been stone blind now if 'tweren't for you--and the mercy o' God." "The mercy of God," Doctor Joe repeated reverently. And here at the end of six weeks was Doctor Joe back again. What wonder that Thomas Angus and his family were quite beside themselves with joy, shouting themselves hoarse down there on the jetty. And presently, when the skiff drew alongside, and Doctor Joe stepped out upon the jetty, he was quite overwhelmed with the welcome he received. "Well, Thomas," he said as they walked up to the cabin with Jamie clinging to one of his hands and Andy to the other, "here I am back again, as you see. I couldn't stay away from you dear, good people. I may as well confess, I was homesick for you before I reached New York, and I'm back to stay. I found my fortune had been made while I was here, and now I can do as I please." "Oh, that's fine now!" exclaimed Margaret. "'Tis fine if you're to stay!" "We were missin' you sore," said Thomas. "'Tis like the Lord's blessin' to have you back at The Jug!" "And there's good old Roaring Brook!" Doctor Joe stopped for a moment with half closed eyes, to listen to the rush of water over the rocks, where Roaring Brook tumbled down into The Jug. "It's the sweetest music I've heard since I left here! And the smell of the spruce trees! And such a scene! Thomas, my friend, it's a rugged land where we live, but it's God's own land, just as He made it, beautiful, and undefiled by man!" Doctor Joe turned about and stretched his right arm toward the south. Before them lay the shimmering placid waters of The Jug, reaching away to join the wider, greater waters of Eskimo Bay. In the distance, beyond the Bay, the snow-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains stood in silent majesty, now reflecting the last brilliant rays of the setting sun. As they tarried, watching them, the light faded and shafts of orange and red rose out of the west. The waters became a throbbing expanse of colour, and the woods on the Point, at the entrance to The Jug, sank into purple. "'Tis a bit of the light of heaven that the Lord lets out of evenin's for us to see," said Jamie, and perhaps Jamie was right. "You must be rare hungry, now," observed Thomas, as they entered the cabin. "Margaret were just puttin' supper on when Jamie sights you turnin' the P'int. 'Twill be ready in a jiffy." "What have you got for us, Margaret?" asked Doctor Joe. "I believe I am hungry for the good things you cook." "Fried trout, sir," said Margaret. "Fried trout!" Doctor Joe rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy. "It couldn't have been better!" "You always says that, whatever," laughed Margaret. "If 'twere just bread and tea I'm thinkin' you'd like un fine." "But trout!" exclaimed Doctor Joe. "Why, fresh trout are worth five dollars a pound where I've been--and couldn't be had for that!" "Well, now!" said Margaret in astonishment. "And we has un so plentiful!" David lighted a lamp and Thomas renewed the fire, which crackled cheerily in the big box stove, while everybody talked excitedly and Margaret set on the table a big dish of smoking fried trout, a heaping plate of bread, and poured the tea. "Set in! Set in, Doctor Joe!" Thomas invited. And when they drew up to the table, with Thomas at one end and Margaret at the other, and Doctor Joe and Jamie at Thomas's right, and David and Andy at his left, Thomas devoutly gave thanks for the return of their friend and asked a blessing upon the bounty provided. "Help yourself, now, and don't be afraid of un," Thomas admonished, passing the dish of trout to Doctor Joe. "A real banquet," Doctor Joe declared, as he helped himself liberally. "I've eaten in some fine places since I've been away, but I've had no such feast as this! And there's no one in the whole world can fry trout like Margaret!" "You always says that, sir," and Margaret's face glowed with pleasure at the compliment. "'Tis true!" declared Doctor Joe. "'Tis true!" "I'm wonderin' now about the trout," remarked David. "What are you wondering?" asked Doctor Joe. "How folks get along with no trout to eat off where you've been, sir." "There are men who go far out from the city and fish in the streams for trout, just for the sport of catching them," explained Doctor Joe. "They will tramp all day along brooks, and feel lucky if they catch a dozen little fellows so small we'd not look at them here. But it is only the few who do it for sport that ever get any at all, and there are hundreds of people there who never even saw a trout, they catch so very few of them." "'Twould seem like a waste o' time," remarked Thomas, "if they catches so few. I'd never walk all day for a dozen trout unless I was wonderful hard up for grub. If I were wantin' fish so bad I'd set a net for whitefish or salmon, or if there were cod grounds about I'd gig for cod, though salmon or cod or whitefish would never be takin' the place o' good fresh trout with me." "It's not altogether for the trout the sportsmen tramp the streams all day," laughed Doctor Joe. "They prize the trout they get as a great delicacy, to be sure, but it's the joy of getting out into the open that pays them for the effort. I've done it myself. They get plenty of sea fish, they buy them at the shops." "I never were thinkin' o' that," said Thomas. "I'm thinkin', now, that's where all the salmon we salts down and sells to the Post goes." The boys were vastly interested, and asked many questions, which Doctor Joe answered with infinite patience, concerning the various kinds of fish people bought in the shops, and how the fish were caught and shipped to the shops to be sold fresh. "And you'll stay now? You'll not be leavin' The Labrador again?" asked Thomas, after supper. "Aye," said Doctor Joe, "I've elected to be a Labradorman." Then, turning to the boys, he suggested: "Lads, there are a lot of things in that skiff of mine. I wish you'd bring them in. Will you do it while your father and I visit?" The boys were not only glad but eager to do it, for there were doubtless many surprises for themselves in the skiff, and with one accord the three hurried out. "Years ago, Thomas," said Doctor Joe, when the boys were gone, "in my days in New York, I invested a little money in a mining property. Shortly after I made the investment it was said the ore had run out, and I believed my money was lost. When I returned to New York this summer I found that more ore had been found later, and the mine had earned me a lot of money. I invested what was due to me in such a way that it will bring me an income each year sufficient to provide me with all I shall ever need." "Oh, but that's fine now!" said Thomas. "Thomas," Doctor Joe continued "I should not have been able to enjoy this had it not been for your kindness to me years ago, when I came first to The Labrador a man of broken health. If you had not offered me your friendship then I should have died an invalid in poverty. "I've thought of this a thousand times. I believe God sent me here. I only knew then that I came because I sought a secluded spot on the earth where I could find relief from turmoil. Now, I believe He guided me to The Labrador and to The Jug to you. He had something for me to do in the world, and this was His way of saving me. "When Jamie needed me I was here, and because you had befriended me I was prepared with God's help and with my skill and training to restore Jamie's eyesight. There are others on the coast who need a doctor's skill just as Jamie needed it, and they have no one to help them. I have decided that I shall be doctor to the people. If I can help the folk, as I am sure I can, I'll be happy in the knowledge that I'm making some little return for the great deal that you have done for me." "I were never doin' much for you, Doctor Joe--just what one man would always do for another," Thomas protested. "But 'twill be a blessin' to the folk of The Labrador to have you doctor un! We all need doctors often enough when there's none to be had, and folks die for the need of un." "Yes, folks die here for the need of a doctor," Doctor Joe agreed, "and I hope I may be the means of saving lives and giving relief." The three boys broke in upon them with their arms full of packages. "There's a lot more!" exclaimed Jamie depositing his load upon the floor. "Perhaps we had better help them, Thomas," suggested Doctor Joe, rising. "Oh, no, sir," Jamie protested. "Let us bring un up!" And so said David and Andy also. They quickly had the contents of the skiff transferred to the cabin, and the exciting process of opening the packages began. The first to be opened was for Margaret, and it contained many pretty and useful things, including two neat, substantial warm dresses, finer than any Margaret had ever before possessed or seen. Her eyes sparkled as she held them up for inspection, and she exclaimed over and over again: "Oh, how wonderful pretty they is!" For the boys there were innumerable gifts dear to boys' hearts, including a compass and a watch for each. For Thomas there was a fine pair of field-glasses, a compass and a very fine watch indeed, and he was as pleased and happy as the others. "The glasses'll be a wonderful help t' me in huntin'," he declared. "When I climbs hills for a look around I can see deer that I'd sure to be missin' with no glasses. I'm not doubtin' the compass'll come in handy now and again in thick weather." Then there was a big box of goodies. There were such candies as they had never dreamed of--oranges and big red-cheeked apples. Even Thomas had never before in his life tasted an orange or an apple, and they all declared that they had never imagined that anything could be so good. It was quite astonishing to learn that in the great world from which Doctor Joe had come there were people who ate oranges and apples every day of their lives if they wished them. "'Tis strange the way the Lord fixes things," observed Thomas. "Here now we never saw the like of oranges and apples before in all our lives, but we has plenty of trout, and there are folks out there that has no trout but they all has oranges and apples. We has so many trout we forgets how fine they is, and what a blessin' 'tis we has un. And I'm thinkin' 'tis the same with them folks about the oranges and apples." "Yes," agreed Doctor Joe, "it's only when things are taken away from us that we really appreciate them. Jamie, no doubt, appreciates his eyes much more than he would have done had the mist never clouded them." "Aye, 'tis so," said Thomas. "I dare say," Doctor Joe suggested, "that you've never eaten potatoes or onions?" "No," said Thomas, "I've heard of un, but I never eats un. I never had any to eat." "Well," announced Doctor Joe, "I've had several sacks of potatoes and a sack of onions and two barrels of apples shipped to Fort Pelican with a quantity of other goods. We'll have to go with the big boat for them." The boys and Margaret were quite beside themselves with the wonder of it all, and Thomas was little less excited. "We'll go for un to-morrow or the next day whatever," said Thomas. There was one box still unopened, and the three boys were eyeing it expectantly, when Doctor Joe exclaimed: "Here we've left till the last the most important thing of all. Get an axe, David, and we'll knock the cover off this box." David had the axe in a jiffy, and when Doctor Joe removed the cover the box was found to be filled with books. "O-h-h!" breathed the boys in unison. "'Tis fine! Oh, I've been wishin' and wishin' for books t' look at and read!" exclaimed Margaret. Doctor Joe had taught them all to read and write in the years he had been with them, an accomplishment that not every boy and girl on The Labrador possessed, for there were no schools there. "There are some books to study and some to read. There are story books and books about birds and flowers and animals. And here is something that I know will please the boys," said Doctor Joe, drawing from the box six paper-bound volumes. "There's an interesting story attached to these books that I must tell you before you look at them, and then we'll go through them together. "One day I was walking in a park in New York. "Suddenly I heard a crashing noise, and I hurried in the direction in which I heard the noise, and turning a corner saw a motor-car lying on its side. Some boys wearing khaki-coloured uniforms, very much like soldiers' uniforms, had already reached the wreck, and before I came up with them had rescued two injured men. I never saw more efficient or prompt service than those boys were giving the poor men, who were both badly hurt. They had the men stretched out upon the grass. One had a severed artery in his arm, where the arm had been cut upon the broken glass wind shield. The man's blood was pouring in great spurts through the wound, but the boys were already adjusting the tourniquet, for which they used a handkerchief, and in a minute they had the bleeding stopped, as well as I could have done it. I've no doubt they saved the man's life, for without prompt help he'd have bled to death in a short time. "The other man was cut and bruised, and the boys were making him as comfortable as possible until an ambulance came to take him to a hospital. There was really nothing I could do that the boys had not already done promptly and remarkably well. "The instant they had discovered the accident two boys had run away to summon an ambulance and to notify the police, and in a little while an ambulance with a surgeon and two policemen came and took the men away. "The boys were only about Andy's age, and I wondered at their training and efficiency. When the ambulance had gone with the injured men I walked a little way with the boys, and learned that they belonged to a wonderful organization called 'Boy Scouts.' I had heard of Boy Scouts, but I supposed it was one of the ordinary clubs where boys got together just for play. "I was so much interested that I looked up the head office of the Boy Scouts, and asked questions about them. Then I bought these copies of the _Boy Scout's Handbook_. They tell about the things the scouts do, and how a boy may become a scout. I knew you chaps would be so interested you would each want a book, so I bought a half-dozen copies. The extra books we can give to other boys up the Bay." "Could we be scouts?" asked Andy breathlessly. "Yes, to be sure!" Doctor Joe smiled. "'Twould be rare fun, now!" exclaimed David. "All of us scouts, just like the boys in New York?" Jamie asked, his face aglow. "Yes," answered Doctor Joe. "I knew you chaps would like to be scouts. We'll organize a troop, and we'll call it Troop One of The Labrador. There are Boy Scouts of America, and Boy Scouts of England, and Boy Scouts of nearly every country in the world except The Labrador. We'll be the Boy Scouts of The Labrador, and become a part of the great army of scouts. It'll be something to be proud of." "How'll we do it?" asked David. "I'll be leader, or scoutmaster as they call the leader," explained Doctor Joe. "These books explain all about the things we're to do. "Before you become tenderfoot scouts you'll have to learn some things," Doctor Joe continued, after looking through one of the handbooks, until he found the proper page. "You can tie all the knots already. You do that every day. But there are plenty of boys, and men too, where I came from that can't even tie the ordinary square knot. "You'll have to learn the oath and law. You live pretty close to the requirements of the law now, but it'll be necessary to learn it, and I'll explain then what each law means. You'll have to learn what the scout badge stands for and how it's made up, and other things." Doctor Joe carefully marked the necessary pages and references. "Now about the flag," said Doctor Joe. "You'll have to learn about the formation of the flag and what it stands for. This book is for the Boy Scouts of America, and the flag it refers to is the United States flag. I'm an American, but you chaps are living in British territory and you're British subjects, so you'll have to learn about the British flag or Union Jack, as it's called, for that's your flag. "The Union Jack is the national flag of the whole British Empire. The English flag was originally a red cross on a white field. This is called the flag of St. George. Three hundred years ago King James the First added to it the banner of Scotland, which was a blue flag with a white cross, called St. Andrew's Cross, lying upon the blue from corner to corner--that is diagonally." Doctor Joe opened his travelling bag and drew forth two small flags, one the Stars and Stripes and the other the British Union Jack. "I nearly forgot about these," said he, spreading the flags upon the table. "This is the flag of my country," and he caressed the United States flag affectionately. "I love it as you should love your flag. The Union Jack is the emblem of the great British Empire, of which you are a part. It is one of the greatest and best countries in the world to live in. To be a British subject is something to be proud of indeed." "Aye," broke in Thomas, "'tis that, now." "Yes," continued Doctor Joe, "I want you to be as proud of it as I am that I'm a citizen of the United States, and I'm so proud of it I wouldn't change for any other country in the world. When I reached St. John's and saw the American flag flying over the office of the United States Consulate, my eyes filled with tears. I hadn't seen that old flag for years, and I stood in the street for an hour doing nothing but look at it and think of all it represents. It makes my blood tingle just to touch it. You chaps must feel the same toward the British flag, for that's your flag. "Now let me show you how the flag is made up," and Doctor Joe proceeded to trace St. George's Cross and St. Andrew's Cross, explaining them again as he did so. "In the year 1801 another banner was added. This was the Banner of St. Patrick of Ireland. St. Patrick's Cross was a red diagonal cross on a white field, and here you see it." Doctor Joe traced it on the flag. "There," he went on, "you have the British flag complete. No one knows exactly why it is called the 'Jack,' but it may have been because in the old days, the English knights, when they went out to fight their battles, wore a jacket over their armour with the St. George's Cross upon it, so it would be known to what nation they belonged. This jacket was sometimes called a 'jack' for short. "The Union Jack did not become a complete flag as we have it to-day until the year 1801, when St. Patrick's Cross was added to it. The Stars and Stripes, the flag of my country, was first made in 1776, and on June 14, 1777, it was adopted by the United States Congress as the national emblem, so you see it is even older than the British flag. The flags of all nations in the world have changed since 1777 excepting only the United States flag, and every American is proud of the fact that his flag is older than the flag of any other Christian nation in the world." The boys, and Thomas and Margaret also, were fascinated with Doctor Joe's brief story of the flags. They were quite excited with the thought that they were to be a part of the great army of Boy Scouts, and to do the same things that other boys in far-away lands were doing, and the other boys that they had never seen seemed suddenly very much nearer to them and more like themselves than they had ever seemed before. The three buried their noses in the handbook, now and again asking Doctor Joe questions. They were so excited and so interested, indeed, that they could scarcely lay the books aside when Thomas announced that it was time to "turn in," and Andy declared he could hardly wait for morning when they could be at them again. And so it came about that Troop I, Boy Scouts of The Labrador, was organized, and in the nature of things the troop was destined to meet many adventures and unusual experiences. CHAPTER II PLANS The cabin at The Jug had three rooms. There was a square living-room, entered through an enclosed porch on its western grade. At the end of the living-room opposite the entrance were two doors, one leading to Margaret's room, the other to the room occupied by the boys. Thomas himself slept in a bunk, resembling a ship's bunk, built against the north wall. The furnishings of the living-room consisted of a home-made table, a big box stove, three home-made chairs and some chests, which served the double purpose of storage places for clothing and seats. A cupboard was built against the wall at the left of the entrance, and between two windows on the south side of the room, which looked out upon The Jug, was a shelf upon which Thomas kept his Bible and Margaret her sewing basket--a little basket which she had woven herself from native grasses. Behind the stove was a bench, upon which stood a bucket of water and the family wash basin, and over the basin hung a towel for general family use. Pasted upon the walls were pictures from old newspapers and magazines. There were no other decorations but these and snowy muslin curtains at the windows, but the floor, table, chairs--all the woodwork, indeed--were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and everything was spotlessly clean and tidy. Despite the austere simplicity of the room and its furnishings, it possessed an indescribable atmosphere of cosy comfort. Doctor Joe's bed was spread upon the floor. It was still candle-light when he was awakened by Thomas building a fire in the stove, for in this land of stern living there is no lolling in bed of mornings. "Good-morning, Thomas," said Doctor Joe, with a yawn and a stretch as he sat up. "Marnin'," said Thomas. "How's the morning, Thomas, fair for our trip to Fort Pelican?" "Aye, 'tis a fine marnin'," announced Thomas, "but I were thinkin' 'twould be better to wait over till to-morrow for the trip. After your long voyage 'twould be a bit trying for you to turn back to-day to Fort Pelican without restin' up, and I'm not doubtin' a day whatever'll do no harm to the potaters and things." "I believe you're right, Thomas," and Doctor Joe spoke with evident relief. "I thought you'd be getting ready for the trapping and would like to get the Fort Pelican trip out of the way. We'll put the trip off till to-morrow." Doctor Joe dressed hurriedly, and went out to enjoy the cool, crisp morning. Everything was white with hoarfrost. The air was charged with the perfume of balsam and spruce and other sweet odours of the forest. Doctor Joe took long, deep, delicious breaths as he looked about him at the familiar scene. The last stars were fading in the growing light. A low mist hung over The Jug, and beyond the haze lay the dark, heaving waters of Eskimo Bay. In the distance beyond the Bay the high peaks of the Mealy Mountains rose out of the gloom, white with snow and looming above the dark forest at their base in cold and silent majesty. Behind the cabin stretched the vast, mysterious, unbounded wilderness which held, hidden in its unmeasured depths, rivers and lakes and mountains that no man, save the wandering Indian, had ever looked upon--great solitudes whose silence had remained unbroken through the ages. "If some of those Boy Scouts could only see this!" exclaimed Doctor Joe. "'Twere fashioned by the Almighty for comfortable livin'," said Thomas, who had called Margaret and the boys and come out unobserved by Doctor Joe. "There's no better shelter on the coast, and no better place for seals and salmon, with neighbours handy when we wants to see un, and plenty o' room to stretch. 'Tis the finest _I_ ever saw, whatever." "Yes, 'tis all of that," agreed Doctor Joe. "But I wasn't thinking now of The Jug alone. I was thinking of the majestic grandeur of the whole scene. I was enjoying the freedom from the noise and scramble, the dirt and smoke and smudge of the city, with its piles upon piles of ugly buildings, and never a breath of such pure air as this to be breathed. I was thinking of these fine young chaps, the Boy Scouts I saw there, who are trying to study God's big out-of-doors and must content themselves with stingy little parks. It's the love of Nature that takes them to the parks, and compared with this they have a poor substitute. This is the world as God made it, with all its primordial beauty. We're fortunate that circumstances placed us here, Thomas, and we should be for ever thankful." "I'm wonderin' now," observed Thomas, as he and Doctor Joe paced up and down the gravelly beach, "why folks ever lives in such places as you tells about. There's plenty o' room down here on The Labrador, and plenty o' other places, I'm not doubtin', where they'd be free from the crowds and dirt, and have plenty o' room to stretch, and live fine like we lives." "We're a thousand miles from a railway," said Doctor Joe. "Most of the people in the cities wouldn't live a thousand paces from a railway if they could help themselves. They take a car and ride if they've only half a mile to go. They ride so much they've almost forgotten how to walk. They like crowds. They'd be lonesome if they were away from them." "'Tis strange, wonderful strange, how some folks lives," remarked Thomas, quite astonished that any could prefer the city to his own big, free Labrador. "When folks has enough to keep un busy they never gets lonesome, and bein' idle is like wastin' a part of life. A man could never be lonesome where there's plenty o' water and woods about. I always finds jobs a-plenty to turn my hand to, and I has no time to feel lonesome. And I never could live where I didn't have room enough to stretch, _what_ever." "That's it!" Doctor Joe spoke decisively. "Room enough to stretch mind as well as body. Why, Thomas, I've often heard men say that they had to 'kill time', and didn't know what to do with themselves for hours together!" "'Tis wicked and against the Lord's will," and Thomas shook his head. "The Lord never wants folks to be idle or kill time. He fixes it so there's a-plenty of useful things for everybody to do all the time, and they wants to do un." "'Tis the measure of a man's worth," remarked Doctor Joe. "The worth-while man never has an hour to kill. The day hasn't hours enough for him. It's the other kind that kill time--the sort that are not, and never will be, of much account in the world." They walked a little in silence, each busy with his own thoughts, when Thomas remarked: "The Lord has been wonderful good to me, Doctor Joe, givin' me three as fine lads and as fine a lass as He ever gave a man. Then He saves the little lad's eyes, when they were goin' blind, by sendin' you to cure un. And when I were breakin' my leg and couldn't work He sends along Indian Jake to go to the trails to hunt with David and Andy, and they makes a fine hunt and keeps us out o' debt. And this summer we has as fine a catch of salmon as ever we has, and we're through with un a fortnight ahead of ever before, with all the barrels filled and the gear stowed, and the salt salmon traded in at the Post, and plenty o' flour and pork and molasses and tea t' see us through the winter, _what_ever." "Last year at this time things looked pretty blue for us," said Doctor Joe, "but everything worked out well in the end, Thomas." "Aye," agreed Thomas, "wonderful well. I'm thinkin' that if we does our best t' help ourselves when troubles come the Lord is like t' step in and give us a hand. He wants us to do the best we can t' help ourselves and when He sees we're doin' it He lifts the troubles." "That's true," agreed Doctor Joe, "and if a man takes advantage of every opportunity that comes to him, and don't waste his time, he's pretty sure to succeed." "Aye, that he is," said Thomas. "Now I were thinkin' that the lads worked so wonderful hard at the salmon th' summer, I'd let un go with you to Fort Pelican t' manage the boat, and I'll be staying home to make ready for the trail. There's a-plenty to be done yet to make ready without hurry, and a trip to Fort Pelican will be a rare treat for the lads. But I'll go if you wants. I were just askin' if 'twould be suitin' you if I stays home and lets they go?" "Why, of course! That's great! Simply great!" exclaimed Doctor Joe. "The boys will make a fine crew! Will Jamie go too?" "Aye, Jamie's been workin' like a man, and he'll be keen for the trip," said Thomas. "And last night I were thinkin' after I goes to bed how fine 'tis that you're to be doctor to the coast. Indian Jake's to be my trappin' pardner th' winter, and the lads'll 'bide home. You'll be needin' dogs and komatik (sledge) to take you about. There'll be little enough for the dogs to do, and you'll be welcome to un. The lads can do the drivin' for you and whatever you wants un to do. Use un all you needs. I wants to do my share to help you do the doctorin'." "Thank you! Thank you, Thomas!" Doctor Joe accepted gratefully. "This will make it possible for me to see a good many people that I otherwise would not be able to see, and make it easier for me also." "Aye," said Thomas, "I were thinkin' that too, and the lads will be glad enough to lend you a hand when you needs un." It was broad daylight. While Thomas and Doctor Joe talked on the beach, the boys had been busily engaged in carrying the day's supply of water from Roaring Brook to a water barrel in the porch. Now Jamie appeared to announce breakfast. While they ate the boys were able to talk of little else than the scout books, and the fact they were to do as boys did in other parts of the world. And they were delighted beyond measure when they learned that they were to make the voyage to Fort Pelican with Doctor Joe. It was an event of vast importance. "There'll be plenty o' time in the boat to study the scout book things," Andy suggested. "Maybe now we could learn to be scouts before we gets back home." "I've no doubt you can pass all the tenderfoot tests while we're away," said Doctor Joe. "And since you're to take me about with dogs and komatik this winter when I go to visit sick people, there'll be no end of chances to show what good scouts you are." "To take you about?" asked Andy excitedly. Then Thomas must needs explain that they must do their share in looking after the sick folk, and that David and Andy were to be Doctor Joe's dog drivers when winter came. "'Twill be fine to manage the dogs for you, sir!" exclaimed David, turning to Doctor Joe. "Wonderful fine!" echoed Andy. "And will you be goin' outside the Bay?" asked David. "Aye, outside the Bay and in it, wherever there's need to go," said Doctor Joe. "'Twill be tryin' and hard work sometimes," suggested Thomas, "travellin' when the weather's nasty, but I'm not doubtin' the lads'll be able t' manage un." "We'll manage un!" David declared with pride in the confidence placed in him and Andy. To drive dogs on these sub-arctic trails in fair weather and foul calls for courage and grit, and the lads felt justly proud of the responsibility that had been laid upon them. There would be many a shift to make on the ice, they knew. There would be blinding blizzards and withering arctic winds to face, and no end of hard work. But these lads of The Labrador loved to stand upon their feet like men and face and conquer the elements like hardy men of courage. This is the way of boys the world over--eager for the time when they may assume the responsibility of manhood. Such a time comes earlier to the lads of The Labrador than with us. In that stern land there is no idling and there are no holidays, and every one, the lad as well as his father, must always do his part, which is his best. Fort Pelican, the nearest port at which the mail boat called, was seventy miles eastward from The Jug. With the uncertainty of wind and tide the boat journey to Fort Pelican usually consumed three days, and with equal time required for return, the voyage could seldom be accomplished in less than six days. Lem Horn and his family lived at Horn's Bight, thirty miles from The Jug, and fifteen miles beyond, at Caribou Arm, was Jerry Snook's cabin. Save an Eskimo settlement of half a dozen huts near Fort Pelican and the families of Lem Horn and Jerry Snook, the country lying between The Jug and Fort Pelican was uninhabited. It was unlikely that evening would find the travellers in the vicinity of either Horn's or Snook's cabins, and therefore it was to be a camping trip, which was quite to the liking of the boys. The boys washed the old fishing boat and packed the equipment and provisions for the voyage. Margaret baked three big loaves of white bread, and as a special treat a loaf of plum bread. The remaining provisions consisted of tea, a bottle of molasses for sweetening, flour, baking-powder, fat salt pork, lard, margarine, salt and pepper. The equipment included a frying-pan, a basin for mixing dough, a tin kettle for tea, a larger kettle to be used in cooking, one large cooking spoon, four teaspoons and some tin plates. Each of the boys as well as Doctor Joe was provided with a sheath knife carried on the belt. The sheath knife serves the professional hunter as a cooking knife, as well as for eating and general purposes. For camping use there was a cotton wedge tent, a small sheet-iron tent stove, three camp axes, some candles and matches, a file for sharpening the axes and a sleeping-bag for each. Men in that land do not travel without arms, and it was decided that David should take a carbine and Andy and Doctor Joe each a double-barrel shotgun, for there might be an opportunity to shoot a fat goose or duck. Thomas's big boat had two light masts rigged with leg-o'-mutton sails. Just forward of the foremast David and Andy placed some flat stones, and covering them with two or three inches of gravel set the tent stove upon the gravel. Here they could cook their meals at midday, and the gravel would protect the bottom of the boat from heat. A sufficient quantity of fire-wood was taken aboard, and the provisions and other equipment stowed under a short deck forward where the things would be protected from storm and all would be in readiness for an early start in the morning. CHAPTER III "'TIS THE GHOST OF LONG JOHN" The morning was clear and crisp. Breakfast was eaten by candle-light, and before sunrise Doctor Joe and the boys, with the tide to help them, worked the big boat down through The Jug and past the Point into Eskimo Bay. In the shelter of The Jug, which lay in the lee of the hills, the sails flapped idly and it was necessary to bring the long oars into service. But beyond the sheltered harbour a light north-west breeze caught and filled the sails, the oars were stowed, the rudder shipped, and with David at the tiller Doctor Joe lighted his pipe and settled himself for a quiet smoke while Andy and Jamie turned their attention to their scout handbooks. It was an inspiring morning. The sky was cloudless. The air was charged with scent of spruce and balsam fir, wafted down by the breeze from the forest, lying in dark and solemn silence and spreading away from the near-by shore until it melted into the blue haze of rolling hills far to the northward. The huge black back of a grampus rose a hundred feet from the boat and with a noise like the loud exhaust of steam sank again beneath the surface of the Bay. Now and again a seal raised its head and looked curiously at the travellers and then hastily dived. Gulls and terns soared and circled overhead, occasionally dipping to the water to capture a choice morsel of food. A flock of wild geese, honking in flight, turned into a bight and alighted where a brook coursed down through a marsh to join the sea. "There's some geese," remarked David, breaking the silence. "They're comin' up south now. We'll have a hunt when we gets home. They always feeds in that mesh when they're bidin' about the Bay." Presently Andy exclaimed: "I can tie un all! I can tie every knot in the book!" "I can tie un too!" said Jamie. "Yes! Yes! There are the scout tests!" broke in Doctor Joe. "Suppose we all tie the knots and pass the tests." Andy and Jamie tied them easily enough, and then Doctor Joe tied them himself to keep pace with the boys, and Andy relieved David at the tiller that he might try his hand at them; David not only tied all the knots illustrated in the handbook, but for good measure added a bowline on a bight, a double carrick bend, a marlin hitch and a halliard hitch. "That's wonderful easy to do," David declared as he laid the rope down. "'Tis strange they calls that a test, 'tis so easy done." "Easy for us," admitted Doctor Joe, "but for boys who have never had much to do with boats or ropes it's a hard test, and an important one. You chaps knew how to tie them, so in doing it you haven't learned anything new. Let us make up our minds as scouts to learn something new every day--something we never knew before, no matter how small or unimportant it may seem. Think what a lot we'll know next year that we do not know now; everything we learn, too, is sure to be of use to us sometime in our lives. "As we go along we'll find there is a great deal to learn in this handbook, and all of it is worth knowing. We don't look far ahead. Suppose we begin with the scout law. With your good memories you'll learn it before we go ashore to-night. I want you to learn the twelve points of the law in order as they appear in the book, so that you can repeat them and tell me in your own words what each point means." Doctor Joe turned to the scout law and explained each point in detail. When he told them that "A Scout is kind" meant that they must not only be kind to people, but that they must protect and not kill harmless birds and animals, David protested: "If we promises _that_, sir, 'twould stop us huntin' seals and deer and pa'tridges and plenty o' things." "Oh, no!" explained Doctor Joe. "It does not mean that. It means that you must kill nothing _needlessly_. Here in Labrador we must kill seals and deer and partridges and other game for food and for their skins. That is the way we make our living. In the same way they have to kill cows and sheep and goats and pigs for food in the country I came from and to get skins for boots and gloves. In the same way we are permitted to kill game when necessary. But we're not to kill anything that's harmless unless we need it for some purpose. The Indians and other people about here shoot at loons for sport. I've seen them chase the loons in canoes and keep shooting at them every time they came up after a dive, until the loons were too tired to dive quickly enough to get out of the way of the shot, and then the poor things were killed. The flesh isn't fit to eat and they're always thrown away. That is cruel." "I never thought of un that way. I've killed loons too," David confessed, "but I'll never shoot at a loon again. 'Tis the same with gulls and other things we never uses when we kills, and just shoot at for fun." "That's the idea," said Doctor Joe enthusiastically. "Now what do you think about killing hen partridges in summer?" "We can kill pa'tridges, can't we?" asked David. "We always eats un, and you said we could kill un." "But we've got to use our heads about it," Doctor Joe explained. "I'm talking now about _hen_ partridges in _summer_. They always have broods of little partridges then. If you kill the mother all the little ones die, for they're too small to take care of themselves. Do you think that's right?" "I never thought of un before," said David. "'Tis wicked to kill un! I'll never kill a hen pa'tridge in summer again! Not me!" "We'll have to be tellin' everybody in the Bay about that!" declared Andy. "Nobody has ever thought about the poor little uns starvin' and dyin'!" "That'll be doing good scout work," Doctor Joe commended. "That's one way you'll be useful as scouts here in Labrador. Not only will you be showing kindness to the mother and little partridges, but if the mother is permitted to live and raise her brood, all the little birds will be full grown by winter, and it will make that many more partridges that can be used for food when food is needed." When presently Jamie announced that it was "'most noon" and he was "fair starvin'," and the others suddenly discovered that they were hungry too, a fire was lighted in the stove and a cosy lunch of fried pork and bread, and hot tea sweetened with molasses, was eaten with an appetite and relish such as only those can enjoy who live in the open. Then, with growing interest the lads returned to their scout books, and camping time came almost before they were aware. The sun was drooping low in the west when David, indicating a low, wooded point, said: "That's Flat P'int. There's good water there and 'tis a fine camping place." "Then we'll camp there," Doctor Joe agreed. "Look! Look!" exclaimed Andy, as the boat approached the shore. "There's a porcupine!" Following the direction in which Andy pointed, a fat porcupine was discovered high up in a spruce tree feeding upon the tender branches and bark. "Shall we have un for supper?" Andy asked excitedly. "Aye," said David, "let's have un for supper. Fresh meat'll go fine." A shot from the rifle, when they had landed, brought the unfortunate porcupine tumbling to the ground, and Andy proceeded at once to skin and dress his game for supper. "I'll be cook and Andy cookee," Doctor Joe announced. "We'll get wood for the fire, David, and you and Jamie pitch the tent and get it ready." Flat Point was well wooded, and the floor of the forest thickly carpeted with grey caribou moss. David selected a level spot between two trees on a little rise near the shore. The ridge rope was quickly stretched between the trees and the tent securely pegged down. Then David and Jamie broke a quantity of low-hanging spruce boughs, which they snapped from the trees with a dexterous upward bend of the wrist. When a liberal pile of these had been accumulated at the entrance of the tent, David proceeded to lay the bed. The rear of the tent was to be the head. Here he laid a row of the boughs, three deep, with the convex side uppermost, then he began "shingling" the boughs in rows toward the foot. This was done by placing the butt end of the bough firmly against the ground with half the bough, the convex side uppermost, overlapping the bough above it, as shingles are lapped on a roof. Thus continuing until the floor of the tent was covered he had a soft, fragrant springy bed, quite as soft and comfortable as a mattress, and upon this he and Jamie spread the sleeping-bags. In the meantime Doctor Joe and Andy had collected an ample supply of dry wood for the evening, and when, presently, David and Jamie joined them, a cheerful fire was blazing and already an appetizing odour was rising from the stew kettle. When the stew and some tender dumplings were done Doctor Joe lifted the kettle from the fire, and while he filled each plate with a liberal portion, and Andy poured tea, David put fresh wood upon the fire, for the evening had grown cold and frosty with the setting sun. The blazing fire was cheerful indeed as they settled themselves upon the seat of boughs and proceeded to enjoy their supper. "Um-m-m!" exclaimed Andy. "You knows how to cook wonderful fine, Doctor!" "'Tis _wonderful_ fine stew!" seconded David. "Not half bad," admitted Doctor Joe, "but Andy had as much to do with it as I, and the porcupine had a good deal to do with it. It was young and fat, and it's tender." There is no pleasanter hour for the camper or voyageur than the evening hour by a blazing camp fire. There is no sweeter odour than that of the damp forest mingled with the smell of burning wood. Beyond the narrow circle of light a black wall rises, and behind the wall lies the wilderness with its unfathomed mysteries. Out in the darkness wild creatures move, silent, stealthy and unseen, behind a veil that human eyes cannot penetrate. But we know they are there going about the strange business of their life, and our imagination is awakened and our sensibilities quickened. The camp fire is a shrine of comradeship and friendship. Here it was that the primordial ancestors of every living man and woman and child gathered at night with their families, in those far-off dark ages before history was written. The fire was their home. Here they found rest and comfort and protection from the savage wild beasts that roamed the forests. It was a place of veneration. The primitive instinct, perchance inherited from those far-off ancestors of ours, slumbering in our souls, is sometimes awakened, and then we are called to the woods and the wild places that God made beautiful for us, and at night we gather around our camp fire as our ancient ancestors gathered around theirs, and we love it just as they loved it. And so it was with the little camp fire on Flat Point and with Doctor Joe and the boys. With darkness the uncanny light of the Aurora Borealis flashed up in the north, its long, weird fingers of changing colours moving restlessly across the heavens. The forest and the wide, dark waters of Eskimo Bay sank behind a black wall. There was absolute silence, save for the ripple of waves upon the shore, each busy with his own thoughts, until presently Jamie asked: "Did you ever see a ghost, Doctor?" "A ghost? No, lad, and I fancy no one else ever saw one except in imagination. What made you think of ghosts?" "'Tis so--still--and dark out there," said Jamie, pointing toward the darkness beyond the fire-glow. "And--I were thinkin' I heard something." "But there _is_ ghosts, sir, plenty of un," broke in Andy. "Pop's seen ghosts and so has Zeke Hodge and Uncle Billy and plenty of folks. They says the ghost of Long John, the old Injun that used to be at the Post and was drowned, goes paddlin' and paddlin' about in a canoe o' nights." "Yes," said David, "I'm thinkin' I saw Long John's ghost myself one evenin'. I weren't certain of un, but it must have been he." "Nonsense!" Doctor Joe had no patience with the belief popular among Labradormen that ghosts of men who have been drowned or killed return to haunt the scene of their death. "There's no such thing as a ghost." "What's that now?" Jamie held up his hand for silence, and spoke in a subdued voice. Out of the darkness came the rhythmic dipping of a paddle. They all heard it now. Doctor Joe arose, and closely followed by the boys, stepped down beyond the fire glow. In dim outline they could see the silhouette of a canoe containing the lone figure of a man paddling with the short, quick stroke of the Indian. "'Tis the ghost of Long John!" breathed Jamie. "'Tis sure he!" CHAPTER IV SHOT FROM BEHIND The canoe was coming directly toward them. In a moment it touched the shore, and as its occupant stepped lightly out the boys with one accord exclaimed: "Injun Jake! 'Tis Injun Jake!" And so it proved. The greeting he received was hearty enough to leave no doubt in his mind that he was a welcome visitor. Perhaps it was the heartier because of the relief the boys experienced in the discovery that the lone canoeman was not, after all, the wraith of Long John, but was their friend Indian Jake in flesh and blood. When his packs had been removed, Indian Jake lifted his canoe from the water, turned it upon its side and followed the boys to the fire, where Doctor Joe awaited him. "Just in time!" welcomed Doctor Joe, as he shook Indian Jake's hand. "We've finished eating, but there's plenty of stew in the kettle. Andy, pour Jake some tea." Indian Jake, grunting his thanks, silently picked up David's empty plate and heaped it with stew and dumpling from the kettle without the ceremony of waiting to be served. He was a tall, lithe, muscular half-breed, with small, restless, hawk-like eyes and a beaked nose that was not unlike the beak of a hawk. He had the copper-hued skin and straight black hair of the Indian, but otherwise his features might have been those of a white man. Indian Jake had been the trapping companion of David and Andy the previous winter, and, as previously stated, was this year to be Thomas Angus's trapping partner on the fur trails. The boys were vastly fond of Indian Jake, and Thomas and Doctor Joe shared their confidence, but the Bay folk generally looked upon him with distrust and suspicion. Several years before, he had come to the Bay a penniless stranger. He soon earned the reputation of being one of the best trappers in the region. Then, suddenly, he disappeared owing the Hudson's Bay Company a considerable sum for equipment and provisions sold him on credit. It was well known that in the winter preceding his disappearance Indian Jake had had a most successful hunting season and was in possession of ample means to pay his debts. His failure to apply his means to this purpose was looked upon as highly dishonest--akin, indeed, to theft. Two years later he reappeared, again penniless. The Company refused him further credit, and he had no means of purchasing the supplies necessary for his support during the trapping season in the interior. It was at this time that Thomas Angus broke his leg, and it became necessary for David and Andy to take his place on the trails. They were too young to endure the long months of isolation without an older and more experienced companion. There was none but Indian Jake to go with them, and he was engaged to hunt on shares a trail adjacent to theirs. With his share of the furs captured by the end of the trapping season, Indian Jake discharged his old debt with the Company. This was not sufficient, however, to re-establish confidence in him. There was a lurking suspicion among them, fostered by Uncle Ben Rudder of Tuggle Bight, the wiseacre and oracle of the Bay, that Indian Jake's payment of the debt was not prompted by honesty but by some ulterior motive. Indian Jake emptied his plate. He refilled it with the last of the stew and again emptied it, in the interim swallowing several cups of hot tea. "Good stew," he remarked in appreciation and praise when his meal was finished. "When were you gettin' back?" "I reached The Jug day before yesterday," said Doctor Joe. "Huh!" Indian Jake grunted approval, as he puffed industriously at his pipe. "Where you goin' now? To see Lem Horn?" "No," Doctor Joe answered, "we're going to Fort Pelican to get some things I brought in on the mail boat." "I been goose huntin'," Indian Jake explained. "Not much goose yet. Too early. Got four. Goin' to The Jug now to give Thomas a hand. Want to start for Seal Lake soon. Don't want to be late." "Pop's thinkin' to start in a fortnight," said David. "Good!" acknowledged Indian Jake. "Maybe we start sooner. Start when we're ready. I want to go quick. Have plenty time get there before freeze-up." Indian Jake had apparently finished talking. Doctor Joe and the boys made several attempts to continue the conversation, but only receiving responsive grunts, turned to a discussion of the flag and other scout problems, while Indian Jake was absorbed in his own thoughts. Presently he rose and proceeded to unroll his bed. "Plenty of room in the tent," Doctor Joe invited. "Better come in with us, Jake." "Goin' early. Sleep here," he declined, as he spread a caribou skin upon the ground to protect himself from the damp earth. Then he produced a Hudson's Bay Company blanket, once white but now of uncertain shade, and rolling himself in the blanket, with his feet toward the fire, was soon snoring peacefully. "We won't trouble to douse the fire," Doctor Joe suggested presently. "He wants to sleep by it, and he'll look after it. Let's turn in." And with the front of the tent open that they might enjoy the air and profit by the firelight, they were soon snug in their sleeping-bags and as sound asleep as Indian Jake. "High-o!" The three boys sat up. It was broad daylight, and Doctor Joe, on his hands and knees, was looking out of the tent. "Our visitor has gone, and there's little wonder, for we've been sleeping like bears and it's broad daylight. Hurry, lads, or the sun'll be well up before we get away." The boys sprang up and were soon dressed. The fire had burned low, indicating that Indian Jake had been gone for a considerable time. A fat goose was hanging from the limb of a tree. Fastened to it was a piece of birch bark, and scribbled upon the birch bark with a piece of charcoal from the fire, these words: "cerprize fur the lads bekos they likes Goos." Another surprise awaited them. When they lifted the lid of the large cooking kettle they found it nearly full of boiled goose. "That's the way o' Indian Jake!" Andy exclaimed. "He's always plannin' fine surprises for folks." "It's surely a fine surprise," said Doctor Joe. "Breakfast all ready but the tea, and a goose for to-night." Every one hurried, but the sun was well up when they put out the fire and hoisted sail. There was little wind, however, and the light breeze soon dropped to a dead calm. Doctor Joe unshipped the rudder and began sculling, while the boys laboured at the long oars. At length the tide began running in, and progress was so slow that it was decided to go ashore and await a turn of the tide or a breeze. "Lem Horn lives just back o' that island," said David, indicating a small wooded island. "We might stop and bide there till a breeze comes, and see un." In accordance with the suggestion Doctor Joe turned the boat inside the island, and there, on the mainland in the edge of a little clearing and not a hundred yards distant, stood Lem Horn's cabin. It was a secluded and peculiarly lonely spot, hidden by the island from the few boats that plied the Bay. Here lived Lem Horn and his wife and two sons, Eli, a young man of twenty-one years, and Mark, nineteen years of age. "There's no smoke," observed Jamie. "Maybe they're all down to Fort Pelican getting their winter outfit," suggested David. "There seems to be no one about but the dogs," said Doctor Joe, as he stepped ashore with the painter and made it fast, while Lem's big sledge dogs, lolling in the sun, watched them curiously. Visitors do not knock in Labrador. The cabins are always open to travellers whether or not the host is at home. Andy was in advance, and opening the door he stopped on the threshold with an exclamation of horror. Stretched upon the floor lay Lem Horn, his face and hair smeared with blood, and on the floor near him was a small pool of blood. A chair was overturned, and Lem's legs were tangled in a fish-net. Doctor Joe leaned over the prostrate figure. "Shot," said he, "and from behind!" "Does you mean somebody shot he?" asked David, quite horrified. "Yes, and it must have happened yesterday," said Doctor Joe. [Illustration: STRETCHED UPON THE FLOOR LAY LEM HORN] CHAPTER V LEM HORN'S SILVER FOX "He's alive, and this doesn't look like a bad wound," said Doctor Joe after a brief examination. "David, put a fire in the stove and heat some water! Andy, find some clean cloths! Jamie, bring up my medicine kit from the boat!" The boys hurried to carry out the directions, while Doctor Joe made a more careful examination and discovered a second wound in Lem's back, just below the right shoulder. "Both shots from the back," he mused. "This wound explains his condition. The one in the head only scraped the skull, and couldn't have more than stunned him for a short time. The other has caused a good deal of bleeding and may be serious." With David's help Doctor Joe carried Lem to his bunk and removed his outer clothing. The water in the kettle on the stove was now warm enough for Doctor Joe's purpose. He poured some of it into a dish, and after dissolving in it some antiseptic tablets, cleansed and temporarily dressed the wounds. Restoratives were now applied. Lem responded promptly. His breathing became perceptible, and at length he opened his eyes and stared at Doctor Joe. There was no recognition in the stare and in a moment the eyes closed. Presently they again opened, and this time Lem's lips moved. "Where's Jane?" he asked feebly. "Your wife seems to be away and the boys, too," said Doctor Joe. "We found you alone." "Gone to Fort Pelican," Lem murmured after a moment's thought. He stared at Doctor Joe for several minutes, now with the look of one trying to recall something, and at length asked: "What's--been--happenin' to me?" "You've been shot," said Doctor Joe. "We found you on the floor. Some one has shot you." "The silver! The silver fox skin!" Lem displayed excitement. "Be it on the table? I had un there!" "There was no fur on the table when we came," said Doctor Joe. Lem made a feeble attempt to rise, but Doctor Joe pressed him gently back upon the pillow, saying as he did so: "You must lie quiet, Lem. Don't try to move. You're not strong enough." Lem, like a weary child, closed his eyes in compliance. Several minutes elapsed before he opened them again, and then he looked steadfastly at Doctor Joe. "Do you know who I am?" Doctor Joe asked. "Yes," answered Lem in a feeble voice; "you're Doctor Joe. I knows you. I'm--glad you--came--Doctor Joe." "Lem, you've been shot, but we'll pull you through. It isn't so bad, but you've lost some blood, and that's left you weak for a little while. Don't talk now. Rest, and you'll soon be on your feet again." While Lem lay with closed eyes, Doctor Joe turned to consideration of the crime. If it were true that a silver fox skin had been taken, robbery was undoubtedly the motive for the shooting. But who could have known of the existence of the skin? And who could have come to this out-of-the-way place unobserved by the old trapper and shot him without warning? Instinctively Indian Jake rose before his eyes. The half-breed's unsavoury reputation forced itself forward. And there was the circumstance of Indian Jake's visit to Flat Point camp the previous evening, his hurried departure in the morning, and his evident desire to hurry into the interior wilderness where he would be swallowed up for several months, and from which there would be innumerable opportunities to escape. Suddenly Doctor Joe was startled by Lem's voice, quite strong and natural now: "I'm thinkin' 'twere that thief Injun Jake that shoots me." "What makes you think so?" asked Doctor Joe. "He were huntin' geese just below here, and he comes in and sits for a bit. I had a silver fox skin I were holdin' for a better price than they offers at Fort Pelican. 'Twere worth five hundred dollars whatever, and they only offers three hundred. I were busy mendin' my fishin' gear before I stows un away when Injun Jake comes. We talks about fur and I brings the silver out t' show he. Then I lays un on the table and keeps on mendin' the gear after he goes, thinkin' to put the fur up after I gets through mendin'." "What time did Indian Jake come?" asked Doctor Joe. "A bit after noon. Handy to one o'clock 'twere, for I were just boilin' the kettle. He eats a snack with me." "How long did he stay? What time did he go?" "I'm not knowin' just the time. I were a bit late boilin' the kettle. I boiled un around one o'clock. We sets down to the table about ten after and 'twere handy to half-past when we clears the table. Then Injun Jake has a smoke, and I shows he the silver, and I'm thinkin' 'twere a bit after two when he goes. He said he were goin' to stop on Flat P'int last night and get to Tom Angus's to-night whatever." "A little after two o'clock when he left?" "Maybe 'twere half-past. He had a down wind to paddle agin', and he were sayin' 'twould be slow travellin', and 'twould take three or four hours whatever to make Flat P'int." "And then what happened?" "I were settin' mendin' the gear thinkin' to finish un and stow un away, and I keeps at un till just sundown. I were just gettin' up to put the kettle on for supper. That's all I remembers, exceptin' I wakes up two or three times and tries to move, but when I tries there's a wonderful hurt in my shoulder, and my head feels like she's bustin', and everything goes black in front of my eyes. If the fur's gone, Injun Jake took un." "It's strange," said Doctor Joe, "very strange. There's a bullet in your shoulder. After you rest a while we'll probe for it and see if we can get it out. Don't talk any more. Just lie quietly and sleep if you can." The boys were out-of-doors. Doctor Joe was glad they had not heard Lem's accusation against Indian Jake. The half-breed had been good to them, and they held vast faith in his integrity. There was some hope that Lem's suspicions were not well founded; nevertheless Doctor Joe was forced to admit to himself that circumstances pointed to Indian Jake as the culprit. It was highly improbable that any one else should have been in the vicinity without Lem's knowledge. It was quite possible that Lem's statement of the hour when he was shot was incorrect, for his mind could hardly yet be clear enough to be certain, without doubt, of details. Lem quickly dropped into a refreshing sleep, and Doctor Joe left him for a little while to join the boys out-of-doors. He found them behind the house picking the goose Indian Jake had left in the tree at the Flat Point camp. "How's Lem, sir? Is he hurt bad?" David asked as Doctor Joe seated himself upon a stump. "He's sleeping now. After he rests a little we'll see how badly he's hurt," said Doctor Joe. "I fancy you chaps are thinking about dinner. Hungry already, I'll be bound!" "Aye," grinned David, "wonderful hungry. 'Tis most noon, sir." Doctor Joe consulted his watch. "I declare it is. It must have been nearly eleven o'clock when we reached here. I didn't realize it was so late." "'Twere ten minutes to eleven, sir," said Andy. "I were lookin' to see how long it takes us to come from Flat P'int." "What time did we leave Flat Point?" asked Doctor Joe. "'Twere twenty minutes before seven, sir." Andy drew his new watch proudly from his pocket to refer to it again, as he did upon every possible occasion. "No," corrected David, "'twere only twenty-five minutes before eleven when we leaves Flat P'int, and fifteen minutes before eleven when we gets here. I looks to see." "Perhaps your watches aren't set alike," suggested Doctor Joe. "Suppose we compare them." The comparison disclosed a difference, as Doctor Joe predicted, of five minutes. Then each must needs set his watch with Doctor Joe's, which was a little slower than Andy's and a little faster than David's. Doctor Joe made some mental calculations. Both David and Andy had observed their watches, and there could be no doubt of the length of time it had required them to come from Flat Point to Lem's cabin. They had consumed four hours, but their progress had been exceedingly slow. Indian Jake had doubtless travelled much faster in his light canoe, but, at best, with the wind against him, he could hardly have paddled from Lem's cabin to Flat Point in less than two hours. He had arrived one hour after sunset. If Lem were correct as to the time when the shooting took place, Indian Jake could not be guilty. But still there was, with but one hour or possibly a little more in excess of the time between sunset and Indian Jake's arrival at camp, an uncertain alibi for Indian Jake. Lem may have been shot much earlier in the afternoon than he supposed. When Lem grew stronger it would be necessary to question him closely that the hour might be fixed with certainty. Whoever had shot and robbed Lem must have known of the existence of the silver fox skin, and been familiar with the surroundings. The shots had doubtless been fired through a broken pane in a window directly behind the chair in which Lem was sitting at the time. "Why not cook dinner out here over an open fire?" Doctor Joe presently suggested. "You chaps are pretty noisy, and if you come into the house to cook it on the stove, I'm afraid you'll wake Lem up, and I want him to sleep." "We'll cook un out here, sir," David agreed. "'Tis more fun to cook here," Jamie suggested. "Very well. When it's ready you may bring it in and we'll eat on the table. Lem will probably be awake by that time and he'll want something too. Stew the goose so that there'll be broth, and we'll give some of it to Lem to drink. You'll have to go to Fort Pelican without me. I'll have to stay here and take care of Lem. If the wind comes up, and I think it will, you may get a start after dinner," and Doctor Joe returned to the cabin to watch over his patient. The goose was plucked. David split a stick of wood, and with his jack-knife whittled shavings for the fire. The knife had a keen edge, for David was a born woodsman and every woodsman keeps his tools always in good condition, and the shavings he cut were long and thin. He did not cut each shaving separately, but stopped his knife just short of the end of the stick, and when several shavings were cut, with a twist of the blade he broke them from the main stick in a bunch. Thus they were held together by the butt to which they were attached. He whittled four or five of these bunches of shavings, and then cut some fine splints with his axe. David was now ready to light his fire. He placed two sticks of wood upon the ground, end to end, in the form of a right angle, with the opening between the sticks in the direction from which the wind came. Taking the butt of one of the bunches of shavings in his left hand, he scratched a match with his right hand and lighted the thin end of the shavings. When they were blazing freely he carefully placed the thick end upon the two sticks where they came together, on the inside of the angle, with the burning end resting upon the ground. Thus the thick end of the shavings was elevated. Fire always climbs upward, and in an instant the whole bunch of shavings was ablaze. Upon this he placed the other shavings, the thin ends on the fire, the butts resting upon the two sticks at the angle. With the splints which he had previously prepared arranged upon this they quickly ignited, and upon them larger sticks were laid, and in less than five minutes an excellent cooking fire was ready for the pot. Before disjointing the goose, David held it over the blaze until it was thoroughly singed and the surface of the skin clear. Then he proceeded to draw and cut the goose into pieces of suitable size for stewing, placed them in the kettle, and covered them with water from Lem's spring. In the meantime Andy cut a stiff green pole about five feet in length. The thick end he sharpened, and near the other end cut a small notch. Using the thick, sharpened end like a crowbar, he drove it firmly into the ground with the small end directly above the fire. Placing a stone between the ground and sloping pole, that the pole might not sag too low with the weight of the kettle, he slipped the handle of the kettle into the notch at the small end of the pole, where it hung suspended over the blaze. Preparing a similar pole, and placing it in like manner, Andy filled the tea-kettle and put it over the fire to heat for tea. "I'm thinkin'," suggested David as he dropped four or five thick slices of pork into the kettle of goose, "'twould be fine to have hot bread with the goose." "Oh, make un! Make un!" exclaimed Jamie. "Aye," seconded Andy, "hot bread would go fine with the goose." Andy fetched the flour up from the boat and David dipped about a quart of it into the mixing pan. To this he added four heaping teaspoonfuls of baking-powder and two level teaspoonfuls of salt. After stirring the baking-powder and salt well into the flour, he added to it a heaping cooking-spoonful of lard--a quantity equal to two heaping tablespoonfuls. This he rubbed into the flour with the back of the large cooking spoon until it was thoroughly mixed. He now added water while he mixed it with the flour, a little at a time, until the dough was of the consistency of stiff biscuit dough. The bread was now ready to bake. There was no oven, and the frying-pan must needs serve instead. The interior of the frying-pan he sprinkled liberally with flour that the dough might not stick to it. Then cutting a piece of dough from the mass he pulled it into a cake just large enough to fit into the frying-pan and about half an inch in thickness, and laid the cake carefully in the pan. With a stick he raked from the fire some hot coals. With the coals directly behind the pan, and with the bread in the pan facing the fire, and exposed to the direct heat, he placed it at an angle of forty-five degrees, supporting it in that position with a sharpened stick, one end forced into the earth and the tip of the handle resting upon the other end. The bread thus derived heat at the bottom from the coals and at the top from the main fire. "She's risin' fine!" Jamie presently announced. "She'll rise fast enough," David declared confidently. "There's no fear of that." There was no fear indeed. In ten minutes the loaf had increased to three times its original thickness and the side nearer the ground took on a delicate brown, for the greater heat of a fire is always reflected toward the ground. David removed the pan from its support, and without lifting the loaf from the pan, moved it round until the brown side was opposite the handle. Then he returned the pan to its former position. Now the browned half was on the upper or handle side, while the unbrowned half was on the side near the ground, and in a few minutes the whole loaf was deliciously browned. While the bread was baking David drove a stick into the ground at one side and a little farther from the fire than the pan. When the loaf had browned on top to his satisfaction he removed it from the pan and leaned it against the stick with the bottom exposed to the fire, and proceeded to bake a second loaf. "Let me have the dough that's left," Jamie begged. "Aye, take un if you likes," David consented. "There'll be too little for another loaf, whatever." Jamie secured a dry stick three or four feet long and about two inches in diameter. This he scraped clean of bark, and pulling the dough into a rope as thick as his finger wound it in a spiral upon the centre of the stick. Then he flattened the dough until it was not above a quarter of an inch in thickness. On the opposite side of the fire from David, that he might not interfere with David's cooking, he arranged two stones near enough together for an end of the stick to rest on each. Here he placed it with the dough in the centre exposed to the heat. As the dough on the side of the stick near the fire browned he turned the stick a little to expose a new surface, until his twist was brown on all sides. "Have some of un," Jamie invited. "We'll eat un to stave off the hunger before dinner. I'm fair starved." David and Andy were not slow to accept, and Jamie's crisp hot twist was quickly devoured. The kettle of stewing goose was sending forth a most delicious appetizing odour. David lifted the lid to season it, and stir it with the cooking spoon. Jamie and Andy sniffed. "U-m-m!" from Jamie. "Oh, she smells fine!" Andy breathed. "Seems like I can't wait for un!" Jamie declared. "She's done!" David at length announced. "Make the tea, Andy." Using a stick as a lifter David removed the kettle of goose from the fire, while Andy put tea in the other kettle, which was boiling, removing it also from the fire. "You bring the bread along, Jamie, and you the tea, Andy," David directed, turning into the cabin with the kettle of goose. Lem had just awakened from a most refreshing sleep, and when he smelled the goose he declared: "I'm hungrier'n a whale." Doctor Joe laid claim also to no small appetite, an appetite, indeed, quite superior to that described by Lem. "A whale!" he sniffed. "Why, I'm as hungry as seven whales! Seven, now! Big whales, too! No small whales about _my_ appetite!" The three boys laughed heartily, and David warned: "We'll all have to be lookin' out or there won't be a bite o' goose left for anybody if Doctor Joe gets at un first!" Doctor Joe arranged a plate for Lem, upon which he placed a choice piece of breast and a section of one of David's loaves, which proved, when broken, to be light and short and delicious. Then he poured Lem a cup of rich broth from the kettle, and while Lem ate waited upon him before himself joining the boys at the table. "How are you feeling, Lem?" asked Doctor Joe when everyone had finished and the boys were washing dishes. "My head's a bit soggy and I'm a bit weak, and there's a wonderful pain in my right shoulder when I moves un," said Lem. "If 'tweren't for my head and the weakness and the pain I'd feel as well as ever I did, and I'd be achin' to get after that thief Indian Jake. As 'tis I'll bide my time till I feels nimbler." "Do you think you could let me fuss around that shoulder a little while?" Doctor Joe asked. "Does it hurt too badly for you to bear it?" "Oh, I can stand un," said Lem. "Fuss around un all you wants to, Doctor Joe. You knows how to mend un and patch un up, and I wants un mended." Doctor Joe called Andy to his assistance with another basin of warm water, in which, as previously, he dissolved antiseptic tablets, explaining to the boys the reason, and adding: "If a wound is kept clean Nature will heal it. Nothing you can apply to a wound will assist in the healing. All that is necessary is to keep it clean and keep it properly bandaged to protect it from infection." "Wouldn't a bit of wet t'baccer draw the soreness out?" Lem suggested. "No! No! No!" protested Doctor Joe, properly horrified. "Never put tobacco or anything else on a wound. If you do you will run the risk of infection which might result in blood poisoning, which might kill you." "I puts t'baccer on cuts sometimes and she always helps un," insisted Lem. "It's simply through the mercy of God, then, and your good clean blood, that it hasn't killed you," declared Doctor Joe. From his kit Doctor Joe brought forth bandages and gauze and some strange-looking instruments, and turned his attention to the shoulder. Lem gritted his teeth and, though Doctor Joe knew he was suffering, never uttered a whimper or complaint. An examination disclosed the fact that the bullet had coursed to the right, and Doctor Joe located it just under the skin directly forward of the arm pit. Though it was necessarily a painful wound, he was relieved to find that no vital organ had been injured, and he was able to assure Lem that he would soon be around again and be as well as ever. When the bullet was extracted Doctor Joe examined it critically, washed it and placed it carefully in his pocket. It proved to be a thirty-eight calibre, black powder rifle bullet. Doctor Joe had no doubt of that. He had made a study of firearms and had the eye of an expert. "It's half-past two, boys. A westerly breeze is springing up, and I think you'd better go on to Fort Pelican," Doctor Joe suggested. "I'll give you a note to the factor instructing him to deliver all the things to you. You'll be able to make a good run before camping time. Stop in here on your way back." The boys made ready and said good-bye, spread the sails, and were soon running before a good breeze. Doctor Joe watched them disappear round the island, and returning to Lem's bedside asked: "Lem, do you know what kind of a rifle Indian Jake carried?" "I'm not knowin' rightly," said Lem. "'Twere either a forty-four or a thirty-eight. 'Twere he did the shootin'. Nobody else has been comin' about here the whole summer. I'm not doubtin' he's got my silver fox, and I'm goin' to get un back _whatever_. He'd never stop at shootin' to rob, but he'll have to be quicker'n I be at shootin', to keep the fur!" "When are you expecting Mrs. Horn and the boys back?" asked Doctor Joe. "This evenin' or to-morrow whatever," said Lem. "They've been away these five days gettin' the winter outfit at Fort Pelican." If Indian Jake were guilty, it was highly probable that he would take prompt steps to flee the country. He could not dispose of the silver fox skin in the Bay, for all the local traders had already seen and appraised it, and they would undoubtedly recognize it if it were offered them. Indian Jake would probably plunge into the interior, spend the winter hunting, and in the spring make his way to the St. Lawrence, where he would be safe from detection. Doctor Joe made these calculations while he sat by the bedside, and his patient dozed. He was sorry now that he had not sent the boys back to The Jug with a letter to Thomas explaining what had occurred. All the evidence pointed to Indian Jake's guilt, and there could be little doubt of it if it should prove that the half-breed carried a thirty-eight fifty-five rifle. Thomas would know, and he would take prompt action to prevent Indian Jake's escape with the silver fox skin. Should it prove, however, that Indian Jake's rifle was of different calibre, he should be freed from suspicion. It was dusk that evening when the boat bearing Eli and Mark and Mrs. Horn rounded the island. Doctor Joe met them. They had seen the boys and had received from them a detailed account of what had happened, and Mrs. Horn was greatly excited. Her first thought was for Lem, and she was vastly relieved when she saw him, as he declared he did not feel "so bad," and Doctor Joe assured her he would soon be around again and as well as ever. Then there fell upon the family a full realization of their loss. The silver fox skin that had been stolen was their whole fortune. The proceeds of its sale was to have been their bulwark against need. It was to have given them a degree of independence, and above all else the little hoard that its sale would have brought them was to have lightened Lem's burden of labour during his declining years. Eli Horn was a big, broad-shouldered, swarthy young man of few words. For an hour after he heard his father's detailed story of Indian Jake's visit to the cabin, he sat in sullen silence by the stove. Suddenly he arose, lifted his rifle from the pegs upon which it rested against the wall, dropped some ammunition into his cartridge bag, and swinging it over his shoulder strode toward the door. "Where you goin', Eli?" asked Lem from his bunk. "To hunt Indian Jake," said Eli as he closed the door behind him and passed out into the night. CHAPTER VI THE TRACKS IN THE SAND A smart south-west breeze had sprung up. White caps were dotting the Bay, and with all sails set the boat bowled along at a good speed. David held the tiller, while Andy and Jamie busied themselves with their handbooks. They were an hour out of Horn's Bight when David sighted the Horn boat beating up against the wind. Drawing within hailing distance he told them of the accident. Mrs. Horn, greatly excited, asked many questions. David assured her that her husband's injuries were not serious, nevertheless she was quite certain Lem lay at death's door. "'Tis the first time I leaves home in most a year," she lamented. "I were feelin' inside me 'twere wrong to go and leave Lem alone. And now he's gone and been shot and liker'n not most killed." "'Tis too bad to make Mrs. Horn worry so. I'm wonderfully sorry," David sympathized, as the boats passed beyond speaking distance. "She'll worry now till they gets home, and the way Lem ate goose I'm thinkin' he ain't hurt bad enough to worry much about he." "They'll get there to-night whatever," said Andy. "'Tis the way of Mrs. Horn to worry, even when we tells she Lem's doin' fine." "I'm wonderin' and wonderin' who 'twere shot Lem," said David. "Whoever 'twere had un in his heart to do murder." "Whoever 'twere looked in through the window and saw Lem with the fine silver fox on the table and sets out to get the fox," reasoned Andy. "The shootin' were done through the window where there's a pane of glass broke out." "I sees where there's a pane of glass out," said David. "'Twas not fresh broke though." "No, 'twere an old break," Andy agreed. "I goes to look at un, and I sees fresh tracks under the window where the man stands when he shoots." "Tracks!" exclaimed David. "I never thought to look for tracks now! I weren't thinkin' of that! You thinks of more things than I ever does, Andy." "I weren't thinkin' of tracks either," said Andy, disclaiming credit for their discovery. "Whilst you bakes the bread I just goes to look where the window is broke, and when I'm there I sees the strange-lookin' tracks." "Strange, now! How was they strange?" asked Jamie excitedly, scenting a deepening mystery. "They was made with boots with _nails_ in the bottom of un," explained Andy. "They was nails all over the bottom of them boots, and they was big boots, them was. They made big tracks--wonderful big tracks." "'Tis strange, now! Did you trace un, Andy? Did you see what way the tracks goes?" asked David. "'Twere only under the window where the ground were soft and bare of moss that the tracks showed the nails. I tracks un down though to where they comes in a boat and the boat goes again," Andy explained. "The tracks were a day old, and down by the water the tide's been in and washed un away. Whoever 'twere makes un were beyond findin' whatever. They were goin' away, I'm thinkin', right after they shoots Lem and takes his silver." "Did you tell Doctor Joe about the tracks?" asked David. "No, I weren't thinkin' to tell he when we goes in to eat, and he weren't wantin' us in before that fearin' we'd wake Lem. The tracks weren't of much account whatever. The folk that shot Lem were leavin' in a boat and we couldn't track the boat to find out who 'twere." A drizzling rain began to fall before they made camp that night. It was too wet and dreary under the dripping trees for an open camp fire. The stove was therefore brought into service and set up in the tent, and there they cooked and ate their supper by candle-light. On a cold and stormy night there is no article in the camp equipment more useful than a little sheet-iron stove. With its magic touch it transforms a wet and dismal tent into the snuggest and cosiest and most comfortable retreat in the whole world. Outside the wind was now dashing the rain in angry gusts against the canvas, and moaning drearily through the tree tops. Within the fire crackled cheerily. The tent was dry and snug and warm. The bed of fragrant balsam and spruce boughs, the smell of the fire and the soft candle-light combined to give it an indescribable atmosphere of luxury. In the morning the weather had not improved. The wind had risen during the night, and was driving the rain in sheets over the Bay. David went outside to make a survey, and when he returned he reported: "'Twill be a nasty day abroad." "Let's bide here till the rain stops," suggested Jamie. "The wind's fair, and if she keeps up and don't turn too strong we'll make Fort Pelican by evenin' whatever, if we goes," David objected. "'Twon't be so bad, once we're out and gets used to un," said Andy. "No, 'twon't be so bad," urged David. "The wind may shift and fall calm, when the rain's over, and if we bides here we'll lose time in gettin' to Fort Pelican. I'm for goin' and makin' the best of un." "I won't mind un," agreed Jamie, stoutly. "I got grit to travel in the rain, and we wants to make a fast cruise of un." It was "nasty" indeed when after breakfast they broke camp and set sail. In a little while they were wet to the skin, and it was miserably cold; but they were used enough to the beat of wind and rain in their faces, and all declared that it was not "so bad" after all. To these hardy lads of The Labrador rain and cold was no great hardship. It was all in a day's work, and scudding along before a good breeze, and looking forward to a good dinner in the kitchen at Fort Pelican, and to a snug bed at night, they quite forgot the cold and rain. During the morning the wind shifted to the westward, and before noon it drew around to the north-west. With the shift of wind the rain ceased, and the clouds broke. Then Andy lighted a fire in the stove, boiled the kettle and fried a pan of salt pork. Hot tea, with bread dipped in the warm pork grease, warmed them and put them in high spirits. "'Tis fine we didn't bide in camp," remarked David as he swallowed a third cup of tea. "With this fine breeze we'll make Fort Pelican to-night, whatever." "I'm fine and warm now," declared Jamie, "but 'twas a bit hard to face the rain when we starts this marnin'." "'Tis always the thinkin' about un that makes things hard to do," observed David. "Things we has to do seems wonderful hard before we gets at un, but mostly they're easy enough after we tackles un. The thinkin' beforehand's the hardest part of any hard job." The sun broke out between black clouds scudding across the sky. The wind was gradually increasing in force. By mid-afternoon half a gale was blowing, a heavy sea; was running, and the old boat, heeling to the gale, was in a smother of white water. "We're makin' fine time!" shouted David, shaking the spray from his hair. "We'll sure make Fort Pelican this evenin' early," Andy shouted back. "We'll not make un!" Jamie protested. "The wind's gettin' too strong! We'll have to go ashore and make camp!" "The boat'll stand un," laughed David. "She's a sturdy craft in a breeze." "I'm afeared," said Jamie. "'A scout is brave,'" quoted Andy. "'Tisn't meant for a scout to be foolish," Jamie insisted. "I'm afeared of bein' foolish." "You was braggin' of havin' grit," Andy taunted. "I has grit and a stout heart," Jamie proudly asserted, "but there's no such need of haste as to tempt a gale. 'Tis time to lie to and camp." David's answer was lost in the smother of a great roller that chased them, and breaking astern nearly swept him from the tiller. When the lads caught their breath there was a foot of sea in the bottom of the boat. "Bail her out!" bellowed David, shaking the water from his eyes. "Jamie's right! 'Tis blowin' too high for comfort!" shouted Andy, as he and Jamie, each with a kettle, bailed. "We'd better not risk goin' on! Find a lee to make a landin', Davy." "'Tis against reason not to take shelter!" piped Jamie. "Fort Pelican's only ten miles away!" David shouted back in protest. "We'll soon make un in this fine breeze!" The boat was riding on her beam ends. White horses breaking over her bow sent showers of foam her whole length. A sudden squall that nearly capsized her roused David suddenly to their danger. "Reef the mains'l!" he shouted. "Make for the lee of Comfort Island!" sputtered Andy through the spray, as he and Jamie sprang for the mainsail to reef it. "Make for un!" echoed Jamie. "'Tis against reason to keep goin'." The wind shrieked through the rigging. Another great roller all but swamped them. The sudden fury of the wind, the ever higher-piling seas, and the rollers that had so nearly overwhelmed the boat brought to David a full sense of their peril. He had been foolhardy and headstrong in his determination to continue to Fort Pelican. He realized this now even more fully than Andy and Jamie. David was a good seaman and fearless, with a full measure of faith in his skill. Now that his eyes were open to the peril in which he had placed them, he knew that all the skill he possessed and perhaps more would be required to take them safely into shelter. Comfort Island with its offer of snug harbour lay a half mile to leeward. David brought the boat before the wind, and headed directly for the island. Great breakers, pounding the high, rockbound shores of Comfort Island, and booming like cannon, threw their spray a hundred feet in the air, enveloping the island in a cloud of mist. Stretching away from the island for a mile to the westward was a rocky shoal known as the Devil's Arm. At high tide, in calm weather, it might be crossed, but now it was a great white barrier of roaring breakers rising in mighty geysers above the sea. To the eastward of the island was a mass of black reefs known as the Devil's Tea Kettle. The Devil's Tea Kettle was always an evil place. Now it was a great boiling cauldron whose waters rose and fell in a seething white mass. It was quite out of the question to round the Devil's Arm and beat back against the wind to the lee of the island. There was a narrow passage between the Devil's Tea Kettle and the island. If they could make this passage it would be a simple matter to fall in behind the island to shelter and safety. All of these things David saw at a glance. It was a desperate undertaking, but it was the only chance, and he held straight for the passage. If he could keep the boat to her course, he would make it. If a sudden squall of wind overtook them the leeway would throw them upon the island breakers and they would be swallowed up in an instant and pounded to pieces upon the rocks. Over and over again David breathed the prayer: "Lord, take us through safe! Lord, take us through safe!" His face was set, but his nerves were iron. Andy and Jamie, tense with the peril and excitement of the adventure, crouched in the bottom of the boat. As they drew near the island, Jamie shouted encouragingly: "Keep your grit, and a stout heart like a man, Davy!" but the roar of breakers drowned his voice, and David did not hear. "Is you afraid, Jamie?" Andy yelled in Jamie's ear. "Aye," answered Jamie, "but I has plenty of grit." He who knows danger and meets it manfully though he fears it, is brave, and Jamie and all of them were brave. The boat was in the passage at last. David, every nerve tense, held her down to it. On the right seethed the Devil's Tea Kettle, sending forth a continuous deafening roar. On the left was Comfort Island with a boom! boom! of thundering breakers smashing against its high, sullen bulwarks of black rocks. The boat was so near that spray from the breakers fell over it in a shower. [Illustration: ON THE RIGHT SEETHED THE DEVIL'S TEA KETTLE] It was over in a moment. The Devil's Tea Kettle, with all its loud threats, was behind them. The boat shot down along the shore, David swung to port, and they were safe in the quiet waters to the lee of the island. "Thank the Lord!" said David reverently, as he brought the little craft to and the sail flapped idly. "'Twere a close shave," breathed Jamie. "A wonderful close shave," echoed Andy. "You had grit," said Jamie. "You has plenty o' grit, Davy--and a stout heart, like a man. 'Twere wonderful how you cracked her through! There's nary a man on the coast could have done better'n that!" "'Twere easy enough," David boasted with a laugh as he wiped the spray from his face, and unshipping the rudder proceeded to scull the boat into a natural berth between the rocks. Hardly a breath of the gale raging outside reached them in their snug little harbour. The boat was made fast with the painter to a ledge, and the boys climed to the high rocky shore. An excellent camping place was discovered a hundred yards back in a grove of stunted spruce trees that had rooted themselves in the scant soil that covered the rocks, and held fast, despite the Arctic blasts that swept across the Bay to rake the island during the long winters. Here the tent was pitched, and everything carried up from the boat and stowed within to dry. Fifteen minutes later the tent stove was crackling cheerily and sending forth comfort to the drenched young mariners. "There'll be no hurry in the marnin'," said David when they had eaten supper and lighted a candle. "We'll stay up to-night till we gets the outfit all dried, and if we're late about un we'll sleep a bit later in the marnin', to make up. We'll make Fort Pelican in an hour, or two hours _what_ever, if we has a civil breeze in the marnin'." "We'll not be gettin' away from Fort Pelican to-morrow, will we?" asked Andy. "We'll take the day for visitin' the folk and hearin' the news, and start back the marnin' after," suggested David. It was near midnight when they crawled into their beds to drop into a ten-knot sleep, and they slept so soundly than none of them awoke until they were aroused by the sun shining upon the tent the next morning. Breakfast was prepared and eaten leisurely. There was no hurry. The wind had fallen to a moderate stiff breeze, and Fort Pelican, through the narrows connecting Eskimo Bay with the sea outside, was almost in sight. When the dishes were washed Andy and Jamie took down the tent, while David shouldered a pack and preceded them to the place where they had moored the boat the previous evening. A few minutes later he came running back, and in breathless excitement startled them with the announcement: "The boat's gone!" "Gone where?" asked Andy incredulously. "Gone! I'm not knowin' _where_!" exclaimed David. "Has she been took?" asked Jamie, excitedly. "Took!" said David. "The painter were untied and she were took! There's tracks about of big boots with nails in un!" Andy and Jamie ran down with David. No trace of the boat was to be found. In the earth above the shore were plainly to be seen the tracks of two men wearing hobnailed boots. "They's fresh tracks," declared David. "Made this marnin'," Andy agreed. "They's the same kind of tracks as the ones I see under Lem's window. Whoever 'twere made these tracks shot Lem and took his silver." "And now we're left here on the island with no way of gettin' off," said David. "What'll we be doin'? How'll we ever get away?" asked Jamie in consternation. But that was a question none of them could answer. CHAPTER VII THE MYSTERY OF THE BOAT The boys looked at each other in consternation. They were marooned on a desolate, rocky, sparsely wooded island. Boats passed only at rare intervals, and a fortnight, or even a month, might elapse before an opportunity for rescue offered. Their provisions would scarcely last a week, and the island was destitute of game. "Whoever 'twere took the boat," Andy suggested presently, "were on the island when we comes." "Aye," David agreed, "and makin' for Fort Pelican. They been up as far as Lem's and they's gettin' away with Lem's silver to sell un." "'Tis strange boots they wears," said Jamie. "Strange boots them is with nails in un." "'Twere no man of The Labrador made them tracks," David declared. "I never sees boots with nails in un," said Andy, "except the boots the lumber folks wears over at the new camp at Grampus River." "Aye," agreed David, "they wears un. When we goes over with Pop last month when the big steamer comes I sees un. Plenty of un wears boots with nails in." "That's who 'twere took our boat!" said Andy. "'Twere men from the Grampus River lumber camp." "Let's track un and see where they were camped," suggested David. The trail was easily followed. Here and there a footprint appeared where soil had drifted in among the rocks above the shore. The trail led them three hundred yards to the eastward, and then down into a sheltered hollow just above the water's edge, where a small boat was drawn up upon the shore. "Here's a boat!" exclaimed Jamie, who had run ahead. "A boat!" shouted David. "They left un and took our boat." "And good reason!" said Jamie, who had reached the skiff. "The bottom's half knocked out of un." It was evident that the boat had been driven upon the rocks in making a landing, and a jagged hole a foot square appeared in the bottom, rendering it in that condition quite useless. Near by a tent had been pitched, and there was no doubt that the men who had abandoned the boat had been in camp for a day at least in the sheltered hollow. The boys turned the boat over and examined the break. "'Tis a bad place to mend," observed David. "But we can mend un," declared Andy. "We can mend un by noon whatever, and get to Fort Pelican this evenin'." "I'm doubtin'," David shook his head. "'Twill take a day to mend un whatever, and she'll be none too safe. 'Twill be hard to make un water-tight." "We can mend un," Andy insisted. A close examination of the tracks disclosed the fact that there had undoubtedly been two men in the party. They had reached the island before the rain of two days before. This was disclosed by the fact that some of the tracks were partly washed away by the rain, and the earth was caked where the wind and sun had dried it afterwards. Natives of the coast, as was the case with David and Jamie and Andy, wore home-made sealskin boots in summer and buckskin moccasins in winter. The sealskin boots had moccasin feet with one thickness of skin, and were soft and pliable. None of them ever wore soled boots that would admit of hobnails. It was plain to the boys, therefore, that the men who made the tracks were not natives of the country. Early in the summer a lumber company had begun the erection of a camp at Grampus River, which lay twenty miles to the southward from The Jug, and on the opposite side of Eskimo Bay. A steamship had brought in men and supplies, and all summer men had been building camps and preparing for lumbering operations during the coming winter. It was the first steamer to enter the Bay, and its advent had been an occasion of much curiosity on the part of the people. Many of them made excursions to Grampus River to see the strangers at work. Thomas had made such an excursion with David and Andy. Strange, rough, blasphemous men they seemed to the God-fearing folk of the country. These were the men wearing hobnailed boots of which David spoke, and there was small doubt in the mind of the boys that the men who had camped on the island and had stolen the boat were from the Grampus River lumber camp. It proved a tedious undertaking to repair and make seaworthy the damaged boat. The trees on the island were, for the most part, small gnarled spruce, twisted and stunted by the northern blasts which swept the Bay. After some search, however, they discovered a white spruce tree suitable for their purpose, with a trunk ten inches in diameter. David felled it and cut from its butt a two-foot length. This he proceeded to split into as thin slabs as possible. Then with their jack-knives the boys began the tedious task of whittling the surfaces of the slabs into smooth boards, first trimming them down to an inch and a half in thickness with the axes. "How'll we make un fast when we gets un done?" asked Jamie. "We has no nails." "I'm thinkin' of that," said David. "I'm not knowin' yet, but we'll find some way." "I've got a way," Andy announced. "I been thinkin' and thinkin' and I found a way to make un fast." "How'll you make un fast now without nails?" David asked expectantly. "We'll tie un with spruce roots, like the Injuns puts their canoes together," explained Andy. "We'll cut holes in each end of un in the right place to tie un fast to the braces of the boat. We'll have to make holes in the bottom of the boat each side of the braces for the roots to come through so we can make un fast. That'll hold un. Then when we've made un fast we'll caulk un up with spruce gum." "Why can't we cut strips of sealskin off our sleepin' bags for strings to tie un with?" suggested David. "'Twould be easier than makin' spruce root strings, and quicker too, and the sealskin would be strong and hold un tight." "Yes, and soon's the sealskin gets wet she'll stretch," Andy objected. "Then the boards would loosen up and let the water in." "I never thought of the sealskin stretchin', but she sure would. You're fine at thinkin' things out, Andy!" said David admiringly. "The spruce roots won't stretch though. 'Tis a fine way to fix un now, and she'll work. There's no doubtin' she'll work." "'Twill take all day," Andy calculated, adding with pride, "but once we gets un on they'll hold. I'll get the roots now and put un to soak." Andy dug around the white spruce tree and in a little while gathered a sufficient quantity of long string-like roots. He scraped them and then split them carefully with his knife. When they were split he filled the big kettle with water from a spring, placed the roots in it and put them over the fire to boil. They all worked as hard as they could on the boards, and when dinner time came David announced that the boards were smooth enough for their purpose. "Now all we'll have to do," said he as he sliced pork for dinner, "is to make the holes in un and fasten un on." "What were that now?" Jamie interrupted as a hoarse blast broke upon the air. "'Tis the steamer whistle!" David dropped the knife with which he was slicing pork, and with Jamie and Andy at his heels ran to the top of the highest rock on the island, where a wide view of the Bay lay before them. A mile away the lumber company's big steamer was feeling its way cautiously toward the west, bound inward to the Grampus River camps. The boys waved their caps and shouted at the top of their lungs, but no one on the steamer appeared to see them. It was not until the great strange vessel had become a mere speck in the distance that they turned back to the preparation of dinner. "They didn't see us," said David in disappointment. "We're not wantin' to go to Grampus River, whatever," Andy cheered. "We're goin' to Fort Pelican when we has the boat fixed up, and she's 'most done." After dinner they settled to the task. Two of the narrow boards which they had prepared were required to cover the break, which occurred between two braces. The edges of the boards where they were to join were whittled straight, that the joint might be made as tight as possible. Then David held them in place while Andy marked the position for the holes through which the spruce root thongs were to pass. Four holes were to be cut in each end of both boards, and holes to match in the bottom of the boat, and in an hour they were neatly reamed out. When Andy removed his thongs from the water they were quite soft and pliable, and proved to be strong and tough. Andy lashed the boards into place, threading the thongs through the holes and drawing them round the brace several times at each place where provision had been made for them. Thus a dozen thicknesses of fibre bound the boards to the brace at each set of holes. It was now necessary to collect the spruce gum and prepare it. Gum was plentiful enough, and in half an hour they had collected enough to half fill the frying-pan. To this was added a little lard, and the gum and grease melted over the fire and thoroughly mixed. "What you puttin' the grease in for?" asked Jamie curiously. "So when we pours un in the cracks and she hardens she won't be brittle and crack," David explained. The hot mixture was now poured into the joints between the boards and at all points where the new boards came into contact with the boat, and into the holes where the lashings occurred. In a few minutes it hardened, and the boys surveyed their work with pride and satisfaction. "Now we'll try un," said David, "and see if she leaks." "She'll never leak where she's mended," asserted Andy. They slipped the boat into the water and Andy's prediction proved true. Not a drop of water oozed through the joints, and the boat was as snug and tight and seaworthy as any boat that ever floated. "'Tis too late to start to-night," said David, "but we'll be away at crack o' dawn in the marnin', whatever. 'Tis fine they left the sail and oars." And at crack of dawn in the morning the boys were away. The day was misty and disagreeable, but David and Andy knew the way as well as you and I know our city streets. They rounded the Devil's Arm, a friendly tide helped them through the narrows, and in mid-forenoon the low white buildings of Fort Pelican appeared in misty outline through the fog. A few minutes later they swung alongside the Fort Pelican jetty, and there, to their amazement, firmly tied to the jetty, lay their own big boat. No one about the Post could explain whence the boat had come or how it reached the jetty. The Post servants stated that they had not noticed it until after the departure of the lumber steamer. They had recognized it as Thomas Angus's boat, for in that country men know each other's boats as our country folk know their neighbours' horses. The lumber ship had arrived on the morning of the gale, and had anchored in the harbour awaiting the arrival of one of the company's officers on the mail boat. The mail boat had arrived the previous morning, and both the mail boat and lumber ship had steamed away shortly after the mail boat's arrival. Many lumbermen had been ashore. If any of them had come in the boat they had mingled among the others and had departed either on the lumber ship, which had gone up the Bay to Grampus River, or on the mail boat to Newfoundland. "I'm thinkin'," said David, "whoever 'twere took Lem's silver fox and our boat went to Newfoundland to sell the fur." "There's no doubtin' _that_," agreed Andy. CHAPTER VIII TRAILING THE HALF-BREED Eli Horn paused in the enclosed porch to shoulder his provision pack, left there upon his arrival home earlier in the evening. He was passing from the porch when Doctor Joe opened the door. "Eli," said Doctor Joe, closing the door behind him, "may I have a word with you?" "Aye, sir," and Eli stopped. "I just wished to speak a word of warning," said Doctor Joe quietly. "Be cautious, Eli, and do nothing you'll regret. Don't be too hasty. We suspect Indian Jake, but none of us knows certainly that he shot your father or took the silver fox skin." "There's no doubtin' he took un! Pop says he took un, and he knows. I'm goin' to get the silver if I has to kill Injun Jake." Eli spoke in even, quiet tones, but with the dogged determination of the man trained to pit his powers of endurance against Nature and the wilderness. He gave no suggestion of boastfulness, but rather of the man who has an ordinary duty to perform, and is bent upon doing it to the best of his ability. "Don't you think you had better wait and start in the morning? It's a nasty night to be out," Doctor Joe suggested. "'Twill be hard to make your way to-night with the wind against you as well as the dark. If you wait until morning it will give us time to talk things over." "I'll not stop till I gets the silver," Eli stubbornly declared, "and I'll get un or kill Injun Jake." "See here, Eli," Doctor Joe laid his hand on Eli's arm, "your father says he was not shot until sundown. Indian Jake was at our camp at Flat Point within the hour after sundown. He never could have paddled that distance against a down wind in an hour. The boys and I were four hours coming over here from Flat Point Camp, and I know Indian Jake could not have covered the distance in anything like an hour." "'Twere some trick of his! He shot un and he took the silver!" Eli insisted. "Good-bye, sir. I've got to be goin' or he'll slip away from me." "Be careful, Eli," Doctor Joe pleaded. "Don't shoot unless you're forced to do so to protect yourself." "'Twill be Injun Jake'll have to be careful," returned Eli as he strode away in the darkness, and Doctor Joe knew that Eli had it in his heart to do murder. The night was pitchy black and a drizzling rain was falling, but Eli had often travelled on as dark nights, and he was determined. He chose a light skiff rigged with a leg-o'-mutton sail. The wind was against him and with the sail reefed and the mast unstepped and stowed in the bottom of the boat, he slipped a pair of oars into the locks and with strong, even strokes pulled away, hugging the shore, that he might take advantage of the lee of the land. Presently the drizzle became a downpour, but Eli, indifferent to wind and weather, rowed tirelessly on. There was a dangerous turn to be made around Flat Point. Here for a time he lost the friendly shelter of the land, and continuous and tremendous effort was called for in the rough seas; but, guided by the roar of the breakers on the shore, he compassed it and presently fell again under the protection of the land. With all his effort Eli had not progressed a quarter of the distance toward The Jug when dawn broke. With the first light he made a safe landing, cut a stick of standing dead timber, chopped off the butt, and splitting it that he might get at the dry core, whittled some shavings and lighted a fire. His provision bag was well filled. No Labradorman travels otherwise. A kettle of hot tea sweetened with molasses, a pan of fried fat pork and some hard bread (hardtack) satisfied his hunger. The wind was rising and the rain was flying in blinding sheets, but the shore still protected him, and the moment his simple breakfast was eaten Eli again set forward. Presently, however, another long point projected out into the Bay to force him into the open. He turned about in his boat and for several minutes studied the white-capped seas beyond the point. "I'll try un," he muttered, and settled again to his oars. But try as he would Eli could not force his light craft against the wind, and at length he reluctantly dropped back again under the lee of the land and went ashore. "There'll be no goin' on to-day," he admitted. "I'll have to make camp whatever." Under the shelter of the thick spruce forest where he was fended from the gale and drive of the rain, he cut a score of poles. One of them, thicker and stiffer than the others, he lashed between two trees at a height of perhaps four feet. At intervals of three or four inches he rested the remaining poles against the one lashed to the trees, arranging them at an angle of fifty-five degrees and aligning the butts of the poles evenly upon the ground. These he covered with a mass of boughs and marsh grass as a thatching. The roof thatched to his satisfaction, he broke a quantity of boughs and with some care prepared a bed under the lean-to. His shelter and bed completed, he cut and piled a quantity of dry logs at one end of the lean-to. Then he felled two green trees and cut the trunks into four-foot lengths. Two of these he placed directly in front of the shelter and two feet apart, at right angles to the shelter. Across the ends of the logs farthest from his bed he piled three of the green sticks to serve as a backlog, and in front of these lighted his fire. When it was blazing freely he piled upon it, and in front of the green backlogs, several of the logs of dry wood. Despite the rain, the fire burned freely, and presently the interior of Eli's lean-to was warm and comfortable. He now removed his rain-soaked jacket and moleskin trousers and suspended them from the ridge-pole, where they would receive the benefit of the heat and gradually dry. Stripped to his underclothing, Eli crouched before the fire beneath the front of the shelter. At intervals he turned his back and sides and chest toward the heat and in the course of an hour succeeded in drying his underclothing to his satisfaction. His moleskin trousers were still damp, but he donned them, and renewing the fire he stretched himself luxuriously for a long and much needed rest. CHAPTER IX ELI SURPRISES INDIAN JAKE When Eli awoke late in the afternoon the rain had ceased, but the wind was blowing a living gale. There was a roar and boom and thunder of breakers down on the point and echoing far away along the coast. The wind shrieked and moaned through the forest. Under his shelter beneath the thick spruce trees, however, Eli was well enough protected. He renewed the fire, which had burned to embers, and prepared dinner. The storm that prevented him from travelling would also hold Indian Jake a prisoner. This thought yielded him a degree of satisfaction. He took no advantage of the leisure to reconsider and weigh the circumstantial evidence against Indian Jake. He had accepted it as conclusive proof of the half-breed's guilt and he had already convicted him of the crime. Once Eli had arrived at a conclusion his mind was closed to any line of reasoning that might tend to controvert that conclusion. He prided himself upon this characteristic as strength of will, while in reality it was a weakness. But Eli was like many another man who has enjoyed greater opportunities in the world than ever fell to Eli's lot. Once Eli had set himself upon a trail he never turned his back upon the object he sought or weakened in his determination to attain it. His object now was to overtake Indian Jake and have the matter out with the half-breed once and for all. Well directed, this trait of unyielding determination is an excellent one. It is the foundation of success in life if the object sought is a worthy one. But in this instance Eli's objective was not alone the recovery of the silver fox skin, though this was the chief incentive. Coupled with it was a desire for vengeance, prompted by hate, and vengeance is the child of the weakest and meanest of human passions. When Eli had eaten he shouldered his rifle and strolled back into the forest. Presently he flushed a covey of spruce grouse, which rose from the ground and settled in a tree. Flinging his rifle to his shoulder, he fired and a grouse tumbled to the ground. He fired again, and another fell. The living birds, with a great noise of wings, now abandoned the tree and Eli picked up the two victims. He had clipped their heads off neatly. This he observed with satisfaction. His rifle shot true and his aim was steady. What chance could Indian Jake have against such skill as that? Eli plucked the birds immediately, while they were warm, for delay would set the feathers, and his game being sufficient for his present needs, he returned to his bivouac on the point. It was mid-afternoon the following day before the wind and rain had so far subsided as to permit Eli to turn the point and proceed upon his journey. Even then, with all his effort, the progress he made against the north-west breeze was so slow that it was not until the following forenoon that he reached The Jug. Thomas saw him coming and was on the jetty to welcome him. "How be you, Eli?" Thomas greeted. "I'm wonderful glad to see you. Come right up and have a cup o' tea." "How be you, Thomas? Is Injun Jake here?" "He were here," said Thomas, "but he only stops one day to help me get the outfit ready and then he goes on in his canoe to hunt bear up the Nascaupee River whilst he waits there for me to go to the Seal Lake trails. You want to see he?" "Aye, and I'm goin' to see whatever!" While Eli had a snack to eat and a cup of tea with Thomas and Margaret he told Thomas of Indian Jake's call upon his father, of the shooting and of the robbery which followed. "Injun Jake turns back after leavin' and shoots Pop and takes the silver," he concluded, "and I'm goin' to get the silver whatever, even if I has to shoot Injun Jake to get un!" "Is you sure, now, 'twere Injun Jake does un?" asked Thomas, unwilling to believe his friend and partner capable of such treachery. By disposition Thomas was naturally cautious of passing judgment or of accusing anyone of misdeed without conclusive proof. "There's no doubtin' that!" insisted Eli. "There was nobody else to do un. 'Twere Injun Jake." A shift of wind to the southward assisted Eli on his way. Early that evening he reached the Hudson's Bay Company's post, twenty miles west of The Jug. Here he stopped for supper and learned from Zeke Hodge, the Post servant, that Indian Jake had passed up Grand Lake in his canoe two days before. Zeke expressed doubt as to Eli's finding the half-breed at the Nascaupee River. He stated it as his opinion that if Indian Jake were guilty of the crime, as he had no doubt, he was planning an escape and had in all probability immediately plunged into the interior, in which case he was already hopelessly beyond pursuit and had fled the Bay country for good and all. Like Eli, Zeke convicted the half-breed at once. The Eskimo Bay Post of the Hudson's Bay Company is the last inhabited dwelling as the traveller enters the wilderness; he might go on and on for a thousand miles to Hudson Bay and in the whole vast expanse of distance no other human habitation will he find. His camps will be pitched in the depths of forests or on desolate, naked barrens; and always, in forests or on barrens, he will hear the rush and roar of mighty rivers or the lapping waves of wide, far-reaching lakes. The timber wolf will startle him from sleep in the dead of night with its long, weird howl, rising and falling in dismal cadence, or the silence will be broken perchance by the wild, uncanny laugh of the loon falling upon the darkness as a token of ill omen, but in all the vast land he will hear no human voice and he will find no human companionship. Indian Jake had told Thomas that he would camp above the mouth of the Nascaupee River, a dozen miles beyond the point where the river enters Grand Lake. It was a journey of sixty miles or more from the Post. Eli set out at once. Five miles up a short wide river brought him to Grand Lake, which here reached away before him to meet the horizon in the west, and at the foot of the lake he camped to await day, for the lake and the country before him were unfamiliar. Early in the afternoon of the third day after leaving the Post, Eli's boat turned into the wide mouth of the Nascaupee River, and keeping a sharp look-out, he rowed silently up the river. It was an hour before sundown when his eye caught the white of canvas among the trees a little way from the river. With much caution Eli drew his boat among the willows that lined the bank and made it fast. Slinging his cartridge bag over his shoulder, and with his rifle resting in the hollow of his arm, ready for instant action, he crept forward toward Indian Jake's camp. Taking advantage of the cover of brush, he moved with extreme caution until he had the tent and surroundings under observation. There was no movement about the camp and the fire was dead. It was plain Indian Jake had not returned for the evening. Eli crouched and waited, as a cat crouches and waits patiently for its prey. Presently there was the sound of a breaking twig and a moment later Indian Jake, with his rifle on his arm, appeared out of the forest. Eli, his rifle levelled at Indian Jake, rose to his feet with the command: "You stand where you is; drop your gun!" "Why, how do, Eli? What's up?" Indian Jake greeted. "What's bringin' you to the Nascaupee?" "You!" Eli's face was hard with hate. "'Tis you brings me here, you thief! I wants the silver you takes when you shoots father, and 'tis well for you Doctor Joe comes and saves he from dyin' or I'd been droppin' a bullet in your heart with nary a warnin'!" "What you meanin' by that?" "Be you givin' up the silver?" "No!" [Illustration: "YOU STAND WHERE YOU IS AND DROP YOUR GUN"] "I say again, give me that silver fox you stole from father!" Indian Jake's small hawk eyes were narrowing. He made no answer, but slipped his right hand forward toward the trigger of his rifle, though the barrel of the rifle still rested in the hollow of his left arm. "Drop un!" Eli commanded, observing the movement. "Drop that gun on the ground!" Indian Jake stood like a statue, eyeing Eli, but he made no movement. "I said drop un!" Eli's voice was cold and hard as steel. He was in deadly earnest. "If you tries to raise un or don't drop un before I count ten I'll put a bullet in your heart!" Indian Jake might have been of chiselled stone. He did not move a muscle or wink an eye-lash but his small eyes were centred on every motion Eli made. He still held his rifle, the barrel resting in the hollow of his left arm, his right hand clutching the stock behind the hammer, his finger an inch from the trigger. For an instant there was a death-like silence. Then Eli began to count: "One--two--three--four--" The words fell like strokes of a hammer upon an anvil. Eli intended to shoot. He was a man of his word. He made no threat that he was not prepared to execute, and Indian Jake knew that Eli would shoot on the count of ten. "Five--six--seven--eight--" Still Indian Jake made no move save that the little hawk eyes had narrowed to slits. He did not drop his gun. From all the indications, he did not hear Eli's count. "Nine--ten!" True to his threat, Eli's rifle rang out with the last word of his count. CHAPTER X THE END OF ELI'S HUNT Indian Jake, quick as a cat, had thrown himself upon the ground with Eli's last count. Like the loon that dives at the flash of the hunter's gun, he was a fraction of a second quicker than Eli. Now, lying prone, his rifle at his shoulder, he had Eli covered, and the chamber of Eli's rifle was empty. "Drop that gun!" he commanded. Eli, believing in the first instant that Indian Jake had fallen as the result of the shot, was taken wholly by surprise. He stood dazed and dumb with the smoking rifle in his hand. He did not at once realize that the half-breed had him covered. His brain did not work as rapidly as Indian Jake's. His immediate sensation as he heard Indian Jake's voice was one of thankfulness that, after all, there was no stain of murder on his soul. Even yet he had no doubt Indian Jake was wounded. He had taken deadly aim, and he could not understand how any escape could have been possible. "Drop that gun!" Indian Jake repeated. "I won't count. I'll shoot." Eli's brain at last grasped the situation. Indian Jake was grinning broadly, and it seemed to Eli the most malicious grin he had ever beheld. He did not question Indian Jake's determination to shoot. It was too evident that the half-breed, grinning like a demon, was in a desperate mood. Eli dropped his rifle as though it were red hot and burned his hands. "Step out here!" Indian Jake, rising to his feet, indicated an open space near the tent. Eli did as he was told. "Shake the ca'tridges out of your bag on the ground!" Eli turned his cartridge bag over, and the cartridges which it contained rattled to the ground. "Turn your pockets out!" A turning of the pockets disclosed no further ammunition. Indian Jake took Eli's rifle from the ground, emptied the magazine, and placed the rifle in the tent. "Where's your boat?" he asked. "Just down here." "You go ahead. Show me." Eli guided Indian Jake to the boat, and while he remained on the bank under threat of the rifle, the half-breed went through his belongings in the boat in a further search for ammunition. Satisfied that there was none, he replaced the things as he had found them, and was grinning amiably when he rejoined Eli upon the bank. "Come 'long up to camp," he invited, quite as though Eli were a most welcome guest. "Give me that silver fox!" Eli's anger had mastered his surprise. "I won't give un to you, but don't be mad, Eli," Indian Jake grinned in vast enjoyment. "You stole un!" Eli burst out. "And you were thinkin' to do murder!" "Did I now?" "You did!" Indian Jake did not deign to deny or confess. Eli, at his command, returned to camp. Indian Jake handed him the tea-kettle. "Fill un at the river," he directed. While Eli obeyed silently and sullenly, Indian Jake lighted a fire, and when Eli returned put the kettle on. Then he brought forth his frying-pan, filled it with sliced venison, and as he placed it over the fire, remarked: "Knocked a buck down this mornin'." Eli said nothing. The odour of frying venison was pleasant. Eli was hungry, and when the venison was fried and tea made, he swallowed his pride and silently accepted Indian Jake's invitation to eat. When they had finished, Indian Jake cut a large joint of venison, and presented it to Eli with his empty rifle, remarking as he did so: "The deer's meat's a surprise. I like to surprise folks. Taste good goin' home. I'll keep the ca'tridges. You might hurt somebody if you had un. You'll get quite a piece down before you camp to-night." "Were you takin' that silver?" asked Eli, changing his accusation to a question. "Maybe I were and maybe I weren't," Indian Jake grinned. "'Twouldn't do me any good to tell you if I had un, and if I told you I didn't have un you wouldn't believe me. Maybe I've got un. You better be goin'. I'd ask you to stay, Eli, and I'd like to have you, but you don't like me and you'd better go on." "I don't want the deer's meat," said Eli in sullen resentment. "You ain't got any ca'tridges, and you can't shoot any fresh meat," insisted Indian Jake, adding with a grin: "She'll go good. Take un along, I got plenty. It's just a little surprise present for you bein' so kind as not to shoot me." Eli, doubtless deciding that he had better take what he could get, though a bit of venison was small compensation for a silver fox, accepted the meat. Indian Jake accompanied him to the boat, and as he dropped down the river he could see Indian Jake still on the bank watching him until he turned a bend. Without cartridges for his rifle, Eli felt himself as helpless as a wolf without teeth or a cat without claws. He was subdued and humbled. He had had Indian Jake completely in his power, and through delay in taking prompt advantage of his position, had permitted the half-breed to capture and disarm him. The thought increased his anger toward Indian Jake. He had no doubt the man had the silver fox in his possession. If there had been any doubt in the first instance that Indian Jake was guilty, and Eli had never admitted that there was doubt, he was now entirely satisfied of the half-breed's guilt. Indian Jake, indeed, had quite boldly stated that he "might" have it, and Eli accepted this as an admission that he _did_ have it. "There'll be no use getting more ca'tridges and goin' back," Eli mused. "He's had a warnin' and he'll not bide in that camp another day. He'll flee the country." Then Eli's thoughts turned to his old father and mother. "The silver's gone, and it leaves Pop and Mother in a bad way," he mused. "They've been fondlin' that skin half the winter. Pop's had un out a hundred times to see how fine and black 'twere, and shook un out to see how thick and deep the fur is. And they been countin' and countin' on the things they'd be gettin' and needs, and can't get now she's gone. And they been countin' on the money they'd have to lay by for their feeble days when they needs un. They'll never get over mournin' the loss of un. 'Twere worth a fortune, and Pop'll never cotch another. He were hopin' and hopin' every year as long as I remembers to cotch a silver, and none ever comes to his traps till this un comes. And now she's gone!" Perhaps had the silver fox skin been Eli's own, and perhaps had his father and mother not built so many hopes and laid so many plans upon the little fortune it was to have brought them, Eli would never have ventured to the verge of murder to recover it. Even now, with all his regrets, he thanked God from the bottom of his heart that he had not killed Indian Jake and stained his hands with blood. "'Twere the mercy of God sent the bullet abroad," said he reverently. "Indian Jake's a thief and he deserves to be killed, but if I'd killed he I'd never rested an easy hour again while I lives. But I might o' clipped his trigger hand, whatever," he thought with regret. "I can clip off the head of a pa'tridge every time, and I might have clipped his hand, and got the skin and took he back for Doctor Joe to fix up." Three days later Eli pulled his boat wearily into The Jug. The boys had returned, and with Thomas they met him on the jetty. "Did you find Injun Jake?" Thomas asked anxiously. "Aye," said Eli, "he were there." Eli volunteered no further details for a moment. Then he added: "I didn't kill he, thank the Lord, but he's got the silver. He said he had un, and he took my ca'tridges away from me." "Said he had un? Now, that's strange--wonderful strange. Come in, Eli, supper's ready," Thomas invited, manifestly relieved that Eli had not succeeded in accomplishing his rash purpose. "You'll bide the night with us, and while you eats tell us about un, and the lads'll tell what were happenin' to they." Margaret was setting the table. She greeted Eli cordially, and arranged a plate for him while he washed at the basin behind the stove. "Come," invited Thomas, "set in. We've got a wonderful treat." "What be that, now?" asked Eli as Margaret placed a dish of steaming, mealy boiled potatoes upon the table. "Potaters," Thomas announced grandly. "Doctor Joe brings un on the mail boat from where he's been, and onions too. Margaret, peel some onions and set un on for Eli. They's fine just as they is without cookin'." The onions came, and when thanks had been offered Eli tasted his first potato. "They is fine, now! Wonderful fine eatin'," he declared. "Try an onion, now. They's fine, too," Thomas urged. Eli took an onion. "She has a strange smell," he observed before biting into it. Eli took a liberal mouthful of the onion. He began to chew it. A strained look spread over his face. Tears filled his eyes. But Eli was brave, and he never flinched. "'Tis fine, I like un wonderful fine," Eli volunteered presently, adding, "if she didn't burn so bad." "Take just a bit at a time," advised Thomas, laughing heartily, "and eat un with bread or potaters and you won't notice the burn of un." Presently Eli told of his experiences with Indian Jake, and Andy told of the tracks he had seen under the window, and all of the boys told of what had happened on the island, the theft of the boat, the tracks of the nailed boots and the discovery of the boat at Fort Pelican. Then Eli made an announcement that again laid the burden of suspicion more strongly than ever upon Indian Jake. "I were workin' at the lumber camps a week this summer helpin' they out," said Eli. "Whilst I were there Indian Jake comes and trades a pair of skin boots with one of the lumber men for a pair of their boots, the kind with nails in un. He the same as says he has the fur, and 'twere he took un." "Injun Jake wears skin boots when he come to our camp on Flat P'int," said David. "Aye, 'tis likely," admitted Eli. "He'd be wearin' skin boots in the canoe, whatever. The nailed boots would be hard on the canoe. He uses the nailed boots trampin' about, but he'd change un when he travels in his canoe." The whole question was canvassed pro and con, and due consideration given to the length of time that Indian Jake must have consumed in passing from Horn's Bight to Flat Point. This was alone sufficient in the mind of Thomas and the boys to lift all suspicion from Indian Jake, but Eli still held stubbornly to the opposite view. Two days later, and on the eve of Thomas's departure for the trails, Doctor Joe returned. Lem had so far recovered that a further stay at Horn's Bight was unnecessary. Thomas and Doctor Joe quietly discussed the shooting incident. Lem, it appeared, had later decided that he may have been shot much earlier in the afternoon than sundown. What had occurred had fallen into the hazy uncertainty of a dream. "What kind of a rifle does Indian Jake use?" asked Doctor Joe. "A thirty-eight fifty-five," said Thomas. Doctor Joe drew from his pocket the bullet extracted from Lem's wound. Thomas examined it critically. "There's no doubtin' 'tis a thirty-eight fifty-five," he admitted. "'Tis true Injun Jake gets a pair of nailed boots like the lumber folk wears. But Injun Jake'll tell me whether 'twere he shot Lem. Injun Jake'll be fair about un with me whatever. 'Tis hard for me to believe he did un. If he did, he'll be gone from the Nascaupee when I gets there. If he didn't, I'll find he waitin'!" "Let us hope he'll be there, and let us hope he's innocent," said Doctor Joe. Some day and in some way every sin is punished and every criminal is discovered. It is an immutable law of God that he who does wrong must atone for the wrong. We do not always know how the punishment is brought about, but the guilty one knows. And so with the shooting and robbery of Lem Horn. Many months were to pass before the mystery was to be solved, and then the revelation was to come in a startling manner in the course of an adventure amid the deep snows of winter. Thomas sailed away the following morning. They watched his boat pass down through The Jug and out into the Bay, and then the silence of the wilderness closed upon him, and no word came as to whether or no Indian Jake met him at the Nascaupee River camp. CHAPTER XI THE LETTER IN THE CAIRN In Labrador September is the pleasantest month of the year. It is a period of calm when fogs and mists and cold dreary rains, so frequent during July and the early half of August, are past, and Nature holds her breath before launching upon the world the bitter blasts and blizzards and awful cold of a sub-arctic winter. There are days and days together when the azure of the sky remains unmarred by clouds, and the sun shines uninterruptedly. The air, brilliantly transparent, carries a twang of frost. Evening is bathed in an effulgence of colour. The sky flames in startling reds and yellows blending into opals and turquoise, with the shadowy hills lying in a purple haze in the west. Then comes night and the aurora. Wavering fingers of light steal up from the northern horizon. Higher and higher they climb until they have reached and crossed the zenith. From the north they spread to the east and to the west until the whole sky is aflame with shimmering fire of marvellous changing colours varying from darkest purple to dazzling white. The dark green of the spruce and balsam forests is splotched with golden yellow where the magic touch of the frost king has laid his fingers and worked a miracle upon groves of tamaracks. The leaves of the aspen and white birch have fallen, and the flowers have faded. Spruce grouse chickens, full grown now, rise in coveys with much noise of wing, and perch in trees looking down unafraid upon any who intrude upon their forest home. Ptarmigans, still in their coat of mottled brown and white, gather in flocks upon the naked hills to feed, where upland cranberries cover the ground in red masses; or on the edge of marshes where bake apple berries have changed from brilliant red to delicate salmon pink and offer a sweet and wholesome feast. The honk and quack of wild geese and ducks, southward bound in great flocks, disturbs the silence of every inlet and cove and bight, where the wild fowl pause for a time to rest and feed upon the grasses. After Thomas's departure Doctor Joe and the boys tidied and snugged things up for the winter, and many a fine hunt they had, mornings and evenings, in the edge of a near-by marsh through which a brook coursed to join the sea. Hunting geese and ducks was indeed a duty, for they must needs depend upon the hunt for no small share of their living. It was a duty they enjoyed, however. Skill and a steady hand and a quick eye are necessary to success, and they never failed to return with a full bag. The weather was now cold enough to keep the birds sweet and fresh, and before September closed a full two score of fine fat geese were hanging in the enclosed lean-to shed with a promise of many good dinners in the future. Between the hunting and the work about home there was no time to be dawdled vainly away. When there was nothing more pressing the wood-pile always stood suggestively near the door inviting attention, and it was necessary to saw and split a vast deal of wood to keep the big box stove supplied, for it had a great maw and would develop a marvellous appetite when the weather grew cold. No extended travelling was possible for Doctor Joe on his errands of mercy until the sea should freeze and dogs and sledge could be called into service. But during the fine September weather he and the boys made two short trips up the Bay, where there was ailing in some of the families. In the course of these excursions they took occasion to visit Let-in-Cove, which lay just outside Grampus River, where the new lumber camps were situated, and also Snug Cove and Tuggle Bight, a little farther on. At Let-in-Cove Peter and Lige Sparks, at Snug Cove Obadiah Button and Micah Dunk, and at Tuggle Bight Seth Muggs were enlisted in the scout troop, and a handbook left at each place. These, indeed, with the three Anguses, were the only boys of scout age within a radius of fifty miles of The Jug. There was great excitement among the lads, and Doctor Joe proudly declared that there would be no finer or more efficient troop of scouts in all the world than his little troop of eight when they had become familiar with their duties. A new field and a broader vision of life was to open to these Labrador lads, whose life was of necessity circumscribed. They had never been given the opportunity to play as boys play in more favoured lands. They had never known the joys of football or cricket or the hundred other fine, health-giving games that are a part of the life of every English or Canadian boy. They had never seen a circus or a moving picture and they had never been in a schoolroom in their lives. This opportunity to play and study as other boys play and study in other lands was the thing, perhaps, they longed for above all else. Doctor Joe had inspired them with ambition. They hungered to learn and here was the Handbook with many things in it to study, and through Doctor Joe and the book they were to learn the joy of play. The new recruits to the troop, however, as well as the Angus boys, had been close students of their native wilderness. Their eyes were sharp and their ears were quick. They knew every tree and flower and plant that grew about them. They knew the birds and their calls and songs. They knew every animal, its cry and its habits of life. They knew the fish of the sea and lake and stream. All this was a part of their training for their future profession of hunters and fishermen. As hunters they had not learned to look upon the wild things of the woods as friends and associates. To them the animals were only beasts whose valuable pelts could be traded at the Post for necessaries of life or whose flesh was good to eat. Success in life depended upon man's ability to outwit and slay birds or animals, and the lads held for them none of the human sympathy that would have added so much to their own enjoyment. Now they were to have a new view of life. Doctor Joe was to open to them a wider, happier vista. It was not in the least to breed in them discontent with their circumscribed life, but rather to open to their consciousness the opportunities that lay within their reach, and to make their life richer and broader and vastly more worth while. Doctor Joe explained to the five recruits the Tenderfoot Scout requirements, much as he had explained them to David and Andy and Jamie. Wilderness dwellers who must take in and fix in the mind at a glance every unusual tree or stump or stone if they would find their trail, have a peculiar and remarkable gift of memory born of long practice and the fact that they must perforce depend upon their ability to retain the things they see and hear. The lads, therefore, required no repetition, and learned their lessons with ease. Though they had never attended school they could all read, stumbling, to be sure, over the big words, but nevertheless grasping the meaning. Doctor Joe, during his years in the Bay, had taught not only the Angus boys but many of the other young people to read. Doctor Joe now marked the pages that they were to study, and before he and the Angus boys turned back across the Bay to The Jug it was agreed that the new troop should hold a week's camp to study and practise together. Hollow Cove, some five miles from The Jug, was to be the camping ground, and the first week in October was decided upon as the time. "We'll start to camp on Monday marnin' of that week," suggested David. "Come over to The Jug on Sunday. 'Twill be fine to have us all go to camp together." "Aye," agreed Micah, "'twill be now, and we'll come, and have a fine time." "And we'll all study about the scout things whilst we're in camp," piped up Jamie enthusiastically. "That we will now," David assured. "Lige, you and Peter bring a tent and stove, and all you need for setting up camp," Doctor Joe directed. "Can you bring one, too, Seth?" "Aye," said Seth, "I'll bring un, but we have no tent stove. Pop took un to the huntin'." "Obadiah or Micah may bring a stove. You have one, haven't you?" Doctor Joe asked. "Aye," said Obadiah, "I has one. I'll bring un along." "You three fix up an outfit amongst you. There'll be three in a tent," Doctor Joe explained. "Andy can go in with Peter and Lige, and I'll tent with Davy and Jamie." There was little else than the proposed camping expedition talked about on the return to The Jug, and in the days that followed David, Andy and Jamie devoted every spare moment to the study of first aid and signalling. Doctor Joe, with no end of patience, drilled them so thoroughly in first aid that they were soon really expert in applying bandages. He even instructed them in improvising splints and reducing fractures. In this secluded land, where for three hundred miles up and down the coast there was no other surgeon than Doctor Joe, it was not unlikely that some day they would be called upon to set a leg or an arm. Doctor Joe was as ignorant, however, of the art of signalling as were the lads, and he must needs take it up from the very beginning and study with them. It was decided that they should learn both the semaphore and Morse codes, and Doctor Joe insisted that neither he nor the lads should consider the Second Class test satisfactorily passed until they had not only learned the codes but could send and receive messages at the rate of speed designated in the handbook as required for the First Class test. "It wouldn't be fair to the scouts in the big cities," he declared. "They have to learn a great many things that we already know how to do, like building fires, using the axe and knife, and tracking. Those are things we've been doing all our lives and won't have to practise. We must make it just as hard for ourselves to become Second Class Scouts as it is for the city lads. So we'll make the signalling test that much more difficult." "I'm thinkin' that's fine now," enthused David, "and when we learn un we'll know that much more." "That's the idea!" said Doctor Joe. "And we'll not only learn the sixteen principal points of the compass, but we'll learn to box the compass to the quarter point as navigators do." "I can box un now," grinned David. "So can I box un!" Andy exclaimed. "Dad told me how, same as he told Davy." "And I can learn to box un easy," promised Jamie. Margaret joined them one fine day in the forest behind the cabin when they took their Second Class cooking test, and a jolly day they made of it. It was easy enough to roast a spruce grouse on the end of a stick. Even Jamie had done that many times. But Doctor Joe was called upon to solve the problem of cooking potatoes without cooking utensils, and he did it so satisfactorily that the lads practised it every day afterward for a week. He resorted to a simple and ordinary method. He dug a narrow trench about six inches deep. Upon this he built a fire, which he permitted to burn until there was a good accumulation of ashes. Then he pushed the fire back and raked the ashes out of the trench. The potatoes were now placed in a row at the bottom of the trench and covered with a good layer of hot ashes. The fire was now drawn back over the ashes that covered the potatoes and permitted to burn briskly. At the end of an hour he brushed the fire back at one end sufficiently to allow a long slender splinter to be pushed down through the ashes and through a potato. The splinter did not penetrate the potato easily and the fire was drawn in again to burn for another quarter of an hour. Then it was raked out and the potatoes removed, to find that, while the skins were not in the least burned or even scorched, the potatoes were done to a turn. "You couldn't have baked them better in your oven, Margaret," laughed Doctor Joe. "I never could have baked un half as well," admitted Margaret, adding, "'tis a wonderful way of cookin'." "Doctor Joe's fine cookin' everything," declared Andy. "I always likes his cookin' wonderful well." "Thank you, Andy. That's high praise," acknowledged Doctor Joe, "but I could learn a great deal about cooking from Margaret." "I just does plain cookin'," Margaret deprecated, but flushed with pleasure at the compliment. On the last day of September, which was a Friday, David and Doctor Joe crossed over to the Hudson's Bay Post and took Margaret with them for a visit to Kate Huddy, the Post servant's daughter, where she was to remain while the Scouts were enjoying their camp at Hollow Cove. David and Doctor Joe returned to The Jug on Saturday, and when the other members of the troop arrived in a boat on Sunday, had their own tent equipment and food packed and ready for the little expedition on Monday morning. It was a jolly meeting. The evening was cold, and when supper was eaten they gathered around the big box stove which crackled cheerfully, and Doctor Joe announced that as this was the first meeting of the troop they must organize and elect leaders, just as troops were organized everywhere else in the world. When he had thoroughly explained the necessary steps he read to them a brief constitution and by-laws which he had previously prepared. These he had them adopt in due form, and then asked some one to nominate a patrol leader. Every one, with one accord, nominated David, and he was duly, solemnly, and unanimously elected. "Now," suggested Doctor Joe, "we must have an assistant patrol leader. Who shall it be?" "Andy," said Seth Muggs. "Andy's been to the trails and he knows more about un than anybody exceptin' Davy." "'Twouldn't be fair," objected Andy. "Davy's patrol leader. 'Tis but right we put in one of you that comes from across the Bay. I'm saying Peter Sparks, now." Doctor Joe agreed with Andy, and Peter Sparks was declared elected. Then Seth nominated Andy for scribe. "Because," Seth explained, "Andy'll be right handy to Doctor Joe all the time and Doctor Joe can help he to do the writin', and he needs help." When the election was completed Doctor Joe explained the duties of the officers and the necessity of obedience to them in the performance of scout duties. "Our troop is a team," said Doctor Joe. "We must pull together. We are like a team of dogs hauling a komatik. If the dogs all follow the leader and pull together the best that ever they can they get somewhere. If they don't follow the leader, and one pulls in one direction and another pulls in a different direction and some don't pull at all, they never get anywhere and aren't of much use. Our troop is going to be the best we can make it, by all pulling together and doing the very best we know how. "We must always be ready to help other people at all times, as we promise to do in our oath. If we live up to that we'll do a great deal of good, first and last, up and down the Bay. If some one's life is in danger and we can help them even at the risk of our own we must help them. Everybody wants to be happy. There's nothing that will make us so happy as to do some fine thing every day that will make someone else happy. "We must train our brains and our hands so that we shall always be prepared to do the right thing and do it quickly. We must learn to keep our temper and not get angry. Let us take the hard knocks that come to us with a smile." The remainder of the evening was spent in playing some rollicking games that the lads had never heard of before, and which Doctor Joe taught them. There was the one-legged chicken fight, and one or two others, as well as hand wrestling, though that they had seen the Indians play and had practised themselves. They all declared that they had never in their lives had so much fun. An early start the following morning brought them to Hollow Cove at ten o'clock. Hollow Cove was a fine natural harbour. A brook poured down through a gulch to empty into the Bay, and near its mouth was an excellent landing-place. Not far from the brook, and a hundred feet back from the shore, they pitched their tents in the shelter of the spruce forest where the camp would be well protected from winds and storms. While the others set up the sheet-iron stoves in the three tents and broke spruce boughs and laid the bough beds, David, Micah, and Lige volunteered to cut wood. "There's some fine dry wood just to the east'ard and close to shore," suggested David, as they picked up their axes. "It's right handy." A dozen yards from the camp David suddenly stopped and exclaimed: "What's that now?" On a great sloping rock close to the shore, but hidden by a jutting point from the place where they had landed, was a recently made cairn of boulders capped by a large flat stone. "Somebody's been here!" said David as they hurried forward to examine the cairn. "'Tis wonderful strange to pile stones that way," said Micah. "'Tis new made, too." "Maybe it's a cache," suggested Lige, "but it's a rare small un. Look and see. 'Tis a strange place for a cache!" David lifted the flat stone from the top and discovered beneath it a small tin can. In the can was a folded paper. He removed the paper and unfolding it discovered a message written in a cramped, scrawling hand. "Read un, Davy! Read un out loud! You reads writin' good!" said Lige, and David read: "i cum and stayed 2 hour, and wood not stay no longer for i hed to go and did not see you comin any were. Then i gos to the rock were We Was the day We was hunting Wen We come here ferst time. Then i done this way. i Pases 20 Pases up To a Hackmatack Tree. it was north. then i Pases 40 Pases west To a round rock, Then i Pases 60 Pases south To a wite berch i use cumpus. Then i climes a spruce Tree and hangs it and it is out of site in the Branches. if You plays me Crookid look out, i wont Stand for no Crooked work and You know what i will do to anybody plays me Crooked. You no Were to put my haf of the Swag. So i can get it Wen i go to get it." There was no signature. "That's a strange un--wonderful strange," said David. "Stranger'n anything I ever sees," declared Lige. "Whatever is un all about?" asked Micah. "That's the strangeness of un," said Lige. "Let's show un to Doctor Joe," suggested David. But Doctor Joe, when they broke in upon him a moment later, was as mystified as they. "It looks," said he, "as though something had been cached and here are the directions for finding the cache. There's a threat in the letter, too, and that looks bad. It's a mystery, lads, we'll try to search out. It doesn't look right. Perhaps it's the clue to some crime." "How can we search un out?" asked David excitedly. "We're not knowin' the rock, and there's plenty of rocks hereabouts." "That's true," admitted Doctor Joe. "Go and put the paper back as you found it, and we'll see what we can make out of it later." The whole camp was excited and every one followed David back to the cairn when he returned to restore the letter to its place in the can. "'Tis something somebody's tryin' to hide," suggested Peter. "There's no doubtin' that," said David. "I'm thinkin' 'tis not right whatever 'tis." "We'll get camp in shape and have our dinner and then try to solve the mystery," said Doctor Joe. "It is a real mystery, for no one would make an ordinary cache in this way, and if it was an honest matter there would be no threat." CHAPTER XII THE HIDDEN CACHE When camp was made snug and dinner disposed of, Doctor Joe followed the boys down to the cairn. A careful examination was made of the soil surrounding the rock upon which the cairn was built, and in loose gravel close to the shore were found the imprints of feet. It was evident, however, that rain had fallen since the tracks were made, for they were so nearly washed away that there could be no certainty whether they were made by moccasins or nailed boots. "'Twere a week ago they were here whatever," observed David, rising upon his feet after a close scrutiny upon hands and knees. "I'm thinkin' we'll see no sign of un now to help us trail un to the rock the writin' tells about." "The ground was hard froze a week ago just as 'tis now," said Lige. "They'd be leavin' no tracks on froze ground." "They makes the tracks that shows here whether the ground were froze or not," observed Seth. "The gravel were loose and dry so 'tweren't froze," explained Lige, "but away from the dry gravel 'twere all froze, and they'd make no tracks to show. Leastways that's how I thinks about un." "That's good logic," said Doctor Joe. "I'm afraid we'll have to find the rock without the assistance of any tracks to guide us. There will surely be other signs, however, and we'll look for them while we look for the rock." "Suppose now we scatters and looks up along the brook and along the ridge for the rock the pacin' were done from," suggested Andy. "'Tis like to be a different lookin' rock from most of un around here or they wouldn't have picked un." "And 'tis like to be a big un too," volunteered Micah. "They'd be pickin' no little rock for that, whatever. I'm thinkin' 'twill be easy to know un if we sees un." "Yes," agreed Doctor Joe, "the rock is probably larger or in some other way noticeably different from the others. It may be along the brook, or it may not. They were hunting. It may be a rock where they camped, or where they agreed to meet after their hunt, and probably where they boiled their kettle." "They weren't Bay folk, whatever," asserted David. "The writin' ain't like any of the Bay folkses writin'. None of un here could write so fine." "None of the Bay folk would be hidin' things that way either," said Andy. "If 'twere anything small enough to hide in a tree they'd been takin' un with un and not leavin' un behind. If 'twere too big to carry, they'd just left un in a cache and come back for un when they gets ready and not do any writin' about un." "I think you are right, Andy," agreed Doctor Joe. "For the reasons you give and for still other reasons I feel very certain strangers to the Bay left the cache." "What were they meanin' by 'swag,' Doctor Joe?" asked Andy. "I never hears that word before. 'Tis a wonderful strange word." "It usually means," explained Doctor Joe, "something that has been stolen. The use of that word is one of the reasons that leads me to conclude that it was not written by any of our people of the Bay. I am quite sure none of them knows what the word means, and like you I doubt if any of them ever heard it. There seems no doubt, indeed, that strangers to these parts wrote it, and as there are no other strangers in the Bay than the lumbermen, we are safe in concluding that the cairn was built and the note written by someone from the lumber camp at Grampus River." "'Swag' is a wonderful strange soundin' word, now," said David. "I never hears un before." "I'm thinkin' I knows what 'tis they hid now!" exclaimed Andy suddenly. "'Tis _Lem Horn's silver_! 'Tis the men hid un that shot Lem and stole the silver! 'Tweren't Indian Jake shot Lem at all! 'Twere men from the lumber camp! What they calls 'swag' is Lem's silver!" "That's what 'tis, now! 'Tis sure Lem Horn's silver!" David exploded excitedly. "I never would have thought of un bein' that! Andy's wonderful spry thinkin' things out, and he's mostly always right, too!" "And Indian Jake never stole un! He never stole un!" Jamie burst out joyfully. "I were knowin' all the time he wouldn't steal un! Indian Jake wouldn't go shootin' folk and stealin' from un!" "It may be," said Doctor Joe. "At any rate it seems extremely probable the 'swag' as they call it is stolen property that has been hidden. That word and the threat together with the other circumstances make it quite certain, indeed, that whatever it is they refer to was stolen. That's a safe conclusion to begin with. We have decided that we may be quite sure, also, that the men that hid the cache so carefully were none of our own Bay people, but men from the lumber camp. We have heard of nothing else than Lem Horn's silver fox having been stolen in the Bay. We have some ground, therefore, to suppose that the 'swag' is Lem Horn's silver fox. It will be a fine piece of work to search out the cache, and if it proves to contain Lem's silver fox, recover it for him. We will be doing a good turn to Lem and at the same time will lift suspicion from Indian Jake. If we find the cache and there is nothing in it that should not be there, we will not interfere with it. Now how shall we go about it to trace it? Let's hear what you chaps think is the best plan." "We'll separate and look for the rock they tells about," suggested David. "There's like to be some signs so we'll know un when we sees un. If we finds the rock 'twill not be hard to pace off the way they says in the paper." "And we'll be lookin' out for other signs," added Peter. "'Tis likely they've been cuttin' wood or breakin' twigs or makin' a fire." "The brook ain't froze, and I'm thinkin' now they been walkin' there and leavin' tracks, if they were going' for water, and 'tis likely they were gettin' water to boil the kettle," reasoned Seth. "Suppose," suggested Doctor Joe, "two of you follow up the brook, one on each side, and the rest of us will spread out on each side of the two following the brook, and look for the rock and other signs that will guide us." "We better make a writin' for each of us just like the writin' in the can with what it says about how to find the cache if we finds the rock," suggested Andy. "I for one'll never be rememberin' all of un without a writin' to look at whatever." "That's true, Andy," agreed Doctor Joe, "and none of us would." "Andy always thinks of things like that!" exclaimed David admiringly. "Get the paper from the can and bring it up to camp," directed Doctor Joe. "We'll make several copies of the directions. I have paper and pencil there in the tent." David lifted the flat stone from the top of the cairn, and removing the paper he and the others followed Doctor Joe to his tent, where Doctor Joe made nine copies of the explicit directions, one for himself and one for each of the lads. "You had better return this now to the can," said Doctor Joe, handing the paper back to David, "for if it should prove after all that we have been mistaken, and that the cache does not contain Lem's silver fox or other stolen property, it would be wrong, and we would not wish, to interfere with the man for whom this paper was left here finding the cache." "'Twould be fair wicked to do that," agreed David. "I'll put un back." When the paper had again been returned to its hiding-place Doctor Joe detailed the boys to their different positions. David and Peter were to follow the brook, David on the left side and Peter on the right side as they ascended. Seth Muggs, Obadiah Button, Andy and Jamie were to spread out at intervals on the left from David, and Lige Sparks, Micah Dunk and Doctor Joe on the right side of the brook from Peter. All were to ascend through the woods at the same time, keeping a sharp look-out to right and to left for any unusual rock or other possible signs that might lead to a clue. "Now we had better keep close enough together to keep in sight the man nearest us on the side toward the brook," directed Doctor Joe. "If we spread farther apart than that we shall be too far apart to see any rock that may be between us." "Aye, and we'll keep lookin' both ways," said Andy. "That way we can't miss un." "It's now," Doctor Joe consulted his watch, "one-thirty o'clock. It's cloudy and it will be dark by half-past four. I'll call to Micah at half-past three and he will pass the word along to the next man and he to the next and so on until all have been notified. Then we will immediately come together and return to camp, that is, of course, if we have not already found the cache. If before that time anyone finds what he thinks may be the rock he will pass the word to his neighbour, and we'll close in and make our search together. If it begins to snow, and the snow is too thick for us to see our next neighbour, we'll close in, for in that case we would miss the rock anyway. Do you all understand?" Every one understood, as the chorus of "Yes, sir," testified. "Jamie," said Doctor Joe, "you're the youngest one, and you haven't had much experience tramping through the woods. If you get tired, or find it hard, just come over to the brook and follow it down to camp. If you get there ahead of us you might start a fire in our tent stove and put the kettle over." "I've got plenty o' grit, sir," Jamie boasted. "I can stand un." "I think you can," agreed Doctor Joe, "but your legs are short. If you get tired don't keep going. Perhaps you had better take the outside place, and if you do get tired and fall out it won't break the line." Full of eagerness and excitement, the boys took their positions. On the left bank of the brook was David, next him to the left Obadiah Button, then Andy, beyond him Seth Muggs, and finally Jamie. This placed Jamie on the extreme left flank, in accordance with Doctor Joe's suggestion, and the farthest from David and the brook. On the right bank of the brook were Peter Sparks, Doctor Joe, Lige Sparks and Micah Dunk in the order named, with Micah on the extreme right flank. It was a great and thrilling adventure for all the boys, but particularly for Jamie. There was a mystery to be solved, and in the attempt to solve it there was not merely curiosity but a worthy object in view. If the cache proved to contain Lem Horn's silver fox skin Lem and his whole family would be made happy. Jamie, in his unwavering loyalty, was anxious to lift from Indian Jake all suspicion of the crime. At present every one in the Bay, save only the Angus boys, believed Indian Jake guilty of it. Even Doctor Joe was not satisfied of his innocence, and, indeed, everything pointed to Indian Jake's guilt. Doctor Joe believed that the Angus boys were prejudiced in their loyalty to Indian Jake because of the fact that he had done them kindnesses. Jamie was sure that if they found this cache there would be proof that he and David and Andy were right and everybody else wrong. Not only did this feature of the adventure appeal to him, but also the fact that he was for the first time in his life trailing in the wilderness and taking part in an undertaking that seemed to him one of vast importance. Jamie had never slept in a tent. His only acquaintance with the great wilderness had been confined to the woods surrounding The Jug, and always when in company with David or Andy or his father or Doctor Joe. Now he was determined to do as well as any of them, and, no matter how tired he became, to stick to the trail until Doctor Joe gave the signal to return to camp. As they ascended the slope Jamie kept a sharp look-out to right and left. Now and again Seth Muggs on his right was hidden by a clump of thick spruce trees or would disappear behind a wooded rise, presently to appear again through the trees. Jamie was happy. He was keeping pace with the others without the least difficulty. Doctor Joe had hinted that his short legs might not permit him to do this. He would prove that he was as able as Seth Muggs or any of them! Nothing happened for nearly an hour, and Jamie was beginning to think that the search was to end in disappointment, when suddenly his heart gave a leap of joy. Far to the left and just visible through the trees rose the outlines of a great grey rock. "That's the rock!" exclaimed Jamie. "That's sure he! I'll look at un for signs, and then if there's any signs to be seen about un I'll call Seth!" Jamie ran through the trees and brush to the rock, which proved, indeed, to be a landmark. It stood alone, and was twice as high as Jamie's head. Here he was treated to another thrill. On the west side of the rock was the charred wood of a recent camp fire. A tent had been pitched near at hand, as was evidenced by the still unwithered boughs that had formed a bed, and discarded tent pegs, and there were many axe cuttings. "'Twere white men and not Injuns that camped here," reasoned Jamie. "All the Injun fires I ever heard tell about were made smaller than this un. And these folk were pilin' up stones on the side. No Injuns or Bay folk does that, whatever!" Jamie continued to investigate. "'Twere not Bay folk did the axe cuttin' either," he decided. "All the Bay folk and Injuns uses small axes when they travels, and this cuttin' were done with big uns!" Looking about the rock he found other evidences that the campers had been strangers to the country. There was a piece of a Halifax newspaper, an empty bottle, and a small tin can containing matches. The box of matches he put into his pocket. They had been lost or overlooked, and no hunter of the Bay or Indian would ever have been guilty of such carelessness. Of this Jamie had no question. "'Tis sure the rock the writin' tells about," he commented. Jamie looked a little farther, and then suddenly realizing that he should not wait too long before calling, shouted lustily: "Seth, I finds un! Seth! Seth! I finds the rock!" He waited a moment for Seth's answering call, but there was no response. A much longer time had elapsed during Jamie's examination of the rock and the surroundings than he realized, and in the meantime Seth and the others had passed on, and Seth was now in a deeply wooded gully where Jamie's shouts failed to reach him. "Seth! Seth! I finds un! I finds the place!" he shouted again, but still there was no response from Seth. "I'm thinkin' now Seth has gone too far to hear," said Jamie to himself. "'Twould be fine to find Lem's silver all alone and take un back to camp. I'll just do what the writin' says. I'll pace up the places. I can do un all by myself, and 'twill be a fine surprise to un all to take the silver back to camp." Jamie had no doubt that the mysterious cache contained the stolen fox pelt. No thought of disappointment in this or of danger to himself entered his head. His whole mind was centred upon one point. He would be the hero of the Bay if, quite alone, he succeeded in recovering Lem's property and at the same time in clearing Indian Jake of suspicion. Without further delay he drew from his pocket the carefully folded copy of directions that Doctor Joe had given him and sat down to study it. CHAPTER XIII SURPRISED AND CAPTURED "Twenty paces to a hackmatack tree, north," read Jamie. He drew from his pocket the little compass Doctor Joe had given him, and took the direction. "That's the way she goes, the way the needle points," he said to himself. "I'll pace un off. North is the way she goes first." But an obstacle presented itself. The northern face of the rock was irregular, and from end to end fully thirty feet in length. From what point of the rock was the northerly line to begin? Where should he begin to pace? Finally he selected a middle point as the most probable. "'Twill be from here," he decided. "They'd never be startin' the line from anywheres but the middle." Holding the compass in his hand that he might make no mistake, and trembling with the excitement of one about to make a great discovery, he paced to the northward, stretching his short legs to the longest possible stride, until he counted twenty paces. It brought him not to a hackmatack tree, but to the middle of several spruce trees. He returned to the rock and tried again. This time he was led to a tangle of brush to the left of the spruce trees into which his former effort had taken him. He was vastly puzzled. "'Tis something I does wrong," he mused. "Doctor Joe were sayin' the compass points right, and she is right. 'Tis wonderful strange though." He experimented again and discovered that if he did not hold the compass perfectly level the needle did not swing properly. In his excitement he had doubtless tipped the compass, and with the needle thus bound he had been led astray. He climbed to the top of the rock, and placing his compass in a level position, permitted the needle to swing to a stationary position. He extracted a match from the tin box in his pocket and laid it upon the compass dial exactly parallel with the needle. Lying on his face, he squinted his eye along the match to a distant tree. Rising, he observed the tree that he might make no mistake, and returning to the face of the rock strode twenty of his best paces in the direction of the tree. Again he was disappointed. There was no hackmatack tree at the end of his line. "Maybe he was a big man that does the pacin' and takes longer paces," he said to himself. "I'll go a bit farther." He looked directly ahead, but saw no hackmatack within a reasonable extension of his twenty paces to account for the longer strides the original pacer may have taken. Much discouraged, he was about to return again to the rock when suddenly his eye fell upon a small and scarcely noticeable hackmatack six paces to the right of his north line and a little beyond him. "That must be he, now!" he exclaimed. "'Tis the only hackmatack I sees hereabouts. 'Tis _sure_ he! I'll pace un back to the rock! If the tree's nuth'ard from the rock, the rock'll be south'ard from the tree. I'll try pacin' that way." With his compass Jamie sighted from the tree to the rock, and to his satisfaction the rock, lying due south, fell within his line of sight, but at the extreme easterly end of its northerly face instead of at the centre, the point from which he had run his original line. He now paced the distance, which proved to be a little farther than twenty of Jamie's longest strides, which he accounted for again by reasoning that a man could take longer steps than he could stretch with his short legs. Then for the first time Jamie observed two stones, one on top of the other, at the foot of the rock and at the very place to which his compass had directed him. He lifted the stones and an examination proved that they had not long since been placed in the position in which he found them. Both had marks of earth upon them on the lower side, but the stone which was below rested upon the carpet of caribou moss which covered the ground and prevented it from coming in contact with the earth. It could not, therefore, have been stained with soil in the place where Jamie now found it. "They was put there as a pilot mark! They shows the true mark of the place to pace from," he soliloquized, replacing them in the position in which he had found them. "I'll take un as a pilot, whatever, and see how she comes out on the next track." He returned to the little hackmatack tree and again consulted the paper. "Forty paces west to a round rock," he read, observing, "that won't be so hard now as findin' the hackmatack tree. 'Twill be easier to see, whatever." Methodically he gathered some stones and erected a small pedestal upon which to rest his compass while he ran his westerly line. Loose stones of proper size were hard to find. The smaller ones were frozen fast to the ground, and the larger ones were too heavy for him to move. But presently he collected a sufficient number of small stones to form a pedestal a foot and a half high. Upon the top of this he levelled his compass, and turned it until the needle, swinging freely, rested upon the north point on the dial. Then, as before, he placed a match upon the face of the compass to form a line from the "E" to the "W" on the dial. Crouching down upon the ground Jamie sighted, as before, to a distant tree, but as he did so be became suddenly aware that the light was fading. He had been much longer than he had realized, consuming a great deal of time in examining the signs around the big rock and in taking his distances from the rock. "This line is sure right the first time," he said. "'Twill not take me much longer, and I finds the round rock now. If I finds un I'll be sure I'm goin' the right way, and I'll be right handy to the cache." Thirty-nine of Jamie's paces brought him to the tree upon which he had taken sight, and looking a little way beyond he saw, to his great joy, a round rock. Jamie was trembling with excitement as he ran eagerly to the rock. This was the second direction laid down upon the paper! There could be no doubt that he was right! Everything answered the description! He would surely find the cache now! What a surprise it would be to Doctor Joe and the boys if he came walking into camp triumphantly bearing Lem Horn's silver fox skin. "Sixty paces south," he next read from his directions. He placed his compass upon the top of the round rock, which rose perhaps three feet above the ground, and repeated his former method, again sighting to a convenient tree. Twilight was perceptibly thickening. At this season darkness falls early in Labrador, and now, because of a heavily clouded sky, it was following twilight quickly. "I'll keep at un till I finds the cache. I'll find un before I goes back to camp whatever," he determined. "'Twill be easy enough gettin' to camp even if 'tis dark before I gets there. The brook's handy by, and I'll just go to un and follow un down to camp. I hope they'll not be worryin' about me, but if they does 'twill not be for long. I'll soon be there now." The distance from the round rock to the tree upon which he had sighted proved to be but thirty of his short paces. Here he was compelled to pile stones again upon which to build a resting-place for his compass before taking another sight. Small stones such as he could lift were not easily found, and when at length he was prepared to take the sight the gloom had grown so thick that he had difficulty in locating a tree that he judged was sufficiently far away to cover the remaining distance. Thirty more paces, however, brought him to the tree, and to his unbounded joy a lone white birch stood just beyond. Within three paces of the birch the mysterious cache was hidden. Here, however, the directions failed to be sufficiently explicit. Either through oversight or purposely the bearings from the birch were omitted. Jamie paced first to one tree and then to another; any of several trees might be the correct one. They were all thickly branched spruce trees capable of concealing the coveted cache. Jamie was puzzled, and every moment it was growing darker. He looked up into the branches of one and then another, hoping to see a bag suspended from a limb, but if a bag were there it blended so completely with the foliage that even its outlines were not revealed. "I'll have to climb un all," said Jamie finally, "and I'll have to be spry about un too or 'twill be fair dark before I gets to climb the last of un." For his first effort he chose a tree three paces beyond the birch and in a line with the rock. He had no difficulty in shinning up the trunk until he reached a lower limb, and then he quite easily drew himself up. Climbing through the thick screen of branches he looked eagerly for the coveted hidden mystery, not stopping until he was well into the tree top and had made quite certain that no cache was hidden there. Then, as he looked up toward the sky, he felt a snowflake on his face. "Snowin'!" he exclaimed. "I'll have to be hurryin' now. If it snows hard Doctor Joe sure will be gettin' worried about me." At that moment Jamie heard the breaking of a twig. He paused and listened. Presently he heard footsteps, and a moment later a man's voice. Through the gathering darkness appeared the figures of two men, and even at that distance Jamie knew they were not Bay folk. They travelled less silently, and the tread of heavy boots is quite unlike that of moccasined feet. Jamie crouched close to the tree trunk. He scarcely breathed. The approaching figures came directly toward the white birch. "It's lucky we saw them fellers first," said a gruff voice. "They'd sure suspicioned somethin' if they'd got a glim on us. They never seen us comin' over, and they'll never find our boat where we hid her." "If they found that there writin' you went and left in the tin can you were tellin' about, they've like as not follered the directions you give and found the swag," growled the other. "That won't be very lucky for us." "They'd never find her," assured the first speaker. "They'd have to find the rock first, and she's a good two mile from shore. They'd never find her in a dog's age. Here we be. Here's the white birch." "Well, where's the tree you went and hid the stuff in?" "Here she is." The man indicated a tree next to that in which Jamie was perched. "Here, take my leg and gimme a boost. I'll go up and get it." Jamie scarcely dared breathe. He could see one of the men make a stirrup of his hands, and the other man step into it and swing into the tree. Up he climbed to a point directly opposite Jamie, and so near Jamie could hear him breathe. "Got her, Bill?" asked the man below. "You bet I got her! She's here all right, just like I said she'd be," answered the man in the tree. Jamie's heart sank. After all his hopes and efforts he became suddenly aware that he could not return to camp triumphantly bearing Lem Horn's silver fox pelt as he had pictured himself doing. Lem would never get the pelt again. Every one in the Bay would go on believing that Indian Jake had shot Lem and stolen the pelt. And he had been so near setting all this right! It never entered his head that the cache could contain anything else than the pelt. Because he wished Indian Jake to be innocent of the crime, he had come to believe that he _was_ innocent, even though Indian Jake himself had not denied having the stolen property in his possession, and everybody, save only himself and David and Andy, believed Indian Jake had it. "Here she be safe and sound and as good as ever," said the man as he dropped from the lower limb of the tree to the ground. "Let's open her up and have a drink, Hank." "I'll go you, Bill. My throat feels as long as a camel's and as dry as a snake's back." Jamie could see the man called Bill stooping over the small bag to untie it, and presently draw forth a bottle. "Here she be, and the other three bottles too," said Bill. "You open her up, Hank, while I see if the roll is there and the other stuff." Bill ran his arm in the bag. "Yes, it's all right," he assured. "I guess the Captain didn't miss the money before the ship sailed, and there ain't any way of his gettin' word in to the boss about it now before next spring. We're safe enough to take it back and make our divvy. There won't be any search made for it now." "Naw, we're safe enough now." Hank tipped the bottle to his lips, and handed it to Bill. "The boss ain't missed his liquor neither, and there won't be any to miss pretty soon the way you're pulin' at it." "I don't know's I took any more'n you did," said Bill petulantly, corking the bottle and returning it to the bag. "It was a good move to play safe anyhow and hide the swag until we made sure the boss wouldn't go searching through our stuff for it. I don't know's he'd suspicion us any more'n the rest of the crew, but he'd search everybody's stuff if the Captain had give him a tip." "You bet he would!" agreed Hank. "We just played in luck right through. They won't blame us for that other job, will they? They ain't likely to go makin' a search for that, be they?" "Naw!" said Bill. "That other feller, whatever his name is, has got 'em on his trail for that. We ain't in it. They'll never suspicion us for that. We made a slick job of that." "Well, let's beat it back," said Hank. "It's snowin' and it's goin' to snow hard. The sooner we gets back to camp the better we'll be off." Bill swung the bag over his shoulder, when suddenly he stopped and exclaimed: "What's that?" Jimmy had sneezed, and again he sneezed. "Some sneak in that there tree!" and Bill with an oath dropped his bag and seized his rifle, which he had leaned against the tree in which Jimmy was perched. "I'll put a bullet up there! That'll settle that feller, whoever he is!" CHAPTER XIV THE TWO DESPERADOS "Don't shoot, sir! It's just me!" Jamie piped in terror from the tree. "It's only a kid!" Bill swore an oath of disgust and lowered his rifle. "You git down out'n that tree! Git down quicker'n lightnin', too!" "I'm comin', sir!" came Jamie's frightened voice from the tree-top. Jamie lost no time in descending from his perch and in a moment stood trembling before his captors. It was quite dark now and snowing hard, and to the frightened little lad the two big lumbermen loomed up like giants. "What you doin' here?" demanded Bill with an oath as he seized Jamie's arm with a grip that made the lad wince. "I were--I were huntin' for the cache," confessed Jamie. "Goin' to steal our cache, was ye? Well, we'll teach you to leave other folkses things be!" The man gave Jamie a savage shake. "Tryin' to steal our cache, eh? Who set you on to it? That's what I want to know! Who set you on to stealin' it, now?" "I weren't goin' to steal un, sir," chattered Jamie, horrified at the implication that he was a thief. "What were you huntin' the cache for, then? Don't lie, you little rat, or I'll twist your neck off!" The fellow seemed quite capable of executing the threat literally, as he again shook Jamie savagely. "I--aint'--lyin'--about--un, sir!" pleaded Jamie between the shakes. "I were--just--goin'--to--look--at un, and--if--'tweren't--Lem Horn's silver fox--I weren't--goin' to touch un!" "Well, 'tain't Lem Horn's silver fox. It's things of our'n! Do you hear that? _'Tain't_ Lem Horn's silver, it's our'n what's in that there bag! You leave our things be! Do you hear what I'm sayin'? You and your gang keep away from our cache, and don't go foolin' with anything you don't know anything about! Do you hear?" The man gave Jamie another shake. "I--I didn't know! We--we just suspicioned 'twere Lem's silver, and I were wantin' to take un back to he," explained Jamie. "You heard what I said? 'Tain't Lem Horn's silver! You hear that, don't you?" "Aye, sir, I saw what you was takin' out of the bag, and 'tweren't Lem Horn's silver. 'Twere something to drink out of a bottle. I sees you drinkin' it." "Let the kid go, Bill," laughed Hank, who until now had kept silent. "We were all thinkin' 'twere Lem's silver. I'll tell un 'twere not the silver but somethin' else that you takes from the Captain that you were hidin' in the cache," said Jamie hopefully. "You goin' to tell that! You heard what we said, and you goin' to blab it?" the man roared in a rage. "Aye, sir, I'll just tell the others so's they'll not be thinkin' 'tis Lem's silver," said Jamie innocently. "The others? Who's 'the others'?" demanded Bill. "Doctor Joe and the other scouts," Jamie explained. "'Doctor Joe and the other scouts,'" quoted the big lumberman. "Who's this here Doctor Joe? And who's the other scouts?" "He's Doctor Joe! Everybody knows Doctor Joe!" explained Jamie, quite astonished that any one should ask who Doctor Joe might be. "The scouts be the other lads of the Bay, sir." "Well, this here Doctor Joe, whoever he is, and these here other scouts, whoever they be, better keep out'n our business and mind their own," roared the man. "I suppose they're this here bunch what's campin' down by the brook and been runnin' all over the country to-day?" "Aye, sir, we're all campin' down handy to the brook, and we've all been lookin' for the cache, but I'm the only one that finds the rock," admitted Jamie. "You ain't camped down there now!" The man swore a mighty and strange oath that made Jamie tremble. "You was camped there, but _now_ you ain't! You're goin' with us, _you_ be! Hear that?" "Aw, let the kid go!" broke in Hank, impatiently. "We better be gettin' a jog on us too. Leave the kid be, and come on. He's just a kid and he can't kick up any trouble. Leave him be, and let's get out of here." "Not me!" The man gave Jamie's arm a painful twist. "I ain't goin' to leave this here kid to go back and blab to that there Doctor Joe and the hull country. He heard our talk, and if it gets to the boss you know what that means. I ain't takin' any chances on him, and I'm half of this." "We'll be gettin' in bigger trouble if we takes him along. We'll have the hull country huntin' us," Hank protested. "You heard me! I ain't goin' to take chances on his blabbin'! He goes along, and I'll fix him so's he won't blab and nobody'll get our trail if they do hunt us. The snow'll hide it," insisted Bill. "Well, let's get a move on then," said Hank. "The wind's risin' and it's goin' to kick up a sea. I don't want to be caught out on the Bay again in a sea like we had that other time. The snow's goin' to be thick too, and we'll lose our bearings." "Go on, then. I'll foller with the kid," said Bill, still holding Jamie's aching arm. "Better let the kid go," said Hank, swinging a rifle over his left shoulder and with an axe in his right hand striding away through the darkness and thickly falling snow. "Come along you!" and Jamie's captor, gripping Jamie's arm in one hand and with a rifle in the other, followed in the trail of the man Hank, dragging Jamie almost too fast for his legs to carry him. On and on they went through the darkness. Now and again Jamie fell over stumps or other obstructions, and each time the man, with a curse, jerked him to his feet. Snow was falling heavily and the wind was rising. Once they crossed a frozen marsh where the snow swirled around them in clouds. Then they were again among the forest trees, forging ahead in silence save for an occasional curse by the man who held Jamie in his merciless and relentless grip. CHAPTER XV MISSING! Seth Muggs, intent upon keeping pace with Andy on his right, and not permitting him to get out of sight, quite neglected to be equally cautious as to Jamie on his left. In this Seth was in no wise neglectful. The responsibility in each case, in order to keep the line from breaking, was to keep the neighbour nearer the brook in view. In this Jamie alone had failed. Jamie had, indeed, been out of line for a considerable time before Seth became aware of the fact. Even then he felt no concern. Doctor Joe had instructed Jamie to return to camp if he became weary, and when he was missed had no doubt he had taken advantage of the suggestion. Nevertheless, when Doctor Joe passed the word along the line to reassemble, Seth gave several lusty shouts for Jamie. When, after a reasonable time, he received no reply, he was satisfied Jamie was snug in camp with the kettle boiling for tea, and he turned down to join the others at the brook. "It's a little later than I thought," said Doctor Joe as they came together, "but we'll have plenty of time to reach camp before dark. Now let's count noses." "Where's Jamie?" asked David. "We're all here but Jamie." "I'm thinkin' he gets tired and goes back to camp like Doctor Joe were sayin' for he to do," suggested Seth. "I missed he a while back." "How long has it been since you saw him last, Seth?" asked Doctor Joe. "I'm not rightly knowin', but a half-hour whatever," said Seth, "and I'm thinkin' 'twere a bit longer." "He has probably gone back to camp, then," agreed Doctor Joe. "It was a pretty hard tramp for such a little fellow. It is quite natural that he did not like to admit to you that he could not keep up with us, and he just slipped quietly away and returned to camp and said nothing about it. He couldn't well get lost with the brook so near to guide him." "Jamie'd never be gettin' lost whatever," asserted Andy. "He's wonderful good at findin' his way about." "'Tis goin' to snow, and 'twill be dark early," suggested David, as the little party turned down the brook to retrace their steps to camp. "There's a bend in the brook here; let's cut across un and save time. If she sets in to snow to-night 'tis like to keep un up all day to-morrow, and we'd better get back as quick as we can to cut plenty of wood and have un on hand." "Very well," agreed Doctor Joe. "You go ahead and guide us, David." "'Twill be fine and cosy just bidin' in camp and studyin' up the things in the book," said Obadiah as they followed David in a short cut toward camp. "We'll be havin' a fine time even if it does snow too hard to go about." "Yes," agreed Doctor Joe, "we can do that and learn a great many things about scouting." Suddenly David held up his hand for silence, and stooping peered through the trees ahead. The others followed his gaze, and there, not above fifty yards away and looking curiously at them, stood a caribou. Only David and Doctor Joe had brought rifles. Almost instantly David's rifle rang out, and the caribou turned and disappeared. "I'm sure I hit he!" exclaimed David running in the direction the caribou had taken. "I couldn't miss he so close, and a fair shot!" "You hit he!" exclaimed Andy who had dashed ahead. "You hit he, Davy! Here's the mark of blood!" A trail of blood left no doubt that the caribou had been hard hit, but it was followed for nearly a mile before they came upon the prostrate animal. "Now we'll have plenty of fresh deer's meat!" burst out Obadiah enthusiastically. "We'll have meat for supper, and I'm wonderful hungry for un!" "Yes," agreed Doctor Joe, "we had better dress it at once. There are enough of us to carry all the meat back with us to camp, and that will save making a return trip." "'Twill be a fine surprise for Jamie when we comes back with deer's meat," said Andy enthusiastically. "'Twill make us a bit late and he'll be thinkin' we finds the cache," suggested David. "I hopes he won't be comin' up the brook again to look for us." "I hardly think he'll do that," said Doctor Joe, "but to be sure he does not some of you had better go to the brook and leave a sign to tell him which way we've gone. David and I will skin and dress the caribou." "Come along, Seth," Andy volunteered. "We'll be goin' over to make the sign." "Come back here as soon as you've done it," directed Doctor Joe. "We'll need your help in carrying the meat to camp." "Aye, sir, we'll be comin' right back," agreed Andy as he and Seth hurried away. Close to the brook, in a place where it could not fail to be seen, the lads set a pole at an angle of forty-five degrees, pointing in the direction in which the caribou had been killed. Against the pole and about a third of the distance from its lower end an upright stick was placed. This was an Indian sign familiar to all the hunters and wilderness folk, indicating that the party had gone in the direction in which the pole sloped, the upright stick a little way from the butt further indicating that the distance was not far. "Jamie'll know what that means, and if he wearies of bidin' alone in camp and comes to find us he'll not be missin' us now whatever," said Andy with satisfaction, as he and Seth turned back. "I'm goin' to blaze the trail over, and he won't be like to miss un, then," suggested Seth, taking the axe. When Andy and Seth rejoined the others Doctor Joe and David had nearly finished skinning the caribou, and in due time they had it ready to cut up. The head was severed with as little of the neck meat as possible that there might be no unnecessary waste, for they could not carry the head with them. Then the tongue was removed, for this was considered a titbit. The question of how to carry the meat to camp was finally settled by making two litters with poles. The carcass was now cut into two nearly equal parts, one of which was placed on each litter. Doctor Joe took the forward end of one of the litters, and David the forward end of the other. With two boys carrying the rear end of each litter, and the other lads the skin, heart, liver and tongue, and the two rifles and the axe, they at length set out for camp. Night was falling and the first flakes of the coming snow-storm were felt upon their faces when finally the little white tents came in view. "There's no light," remarked David, who was in advance. "Jamie's savin' candles. I'm hopin' now he has the kettle boilin'." "He'll have un boilin'," assured Andy, who was one of the two boys at the rear of David's litter. "He'll be proud to have un boilin' and supper started." "There's no smoke!" exclaimed David apprehensively as they came closer. "Jamie, b'y!" he shouted. "Where is you? Come out and see what we're gettin'!" But no Jamie came, and there was no answering call. The stretchers were hastily placed on the ground, and every tent searched for Jamie. "Jamie's never been comin' back since we leaves!" David declared. "Whatever has been happenin' to he?" "I can't understand it," said Doctor Joe. "He could not possibly have been lost. Andy, you and Micah run down and look at the boats and see if he has been there." Andy and Micah ran excitedly to the boats to report a few moments later that there were no indications of Jamie's return. "David, you and I shall have to go and look for him," said Doctor Joe quietly. "Andy, you and the other lads build a fire outside as a guide. Get your supper, and don't worry until we return." "What do you think's been happenin' to Jamie?" asked Andy anxiously. "We took a short cut and did not follow the brook where it makes a wide bend," suggested Doctor Joe. "He may be waiting for us along the brook at that point." "Oh, I hopes you'll find he there!" said Andy fervently. "Get your rifle and plenty of cartridges, David," directed Doctor Joe. "I'll carry mine also. When we get up the trail we'll shoot to let Jamie know we're looking for him." Each with a rifle on his shoulder, Doctor Joe in the lead and David following close behind, the two turned away into the now thickly falling snow and darkness. CHAPTER XVI BOUND AND HELPLESS "See here," said the man in front, stopping and turning about after what had seemed hours to the exhausted and bruised Jamie, "I for one ain't goin' to try to cross the Bay to-night in this here snow. It's thicker'n mud, and there's a sea runnin' I won't take chances with, not while I'm sober. We may's well bunk." "Guess you're right, pardner, we better bunk. But pull farther away to the west'ard before we put on a fire," agreed Jamie's captor with evident relief. "That bunch'll be out huntin' this here kid, and they may run on to us if we camp too close to 'em." "We're a good two mile from 'em now. They'll never run on to us," argued the other. "Go on a piece farther," insisted the man called Bill, who was gripping Jamie's arm so hard that it ached. "Let the kid go! What's the use of draggin' him along? He'll just be in our way, and we've got troubles enough of our own," suggested the other. "He ain't goin' back and have a chance to give us away to that bunch, not if I knows it. I've about made up my mind to croak him. He knows too much. Go on and find a place to bunk. I'm follerin'." "You won't croak anybody while I'm hangin' around! I'm tellin' you I've got troubles enough on my hands already without chasin' a noose. I'm goin' to save my neck anyhow, and I ain't goin' to be mixed up in any croakin'," muttered the one called Hank, as he turned and plunged forward again through the darkness. What "croaking" meant Jamie did not in the least know, but he suspected that it referred to something not in the least pleasant for himself. He was too tired, however, to think or care a great deal as he was dragged on, stumbling in the darkness over fallen logs, and bumping into trees. It seemed an interminable time to Jamie before the man ahead again stopped, and said decisively: "We'll camp here. We've gone far enough, and I ain't goin' another rod. We're a good five mile from them fellers you're afraid of." "All right, I'm satisfied. You've got the axe, go ahead and make a cover," said Bill. "Kid, you come with me and help break branches for the bed. Don't you loaf neither. Do you hear me?" "Yes, sir," answered Jamie timidly. It was a relief to stop walking and to feel the man relax the relentless grip upon his arm, and Jamie, meekly enough, began breaking boughs with the man always within striking distance, as though afraid that he might run away and make his escape, though Jamie was quite too tired for that. The man with the axe cut a stiff pole and trimmed it. Then he lopped off the lower branches of two spruce trees that stood a convenient distance apart, and laid the pole on a supporting limb of each tree, about four feet from the ground. This was to form the ridge of a lean-to shelter. Poles were now cut and formed into a sloping roof by resting one end upon the ridge pole, the other upon the ground, and the poles covered with a thick thatch of branches to exclude the snow. When this was completed a quantity of dry wood was cut, and in front of the lean-to a fire was lighted. While the man with the axe was engaged in thatching the roof and lighting the fire and gathering wood, the other turned his attention to the preparation of the bed. "Don't you try to break away, now!" he growled at Jamie. "I'll shoot you like I would a rat if you do. Just stand there and hand me them branches, and shake the snow off'n 'em first, too." Running was the last thing that Jamie contemplated doing, even though there had been no danger of the man executing his threat. He was so tired he could scarcely stand upon his feet, and he had eaten nothing since the hurried meal at midday. At length the bed was laid, and the men sat down within the shelter of the lean-to, and Bill ordered: "Git down here, you kid, and set still too. Don't you try to leave here. You know what's comin' to you if you do." As Jamie meekly and thankfully complied, Bill ran his arm into the bag that had been cached in the tree, and which had been the cause of all of Jamie's trouble, and drawing forth a bottle removed the cork and took a long pull from its contents. Making a face as though it did not taste good, he handed it over to Hank, remarking: "Have a nip, Hank. It'll warm you up and make you feel good. I don't like this cruisin' in the dark." Hank accepted the bottle and after drinking from it returned it to the bag. Then each drew a pipe and a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and cutting some of the tobacco with the knife rolled it between the palms of his hands, stuffed it into his pipe and lighted it with a brand from the fire. For several minutes they sat and smoked in silence. In the meantime Jamie sat timidly upon the boughs next the man Bill. As the fire blazed, the chill of the storm and night was driven out, and a cozy, comfortable warmth filled the lean-to. Jamie's eyes became heavy, and in spite of his unhappy position he dozed. "See here," said the man, "you may's well sleep, but I ain't goin' to take any chances on you. I'm goin' to tie you so's you won't be givin' us the slip." "Oh, leave the kid be, Bill! He's all right!" the other man objected. "I ain't takin' chances," growled Bill. "I'm goin' to have some say about it, too." He fumbled in his pocket, and drawing forth some stout twine proceeded to tie Jamie's hands securely behind his back. Then he tied Jamie's feet, and gave him a push to the rear. "Now I guess you'll stay with us all right," he grinned. "Aw, leave the kid be! What you want to tie him for?" Hank protested. "He can't get away. Better let him go anyhow." "You leave me be to do what I wants to do and I'll leave you be to do what you wants to," growled Bill. "I'm goin' to keep this kid fast. This is my business." "I don't know as it's all your business," snapped Hank. "I'm mixed up in it too, seems to me." "Well, I caught the kid, and I'm goin' to have my say about what I do with him," Bill retorted. "I ain't goin' to let him make trouble for us, not if I knows what I'm about." Hank made no reply, but puffed silently at his pipe. Jamie was wide awake again. This man Bill meant some evil, and the little lad wondered vaguely what it could be that was to be done to himself, and what his fate was to be. He was vastly uncomfortable, too, with his hands tied behind his back, though he was glad enough to be permitted to lie down. He could scarcely keep the tears back, as he thought of the happy time in camp that had been planned, of the snug tent where he was to have slept with Doctor Joe, and of his own warm bed at home, and he wondered whether he would ever see The Jug again. "The boss'll be sore at us, Hank, if we ain't back to camp to-morrow," remarked Bill presently, breaking the silence. "He can be sore though if he wants to. He can't fire us fellers for bein' away even if he does get sore and cuss us out. He needs us bad, and he can't get any more men now. I don't mind his cussin'. Cussin' don't hurt a feller." "If the wind don't get worse and the snow lets up some so we can make out our way we better go back though as soon as it's light enough in the mornin'," answered Hank. "I wish I was out'n this business anyhow." "We can get across the Bay even if it does snow some in the mornin', long's there ain't too much sea," said Bill. "I'm for gettin' away from here too. We've got the swag all right and nobody'll know about it, if we don't let this kid loose to blab. It was lucky we caught this feller before he found it, but he heard too much." "What you goin' to do with him, Bill?" "Croak him. I ain't goin' to take chances with him. It ain't my way to take chances I don't have to take." "You better not do any croakin', Bill. I won't stand for _that_. I'm tough, and I've done plenty of tough things in my day, but I never croaked a little kid like him, and I won't stand for it." "Don't you go and get soft now. 'Tain't any worse to croak a kid than a man. You'd croak a man if you had to, and this is a time when we've got to do it to save ourselves." "Well, I won't stand for it while I'm sober, and I'm sober now even if I have had a drink or two." Hank reached for a firebrand with which to relight his pipe. "Well, you've got to stand for this. I'm mixed up in it just as much as you be, and I'm goin' to have some say. I ain't goin' to take chances on him goin' back to his gang and givin' us away." "How you goin' to do it?" "Take him along in the boat and drop him overboard. That's the easiest way. There ain't much chance of anybody findin' him, and if they do they'll just think he got drowned some way hisself. Dead folks don't talk." "That's somethin' I won't stand for! You can't go droppin' anybody overboard while I'm in the boat! Not if I know it!" "What you goin' to do, play the sucker?" Bill turned angrily toward his companion. "Maybe you'll go and peach!" "Don't you call me a sucker! Don't you say I'm a peacher!" Hank rose to his feet and faced Bill menacingly. For a moment Jamie thought the men were going to fight, but Bill remained seated and his manner suddenly changed. Jamie thought he acted as though he were afraid. "See here, Hank," Bill's voice was modified and conciliatory. "I ain't callin' you a sucker, and I ain't sayin' you'll peach. What's the use of us fellers fightin' about it? We're in this together and we're pardners. We've got to hang together. What's the use of us fallin' out?" "I'm willin' to hang together but I won't be called a sucker or peacher by anybody, and I ain't goin' to stand for any croakin' neither while I've got a gun! Hear me?" "What we goin' to do about this here kid then? We can't let him go. He'll up and run back and blab. He's heard too much about our business. We don't want to go huntin' trouble, do we? Well, we'll be huntin' trouble if we let him go. He knows too much and he knows all about who we be too." "What does he know, now? He don't know anything except what you've gone and blabbed yourself. We just caught him tryin' to swipe our cache. The stuff is our'n. 'Tain't his'n. Our stuff is our'n, ain't it? What can he blab about? That's what I want to know!" "He'll go and tell folks we've got this here swag from the ship, and it'll go to the boss. That's what he knows, and that's what he'll blab." "Well, what we've got is our'n. He can't prove we've got that there swag, and we'll hide it where the boss can't find it. He hain't seen any swag around, has he? He can't say he has neither, and he won't. He just thought maybe we had that there fox skin. What's that got to do with us? We don't care what he thinks, and what he thinks won't hurt us as I knows of. What we've got and what we ain't got don't make any difference to these fellers. What they don't know won't hurt 'em. It ain't theirs, and nobody better go meddlin' in what I has and does. Let that there kid go now, Bill, and get him off'n our hands." "You just leave him to me, Hank. I ain't goin' to let him go and blab, I say, and get both of us in a hole. I've got _some_ say, hain't I, Hank?" "Well, don't do any croakin' when I'm around to see, that's all I've got to say. He's your'n to do the way you want to with. I won't have any finger in it. It's your job, it ain't mine." "Well, I'll do the croakin' some other way. You needn't have anything to do about it if you're afraid. I'll do it all by myself." "Afraid or no afraid I ain't goin' to be mixed up in any croakin', and that ends it as far as I go." Hank knocked the ashes from his pipe, refilled it from the black plug, and lifting a red hot coal from the fire placed it upon the bowl, and puffed for a moment. When the tobacco was glowing to his satisfaction, he flicked the coal back into the fire, and sat silently smoking. Jamie, lying quiet, had listened to the conversation of the two men. He was wide awake now. He did not understand the significance of "croaking," but the word had an ominous sound. It referred to something the man called Bill wished to do to him and something to which the man called Hank objected. He understood, however, the threat to throw him into the Bay. The fellow Bill wished to do this while Hank was determined to prevent it. Instinctively Jamie felt that Hank was only defending him in order to protect himself. He had no personal interest in him, but did not propose to be involved in any trouble that might arise through some action that Bill wished to take. He was glad when, finally, it appeared settled that he was not to be thrown into the sea. Bill arose and replenished the fire, and following Hank's example refilled and lighted his pipe, then reseated himself. Neither of the men spoke. Beyond their great hulking figures the fire gleamed and sent a circle of radiance. Beyond the circle the forest lay as black as a tomb. The snow fell steadily, and the wind sighed and moaned ominously through the tree tops. What were Doctor Joe and the lads doing? Were they searching for him through the blackness of the night and the storm? If he had only followed Doctor Joe's instructions and returned to camp in season! Would these men kill him? Would he ever see the dear old home at The Jug again? With these thoughts flashing through his mind Jamie prayed a silent little prayer: "Dear Lord, don't let un kill me! Take me back to The Jug again!" Many times he repeated this to himself. Then there came to him something Thomas had once said when the mist was clouding his eyes: "Have plenty o' grit, lad, and a stout heart like a man." This comforted and strengthened him, and, like the prayer, he repeated it over and over again to himself as he lay watching the silent men. For a long time he watched them and the fire beyond, and the falling snow and the black wall of the forest. Finally tired nature came to his relief. His eyes closed and he fell into a troubled sleep. CHAPTER XVII LOST IN A BLIZZARD After a time Jamie awoke. The two men were still sitting by the fire and were again drinking from the bottle. He was uncomfortable in his cramped position, but dared not move, and he lay very still and watched the men and the fire and the black wall of the mysterious, trackless forest beyond. Shadows rose and fell and flitted in and out of the circle of firelight. Weird and uncanny they seemed, taking strange forms like dancing spirits. In the darkness outside the firelight and moving shadows Jamie fancied that terrible ghoulish forms were stalking stealthily and grinning maliciously at him. For a long while Jamie lay awake and watched. Again and again the men drank from the bottle, and when they spoke at intervals their voices sounded unnatural and thick. Once one of them arose to replenish the fire, and he moved unsteadily upon his feet, at which the little lad marvelled, for he was a large, strong man. Presently Jamie's eyes drooped again, and once more he slept. When he again awoke dawn was breaking. Snow was falling heavily. The two men were in a deep sleep. The fire had died down to a bed of coals, and Jamie was shivering with the cold. His arms were numb, and his body and limbs ached from the cramped position in which he lay because of his bound arms and feet. With some effort he turned over, and this brought him some relief, but not for long, and presently he rolled back to his original position that he might see the red coals of the fire. Jamie tried to move his hands, but his wrists were too firmly tied, and the effort brought only pain. Then he lay still and studied the smouldering fire. Behind it lay the remnants of a back log that had been burned through in the centre. The inner ends of the log, where it was separated, were, like the coals before it, red and glowing, and he thought that if he could push them together they would blaze and give out warmth. Then, suddenly, an idea flashed into Jamie's brain. Those red ends of the log would burn the string that bound him, and he could free himself if he could only reach them and press the string against them. His movements in turning over had not disturbed his captors. They were still sleeping profoundly. From the condition of the fire it was evident they had been sitting by it the greater part of the night and had replenished it at a late hour, else all the coals would have been dead. Hank lay at the opposite end of the lean-to from Jamie, and Bill in the centre, with their feet toward the fire. Jamie was lying at the back, his head near Bill's head and his feet toward the end of the lean-to farthest from Hank. For several minutes Jamie studied the position of each and the possibilities of working his way out of the lean-to without awakening the men. Finally he determined to make an attempt to gain his freedom. Cautiously and as noiselessly as possible he began to wriggle away, inch by inch, from Bill, and toward the fire. Several times he fancied the men moved restlessly in their sleep, but when he looked toward them they appeared to be still sleeping heavily. On each occasion, however, he lay still until he became wholly satisfied that he had been mistaken and that they had not been disturbed. Little by little he edged away until at length he was well outside the lean-to. His efforts were painful and slow, but in the course of half an hour he was near enough to the end of the log to touch it with his bound feet. His exertions had set his blood in motion and inspired him with hope of success. With much care and patience he pushed the stick until he was able to rest the string, where it crossed between his ankles, upon the glowing end. Drawing his feet as far apart as possible, with all the strength he possessed, he was quickly rewarded by feeling a relaxation, and in a moment his heart leaped with joy. The string was severed. Squirming around upon his chest, Jamie arose to a kneeling position, and then stood erect. So far as his legs were concerned he was free. Jamie's first impulse was to run wildly away, but he restrained himself. Standing over the men he looked down upon them. Neither had moved, and to all appearances they were sleeping as soundly as ever. "I'm thinkin' now I'll try to burn off the string on my hands too," he decided. "'Twill be easier gettin' on with un free, and I'll travel a rare lot faster with my arms loose." Burning the strings from his wrists, however, proved a much more difficult problem than burning them from his ankles. He sat down with his back to the hot end of the stick, but discovered that it was no easy matter to find just the right position between the wrists. Several efforts resulted only in painful burns on his hands, but he was not discouraged, and finally was rewarded. The string where it crossed between his wrists was brought into contact with the sharp point of the glowing hot stick, and though the reflected heat burned him cruelly he held the string pressed against the fire until at last it crumbled away and his hands flew apart. "She took grit," said he, "but I made out to do un." With the joy of freedom and the anxiety to escape his tormentors, Jamie was oblivious to the pain of his burned and blistered wrists. He could use both hands and feet, and was confident that he would soon find the camp and his friends. Jamie ran as fast as his short legs would carry him. The snow was nearly knee deep, but it was soft and feathery and he scarcely gave it thought at first. He had no doubt that he knew exactly in which direction camp lay, and it never entered his head that he might go wrong or lose his way as he dashed through the woods at the best speed of which he was capable. Presently the impediment of the snow compelled him to reduce his gait to a walk, and for nearly an hour he pushed on in what he supposed was a straight line, when he came suddenly upon fresh axe cuttings and a moment later saw through the thickly falling snow a familiar lean-to. He stopped in consternation and fright, scarcely knowing which way to turn. He was within fifty feet of the two desperate men from whom he had so recently fled. In the storm he had made a complete circuit. The men were still soundly sleeping, and instinctively Jamie backed away. He had lost a full hour of valuable time. The men might awake at any moment, discover his absence and trail him and overtake him in the snow. These thoughts flashed through Jamie's mind, and in wild panic he turned and ran until at length exhaustion brought him to a halt. "They'll sure be cotchin' me," he panted, "and I'm not knowin' the way in the snow! I'll be goin' right around and comin' back again to the same place if I don't look out! I can't bide here," he continued in desperation. "I'll have to go somewheres else or they'll sure cotch me!" Bewildered and frightened Jamie looked wildly about him. Then he bethought himself of the compass in his pocket. Eagerly drawing it forth he held it in his hand and studied its face. "The Bay's to the suth'ard, whatever," he calculated. "If the Bay's to the suth'ard the brook's to the east'ard. I'll be lettin' the compass pilot me to the east'ard. 'Twill take me the right direction whatever." Levelling the compass carefully in his hand so that the needle swung freely he found the east, and as rapidly as his little legs would carry him set out again in his effort to escape the two sleeping men and to find camp and his friends. At intervals he stopped to consult his compass. Then he would hurry forward again as fast as ever he could go through the snow, looking behind him fearfully, half expecting each time to see the men in close pursuit, and always with the dread that a gruff voice in the rear would command him to halt, or that a rifle bullet would be sent after him without warning. As time passed and there was no indication that he was followed, Jamie began to feel some degree of security. Because of the storm it was unlikely that the men would venture upon the Bay. They had kept late hours drinking at the bottle, and unless they were awakened by the cold they would in all probability sleep late and therefore not discover his absence until the thickly falling snow had so far covered his trail as to preclude the possibility of them following it with certainty. With his mind more or less relieved on this point, Jamie suddenly realized that he was hungry. It was nearing midday. He had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and he had the normal appetite of a healthy boy. The snow had perceptibly increased in depth since his escape from the lean-to, and walking was correspondingly hard. He was so hungry and so weary that at length he could scarcely force one foot ahead of the other. The wind was rising, and in crossing an open frozen marsh the snow drifted before the gale in clouds so dense as to be suffocating. The storm was attaining the proportions of a blizzard, and when Jamie again reached the shelter of the forest beyond the marsh he found it necessary to stop to rest and regain his breath. "'Twill never do to try to cross another mesh," he decided. "I'm like to be overcome with un and perish before I finds my way out of un to the timber. I'll stick to the woods, and if I can't stick to un I'll have to bide where I is till the snow stops. I wonders now if Doctor Joe and David is out lookin' for me. I'm not thinkin' they'd bide in the tent with me lost out here and they not knowin' where I is." When he was rested a little he arose, took his direction with the compass, and floundered on through the snow. "They's sure out somewhere lookin' for me," he thought, "but 'tis snowin' so hard they never will find me! I'll have to keep goin' till I finds camp. 'Tis strange now I'm not comin' to the brook, 'tis wonderful strange. I'm thinkin' though I were crossin' two meshes with the men in the night, and I've only been crossin' one goin' back to-day. I'm fearin' I'll never be able to cross un though, when I comes to the next un." Presently, as Jamie had thought would be the case, he came to another marsh. It satisfied him that he was going in the right direction, but at the same time it lay out before him as a well-nigh impassable barrier. The wind was driving the snow across it in swirling dense clouds, and he stood for a little in the shelter of the trees and viewed it with heavy heart. "'Tis a bigger mesh than the other," he commented to himself, "but I'll have to try to cross un. I can't bide here. I'll freeze to death with no shelter and I has no axe for makin' a shelter. I'm not knowin' what to do." For a little while he hesitated, then he plunged out upon the edge of the marsh. He was nearly swept from his feet, and to recover his breath he was forced to retreat again to the woods. Three times he tried to face the storm-swept marsh, but each time was sent staggering back to shelter. It was a task beyond the strength and endurance of so young a lad, and utterly exhausted and bitterly disappointed, he sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree to rest. "I never can make un whilst the nasty weather lasts," he acknowledged. "I'm fair scrammed and I'll have to wait for the wind to ease before I tries un again." He could scarce restrain the tears. It was a bitter disappointment. He was so hungry, and so weary, and wished so hard to reach the safety of camp and freedom from the still present danger of being recaptured. "I'll have plenty o' grit and a stout heart like a man," he presently declared. "I don't mind bein' a bit hungry, and I'll never be givin' up! I'll never give up whatever! Pop says plenty o' grit'll pull a man out o' most any fix. I'm in a bad fix now, and I'll have grit and won't be gettin' scared. 'Twill never do to be gettin' scared whatever." Jamie sat quietly upon the log, and presently found himself dozing. He sprang to his feet, for sleeping under these conditions was dangerous. He tried to walk about, but was so tired that he again returned to the log to rest. It was growing colder, and he shivered. The storm was increasing in fury. "I'm not knowin' what to do!" he said despairingly. "If I goes on I'll perish and if I keeps still I'll freeze to death and I'm too wearied to move about to keep warm. 'Tis likely the storm'll last the night through whatever, and I'll never be able to stick un out that long." Jamie again found himself dozing, and again he got upon his feet. "I'll have to be doin' somethin'," said he. "I'll keep my grit and try to think of somethin' to do or I'll perish." Jamie was right. He was in peril, and grave peril. Even though the storm-swept marsh had not stood in his way he was quite too weary to walk farther. He was thrown entirely upon his own resources. His life depended upon his own initiative, for he was quite beyond help from others. It was a great unpeopled wilderness in which Jamie was lost, and he was but a wee lad, and even though Doctor Joe and David were looking for him there was scarce a chance that they could find him in the raging storm. CHAPTER XVIII A PLACE TO "BIDE" Dazed and almost hopeless Jamie stood and gazed about him at the thick falling snow. His body and brain were tired, but some immediate action was imperative or he would be overcome by his weariness and the cold. "If I were only bringin' an axe, I could fix a place to bide in and cut wood for a fire," he said. "If I were only bringin' an axe!" He thrust his hands deep into his pocket and felt the big, stout jack-knife that Doctor Joe had given him, and he drew it out. "Maybe now I can fix un with just this," he said hopefully. "I've got to have grit and I've got to try my best whatever." He looked up and there, within two feet of the log upon which he had been sitting, were two spruce trees about six feet apart. "Maybe I can fix un right here," he commented, "and maybe I can lay a fire against the log and if I can get un afire she'll burn a long while and keep un warm." With much effort he cut and trimmed a stiff, strong pole. The lower limbs of the trees were not above four feet from the ground, and upon these he rested his pole, extending it from tree to tree. This was to form the ridge pole to support the roof of his lean-to, for he was to form a shelter similar to that improvised by the two men the evening before. Then he cut other poles to form the roof, and resting them upon the ridge pole and the ground at a convenient angle to make a commodious space beneath, he covered them with a thick thatch of boughs, which were easily broken from the overhanging limbs of surrounding trees. This done he enclosed the ends of his shelter in like manner, and laid beneath it a floor of boughs. Jamie surveyed his work with satisfaction and hope. No snow could reach the cave-like interior; it was as well protected and as comfortable as ever a lean-to could be made, and a very little fire would warm it. Though much smaller, it was quite as good a shelter as that made by the two men, and possessed the added advantage of closed ends, which would render it much easier to heat. He had occupied more than two hours in its construction, and it had called for ingenuity and much hard work. The opening of the lean-to faced the fallen tree trunk, which lay before it in such a position that it would serve excellently as a backlog. Though he had no axe with which to cut firewood, he soon discovered upon scouting about that scattered through the forest were many dried and broken limbs that could be had for the gathering, and in a little while he had accumulated a sufficient supply to serve for several hours. This done he pushed away the snow from before the fallen tree trunk as best he could. Using as tinder a handful of the long hairy moss that hung from the inner limbs of the spruce trees, he lighted it with a match from the tin box salvaged the previous day at the big rock. Placing the burning moss upon the cleared spot next the log he applied small sticks and, as they caught fire, larger ones, until presently a fire was blazing and crackling cheerily in front of his lean-to with the fallen tree as a backlog to reflect the heat. Utterly weary Jamie stretched himself upon his bed of boughs, and it seemed to him that he had never been in a cosier place in all his life. "Pop were sayin' right when he says grit will help a man over any tight place," breathed Jamie contentedly. "If I were givin' up I'd sure perished before to-morrow mornin', for 'tis growin' wonderful cold; but I has grit and a stout heart like a man, and I gets a place to bide and a fine warm fire to heat un." With the first moments of relaxation, Jamie became aware that his wrists were exceedingly painful, and upon examination he discovered that they had been burned much worse than he had realized in his attempts to sever the string that bound them. Large blisters had been raised, and one of the blisters had been broken, doubtless while he was engaged in building his lean-to shelter. The loose skin had been rubbed off, and the angry red wound left unprotected. "I'll have to fix un," he declared. "The sore places'll be gettin' rubbed against things, and be a wonderful lot worse and I leaves un bide as they is." In the course of the first aid instruction, Doctor Joe had taught Jamie, as well as David and Andy, the art of applying bandages, but now Jamie had no bandages to apply. For a little while he helplessly contemplated his wrists. But for the fact that they were becoming exceedingly painful he would have decided to ignore them, for in his wearied condition it was an effort to do anything. "I knows how I'll fix un," he said at length. "I'll cut pieces from the bottom o' my shirt to bind un up with. They'll keep un from gettin' rubbed whatever, and when I gets back to camp Doctor Joe'll fix un up right." This he proceeded to do at once with the aid of his jack-knife, and presently had two serviceable bandages ready to apply. "Doctor Joe were sayin' how to keep the air away from burns by usin' oil or molasses or flour or somethin'," he hesitated. "And he were sayin' to keep sores from gettin' dirt into un whatever. He says the sores'll be gettin' inflicted or infested or somethin'--I'm not rememberin' just what 'twere, but somethin' bad whatever--if they gets dirt into un. I've been wearin' the shirt three days, and I'm thinkin' 'tis not as clean as Doctor Joe wants the bindin' for sores to be, and I'll cover the sore place where the blisters were rubbin' off with fir sap. That'll keep un clean. Pop says 'tis fine for sores." Crawling out of his nest Jamie found a young balsam fir tree, and with his sharp jack-knife cut from the bark several of the little sacs in which sap is secreted. He had often seen Thomas cut them and daub the contents upon cuts and bruises, and sometimes even have him and the other boys take the sap as medicine. Returning to the lean-to he pierced the ends of the sacs with the point of his knife, and carefully smeared the contents over his burned wrist where the skin was broken, taking care that all of the exposed flesh was well covered with the sap. Jamie had, indeed, fallen upon the best antiseptic dressing that the surrounding woods supplied. This done to his satisfaction, he bound his wrists with the improvised bandages, applying them carefully, after the manner in which Doctor Joe had taught him in his lessons in first aid. "'Tain't so bad," commented Jamie holding the wrists up and surveying them with satisfaction. "They feels a wonderful lot easier, whatever. But I'd never been knowin' how if 'tweren't for Doctor Joe showin' me." Jamie stretched himself upon the bed of boughs, and for a time lay watching the fire and thickly falling snow and listening to the wind shrieking and howling through the tree tops. Several times he fancied he heard the report of distant rifle shots, and at these times he would start up and listen intently and look cautiously out, half expecting and fearful that he would see the two lumbermen coming to recapture him. But no one came to disturb him, and he assured himself at length that he had heard only the cracking of dead branches in the storm, and that there had been no rifle shots. Then, at last, his eyes drooped and he slept. Hours afterward Jamie awoke. He was shivering with the cold. The fire had burned out, save the backlog which still glowed. It was night. The storm had passed and the wind dropped to fitful blasts. The stars were shining brightly, and the sky was clear save for feathery, fast moving cloud patches. Jamie rebuilt the fire, and lay down to await morning. He was so hungry that he could scarce lie still, but again his eyes drooped and again he slept. It was near daybreak when Jamie was startled by some unusual noise, and sat up with a jerk. He listened intently, and satisfied that someone was approaching sprang up and looked cautiously out, seized with panic and ready for flight. In the dim starlight he could plainly see two men coming toward him over the marsh. CHAPTER XIX SEARCHING THE WHITE WILDERNESS Nearly three hours passed before Doctor Joe and David returned to camp, disheartened and thoroughly alarmed, to report that they had found no trace of Jamie. In the thick-falling snow and darkness they had been forced to relinquish the search until daylight should come to their assistance. Andy and the boys were dazed. It could hardly be comprehended or credited that Jamie was, indeed, lost. They ate their belated supper in silence, half expecting that he would, after all, come walking in upon them. Doctor Joe was grave and preoccupied. Several times, now he, now David, went out into the night to stand and listen in the storm, but all they heard was the wail of wind in the tree tops. At last, with heavy hearts, they went to bed, upon Doctor Joe's advice. Andy asked that he might pass the night in the tent with Doctor Joe and David, and so it was arranged. Neither Andy nor David, more worried than they had ever been in all their lives before, felt in the least like sleep. Doctor Joe did not lie down with them. For a long while the two lads lay awake and watched him crouching before the stove smoking his pipe, his face grave and thoughtful. He had spoken no word of encouragement, and the lads knew that he was troubled beyond expression. The wind was rising. In sudden gusts of anger it dashed the snow against the tent in swirling blasts, and moaned dismally through the tree tops. The crackling fire in the stove, usually so cheerful, only served now to increase their sorrow. It offered warmth and comfort and protection from the night and cold and drifting snow, which Jamie, if he had not perished, was denied. They could only think of him as wandering and suffering in the cold and darkness, hungry and miserable, and they condemned themselves. When sleep finally carried the lads into unconsciousness, Doctor Joe's tall figure was still crouching before the stove, and when they awoke he was already up and had kindled a fresh fire in the stove, though it was not yet day, and the tent was lighted by the flickering flame of a candle. "'Twill be daylight by the time we've finished breakfast," said Doctor Joe as the lads sat up. "It's snowing harder than ever, but I think we had better go out as soon as we can see and have a look up the brook. Jamie may not be so far away. We may find him bivouacked quite close to camp. The snow is getting deep and we shall not find travelling easy." "We'll be lookin' the best we can, whatever," agreed David. "I couldn't bide in the tent with Jamie gone. I'm wakin' with a wonderful heavy heart. I'm findin' it hard to believe he's not about camp, and I were just dreamin' about he bein' lost." "That's the way I feels too," said Andy. "I wakes feelin' most like I'd have to cry. Can't I be goin' with you and Davy? I never can bide here whilst you're away, Doctor Joe." "Yes, we three will go and we'll take some of the other lads with us, though we'll have to leave somebody in camp to keep the fire going," agreed Doctor Joe. "We'll need warm tents when we come back, if we bring Jamie with us, and I hope we'll find him none the worse for his night out." "'Tisn't like 'twere winter," suggested David hopefully. "'Tisn't so cold, if he were havin' matches to put on a fire, but I'm doubtin' he has matches." "Let us hope he had. Andy, suppose you call the others," suggested Doctor Joe. "Breakfast is nearly ready." Andy was already dressed, and hurrying out he presently returned with the other lads. Breakfast of venison and bread with hot tea was hurriedly eaten, while they put forth all sorts of theories as to the cause of Jamie's disappearance and the possibilities of finding him. "I'm thinkin' now," said David with a more hopeful view as daylight began to filter through the tent, "that Jamie'll be knowin' how to fix a shelter, and that we'll be findin' he safe and that he'll be just losin' his way a bit in the storm. If he has matches he'll sure be puttin' a fire on." "I'm doubtin' he has the matches," suggested Andy discouragingly. "He weren't thinkin' to be away from camp and he weren't takin' any. He were never on the trails, and he'd sure be forgettin' to take un." "Let us hope he has them," Doctor Joe encouraged. "If he has matches I'm sure he'll be safe enough." "'Twere my fault he were gettin' lost," said Seth. "He'd never been gettin' lost if I'd only kept he in sight the way you said to do." "No," objected Doctor Joe, "we'll not say it was anybody's fault." Presently they were ready. Seth and Micah were detailed to remain in camp, and the others set forth, David and Doctor Joe carrying their rifles. In much the same manner as that adopted in the search for the rock the previous day, Doctor Joe and the boys spread out on the left, or westward, side of the brook. Now, however, they were much closer together, because they could see so short a distance through the snow. Walking was much harder, and their progress correspondingly slower. Thus they continued to the farthest point reached before turning back the previous day, David or Doctor Joe now and again firing shots from their rifles. Then they turned back, making the return just to the westward of the trail made by Doctor Joe, who was on the left flank as they passed up the brook. "There's a rock! There's a big rock!" shouted David, as the rock where Jamie had begun his search for the cache loomed high through the snow. Every one ran to the rock, and as they gathered by its side, Andy exclaimed: "I knows now what Jamie does! He were near enough to see the rock! He were the last one beyond Seth, and he finds un and he goes huntin' the cache by himself, and it gets dark and he gets lost when the snow comes!" "That sounds reasonable," admitted Doctor Joe. "I shouldn't be the least surprised if you were right! It's more than probable that's just what happened! The thing now is to find the direction Jamie probably took from here, and the snow has covered all trace of him." "With his trail all covered, there'll be no trackin' he. What'll we do about un?" asked David. "'Tis hard to think out what way Jamie'd be like to go from here." "Let's try goin' the way the paper said the cache was," suggested Andy. "Maybe Jamie finds un in the tree and climbs the tree and falls and hurts himself." "Andy is right," agreed Doctor Joe. "It is quite likely he used his copy of the directions to find the cache, and that he went in the direction specified. We'll do the same." It did not take them long to find the hackmatack tree, and in doing so they stumbled upon the pile of rocks Jamie had built up for a compass rest. It was covered with snow, but was high enough to be discernible, and a careful clearing of the snow discovered the fact that the stones had been recently piled. "They may have been piled by the man who made the cache," suggested Doctor Joe. "He'd never been doin' that!" objected David. "'Twould make the tree too easy to find. I'm thinkin' 'twere Jamie piles un." "What would Jamie be pilin' the stones for now?" asked Lige sceptically. "He'd not be takin' time to go pilin' up stones that way." "He piles un to pilot us when we comes huntin' he," suggested David. They took the next direction, and in due time discovered the round rock, the top of which they likewise cleared of snow that they might make quite certain it was the rock for which they were searching. Then, in due time, Jamie's second pile of rocks and finally the birch tree were located. At the birch tree all clues were lost. Vainly they circled the surrounding country, firing rifles occasionally until they came to the edge of the marsh. "We'd never be findin' he on the mesh, if he gets out there," suggested David. "No," agreed Doctor Joe, "and there's no reason to suppose that he crossed it to the other side." "That's what I thinks," said David. "He's somewheres this side of the mesh. He'd never cross un. He'd be knowin' there's no mesh between here and camp." "He'd know 'twere not the way to camp," declared Andy. "Jamie'd never be forgettin' that he crosses no mesh comin' from camp however turned about he is. He'd never be so turned about as that." "We'll search all the country, then, between this marsh and the brook," suggested Doctor Joe. They could not know that Jamie, on the opposite side of the marsh, was at that moment in a snug shelter, and had been listening to their rifle shots, and supposing them to be the breaking of dead branches in the wind. Jamie was too small and too inexperienced to face and weather the storm on the marsh, unassisted, but Doctor Joe or David or even Andy might have crossed it. How often it happens that an obstacle that might be surmounted turns us back at the very door of success! Wearily they trailed back through the woods, and up and down until darkness finally forced them to return to camp unsuccessful and heavy hearted. The younger lads were almost too weary to drag their feet behind them. They had eaten nothing since their early breakfast, but Seth and Micah, anxiously watching and hoping, had a hot supper of fried venison and bread and tea ready, and as soon as they had finished their meal, Doctor Joe directed that they go to bed and rest. Long before daybreak Doctor Joe was stirring. He lighted the fire, and when the kettle boiled roused David. Breakfast was ready when Andy awoke. "Is you startin' so early?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "'Tis wonderful early. We can't see to travel till light with snow fallin'." "Clear and fine outside!" said Doctor Joe, "I'm not satisfied that Jamie didn't cross the marsh. It's likely to be a long hard tramp and David and I are going alone this morning because we can travel faster. If we don't find Jamie by noon we'll come back after you and the other lads. You'll be fresh and rested then for the afternoon's search. We can't give it up till we find Jamie." "I'd be keepin' up with you," protested Andy. "If you go we'll have to take some of the others," objected Doctor Joe. "The snow is deep and they'll not be able to travel as fast as we shall. Let us go alone and if we need you we'll come for you." And so it was arranged. Presently David and Doctor Joe set forth in the frosty starlit morning. They turned their steps toward the marsh, and were near its eastern border when David stopped and sniffed the air. "I smell smoke!" he exclaimed eagerly. "Are you sure?" asked Doctor Joe, also sniffing. "I don't smell it." "There's a smell o' smoke!" insisted David. "The wind's from the west'ard, and the smoke comes from over the mesh. There's a fire somewheres over there." "Your nose is keener than mine," said Doctor Joe hopefully. "Go ahead, Davy. We'll see if you really smell smoke." David led the way out upon the marsh, and they had gone but a short distance when Doctor Joe was quite sure that he, also, smelled smoke. David hurried on with Doctor Joe at his heels. "There's somebody movin'!" exclaimed David presently. "See un? See un? 'Tis sure Jamie!" Then he ran and Doctor Joe ran, and thus they came upon the frightened Jamie, standing uncertainly before his lean-to. CHAPTER XX "WOLVES!" YELLED ANDY "Jamie! Jamie! We've been lookin' and lookin' for you!" shouted David, quite overcome with excitement and relief. "I'm so glad 'tis you!" exclaimed Jamie, tears springing to his eyes as he recognized Doctor Joe and David. "I was scared!" "Safe and sound as ever you could be, and all of us thinking you were lost under a snow-drift!" Doctor Joe in vast good humour slapped Jamie on the shoulder. "You gritty little rascal! I'll never worry about you again! Here you are as able to take care of yourself as any man on The Labrador! Come on now back to camp and we'll hear all about your adventures when you've eaten. Are you hungry?" "Wonderful hungry!" admitted Jamie. "Aye, we'll be makin' haste, for Andy and the lads are sore worried," said David. In single file, Doctor Joe and David tramping the trail for Jamie, they set out for camp. An hour later they crossed the brook, and with the first glimpse of the tents heard a shout of joy, as Andy and the other lads discovered them and came running to meet them. While Jamie satisfied an accumulated appetite he answered no end of questions. Every one was vastly excited as he related the story of his experience. "'Tweren't Lem Horn's silver they has after all," Jamie declared. "There were nothin' in the cache but the bottles they drinks from, and they were thinkin' a wonderful lot o' them bottles." David, in high indignation, was for setting out at once in search of the two lumbermen, but it was decided that they had doubtless already returned to the lumber camp. "They'd probably say that they were only having sport with you, Jamie, and meant you no harm," said Doctor Joe. "The people over at their camp would believe them rather than a little Labrador lad. We may as well waste no time with them. We'll leave them alone, and be thankful that Jamie is safe and well except for the burned wrists, and they'll soon be cured." "And we'll be havin' a fine time campin' here," agreed Jamie. "I wants to keep clear o' them men whatever." It was a week later when they broke camp to return to The Jug, and when the visiting lads said good-bye and set sail to their homes across the Bay every one declared he had never had so good a time in all his life. With the coming of November the boats were hauled out of the water. The shores were already crusted with ice and the temperature never rose to the thawing point even in the midday sun. The mighty Frost King had ascended his throne and was asserting his relentless power. Presently all the world would be kneeling at his feet. Buckskin moccasins with heavy blanket duffle socks of wool took the place of sealskin boots. The dry snow would not again soften to wet them until spring. The adiky, with its fur-trimmed hood, took the place of the jacket, soon to be augmented by sealskin netseks or caribou skin kulutuks. "The Bay's smokin'," David announced one evening as he came in after feeding the dogs. "She'll soon freeze now." In the days that followed the smoke haze hung over the water until, one morning, the Bay was fast, and the lapping of the waves was not to be heard again for many months. The nine sledge dogs were in fine fettle. Handsome, big fellows they were, but fearsome and treacherous enough. They looked like sleek, fat wolves, and they were, indeed, but domesticated wolves. Friendly they seemed, but they were ever ready to take advantage of the helpless and unwary, and their great white fangs were not above tearing their own master into shreds should he ever be so careless as to stumble and fall among them. The sledge was taken out and overhauled by David. It was fourteen feet long and two and a half feet wide. Twenty cross-bars formed the top. Not a nail was used in its construction, for nails would not hold an hour on rough ice. Everything was bound with sealskin thongs. The sledge shoes were of iron. These David polished bright with sand, and then applied a coating of seal oil. Finally the harness and long sealskin traces were examined, and all was ready. It was the end of November when the Bay froze, but there was no certainty that travelling would be safe upon the sea ice beyond Fort Pelican before the beginning of January. Therefore Doctor Joe confined his visits to the Bay folk during December, and on his first tour Andy served as driver with Jamie as passenger. The dogs were harnessed after the Eskimo fashion. That is to say, "fan shape," and not, as is customary in Alaska and among white men of the far northwest, in tandem. Leading from the komatik (sledge) in front was a single thong of sealskin with a loop on its end. This was called the "bridle." Each dog had an individual trace, its end passed through the loop in the bridle and securely tied. Tinker, the leading dog, was fully thirty-five feet from the komatik when his trace was stretched to its full length. He had the longest trace of all. He was trained to respond to shouted directions, turning to the right when "ouk" was called, or left for "rudder," the word being repeated several times by the driver in rapid succession. When it was desired that the dogs should stop, "ah" was the order, and when they were to go forward "ooisht," or "oksuit." The other dogs followed Tinker as a pack of wolves follows the leader. The two dogs directly behind Tinker had traces of equal length, but somewhat shorter, the pair behind them still shorter, and so on to the last pair. A long whip was used to keep them in subjection. This was of braided walrus hide an inch thick at its butt and tapering to a thin lash. To the butt was attached a short wooden handle a foot in length, to which was fastened a loop which was hooked over the protruding end of the forward cross-bar and the whip permitted to trail upon the ice when not in use, and at the same time it was always within the driver's reach. The boys had practised the manipulation of the whip all their lives. They could flick a square inch of ice at thirty feet with its tip. It was capable of a gentle tap, or the force of a pistol shot, at its wielder's discretion. The whip was the terror of the team, for even at his distance Tinker, the leader, could be brought to account if he failed to do his duty or obey commands. There was little sickness in the Bay, and after patching up a lumberman at Grampus River, and providing some medicine for old Molly Budd's rheumatics, Andy and Jamie turned homeward with Doctor Joe. Near the mouth of Grampus River there was a section of "bad ice" or ice that was not always safe to be crossed, the result doubtless of cross currents in the tide. To avoid this bad ice Andy followed the shore for a considerable distance before turning northward for the twelve-mile run directly across the Bay to The Jug. It was a dull, cold, dreary day. The snow ground and squeaked under the sledge runners. Now and again a confusion of shore ridges rendered the hauling bad and the dogs lagged. They were midway between Grampus River and the place where they were to make the turn northward when Jamie warned: "Look out, Andy! There's some loose dogs comin' out of the woods! They'll be fightin' the team!" Six big beasts, larger even than Thomas Angus's big dogs, were trotting out of the woods and upon the ice a hundred yards in advance. The team saw them, and with a howl rushed forward to the attack. "Wolves!" yelled Andy. "They's wolves!" The wolves were free. The dogs were bound by harness, and thus fettered were no match for the big, wild creatures. Andy's rifle was lashed upon the komatik. It was out of the question to free it in the moment before the wolves were upon them, and it was to be a hand-to-hand fight. CHAPTER XXI THE ALARM IN THE NIGHT The clash came instantly. The wolf pack was upon the dogs, and dogs and wolves were at once a howling, snarling, fighting mass. Great bared fangs gleamed and snapped. It was a fight to the death, a primordial fight for the survival of the fittest. The attack was launched with such indescribable suddenness that Doctor Joe and Jamie had scarcely time to drop from the komatik before it was begun. Andy had instinctively seized his whip and began to ply it with every opening that offered. The first stroke caught a big wolf across the eyes, and with howls of pain it immediately endeavoured to extricate itself from the fight. The lash had blinded it. With feverish haste Doctor Joe and Jamie undid the axe and rifle from the komatik, and Doctor Joe with the axe and Jamie with the rifle charged the fighting beasts. A lucky blow from the axe split a wolf's head. Jamie quickly found that to shoot at a distance he must take the risk of killing one of the dogs, but watching for an opening, with the muzzle of the rifle within an inch of a big wolf's body, he fired and another wolf was disposed of. In the meantime Andy had been plying the whip with such precision that the foot of one of the wolves had been torn off and another wolf so badly lacerated that as it broke temporarily away Jamie dropped it with the rifle, and then shot the blind wolf which was now roaming aimlessly about. A stroke from Doctor Joe's axe dispatched the fifth animal, and the remaining wolf, now at the mercy of the dogs, was literally torn into shreds. Hardly five minutes had elapsed from the moment Jamie discovered the pack trotting out of the woods until the fight was ended. The attack had been made with such suddenness and such savage fierceness that Doctor Joe and the boys had scarcely uttered a word. Now there was the tangle of dogs to be straightened out, and Andy was compelled to use his whip to drive them from the dead wolves and quiet them. Hardly one of them had escaped injury from the wolf fangs, and Dick, a faithful old fellow, was so badly mangled that Andy cut him loose from the harness to follow the komatik home at his leisure. [Illustration: IT WAS A FIGHT TO THE DEATH] "Dick's too much hurt to do any hauling for a month whatever," said Andy regretfully. "He won't die, will he?" asked Jamie sympathetically. "He'll get over un," Andy assured. "The dogs had grit, now!" Jamie boasted. "There's nary a team in the Bay could have fought like that!" "And I noticed you had some grit too," said Doctor Joe. "A wolf's fangs snapped within an inch of your leg, you young rascal, when you held the rifle against that fellow you shot." "I weren't thinkin' of that," said Jamie. One of the pelts was so badly torn by the dogs as to be valueless. The remaining carcasses were skinned, and the skins lashed upon the sledge, and as they turned homeward Andy remarked: "There's five good skins and they'll bring four dollars apiece whatever. 'Tweren't a bad hunt when we weren't huntin'." "You and Jamie can take the money you get for them and start a bank account," suggested Doctor Joe. "I'll send it to St. John's and put it in a bank for you, and then you'll have that test completed for both the second and first class. There's no doubt you've earned it." "Will you, sir? That's fine now!" exclaimed Andy. "Davy wasn't with us, and he'll have to set traps to earn his. But he'll get a marten or two, whatever." "There's no doubt about David's catching the martens," said Doctor Joe. "If there's a marten around he'll catch it." It was dark when they reached The Jug. Margaret and David were quite excited when they heard the story of the adventure, and mighty pleased with its ending. "'Twere a stray pack," said David, "and they were hungry. Pop had a pack come at he that way once, but they just took one of the dogs and ran off." A wonderful Christmas they had at The Jug that year. Doctor Joe had no end of surprises stowed away in mysterious boxes that he had brought from New York and deposited in his old cabin at Break Cove. He and David brought them over with the dogs on Christmas eve, and on Christmas morning they were opened. The one disappointment of the day was the failure of Thomas to be with them. He had suggested at the time he departed for the Seal Lake trails in the autumn that he might come out of the wilderness for additional provisions at Christmas time, but it was a long and tedious journey, and they knew it was one he would hardly undertake unless pressed by need. Christmas holiday week was always one of celebration at the Hudson's Bay Company's Post. At this time trappers and Indians emerged from the silent wilderness to barter their early catch of furs and to purchase fresh supplies; and on New Year's eve it was the custom of the men and women of the Bay to gather at the Post for the final festivities. All day long sledge load after sledge load of jolly folk appeared to take part in the great New Year's eve dance, and to enter into the shooting contests and snowshoe and other races on New Year's day. Eli and Mark Horn drove their team in at The Jug just at dinner time on New Year's eve, and Eli invited Margaret to go on with them and visit Kate Hodge, the daughter of the Post servant. "We'll be short of lasses at the dance, and we needs un all," said Eli. "I'd like wonderful well to go," said Margaret wistfully. "Go on," urged Doctor Joe. "You'll have a good time and the boys and I will make out famously here. You get away seldom enough and see too few people. 'Twill do you good, lass." "Aye, come on now!" Eli urged. "We'll take you over snug and warm in our komatik box. Kate'll be wonderful glad to see you, and we'll bring you back the day after New Year." "I'll go," Margaret consented, her eyes dancing with pleasure. "And there'll be no prettier lass there," said Doctor Joe gallantly, which brought a blush to Margaret's cheek and caused Eli to chuckle. Margaret hastened her toilet and was ready in a jiffy. She was all a-flutter with excitement when Eli tucked her in a box rigged on the rear of the komatik, and wrapped her snugly with caribou skins. "You must have had it in mind to capture Margaret when you left home, Eli," Doctor Joe suggested with a twinkle in his eye. "Men don't take travelling boxes when they go alone." Eli grinned sheepishly as he broke the komatik loose, and the dogs dashed away. It was a dull cold day with a leaden sky, and snow was shifting restlessly over the ice. The wind was in the south-east, and as they entered the cabin David remarked: "There'll be snow before to-morrow mornin'." When they had eaten supper that evening and cleared the table David stepped out for a look at the weather, and returning reported: "'Twill be a nasty night. The snow's started and the wind's risin'. 'Tis wonderful frosty, too, for a wind." "Let's see how cold it is," said Doctor Joe, stepping out to consult his spirit thermometer. "Thirty-eight below zero. Frosty enough with a gale, and a gale's rising," he reported. "I'm glad we're all snug inside." "Tell us a story," Jamie suggested, as they settled themselves comfortably by the fire. "There's dogs comin'!" Andy broke in. David ran to the door, and a moment later ushered Eli Horn into the cabin. "What's the matter, Eli? Has anything happened?" asked Doctor Joe, immediately concerned for Margaret's safety. "Margaret's safe," said Eli with suppressed excitement. "There's murder at the Post!" Questions brought forth the fact that Eli and Margaret had reached the Post at about half-past three and found the people in confusion. Three lumbermen from Grampus River had come there. There had been a dispute among them and one of them was stabbed. The other two had immediately departed, presumably to return to the lumber camps. Eli did not know how seriously the man was injured. He had not seen him. It had occurred shortly before his arrival, and at Margaret's suggestion he had turned directly about and returned to The Jug to fetch Doctor Joe to attend the injured man. "My dogs is fagged," said Eli, "and 'twere slow comin' back." "David will take me over with his dogs. They're fresh, and will travel faster," said Doctor Joe. In ten minutes David was ready with the dogs harnessed, and the two teams drove away into the darkness and storm. Andy and Jamie were greatly excited. Tragedies enough happened up and down the coast when men were drowned or lost in the ice or met with fatal injuries. But never before in the Bay had one man been cut down by the hand of another. It was a ghastly thought, and the awfulness of it was perhaps accentuated by the snow dashing against the window panes and the wind shrieking around the gables of the cabin. It was near ten o'clock, long past their usual bedtime, and they were still talking, for there was matter enough in their brains to banish sleep, when the door suddenly opened and accompanied by the howl of the wind a snow-covered figure lurched in upon them. CHAPTER XXII THE IMMUTABLE LAW OF GOD "Peter! 'Tis Peter Sparks!" exclaimed Andy with vast relief to find it was not a murderous lumberman. "I'm comin' after Doctor Joe!" gasped Peter, as half frozen he drew off his snow-caked netsek. "Me rub your nose, Peter. She's froze, and your cheeks too," broke in Andy, vigorously rubbing Peter's whitened nose and cheeks. Peter was silent perforce while Andy manipulated the frosted parts until circulation and colour were restored. "Come to the fire now and warm up," directed Andy. "What you wantin' of Doctor Joe?" "There's been murder done, or clost to un!" Peter, at last free to articulate, continued. "Murder at the lumber camp!" "Murder!" repeated Jamie, awesomely. "Aye, nigh to murder whatever!" Peter reiterated. "Doctor Joe's gone to the Post," said Andy. "Eli Horn came for he. Two of the lumber folk most killed another of un over there. Davy took Doctor Joe over." "And two of un most killed the boss at the camp," explained Peter. "They comes there from the Post about six o'clock and were packin' a flatsled with things. The boss asks un where they's goin'. They answers some way that makes he mad, and he hits one of un. Then they jumps at he and pounds and kicks he till he's like dead, and he don't come to again. The two men has rifles and they keeps all the lumbermen back, and off they goes with the flatsled, and they gets away." "Will the boss die then?" asked Jamie in horror. "With Doctor Joe gone he'll sure be dyin'," declared Peter desperately. "His arm is broke and he's broke somewhere inside, and his face is awful to look at, all pounded and kicked and bleedin'. Me and Lige goes up to sit a bit and hear un tell their stories, and we gets there just after the two men gets away. With Doctor Joe's teachin' we fixes the boss up the best we can, and whilst Lige stays to help look after he, I comes for Doctor Joe. Pop's to the Post with the dogs and I has to walk, and facin' the wind 'twere hard. And now Doctor Joe's gone, the poor man'll sure die!" "You has wonderful grit to come!" said Jamie admiringly. "'Tis wonderful frosty and nasty outside." "'Twere to save the boss's life! 'Tis the scout law," Peter asserted stoutly. "I'll be goin' to the Post now for Doctor Joe." "You're nigh done up, Peter. You'll be stayin' here with Jamie. _I'm_ goin' to the Post for Doctor Joe," declared Andy. "I am most done up," Peter confessed. "But the wind'll be in your back goin' to the Post. She's just startin' though, and she'll be a wonderful sight worse than she is now before you gets there. 'Twill be terrible nasty." "I'm goin' too," said Jamie. "You're not goin'," said Andy. "I'm bigger and I can travel faster if you're not comin'. 'Twould be wrong to leave Peter here alone." "I'm _goin_!" repeated Jamie stubbornly. "Won't you be stayin' with me?" pleaded Peter. "I--I'm afeared to stay here alone with those two men like to come in on me." "I'll stay," Jamie consented. A blast of wind shook the cabin. "I'm fearin' you can't do it, Andy! 'Twill soon be too much for flesh and blood out on the Bay!" said Peter. "'Tis in my scout oath to do my best," said Andy, adjusting the hood of his sealskin netsek. "I'm goin', now." Andy closed the door behind him. It was pitchy dark. The snow was driving in blinding clouds, and he stood for a moment to catch his breath. Then he felt his way down across The Jug and out upon the Bay ice. Here the full force of the north-east blizzard met him. He staggered and choked with the first blast, then in a temporary lull forged ahead. The storm, as Peter predicted, had not reached its height. Each smothering blast of fury was stronger and fiercer than the one before it. Andy took advantage of the lulls, and save when the heavier blasts came and nearly swept him from his feet, maintained a steady trot. In the swirl of snow-clouds he could see nothing a foot from his nose. Once he found himself floundering through pressure ridges formed by the tide near shore. This he calculated was the tip of a long point jutting out into the Bay, half-way between The Jug and the Post. Ten miles of the distance was behind him. He drew farther out upon the ice. There were times when Andy had to throw himself prone upon the ice with his face down and sheltered by his arms to escape suffocation. "'Tis gettin' wonderful nasty," he said, "but I'll have plenty o' grit, like Jamie says, and with the Lord's help I'll pull through." Then he found himself repeating over and over again the prayer: "Dear Lord, help me through! 'Tis to save a life, and the scout oath! Dear Lord, help me through!" The gale had now risen to such terrific proportions that often he was compelled to crawl upon his hands and knees. With each momentary lull he would rise and stagger forward. His legs worked at these times without conscious effort. It was strange his legs should be like that. They had never felt like that before. And so, crawling, staggering upright, crawling again, and lying for minutes at a time with his face in his arms that he might breathe when he was well-nigh overwhelmed and suffocated, Andy kept on. He could recall little of the last hours on the ice. It was a confused sensation of rising and falling, staggering and crawling until he collided with an obstruction, and recognizing it as the jetty at the Post, his brain roused to a degree of consciousness, and his heart leaped with joy. With much fumbling he succeeded in donning his snow-shoes, which were slung upon his back, for the twenty yards that lay between the ice and the buildings was covered with deep drift. Once he stepped upon a dog that lay huddled and sleeping under the drift. It sprang out with a snarl and snapped at his legs. A hundred of the savage creatures were lying about in the snow. Day comes late in Labrador. It was still pitchy dark outside when Andy, at eight o'clock in the morning, lurched into the kitchen at the Post house, and fell sprawling upon the floor. He had been battling the storm for ten hours. David and Margaret, Eli and Mark and several others were there. Doctor Joe was at breakfast in the Factor's quarters, and they called him. Andy's face was covered with a mass of caked snow and ice. His nose and cheeks and chin were white and badly frosted, and upon removing his mittens and moccasins, his hands and feet were found to be in the same condition. Mr. MacCreary, the factor, placed a bed at Doctor Joe's disposal, and when the frost had been removed and circulation had been restored, Andy was tucked into warm blankets. "That chap had grit," remarked Mr. MacCreary as he and Doctor Joe left David and Margaret by the bedside and Andy asleep. "The Angus boys are all gritty fellows. They're the sort the Company needs." "Yes," Doctor Joe agreed heartily, "and they never shirk their duty. Andy is a Boy Scout, and he did what he considered his duty. Now I must go to the lumber camp and fix up that boss, if he isn't beyond fixing up." With the coming of dawn the wind subsided and the snow ceased to fall. Eli harnessed his dogs when it was light, and with the lumberman who had been stabbed, but whose injuries were not after all serious, he and Doctor Joe set out for Grampus River. At the lumber camp they found Lige Sparks, Obadiah Button and Micah Dunk installed as volunteer nurses. The man had a broken arm, three broken ribs, and had suffered internal injuries that demanded prompt attention. "If Andy hadn't come for me, and if I'd been delayed much longer in reaching the camp," said Doctor Joe later, "the man would have died. Thanks to the boys, his life will be saved." That day and that night Doctor Joe remained with his patient. On the following morning it became necessary for him to return to The Jug for additional dressings and medicines. Eli drove him over. The sky was clear, and the morning was bitterly cold, with rime hanging like a filmy veil in the air and glistening like flakes of silver in the sunshine. Doctor Joe and Eli ran in turns by the side of the komatik, while the dogs trotted briskly. "What's that, now?" asked Eli, pointing to a black object far out on the white field of ice, as they approached The Jug. "I can't make out," said Doctor Joe after a long scrutiny. "We'll see," and Eli turned the dogs toward the object. "It looks like a flatsled," said Doctor Joe as they approached. "'Tis a flatsled," said Eli. "'Tis the men ran away from the lumber camp." A gruesome sight met them as Eli brought the dogs to a stop. Huddled close and lying by the side of the toboggan, partially covered by drift, were the stiff-frozen bodies of two men. "They were lost in the storm," said Eli presently. "They must have been wanderin' about till the frost got the best of un." Doctor Joe and Eli lifted the remains to the komatik, attaching the toboggan to trail behind, and with their ghastly burden they turned in at The Jug. Jamie and Peter, vastly concerned for Andy's safety, met them, and were as vastly relieved when they learned that Andy would be not much the worse for his experience, and that the lumber boss would live. The two bodies were carried into the wood-shed and laid side by side upon the floor, to remain there until evening, when Doctor Joe and Eli would return them to Grampus River for burial. It was then that Jamie looked for the first time upon the upturned dead faces, and as he did so he exclaimed, with horror: "They's the men! They's the men that had the cache and tied me up!" "They've been hard men in life and probably done much evil in their day, but they're past it now and we'll treat their remains gently and humanly," said Doctor Joe as he covered their faces with a cloth. Then they undid the flatsled and carried the contents into the cabin, where the things would be safe from the dogs. There were provisions, a bag of clothing, two thirty-eight calibre rifles, a quantity of ammunition and a small bag, which Jamie declared was the bag which had been cached in the tree. "I'm goin' to look at un," said Eli. "'Twill do no harm." Eli undid the bag and drew forth a package which proved to contain a large roll of bills, amounting to several hundred dollars. Then followed two marten pelts, a red fox pelt, and the pelt of a beautiful silver fox. Eli shook the silver fox pelt, and holding it up examined it critically. "'Tis Pop's silver!" he exclaimed. "Are you sure?" asked Doctor Joe. "'Tis Pop's silver! I'd know un anywheres!" declared Eli positively. "Then," said Doctor Joe, "it was not Indian Jake but these men who shot your father and stole the fur." "And stole our boat!" Jamie broke in excitedly. "'Twere they stole the silver," Eli admitted, "and the Lord punished un. I'm wonderful glad my bullet went abroad and didn't hurt Indian Jake." "We all thought Indian Jake guilty," said Doctor Joe. "How easy it is to pass judgment on people, and how often we misjudge them!" "And knowin' he didn't take un, and after I'd tried to kill he," went on Eli contritely, "he were wonderful good to me, havin' me bide to supper and givin' me deer's meat." "I'm rememberin'," broke in Jamie, "that the men were talkin' o' somethin' they were takin' from the ship, and fearin' the lumber boss would find out about un. 'Twere the money they means." There was a howl of arriving dogs outside, and Jamie rushed to the door to meet David and Andy and Margaret, and, to his unbounded delight, Thomas and Indian Jake. While Thomas was being overwhelmed by Jamie, Indian Jake with a broad grin extended his hand to Eli. "How do, Eli?" "How do, Jake?" Eli took Indian Jake's hand. "I got the silver back, Jake, and you never took un. I'm wonderful sorry the way I done." "I've got your ca'tridges here, Eli," grinned Indian Jake. "You can have un back now." "But didn't Andy have grit, now!" Jamie's voice rose above the babel. "Didn't he have grit to go out in the night when 'twas _that_ nasty! And a stout heart, too, like a man! Andy's a wonderful fine scout, whatever!" And so ended the mystery of the shooting and the robbery of Lem Horn, and so the guilty were discovered and punished, as in some manner and at some time all wrong-doers are discovered and punished. It is the immutable law of God. 
13396	----	Proofreading Team. SWEETAPPLE COVE BY GEORGE VAN SCHAIGK 1914 CHAPTER I _From John Grant's Diary_ Have I shown wisdom or made an arrant, egregious fool of myself? This, I suppose, is a question every man puts to himself after taking a sudden decision upon which a great deal depends. I have shaken the dust of the great city by the Hudson and forsaken its rich laboratories, its vast hospitals, the earnest workers who were beginning to show some slight interest in me. It was done not after mature consideration but owing to the whim of a moment, to a sudden desire to change the trend of things I felt I could no longer contend with. Now I live in a little house, among people who speak with an accent that has become unfamiliar to the great outside world. They have given up their two best rooms to me, at a rental so small that I am somewhat ashamed to tender it, at the end of every week. I also obtain the constant care and the pleasant smiles of a good old housewife who appears to take a certain amount of pride in her lodger. As far as I know I am the only boarder in Sweetapple Cove, as well as the only doctor. For a day or two after my arrival I accompanied the local parson, Mr. Barnett, on visits to people he considered to be in need of my ministrations. Now they are coming in droves, and many scattered dwellers on the bleak coast have heard of me. Little fishing-smacks meeting others from farther outports have spread the amazing news that there is a doctor at the Cove. With other pomps and vanities I have given up white shirts and collars, and my recent purchases include oilskins and long boots. This is fashionable apparel here, and my wearing them appears to impart confidence in my ability. My only reason for writing this is that the Barnetts go to bed early. Doubtless I may also acquire the habit, in good time. Moreover, there is always a danger of disturbing some important sermon-writing. In common decency I can't bother these delightful people every evening, although they have begged me to consider their home as my own. Mrs. Barnett is a most charming woman, and never in my life have I known anything like the welcome she impulsively extended, but she works hard and I cannot intrude too much. Hence the hours after nine are exceedingly long, when it chances that there are no sick people to look after. At first, of course, I just mooned around, and called myself all sorts of names, honestly considering myself the most stupendous fool ever permitted to exist in freedom from restraint. I plunged into books and devoured the medical weeklies which the irregular mails of the place brought me, yet this did not entirely suffice, and now I have begun to write. It may help the time to pass away, and prevent the attacks of mold and rust. Later on, if things do not shape themselves according to my hopes, these dangers will be of little import. These sheets may then mildew with the dampness of this land, or fly away to sea with the shrewd breezes that sweep over our coast, for all I shall care. At any rate they will have served their purpose. Of course I am trying to swallow my medicine like a little man. If there is a being I despise it is the fellow who whimpers. There is little that is admirable in professional pugilism, saving the smile often seen on a fighter's face after he has just received a particularly hard and crushing blow. Indeed, that smile is the bruiser's apology for his life. Lest it be inferred that I have been fighting, I hasten to declare that it was a rather one-sided contest in which I was defeated, lock, stock and barrel, by a mere slip of a girl towards whom I had only lifted up my hands in supplication. "We are both very young, John," she explained to me, with an exasperating, if unconscious, imitation of the doctors she had observed as they announced very disagreeable things to their patients. "Our lives are practically only beginning. Until now we have been like the vegetables that are brought up in little wooden boxes. We are to be taken up and planted in a field, where we are to grow up into something useful." "And we shall enjoy a great advantage over the young cabbages and lettuces," I chimed in. "We shall have the inestimable privilege of being permitted to select the particular farm or enclosure that pleases us best." "Of course," said Dora Maclennon, cheerfully. "But I should be ever so glad to have you select for the two of us," I told her. "I guarantee to follow you blindly." She put her hand on my arm and patted it in the abominably soothing way she has doubtless acquired in the babies' ward. In my case it was about as effectual as the traditional red rag to a bull. "Don't you dare touch me like that," I resented. "I'm quite through with the mumps and measles. My complaint is one you don't understand at all. You are unable to sympathize with me because love, to you, is a mere theoretical thing. You've heard of it, perhaps you are even ready to admit that some people suffer from such an ailment, but you don't really know anything about it. It has not been a part of your curriculum. I've been trying to inoculate you with this distemper but it won't take." "I suppose I'm a poor sort of soil for that kind of culture," she replied, rather wistfully. "There is no finer soil in the world," I protested, doggedly. Every man in the world and at least half the women would have agreed with me. The grace of her charming figure, her smiles and that one little dimple, the waving abundance of her silken hair, the rich inflections of her voice, each and all contradicted that foolish supposition of hers. "Well, I thought this was an invitation to dinner," remarked Dora, sweetly, with all the brutal talent of her sex for changing the drift of conversation. "Of course they fed us well at the hospital, when we had time to eat, but...." "Is that your last word?" I asked, trying to subdue the eagerness of my voice. "If you don't really care to go...." I rose and sought my hat and overcoat, while Dora wandered about my unpretentious office. "Your landlady could take lessons from Paddy's pig in cleanliness," she declared, running a finger over my bookcase and contemplating it with horror. "I wonder that you, a surgeon, should be an accomplice to such a mess." "It's pretty bad," I admitted, "but the poor thing has weak eyes, and she has seen better days." "She deserves the bad ones, then," Dora exclaimed. "As in the case of many other maladies, we have as yet been unable to discover the microbe of woman's inhumanity to woman," I observed. "When doggies meet they commonly growl," said Dora, "and when pussies meet they usually spit and scratch. Each according to his or her nature. And it seems to me that you could afford a new overcoat. That one is positively becoming green." "I do believe I have another one, somewhere," I admitted. "Then go and find it," she commanded. "You need some one to look after you." I turned on her like the proverbial flash, or perhaps like the Downtrodden worm. "Isn't that just what I've been gnashing my teeth over?" I asked. "I'm glad you have the grace to admit it." "I'll admit anything you like," she said. "But, John dear, we can't really be sure yet that I'm the one who ought to do it. And--and maybe there will be no room at the tables unless we hurry a little." She was buttoning up her gloves again, quite coolly, and cast approving glances at some radiographic prints on my wall. "That must have been a splendid fracture," she commented. "You are a few million years old in the ways of Eve," I told her, "but you are still young in the practice of trained nursing. To you broken legs and, perhaps, broken hearts, are as yet but interesting cases." She turned her shapely head towards me, and for an instant her eyes searched mine. "Do you really believe that?" she asked, in a very low-sweet voice. I stood before her, penitently. "I don't suppose I do," I acknowledged. "Let us say that it was just some of the growling of the dog. He doesn't usually mean anything by it." "You're an awfully good fellow, John," said the little nurse, pleasantly. "I know I've been hurting you a bit. Please, I'm sorry the medicine tastes so badly." The only thing I could do was to lift up one of her hands and kiss a white kid glove, _faute de mieux_. It was stretched over her fingers, however, and hence was part of her. When we reached the restaurant she selected a table and placed herself so that she might see as many diners as possible. If there had been people outside of Paradise, Eve would certainly have peeped through the palings. I handed her the bill of fare and she begged for Cape Cods. "You order the rest of it," she commanded. "I'm going to look." While I discussed dishes with the waiter her eyes wandered over the big room, taking in pretty dresses and becoming coiffures. Then she watched the leader of the little orchestra, who certainly wielded a masterful bow, and gave a little sigh of content. "We really could afford this at least once or twice a week," I sought to tempt her, "and the theatre besides, and--and--" She looked at me very gravely, moving a little from side to side, as if my head presented varied and interesting aspects. "That's one of the troubles with you," she finally said. "You have some money, a nice reasonable amount of money, and you can afford some things, and I can't tell whether you're going to be an amateur or a professional." "An amateur?" I repeated, dully. "I mean no reflection upon your abilities," she explained, hurriedly. "I know all that you have done in London and in Edinburgh, and these German places. You can tack more than half the letters of the alphabet after your name if you choose to. But I don't quite see what you are doing in New York." "You wrote that you were coming to study nursing here," I reminded her. "This is now a great centre of scientific research, thanks to the princely endowments of the universities. Have you the slightest notion of how many years I have loved you, Dora?" "Not quite so loud," she reproved me. "I believe it began in dear old St. John's. You were about fourteen when you declared your passion, and I wore pigtails and exceedingly short skirts. My legs, also, were the spindliest things." "Yes, that was the beginning, Dora, and it has continued ever since. During the years I spent abroad we kept on writing. It seemed to me that the whole thing was settled. I've always had your pictures with me; the first was little Dora, and the other one was taken when you first did your hair up and wore long dresses. During all that time St. John's was the garden of the Hesperides, and you were the golden thing I was toiling for. When you wrote that you were coming to New York I took the next boat over. Then you told me I must wait until you graduated. And now, after your commencement, I hoped, indeed I hoped--I'm afraid I'm worrying you, dear." She smiled at me, very pleasantly, but the little dimple held naught but mystery. I really think her eyes implied a sort of regret, as if she wished she could make the ordeal less hard for me. The waiter brought the oysters, which Dora consumed appreciatively. I was simply compelled to eat also, lest she should deem me a peevish loser in the great game I had sought to play. Yet I remember that these Cape Cods were distinctly hard to swallow, delicious though they probably were. Suddenly she looked up, and the little oyster impaled on her fork dropped on the plate. "There's Taurus!" she exclaimed, with gleaming eyes. She was looking at a rather tall man, of powerful build, whose abundant hair was splendidly tinged with silver, and who was coming in with a very beautiful woman. "Is that what you nurses call him?" I asked, recognizing one of the great surgeons of the world. "Yes," she answered. "Isn't he wonderful? We're all in love with him, the mean thing." "Kindly explain the adjective," I urged her. "Is it due to the fact that he protected himself against the wiles of a host of pretty women by marrying the sweetest one of the lot--with a single exception--to the utter despair of the remainder?" "Did you ever hear him blow up his house-staff?" Dora asked me. "I have heard that he could be rather strenuous at times," I admitted. "Well, that's how he infringes on our rights," Dora informed me. "I have never heard him say an angry word to a nurse. He just has a way of smiling at one, as if he were beholding an infinitesimal infant totally incapable of understanding. The sarcasm of it is utterly fierce and the nurse goes off, red and shaken, and feels like killing him. Don't you think we've got just as good a right as any whipper-snapper of a new intern to be blown up?" "Evidently," I assented. "It is an unfair discrimination." "And yet we're all just crazy for him. You can hardly understand how the personality of the man permeates the wards, how he gives one the impression of some wonderful being who has reached a pinnacle, and remains there, smilingly, without heeding the crowd below that worships and cheers. And how the patients adore him!" She evidently expected no answer from me, nor did I venture upon one. Her words were very significant, and gave me a rather hopeless feeling. She was under the influence of the glamour of great names and reputations. Her youth demanded hero-worship. Measured by her standards I was but a nice friend, to whom she could even be affectionate. Presently, in her enjoyment of our modest little dinner, she turned to me, appearing to forget the crowd, and sighed happily. "This would all be so delightful," she said, "if...." "I'll tell you, girlie," I said, "let us agree that all this has been a dream of mine. We will say that I have never been in love with you, and regard you now with profound indifference. It has been that which some very amazing practitioners are pleased to call an error. Now you will be able to enjoy happiness. As far as I am concerned I don't suppose it can make me feel any worse." "You're a dear good boy, John," she answered. "We shall always be awfully good friends, and perhaps, some day ... Now you must tell me all your plans." "Ladies first," I objected. "Well, my heart is still in Newfoundland, you know. But I'm going to stay at least a year in New York. I'm going to work among the poorest and most unpleasant, because I want to become self-reliant. Then I shall go back home. Think of a trained nurse let loose in some of those outports! I should just revel in it. I am an heiress worth five hundred dollars a year of my own. That would keep a lot of people up there. You see, I have a theory!" "Will you be so kind as to share it with me?" I asked. "Well, ordinary nursing is a humdrum thing" and there are thousands to do it. It is the same thing with you. Just now, having no practice as yet, you are working in laboratories with a lot of others; you run around hospitals--also with a crowd. What do you know about your ability to go right out and do a man's work, by yourself? That is what counts, to my mind." "I see the point," I informed her, "and you expect surely to return to the land of codfish." "Yes," she nodded, "and now what about you?" "Oh, I am going there next week," I replied. She opened her eyes very wide, vaguely scenting some sort of joke, but in this she erred. "I see no use in remaining here," I said, with a determination as strong as it was recent. "It would take me a long time to put myself on the level of men like Taurus, and I don't want a lot of nurses falling in love with me; I only asked for one. You are going back after a time. Very well, I'm going now, and I'll wait for you. I can easily find some place where a doctor is badly needed. You will answer my letters, won't you?" "I promise," she said, very gravely, "and it is a very good idea. One can always do a man's work up there." She ate a Nesselrode pudding while I enjoyed coffee and a cigar, to the extent that I forgot to drink the one and allowed the other to go out after a puff or two. "Your money came from a good St. John's merchant who made it from the people of the outports," she said. "You might spend a little on them now, gracefully. They need it badly enough." We remained silent for some time, thinking of the bleak coast of our big island, where the price of our little dinner would have represented a large sum, and then we left the restaurant and took a car up town. When she finally held out her little hand to me it was warm, and I fancied that from it came a current that was comforting, though it may have been but the affectionate regard of some years of good friendship. "You will dine again with me, next Thursday?" I asked her. "It will take me a few days to get ready." "Don't you think that Gordian knot had better be cut at once?" advised Dora. "I won't change my mind, and you know I've always been an obstinate thing. There are important things for both of us to achieve, somewhere. I must grope about to find my share of them, for I feel like the ship that did not find itself till it encountered a storm or two. If I promised to meet you next week you would keep on hoping. Do plunge right in now instead of shivering on the bank." "Don't trouble about any more metaphors," I told her. "You promise to go home within a year?" "I firmly intend to," she replied, "but you can't always depend on a woman's plans." "If I can't depend on you I have very little left to believe in," I declared. "I'm pretty sure I'll come," she said, "and--and God bless you, John!" So we separated there, in the silent street, before the nurses' home where she had taken a room a few days after her graduation. I couldn't trust myself to say anything more. The door closed upon her and I slowly walked back to my quarters, with a head full of dreary thoughts, and several times narrowly escaped speeding taxis and brought down upon myself some picturesque language. I fear that I was hardly in a mood to appreciate its beauty. CHAPTER II _From John Grant's Diary_ Four weeks ago, this evening, I sat with Dora in that bright dining room at the Rochambeau. My description of that last meeting of ours is a rather flippant one, I fancy, but some feminine faces are improved by powder, and some men's sentiments by a veneer of assumed cheerfulness. That cut of mine has not the slightest intention of healing by first intention; it is gaping as widely as ever, as far as I can judge. Yet I am glad I made no further effort. I suppose a man had better stop before he gets himself disliked. Yesterday morning I came out of a dilapidated dwelling in which I had spent the whole night, and scrambled away over some rocks. When I sat down my legs were hanging over a chasm at the foot of which grandly rolling waves burst into foam, keeping up the warfare waged during a million years against our sturdy cliffs. Rays of dulled crimson sought to penetrate, feebly, through the fog, as if the sun knew only too well how often it had been defeated in its contest against the murky vapors of this hazy land. My meeting with Mr. Barnett on the _Rosalind_ was a most fortunate accident. The earnest little clergyman sat next to me at the table, and immediately engaged me in conversation. I gathered from him that he had been begging in the great city and had managed to collect a very few hundred dollars for his little church. He spoke most cheerfully of all that he meant to achieve with all this wealth. "I am going to have the steeple finished," he said. "It will take but a few feet of lumber, and we still have half a keg of nails. Some day I expect to have a little reading room, and perhaps a magic lantern. I will try to give them some short lectures. I am ambitious, and hope that I am not expecting too much. We are really doing very nicely at Sweetapple Cove." "Where is that?" I asked him. The little parson gave me the desired geographical information and, finding me interested, began to speak of his work. He was one of the small band of devoted men whose lives are spent on the coast, engaged in serving their fellow-men to the best of their abilities. The extent of his parish was scarcely limited by the ability of a fishing boat to travel a day's journey, and he spoke very modestly of some rather narrow escapes from storm and ice. "If we only had a doctor!" he sighed. "Mrs. Barnett and I do our best. Things are sometimes just heartrending." At once I manifested interest, and angled for further information. This was just the sort of place I had in mind. It appeared that the nearest doctor was more than a day's travel away, and that the population was rather too poor to afford the luxury of professional advice. "We sometimes feel very hopeless," he told me. "How do you reach Sweetapple Cove?" I asked him. "There will be a little schooner in a few days," he answered. "I am a physician," I announced, "and am looking for exactly that kind of a practice." We were strolling on the deck at this time. Mr. Barnett turned quickly and grasped my arm. "There is hardly a dollar there for you," he said. "No sane man would come to such a place to practice. And there is a little hardship in that sort of work. You don't realize it." "I am under the impression that it is just the place for me," I told him. "There is really good salmon fishing in Sweetapple River," he began, excitedly, "and you can get caribou within a day's walk, and there are lots of trout, and..." I could see that he was eager to find some redeeming points for Sweetapple Cove. "Behold the tempter," I laughed. "Dear me! Of course I did not mean to tempt you," he said, flushing like a girl. "And I'm afraid you would have to live in some fisherman's house, and to furnish medicines as well as your services. Of course they might pay you something if the fishing happened to be good. It sometimes is, you know." As soon as we arrived in St. John's I made many and sundry purchases, with a proper discount for cash, and three days later we sailed out of the harbor on a tiny schooner laden with salt, barrels of flour and various other provisions. In less than forty-eight hours we arrived in Sweetapple Cove. The delighted reception I received from Mrs. Barnett, a sweet lovable woman, exalted my ideas of the value of my profession. She simply gloated over me and patted her husband on the back as if his superior genius had been the true cause of my arrival. At once she made arrangements for my living with Captain Sammy Moore, an ancient of the sea whose nice old wife accepted with tremulous pride the honor of sheltering me. The inhabitants and their offspring, the dogs and the goats, the fowls and the solitary cow, trooped about me for closer inspection, and my practice became at once established. I have taken some formidable walks over the barrens back inland, and have angled with distinguished success. The days are becoming fairly crowded ones. Shortly after sunrise, the day before yesterday, I was called upon to go to a little island several miles out at sea. Captain Sammy and a man called Frenchy took me out there. Their little fishing smack is the cab I use for running my remoter errands. I found a man nearly dying from a bad septic wound of his right arm. I judged that he might possibly survive an amputation, but that the loss of the breadwinner's limb would have been just as bad, as far as his family was concerned, as the death of the patient. There was nothing to do but grit one's teeth and take chances. I remained with him throughout the night, and in the morning was glad to detect some slight improvement. The keen breeze that expanded my lungs as I sat on the rocks did me a great deal of good. It rested me after the dreary vigil and presently I returned to my patient. I'm afraid that we men are poor nurses. We can keep on fighting and struggling and trying, but when we have to sit still and watch with folded arms the iron enters our souls, while the consciousness of helpless waiting is after all the bitterest thing we can contend against. Women are far more patient and enduring. Constantly I renewed the dressings, and bathed the limb in antiseptics, and gave a few stimulating drugs. Then I would watch the man's hurried breathing and feverish pulse. But I could not remain with idle hands very long at a time, and frequently strolled out to breathe the sea-scented air, in some place well to windward of the poor little fishhouses that reeked infamously with the scattered offal of cod. A disconsolate man was trying to mend a badly frayed net and a few ragged children, gaunt and underfed, followed me about, curiously, whispering among themselves. The sick man's wife sat most of the time, near the bed, hour after hour, a picture of intense, stolid misery. From time to time she wailed because there was no more tea. Always she hastened to obey my slightest request, clumsily, faithfully, like some humble dog to which some hard and scarcely understood task might have been given. One could see that she really had no hope. The usual way was for the men to fail to return, some day, when they went out and were caught in a bad storm, or when the ice-floes drifted out to sea, and then the women would wait, patiently, until the certainty of their bereavement had entered their souls. This one had the sad privilege of witnessing the tragedy. It was all happening in the little house of disjointed planks, and perhaps she took some comfort in the idea that she would be there at the last moment. It was easy to see, however, that she considered my efforts as some sort of rite which, at most, might comfort the dying. Before noon, when the haze had lifted before the sweep of a north east wind, one of the children called. The mother went out, hurriedly, while I stood at the open door. About a mile away a stunning white schooner was steaming towards the entrance of Sweetapple Cove. "I'm a-wonderin' what she be doin' here," said the woman, dully. "She ain't no ship of our parts. I never seen the like o' she." There was a glinting of light cast forth by bright brasses, and I could see a red spot which appeared to indicate the presence of a woman on board, clad perhaps in a crimson cape or shawl. We kept on staring at her for some time, as people do in forsaken places when a stranger passes by, and we returned to the bedside. The day stretched out its interminable length, but the night was longer still. The children had been put to bed in dark corners, after a meal of fish and hard bread. The smallest had clamored for some tea. "There ain't no more," said the mother. I had noticed that she had put aside a very small package of this luxury, on a high shelf. "Why don't you give them some?" I asked. "You forget that you have a little laid aside." "There won't be none left fer you," she answered. I ordered her to put the kettle on the fire at once and make tea for her young ones, and bade her take some also. "I told Sammy Moore to bring some to-morrow," I told her. I am afraid that I dozed a good many times, that night, on the little low stool near the bed. There was not much to be done. Gradually it dawned upon me that the man was getting better. The stimulants had produced some reaction, and the hot dry skin was becoming moister. I feared it might be but a temporary improvement, and hardly dared mention it. Yet the man was no longer delirious. Several times he asked for water, and once looked at me curiously, with a faint attempt at a smile, before his head again sank down on the pillow. Finally the sunlight came again, shortly after the smoky lamp had been extinguished, and I went out of the house, when the chill of the early morning seized me so that for a moment my teeth chattered. The woman followed me. "He do be a dreadful long time dyin'," she said, miserably. I suppose that I was nervous and weary with the two long nights of watching, and lost mastery over myself. To me those words sounded heartless, although now I realize they came from the depth of her woe. "You have no right to say such things," I reproved her sharply. "I don't think he is going to die. I believe that we have saved him." Then she sank on the ground, grasping one of my chilly hands and weeping over it. These were the first tears she had shed and I saw how grievously I had erred. As gently as I could I lifted her to her feet. "I'm sorry I spoke so gruffly," I said. "But I really believe that we are going to pull him through, and that we shall save his arm." At noon-time we saw the white yacht coming out of Sweetapple Cove. She was speeding away in the direction of St. John's. The weather was beginning to spoil, and at the foot of the seaward cliffs the great seas, smooth and oily, boomed with great crashes that portended a coming storm. Early in the afternoon the wind was coming in black squalls, accompanied by a rolling mist. As I looked towards the mainland I saw a fishing boat coming, leaning hard to the strong gale. An hour later Sammy and his man landed in the tiny cove and the old fellow came rushing towards me. "You is wanted to come ter onst," he said. "They is a man come yisterday on that white yacht. He went up th' river fur salmon, jist after his boat left, and bruk the leg o' he slippin' on the rocks. Yer got to come right now," I took the small package he brought me and rushed up to the house with it The improvement had continued, and I gave careful directions in regard to continuing the treatment. After this I descended to the tiny beach where the boat was waiting. "She be nasty when yer gets from the lee o' the island," Sammy informed me. "I mistrust its gettin' worse and some fog rollin' in wid' it. Mebbe yer doesn't jist feel like reskin' it?" "How about your wife and children, Sammy?" I asked. "There is no one depending on me." He took a long look, quietly gauging the possibilities. "I'm a-thinkin' we's like to make it all right," he finally told me. "And what about you and the little boy, Frenchy?" I asked the other man. "Me go orright," he answered. "Me see heem baby again." So we jumped aboard. The tiny cove was so sheltered that we had to give a few strokes of the oars before, suddenly, the little ship heeled to the blow. CHAPTER III _From John Grant's Diary_ In a few minutes the slight protection afforded us by Will's Island was denied us. I was anxious to ask further details about this injured man we were hurrying to see, but the two fishermen had no leisure for conversation. A few necessary words had to be shrieked. Even before I had finished putting on my oilskins the water was dashing over us, and old Sammy, at the tiller, was jockeying his boat with an intense preoccupation that could not be interfered with. The smack was of a couple of tons' burden, undecked, with big fish-boxes built astern and amidships. She carried two slender masts with no bowsprit to speak of, having no headsails, and her two tanned wings bellied out while the whole of her fabric pitched and rolled over the white crested waves. The fog was growing denser around us, as if we had been journeying through a swift-moving cloud. It was scudding in from the Grand Banks, pushed by a chill gale which might first have passed over the icy plateaux of inner Greenland. This lasted for a long time. We were all staring ahead and seeking to penetrate the blinding veil of vapor, and I felt more utterly strayed and lost than ever in my life before. Our faces were running with the salt spray that swished over the bows or flew over the quarters, to stream down into the bilge at our feet, foul with fragments of squid and caplin long dead. We were also beginning to listen eagerly for other sounds than the wind hissing in the cordage, the breaking of wave-tops and the hard thumping of the blunt bows upon the seas. "Look out sharp, byes, I'm mistrusting'," roared old Sammy. There were some long tense moments, ended by a shriek from Frenchy by the foremast. "Hard a-lee!" The sails shook in the wind and swung in-board, and out again, with a rattling of the little blocks. The forefoot rose high, once or twice, with the lessened headway, and a great savage mass of rock passed alongside, stretching out jagged spurs, like some wild beast robbed of its prey. Frenchy, ahead, crossed himself quietly, without excitement, and again peered into the fog. "Close call!" I shouted to the skipper, after I had recovered my breath, since I am not yet entirely inured to the risks these men constantly run. "We nigh got ketched," roared back Sammy Moore. "I were mistrustin' the tide wuz settin' inshore furder'n common. But I knows jist where I be now, anyways." His grim wrinkled face was unmoved, for during all his life he had been staring death in the face and such happenings as these were but incidents in the day's work. "I doesn't often git mistook," he shouted, "but fer this once it looks like the joke were on me." The little smack continued to rise and fall over the surge. Yves, the Frenchman, remained at his post forward, holding on to the foremast and indifferent to the spray that was drenching him as he stared through the fog, keenly. My attention was becoming relaxed for, after all, I was but a passenger. Despite Sammy's close shave I maintained a well-grounded faith in him. It was gorgeous to see him speed his boat over the turbulent waters with an inbred skill and ease which reminded one of seagulls buffeting the wind or harbor seals playing in their element. Like these the man was adapted to his life, not because he possessed wonderful intelligence but owing to the brine which, since childhood, had entered his blood. The vast ice-pans had revealed their secrets to him and the North Atlantic gales had become the breath of his nostrils. I can remember a time when I had an idea that I could handle a boat fairly well, but now I was compelled to recognize my limitations, while I really enjoyed the exhibition of Sammy's skill. "We'd ought ter be gettin' handy," roared the latter to Frenchy, who nodded back, turning towards us his dripping, bearded face, for an instant. Suddenly he extended his arm. "Me see. To port!" he shouted. Dimly, veiled by the fog curtain, of ghostly outline, a jutting cliff appeared and Sammy luffed slightly. On both sides of us the seas were dashing up some tremendous rocks, but directly ahead there was an opening between the combers that hurled themselves aloft, roaring and impotent, to fall back into seething masses of spume. There was a suggestion of tremendous walls over which voices were shrieking in the battle of unending centuries between the moving turmoil and the stolid cliffs, defying the battering waves. Our little boat flew on, and suddenly the rolling and pitching ceased as if some magic had oiled the waters. Within the land-locked cove the wind no longer howled and the surface was smooth. It was like awaking from the unrest of a nightmare to the peace of one's bed. We glided on, losing headway, for Frenchy had let the sheets run. With movements apparently slow, yet with the deftness which brings quick results, the sails were gathered about the masts and made fast, and presently we drifted against the small forest of poles supporting the flakes and fishhouses. These were black and glistening with the rain and from them came an odor, acrid and penetrating, of decaying fish in ill-emptied gurry-butts and of putrefying livers oozing out a black oil in open casks. We made our way over the precarious footing of unstable planks and shook ourselves like wet dogs, while Sammy stopped for a moment to hunt beneath his oilskins for a sodden plug of tobacco, from which he managed to gnaw off a satisfactory portion. "Well, we's here, anyways," he observed, quietly. "Sammy, you're a wonderful man!" I exclaimed, earnestly. The old fellow looked at me, but his seamed face appeared devoid of understanding. Slowly there seemed to dawn upon his mind the idea that this might be some sort of jest on my part, and the tanned leather of his countenance wrinkled further into a near approach to a smile, as we started up the steep path leading up to the village. Yet I had meant no pleasantry whatever, for really I was awed by the mystery of it all. In the fog that rolled in with the north-east gale we had left Will's Island, ten miles away, and skirted, without ever seeing them, some miles of cliffs. We had avoided scores of rocks over which the seas broke fiercely, and had finally dashed through a narrow opening in the appalling face of the huge ledge, unerringly. To me it seemed like a gigantic deed, beyond the powers of man. The path began to widen, and Sammy again vouchsafed some information, taking up his slender thread of narrative as if it had never been interrupted. "So they carries him up to th' house, on a fishbarrow, an' they sends for me, an' wuz all talkin' to onst, sayin' I must git you quick an' never mind what it costs. Them people don't mind what-nothin' costs, 'pears to me." By this time we had risen well above the waters of Sweetapple Cove. The few scattered small houses appeared through the mist, their eaves dripping in unclean puddles. The most pretentious dwelling in the place is deserted. It boasts a small veranda and a fairly large front window over which boards have been nailed. In very halt and ill-formed letters a sign announces "The Royal Shop," a title certainly savoring of affluence. But it is a sad commentary upon the prosperity of the Cove that even a Syrian trader has tried the place and failed to eke out a living there. Some dispirited goats forlornly watched our little procession for a moment, and resumed their mournful hunt outside the palings of tiny enclosures jealously protected against their incursions among a few anemic cabbages. A little farther on the only cow in the place, who is descended from the scriptural lean ones, was munching the discarded tail of a large codfish which probably still held a faint flavor of the salt with which it had been preserved. Nondescript dogs, bearing very little resemblance to the original well-known breed, wandered aimlessly under the pelting rain. Frenchy reached his dilapidated shack, and was the first to stop. "Vell, so long," he said. "_Au revoir à demain_!" I answered, as well as I could. His somber, swarthy face brightened at the sound of words of his own tongue. I believe that to him they were a tiny glimpse of something well-beloved and of memories that refused to grow dim. For a moment he stood at the door, beaming upon me. A small boy came out, very grimy of face and hands and with a head covered with yellow curls. He was chiefly clad in an old woollen jersey repaired with yarn of many hues, that nearly reached his toes. "_Papa Yves_!" he cried, leaping up joyfully, quite heedless of Frenchy's dripping oilskins. The sailor lifted up the child and kissed him, whereupon he grasped the man's flaring ears as they projected from the huge tangled beard, and with a burst of happy laughter kissed him on both cheeks, under the eyes, in the only bare places. We hurried on and soon reached one of the few houses distinguished from others by a coat of paint. By this time the evening was near at hand, yet the darkness would not have justified as yet a thrifty Newfoundland housewife in burning valuable kerosene. But from the windows of this place poured forth abundant light showing recklessness as to expense. Upon the porch were a few feeble geraniums, and some nasturtiums and bachelor's buttons twined themselves hopefully on strings disposed for them. At the sound of our footsteps the door was quickly opened. A young woman appeared but the light was behind her and her features were not very distinct. "Couldn't you get him?" she cried, in sore disappointment. "Yes, ma'am. That's what I went for," said Sammy. "I telled yer I'd sure bring him, and here he be." I had come nearer, and then, I am afraid, I somewhat forgot my manners and stared at her. CHAPTER IV _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie_: I did try so hard to get you to come on this cruise with us. You said you preferred remaining in Newport to sharing in a wild journey to places one has never heard of, and now I am compelled to recognize your superior wisdom. I wish we had never heard of this dreadful hole. I am now reduced to the condition of a weepful Niobe, utterly helpless to contend against the sad trend of events. I know how much you disapprove of lingering, being such an active little body, and so I will tell you the worst at once. Poor dear Daddy has just broken his leg, and, of all places, in the most forsaken hole and corner of this dreary island of Newfoundland. Daddy has always boasted of his perseverance in the pursuit of the unusual in sport. This time he found it with a vengeance. Our mate, who hails from these parts, once told him of this place, and implied that the salmon in the little river running down into this cove would take a fly whether awake or asleep, and jostled one another for the privilege. While Daddy is rather fond of a gun, you and I know that there are only two weapons he is really absorbed in. I suppose that the first is the instrument he uses to cut off coupons with, and the next is his salmon rod, which I would like to break into little pieces, for it has been the cause of turning our long bowsprit towards this horrid jumble of rock and sea. I considered that we were lucky to have found our way into Sweetapple Cove without any particular disaster, but of course such luck could not last long. We ought never to have come any way, for our skipper, the descendant of Vikings, had implied that our schooner was in need of all sorts of repairs, and that sensible people did not start off on long cruises just after months in Florida which had converted the ship's bottom into a sort of vegetable garden. Daddy consoled him by telling him he could leave us there and go off to St. John's to the dry-dock. You know how pleasantly Daddy speaks to people, and how they detect under his words a firmness which effectively prevents long discussion. Stefansson is really a racing skipper, but he likes his berth on the _Snowbird_ and said nothing more. We reached this place where, for lack of level ground, the few houses use all sorts of stilts and crutches, and invaded the village to the intense amazement of the populace and its dogs. Then came Daddy's genius for organization. Within two hours we had rented a little house for next to nothing a week, furnished it in sixty minutes with odds and ends from the yacht, including our little brass bedsteads, which the people here firmly believe to be pure gold, A wild daughter of the Cove, a descendant of the family that gave it its extraordinary name, was engaged as a general servant. Daddy's valet and the cook had wept when they saw the place, and Father informed them that they were rubbish and might go back with the _Snowbird_, which presently sailed off for the scraping it appears to be entitled to. Daddy at once selected a rod with all the care such affairs of state require, and set forth across the cove with two natives, in a dory. They went ashore on the banks of the little river and began to clamber over a terrific jumble of rocks. A salmon was caught so quickly that Father grew boyish with enthusiasm and capered over more rocks. And then came the accident, Aunt Jennie, and I am still shaky, and tearful, and though I try to write like a normal human being I am desirous of shrieking. There was just a slip and a fall, and a foot caught between two boulders. Poor Daddy was dragged from the swift water into which he had been wading and placed in the bottom of the dory, a most damp and smelly ambulance. Of course I dashed down to the shore as soon as people came to tell me what had happened, and naturally I got into everybody's way. It was strange to see how these very rough-looking men took hold of poor Daddy. They were just as gentle as could be, and made an arrangement of fish-carrying barrows upon which they lifted him up and brought him to the house. I was weeping all this time and Daddy consoled me by telling me not to be a fool. Susie, our new handmaiden, simply howled. We were bundled out, chiefly by Daddy's language, and clamored for a doctor. It actually transpired that there was one in the place, to my infinite relief. The fact that he was gone to a little island away out at sea appeared to be but an insignificant detail. An ancient mariner whom Coleridge must have been acquainted with promised to go and bring him back. If the weather did not turn out too badly he would return in three or four hours. He informed me that it was beginning to look very nasty outside. It always does, in such cases, I believe. I spent the afternoon trying to do all I could for Daddy, and occasionally climbed up on the cliff nearly adjoining our house, to watch for the boat. An abominable fog began to come up, rolling before a dreadful wind, and I moistened more handkerchiefs, since it was perfectly evident to me that no small boat would ever return to land in such a blow. Susie told me that I must not despair, and that people did really manage to work fishing boats in such weather, sometimes. I considered her to be a cheerful prevaricator, and told her she didn't know what she was talking about. At this she curtsied humbly and assented with the "Yis, ma'am" of the lowly, and all I could do was to keep on despairing. It was really the most dismal afternoon I ever spent, and when it began to get dark I gave up all hope. After I had become thoroughly saturated with misery Susie came to me, grinning. "I's heerd men a comin'," she told me. "Like as not it's th' doctor." I dashed out of the front door and met two dreadful looking creatures in oilskins. As one of them was the ancient mariner I made up my mind he had failed in his mission. But the other stared at me for an instant, quietly stepped on the few planks we call the porch, and began to shed his outer skin, which fell with a flop. "Are you the doctor?" I finally asked him. He bowed, very civilly, followed me into the house, and the other man placidly sat down on the porch, while the slanting rain rattled on his armour. I need hardly tell you that these people are as amphibious as manatees. Once within doors I scrutinized the doctor. He was a rather nice tall chap with hair showing slightly the dearth of barbers in Sweetapple Cove, a fact Daddy had informed himself of, for I had seen him looking disconsolately at a safety razor. This man was also rather badly unshaven, and a blue flannel shirt with a sodden string of a necktie formed part of his apparel. I have seen healthy longshoremen rather more neatly garbed. I'm afraid that at first I was badly disappointed. I stood at the door of father's room, which is also the parlor and dining room, hesitating foolishly. At last I asked the man to come in. "Daddy dear, here is the doctor," I said. You know that father does not consider himself merely as a tax-payer, and a connoisseur in split bamboos. He prides himself upon his knowledge of men and, before trusting himself to this one, had to study him carefully. I could see that he was taken a little by surprise. "Er--er," he hesitated, "are you a physician, sir?" "Appearances are deceptive in these jumping-off places," answered the young man. "I possess a diploma or two, and such knowledge as I have is entirely at your service." He didn't really seem to be at all embarrassed. His look was rather a pleasant one, after all, and suddenly I became inspired with confidence. I think Daddy was impressed in the same way. "I'm in an awful fix," he announced. "I am quite sure that my leg is broken, and of course it requires the very best attention. I can afford to take no chances with it and need a first-class man. Are you quite sure...?" The doctor sat down by the bed, quietly, and appeared to look at Daddy understandingly. He doubtless realized that he was in the presence of one of those men whose success in life, together with the possession of grand-parents, causes them to regard themselves as endowed with the combined wisdom of the law and the prophets. I am quite sure that he also detected the big fund of common sense which lurks in the keen grey eyes under Daddy's bushy eye-brows. "You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Jelliffe," he began. "I need hardly point out the fact that I am the only doctor available. I am going to do my very best for you. They have some very good men in St. John's, and we may be able to get one of them to come down here, in a few days, to look over my work. In the meanwhile your leg must be attended to so that no further harm will be done. Let us have a look at it." "I'll have to trust you," said Daddy, very soberly. "Of course you will have to, Daddy," I put in. "You must be very good. When you move your poor leg hurts you dreadfully, and the doctor will fix it so that it won't be so painful." I stood at the head of the bed and poor Daddy allowed me to stroke his hand, a thing he usually resents. I know that he was in great pain and feared other unknown tortures. The poor man looked at the tall doctor's big hands as if he deemed them instruments of potential torture. One really couldn't blame him for having scant confidence in a man whose business appears to be the care of this poverty-stricken population. The doctor was pulling off his heavy pea-jacket and appeared in dark blue flannel which revealed very capable shoulders. They reminded me of Harry Lawrence. The ancient mariner came in with a bag he had been sent for. He had also deposited his oilskins on the porch and respected other conventionalities by removing his great muddy boots and entering the room in huge flaming scarlet socks, neatly darned with white yarn. He smiled blandly at Daddy. "Hope you is feelin' some better, sir," he said. "Don't you be talkin', for if you isn't t'won't be no time afore you is. You're sure in luck as how I could bring him, an' I'll jist lay yer a quintal as how he's goin' to fix yer shipshape." Then there was a knock at the door and a dripping woman entered. There was not the slightest trace of timidity in her manner. Really, Aunt Jennie, I thought at first that she was the most awful frump I had ever seen. Her head was wrapped in a soaking little shawl, and her dress was a remnant of grand-mother's days. Yet the poise of her head, the pleasant smile upon her face and, more than all, her delightful voice, gave an immediate hint of infinitely good breeding. "Can't I help?" she asked. "I'd be awfully glad to. I should have been in before but I was detained at the Burtons'. Had to look after the woman during your absence, Dr. Grant." "I beg to introduce the providence of Sweetapple Cove," said the doctor. "Mrs. Barnett is the one person who proves the vulgar error that none of us is indispensable." She threw off her shawl, laughing. "The doctor and I often hunt in couples," she explained. Her voice was really the most delightful thing you ever heard. I forgot her clothes, and her big boots, and went up to her, holding out my hand. "Won't you let me take your shawl?" I asked. "It is sopping wet." "I had an umbrella when I first came here," she said, "but it blew over the cliffs long ago. Thanks, ever so much. And now what can I do?" "You are always on hand when help is needed, Mrs. Barnett," said the doctor. "Thank you for coming. I shall need you in a minute." She gave him a quick little friendly nod and went to the bed. "I hope that you are not suffering too much," she told Daddy. "Dr. Grant will have you all right in a jiffy." "Thank you, madam," said Daddy, staring at her. The doctor had been pulling endless things out of his bag. For all of their size his hands showed a quality of gentle firmness that was quite surprising and Daddy, under his ministrations, appeared to become less apprehensive. "Now, Mrs. Barnett," directed Dr. Grant. "One hand under the knee, if you please, and the other should hold the heel. That's the way." Rapidly he wound some cotton batting about the injured limb. Daddy had given one awful groan when his leg was pulled straight, but now he watched the winding of bandages and the application of plaster of Paris without saying a word. The doctor finally rubbed the whole thing smooth. "That's all right now," he said. "We will let the leg down again." Between them they gently lowered the limb upon a hollowed pillow, and Daddy looked much relieved. "That is all for the present," said the doctor. "I hope we didn't hurt you too much, Mr. Jelliffe." "I think it will be easier now," admitted Daddy. "I can't say that you made me suffer very much. I am obliged to you, and also to you, madam." She treated him to a gentle, motherly smile, and grabbed her old wet shawl again. "I'd be ever so glad to stay with you all night," she said, "but unfortunately one of my kiddies is teething and wants me rather badly. May I call in the morning?" By this time father was utterly captured. "You would be ever so kind," he said. "I can hardly thank you sufficiently." She refused proffers of umbrellas and water-proofs, laughingly saying that she could not reach home much wetter than she was, and disappeared. "Our parson's wife, Miss Jelliffe," explained Dr. Grant, "and the nearest thing to a blessing that Sweetapple Cove has ever known, I should say." "She must be," I assented. "She is perfectly charming." Then he went in the next room, where the mariner was waiting, sitting in a chair and contemplating his red socks. "We're off again to-morrow morning to Will's Island," said the doctor. "Just let Frenchy know, will you? We shall start as soon as possible after I have found out how Mr. Jelliffe has passed the night." "Aye, aye, sir," replied the old man, lifting a gnarled hand to his tousled locks. The doctor looked around him. His big frame seemed to relax, and a compelling yawn forced him to lift his hand to his mouth. Then he came in again. "Good night, Mr. Jelliffe," he said. "I'll be here the first thing in the morning. You may take this little tablet if the pain is severe, but don't touch it unless you are really compelled to." Daddy stretched out his hand, in a very friendly way, and he certainly looked approvingly at the young man. Then I accompanied the latter to the outer door. It was still raining and the wind blew hard. "Good night, Miss Jelliffe," he bade me. "Your father's injury is quite a simple one and I have no doubt we shall obtain a good result." He picked up his oilskins and put them on again. "Thank you," was all I could find to say. His long steps rapidly carried him away and he disappeared in the misty blackness. When I returned the old fisherman, whose name is Sammy, was standing by father's bed. "It seems to me," complained Daddy, "that he might have offered to stay with me all night. I call it rather inconsiderate of him." "We is fixed fer that, sir," asserted Captain Sammy. "I be goin' ter stay wid' yer. I'll jist set down by the stove and, case I should git ter sleep, jist bawl out or heave somethin' at me. First I'll go an' git a bite er grub, jist a spud er two an' a dish o' tea; likely th' old woman has some brooze fer me, waitin'. I'll be back so soon ye'll hardly know I been gone." He looked at us, his kindly old face lighting up into a smile. Then he pointed with a stubby thumb in the direction the doctor had taken. "He've been up three nights a-savin' Dick Will's arm, as means the livin' o' he and the woman an' seven young 'uns. I mistrust he'll maybe fall asleep a-walkin' less he hurries. 'Tis a feelin' I knows, keepin' long watches on deck when things goes hard." "But I can watch my father," I protested. "So yer could, fer a fact," he admitted, "but yer couldn't run out handy an' fetch doctor, so I might as well stay here an' ye kin do a job of sleepin'." As he hurried out Susie came in from the kitchen, buxom and rosy of cheek. "Th' kittle's biled ef you is ready," she announced. "Yer must be a-perishin' fer a sup an' a bite." I shall have to stop now, Aunt Jennie dear, and goodness knows when this will reach you, as mails are very movable feasts. But it has been a comfort to write, and I was too nervous and excited to go to sleep, for a long time. I really think I ought to go to bed now. That doctor is really a very nice young man, and I just love Mrs. Barnett. Any one would. Please write as often as possible, for now we are prisoners for goodness knows how long in this place, and your letters will be worth their weight in precious stones. Tell me all that is happening. Have you heard from Harry Lawrence lately? Your loving HELEN. CHAPTER V _From John Grant's Diary_ When I awoke this morning, I was inclined to pinch myself, wondering whether I was still dreaming. In a moment, however, my recollections were perfectly clear. Yesterday evening I met people such as I should no more have expected to find in Sweetapple Cove than in the mountains of the moon. I am glad that my idea in coming here was not to convert myself into a hermit; I am afraid I should have been sadly disappointed. Mr. Jelliffe is a man just beyond middle age, shrewd and inclined to good nature. His daughter, like the rest of her sex, is probably a problem, but so far I can only discover in her an exceedingly nice young lady who dotes on her father and takes rather a sensible view of things. It appears that they have been all over the world and, like experienced travelers, understand exceedingly well the art of adapting oneself to all manners of surroundings. In no time at all they had transformed their ugly little house into quite a decent dwelling. Miss Jelliffe is a decidedly attractive young woman. Of course I can only compare her with Dora Maclennon. They belong to two different types. The one is a bustling little woman, very earnest, determined and hard-working, who looks to the world for something which must as yet be rather indefinitely shaped in her mind, and who is going to find it. The other, I should say, has no cut and dried aim or ambition. Her father or grandfather achieved everything for her, and she is as free as air to follow her every inclination. Both are unquestionably good to look upon, and, at least for the present, I hope it may not be treasonable to say that Miss Jelliffe is the more restful of the two. We men are apt to think that the privilege of striving and pushing forward should be exclusively ours, and when we see a woman occupied with something of that sort we are somewhat apt to resent it as an unjustifiable poaching in our preserves. For a long time I considered Dora's efforts to be something in the nature of growing pains, which would disappear in the course of time. Now I am not so sure of this. Yet when I think of the dear little girl my heart beats faster, and somehow I persist in believing that a day will come when she will drift towards me, and we will tackle the further problems of life together. I must confess I am glad to have met the Jelliffes. Barnett and his wife have been the only people with whom one could exchange ideas unconnected with codfish. The parson is a splendid little chap, utterly cocksure of a lot of things I take good care not to discuss too deeply with him. Moreover he is away a good part of the time, and composes his sermons with a painstaking care which must be somewhat wasted on Sweetapple Cove. I don't believe the people are really interested in the meaning of Greek texts. When he is in the throes of inspiration none dare go near him and Mrs. Barnett, the good soul, walks on tiptoe and hushes her brood. I only meet her at various sick-beds. In her own home she is so tremendously busy that I feel I have no right to trespass too often. The baby requires a lot of care, and there are lessons to the others, and family sewing, and keeping an eye upon the little servant. Worshipping her husband takes up the rest of her time. After I had my breakfast I left Sammy's house, where I have an office which would astonish some of my New York friends. I had scraped my face and put on fairly decent clothing in deference not only to my own preferences but also to the feelings of the newcomers. I was hardly out of the house before Sammy's wife came running after me. "You's forgot your mitts," she cried. "Here they is. I hung 'em up back o' th' stove ter dry. It's like ter be cold at sea an' ye'll be wantin' them." I thanked the good woman, telling her that I could afford to be careless since I had her to look after me. "Oh! Don't be talkin'," she answered, highly pleased. I stopped for a moment to light my pipe. Mrs. Sammy was now calling upon her offspring to hasten, for it was a fair drying day. The sun was out and the ripples glimmered brightly over the cove. The people were climbing up on their flakes, tall scaffolds built on a foundation of lender poles, and were spreading out the split, flattened codfish, that would have to dry many days before it would be fit to trade or sell. Everywhere in the settlement women and children, and a few old men unfit for harder labor, were engaged in the same back-breaking occupation. The spreading out always seems easy enough, for they deal out the fishy slabs as cards are thrown upon a table, but the picking and turning are arduous for ancient spines stiffened by years of toil. I also looked out upon the cove, where a few men in dories were engaged in jigging for squid, pulling in the wriggling things which had been attracted by a piece of red rag, their tentacles caught upon the upturned needles of the jig. They were dropped with a sharp, jerky motion on the slimy mass of their fellows, all blotched with the inky discharge. Out beyond the rocky headlands, in the open sea, the little two-masted smacks were hurrying to anchor or already bobbing up and down with furled canvas, rising, falling and yawing to the pull of the sea. At times, by looking sharply, one could catch the gleam of a fish being pulled in, and sometimes one could hear the muffled thump of the muckle, when the fish was a big one. The air was good indeed to breathe. The dull griminess of the village, so utterly dismal in the rain and fog of yesterday, had given place to something akin to cheerfulness. On the tops of the cliffs the scanty herbage, closely cropped by the goats, was very green, of the deep beautiful hue one only finds in lands drenched by frequent downpours. The sea was restless with long gentle swells which now only broke when they reached the bottoms of the rocks which they pounded, intermittently, with great puffs of white spray. The goats were briskly clambering among the boulders; the dogs looked cheerful; the few chickens, no longer sad and bedraggled, scratched with renewed energy. At the entrance of the cove a few gannets wheeled, heavily, while further away a troop of black-headed terns screamed and darted about, gracefully, on long, slender, swallow-like pinions. Even the houses, bathed in rejuvenating sunlight, looked more attractive. A few poor flowers in rare window-boxes perked up their heads. The puddles in the road were draining off into rocky crannies, and the very air seemed to have been washed of some of its all-pervading reek of fish. I was thoroughly refreshed after a night during which I had slept so soundly that Mrs. Sammy, obeying instructions, had been compelled to enter my room and regretfully shake me into consciousness. Then I had poured much cold water over myself and used my best razor. Coffee and pancakes, with large rashers of bacon, were awaiting me, and I soon departed for the home of my new patient. Children called good morning, and a few ancient dames too old even for work upon the flakes nodded their palsied heads at me. The house tenanted by the Jelliffes belongs to a man who is off to the Labrador, trapping cod with a crew of sons and neighbors. His wife has been only too glad to rent it to these very grand people from that amazing yacht, who have come all the way from New York, to the wonderment of the whole population, for the mere purpose of catching salmon. Her eldest daughter has been engaged as maid of all work by the tenants, and will doubtless compensate, in cheerful willingness, for her utterly primitive idea of the duties incumbent upon her. Miss Jelliffe was sitting upon the porch. Wisps of her rich chestnut hair were being blown about by the pleasant breeze, and there is no doubt that her white shirtwaist with the rather mannish collar and tie, the tweed skirt with wide leather belt, and the serviceable low tanned shoes made a vision such as I had not expected to behold in Sweetapple Cove. She smiled brightly as I came up and bade me good morning. Her pretty face had lost the worried, tearful look of the day before. I expressed the hope that her father had been able to obtain some rest. "I am under the impression that Daddy slept rather better than I could," she answered, cheerfully. "Such a concert as I was treated to! I had always had an idea that my father was rather appalling, but your ancient sea-faring friend was positively extraordinary. After you left I read just a little to Daddy, and the hypnotic quality of my voice had rapid effect. After this Captain Sammy curled up on the floor, just like one of the local dogs, and spurned my offer of rugs and pillows with the specious excuse that if he made himself too comfortable and chanced to fall asleep he would never wake up. I went to my room to write a letter and presently the walls began to shake. You never heard such a duet." "Is Mr. Jelliffe still asleep?" I asked. "No, indeed! He has already clamored for his breakfast and is at present occupied with a bowl of oatmeal and some coffee." Just then Frenchy came up, lifting his cap to the young lady. In one of his big paws he held his little boy's hand. "Tak aff you cap to ze yong lady lak I tole you," he said, gravely. "Heem tink you a leetle sauvage." The wide-eyed little chap obeyed the big sailor, his yellow curls falling over his eyes. He continued to stare at her, with a fat thumb tucked in a corner of his mouth. "Me come say heem Beel Atkins heem go aff to St. Jean to-day. Heem got load of feesh." "That is important news, Miss Jelliffe. Civilization is opening its arms to you," I told her. "Atkins can take letters and messages for you, and may be trusted to bring back anything you need, providing you write it all down carefully. This is also an opportunity of obtaining other surgical advice for your father." "I need a lot of things," she exclaimed, "and there will be a message to our captain to hurry matters at that dry-dock. But I will have to consult my father." "We go to-day?" Yves asked me, pointing towards Will's Island. "Yes, Dick needs a lot of care yet," I answered. "But you will wait here and take some orders to Atkins first." "Oui, orright, me wait," he said. Miss Jelliffe had gone indoors and the man sat down on the porch, with the little chap beside him, and they gravely watched the gulls circling over the water. Yves is very big and rough looking, and his black beard is impressive. He gives one rather the idea of what the men must have been, who manned the ships of William the Conqueror, than the notion of a conventional Frenchman. Yet there is in him something very soft and tender, which appears when he looks at that child, with deep dark eyes that always seem to behold things beyond the ordinary ranges of vision. "Ah! Glad to see you!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe as I entered the room. "A broken leg is no fun, but I can say that I got on rather better than I expected to. The pain has been no more than I can stand. I'll be through with this in a minute." He swallowed his last mouthful of coffee, and Susie Sweetapple, the improvised domestic, took away a flat board with which she had made a tray. "Is you real sure you got enough?" she enquired solicitously. "Them porridges doesn't stick long to folks' ribs, but if yer stummick gits ter teasin' yer afore dinner time jist bawl out. 'Tain't never no trouble ter bile th' kittle again." "Thank you," said Mr. Jelliffe, as the girl left the room. "I have not yet decided, Doctor, whether that young female is an unmitigated nuisance or a pearl of great price. At any rate we couldn't get along without her." In a few minutes I was allowed to inspect the broken leg, which was resting properly on the pillow. The swelling was not too great, and the patient declared that the confounded thing was doubtless as comfortable as such a beastly affair could be. Mr. Jelliffe possesses some notions of philosophy. "A schooner is leaving to-day for St. John's, Mr. Jelliffe," I told him. "It will return in a few days, depending on the weather, and we could probably prevail upon one of the best surgeons there to come back with it." My patient's eyes narrowed a little and he wrinkled his brow. He was looking at me keenly, like one long accustomed to gauging men with the utmost care. "What is your own advice?" he finally asked. I could not help smiling a little. "Your fracture is not at all a complicated affair, and it looks to me as if the ends could easily be maintained in proper position. On the other hand I am still a young man, and desire to make no special claim to eminence in my profession." "At any rate you are the local doctor." "I suppose I represent all that this community can afford," I replied. "If I were you I would send for a consultant." "The community doesn't seem to me to be so very badly off, as far as its doctor is concerned," said Mr. Jelliffe, slowly. "The other chap will come and undo this thing, and hurt me a lot more. I'm inclined to let things slide. This practice of yours ought to be a great thing for a stout man needing a reducing diet. How the deuce do you keep from starving to death?" "Mrs. Sammy feeds me rather well," I replied. My patient smiled. "You're a smart boy," he said. "I'll admit you don't look very hungry. But how about the appetite for other things, for success in life, for the appreciation of intelligent men and for their companionship? Is there no danger of what you fellows call atrophy? Men's intellects can only maintain a proper level by rubbing up against others." For a moment he stopped, and then went on again. "I beg your pardon, Doctor. I'm afraid that all this is none of my business. I am sure you will take excellent care of me, and I don't see the need of sending for any one else." "I will do my best for you, Mr. Jelliffe," I answered. He held his hand out to me, in the friendliest way. I think we are going to get on together very well. It is pleasant to meet people who are so secure in their position that they do not feel the slightest need for snobbishness. I soon left for Will's Island, where I remained for some hours. Frenchy's boy came with us. He's a lovable little fellow, and manifested his admiration for "_la belle dame_" as he calls Miss Jelliffe. He is an infant of discriminating taste. It was very encouraging to note a real improvement in the fisherman's condition, and I returned in a cheerful state of mind. In the afternoon I again called on the Jelliffes, and was chatting with the old gentleman when Mrs. Barnett, with her two oldest clinging to her skirts, put her head in at the door and cheerfully asked how the invalid was getting on. "I won't come in," she said, "my little chaps would soon turn the place upside down." "Do bring them in," urged Miss Jelliffe. "Daddy is ever so fond of children." The parson's wife accepted the invitation. "I daresay I will be able to hold them in for a few minutes," she said. Miss Jelliffe is certainly a bright girl. I am positive that she recognized at once in Mrs. Barnett a woman who would adorn any gathering of refined people. The homemade dress mattered nothing, nor the garb of the little ones, which showed infinite toil combined with scanty means for accomplishment. It was delightful to observe the positive deference and admiration that were mingled with the perfect ease of the young woman's manner. At their mother's bidding the little fellows said their greeting very politely. Miss Jelliffe kissed them and at once insured their further behavior by sitting on the floor with them, armed with chocolates and magazine pictures. "You are exceedingly kind to visit us, Mrs. Barnett," Mr. Jelliffe assured her. "I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting your husband soon." "I expect him back to-morrow," she answered. "He's away on a short trip. Sometimes he goes quite a distance up and down the coast, and occasionally it is--it is rather hard at home, when the weather gets very bad." She looked out of the window, with a movement that was nearly mechanical, and which had become habitual during long hours of waiting. "But he likes it," she continued. "He says it is a good work and makes one feel that one is worth one's bread and salt. And so, of course, we are very happy." I noticed that Miss Jelliffe was studying her. A look of wonder seemed to be rising on the girl's face, as if it surprised her to find that this cultured, refined woman could be contented in such a place. "Yes, I think I am getting along very well," said Mr. Jelliffe, in answer to a question. "This young man seems to know his business. I was just hinting to him, this morning, that such a village as this can offer but a poor scope for his ability." "Gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnett, laughingly. "Please don't let him hear you. I have no doubt that what you say is perfectly true, but we could never do without him now. He has only been here a short time, and it has made such a difference. Before that we had no doctor, and--and it was awful, sometimes. You can't realize how often Mr. Barnett and I have stood helplessly by some bedside, wringing our hands and wishing so hard, so dreadfully hard, for a man like Dr. Grant to help us. Once we sent for a doctor, far away, and he came as soon as he could, but my little Lottie was already..." A spasm of pain passed over her face, and there was a quickly indrawn breath. Then she was quiet again. "I hope he will never leave us," she said. "He may miss many things here, but it is a man's work." "I don't feel like leaving," I told her, and she rewarded me by one of those charming smiles of hers. Presently she took leave, and Miss Jelliffe looked at her father. "Isn't she wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I can hardly understand it at all." "It isn't only in the big places that people do big things," he answered. "What about that child she referred to, Doctor?" I told him how the little one had been taken ill, and how they had been obliged to take her to the head of the cove, over the ice, until they were able to find a place where a pick could bite into the ground. Miss Jelliffe stared at me, as I spoke, and I could see her beautiful eyes becoming shiny with gathering tears. On the next day, as I was doing something to the plaster dressing, she came into the room, hurriedly. "I've been out there," she said. "What a poor desolate place in which to leave one's loved ones. Won't you let me help? I think I am getting on very well with my untrained nursing. I want as much practice as I can get." "I am bound hand and foot," complained the patient. "These women are taking all sorts of unfair advantages of me. And, by the way, Helen, I want you to go out more. You are remaining indoors so much that you are beginning to lose all your fine color." "I look like an Indian," she protested laughing. "Then I don't want you to get bleached out. You must go out walking more, or try some fishing, but be careful about those slippery rocks. I can play no other part now than that of a dreadful example." "I am not going to budge from this room," declared Miss Jelliffe. "You know that you can't get along without me. Besides, there are no places that one can walk to." "I insist that you must get plenty of fresh air," persisted her father. "There is no fresh air here," she objected. "It is a compound of oxygen, nitrogen and fish, mostly very ripe fish. One has to breathe cod, and eat it, and quintals are the only subjects of conversation. Codfish of assorted sizes flop up in one's dreams. Last night one of them, about the length of a whale, apparently mistook me for a squid, or some such horrid thing, and was in the very act of swallowing me when I awoke. I'm afraid, Daddy dear, that the fresh air of Sweetapple Cove is a dreadful fiction. But it must be lovely outside." She was looking through the door, which stood widely opened, towards the places where the long smooth rollers broke upon the rocks, and beyond them at brown sails and screaming birds darting about in quest of prey. "You are hungering for a breath of the sea, Miss Jelliffe," I told her. "Sammy and Frenchy are waiting for me to go to Will's Island again. With this wind it will be only a matter of three or four hours there and back. Could you stand a trip in a fishing boat?" "Just the thing for her. No danger, is there, Doctor?" asked Mr. Jelliffe. "Not on a day like this," I replied. Miss Jelliffe made a few further objections, which were quickly overruled. Finally she gave Susie all sorts of directions, kissed her father affectionately, and was ready to go. "We'll be back soon, Daddy. You are a dear to be always thinking about me. I know I am very mean to leave you." "The young lady'll be well took care of, sir," declared Captain Sammy, who had come in to say that the boat was ready. So we went down to the cove where Frenchy, already apprised that such a distinguished passenger was coming, was feverishly scrubbing the craft and soaking the footboards, endeavoring, with scant success, to remove all traces of fish and bait. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" said Miss Jelliffe as we passed by the fishhouses. "I know that when I get back home I shall never eat another fish-cake. And just look at the awful swarms of flies and blue-bottles. And the smell of it all! It is all undoubtedly picturesque, but it is unspeakably smelly." The men were busily working, and girls and boys of all sizes, and one heard the sound of sharp knives ripping the fish, and the whirring of grindstones, and the flopping of offal in the water. These people were clad in ancient oilskins, stiff and evil with blood and slime, but they lifted gruesome hands to their forelocks as Miss Jelliffe went by and she did her best to smile in answer. "Couldn't they be taught to be a little cleaner?" she asked me. "Isn't it awfully unhealthy for them?" "It is rather bad," I admitted, "and they are always cutting their hands and fingers and getting abominably infected sores. They only come to me when they are in a more or less desperate condition. Yet one can hardly blame them for following the ways of their fathers, when you consider the lack of facilities. They can't clean the fish on board their little boats, as the bankers do on the larger schooners, and there is no place in which they can dispose of the refuse save in the waters of the cove. They don't even have any cultivable land where they could spread it to fertilize the ground. It must drift here and there, to go out with the ebb of the tide or be devoured by other fishes, or else it gets cast up on the shingle. The smell is a part of their lives, and I am nearly sure that they are usually quite unconscious of it. Moreover, they are always harassed for time. If the fishing is good the men at work in the fish-houses ought to be out fishing, and the girls should be out upon the flakes. They often work at night till they are ready to drop. And then perhaps comes a spell of rain, days and weeks of it, during which the fish spoils and all their work goes for nothing. Then they have to try again and again, with hunger and debt spurring them on. And the finest part of it is that they never seem to lose courage." "I wonder they don't go elsewhere and try some other kind of work," suggested Miss Jelliffe. "I dare say they are fitted for little else," I replied. "And besides, like so many other people all over the face of the earth they are attached to their own land, and many get homesick who are transplanted to other places. They seem to have taken root in the cracks between these barren rocks, and the tearing them away is hard. So they keep on, in spite of all the hardships. They get lost in storms and fogs; they get drowned or are frozen to death on the ice-pans, nearly every spring, at the sealing, for which they are paid in shares. This naturally means that if the ship is unsuccessful they get nothing for all their terrible toil and exposure. Indeed, Miss Jelliffe, they are brave people and hard workers, who never get more than the scantiest rewards. I think I am becoming very fond of them. I'm a Newfoundlander, you know." "Was it home-sickness that brought you back?" she asked. "It may have been sickness of some sort," I answered. She looked at me, without saying anything more, and we stepped on board the boat, after I had guided her over the precarious footing of a loose plank which, however, she tackled bravely. CHAPTER VI _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Auntie_: During these long evenings there is absolutely nothing for me to do except to inflict long epistles upon you. Dear Daddy seems to be making up for some of the lost sleep of his youth, and is apt to begin early the unmusical accompaniment to his slumbers. We are now able to dispense with the nice old mariner who watched him so effectively the first night. Daddy said the competition was too great for him to stand, and explained that he wanted a monopoly. You will be delighted to hear that as far as we can tell the poor leg is doing nicely; at any rate the doctor seems to be pleased. I had no idea that our patient would be so easily resigned to his fate. He is just as good as good can be. To console you for reading about the hardships I must tell you that I had one of the times of my life to-day. An ultimate analysis of it would reduce itself to a trip from a dirty shore, in a dirty boat, to a dirty island, at least that part of it that was not daily scrubbed by the Atlantic billows. Of course this may be somewhat exaggerated, but the places one departs from and arrives at are somewhat trying to sensitive noses. That young doctor I spoke of is the responsible party, aided and abetted by Daddy. Between them they just bundled me away, under some silly pretense that I needed fresh air. It is possible, after all, that they may have been right. We went down to the fish-houses and flakes that crop out like queer mushrooms on stilts all over the edges of the cove, and it was a shaky damsel who shuddered over the passing of a wobbly plank. The crew of two waited below in the boat, and smiled encouragingly, so that I had to try and show more bravery than I really felt. I had no desire to intrude among the squids; one sees them dimly through the clear water and they impress one, as they move about, as resembling rather active rats. The cod are more partial to them than I ever shall be. Then there was a rather rickety ladder down which I scrambled. I am sure the crew had never seen silk stockings before, but their heads were politely turned away. A large, exuberantly whiskered Frenchman in picturesque rags gave me his hand and helped me down with a manner worthy of assorted dukes and counts; and there was a little boy who sat on a thwart and looked wistfully at me. "De leetle bye, heem want go, if mademoiselle heem no mind," said the Frenchman, bashfully, with a very distinct look of appeal. The little fellow also sought my eyes, and held his ragged little cap in his hands. He was simply the curliest darling, clad in a garment of many colors made of strange remnants and sewed by hands doubtless acquainted with a sailor's palm but unfamiliar with ordinary stitching. Naturally I bent down and lifted him up and put him on my knees, recognizing in this infant the nicest discovery I have yet made on this amazing island. His little pink face and golden curls imperatively demanded a kiss. He is just the sweetest little fellow you ever saw, and looks altogether out of place among the sturdy urchins of the Cove. Then I had to put him down, because of course I had flopped down in the wrong place. I notice that in small boats one always does. The child took his cap off again and said "merci," and I had to smile at Yves, the Frenchman, whose grin distinctly showed that the way to his heart lies through that kiddy. We were off at once, and I sat astern near the ancient. Yves had gone forward and the doctor, after the usual totally unnecessary concern as to rugs and either useless things, followed him and appeared to practice his French on the sailor. "That there Frenchy," Captain Sammy confided to me, "is most crazy over th' young 'un. I never did see sich a thing in all me born days." "He must be awfully proud of such a dear little son," I answered. "There's them as says it ain't the son o' he," replied Sammy. "He don't never talk about the bye. They says he jist picked him up somewheres, jist some place or other. You would hardly think what a plenty they is as have fathers or mothers neither, along th' coast." This opened to me a vista of troops of kiddies wandering up and down the cliffs, wailing the poor daddies that will never be given back by the rough sea, and the mothers who found life harder than they could bear, and it saddened me. You always said I must beware of my imagination, but I think there was a funded reality in that vision. Then I was compelled to look about me, for we were passing through headlands at the narrow mouth of the cove, the long lift of the open sea bore us up and down again, softly, like an easy low swing. That terrible reek of fish had disappeared and the air was laden with the delightful pungency of clean seaweed and the pure saltiness of the great waters. North and south of us extended the rocky coastline all frilled, at the foot of the great ledges, with the pearly spume of the long rollers. It was very early when we arrived in the _Snowbird_, and I was not on deck very long. It didn't seem nearly so beautiful then, and I had no idea that it would be like this. "It is perfectly marvelous," I told Captain Sammy. "But it is a terrible coast. How do you ever manage to get back in storms and fogs? The mouth of the cove is nothing but a tiny hole in the face of the cliffs." "Times when they is nought but fog maybe we smells 'un," he replied, with the most solemn gravity. "I hadn't thought of such an obvious thing," I replied, laughing. "It seems quite possible. But how about gales?" "They is times when we has to run to some o' the bays north or south of us fer shelter," he answered. "I've allers been able to fetch 'un." "But what if you were carried out to sea?" "Then likely I'd git ketched, like so many others has, ma'am." And then, Aunt Jennie dear, in spite of the shining of the bright sun upon the glittering water and the softness of the air that was caressing my face, I felt very sad for a moment. It looked like a very cruel world for all of its present smiling. On this coast the elements seem always to be waiting for their prey, just as, in the shelter of ledges deep beneath our keel, unspeakable slimy things with wide glaucous eyes are lying in watch, with tentacles outspread. "It all seems very dreadful to me," I said. But the old fellow, though he nodded civilly in assent, had not understood me in the least. This was clearly the only world with which he was acquainted; the one particular bit of earth whereupon fate had dropped him, as fertilizing seeds are dropped by wandering birds. I daresay he is unable to realize any other sort of existence, excepting perhaps in some such vague way as you and I may think of those canal-diggers of Mars. Close to us, to port, we passed a big rock that was jutting from the water and over which the long smooth seas washed, foaming with hissing sounds. "He nigh ketched us, day I fetched doctor back to yer father," Sammy informed me. "Ye mind t'were a bit rough that day, and ye couldn't tell yer hand afore yer face, hardly, t'were that thick, and tide she'd drawed us furder inshore 'n I mistrusted. The wind he were middlin' high an' gusty, too. I don't mind many sich hard times a-makin' th' cove. We was sure glad enough ter get in." "I never thought of it in that way," I exclaimed. "It certainly was an awful afternoon, and it must have been horribly dangerous." "I telled 'un afore startin' as how t'were a bit of a job, an' he asks me kin I make it, an' I says I expect I kin, like enough, wid luck. Then he tells me ter think o' th' old woman an' th' children, an' I says it's all right. Frenchy he were willin' too, so in course we started." Then, perhaps for the first time, I took a real long look at that doctor, who was sitting forward, perched on the head of a barrel. He was laughing with Frenchy, and held the boy on his lap. I decided that he belongs to a class that is familiar to us. You know his kind, Aunt Jennie, keen of eye, full of quiet determination, and always moving forcibly, even if slowly, towards success. We have seen lots of them on the football fields, at Corinthian yacht races, wherever big chaps are contending and care but little for the safety of their necks as long as they are playing the game. To me the strangest thing about this man is that he appears to be thoroughly adapted to these surroundings, and yet would be equally at home in what we choose to call our set, just like that dear woman Mrs. Barnett. I can't help wondering what he is doing here, I mean apart from his obvious work which, in all conscience, appears to be hard enough. He was pointing out something to the little boy, in the distance, so that I stared also and caught a puff of vapor above the water. "It's a whale, isn't it?" I asked. "Yis, ma'am," replied Sammy. "It's one o' they big sulphur-bottoms. Them little whaling steamers is mighty glad to get hold o' that kind. They grows awful big. I've seed some shockin' big fellows." "I'd like to see one caught. It must be ever so exciting," I said. "There ain't no whalin' stations in these parts, but they tells me some of 'em 'll tow them little steamers miles and miles, even wid' engine half speed astern. Then other times they gits 'em killed first shot out o' the gun." After this I looked around again. I know you don't care for small boats, but it is delightful to be so close to the water, and it gives one a sense of keen pleasure one often misses in bigger ships. They seem to be so much more alive. I must acknowledge that after a time I began to observe the doctor again. I presume it is a fault of our present education, Aunt Jennie, that we young girls are not much used to being neglected by young men. This one was really paying little attention to me. Even when a man's daily garb includes a flannel shirt one expects him to be attentive, if he is nice. Of course I don't suppose any one here knows how to starch and iron white shirts and collars, so that the doctor can't help his raiment, which is better adapted to the local fashions. You must not think that he seems to be restrained by a sense of respectful deference especially due to the daughter of one whom the silly papers are fond of referring to as belonging to the tribe of magnates. His manners are perfectly civil and courteous, showing that he has been accustomed to move among nice people. He took the trouble to ask whether I were comfortable, to suggest a rug which I declined and to ask if there was anything else he could do. But after that he went forward to practise his French on Yves, who frequently grinned with pleasure. Nor has he seemed to be particularly elated at the privilege of attending a rich yacht owner, who may represent a decent fee. I know perfectly well that he takes a great deal more interest in the fisherman we went to see. The island towards which we were sailing was rising from the sea, and Sammy pointed it out to me, in the distance, faintly azure in the slight haze. We were sailing with a fair wind, our little sails drawing steadily and the forefoot casting spray before it in pearly showers. "Won't you let me take her?" I asked. Sammy opened astonished eyes and doubtfully relinquished the tiller to me. Isn't it queer how people of our sort are always deemed to be quite helpless with their hands? I may boast of the fact that the ancient mariner was soon satisfied that his craft was in fairly competent ones. I had to use just a little more strength than I had expected to, and to stand and brace myself against the pull. But it was glorious and made me feel to its full extent the delight of the sea. In a moment I felt that my cheeks were red enough to satisfy Daddy himself, who is always a strenuous advocate of robustious femininity. He has no use for the wilted-flower effect in girls. My locks, of course, were disporting themselves as they pleased, and I am sure that I began there and then to strew the bottom of our ship with hairpins. Then I got the one great genuine compliment of my youthful existence. "_La belle dame qui gouverne_!" exclaimed Yves' little boy. Of course the other two turned at once to behold the beautiful lady who was governing, as the Gallic language calls steering. I shall give that infant a supply of chocolate which will make his big blue eyes open widely. Such a talent for discrimination should be encouraged. That pard of a Frenchman was smiling in approval, and the doctor was evidently taking notice. When a girl wears a white jersey and blue skirt, and she has a picturesque cap, and is engaged in the occupation of steering, which brings out many of one's best points, she has a right to expect a little admiration. It worked and presently the doctor was sitting at my side, which goes to show that he is but a weak male human after all. "They are splendid little boats, are they not?" he said. "Yes, indeed. The rig reminds me of some of the sharpies they use on the Connecticut coast. But these are regular sea-going craft, and must beat up to windward nicely." "You are quite a sailor," was his obviously indicated remark. "I've done a good deal of small-boat sailing on the Sound," I informed him, "out of Larchmont and those places, and in Great South Bay. I suppose I've been a good deal of a tomboy." "You've been a fine, strong, healthy girl, and you still are," he replied, quietly. It was only such approval as Harry Lawrence, for instance, might have bestowed on a blue-ribbon pointer. The man considers me as a rather nice specimen and, with all due modesty, I am inclined to agree with him. By this time we were rapidly nearing the island. As far as I could see it was nothing but a rough mass of rocks better suited to the tenancy of sea-gulls than human beings. Everywhere the waves were breaking at the foot of the cliffs and monstrous boulders. A great host of sea-birds was rising from it and returning; in the waters near us the dear little petrels dotted the surface with black points, while slow-flying gannets traveled sedately and active terns rioted in the air. Coots and other sea-ducks rose before our boat and, from time to time, the little round heads of harbor seals, with very human-looking eyes, bobbed on the seas. "Isn't it perfectly delightful," I cried. "I could never weary of watching all these things, and what is that big duck, or is it a goose, traveling all alone and flying straight as an arrow?" "It is just a big loon. The Great Northern Diver, you know." "I don't think I ever saw them flying. I shall always recognize one again. They are regular double-enders, pointed at both ends. Is it the same sort of loon that we see on the Maine and Adirondack lakes?" "The very same," he replied. "I dare say you are well acquainted with its voice." "Indeed I am; it used to give me goose-flesh when I first heard it, ever so long ago. It's a dreadfully shivery sound." The man smiled, as if he thought this a pretty fair description. "It is rather spooky," he admitted, "but I love it as a typical sound of the wilderness. It is just redolent with memories of the scented smoke of camp-fires, of game-tracked swamps and big forests mirrored in deep, calm waters all aglow with the lights of the setting sun." This interested me. It is evident that this doctor is not simply a fairly well educated dispenser of pills and a wielder of horrid instruments. There is some tincture of sentiment in his make-up. "How do you enjoy the practice of your profession in Sweetapple Cove?" I suddenly asked him, rather irrelevantly. "I have an idea that it is a sort of practice for which I am fairly well fitted," he answered, slowly, and still looking at the birds. "A fellow can never be sure that he would make a success in the larger places. Here you will admit that the critical sense of the population must be easily satisfied. I have no reason to doubt that I am at least the half a loaf that is better than no bread." Of course I could only smile. He had said a lot, very pleasantly, without giving me the slightest bit of information. To-morrow I intend to go and have a chat with Mrs. Barnett and pump her dry. I notice that I am rather a curious young person. "Jist keep her off a bit now," advised Sammy. "They is a big tide settin' in." A slight pressure on the tiller was enough, and Yves loosened the sheets just a little. On our port side we could see the cliffs, dark and rather menacing, which as yet failed to show the slightest indenture within which a boat might lie. "I think I will give you the tiller now," I told Sammy. "If you'll not be minding," he answered. I am discovering that these people have an inborn sense of courtesy. Their broad accent, which is a mixture of Scotch and Irish and other North British sounds, is rather a pleasant one. It was quite evident that I was to suit myself in the matter of steering the boat. If I objected to relinquishing the tiller owing to a preference for running up on the rocks I was entirely welcome, as far as I could judge from Sammy's words. I am beginning to love the old man. He took the helm and I swung my arms against my sides, for my muscles felt just a little bit sore. "I'd like to do this often," I informed him. "It is fine for one's arms." "It's sure fine fer the pretty face of yer," he asserted, rather timidly. "The color on it an' the shinin' in yer eyes is real good to see." "You are very complimentary," I laughed. Then the old man looked at me, quite soberly, and I could see that a misgiving had made its way in his dear old soul. "I mistrust I doesn't jist know what that means," he said, rather worried. "Ef it's anythin' bad I'm a-beggin' yer pardon." "You are a perfect dear, Captain Sammy," I told him. "Indeed it means something very nice." Profound relief appeared upon his countenance. I am discovering that in Sweetapple Cove one must limit one's vocabulary. The old man would probably not appreciate chocolates, but he deserves them. We were dashing on, at a safe distance from the rocks, and suddenly there was an opening in the cliffs, with a tiny bay within. Yves pulled in the sheets a little and we sailed into the deep, clear water of the tiny cove. There was a small beach of rolling shingle and, beyond this, clinging like barnacles to the rocky hillside, were a couple of decrepit houses. Some big flakes and a fish-house were built over the water, on spidery legs. A few children, very stolid of face and unkempt, watched our arrival and stared at me. A man, in half-bared arms dotted about the wrists with remnants of what they call gurry-sores, stood at the water's edge, waiting to lend a hand. There appears to be no anchorage in this deep hole. The sails were quickly wrapped around the masts and our forefoot gently grated against the pebbles. Then all the men jumped out and dragged the boat up, using some rollers. "She'll do now," announced Sammy. "Tide's on the ebb, anyways." There was no lack of hands to help me jump out on the little beach. Frenchy's small boy had clambered out like a monkey and, like myself, was an object of silent curiosity to the local urchins. The scent of fish prevailed, of course, but it was less pronounced than at Sweetapple Cove, very probably for the unfortunate reason that very few fish had been caught, of late. Indeed, it was a fine drying day and yet the poor flakes were nearly bare. "Bring up the barrel, Sammy," said the doctor. "I'm going up to the house. I don't think I'll keep you waiting very long, Miss Jelliffe." He hastened up, scrambling up the rocky path, and entered the house. I followed him, perhaps rather indiscreetly. This queer atmosphere of poverty had affected me, I think, and I suddenly became eager to see whether I could not be of some help. A woman had met him at the door, with an effort at a smile upon her thin, seamed face, that was pale with scanty food and haggard from long watching at night. "Un do be sayin' as th' arm be better a lot," she informed him. Then she stared at me, just for a moment, and smiled again. "That's fine," said the doctor. "We'll have another look at it directly. You can come in if you wish to, Miss Jelliffe." There was nothing but just one fairly large room. The patient was lying on a bed built of planks and his right arm was resting on a pillow, wrapped up in an enormous dressing. "You sure is a sight fer sore eyes ter see," said the man. "I hope I'm one for sore arms too," said the doctor, cheerfully. Then he turned to me. "It would perhaps be best for you to leave for a few minutes, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "It won't take long." But I didn't feel that I could leave, and he began to cut through bandages and dressings. Oh! Aunt Jennie dear! I didn't realize that people could have such dreadful things the matter with them. It made me just a little faint to look at it, and I had to turn away. There was but a slight injury at first, I was told, and it had become awful for lack of proper treatment and care. Dr. Grant, I was also informed by old Sammy, was confronted at first with the horrible problem of either taking fair chances for the man's life by an amputation which would have meant starvation for the family, or of assuming the risk of trying to save that arm upon which the woman and her little ones were depending. Such things must surely try a man's soul, Aunt Jennie. The doctor told me that he had gone out of the house and sat on a rock, to think it over, and had looked at the flakes with their pitiful showing. The kiddies were ravenous and the wife exhausted with care. Then he had stared at the other old house, now abandoned by a family that had been unable to keep body and soul together in the place. And so he had been compelled to decide upon this great gamble and spent three nights and days in watching, in a ceaseless struggle to save that arm, using every possible means of winning his fight, knowing that the penalty of failure was death. It was no wonder that he looked happy now that he knew he had won. I suppose that such things happen often, Auntie dear, but we have never seen things like these, and they make an awfully strong impression. Dr. Grant was working away, looking well pleased, and I handed him a few things he needed. "That's fine!" he declared, after he had completed a fresh dressing. "You are well enough now to come back with me to the Cove, Dick, because that arm must be attended to every day and I can't come here so often. You will be able to stand the trip all right and I'll send you back as soon as you are well." "I sure kin stand anythin' so long as yer says I kin," answered the man. His eyes were full of a confidence one usually sees only in happy children. For a few minutes the wife had gone out of the house, and she returned, breathlessly. "They is all laughin' down ter th' beach," she announced. "They is Frenchy's little bye, all wid' yeller curls, a-playin' wid our laddies, and Sammy Moore he've brung a barrel o' flour, and a box wid pork, and they is more tea and sugar. What d' yer think o' that?" She was much excited, and looked from her husband to us, nervously, as if fearing to awaken from a dream. "That ere trader he said I couldn't have no more, afore I sent him a few quintals o' fish," said Dick, "I don't see how it come." "You had to have it," said the doctor, just a little bit gruffly. "You can pay me back after you get to work again." The woman grabbed his arm, and made him wince, and then she returned to the beach again and brought back the box. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am," she said. "Jist set down still fer a minnit. I kin bile th' kittle now an' you'll be havin' a dish o' tea." "Thank you ever so much," I answered, as pleasantly as I could. "I don't want to give you so much trouble, and we are going back at once." The woman looked sorely disappointed. "It's awful good tea," she pleaded. "Th' kind as comes in yeller packages, and they is sugar too." I turned to Dr. Grant. A nearly imperceptible smile and nod from him showed me that I had better accept. It was evident that the poor creature could not understand how any one could refuse tea, the only luxury of her hard life. "I'll change my mind, if you will let me," I said. "I really think I would enjoy it very much." Then she smiled again, and went up to the little stove, and I followed her. Dr. Grant had gone out for a moment. "Doctor un' says Dick goes back wid' un," she said. "He be th' best man in the whole world, ma'am. Says he'll take pay when fishing gets better. I mistrust he'll be waitin' a long spell. It must be most twelve dollars, all the things he've brung." For a moment the prospect of this huge debt sobered her, and a tear ran down her cheek. "And what about the doctor's pay?" I asked. "I doesn't know," she answered, helplessly. "It's sure a turrible world." From this I judge that the financial returns of Dr. Grant's practice must be more than meager. If I had had any money with me I would have given it to this poor creature, but I had no pockets and had never thought of the need of a vanity bag and purse for a visit to Will's Island. The woman looked out of the door, and saw that the doctor had gone down to the beach and was talking to the men, apparently engaged in making some arrangement at the bottom of the boat whereon to lay his patient. "I doesn't know what we'll do," she said again, hurriedly. "But there never was a good man the like o' he. You ain't got a man yet, has you, ma'am?" "No, I'm a spinster yet," I declared, smiling. "He's sure the best ever was. Mebbe he might go to courtin' you, ma'am, and what a happy woman ye'd be." I don't think I blushed, Aunt Jennie, or showed any particular embarrassment. I think I simply recognized a tribute of adoration rendered by the poor soul to one who, in her weary, red eyes, deserved nothing less than worship. "I am quite sure he is a splendid man," I answered, quietly. "He is also taking care of my father, who broke his leg on the rocks, while salmon-fishing." "Oh! I knows yer now," said Mrs. Will. "Sammy he told us how you come in that white steam schooner, wi' brass shinin' all over." "Yes," I replied. She began to stare at me, much interested. "Sich a bonnie lass ye be! I wisht he'd take a fancy ter ye!" she exclaimed. "Ye'd sure never find a better man nowheres an' ye look as good as he do. I mistrust ye'd make an awful fine woman fer he." I could only smile again. Fancy my meeting with matchmakers in this rocky desert. The poor thing meant well, of course, and I could make no further answer, for Dr. Grant was returning. He packed all his things away in his bag, and I went over to the fisherman's bed. "I am so glad that you are getting along so much better," I told him. "Thank yer kindly, ma'am," he answered. "I'se sure a whole lot better an' now we has grub too." You know how sweet the fields are after a storm, Aunt Jennie. Here it also looked as if some dreadful black cloud had lifted, so that the sun shone down again on this desolate place and made it beautiful to the sick man. Then I had to swallow some strong tea, without milk, which I abhor. I trust I managed it with fortitude. The doctor also had to submit. "The day is fast approaching when I shall perish from an aggravated case of tea-poisoning," he confided to me. "Everywhere, under penalty of seeing long faces, I am compelled to swallow it in large doses. I lie awake nights seeking vainly for some sort of excuse that will be accepted without breaking hearts." "I hope that when you feel the symptoms coming you will hasten back to the security of civilization," I told him. "Even that is open to question," he answered. And so we brought the poor man home, Aunt Jennie, and I'm beginning to feel dreadfully sleepy, so I'll say _au revoir_. CHAPTER VII _From John Grant's Diary_ Atkins has just returned from St. John's, bringing loads of things for the Jelliffes. He consulted me timidly as to how much he might charge them for freight, for I am beginning to share with Mr. Barnett the honor of being considered as a general bureau of information. I craftily obtained his own views, and suggested a slight increase. Mr. Jelliffe audited the bill and gave the man five dollars extra for his trouble, so that by this time the whole family is weeping with joy. Atkins also brought me a batch of medical journals and a letter. To look at Dora's handwriting one would judge that the young woman must be at least six feet high. The letters are so big and bold that they would never suggest her actual five feet four, with a small fraction of which she is rather proud. As usual she tells me little about herself, saying that I can easily understand the nature of her work in the tenements. Of course I can and, what is more, I am chagrined to think she is toiling harder and enjoying herself less than I. Here I have a chance at great breaths of pure air, whereas in New York she is ever hurrying through sordid little East Side streets and breathing their emanations. I prefer the fish-houses, and if Miss Jelliffe were acquainted with some of those streets she would think as I do. The people I deal with here are grateful and happy to see me. Dora's mob is apt to suspect her motives, to distrust her offers of care and instruction, and to disagree entirely with her ideas of cleanliness. I wish she were here; it seems to me that a partnership in this place could accomplish wonderful things. I would build a bit of a hospital and she could boss the patients to her heart's content. The little girl says that she approves of my doings, but complains that I write rather flippantly, at times. Considering that she has bidden me to avoid carefully all matters relating to the tender passion what else can I do? She says that if I persevere I shall realize that I am doing good work. We are all seeking achievement, she tells me, and she is sure I am accomplishing great things. Poor little Dora! I wish I were as sure of this as she seems to be. As a matter of fact I am constantly disgruntled at the lack of facilities. How can a man do big work in surgery with no assistants? The least I should have is a nurse. I have written to tell her so. Day before yesterday I took Miss Jelliffe over to Will's Island. I really think she had lost a little of her color in her assiduous care of her father, and I was pleased to see the roses return to her cheeks on her way there. I would have thought that a young woman of her class would require a great deal of attention, but this young lady appears to be just as independent in her way as Dora is in hers. She was very much at home in the boat, and old Sammy just eats out of her hand. She has long ago gathered him into the fold of her adorers. Ten minutes after we left she was running our little ship and handling the tiller understandingly. She is a young woman whose life will be cast in pleasant places, and she awaits the future cheerfully, secure in the belief that it can bring but happiness. Dora, on the other hand, is prospecting with shovel and pick, and I'm afraid they may blister her little hands. When we arrived at Will's Island the young woman followed me into the house. I noticed that she shuddered just a little at the sight of Dick's arm. It was a novel thing to her, and I must say she met it bravely. Indeed it was rather fine to see how quickly she adapted herself to those surroundings. She held bandages for me and handed me the solutions with quick intuition. Also she was delightfully simple and kind in her treatment of poor Dick's bewildered wife. I decided to bring the man to the Cove. He insisted that he was perfectly able to walk down to the boat, but staggered as soon as he tried to stand up and would have fallen had I not been prepared for him. Sammy and Frenchy carried him down to the boat and lifted him on board, where they stretched him on the foot-boards which we had taken the precaution to upholster luxuriously with dried seaweed. An old sack, stuffed with the same material, constituted a pillow. Dick's wife and her brother, with the children, waved their hands at us as we left the little bay and started on the long run close-hauled to the mainland. For a short time Miss Jelliffe remained near Sammy. She was peering at the retiring cliffs. "Who would ever have thought that men would cling to such places?" she said. "I don't know whether I am glad or sorry that I came." One could see that she was moved. Life had taken a wider aspect for her. She doubtless knew of poverty and suffering, but to her they had been abstract things near which her footsteps had never carried her. "In another year or two it will be deserted," I told her. "The few sticks on the island have all been cut down, and they have begun to burn the boards of the abandoned house, though they also get a little driftwood for fuel. That is the story of many places on this coast, after the people have exhausted the scanty supply of wood." She evidently thought it marvelous that such desolate bits of rock should have found human limpets to cling to them and be able to support life after a fashion. Then she began to look at the man who was lying in the bottom of the boat. Although he was very pale and weak he looked contentedly at the sky and the fleecy clouds, and when his eyes caught hers he smiled bashfully. And the instinct then moved her, which lies in every proper feminine heart, however dormantly, to mother something or somebody. The screaming feathered life no longer interested her, nor the surging of the crested waves against the cliffs, nor the cleaving of the water by our little ship. She took a step forward and sat down on the rough boards, beside this wreck of manhood we were bringing in, unmindful of the dried fish-scales that would flake off upon her skirts. It was surely an unconscious movement of hers when her hand went out and rested on the fisherman's rough paw. I saw him stare at her, his eyes filled with wonderment and gratitude, for men of these places know little of tender care. "How do you feel now?" she asked him, gently. "I feels like I once did after a day an' a night on th' ice," he replied, slowly. "I mind there wuz four on us to a small pan as had broke loose. An' two they give out with th' cold, an' wuz dead afore mornin', but th' steamer as had lost us in th' fog she jist sudden loomed up, all ter once, an' took Tom Pilley an' me off an' we wuz saved. I mistrust that's jist how I feels again now." The girl turned her eyes towards me, and they were moist. She had understood the man and realized the time he had spent in despairing resignation, with the image of death ever before him during the long battle against cold and starvation. Then life had come, like a flash, out of the smothering mists, and soon he had been ready to struggle on again. And it was evident that the dreary prospect of such an existence prolonged was enough to make him happy once more. After this she remained silent for a long time. Hitherto, in her existence, sorrow and suffering had appeared like some other wonderful things occurring in nature, such as the forces holding atoms together or compelling bodies to gravitate. One knew of such things, of course, yet one was unconscious of them. Now they were assuming an importance she had never realized before. Her head bent low, as if she were being chastened by some strange feeling of reproach. It was perhaps the soothing touch of her hand that caused Dick to fall asleep, and Miss Jelliffe, with cramped limbs, rose to her feet. "See how quietly he is resting now," she said. "I should think that you would feel ever so proud of what you have done. I'm sure I hope you do." I had taken charge of the tiller, upon which she also laid her hand. I dare say that I was a little surprised, and did not answer at once. "I don't think that I ever realized before how much just one man may accomplish," she continued. "I am afraid that in my profession most of us who try to be honest with ourselves are inclined to deplore how very little we can achieve," I replied. "No man has any right to be entirely satisfied with his efforts," she declared, "and I think all this is a magnificent thing to be devoting one's energies to." "I am glad if I am sometimes able to justify an indulgent faculty for having granted me a parchment permitting me to prune my fellow mortals, as Holmes puts it," I answered. She looked at me, seriously, and shook her pretty head. "You are not speaking at all seriously," she said. Dora has accused me of flippancy, and this young lady states that I don't talk seriously. Yet a fellow has a right to dislike the danger of being unjustifiably placed in the category of meritorious people. I couldn't very well tell Miss Jelliffe that I was doing all this at the bidding of a little nurse with whom I am mightily in love. Dora has as yet given me no right to speak of her as my affianced. "What I wish to know is how you are going to be paid for your work in this case," pursued Miss Jelliffe, "and for the things you have given to these people? And who pays for this boat and the wages of the men? Of course if I am indiscreet you must say so." "I am the owner, in perspective, of absolutely unlimited codfish, Miss Jelliffe," I told her. "Some day these people will bury me under an avalanche of quintals. Still, it is also possible that they may come on the installment plan. One hundred and twelve pounds of fish may seem an unusual fee for a rather protracted case, but consider how far it will go in the feeding of a lone bachelor. Even though it may be small recompense it is promised with an honest and kindly heart. I am led to expect huge amounts when some of the men get back from the Labrador, and still more will flood my coffers if the shore catch is good and all sorts of other wonderful things happen. These people actually mean it, and worry themselves considerably over the matter. Some of the idiots actually refuse to send for me for the specious reason that they have nothing to pay me with, and permit themselves to die off in the silliest way, without my assistance." "Of course all that is mostly nonsense," said the young lady, decisively, "but--but I don't exactly see how you manage to get along. Of course just one glance such as I have seen that poor Dick give you ought to be a nice reward for any man, but then that sort of thing doesn't exactly provide..." "I am fortunate in having a little money which, in Sweetapple Cove, stretches out to a fairly important income, so that I am able to invest in futures, if that be the proper financial term. In the meanwhile I am having a rather good time," I answered. For quite a while she remained silent, seeming to be engaged in profound calculations. After this she again watched the waters and the rugged coast, and the birds wheeling and screaming over shoals of fish. We soon neared the entrance to Sweetapple Cove and Miss Jelliffe looked at it with renewed interest. Beyond those fierce ramparts with their cruel spurs dwelt men and women, most of whom she probably considered to be among the disinherited ones of the earth, eking out a bare living from hand to mouth. "Isn't it too bad that they should all have to strive so hard for the little they get," she said, suddenly. "They do it willingly and bravely, Miss Jelliffe," I said. "Here as elsewhere, of course, the rain falls on the just and the unjust, and usually spoils their fish." When we landed some men came out of the fish-houses, for the time of the midday meal was at hand. I called for volunteers to bring a hand barrow. "Who's got a bed in his house that I can put Dick Will in for a few days, till he gets better?" I asked. A number of offers were forthcoming at once. Finally he was carried away, with two sturdy men at the handles, while others walked alongside, supporting the patient in a sitting posture. He had begun by protesting. "I is sure I kin walk now, if ye'll let me try," he said. "You must do just as you are told," Miss Jelliffe admonished him. "You and I know nothing about these things and we must obey the doctor. You know he is ever so proud of your arm and you mustn't dare to run chances of spoiling his beautiful work." "No, ma'am, not never," he declared, properly ashamed of himself and quite aghast at the prospect. The procession caused some excitement in the village, and doubtless much discussion on the part of the good women. I have no doubt that some of them lectured their husbands severely for their failure to offer suitable inducements. They are always eager to be helpful. "We has three beds i' th' house," the lucky contender had announced, proudly. It was only very late in the afternoon that I discovered the domicile to be tenanted by three adults and seven children, most of whom now cheerfully curl up on the floor. This, however, is never considered as a hardship by a Newfoundlander. To him anything softer than a plank is luxury. When I saw Miss Jelliffe back to her house she asked me to come in for lunch. I thanked her and assured her that I would accept her kind invitation another time, as I had to go at once to another patient. And so Miss Jelliffe turns out to be an exceedingly womanly young woman, which, after all, is the only kind we poor imperfect men are able to admire. When the chance came for her to show courage and sympathy she seized upon it instinctively. I am sure Dora would be ever so fond of her, and I wish that they could meet one another. CHAPTER VIII _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dear Aunt Jennie_: Harry Lawrence was telling me one day that the proper study of man is girl, and vice versa. It is his modification of the ancient and mossy saw. Daddy is doing very well, and now that he is asleep through the hypnotic virtues of a best seller which I have read to him in large doses, I resume my correspondence with you, and, incidentally, my study of man. He is really very interesting, Aunt Jennie, with the tiniest bit of secretiveness as to his own purposes in life which, of course, makes one more curious about him. In a frock coat, with gardenia in his button hole, he would make an ideal usher at a fashionable wedding. A few days ago, when we took that trip to Will's Island, I observed that he has capable limbs, properly clean-cut features and a general appearance of energetic efficiency. There are scores just like him, that we meet on golf links and tennis courts, and, in spite of his rough garb, he really is a most presentable young man. I received your letter yesterday, and of course my own Auntie Jennie could not have foreborne to say that there is no island so deserted that I would not find a nice young man in it. I consider this statement as merely displaying the most ordinary and even superficial acquaintance with the laws of gravitation. By this time I am naturally entirely at home in the social circles of Sweetapple Cove. The ancient dames grin at me, most toothlessly and pleasantly, and since I recklessly distributed all my stock of Maillard's among the urchins I have a large following among the juvenile population. To guard against the impending famine I have obtained from St. John's some most substantial and highly colored candies at very little a pound which are just now quite as popular to an undiscriminating taste. I wish I had not been so prodigal with the other ones. I have foregathered with Mrs. Barnett a great deal and have simply fallen in love with her. Aunt Jennie, dear, she is a lady to her poor needle-pricked fingers' ends. She is one of the numerous offspring of an English parson who was the seventh or eighth son of an inpecunious baronet, I believe. Her husband starved as a curate in the most genteel fashion, for some years, and suddenly announced that he was coming here. We don't know whether Ruth was quite so subservient after the wedding was over, for I understand that some brides change to some extent after marriage. Mrs. Barnett was a Ruth before and remained one ever since. She quietly packed up her trunks and her infants and doubtless bought the tickets, as Mr. Barnett was probably writing a sermon or visiting old ladies up to the last moment. Then she found herself here and immediately made the best of it, and that best is a thing to marvel at. She is a beautiful, tired-looking thing in dreadful clothes who wears an aureola of hair that is a perfect wonder. Her back is beautifully straight and she is capable of a smile I wish I could imitate. She has the softest, cultured, sweet, English accent, which came with a little quiver of her voice when she told of a little one who died here, before there was any doctor. The three that are left are to her as Cornelia's jewels. I would just give anything to bring her to New York, give her the run of the best _couturières_ and show her to some of our diamonds-at-breakfast dowagers. As Harry would say, she would make them look like thirty cents. They would perish with jealousy. She holds the savor and fragrance of centuries of refinement. Yesterday I went to their little church. It was built by Mr. Barnett and the inhabitants, who cheerfully gave their labor. Every board of it represents untold begging and saving. It was a nice, simple, little service, in which the people were much interested and sang hymns with fervor and plenty of false notes. My voice is hardly worth the money that has been squandered upon it, but such as it is I began to sing also. To my intense dismay I was soon singing alone, for the rest of the congregation respectfully stopped. Mr. Barnett looked at me most benevolently over his spectacles, but this was hardly enough to subdue my sudden stage fright. On the day before the nice little man called on us, soon after dinner, which here is a midday function. Before this particular feast I had apologized to Daddy for leaving him alone and going sailing for a few hours. "That's the worst of you women-folk," he rebuffed me. "Just because a fellow happens to be fond of you, you must pretend that you are entirely indispensable. I got on very nicely, thank you, and your absence had no deleterious influence upon my leg. There is some slight pain in it, whether you are here or not." "I know that the charm of my conversation makes you forget it at times," I told him. "I don't deny the charm," said Daddy, who is the most scrupulously polite man, as you know, "but just now the delight of something to eat is what I'm hankering for." "You are going to have Newfoundland turkey," I told him. Daddy looked at me incredulously, and then his countenance fell. "Don't tell me you are referring to codfish," he said. "That is the sad news," I told him. "It is going to be perfectly delicious, and you will have to wait a moment." So I turned up my sleeves and armoured myself in a blue gingham apron before invading the realm of Susie Sweetapple, who only knows how to boil things, including the tea. Like a true artist I engaged in an improvisation. The only really bad thing about codfish, Aunt Jennie, is its intrusive quality when it is prepared by the hundreds and thousands of quintals. Otherwise, like eggs and potatoes, it is capable of a multiplicity of avatars. We brought the dish back in triumph. "Here, at last, is some return for the money squandered upon my education," I announced. "Aren't you glad I took a course in cookery?" But Daddy refused to commit himself until after he had thoroughly sampled my effort. "It is first rate," he said, "and you can take another course if you like." "You know I brought the cookery book with me," I informed him, "but I've stopped using it. It tells one to take pinches of this, and pints of that, and cupfuls of other things that have never been heard of in Sweetapple Cove. It is dreadfully discouraging. I suggested roast beef to Susie, for to-night, and she stared at me and I laughed at my own folly. There is just one recently imported cow in the place, and a small calf, and they're alive, as are the goats. I can't reconcile my mind to the idea of a live cow being beef, and the calf is a personal friend of mine." "I have hitherto considered you as being somewhat ornamental," said Daddy. "Now that you are also proving useful I am deeming you a profitable investment." So we had lunch together, for I can't get used to the custom of calling it dinner. "That was a splendid sail we had," I said. "The sea was perfectly delightful. And that poor man was so glad to be brought here. Dr. Grant is doing wonderful things." "A smart chap," commented Daddy. "If he has to do this for a living I'm sorry for him, and if he isn't compelled to he's probably some sort of useful crank." "At any rate Sweetapple Cove appreciates him," I said. "I have no doubt he's an angel with pin-feathers sprouting all over him," retorted Dad. "But it isn't business, which I take the liberty of defining as the way of making the best of one's opportunities instead of frittering them away. He has unquestionably done a few dozens of poor devils a lot of good, including myself. But he could find many more cripples in any big city, and a few of them might have bank accounts." Just then we heard some one whistling. I was interested to note that the tune was from a fairly recent comic opera that can hardly have reached the general population of Sweetapple Cove. "There is your crank," I said, rather viciously. He knocked at the door and came in, breezily, as he generally does. "I've got to be off," he announced. "I shall probably not return till to-morrow night, or perhaps the morning after. You are getting along very well, Mr. Jelliffe. Just let me have another look before I go away." The inspection seemed to be entirely satisfactory. "Well, I'll run now," said Dr. Grant. "I'll come and see you the moment I get back." He hurried out again, and I saw him join Sammy and the Frenchman. I waved my hand at him as the boat was leaving the cove, but I suppose that he wasn't looking for he made no answer, though Yves wigwagged with a flaming bandanna. "Now wouldn't that jar you?" said Daddy. "Wouldn't it inculcate into you a chastened spirit? Doesn't he consider me as an important patient? Just comes in and grins and runs away again, for a couple of days, as if I were not likely to need him at any moment. He's the limit!" "I don't really think he is going away just for the fun of it," I objected. At this moment Susie Sweetapple burst into the room like a Black Hand bomb. It is one of her little ways. "Parson's coming," she declared, breathlessly, and nodded her head violently to emphasize the importance of her statement. "I suppose it is Mr. Barnett," I said. "They expected him back to-day. He has been away to a place they call Edward's Bay." "I presume it is," assented Daddy. "His arrival appears to cause the same sort of excitement on this population as the fire-engines produce among the juveniles of New York, judging from Susie's display." The girl had run to the door and opened it widely. Then she backed away before a little man who removed a clerical hat that was desperately green from exposure to the elements, and which revealed a shock of hair of a dull flaxen hue doubtless washed free of any pigment by salt spray and rain. His garments were also of distinctive cut, though they frankly exposed well-meant though unvailing efforts at matching buttons and repairing small rents. He bowed to me, his thin face expanding into a most gentle and somewhat professional smile, and he expressed commiseration at the sight of Daddy in his bed. "I hope I don't intrude upon your privacy," he said, with an intonation just as refined as that of his wife, though scarcely as sweet. "I took the liberty of calling, having been informed of your very distressing accident. I fear you have not finished your repast, and perhaps I had better..." "Do come in and take a seat," I told him. "It is ever so kind of you to call." "I am very glad to see you, sir," said Daddy, very cordially. "We have not had many opportunities to welcome visitors here, and even our doctor is too busy a man to pay long calls." "Yes, quite so. Indeed he is at times exceedingly busy. We think him an extremely nice young man; quite delightful, I assure you, and he does a great deal of good." The man was rubbing his thin little hands together, with his head cocked to one side, looking like an intellectual and benevolent sparrow. I must say that I was impressed by him. From conversations with the fishermen I had gathered the impression that Mr. Barnett was a perfectly fearless man on land and water, and I had imagined an individual cast in a rather heroic mold. It hardly seemed possible that this little parson was the subject of the tales I had heard, for he bore a tiny look of timidity and, I was sorry to see, of overwork and underfeeding. But the latter may have been dyspepsia. "This is rather a large field to which we have been called," he continued. "It gives one very fine opportunities as well as some difficulties to contend with. But of course we keep on striving. It is not missionary work, you understand, for the people are all very firm believers. It is merely a question of lending a helping hand, to the best of one's ability." "It must be dreadfully hard at times," I put in. "You had quite a long sail to get here, didn't you? And isn't it perfectly awful in winter?" "I have been carried out to sea, and things have looked rather badly sometimes," he said, deprecatingly. "But one must expect a little trouble now and then, you know." Daddy began to ask him questions. You know how he prides himself on his ability to turn people inside out, as he expresses it. The poor little man answered, slowly, smiling blandly all the time and looking quite unfit, physically, to face the perils of such a hard life. I became persuaded that under that frail exterior there must be a heart full of strength to endure, of determination to carry out that which he considers to be his duty. "You know I really am afraid I'm a dreadful coward," he suddenly confessed. "I have been rather badly frightened some times." "My father was the bravest man I ever knew," said Daddy, "and he acknowledged that he was scared half to death whenever he went into battle, during the war. Yet he was several times promoted for gallantry in the field. I feel quite sure that you must have deserved similar advancement, more than once." Mr. Barnett looked at him, doubtfully, and with a funny little frightened air. "I am afraid you must be chaffing me," he said, with a tentative smile. "No, sir, I am not," clamored Daddy. "Bravery lies in facing the odds, when you have to, and putting things through regardless of one's fears. The chap who never gets scared hasn't enough brains to know danger." The uneasy look of the parson's face gave way to a pleased expression. It was interesting to watch Daddy getting at all the facts, as he calls it, and I suppose that it is a precious talent. In the shortest possible time he knew the birth rate, the chief family histories, the rates for the transportation of codfish to the remotest parts of the world, and how many barrels of flour it took to keep a large family alive for one year, besides a few hundred other things. During a lull I asked Mr. Barnett whether he would have some tea. Your cultivated taste is the one I have followed as regards this beverage, and I have an ample provision. Before the full-flavored North China infusion, which I kept out of Susie's devastating hands, and the little biscuits coming from the most British-looking tin box, I saw the Reverend Basil Barnett, late of Magdalen, gradually becoming permeated by a sense of something that had long been missing from his life. When he first caught the aroma he looked incredulous, then his features relaxed in the smile of the expert utterly satisfied. "Mrs. Barnett and I are exceedingly fond of tea," he said, after I had compelled him to let me fill his cup for the third time. To-morrow I shall discover some manner of making the dear woman accept a pound or two of it. The appreciation of her spouse made me think of some lion-hearted, little, strenuous lady with an inveterate tea-habit. Can you understand such a confused statement? I realize that it is badly jumbled. At any rate he held his cup daintily, with three fingers, and looked at it as Daddy looks at a glass of his very special Château-Larose. "I shall have to go now," he announced, perhaps a little regretfully. "I hear, Miss Jelliffe, that you have helped minister to the needs of that poor Dick Will. I am going to see him now. By the way, I trust I may have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at our little church, if you can leave your dear patient long enough." "Of course I'll come," I promised, "and I would be glad to go with you now and see Dick. I know Daddy won't mind, and I should like to see whether I can do anything to make the man more comfortable." "Run along, my dear," said Daddy. Mr. Barnett expressed thanks, and we walked away together. I actually had to shorten my steps a little to accommodate myself to his quick, shuffling gait. It is queer, Aunt Jennie, but before this tiny, unpretentious parson I feel a sense of deference and high regard. To think he is able to overcome his fears, that his gracile body has been called upon to withstand the bufferings of storms, and that his notion of duty should appear to raise him, physically, to the level of these rough vikings among whom he labors, is quite bewildering. And the best of it is that when he talks he is entirely free from that didactic authority so often assumed by men of his cloth. He just admits you into his confidence, that is all. "Mrs. Barnett has told me of your kindness to her and the little chaps," he said. "I am so pleased that you have become acquainted. The thing a woman misses most, in places like this, is her circle of friends. But she is the bravest soul in the world, and although she worries a good deal when I am away in bad weather she always looks cheerful when I return. I have been blessed beyond my deserts, Miss Jelliffe." The little man looked up at me, and I could see that his face was bright with happiness, so that I had to smile in sympathy. I don't know that I have ever realized before what a huge thing love and affection mean in the lives of some people, how they can cast a glamour over sordid surroundings and reward one for all the hardships. "I am glad that you are happy," I told him. "I think that you have become very fond of the place and of these people." "I shall miss them if ever I am called away," he acknowledged, looking at the poor, unpainted houses and the rickety flakes. Dear Auntie Jennie, it looks to me as if these were people to be envied. To the parson life is the prosecution of a work he deems all-important, and which he carries on with the knowledge that there is always a helping hand lovingly to uphold his own. And yet I admire his wife still more deeply, for she looks like a queen who loves her exile, because the king is with her. We went into the house in which Dick found shelter. The men were away fishing, of course, but two women were there, with their fair share of the children who swarm in the Cove. At once aprons were produced for the polishing of the two rough chairs of the establishment. "We has some merlasses now," one of the women told me, proudly. "Th' little bye he be allers a puttin' some on bread an' leavin' it on th' cheers." Daddy is calling me, so good by for the present. I am so glad the people of Sweetapple Cove interest you. Lovingly, HELEN. CHAPTER IX _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Auntie_: Would you believe that the time here flies at least as fast as in New York during Horse-Show week, although one gets to bed earlier. I am beginning actually to enjoy this place, strange as it may seem. Had it not been for poor Daddy's accident I should have been the most contented thing you ever saw. He sends his love and says I've just got to learn stenography and type-writing so that when he breaks more legs he can write to you daily. I believe he's forgotten the use of a pen except to sign checks with. His patience is wonderful, but he calls it being a good sportsman. I believe there is a great deal in that word. It is queer that one can make oneself at home in such a little hole, and find people that are quite absorbing; I mean the natives, as well as the others. The whole place is asleep by eight or nine, unless there has been a good catch of fish, when the little houses on the edge of the cove are full of weary men still ripping away at the cod, that are brought in huge piles dwindling very fast after they are spread out to dry. Daddy gets batches of newspapers, by the uncertain mail, but finishes by nine and requests to be permitted to snore in peace. I write hurriedly for an hour or two, and finally succumb to the drowsiness you may find reflected in these pages. On returning from my visit to Dick Will, Daddy looked at me enquiringly, as I am his chief source of local news and the dear old man is becoming nearly as absorbed in Sweetapple Cove as in Wall Street. "The parson has gone to pay other visits," I told him, "but I couldn't leave you any longer. He is such a nice little man. He asked if he could read a chapter from the Bible, and Dick said he would be very glad. When it was finished the man looked as if he were thinking very hard, and Mr. Barnett asked if anything were puzzling him. Then Dick asked about the ice in the Sea of Galilee, because big floes were often ankle-deep and he had often seen men who looked as if they were walking on the water. Mr. Barnett explained that there was no ice in that country." "And what did Dick say?" asked Daddy. "'Then how does they do for swiles?'" was what he asked, and when he was informed that there were no seals in Galilee Dick expressed commiseration for the poor people. "They are a pretty ignorant lot," commented Dad, laughing heartily. "Few of them have the slightest chance of obtaining any education," I replied. "And Mr. Barnett was so nice to him, explaining things. Then he said nothing at all about the chastening effect of suffering. That seems to be something these people know about. The parson just said that we were all so glad to see him getting well again. You know, Daddy, the admonitions of some dominies sound rather like hitting a fellow when he's down. Mr. Barnett isn't that kind." "I expect that he belongs to a first-rate kind, my dear," said Daddy. "There are all kinds of religions, but the only one I respect is that of the simple, trusting soul." "I met Mrs. Barnett and asked her to come in to supper," I informed Dad. "We have plenty of canned chicken left and Susie's brother brought in a lot of beautiful trout. The man thought that fifteen cents a dozen would be about the right price, but he left it to me, and I couldn't beat him down. When he brought them Susie disdainfully informed him that fish was grub for poor people, and that we had lots of lovely things in cans. I insisted on taking the trout." "If you continue to squander money in that way I'll have to cut down your allowance," threatened Daddy, whereupon I reminded him that he had never made me one and that I had always sent the bills to him. He was laughing. I think it's the nicest thing in the world for a girl to be such pals with her father. I wouldn't give one of the nice grey hairs on his temples for all the nobility and gentry of Europe and the millionaires of America. Then I went to get the chess-board and the dear man gave me all the pawns I wanted and proceeded to wipe the floor with me, as Harry says. We played on till it began to get dark and Susie came in with the lamp which she placed in the bracket fastened to the wall. "Like as not it'll be rainin' soon," she announced. "The swallers is flyin' low and the wind he've turned to sou-east, so belike it'll be pourin' in a while. How's yer leg feelin' the night, Mister, an' is there anythin' else I might be doin' fer yer?" "No thank you, Susie," he replied. "So long as parson's comin' I better make hot biscuits too. He's after likin' them, an' I kin open one o' they little white crocks o' jam. He holds more'n what ye'd think a wee bit man the likes o' he would manage to, though he don't never fat up, an' it goes ter show as grub makes brains with some folks, an' blubber in others." I could make no answer to such highly scientific statements, and in a few moments a knock was heard at the door, upon which our handmaiden precipitated herself. "Come right in," she said. "Don't take notice if yer boots is muddy fer I'll be scrubbin' th' floor ter-morrer. Yer must have been ter the Widdy Walters, for they is a big puddle afore her door, even this dry weather we've had couple o' days. Come right in an' welcome fer everybody's glad ter see yer." Having thus amply done the honors Susie backed away and our two guests came in. The parson actually had a dress-suit which smelt most powerfully of camphor balls and Mrs. Barnett wore something that must have been a dear little dress some years ago, in which she looked as sweet as sweet can be. They were both smiling ever so brightly, and the little lump that was rising in my throat at the sight of these pathetic clothes went back to wherever is its proper place. "Good evening, Mr. Jelliffe," said the parson, and repeated his greeting to me. "It feels a little like rain. I see that you have been playing chess. Dear me, it is such a long time since I have had a game." I told him that this was a very imprudent remark, for which my father would make him pay dearly. I am afraid his sense of humor is drawn down rather fine, or lying fallow, or something. I had to explain that he would be captured and made to play whether he wanted to or not, whereat he beamed. Susie came in again to get our little table ready, and brought up the barrel-top which is her latest improvisation of a tray for Daddy's use. I rose to assist in the preparatives but Susie scorned my aid. "Ye jist set down an' enj'y yerself," she commanded me. "'T ain't every day one has th' parson to talk ter. I kin shift ter do it all an' it's no use havin' a dog an' doin' yer own barkin', like the sayin' is. Th' biscuits is done brown an' th' kittle's on the bile." She ran out again for our dishes, and Daddy turned to our two friends. "You are looking at an abject slave and a young lady who is getting fairly tamed, though at times she still rebels. Both of these young women exercise authority over me all day long until the ownership of my own soul has become a moot question. When my leg is properly spliced again I shall take that freak Susie to New York and exhibit her as the greatest natural curiosity I have been able to find on the island." Mrs. Barnett laughed, ever so pleasantly, and declared that Susie was a good girl whose intentions were of the best. Then Daddy went on to explain to Mrs. Barnett the mystery of our presence here. He told how our second mate had boasted of the salmon that swarmed in Sweetapple Cove, and how in a moment of folly he had decided to forsake the Tobique for that year and explore new ground. I was the one who had suggested camping out, practically, if we could find a little house, while we sent back the yacht for repairs, at St. John's. We were expecting it soon. The accident, of course, had to be thoroughly described. "It was a beautiful fish, madam, a perfect beauty," he went on. "A clean run salmon of twenty pounds, if he was an ounce, and as strong as a horse. I had to follow him down stream and, first thing you know, I toppled over those confounded rocks and my leg was broken. The fish went away, towing my best rod and reel towards the Cove." The parson said grace and we sat down. I am happy to say that they enjoyed Susie's culinary efforts, and we had the nicest chatty time. Just as we finished we all stopped conversing and listened. The rain was pelting down upon our little window panes and the wind came in heavy gusts, while, far away, the thunder was rolling. Then, after a time, we heard steps upon the little porch and I rose to open the door. It was Dr. Grant, engaged in the very necessary formality of removing his dripping oilskins. "May I come in?" he asked. "Please do so," I answered. "We didn't expect you back until to-morrow. My father will be delighted to see you, as will your other friends." He came in and sat down after he had greeted everybody. The poor man looked quite worn and harassed. It was a distinct effort that he made to speak in his usual pleasant way, and I could see that something troubled him. "I think I will leave you now," he said, after a few moments. "I just wanted to find out how Mr. Jelliffe was getting on. They are expecting me at Sammy's," "Oh! Do rest for a moment," I told him. "You look very tired." He sat down again, looking at his feet. "The wind died down and the tide was bearing us away," he explained. "We had to take to the oars. Pulled a good fifteen miles. We were rather hurried, for we could see this storm coming up. I'm glad we made the Cove just in time." We could all hear the rain spattering down violently. Flashes of lightning were nearly continuous and the thunder claps increased in intensity while the wind shook our little house. "It is all white water outside now," he said, listening. "Well, I'll be off now." "Yer ain't a goin' ter do nothin' o' the kind," interrupted Susie, who had just entered with another plate. "There's plenty tea left an' if there ain't I kin make more. Ye jist bide there till I brings yer some grub. Ye're dead weary an' needs it bad." "Do stay," I sought to persuade him. "Thank you, you are very kind," he said. One could see that for the moment he didn't care whether he had anything to eat or not, yet he managed to do fair justice to Susie's cooking. "I am feeling a great deal better now," he soon announced. "I think I was rather fagged out. We came back so early because I found I was no longer needed. I am ever so much obliged to you. I'm afraid I am not very good company to-night and I will be back early in the morning. That plaster cast is getting a little loose. We will split it down to-morrow and have a good look at things." Mrs. Barnett had risen also and was looking at him. In her eyes I detected something that was a very sweet, motherly sympathy. Her quick intuition had shown her that something had gone entirely wrong. Her smile was so kind and friendly that it seemed to dissolve away something hard that had come over the surface of the man. "Isn't there anything that we can do for you?" she asked. "Nothing!" he exclaimed. "What can any one expect to do? What is the use of keeping on trying when one has to be forever bucking against ignorance and stupidity? There is nothing the matter with me. Just a dead woman and baby, that is all. Just a poor, hard-working creature that has scarcely known a moment of real happiness in this world. She had five little ones already, clinging to her skirts, and a lot of stupid neighbors. I know the kind of advice she got from those silly old women. 'No use callin' in th' doctor. Them things comes on all right if yer has patience. They doctors does dreadful things. I's had seven an' here I be, an' no doctor ever nigh me.' Oh! I can hear the poor fools speaking, and naturally she took their advice. Then, of course, when she was gasping for breath and beginning to grow cold they sent for me, thirty miles away, and when I landed they told me it was all over, and I found them moaning, with a wild-eyed man huddled up in a corner hardly able to understand, and a lot of little ones crying for food." He stopped and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and looked around him, without appearing to see any of us. It was like a pent-up stream that had burst from its dam, and the flood was not yet exhausted. "I felt like cursing the lot of them," he continued, "and giving them the tongue-lashing of their lives. But much good it would have done, and I managed to hold myself back! I couldn't help telling them that they should have sent for me three days ago, when things began to go wrong. They know well enough how to weep over their misery, but no one can make them use their silly heads. They keep on coming with infected gurry sores as if arms could be saved after they've nearly rotted away, and send for me to see the dying, as if I could raise them from their beds." He had stopped suddenly, and looked embarrassed. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I should not have spoken of these things. They are all a part of the game. I daresay I ought to have gone up on the hill, back of the cliffs, and had a good bout of bad language all to myself, where none could hear me." Neither the parson nor his wife appeared to be the least bit shocked at this. They knew from long experience the things that try men's souls. "I'm glad you've spoken," I told him. "It has relieved you, I'm sure, and we all sympathize with you." Long ago, Aunt Jennie, you told me that a man is nothing but a grown-up boy. This one looked around the room. Daddy was smiling at him in his dear friendly fashion, and the other two were kindliness itself. "A fellow doesn't always take his medicine like a little man," he said, apologetically, "and you're all ever so good." Then he left, still looking just a little bit ashamed of himself, as I've seen fellows do in a defeated crew when they have sunk down for a moment on their sliding seats. "I think the boy feels alone, sometimes," said Mrs. Barnett. "He has really a great deal to contend with. But he is a splendid fellow, and I'm sorry for him. Every one loves him in Sweetapple Cove, you know." Presently the two left us, after I had promised to go to the little church on the next day. Susie had come in with a lighted lantern, clad to her feet in an ancient oilskin coat, and insisted on seeing them home. They thanked us very charmingly and I watched their departure, the reflections of the light playing over the deep puddles on the road. Then I sat down by Daddy's bed, pondering. "A penny for your thoughts, daughter," he said. "I was thinking that men are very interesting," I told him. "Dr. Grant always looks like such a strong man." "And now you think you have discovered the feet of clay?" "Well, it seemed quite strange, Daddy." "I'll tell you one thing, girly," he said. "Never make the fatal error of thinking any one is perfect. It is a mistake that young people are rather apt to indulge in. There are little weak points, and sometimes big ones, in all of us." "I suppose so," I assented, "but these were such dreadful things he told us about. It seems so terrible that they should happen at all. It has made me feel unhappy. I thought that doctors got used to such things." "There are a lot of things a fellow never gets used to, my dear," answered Daddy. "This one is young yet, but he will probably never get over the sense of rebellion which comes over a man, a real man, who finds himself butting his head against stupidity and ignorance. Don't you make any mistake about that fellow Grant! The poorest kind of chap is the one who is always letting things slide. This is a tough, square-jawed, earnest chap, of the sort who put their hearts and souls into things, right or wrong. The man who has never felt or shown weakness is a contemptible egotist. The cocksure fools always have perfect faith in themselves. Those two men, the big and the little one, are both pretty fine specimens, and in their own ways they are equally strong. They're made of the right stuff." I don't exactly know why, but I felt greatly pleased. Daddy is a mighty keen man of the world, and his judgment of others has been one of his great assets. "I wish we could help too, Daddy," I told him. "We may, if we find a way," he answered. "I'm going to investigate the matter." When Daddy says he is to investigate, something is going to drop, with a dull thud. At least that's the way Harry Lawrence puts it. By the way, Aunt Jennie, what has become of him, and why hasn't he written to me? Your loving HELEN. CHAPTER X _From John Grant's Diary_ I slept rather late, this morning, and came out of the house feeling very fit. Had it not been for my blistered hands nothing would have remained to show what a hard pull we had yesterday, excepting the unpleasant feeling that I made rather a donkey of myself last evening. My only excuse, and a mighty poor one, is that I was rather played out and developed a silly grouch. I had only gone a little way when I met Mrs. Barnett. She came towards me with her hand outstretched, smiling in her usual pleasant way. "Right again and topside up," she exclaimed, brightly. "Sammy was just telling me what a hard time you had to make the cove, yesterday. Those broad shoulders of yours give you an advantage over my husband. He would have had to go off towards North Cove. It is fine to be as strong and big as you." "Mrs. Barnett," I said, fervently, "you are an awful humbug." She cocked her head a little to one side, with a pretty motion she sometimes unconsciously affects. "Out with it," she said. "Explain yourself so that I may repent and be forgiven." "There is nothing to be forgiven you," I declared. "I would like to place you on a pedestal and direct the proper worshipping of you. None but the most superior kind of a woman can take a fool chap and turn his folly around so that he may be rather pleased with it. I expected a good wigging from you, and deserve it." "That sort of thing is one of the most important functions and privileges of a woman," she answered. "Men need it all the time for the smoothing out of their ruffled feelings." "The men shouldn't allow them to get ruffled," I said. "There speaks the wise man," she laughed, "nor should the sea permit itself to get stormy. Were you not explaining to me the other day that the wind allows the climbing up of the sap in swaying trees, and that the stirring of the waters keeps them pure and fit to maintain the unending life beneath them?" "It seems to me that I did." "Well, I suppose that a little storminess now and then serves some useful purpose in a man, and if he only can have a woman about him, to see that it doesn't go too far, it will do him a lot of good. You should get married." "Of course I ought to," I replied, "and moreover I would give everything in the world if only...." I interrupted myself, considering that since Dora Maclennon and I are not engaged, and that she merely represents to me a longing which I often consider as a hopeless one, I have no right to discuss her, even with this dear kind woman. "You have already found the girl?" asked Mrs. Barnett, her eyes filled with the interested sympathy always shown by the gentler sex in such matters. "I have found her," I replied, "but she is very far away from me, and it is just a case of having to grin and bear it." Then her blue eyes opened widely, and with an exquisitely gentle touch she placed her hand on my arm. "You poor dear boy!" she said, with the sweetest little inflection of voice, that held a world of friendliness and compassion. "I am afraid you will think I am in a perpetually disgruntled state," I told her. "Nothing of the kind! I eat the squarest kind of square meals every day and really enjoy the work here. If it were not a bit trying, from time to time, it wouldn't be worth a man's while to tackle it." "That is the way to talk," approved Mrs. Barnett. So we shook hands again and I left her, thinking what a splendid thing it must be for a fellow to have such a tower of gentle strength to lean upon. I went over to the Jelliffes' and cut down the plaster dressing. The broken leg is doing very well, as was to be expected, and I was much pleased. "That's doing splendidly," I told him. "A little more patience for a couple of weeks and we'll have you walking up and down the village, a living advertisement of my accomplishments." "A couple of weeks!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe. "That sounds like three or four. I know you fellows. No one ever managed to get anything definite out of a doctor, with the possible exception of his bill." I laughed, but refused to commit myself by making any hard and fast promises, and Miss Jelliffe came in. "Daddy enjoyed himself ever so much last evening," she said. "He likes Mr. Barnett and grows enthusiastic when he speaks of Mrs. Barnett. I must say that I share his views." "They are made of the salt of the earth," I asserted. "Yes, there can be no doubt of that," she said. "But doesn't it seem dreadful that a gently nurtured woman should be placed in such surroundings, with no means of obtaining anything but the barest needs of existence? She has to stand all the worries of her own household and, in addition, is compelled to listen to the woes of all the others." "And any help that she can extend to them," I added, "saving that of sympathy and kind words, is always at the cost of depriving herself and her little ones. And yet she is doing it unceasingly, and goes about in shocking clothes and with a smile on her face, cheerfully, as if her path in life lay over a bed of roses." "That's what I call a fine woman, and a good one," said Mr. Jelliffe, "but I'm sure it is her devotion to that little man that has brought out all her fine points. His people are her people and she has adopted his ideals." The front door was widely opened on this pleasant day, and, as I was finishing the dressing, Miss Jelliffe was dreamily looking out over the cove and following the circling gulls. I think that, like myself, she wondered at the simplicity of it all. A woman loved a man and clung to him, and from that moment their personalities merged, and their thoughts were shared, and a rough, rock-bound, fog-enwrapped land became, for all its hardships, a place where a man could do great work while the woman developed to the utmost her glorious faculties of helpfulness and tender unselfishness. To me there could be no doubt that this couple had made of their union something very noble in achievement, though they were so quiet and simple about it all. In so many marriages the partnership is but a poor doggerel, while in others it is a poem of entrancing beauty, filling hearts with happiness and heads with generous thought. "You have been staring at me for a whole minute, Doctor," said Mr. Jelliffe, suddenly. "Anything particularly wrong or fatal in my general appearance?" "I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, in some confusion. "You are looking ever so well and I wish I could hurry your leg on a little faster. Nature has ordained that bones will take just about so long to mend. And now I am going away to play. Practice happens to be quite slack to-day and Frenchy should be waiting outside with my rod. I am going to see whether I cannot deceive an innocent salmon into swallowing a little bunch of feathers." "How dare you speak of such things to an inveterate old angler, after tying him up by one leg!" exclaimed my patient, shaking his fist at me. "You fill my heart with envy and all manner of uncharitableness. I call it the meanest thing I ever heard of on the part of a doctor. Here I am, without even a new Wall Street report wherewith to possess my soul in patience. Run away before I throw something at you, and good luck to you!" "I haven't dared to ask Miss Jelliffe whether she would like to cast a fly also," I said. "I suppose she will have to stay and nurse your wounded feelings." "She has stuck to me like a leech since yesterday morning," complained the old gentleman, "excepting for the short time when she went to church. I don't seem to be able to get rid of her. Wish you would take her away with you and get me some salmon that doesn't come in cans. She will doubtless have plenty of rainy days during which she will be compelled to stay indoors with me, whether I like it or not." "I have a half a mind to take you at your word, to punish you," said Miss Jelliffe. "This should be a great day for a rise," I sought to tempt her. "I suppose I can be back in time for lunch?" she asked. "Certainly. You can come back whenever you want to," I assured her. "Don't you really care, Daddy?" she asked her father. "What I care for is broiled salmon, fresh caught and such as has not been drowned in a net like a vulgar herring," answered the latter. We were away in a few minutes, walking briskly down to the cove, where we entered a dory which Frenchy propelled. Our craft was soon beached at the mouth of the small river and we walked up the bank by the side of the brawling water. When we reached the first pool we sat down on the rocks while I moistened a long leader and opened my fly-book. "I think we will begin with a Jock Scott," I proposed. "No, let us try a Silver Doctor," she urged me. "It seems best adapted to present company. It's just a fancy I have, and I'm generally lucky." As we were speaking a silver crescent leaped from the still surface, flashed for a second in the sunlight and came down again to disappear in the ruffled water. "Heem a saumon magnifique!" exclaimed Yves. "You must try for him, Miss Jelliffe," I said. "You are to make good that statement that you are lucky. There is a big rock under the water, just over there where you see that dark spot. He will be likely to rest there. It is a beautiful clean run fish. Now take my rod and cast well up stream and draw your fly back so that it will pass over that spot." "Oh, no, you try," she said, eagerly. "Isn't he a beauty!" But I insisted and she took the rod, a fourteen-foot split bamboo. She looked behind her, to see that the coast was clear. There were no bushes for her to hook and no rise of ground to look out for. "Steady, Miss Jelliffe," I said. "Don't get nervous. If he rises don't try to strike. They will hook themselves as often as not. Begin by casting away from that place until you get out enough line, then get your fly a little beyond that spot and draw in gently." "I've caught plenty of big trout," she said, excitedly, "but I've never landed a salmon. I am nearly hoping that he won't take the fly. I won't know what to do." "There has to be a first time in everything," I told her. "Just imagine you're after a big trout." She appeared to become cooler and more confident, letting out a little line, retrieving it nicely, and lengthening her cast straight across the stream. The rod was going back expertly, just slightly over her right shoulder, and the line whizzed overhead. "Easy," I advised her; "it is a longer rod than you are used to." She waited properly until the line had straightened out behind her, and cast again. "That is plenty, now for that rock, Miss Jelliffe," I said. There was another cast, with a slight twist of her supple waist. The fly flew out, falling two or three yards beyond the rock and she pulled back, gently, her lure rippling the dark surface. Then came a faint splash, a vision of a silvery gleam upon the water, which smoothed down again while the line came back as light as ever. "Easy, easy, don't cast again in the same place," I advised. She obeyed, but sore disappointment was in her eyes. "Did I do anything wrong?" she asked, eagerly. "Not a bit. He never touched the fly. But I always like to wait a minute before casting again after a rise, and I think we will put on a smaller Doctor. His attention has been awakened and he will be more likely to take it." I quickly changed the fly and Miss Jelliffe, with grim determination, went to work again. Soon she brought the lure over the exact spot but met with no response. Once more without the faintest sign of a rise. A third time, and suddenly the reel sang out and a gleaming bolt shot out of the water. "Now steady, Miss Jelliffe! Easy on his mouth. Let him run. If he slackens reel in. That's the way! We'll have to follow him a little, but try to keep him from going down stream too far." Her eyes were eager and her face flushed with the excitement. The wisps of her glorious hair were floating in the wind as she stepped along the bank, steadily, while I stood at her side without touching her, but with a hand ready in case of a slip or a misstep. Frenchy followed us, carrying a big landing-net and a gaff. His face bore a wide grin and he was jumping with excitement. The fish turned and took a run up the pool, again shooting out of the water in a splendid leap. Then he turned once more, giving Miss Jelliffe a chance to reel in some line. For a short time he swam about slowly, as if deeply considering a plan of conduct. At any rate this was followed by furious fighting; he was up in the air again, and down to the bottom of the pool, and dashing hither and yon, the line cleaving the water. At times he seemed to try to shake his jaws free from the hook. Miss Jelliffe was now pale from the excitement of it. Her teeth were close set, excepting when she uttered sharp little exclamations of fear and renewed hope. But always she met his every move, deftly, and was quick to follow my words of advice. Then followed a period of sulking, when he went down deep and refused to budge, with the tense line vibrating a little with the push of the current. I began to meditate on the wisdom or folly of throwing a stone in the water to make him move, but suddenly he cut short my cogitations and shot away again, heading up-stream. "Fight him just a bit harder, Miss Jelliffe," I advised. "Don't allow him to get rested and try to put a little more strain on the rod; it can stand it and I'm sure he's well hooked." "But my arms are getting paralyzed," she complained, with a little tense laugh. "They are beginning to feel as if they would never move again." "I should be glad to take the rod," I said, "but afterwards you would never forgive me. I know that you want to land that fish yourself." Her little look of determination increased. She was flushed now. Under the slightly increased effort she made the salmon began to yield, taking short darts from side to side, which began to grow shorter. "Walk down a little with him, to bring him into shallower water," I advised, and took the gaff from Yves. Then I waded in until I was knee deep and kept very still, but the fish took another run. "Never mind," I cried, "keep on fighting even if your arms are ready to drop. A steady pull on him. That's fine! Bring him again a little nearer. That's the way! He is mighty tired now; just a bit nearer. Good enough!" The iron of the gaff disappeared under water. Miss Jelliffe was giving him the butt, and her lips quivered. Then I made a quick move and a splashing mass of silver rose out of the stream with mighty struggling. I hurried ashore with it and held it up. The great contest was over. Miss Jelliffe put down the rod and her arms sank down to her side, wearily, yet in another moment she knelt down upon the mossy grass beside the beautiful salmon. "Oh! Isn't it a beauty!" she cried. "Thank you ever so much! Wasn't it a wonderful fight he made! I could never have managed it without your help. You're a very good teacher, you know, and I can understand now why you men just get crazy over salmon fishing. I'll be just as crazy as any one from now on. How much does he weigh?" I pulled out my spring scale and hooked up the fish. We all watched eagerly as the pointer went down. "Twenty-two; no, it's twenty-three and just a little bit over. I know it is the best fish taken from Sweetapple River this year. They haven't been running any larger," I said. Then we all sat down again and admired the fish. Frenchy and I lighted our pipes, and I took the little Silver Doctor from the leader. It was just the least bit frayed but still very pretty and bright, with its golden floss and silver tinsel, its gold pheasant tips, blue hackles and multicolored wings. "I will be glad if you will keep this fly," I told Miss Jelliffe. "You must hold it as a souvenir of your first salmon." "Thank you! I will keep it always," she answered, brightly. "It will be a reminder of much kindness on your part, and of this beautiful day. Just look there, above the pool, where the little spruces and firs are reflected in the water that sings at their feet on its way down. How still it is and peaceful. Oh! It has been a glorious day!" I must acknowledge that she was very charming in the expression of her enjoyment. There is nothing _blasé_ about this handsome young girl. I followed the hand she was pointing. The river above was like some shining road with edges jewelled in green and silvery gems. High up a great osprey was sailing in the blue, while around us the impudent Canada jays were clamoring. From this spot one could see no houses, owing to a bend in the river, and we were alone in a vastness of wilderness beauty, with none but Frenchy near us, who looked like a benign good soul whose gentle eyes shared in our appreciation. "I think it is your turn to try the pool," Miss Jelliffe finally said. "Not this morning," I answered. "You have no idea how the time has gone by, and how much I have enjoyed the sport. We will leave the pool now and go back. You know you were anxious to return in time for your father's lunch. From now henceforth we will know this as the Lady's Pool, and I hope to see you whip it again on many mornings, before you sail away." "Please don't speak of sailing away just now," she said. I took up the rod and the gaff, while Frenchy took charge of the salmon and the landing-net, and we walked down stream, past the first little rapids, to the place where we had left the dory. "Won't Daddy be delighted!" exclaimed Miss Jelliffe. "He will have good reason," I answered. By this time we could see the cove and its rocky edges, upon which the rickety fish-houses and flakes were insecurely perched on slender stilts. A couple of blunt-bowed little schooners were at anchor, and some men in boats were catching squid for bait. "This is picturesque enough," said Miss Jelliffe, "but I miss the beauty of all that we have just left." "I'm sure you do," I answered, "yet this view also is worth looking at. It is not like the peaceful slumbering villages of more prosperous lands. It represents the struggle and striving for things that will never be attained, the hopes of those yet young and the reminiscences of others becoming too old to keep up the fight. In many ways it is better than a big town, for here the people all know one another, and no one can starve as long as his neighbor has a handful of flour. Sweetapple Cove is a fine place, for sometimes the winds of heaven sweep away its smells of fish and fill deep the chests of sturdy men who fight the sea and gale instead of fighting one another, as men so often must, in the big cities, to retain their hold upon the loaves and fishes." "I suppose we all look for things that can never be attained," she repeated after me, with a look of very charming, frank friendliness. I sometimes wonder whether I wear my heart upon my sleeve for those pleasant daws to peck at. At any rate they do it gently, and both Mrs. Barnett and this young lady are birds of a very fine feather. So we entered the boat and were rowed over to the landing-place, but a few hundred yards away, where the Frenchman's little fellow was waiting, patiently, with one arm around a woolly pup with which he seemed to be great friends. As soon as we were ashore he left the dog and came up to Miss Jelliffe. "_Bonjour_," he said. "_Je t'aime bien_." Yves blushed and smiled, apologetically, at this very sudden declaration of love, but the girl stooped, laughing, and kissed the little chap, passing her hand over his yellow locks. One is ever seeing it, this love of women for the little ones and the weaklings. We men are proud of our strength, but may it not be on account of some weaknesses hidden to ourselves that women so often love fellows who hardly seem to deserve them. It is a thing to wonder at. Dora, I am very sure, knows all the feeble traits I may possess. Will the day ever come when these may prompt her to think it would increase her happiness to take me under her protecting care? "Won't you come over to the house?" Miss Jelliffe asked me. "I am afraid that I rather need a wash," I said, "after handling your big salmon. Frenchy will take it over to your house. I must find out whether any one has been looking for me. In Sweetapple Cove there is no such thing as office hours, you know. People come at any time, from ever so many miles away, and sit down patiently to await my return." "Well, good-by, and thank you again, ever so much. You must certainly come to-morrow and help us dispose of that fish." She extended her hand, in friendly fashion, and I told her I was glad she had enjoyed herself. "We are going out fishing again, are we not?" she asked. "I want more lessons from you, and I should like to watch you at work." I told her that I would be very happy, and scrambled away up the path to Sammy's house. Then I looked back, before opening the door. I saw her still walking, followed by Frenchy who bore the salmon in triumph. I could see how lithe she was and how the health and strength of out-of-doors showed in her graceful gait. "It is not good for man to live alone," I told myself, and after Mrs. Sammy had informed me that there were no pressing demands for my services I had lunch, after which I went to my room to write to Dora. I am doing the best I can not to bother the little girl, yet I'm afraid I always turn out something like a begging letter. But she always answers in a way that is ever so friendly and nice. In her last letter she dragged in again the fact that we were both still young, with the quite inaccurate corollary that we didn't know our own minds yet. I told her my mind was made up more inexorably than the laws of the Medes and the Persians, that it was not going to change, and that if her own mind was as yet so immature and youthful that it was not fully grown, she ought to give me a better chance to help in its development. I suppose that in her answer she will ignore this and speak of something else. That is what always makes me so mad at Dora, bless her little heart! CHAPTER XI _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie_: I was looking at the calendar, this morning, and thought that some one had made an extraordinary mistake, but I am now convinced that it will be four weeks to-morrow since we first arrived in Sweetapple Cove. Your accounts of delightful doings in Newport are most interesting, yet I am sure that with you the time cannot possibly fly as it does here. At present dear old Daddy is reclining in a steamer chair on the porch of our little house, and his crutches are resting against the wall. They are wonderful things manufactured by Frenchy, whom Dr. Grant considers as an universal genius. When they were first brought to us I was inclined to whimper a little, for I had a dreadful vision of them as a permanent thing. It was a regular attack of what Daddy, in his sarcastic moments, calls silly, female fears. "Don't tell me he is always going to need them!" I cried to the doctor. This man has a way of setting all doubts at rest. Just one look of his frank clear eyes does it. I really am not surprised that these people all just grovel before him. "Not a bit," he answered decisively. "He doesn't really need them now, but it will be a little safer to use them for the present. In a week or so we will make a bonfire of them." Daddy has been sitting as judge and jury over his poor leg. Such measurings with steel tape and squintings along the edge of his shin-bone, and such chapters of queries and answers! But now he is perfectly satisfied that it is what he calls an A 1 job, and looks at his limb with the prideful interest of a man who has acquired a rare and precious work of art. How can you possibly say that I must be yawning myself half to death and longing for the fleshpots of Morristown? If I could have my own way I would build an unpretentious cottage here, but of course I would insist on a real bath tub. And I would come and spend the most pleasant months, and cultivate my dear friends the populace, and those delightful Barnetts and Frenchy's kidlet, who is a darling and my first real conquest. The doctor and I have caught more salmon, and some sea-trout, and I have taken lessons in knitting from some ancient dames whose fingers trembled either from old age or the excitement of the distinction conferred upon them. They don't despise my ignorance but are certainly surprised at it. I am not certain that I have not prompted the arising of certain jealousies, though I do my best to distribute myself fairly. I cannot as yet turn a heel but I have hopes. Some day I will make Daddy wear the things, when he puts on enormous boots and goes quail shooting, after we go South again. I shall select some day when he has been real mean to me, and be the blisters on his own heels! The _Snowbird_ is now riding in the cove, having been manicured and primped up in the dry-dock at St. John's. Daddy says that it was an economy, for the dock laborer of that fortunate city does not yet regard himself as an independent magnate. Our schooner and its auxiliary engine are, of course, objects of admiration to the natives. They know a boat when they see one. Stefansson would have a fit if he saw a rope end that wasn't crown-spliced, or a flemish coil that was not reminiscent of the works of old masters. The way he keeps his poor crew polishing the brasses must make life dreary for them, yet they seem to scrub away without repining. I have told you that Jim Brown, our second, is a native of these parts and responsible for our coming. Now he lords it in the village dwellings, where he is considered as a far-traveled man who can relate marvelous tales of great adventures to breathless audiences. Daddy, of course, directed that every one should be made welcome on board. You should have seen these big fishermen coyly removing their heavy boots before treading our decks--I believe that "snowy deck" is the proper term--lest they should mar the holystoned smoothness. They have entered with bated breath the dining and sitting room, explored the mysteries of the galley and peeped into the staterooms. "Jim he've written once ter the sister o' he," Captain Sammy told me one day. "He were tellin' how them yachts wuz all fixed up an' we wuz thinkin' as how in travelin' he'd got ter be considerable of a liar, savin' yer presence, ma'am. But now I mistrust he didn't hardly know enough ter tell the whole truth." A few bystanders nodded in approval. I need hardly tell you that our invasion is still a subject of interest in the place. From my bedroom window, where I was trying to knit one afternoon, I heard some men who were conversing, standing peacefully in the middle of the little road, in spite of a pouring rain, which they mind about as much as so many ducks. The only fat man in Sweetapple Cove was speaking. "Over to England they is them Lards an' Jukes, what ain't allowed in them States, but I mistrusts them Jelliffes is what takes the place o' they in Ameriky." "I dunno," doubted another, "th' gentleman he be kinder civerlized fer a juke. Them goes about wid little crowns on the head o' they, I seen a pictur of one, onst. But Lards is all right. Pete McPhay he saw one, deer huntin', two years ago, an' said he'd talk pleasant to anybody, like Mr. Jelliffe. That's why I thinks he's more like a Lard nor a Juke." This conclusion seemed to meet with general approval, and the men went on. Dr. Grant came over to us fairly early this morning, and joined us on the little porch. "Good morning," he said. "You must be glad that the term of your imprisonment is drawing to a close, Mr. Jelliffe. You will soon be on your way home. As a matter of fact there is nothing to prevent your leaving in a few days. We could easily put you in your berth on board, well braced up, and in four or five days the _Snowbird_ would be at anchor off the New York Yacht Club float." "I am suffering from the deteriorating influence of prolonged idleness, Doctor," said Daddy. "I have become thoroughly lazy now, and don't care to start until I can hop on board without assistance, and walk the deck as much as I want. This daughter of mine has developed an uncanny attachment to the place; she sometimes tries to look sorry for me, but she is having the one grand time of her childhood." I protested, naturally, but he paid no attention and went on. "Now that I can sit on this porch I get any amount of company. I know every one in the place and feel that I am acquiring the local accent through my prolonged conversations with the natives. I am utterly incapable of thinking of desirable parcels of real estate, and bonds leave me indifferent. I reckon in codfish now, like the rest of the population. I caught myself wondering, yesterday, how many quintals the Flatiron Building was worth." "I am sure you must miss your daily paper," said the doctor. "A short time ago that was one of the flies in my ointment; but now I am at peace. Why remind me of it?" Daddy delights in chess with the parson and long talks with the doctor. I can see that he has become really very fond of him. Mr. Barnett is much more frequently with him, and they have tremendous battles during which it looks as if the fate of empires depended on the next move, but when the doctor comes Daddy looks ever so pleased and his voice rings out with welcome. I announced that I was going over to old Granny Lasher, who would get me out of trouble with that heel I was puzzling over. "Just look at her, Doctor," said Daddy. "Did you ever see such rosy cheeks? This has done her a lot of good; of course she has always been a strong girl, but there is something here that has golf and motoring beaten to a standstill. She is becoming horribly proud of getting those salmon. I will have to take down her pride, some day, and show her what an old fellow like me can do. I am ever so much obliged to you for taking such good care of her." Now you and I, Aunt Jennie, know that men are silly things at best. Of course I am grateful to Dr. Grant for looking after me so nicely, but why should he deserve such a lot of credit for it? Don't all the nice young men like to look after girls? They enjoy it ever so much. But somehow this Dr. Grant enjoys it without undue enthusiasm. I am really ever so glad that he never looks, as so many of the others do, as if he were pining for the moment when he can lay his heart and fishy fees, which he never gets, at my feet. He is just a splendid fellow, Aunt Jennie, who looks as strong and honest as the day is long. We are all very fond of him. "The only thing that hurts is that I have had none of the fishing," said Daddy. "I have made up my mind to return another year and let the Tobique take care of itself. By the time I am well enough to fish there will not be another salmon that will rise, this year." "No, Mr. Jelliffe," answered the doctor. "The salmon are beginning to cease their interest in flies, but the trout are biting well." "I have nothing to say against trout," said Daddy, "but I feel like crying for a salmon as a baby cries for the moon. There is not much in life outside of salmon and Wall Street. Even when I have to go to California I troll a little on Puget Sound, but it doesn't come up to fly-fishing." I left them, deeply engaged in this absorbing subject. I think I have discovered something rather noteworthy in this salmon fishing. It is the effect that our interest in the matter has on the population. To them a fish means a cod; it is the only fish they know. All others are undeserving of the name, and are compelled to appear under the guise of their proper appellations. The taking of fish is a serious business, and one that does not pay very handsomely, as far as these people are concerned. Therefore they cannot understand that one may catch fish for amusement, and so we are enwrapped in a halo of mystery. Dr. Grant has told me that some of them have darkly wondered whether Daddy was not investigating this island with a view to buying it for weird purposes of his own, such as obtaining a corner on codfish and raising the price of this commodity all over the world. Isn't it funny that even here some notion of trusts and corners should have penetrated? Of course they would be delighted to have the price of cod raised; it is the dream of their lives. But most of them have accepted us as natural, if freaky, phenomena with which they were previously unacquainted, and which have thus far shown no objectionable features. They have become ever so friendly, yet never intrusive, and I like them ever so much. That poor fellow Dick was shipped back to his miserable little island, two weeks ago, happy in the possession of a useful right arm. It was quite touching to hear him speak of the doctor. And speaking about Dick reminds me of the man's wife, with those peculiar ideas of hers. You remember about them, don't you? Would you believe, Auntie dear, that all the other women about here are just as bad? They seem to be matchmakers of the most virulent sort. They boldly ask me if I am going to marry the doctor, and when, the poor silly things, and if I deny the impeachment they bring forth little smiles of unbelief. When I showed my last stocking to Granny Lasher she announced that it was much too small. "Didn't yer ever look at the big feet o' he?" she asked. "The big feet of who?" I asked, in an elegant form of speech. "Th' doctor," she answered. "But these are for my father," I objected. "Sure, I ought ter have knowed that," she replied. "Ye'll be practicin' on he first, and when yer does real good work ye'll be knittin' 'em fer th' doctor." "Mrs. Sammy knits stockings for him," I said, severely. "Well, when he's yer man ye'll not be lettin' other wimmin folks do his knittin' fer he," persisted the ancient dame. I simply refuse to argue any more with them. They have that idea in their hard old heads and it cannot be dislodged. If you and I had been Newfoundlanders, Auntie dear, we would have married early and been expected to knit stockings, in the intervals of work on the flakes, for the rest of our natural lives. The maidens of this island entertain visions of coming years devoted to the rearing of perfect herds of children, to assorted household work, to drying fish and knitting stockings for their lords and masters, until the end. I even have a suspicion of Mrs. Barnett, sweet good soul though she be. I walked up to her house yesterday, having met Dr. Grant on the way. He left me at her door, and when I came in she looked at me, wistfully, and I intercepted the tiniest little sigh from her. "What is the trouble?" I asked her. "Oh! Nothing in the world, my dear," she answered, in that sweetly toned voice of hers. "Do you know, when you were coming up the path I though that you and the doctor made the handsomest couple I have ever seen." I laughed right out, perhaps because I sought to conceal the fact that I was just the tiniest bit provoked. She had said this with a little hesitancy, as if she had been just timidly venturing on deep waters. She looked at me, and I think she sighed again, and immediately asked for my very expert advice about cutting into a piece of very cheap goods that has come from St. John's, and with which she expects to make a dress for herself. I felt like crying, and laid bare my profound ignorance, and then we had a good laugh together, for she was at once as bright again as she always is. Then I played with the kiddies, who are cherubs, and we had tea, and when I left she looked at me again, with those beautiful wistful eyes. I am afraid. Aunt Jennie, that she is in league with the rest of the feminine population. I think I am beginning to be glad that we are going away soon. When I returned to our house I found Dr. Grant still there. He has not been very busy lately, but he was showing symptoms of an early departure, returning certain flies he had been discussing to a very large fly-book. Of course, Aunt Jennie, he is not at all responsible for this foolish talk, and I had no reason to be unpleasant to him. "I am sorry you are going," I said. "I hear that for the time being the crop of patients is diminishing." "It rather looks that way," he answered, "and I must say I am glad of it. It is only a lull, I suppose, and I'm going to take advantage of it. Sammy reminded me to-day that September has come and that the stags are beginning to shed their velvet. I think that your father and you would like some venison. I shall enjoy it too, I can assure you." "Oh! How I wish I could go," I exclaimed, foolishly enough. "But there could be nothing easier," he explained, quietly. "I have a very nice little tent which I brought with me when I came here, and you could take Susie Sweetapple with you. The two men and I can build a little lean-to anywhere. It is really worth trying. I have explored a bit of that country, and I am sure you would enjoy a look at it." "It sounds very attractive, Daddy," I said. "If there is one thing I am longing for," said the dear old man, "it is a decent bit of meat. The cook on the yacht and the steward may possibly be able to fill Susie's place for a day or two. You go right along, daughter." And now, Aunt Jennie, I am recklessly going away to furnish more gossip for the ladies of the place, bless their poor old hearts. I have been interviewing Susie, whose voluble conversation is often amusing, and find that she also entertains some queer ideas. Of course I undeceived her at once. Daddy doesn't think there is the slightest impropriety in the trip, deeming Susie a sufficient chaperon. The ladies here of course never indulge in such masculine pursuits as hunting, but none of them will consider my doing it as any more wonderful than my going fishing. It will be but one more of the peculiar doings of them "Merikins." By the way, Harry Lawrence has written. You know, Auntie dear, that he is one of the few very nice fellows to whom I have had to hint, as gently as possible, that I am awfully happy with old Dad. He was the only one of them to put out his hand, like the good, strong, red-headed, football wonder that he is. I can hear him now: "Shake, little girl," he said, smilingly. "You are not ready yet, are you? I am not going to believe that this is your last word, and we'll just pretend I didn't speak, and go on being good old pals as before. My chance may come yet." I remember that I felt quite gulpy and shaky when he said that, and that I wished at the time that I had been able to think of him otherwise than as a good old friend, just to see him grin happily again, as he so often does. He tells me he has only just returned from abroad, having remained longer than he expected to. He says that motoring in Norway is very interesting. He also says he has half a mind to run up here and see what sort of a digging we are living in. You know that Daddy thinks a lot of him, and that Harry dotes on Dad. The boy thinks there is no one like him, which shows what a sensible fellow Harry is. Well, I am going to bed early, to prepare for a very long tramp to-morrow. I will tell you all about it next time I write, Your loving HELEN. CHAPTER XII _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Darling Aunt Jennie_: As the boys keep on exclaiming in _Stalky & Co._, I gloat! I have now utterly and forever become one of those bold females, as your cousin Theresa calls them, who so far forget the refinement of their sex as to indulge in horrid masculine pursuits, and go afield clad in perfectly shocking garb, looking like viragos, to emulate men in barbarous sports. After this open and glorious confession I hasten to tell you that I have actually killed a caribou, and a most splendid one. I suppose that some day my much flattered photograph may appear in an illustrated Sunday supplement, under some such heading as "Our Society Dianas." I have spent two most wonderful days and shall never forget them if I grow to be twice as old and plain as Miss Theresa. We started in the early morning. Of course I was awake before Susie knocked at my door, and only waiting for her to help me lace those high boots of mine. She is the only woman I ever knew who can make knots that will not come undone until you want them to. I suppose that it is an inherited trait from her ancestry of fishermen and sailors. We rowed across the cove to the place where we land when we go salmon-fishing. I was distressed when I saw the size of the packs the men were carrying, for it looked as if they had prepared for an excursion beyond the Arctic Circle, and of course it was chiefly on my account. Susie clamored to be allowed a bundle also but neither Sammy nor Frenchy would hear of it. "Ye'll be havin' ter help th' lady when we's on the mash," Captain Sammy told her. I discovered later that the mash is really a marsh, or swamp, or rather a whole lot of them. Sammy opened the procession, followed by Yves. Then I came, aided and abetted by Susie, and the doctor closed the imposing line, also bearing a big pack. Whenever the nature of the ground permitted Susie would walk beside me and impart her views. She trudged on sturdily, her feet enclosed in a vast pair of skin boots borrowed from some male relative. The evident disproportion in the sizes did not trouble her in the least. "I got four pair o' stockins," she informed me, "an' me feet feels good an' aisy." A little later she imparted to me some of her views on the sport we were pursuing. "Huntin' is man's work," she said, "but I doesn't say as a woman can't do it if she's a mind ter, like anythin' else. One time I shot me brother's gun at a swile, and it liked ter have knocked me jaw awry. I had a lump on it fer a week an' I let mother think I had the toothache. Anyways I scared the swile real bad, an' meself worse. That time I were cookin' aboard a schooner on the Labrador, as belonged ter me cousin Hyatt, him as is just a bit humpy-backed. He got one o' them dories wid a glass bottom, an' they say his back crooked a kneelin' down ter see the cod, afore settin' the traps." "What kind of traps?" I asked her. "Them as is big nets leadin' inter a pocket where the cod gets jest shut in," she informed me. "Wasn't it horrid to go on such a long trip and stay on a boat so long?" I enquired. "Sure, but we mostly gets landed there. They has shacks or little houses, an' flakes built up, in some places." "It must be very disagreeable," I said. "Laws, ma'am. They is allers some hard things about workin' the best one knows how ter make a livin' an' help one's folks. The worst of it was havin' no other wimmin folks ter talk to." "Do you mean that you were alone with the crew?" "Sure, ma'am. They wouldn't have no use fer a lot o' wimmin. They was a chap once as wanted ter kiss me an' I hove th' back of me fist ter his jaw, most shockin' hard. It give me sore knuckles, too, but I reckon a girl kin allers take care of herself an' she has a mind ter." I looked at her vigorous shoulders and was disposed to agree with her statement. It is a splendid thing, Aunt Jennie, for girls to be strong and sturdy enough to help themselves, sometimes, as well as to help others. I have a notion that it is a good thing that the day is passing away of the girls of the fainting sort who were brought up to backboards and mincing manners. That girl has self-reliance and willingness stamped all over her, and it is good to see. The men were going well. At first I had been surprised at the slowness of their gait, but I soon realized that they could keep it up all day, in spite of their loads. Yet once an hour they stopped for a breathing spell of a few minutes, during which they wiped their foreheads and sometimes had a pull at their pipes. We no longer had any view of the sea. Below us and to one side, Sweetapple River was brawling over rapids, resting in pools, or riffling over shallows. It wound its way through a little wooded valley, fairly well grown with small spruces and firs whose somber greens were often relieved by the cheery, lighter hue of birches. The junipers, as they call tamaracks in Newfoundland, were beginning to shed their yellowing needles, and many of them were quite bare, or else dead, with gnarled limbs fantastically twisted. Several times we put up ptarmigans, that flew away with the curious "brek-kek-kex" that is their rallying cry, showing white spots on their dull-hued plumage, which would soon grow into the pure, snowy livery of winter days. A few snipe flew up from the side of water-holes, with shrill cries and twisting flights. Far away on the marsh we saw a flock of geese, pasturing like so many sheep, while one of their number played sentinel, perched high up on a hummock. "When deer gets alongside o' geese they is happy," Sammy informed me. "Th' caribou knows nothing kin get nigh so long as the honkers is keepin' watch." After this we were walking on one of many paths we had followed, well-trodden and some inches below the level of the grey moss. "I had no idea there would be enough people here to make these paths," I said to Dr. Grant. "And why do so many of them cross from time to time?" "They are made by the caribou, every one of them," he replied. "Most of these have been abandoned for a long time. The people of the Cove sometimes come as far as this, and by dint of firing their heavy sealing guns loaded with slugs they may have made the deer shy. We shall soon see plenty of tracks, for the hunters seldom go farther than this, Sammy tells me. You see, they would have a hard time bringing the meat home. They have to sled it out with dogs or carry it on their backs. We are going farther, since we are not looking for a whole winter's provision." The barren over which we traveled was beginning to be much wider, and the clumps of straggling trees less frequent. Far away there was a range of little mountains, tinted with purples and lavenders, rather indistinct in the distant haze. The sun was lighting up bright spots where the peat bogs held miniature lakes, among which were tiny islands of bushes and low trees dotting the great marsh. Here and there small tamaracks stood quite apart, as if their ragged dress had caused them to be ostracized by the better clad spruces and firs. Suddenly the men stopped near a little tree, and I saw that much of its brown bark had been stripped off. On the white wood beneath there were some curious dark red spots. "A big stag has been rubbing his horns here within a day or two, Miss Jelliffe," the doctor told me. "You ought to see one of them at work. Their horns must itch desperately when they are ready to shed their velvet, for they hook away at these saplings as if they were actually fighting them. Such blows as they give; one can hear them quite far off. Look at this place where the wood has actually been splintered off. These marks are dried blood. And now look down at your feet. This fellow is surely a big one, the ground is soft and he has left a huge track. You will notice that the toes are widely separated, and that the dew claws have also left their mark. No other deer than the caribou ever make that fourfold imprint, and they only do it on muddy ground or in snow." "How I wish I could see him!" I cried, excitedly. He had taken out a pair of field glasses, and was sweeping the great barren with them. "One does not often see the stags on the marsh at this time of the year," he said. "They usually remain in their lairs among the alders on the edges of ponds and streams. But I think I see something." I strained my eyes in the same direction. Far away, against the sky-line, I thought I discerned little dark dots which appeared to be moving, and the doctor handed me the glasses. "You are far-sighted," he said. "I see that your eyes have caught them. Now take a nearer look at them." "Oh! I can see them ever so plainly now," I exclaimed. "They are two does with their fawns, I think," he said. "I'm afraid you are mistaken," I told him. "One of them has antlers, but not very large ones." "Very true," he replied, "but the caribou does, alone in the whole deer family, frequently have them. They are never as large as with the stags." "I can see them feeding along quietly, with their noses on the ground, and sometimes they look up, and now one of them is scratching her ear with her hind foot. It is the prettiest thing I ever saw. Now they are going on again, slowly. You are not going to try and kill them, are you?" "A starving man may shoot anything for food," he answered, "but we must look for something we would not be ashamed to kill." So they lifted up their packs again, and we resumed our journey, until hunger compelled us to stop near one of the little wooded islands growing out of the silvery barren. Near at hand a tiny rivulet was tinkling, from which the kettle was filled. Sammy and Yves cut down some tamarack sticks while the doctor undid one of the packs and brought out a frying-pan and some tin cups and plates. In a very few minutes the kettle was boiling and bacon frying with a pleasant sputtering. There was bread and butter, and a jar of marmalade. "Thus far I entirely approve of caribou hunting," I declared. "I have an idea that such a picnic as this must be the most delightful part of it." The wind was blowing briskly, and the trees swaying to its caress. Moose-birds began to gather around us, calling out with voices ranging from the shrillest to deep raucous cries, sometimes changing to imitations of other birds. They became very tame at once, and hopped impudently among us, cocking up their saucy little heads and watching us. Susie happened to put a little bacon on a piece of bread, beside her on the clean moss, the better to handle a very hot cup of tea, and one of the jays pounced upon it and dragged it away. "Git out o' there, ye imp!" she cried. "Them birds would pick the nails offen yer boots if they was good ter eat." "They are ever so pretty," I said. "And oh! look at that poor little chap. He hopped into the frying pan and scalded his toes." The indignant bird flew away, uttering perfectly disgraceful language, but the others seemed to be quite indifferent to his fate and remained, bent on securing every discarded crumb. After this a flight of yellow-leg snipe passed by. Dr. Grant began to whistle their soft triple note and the wisp of birds circled in the air, coming nearer and nearer until, becoming suspicious, they winged their journey away. And then we were invaded by a troop of grosbeaks who gathered in the neighboring bushes, their queer, tiny voices, seeming quite out of place, coming out of such stocky, strong little bodies. In the meanwhile a woodpecker was tap-tapping on a dead juniper. It was all so very different from the cruel, ragged coast with its unceasing turmoil of hungry waves breaking upon the cliffs. Here there reigned such a wonderful peace, interrupted only by the song of birds. There were soft outlines in the distance, and everywhere the scent of balsams. Of course it was all very desolate; a vast swamp dominated by sterile ridges of boulder-strewn hills; an immense land of peat-bogs and mosses, grey and green and purplish, upon which only the caribou and the birds appeared able to live. Yet it was no longer a place where the fury of the elements was ever ready to unchain itself against poor people clinging to their bare rocks. The breath of one's nostrils went ever so deep in one's lungs, and one's muscles seemed to gather energy and respond ever so much more efficiently than they ever did in big towns. "I don't think I ever before realized the beauty of great waste places," I said. "It looks like a world infinite and wonderful, over which we might be traveling in quest of some Holy Grail that should be hidden away beyond those pink and mauve mountains." The doctor smiled, in his quiet way. "Yes," he said. "One feels as if one could understand the true purpose of living, which should be the constant effort to attain something ever so glorious that lies beyond, always beyond." I wonder just what he meant by that, Aunt Jennie? Soon our little caravan went on, and we began to see many tracks of caribou, chiefly does and fawns. In low swampy places we several times came across old wind-and rain-bleached antlers, shed in the late fall of the previous year. We had traveled for a couple of hours since luncheon when we stopped for another breathing spell. Sammy was explaining the lie of the country to the doctor, who nodded. Then the latter showed me a tiny valley where ran, amid a tangle of alders and dwarf trees, a large brook that wandered slowly, with many curves, to join the river far away on our right. "At this time of the year there is not much chance of finding a stag in the open," he said. "They remain in places like that, hidden in the alders until it is time for them to wander off and make up their family parties. Are you very tired, Miss Jelliffe?" I assured him that I was still feeling ever so fit. "We are only about a mile and a half from the place where we are to camp for the night," he told me. "The others will go there and get things ready. Frenchy can return here for my pack. If you would like to come with me and hunt along the brook we should make it a somewhat longer journey, owing to the many bends, but we should have a chance of getting a stag." Of course I told him that I should like it ever so much, and we made our way down a slope while the others continued along the ridge. Indeed I was not tired at all. Notwithstanding the sodden moss in which our feet had been sinking for hours, and the peaty black ooze that held one back, I had no trouble in following Dr. Grant, who was carefully picking out the best going. After we reached the brook we went along the bank, but were soon compelled to leave it owing to the impenetrable tangles of alders, around which we had to circle. The doctor stopped to show me some tracks of otters, and then we came to a place where the bank was steep, and a little smooth path was worn down upon its face, leading into the water. "An otter slide," he explained. "They run up the bank and toboggan down into the water, again and again. It is a sort of game they play." "How I should like to see them!" I exclaimed. He put a finger up to his lips, enjoining silence, and led the way towards a deep pool. Then he turned and lifted up his hand. We remained motionless, hidden behind a rank growth of alders and reeds, and I suddenly saw a little black head upon the water and caught the gleam of a pair of bright eyes. Then came a splash, and the ruffled water smoothed over. We waited, but never saw him again. "That was a big, old, dog otter," said the doctor. We continued on our winding way, finding a very few tracks of does and fawns, but occasionally we came across the broad imprint of a big stag. "He must be living somewhere around here," whispered my companion. He looked very alert now, noting every sign and stopping to investigate the waving of grasses and the motions of leaves. We peered in every tangle of bush and shrub, and moved as silently as we possibly could. We had slowly been following the stream for nearly an hour, and were on the edge of the brook when the doctor quickly knelt down, and of course I followed his example. He pointed towards some alders ahead of us. "See those tops moving?" he whispered. "I see them bending with the wind," I replied, in the same low voice. "There is no wind here," he said. "It must be a stag or a bear in there." We kept on watching and, Aunt Jennie, my heart was beating so with the excitement of it that I could hardly keep still. But I insist that I was not the least bit scared. I rather think that Dr. Grant impresses one as a man who could take care of bears or anything else that might threaten one. Presently, above the green leaves, appeared something that looked like stout, reddish branches. We could see them only for an instant, and then they went down again. "It's a big, old stag," whispered the doctor. "What shall we do?" I asked. "I am going to give you a shot," he said. "I shouldn't dare. I am sure I should miss," I answered. "You must try. You know that you are the lucky one. I am going to leave you here with the rifle and I shall crawl back a little way. If we went on he would jump away on the other side of the alders and that would be the last of him. I am going off to the right, and then I will walk slowly towards him. The river is shallow here, and it is the only open spot. He will surely jump in it, and probably stop for a second to see what is coming, for he won't smell me. You will have a fine chance at him from here." He placed the gun in my hands, already cocked, and was gone, noiselessly, in an instant. I watched those bushes eagerly, and once again saw the big tops of those antlers above the alders. Behind me everything was wonderfully still, and I could hear the beating of my heart. The doctor seemed to have been swallowed up by the wilderness, and I have never felt so entirely alone as at that moment. An instant later I realized that a strange thing was happening; I was no longer nervous, and my hands were perfectly steady. After this, away to the right, I heard the faintest crackling of branches and the horns appeared again, absolutely still for a moment. Then another little branch cracked, and there was a turmoil in the bushes, a splashing over the shallow, gravelly bottom of the little stream, and the great, gray-brown body and white, arching neck of the stag appeared, like a thing out of a fairy book. The head was noble, poised on that snowy neck, and the antlers looked like a tangle of brush. The lithe thing stopped, the sensitive ears went back, and he started again. But the gun had gone up to my shoulder, Aunt Jennie, quite instinctively, and for a fraction of a second I saw that wonderfully feathered neck in the notch of the sight, then a brown place that was the beginning of the shoulder, and I pulled the trigger. His long trot changed to a furious, desperate gallop. A leap up the further bank carried him out of my sight, and I was now so flurried that I never gave him a second shot. Indeed I felt so badly that I wanted to sit down and have a good cry. I heard the doctor, who was tearing through the bushes, just as Harry Lawrence used to butt his way through a football line. "You've got him," he yelled. "They never run like that unless mortally wounded. We'll have him in a moment!" "Do you really think so?" I cried, breathlessly. "Come on and see for yourself," he answered, and in our turn we splashed through the shallow water and found the track on the other side. This we very carefully studied, so as to be able to distinguish it from others, and then we went on, very cautiously, both walking on tiptoe. He was ahead of me, with the cocked rifle in his hand, but after going a short distance he stopped, suddenly, and began to fill his pipe, with the most exasperating coolness. "Why don't you go on?" I asked, indignantly. "Don't you think I deserve a pipe?" he said. "You don't deserve anything," I told him. "I want my stag." "_Mademoiselle est servie_" he said, laughing. "And you are indeed a most lucky young woman." "Where is it? Where is it?" I cried. "You are trying to be as mean as can be just now, and I won't speak to you again to-day or any other day if you don't stop." But I was looking around as I spoke and suddenly, under a little clump of birches, I saw something that made my heart beat fast again, and I dashed away, shouting, as I verily believe, and running as fast as the deer when I had last seen him. I had the advantage of the start and I beat the doctor to the quarry. It was lying there, the most splendid thing you ever saw, and I am sure I spoke in awed tones, as one does in a big cathedral. "I had no idea that it would be so big. Oh! The beautiful clean limbs! And what a head! Those big flat horns in front that run down nearly to his muzzle are just wonderful! It seems to me that I just saw him for a second and pulled the trigger, and there was a little report that I scarcely heard, just as if the gun was a little toy thing, and now he is lying there and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry." "You should be glad," he told me. "You might hunt for many months without meeting with such a head as that. Now that it is all over it may seem a bit tragic, but you must remember he was just a tremendous, handsome brute, ready at all times to fight others to the death, to kill them in his blind fury of jealousy. And those who fall to the gun may perhaps have met the best end of all. Think of the poor old stags dragging themselves to some tangle in order to escape the wolves or bears and lynxes, and whose last glances reveal things creeping towards them or great birds waiting to peck their eyes out. Man is seldom as cruel as nature proves to be, for it is everywhere harsh and brutal. Little dramas are constantly taking place under this very moss we tread, and those dear little black-headed birds, over there in the bushes, are killing all day long. You and I realize that the killing is the least part of the sport, but we wanted meat and came out for it ourselves, instead of hiring butchers to do the slaughtering for us. Moreover, you have a trophy which you will take back with you, and which will be one more souvenir of Sweetapple Cove." I felt that I was brightening up again. "How beautiful it is!" I said again, quite consoled. "Look at that long, white beard under his neck, and how deeply brown his cheeks are!" "We must count the points," he proposed. He went over them several times, with the greatest care. "There are thirty-nine good ones," he said, "besides one or two little ones that will hardly come up to the mark. It is a big beamy head with broad flat horns. You will seldom see a better one, Miss Jelliffe." We sat there for a moment, and presently heard some one coming through the woods. It was the two men who were hurrying towards us. "Camp ain't a quarter mile away," shouted Sammy. "Us heered the shot an' come down. My, but that be a shockin' monstrous big stag. He's lucky, ma'am, doctor is. I mistrust he don't miss often." "Miss Jelliffe fired that shot, Sammy," announced the doctor. "Well, now! It do beat all! So yer done it yerself, did yer, ma'am? I'll fix him up now and bring th' head in by an' by. Don't yer be feared, I knows how ter take a scalp off fine fer stuffin'. To-morrer we'll take the meat. He's not long out of the velvet. Go right over ter the camp an' shift yer wet boots. Frenchy he'll show yer. Kittle's bilin' an' everything ready. It do be a fine day's work." They all looked so happy that the last doubt left my mind. Frenchy was positively beaming with delight, and I had to show them just where I stood when I shot, and to explain everything. Then we trudged cheerfully towards camp, keeping for a while by the edge of the brook, which we had to cross again. We came to a tiny waterfall, and above it was the outlet of a little lake, deep and placid-looking. Some black ducks were swimming on it, not very far away, and I was shown a beaver's house. "That's the real, wild outdoors that I love," I declared, stopping for a moment. "How calm and still it all is. Look at the feathery smoke drifting away over there. I suppose it is the camp." For a moment there was a bit of bad going, over some wind-fallen trees, and the doctor held out his hand for me. "Thank you," I said. "It seems to me that I am all the time having to thank you, you are always so kind. I must say that you are a perfectly stunning guide." So we got to the camp, laughing, and Susie had to be told the story all over again, while I changed shoes and stockings in the little tent, where there was the thickest possible bed of fragrant balsam, covered with blankets. It is getting late, Aunt Jennie, and I'll have to tell you the rest of it another time. It was perfectly glorious. Really I think it is a pity that Dr. Grant should bury himself in such a place. He ought to live in our atmosphere, for he is entirely fitted for it. So good night, Aunt Jennie, with best love from your HELEN. CHAPTER XIII _From John Grant's Diary_ During the years that I spent abroad, in study, there were times when a tremendous longing would come over me, so great that I was sorely tempted to run away, even if for a few weeks only, and revel in the satisfaction of my desire. It would seize upon me during long evenings, when I was sometimes a little wearied with hard work. I hungered at such times for the smoke of a camp-fire, for its resinous smells, for the distant calls of night birds, for the crackling flames that cast strange lights upon friendly faces. All this was ours on the evening we spent after our little caribou hunt. Miss Jelliffe, who had had some slight experience with small target rifles, made a good shot at a fine stag, and we were all very cheerful. The fire burned brightly before the tent she shared with Susie, and the dry dead pine with logs of long-burning birch crackled merrily. Over the little lake, behind the dark conifers and the distant hills, the sun had gone down in a glory of incandescent gold and crimson. After we had finished our supper we all sat around the blaze and the tales began, of big caribou and mighty salmon. Yet after a time, as one always must in this country, we drifted off to stories of the never-ending fight against mighty powers. Very simply, in brief sentences, with short intervals to permit of more accurate recollection, good old Sammy opened to us vistas of unending fields of ice whereupon men slew the harp-seals, and pictured to us the manner in which the toll of death sometimes turns against the slayers. He also spoke of fishing schooners tossed by fierce gales, drifting by the side of mountainous bergs of ice rimmed with foam from the billows lashed in fury, and of seams that had opened as the ship spewed off its creeping oakum. I am sure we could all see the men at the pumps, working until their stiffened arms and frozen hands refused the bidding of brains benumbed by cold and hunger. "Yes, ma'am, it's hard, mighty hard, times and times, but when yer gets through wid it ye'll still be there, if yer has luck, and them as doesn't get ketched gets back ter th' wife an' young, 'uns, an' is thankful they kin start all over again." I saw how interested Miss Jelliffe was, and did my best to draw the man out. Like most real fighters he was little inclined to live his own combats over again, yet when he was once started it took little effort to keep him going. After this I questioned Frenchy, very carefully, for he is even less inclined than the other fishermen to talk about himself. I have never known the secret, if there be one, in the life of this man, alone of his people on this shore, with that child of his. He is always ever so friendly, and looks at one with big, dog-like, trusting eyes, but I have never sought to obtain a confidence he does not seem to be willing to bestow on any one. For this reason I merely asked him whether he had traveled much in foreign lands, as a sailor. Then, as he puffed quietly at his pipe, the man gradually expanded just a little, though never speaking of anything he had personally accomplished. His tales, contrasting with Sammy's, took us to hot countries, with names that were rather vague to us. He led us up some rivers tenanted by strange beasts wallowing in fetid mud which, when disturbed, sent forth bubbles that burst with foul odors, and made more unbearable the tepid moisture one had to breathe. Hostile, yellow people in strange garb slunk along the banks, hiding behind bamboos and watching the boats rowed by white men nearly succumbing to the torpor of the misty heat, while pulling with arms enfeebled by the fevers of what he called _La Rivière Rouge_. There had been fighting, nights and days of it, and once he had forgotten everything and awakened on board a ship that was out of sight of land. Now the trade winds were blowing, and many of the sick and wounded felt better, yet the great sharks kept on following because of the long bundles that were daily dropped overboard, done up in sail cloth and weighted at the feet. And when one arrived in port there were poor old women who called for Jean-Marie and for Joseph, and who sank fainting on the docks. But others were happy. I could see that Miss Jelliffe was deeply interested in these tales of things related very simply, very naturally, as if the sailor had spoken of catching squid or under-running trawls. She wondered, as I did, why this man who had sailed so many seas should have drifted here and taken up his life in a strange land with the little yellow-haired boy in which his heart was enwrapped. Sammy and Susie listened open-mouthed to those tales of things they could not realize or understand, for they could make little out of them, since the man was often hard pushed for words, using a good many from his own tongue. "Why don't you go back to your own country?" asked Miss Jelliffe, very softly. But he made no answer, pretending not to have heard her question. For an instant she looked at him, then turned her head away. I also saw that a strange moisture had gathered in the big man's eyes, lighted as they were by the flames into which he peered, as if seeking in them lost things that were past redeeming. For some time we all remained very silent, as if oppressed by the awe of these tales, and I had to take a desperate measure to change the trend of thought. In a low voice I began to sing a lilting Irish melody with a sweet refrain in which Miss Jelliffe joined, soon followed by Sammy's deep tones and Susie's shrill ones, while Frenchy began to keep time with a blackened pot-stick. So it was only a few minutes before cheerful thoughts returned to us, as the darkness deepened and the stars glittered, clear and close at hand. Then we finally said good-night and Miss Jelliffe sought her tent, attended by Susie. We men went away to our lean-to, and talked a little longer before stretching out for a sound night's sleep. And it seemed but a few instants before we were up again, with the sunlight beginning to stream over the distant hillocks towards the sea that was now hidden from us. I took my rod to the outlet, where trout were rising, and returned soon to find that coffee was being made while the men were cutting bacon and chopping more wood. Then Susie came to us, wanting some hot water and hurriedly returning to the tent. Finally the flaps were turned aside and the young woman came out, rosy of cheek and bright-eyed. Susie had a small fire before her tent, and Miss Jelliffe held her hands before it for a moment. When she came towards us I was kneeling on a small rock at the water's edge, cleaning trout, while Frenchy was scraping away at the caribou head, the scalp of which hung over a pole, to dry a little after a good salting. Sammy was smiting away at an old pine log for more firewood. "Good morning," she cried. "It is a perfect shame that you allowed me to sleep so long. Oh! The beautiful trout! Where did you get them?" I explained my capture, and told her that a few moments had been enough to secure all that were needed for all hands. The two men grinned at her delightedly, as she went up to them, happy and smiling, and she had to inform them that she had spent a wonderful night of such sleep as no one could possibly get outside of the wilderness. "Isn't it all lovely and cheerful!" she exclaimed. "Now I insist on being useful too. Won't you let me fry the trout?" She knelt by the fire, holding a frying pan whose hollow handle had been fitted with a long stick. The big dab of butter soon melted, and in a moment the trout were crepitating and curling up in the pan, sending forth heavenly odors. "We can take our time," I told her, "for we will not look for another stag to-day. All that meat is going to make a heavy load to take back." "But it is a shame," she said, contritely. "You were going for a hunt, and now that I have killed the stag you won't have any sport at all." "I have had as good sport as any man has the right to expect," I said. "Please don't believe that it all lies in pulling a trigger. It is just this sort of thing that makes hunting glorious; the cheery fire and the flapping tent doors, the breeze ruffling the lake, the sitting at night by the fire and the tales we heard there. I will agree never to kill a caribou again if you will only furnish me with such sport as this from time to time." "I was just thinking," she said, "that I am a law-breaker. I have no license to kill caribou." "I have no doubt that you may be forgiven if you will send the money to St. John's and apply for a license. Then you can shoot two more, with an easy conscience." "I will certainly send it," she replied, "but you ought to keep that head, you know." "No indeed, it is yours, and you must take it back with you to be mounted. If I should ever return to New York I will ask you to allow me to have a look at it." "I shall never forgive you if you don't call," she answered, charmingly. "But don't speak just now of going back to New York. I don't think I shall ever leave a place with such regret. I simply refuse to think of it." It was really delightful to see this splendid girl, brought up in the most refined surroundings and yet so influenced by the glamour of the outdoor life. To the strong and healthful there can be no attraction in great towns that may not be dwarfed by the great pulsing of the lands sought by the lovers of rod and gun. Here she had gathered new ideas and unwonted thoughts. She is the best example I have ever seen of the sturdy, beautiful girlhood of modern life, and is an utter pleasure to look upon. After a time we started towards Sweetapple Cove. The meat, or as much of it as we could carry, had all been tied up in packs. I was able to take a good load of it and Susie trudged along, bearing the big caribou head upon her shoulders. "'Tain't much the weight on it," she said, "but it's clumsy. Them men has all they kin lug an' I'm a goin' ter hoof it erlong wid this, jest ter show willing." Walking back seemed quite a different thing. After leaving the little lake we had climbed up, but now we were again on the great marshy barrens which inclined down towards the sea. "Now," said Miss Jelliffe, during a spell of resting, "I should be utterly lost if I were alone. Nothing seems at all familiar and it is all a great jumble of little green islands of vegetation, of grey moss that is endless, of twisted junipers and lonely boulders. I don't know where I am, but I am perfectly happy, since some one knows the way." Of course I was only acquainted with the general lie of the land, but the direction was quite clear to me. I wish everything was as straight-forward and clear as the way to the Cove. "I am quite ashamed of myself," she continued. "I am the only one who is carrying nothing and is perfectly useless. I wonder your backs are not broken with those tremendous loads." But the two men only grinned. "It is nothing when you get used to it," I said, "providing one ever really gets used to a hard grind. But there are people to whom strong physical effort is a punishment while others simply accept it, grit their teeth, and carry the thing out." "I suppose one has to learn how to accept things cheerfully," said Miss Jelliffe. "My life has been such an easy one that I have never had to try to bear heavy burdens." "I am sure you will do it courageously, if ever the time comes," I answered. Then we took up our packs and went on, making rather slow progress, as we were not pressed for time and the loads were heavy. In the middle of the day we took our lunch near a little brook, and, after starting again, we soon saw, from the summit of a little hill, the bright and glittering sea. Before us descended the valley of Sweetapple River, looking like a silvery ribbon winding in and out among the trees. To one side of us there was a rocky hill, once swept by a storm of flames and now tenanted only by the gaunt skeletons of charred firs and tamaracks. In the mistiness ahead of us the coast line, with its grim outlines softened, lost itself and melted away as if nature, in a kindly spirit, had sought to throw a veil over brutal features and covered them with a mantle of tender hues. "This is ideally beautiful," said Miss Jelliffe. "I can understand that you may hesitate to leave all this to return to the grime of great cities." Thus we returned to the Cove, and the girl hastened to her father, eager to tell him of our hunt and to show him the great head. I went with her to the house, and took pleasure in seeing the interest shown by the old gentleman. He certainly is a good sportsman. "If Helen hasn't thanked you enough," he said, "I want to put in my oar. I am really extremely obliged to you for giving her such a good time." I left in a short time and Miss Jelliffe put out her hand in her frank and friendly way. I must say she is a girl in many thousands. And now I wonder why I am writing all this. My diary, begun in self-defence at a time when I expected to spend so dreary a time that an addled and rusted brain would result unless I sought hard to keep it employed, scarcely has an excuse for being, now. The Jelliffes and the Barnetts, with the good people of the Cove, are surely enough to keep a man interested in the world about him. It has simply become a silly habit, this jotting down of idle words. CHAPTER XIV _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie_: I am writing again so soon because I don't think I can sleep, to-night. I know that some people can't possibly slumber off when they are over-tired. That must be the matter with me, though I never realized it. We had no more hunting after we killed that caribou. That night we camped, and I heard stories, from two poor, humble men, that made my head just whirl, for they were really Odysseys, or sagas, or any of the big tales one ever heard of. It would seem, Aunt Jennie, dear, as if the world is not at all the prosy thing some people take it to be. I suppose that the great knights and warriors are altogether out of it now, but I find that it is running over with men one usually never hears of, who accomplish tremendous things without the slightest accompaniment of drums or clarions. We started back after a night during which I slept like a dead thing, but naturally I was the most alive girl you ever saw when I awoke. The men went away to where we had left the dead stag and returned with big haunches and other butcher-shop things, which they packed up in huge loads. It appears that my lucky shot has contributed considerably to the provisionment of Sweetapple Cove. By the way, this place, which I once rather despised, looked most attractive when we came down towards it from the hills. I could see the beautiful, white _Snowbird_ at anchor, looking very small, and the sunlight played on the brass binnacle which shone like a burning light. Near it, very lowly and humble, rode the poor little fishing smacks that are far more important to the world's welfare than our expensive plaything. The crop of drying cod was spread out on the flakes, as usual, and tiny specks of women and children were bending over them, turning the fish, piling them up, bearing some of them away on hand-barrows, and bringing fresh loads to scatter in the sun. When we reached the house we found Daddy lying on the steamer chair. He was engaged in deep converse with our skipper, who left at once. The doctor only remained a few minutes, and then Susie appeared, her rubicund face framed in the mighty antlers of my quarry. Daddy laughed heartily. "The two Dianas of Sweetapple Cove!" he exclaimed. "My dear, you ought to bear the bow and quiver and to sport the crescent on your queenly brow. Now tell me all about it! How are you, and what kind of a time have you had? I need not ask about the sport for you have brought the evidence with you. Isn't it a wonderful head? I call it rather cruel to be parading such things before a poor cripple." "I'm sure glad enough ter get rid o' he," quoth Susie, with a sigh of relief. "It lugs fair clumsy. I'll be goin' over ter Sammy's house now. He've got the tenderlines in th' pack of he and ter-morrer ye's goin' ter feed on something worth bitin' inter. Ef yer doesn't say so I'll be awful fooled. And yer better shift yer stockin's right now, ma'am, 'cause walkin' all day in the mash is bound ter soak yer feet spite o' good boots. I'll be back in a minnut." The good creature dashed away on her errand, and we were left to tell our tales. "It was perfectly splendid, Daddy," I told him. "I hope they have taken good care of you and you were a dear to let me go. I have had such a wonderful time!" "I am delighted, my dear," he said, "but now you had better run away and follow Susie's advice." "Just a moment, Daddy," I pleaded. "I have had wet feet for two days and a minute more won't hurt me. Indeed I killed the big caribou, and Dr. Grant was ever so kind, as he always is. He said he would try to come in for supper. Oh! You ought to have seen that big stag, and how proudly he stepped out into that brook, all alert, and how he started to run. And then I shot, and the doctor found him for me. It was wonderful!" "That doctor is a fine fellow," said Dad. Of course I agreed with him. It is quite amazing how Daddy has taken to Dr. Grant, but then I don't see how one could help it. The doctor is a very quiet man, excepting when he gets enthusiastic or mad about things, and one thinks at first that he is rather distant in his manner. But when you know him much better he comes right out and shows just as much red blood as those boys at home. I wonder why he keeps on living at Sweetapple Cove? So I went off to change my shoes and stockings, which were quite soaked through, and then I sat again with Daddy and told him a lot more about our trip. I wish I could have explained everything to him, but of course I couldn't make him see the color of those far-away hills and the perfect beauty of those great marshes. I told him all about the camp by the little lake, and the winding distant river, and the cries of the ptarmigans and the loons, and the finding of the stag. "Helen dear," said Daddy, who had been looking at me in that keen way of his, "I don't think I ever saw you so enthusiastic before. Your mind has been fully opened to the charm of the wilderness, and that is something that city people seldom understand. You were never so earnest before. What is it? Are you developing new traits?" Of course I laughed at this, and yet it seemed to me also as if something were changed. I didn't quite know what Daddy meant, because it is sometimes difficult to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. He once told me that this was a rather good business asset. "Well, Daddy," I finally said. "I am afraid you will have to take me away, or I shall be falling so much in love with Sweetapple Cove that I will never want to leave it again." "We will leave to-morrow, if you want to," he said, in a rather abrupt way. Do you know, Aunt Jennie, that when he said that I just gasped a little. It suddenly seemed so strange that we would have to go away soon, and that I might never see Sweetapple Cove again, and those dear Barnetts, and all the people, for the whole lot of them appear to have a way of stealing into one's heart. "I don't really want to go at once, Daddy," I told him. "It will take a few days to get used to the idea, and to get everything ready. And Dr. Grant says that very soon you will be able to walk without a cane. Do let us put it off for another week." Daddy smiled vaguely, and finally nodded his consent. He is always so good about trying to please me. So I went and got my knitting and sat down at the foot of the big chair. "I'm afraid I'll never finish it before we leave," I said, "and I doubt whether I will ever quite solve the mystery of turning heels." "That's too bad," said Daddy. "I expected to wear those things in Virginia this fall, after quail, or on the Chesapeake when the canvas-backs are flying." "I am afraid you will have to buy some, Daddy," I answered. So I sat beside him, at his feet, and I think my mood had changed a little. Perhaps it was fatigue, which I didn't really feel. I suppose that people can have things the matter with them without knowing anything about it. Daddy's dear old hand rested for a moment on my head, and I had to stop knitting. I don't think I ever felt so queerly before, and I had to look over Sweetapple Cove and follow the flight of the gulls, until the shadows grew quite long and the clouds became tinted with rose, and Daddy asked me to get him a cigar, and I was glad he interrupted my silly thoughts. I must have been really very tired. * * * * * I could only write a little while, last night. We had some caribou steak which Daddy became quite enthusiastic over, but I didn't feel hungry, and I went to bed early, but somehow I slept poorly. It is funny that one can be tired for several days at a time. And to-day, Aunt Jennie, some queer things have happened, and the life that has so often felt like dreams has become very serious, and I have seen some of the inner working of events such as make one feel that existence has cruel sides to it. All this morning I dawdled about the house. I had expected Dr. Grant to call and see Daddy, but he had been sent for, a short distance away, in the boat. Rather late this afternoon he returned, and I strolled over towards the cove when I saw the tiny schooner come in. It is a poor enough little ship, but it is wonderful to think how it bears with it such comfort and help to so many suffering people. I was within a few yards of him, and he was lifting his cap when a fisherman rushed up to him. "Ye're wanted ter Atkins'," said the man. "They is a child there as is awful sick. They brung 'un over from Edward's Bay, this mornin', an' th' mother she be prayin' fer ye to come." "All right," he answered. "Sammy, bring my bag up with you and I'll hurry up at once." He only smiled at me, in his pleasant way, for he rushed by me, running up the rough path in great strides, and of course I could only go back to our house, where I sat with Daddy on the porch. From where I sat I could see Atkins' house. It is only a little way from us, up the hill. There were a number of people assembled in front of it, because whenever any one is hurt or very ill they are apt to gather around, as people do sometimes in New York before a house where an ambulance has stopped. Then I saw the doctor sprinting out towards Sammy's house, whence he returned carrying another bag. Of course I have several times helped him a little, in the last month, when Mrs. Barnett didn't get in ahead of me, so I rose. "I am going up to Atkins'," I told Dad. "I wonder what is the matter. I shall only be gone a few minutes." So I ran away, bare-headed, and rushed to the place, but before I reached it Mrs. Barnett arrived there, all out of breath. When I passed through the waiting people I heard Dr. Grant's voice, and he spoke very angrily. I had never thought before that he could get quite so mad. There was a swarm of women in the house, some of them with babies in their arms, and a few children, among whom was Frenchy's little boy, had also slipped in. "Get out of here!" he was shouting, roughly. "All of you but the child's mother and Mrs. Atkins. Haven't I told you it is dangerous? Do you want to spread this thing about and kill off all your children? And you, Mrs. Barnett, must give the example. I won't have you running chances with those babies of yours. Do get out, like a dear woman, and chevy these other ones out with you." He was bustling them all out like a lot of hens, in his effective, energetic way, and then he saw me. "I want you to get out too, Miss Jelliffe," he ordered me. "This is a bad case of diphtheria. The child is choking and I must relieve it at once." I took a few steps back, rather resentfully, because I had never been spoken to in that way before, and I thought it very rude of him, but I did not leave the place. The doctor was very busy with some instruments and perhaps had forgotten my presence. He made the woman sit on a stool, with the little girl wrapped in a sheet and sitting on her lap. I saw him take up a shiny instrument, which he fastened in the baby's mouth, notwithstanding her struggles. "Now hold her firmly," he ordered, "and you, Mrs. Atkins, get behind her and take her head. Hold it steady, just this way. Never mind her crying." But the little one wrenched herself away from the woman's grasp. The breath entered its lungs with an awful long hoarse sound and the poor little lips were very blue. "For God's sake, hold her better," he cried again. "I'm all of a tremble," said Mrs. Atkins, weeping. "She's sure goin' ter die. I kin never hold her, she do be fightin' me so." Of course there was only one thing to do. I ran out of the corner to which I had retreated and pushed the foolish woman away and seized the baby's head so that it could not move. Dr. Grant stared at me, shaking his head, but I suppose I looked at him defiantly, for I was really angry with him. "This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "You should not expose yourself to this infection." He spoke so quietly that I became rather sorry I had been provoked at him, but he paid no more heed to me. Once he placed a hand on one of mine, to show me exactly how to hold the head, and then he took a long handle to which something was fastened at right angles. The child's mouth was widely opened by the gag he had inserted, and his left finger went swiftly down into the child's throat and the instrument, pushed by his right hand, followed, incredibly quick. There was just a rapid motion, I heard the release of a catch, and then, suddenly, there was a terrifying attack of violent coughing. But in a moment this ceased, the child lay back quietly in her mother's arms, the color began to return to her lips, and she was breathing quietly. Then we watched, in silence, and finally the little head turned to one side and the baby closed her eyes, while the poor woman's tears streamed down and even fell on the tiny face. "She is all right for the time being," said Dr. Grant, in that quiet voice of his, which I have heard change so quickly. "If she can only resist until the antitoxine acts upon her we may pull her through. I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Jelliffe. I am afraid your father will scold us both for taking such chances with your health." But by this time my eyes were full of tears also, I don't know why. I was unsteady on my feet and held on to the back of a chair. "I never saw anything like this before," I said. "I didn't quite realize that it ever happened. The poor little thing was dying, and you did it all so quickly! That thing went in like a flash, and then she coughed so and I thought she was lost. And now she sleeps, and I am sure you have saved her, and she must get well. How dreadful it was, at first, and how wonderfully beautiful it is to be able to do such things! I am so glad!" Wasn't it silly of me to get so excited, Aunt Jennie. But I suppose one can't understand such happenings until one has witnessed them. I know that I had taken the doctor's arm, without realizing what I was doing, and found myself patting it, stupidly, like a silly, hysterical thing. His face was very serious, just then, and he looked at me as if he had been studying another patient. Then came that little smile of his, very kindly, which made me feel better. "I think you had better go now, Miss Jelliffe," he advised. "I beg you not to expose yourself further. It is a duty you owe your good old father and any one who cares for you." Then I was myself again. The excitement of those tense moments had passed away and I knew I had been a little foolish and that he spoke ever so gently. "I will go since you wish me to," I answered. "But I am ever so glad that I was able to help you. You will come to supper, won't you?" "I am afraid you will have to excuse me," he said. "I can hardly do so now, for I must remain here and watch this child for some time. You will please change all your clothing and have it hung out on the line, and you will gargle your throat with something I will send you. I'll call to-morrow and see your father, and give you the latest news of this little patient." "I didn't know that you ever got so angry," I said, now prompted by some spirit of mischief. "You were in a dreadful temper when I came in." "Of course I was," he readily admitted. "But do you realize that this is the continuation of an old story. This woman was in St. John's last week, with the child, and I suppose they may have brought the disease from there. Then the child became ill, the night before last, and she waits until this morning to bring it over to me. When she reaches here she finds me away, but of course every woman in the place strolls in, with children in arms, to look on and give advice. We may be in for a fine epidemic. I shall have to send to St. John's at once for a new supply of antitoxine. I have only a little, and it is not very fresh. Atkins is away with his schooner but he is expected to-morrow. I hope he turns up. Thank you ever so much, Miss Jelliffe. Now please run away and follow my directions." So I left him and returned to the house and obeyed his orders. We soon had supper, but when I told Daddy all about it, it was his turn to be angry. "That's all very well," he said, "but after all he could have found some one else to help him and you had no business to disobey. When the time comes for you to have babies of your own you can risk your life for them as much as you please, but you have no right to run into danger now. You are my only child, and I have no one else to love since your poor mother died. Please don't do such things again. Grant was perfectly right in trying to chase you away. He should have taken a stick to you." Daddy's ruffled tempers are never proof against my method of smoothing the raging seas. My arm around his neck and a kiss will make him eat out of my hand, as Harry Lawrence puts it. Naturally he succumbed again and in a minute was just as nice as ever. We had only just finished our supper when Frenchy came in, leading his little boy by the hand. He bore a letter which he gravely handed to Daddy who, as usual, had to look into three or four pockets before he found his glasses. Then he read, and his face became serious, as it always does when he takes sudden decisions. "Yves," he said, "will you oblige me by going down to the cove at once and hailing the schooner. I want my captain to come over here." Frenchy departed, after saluting as usual, his little fellow trotting beside him, and Daddy, without a word, handed the letter to me. I read as follows: _Dear Mr. Jelliffe_: I had intended to see you to-morrow morning, and expect to do so, but I believe it might be best for you to obtain my advice at once. Miss Jelliffe has doubtless told you how she helped me with a case of diphtheria, although I am sure she omitted to say how brave and helpful she was. The danger to her is comparatively slight, I am sure, yet we must not forget that such a danger exists. If you were to start to-morrow morning you could be in St. John's before night. From there two days would find you in Halifax and two more in New York, so that you would be always near good care and advice. With a little care and prudence in regard to your leg I am sure that you can reach home quite safely. With kindest regards, Very sincerely yours, JOHN GRANT. I stared at Daddy, hardly knowing what to say. "That boy has a lot of good sound horse-sense!" he exclaimed. "I am just going to follow his advice. Bring me my check-book. I am going to make out something for that little parson. He needs a place to give the folks what he calls readings, and other things. He told me that two-fifty would give him unutterable joy. I'll make it five hundred so that he can shout. Now in regard to Dr. Grant...." "Are we really going to-morrow, Daddy?" I interrupted. "You bet we are going to-morrow, always providing that yacht of ours is ready. I gave orders yesterday to have something done and...." But I didn't listen any more. I went to the window and drew aside the little curtain. Down below, in the cove, I could see the _Snowbird's_ anchor light, gleaming brilliantly. The windows of some of the houses shed a sickly pale radiance, but beyond this everything was in darkness, with just the faintest suggestion of enormous masses representing the jagged cliffs. There was not a single star in the heavens, and all at once everything seemed to be plunged in desolation. It felt as when one awakes in the darkness from some beautiful dream. I knew then that I would be actually home-sick for Sweetapple Cove when I returned to New York. Please don't laugh at me, Aunt Jennie dear, you know I have had no one but you to confide in since I have grown out of short skirts. Perhaps it was this thing I saw in Atkins' house that has upset me so, and I suppose that my life has always been too easy, and that I have not been prepared to meet some of the grim horrors it can reveal to one. I could not think of leaving without saying good-by to Mrs. Barnett. My hand shook as I pushed a hatpin through my cap. Then I told Daddy where I was going and ran out into the darkness. When I reached the poor little house they insist on calling the rectory the dear woman opened her arms to greet me, and I saw that her beautiful eyes were filled with tears. "What is the matter, dear?" I asked. "I was a coward to-day," she cried. "Such an awful coward! I had no business to leave when Dr. Grant told me to. I should have stayed and helped. But when he spoke of diphtheria I couldn't help it and thought of my little chaps. I have already seen that dreadful thing come and sweep little lives away, just in a day or two. It took the one we buried on the other side of the cove, and we saw it suffocating, helpless to aid. And that's why I ran out, terror-stricken. But I hear that you held the baby for him. You don't know what it is to have babies of your own, and were not afraid. It is dreadful, you know, that fear that comes in a mother's heart!" She looked quite weak when she sat down, in a poor, worn, upholstered chair that was among the things they brought from England, and I sat on the arm of it, beside her. "I have changed all my clothes," I told her, "and I don't think I'm dangerous. Now Daddy insists that we must leave to-morrow, and I'm just broken-hearted about it. Dr. Grant wrote him that it would be better for us to leave, but I don't want to go." "Did the doctor write that?" she exclaimed. "Yes, because there might be danger in my staying longer. Why can't I share it with all the others who will have to stay here? I shall never forgive him!" I suppose that we were both rather excited, and I know I had to dab my eyes with my handkerchief. Then Mrs. Barnett forgot all about her own worries, for she was patting me on the arm, looking at me intently all the time, just as Daddy has been doing, in a queer way that I can't understand. "I daresay it will be best for both of you," she said, in that sweetest voice of hers. "Yes, I think Daddy wants to get back," I said, and she stared at me again, as I rose and bade her good-by. "Don't say it yet, dear," she told me, "I will certainly come down to see you off in the morning. It has been so delightful to have had you here all these weeks, and I shall miss you dreadfully when you are gone. I can hardly bear to think of it." So I kissed her and had to tear myself away. Like a pair of silly women we were on the verge of tears once more, and there was nothing left for me to do but to run. It was perhaps some unusual effect of the night air, but I was quite husky when I spoke to Daddy again. "You will be glad to get back, won't you. Daddy?" I asked him. "It will be so nice for you to go to the club again, and see all your old friends." He looked at me, and only nodded in a noncommittal way. "I will leave you now," I said. "There is a lot of packing to do, and that poor silly Susie is perfectly useless, since she heard we were going. She is sitting on a stool in the kitchen and weeping herself into a fit. Her nose is the reddest thing you ever saw. But you and I are old travelers, aren't we, and used to quick changes? You remember, in Europe, how we used to get to little towns and decide in a moment whether we would stay or not, when we were tired of all those old museums and cathedrals?" But Daddy only patted my hand, and I have decided that he is a wonderfully clever man. I am sure he understood that I was just forcing myself to talk, and that he could say nothing that would make me feel better. Then there was a knock at the door, and Stefansson came in with one of his long faces. "Good evening," said Daddy. "Have a cigar? The box is there on the table. I have good news for you, since I know you don't enjoy this place much. Too far from Long Island Sound, isn't it? I want to sail to-morrow morning." Our skipper's long Swedish face lengthened out a bit more, and he looked a very picture of distress. "But you told me yesterday that you were going to stay at least another week, Mr. Jelliffe," he objected. "So to-day when the engineer he tells me about bearings needing new packing, and about a connecting rod being a bit loose, I told him to get busy." "I'd like to know what you fellows were doing all the time in St. John's?" asked Daddy, angrily. "Engines always need looking after, Mr. Jelliffe," replied the skipper in an injured tone that was not particularly convincing. "Of course I can make him work all night, and to-morrow, with his helper, so that maybe we can start day after to-morrow early. Everything is all apart now. If you say so we can start under sail, but I know you don't like bucking against contrary winds without a bit of steam to help, and this is a forsaken coast to be knocking about, Mr. Jelliffe, and I'll be glad to get away from it." "Well, I suppose that a day or so won't make much difference," said Daddy. "How's your coal?" "Plenty coal, sir." "All right, get those fellows at work in the engine room, Stefansson. They haven't had much to do of late." Our skipper departed and I was so happy that I wanted to dance. In the kitchen Susie was washing dishes and assisting her work by intoning the most doleful hymn. I turned up the lamp a little, and things seemed ever so much more cheerful. So I suppose that I have been ever so foolish. Just now I can hear Daddy and Mr. Barnett saying good night, and I know that they have been fighting tooth and nail over that chess board. And I hear Mr. Barnett thanking Daddy, in a voice that is all choked up with emotion. I am so glad to think the dear little man is happy. Isn't it too bad, Aunt Jennie, that we can't all be happy all the time? Your loving HELEN. CHAPTER XV _From John Grant's Diary_ Here I am writing again, just for the purpose of trying to keep awake. A fellow in my profession, in such places as this, is much like a billiard ball that finds itself shot into all sorts of corners, without the slightest ordering from any consciousness of its own. I left that child at Atkins' doing fairly well, and have once more been compelled to make one of those rather harrowing choices I dread. I had either to abandon that child, though its mother is fairly intelligent and seems to understand my instructions, fortunately, or to refuse to answer this call, where another man with a large family is lying at the point of death. It seems strange that I shall probably never see Miss Jelliffe again. The yacht has been delayed for several days, and they did not start as they expected to. But when I return I have no doubt that the _Snowbird_ will be gone, and with it two charming people who will be but delightful memories. I had thought to show Dora how willing I was to do what she calls a man's work, and expected to accomplish it at the cost not only of hard toil, which is an easy enough thing to get through with, but also at the price of exile among dull people. I have had plenty of work, but for the last two months there has not been a stupid moment. The girl's bright intelligence and fine womanliness, the old gentleman's kindly and practical ways, have made my visits to them ever so pleasant, and those journeys to the barrens and the river have been delightful. And now the Barnetts will be left, pleasanter companions by far than I had any right to expect in this out-of-the-way corner of the island. And then I always hope that Dora will soon be coming home, as she calls it, and I will hasten away to her, and perhaps plead with her for the last time. I do hope she will approve of the man's work; perhaps also of the man! I last saw Miss Helen the day before yesterday morning, just before the summons came for me to go to Edward's Bay, and she told me she hoped I would return before her departure. She said it so kindly that I am rather proud of having won the friendship of such a splendid girl. Here I found a man with pneumonia, who has still a chance. His wife and children are sleeping on the floor, all around me. Once more I am seeking to preserve one life, that others may go on too, and I ordered the woman to take a rest, for she has been up two nights. When I last went to the Jellifies', after changing all my clothes, and taking all possible precautions, I told her that the child was better, and that I was under the impression that the antitoxine was having a favorable effect. Also I informed her that I was going to start Atkins off to St. John's for another supply in case the malady should spread, for I only had about enough left for one bad case. "I hope he makes good time," I said, "but of course one can never tell, though he's a first rate man and can make his way into the cove in weather of all kinds, barring an offshore gale. Fog doesn't bother him." "You have had a sleepless night," she told me. "It must have been hard to keep awake after all the work you have done in the last few days." I assured her that I had enjoyed some sleep, having dozed off several times on my chair. I had ordered Mrs. Atkins, under dire threats, to awaken me at least every half hour, and she had obeyed fairly well. "You know that we may perhaps be able to leave to-morrow," she said. "Yes, it is best that you should," I told her. "Your father is quite well able to stand the journey now. They can easily warp the schooner up to the little dock so that he may walk aboard without trouble. I hope this wind may change soon, for just now it looks rather threatening." We were walking away from the house, in the direction of the cliff which forms one of the iron-bound limits of the cove and extends out into the open sea. Miss Jelliffe was very silent. It is easy to see that she regrets the idea of leaving, but now something seemed to be oppressing her. "You don't know how greatly I shall miss all this," she told me, in a low voice. "It has been a simple existence full of a charm that has meant more than all the golf and autos and dancing. I have regretted none of the yachting or the Newport gayeties. None of those things compare at all with what one finds in poor old Sweetapple Cove, with all its smell of fish, or even its rains and fogs. These only blot out an outer world that seems of little interest now, and after a while the sun always comes out again." I walked by her side, and after going for a short distance we sat upon a rock and looked out over the ocean, which extended afar, under a sky that was dark with mountainous masses of piled-up clouds. The great roll of the sea struck the foot of the cliffs rather slowly, as if performing some solemn function, and the swash of the returning water was like some strange dirge. The very waves had lost their blueness and were tinted with a leaden, muddy hue. "It looks as if some awful storm were coming," said Miss Jelliffe. "It may pass away," I answered, "but I don't generally shine as a weather prophet." We sat there for some time, watching the ominous stirring of the clouds, that seemed like an invading army whose might would soon be unleashed and burst out with fierce violence. Then, in the distance, we saw a small boat. The tan-hued sails flapped idly and one could see that the men were rowing hard. "They are pulling for their lives," I said. "I hope they get in soon. It looks as if they were coming from Edward's Bay. It is likely enough that it is another call for me. All the boats belonging to the Cove are in, as far as I can see. They all know very well what is coming." "Then you will have to rush away again!" she exclaimed. "It is all in the game," I answered. "One has to try to play it according to the rules." "Yes, and you try very hard," she said. "Those journeys over rough waters, those nights of watching, the toil over hopeless cases, the meager reward when devoted care has saved. It is surely a wonderful game, and you play it well." I have always been glad to see the enthusiasm of healthy and strong young womanhood. The girls of to-day like to see a man's game played, and they surely know how to help. We continued to watch the small boat, which rose and fell to the swing of the long rollers. The wind was beginning to rise a little, striking the water with black squalls, and we saw the little sails grow rigid as the boat careened and sped towards us like an affrighted bird. "They will make it all right, thank goodness," I said. After this we strolled back, to find Susie sitting on the little porch as she mopped her face with her blue apron. "Look at this silly girl," said Miss Jelliffe. "She has been weeping off and on like a Niobe, and makes me feel like crying too. Among us poor women tears are dreadfully contagious things, and I'm trying hard to escape the infection." "I can't help it," said the girl, showing a red nose and swollen eyes. "Sweetapple Cove ain't a-goin' ter be the same place after you folks goes. 'Course I knows ye'd have no room fer a girl like me over ter yer place in Ameriky. 'Tain't my fault if we Newfoundlanders is said ter be that green th' devil has to put us in th' smoke-house ter dry afore we'll burn. Ye'd ought ter have hustled me hard an' said mean things ter me. Then I'd 'a' been glad when ye left. It's a sight better ter say good riddance ter bad rubbish than ter lose people one's fond of." She was bravely trying to smile, and accused herself of being a silly fool. Miss Jelliffe put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "You never said you would like to go with us, Susie," she said. "I'll be only too glad to take you if you want to come." "Now don't be after foolin' me jest ter make me stop greetin' like a silly calf!" exclaimed Susie. "Yer sure don't mean it, does yer?" "Now I am determined to take you if I have to tie you up and have you carried on board by the crew," laughed Miss Helen, whereupon a broad smile illumined the girl's face. "If I doesn't allers do what yer tells me to," she declared, "ye kin take me by the scruff of me neck an' ship me back ter work on the flakes again. Oh, Lord! I got ter run off an' tell the folks. I'll jest be back in a minute." She scampered up the path, scaring two goats and sending a hen flying over some palings into a cabbage patch, while we entered the house. "I am afraid I have come to say good-by, Mr. Jelliffe," I said to Mr. Jelliffe. "I rather think that some one is coming for me to go to the Bay, and I shall probably not be back in time to see you off. Be very prudent about using your leg and have some one hold your arm when you move about the yacht." "Hold on!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe. "First I want to thank you ever so much for the excellent care you have taken of me, and for your kindness to Helen. You have been exceedingly good and attentive to us both. And I want to say that I think you are doing fine work in this jumping-off place, and it seems a pity that a man like you should be wasted here. Now here's a bit of paper in this envelope, and you can spend it on codfish or codfisherrnen, just as you please. Thank you again for my spliced leg, it's a fine job." He put out his hand, which I shook heartily. Indeed I felt very sorry over this separation. These people are friends such as I have never had yet, and the salt of the earth. When I sought to open the door I was compelled to push hard against the force of the fierce wind that had arisen during our conversation. The rocky spurs which close in the cove were now a foaming mass over which mighty combers were hurling themselves, to the shrieking of the gale. I found Miss Jelliffe on the porch, with locks of her hair flying about her pretty head. "You are not going," she cried. "You can't possibly go off in such a storm." "I can see that no boat could leave the cove now," I replied, "but if I should be badly wanted I might be able to make my way over there by land." "Oh! I hope you won't go," she said. "It is a terrible storm." Some men were coming towards us, their oilskins slatting in the wind that sought to tear them from their backs. "'Tis a hard bit of a blow, sir," said one of them. "It's too bad, for they is Dicky Jones, as has seven young 'uns, and they says he is mortal sick. The woman o' he she were bawlin' terrible fer us to go an' fetch yer, an' we resked it, but now 'tain't no use, for there ain't no boat could ever get out o' th' cove an' live." The other man was Sammy, who nodded gravely, in confirmation. I looked at the raging seas that were now leaping over the little strait into our cove. "I'll have to try and get there by land," I said. "'Tis an awful long ways around," said Sammy. "Not as I says it can't be done." "We's fair done with th' long pull we's had," said the messenger. "I mistrust us men couldn't do it." "You will stay here and rest," I told him. "I think I will have to try it." "You goin' now?" asked Sammy. "I'll be off in a few minutes." "Then I goes wid yer, in course," said the sturdy old fellow. "I might be hinderin' you a bit with th' walkin', 'count o' them long legs o' yourn, but I knows th' way an' ye'll be safer from gettin' strayed." So I ran up to Atkins', to see once more how the child was getting on, finding everything satisfactory enough. I left some medicine and gave careful directions, after which I returned to the Jelliffes' house. Miss Helen was waiting, wrapped in a waterproof coat. Her head was bare, and she did not appear to mind the gusts of rain which came down upon it, driven under the porch by the gale. "Good-by, oh! good-by!" she cried. "Thank you for everything and God be with you!" She gave me a grip of the hand that was strong with a nervous force one would hardly have deemed her capable of, and I left her regretfully, I must say, for she had become such a comrade as a man seldom meets with. Then Sammy and I started on our long walk over the ridges and barrens, striking well inland. We had been gone but a few minutes before Sweetapple Cove was blotted from our sight by the pelting rain that spattered fiercely over our oilskins. And now I am putting in another long night. The storm still beats upon the roof and the wind is howling like some unmerciful beast unleashed. The _Snowbird_ surely could not sail away to-day, for the dawning is showing its first gleams through the tiny window panes, and there is no sign of any change. CHAPTER XVI _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie:_ Why does the world sometimes seem to turn the wrong way, so that everything becomes miserably topsy-turvy? I have often had to struggle to keep awake when writing you these long letters, which you say you are so glad to get. But now I am writing because I am so dreadfully awake that I don't feel as if I ever could sleep again. It is now a week since Stefansson came up to the house, and the water dripping from him ran down and joined the baby rivers that were rushing down the little road before our house. "I've come for orders, Mr. Jelliffe," he said. "Orders! What orders?" asked Daddy, irascibly. "I'd like to know what orders I can give except to wait till this fiendish weather gets better. You don't expect to start in such a gale, do you?" "We couldn't make it very well, sir, and that's a fact. I don't even think I could take her out of the cove. If we could only get her clear of the coast we'd be all right enough, but I wouldn't like to take chances." "Who wants to take chances? Do you suppose I'm so anxious to go that I'm going to risk all our lives? Come back or send word as soon as you think it safe to start. That's all I want. I suppose everything is all right in the engine room now." Our skipper confirmed this and left. All day the storm gathered greater fury, and has kept it up ever since. At times the rain stops, and the great black clouds race desperately across the sky while the world outside our little cove is a raging mass of spume that becomes wind-torn and flies like huge snow flakes high up in the air. And then the rain begins again, slanting and beating down wickedly, and I feel that no such thing can ever have existed as clear skies and balmy breezes. A number of hours ago, I don't really know how many, I was sitting with Daddy, who looked very disconsolate. I am afraid that this long storm has got on his nerves, or perhaps the poor dear is worrying about me. I think he has been afraid that I might catch the disease from that sick child. And now I am sure that his worries have increased ever so much, but what can one do when it really becomes a matter of life and death to go out and help, to the best of one's poor abilities? How could any one stand on a river bank, with a rope, however frail, in one's hands, and obey even one's father if he forbade you to throw it to a drowning child? I am afraid I have again wandered off, as I so often do when I write to you, Aunt Jennie. Well, we were there, and the lamp flickered, and the rain just pelted the house so that it looked as if it were trying to wash us down into the cove. But I heard a knock at the door, and listened, and it came again. So I went and opened it to find Yves, with his long black hair disheveled and his face a picture of awful anxiety. In the gesture of his hands there was pitiful begging, and his voice came hoarsely as he sought to explain his coming. I interrupted him and bade him enter. "Pardon," he said, "please pardon. Eet is de leetle bye. All day I wait. I tink heem docteur maybe come back. But heem no come. Maybe you know about leetle byes very seek. You help docteur once." "I am afraid I know very little, my poor Yves," I cried, shaking my head. "What is the matter with him, Frenchy?" asked Daddy. "Me not know, monsieur," he answered. "Heem now cry out heem want _la belle dame_. Heem lofe de yong lady. Seek all day, de poor leetle bye, an' lie down and cry so moch! An' now heem terreeble red in ze face, an' so hot, an' speak fonny. An' heem don' want eat noding, noding at all. So I know mademoiselle she help fix heem leetle girl, de oder day, an' me tink maybe she tell me what I do. All de oder womans dey know noding at all, an' I hear Docteur say oder day zey all big fool. Please you come, mademoiselle." "I have to go, Daddy," I cried, and caught up my woollen cap and wrapped myself up in my waterproof. "I wish you wouldn't, daughter," said poor Daddy. "I am sure it must be something catching." "I'm so sorry, Daddy, but I just have to go. I'll try to be back soon." "But why doesn't he go for Mrs. Barnett?" asked Dad. "She knows all about sick babies." "Oh! I don't want her to be sent for. She has those dear little ones of her own," I said. Then I kissed him quickly and ran out into the darkness before he could object any further. The wind just tore at me, and I had to seize Frenchy's arm as we splashed through the puddles, with heads bent low, leaning against the storm. And so we reached the poor little shack Yves calls his home. On the floor he had placed some pans that caught some of the drippings from the leaky roof, and a piece of sail-cloth was stretched upon a homemade pallet covered with an old caribou hide, upon which the poor little fellow was lying. Unable to bear any heat he had cast away all his coverings, in the fever that possessed him, and when I heard him moan and knelt beside him he stretched out his arms to me, and his pleading face grew sweet with hope. "Heem too young to be widout moder ven seek," said Frenchy, apologetically. "Heem moder is dead." I bathed the hot little head, and the touch of my hand made the poor wee thing more contented. After this I sent Frenchy to our house for some alcohol, with which I washed the boy, who finally fell into a restless sleep. Frenchy had placed his only chair near the pallet for me, and after a while he drew up a big pail, on the bottom of which he sat, with his elbows upon his knees and his jaws in the palm of his hands, staring at the child. One could see that an immense fear was upon the man, but that my presence was of some comfort to him. It really looks as if men in trouble always seek help from women, and this poor fellow was now leaning upon me, just as I had leaned on his big arm when we had made our way through the storm. Something was tearing away at his heart-strings, and after a time the pain of it, I think, opened the fount of his memories, as if an irresistible desire had come upon him for the balm there is in pouring them out. How can I tell you all that he said? It was in fragments, disconnected, and represented the great tragedy of a humble life. I remember that several times, while he told it to me, my hand rested in sympathy upon that great arm of his, that had now become very weak. It was at first just the simplest little tale of love somewhere on the coast of Brittany, and of vows exchanged before a Virgin that stretched out her arms towards the sea. And then Yves was taken away upon a warship, and there were tears and prayers for his return. He couldn't remember all the countries from which he had sent letters, but after many months answers ceased to come. Then a new recruit had joined, who belonged to his town, and informed him that the family had moved away on the other side of the ocean, to St. Pierre-Miquelon. So Yves had written, but still no letters came. But one day it chanced that the cruiser was sent up there, to keep an eye on the fisheries, and he was in a fever of waiting until they should arrive. On the first day that he obtained shore leave he had wandered up and down the little streets, and looked at names over _cafés_ and shops, and asked questions of all who would listen to him. No one knew anything of Jeanne-Marie Kermadec. At last one man remembered that a family of that name had remained less than a year and had gone back to France. Then he had wandered off again, and from the cafés comrades of his called to him to join them, but he strolled on, and suddenly he had seen a hollow-eyed woman enter a drinking-shop, and on her arm she bore a baby. So of course he had followed her, feeling as if he had been very drunk. But he had not had a drop. She had gone to a bleary man who sat at a little table, with others, and tried to make him come out with her. But the man swore at her, and the woman left, crying, and Yves had followed her out into the street, and when he spoke she knew him, and cried harder. So he had gone as far as her house, and then she wept on his shoulder. Her people had gone away but she had remained, for her love had gone out to this man and the Virgin on the hill was very far away. At first she had been very happy, but now Yves could see what was happening, and the baby was very hungry, for there was no bread in the house. Then Yves had emptied his pocket on the table and gone away, very unsteadily, and some of the men on his ship laughed at him. But perhaps he was looking dangerous, because after he had glared at them once they left him alone. After this he had met Jeanne-Marie several times, but his ship soon left on a trip to some places in Canada. In one of these there was a great coal mine near the sea, and in another town perched queerly on a rock they had anchored in the _Saint Laurent_. Yes, perhaps it was Quebec; he knew the people spoke French there. Then after a time the cruiser had returned to St. Pierre. He thought it might be better not to go back to that house, but he found that he could not keep away. It was some illness he did not know that killed her. Yes, he had been there when she died, and had paid money to a doctor and to the priest. Perhaps she just died of not having enough to eat, he didn't know. She had asked him to kiss her before she died, and it was the only time since he had left Brittany. Then Jeanne-Marie's husband had come into the house, and borrowed five francs from him and was very maudlin, and asked what the devil he was going to do with that brat, which cried all the time. But the little one was quiet when Yves took it in his arms, so poor Frenchy asked if he might take it, because he knew it would die if left there. The man had laughed, so he had taken it on his arm and wandered out in the street with it, and a quarter-master asked him what he was doing with a baby. He answered that he didn't know, for one can't take little ones away on warships. He had met a man from the French shore, who told him there was a schooner from Newfoundland which had lost two men in a blow, and needed a hand or two. Then he had gone and offered to ship for nothing, if they would let him take the baby. Yes, they had laughed at him, but the skipper was drunk and good-natured, and told him to come aboard. He had done so at night, when no one was looking, and had with him some milk that comes in cans. So they had sailed away for Newfoundland, and he supposed it was as good a place as any for a man who was now a deserter. Very likely they had looked for him a long time, and had been surprised, for he was accounted a good man. Anyway it was Jeanne-Marie's baby, and one could not leave it to be neglected and to die, because Jeanne-Marie had loved it very much. Of course he would never see France again, unless the boy died. If this happened he would go and give himself up, because nothing would matter any more. So many of his shipmates had gone to lands of black and yellow people, and had never returned. They were dead, and some day he also would be dead, and it made no difference. I really think, Auntie dear, that he had quite forgotten me as he spoke, low, haltingly, in mingled French and English words. He was just rehearsing to himself something that had been all of his life, because everything that had happened before, and the struggle for a living afterwards, were of no moment. Through the poor man's ignorance, through his wondrous folly, I could discern an immense love that had overpowered him and broken him forever. He was an exile from his beloved land of Brittany, and would never see its heather and gorse again, or the flaming foxgloves that redden some of its fields. And all this because of a little child that was the only thing left that had belonged to the woman he had loved so greatly! He said that perhaps that Virgin on the hills might still be looking far out over the waters, and he knelt before a little crucifix which hung from a nail in the rough boards of the walls. I heard him repeating, in a low voice, in soft quick words, the prayers his faith led him to hope might be hearkened to by the Lady of Sorrows, as she watched from that little hill on the other side of the great sea. The poor candle was guttering and the wind howled outside. I looked around and saw the few clothes hanging from pegs, the rusty cracked stove, the table made of rough boards, the bunk filled with dry moss and seaweed, and then my eye caught one flaring note of color. It was a gaudily hued print representing a woman holding aloft a tricolor flag, and labelled _La République Française_! And the poor cheap picture was all of the inheritance of this man, marooned and outlawed for the sake of a woman and her dying kiss, which had been the only reward of all his devotion. So I sat there, awed by the greatness of it all. There were no tears in my eyes; indeed, it seemed too big a thing for tears, a revelation and an outlook upon life so vast that it held me spell-bound. I had never realized that love could be such a thing as that, feeding upon a mere sad memory, able to take this rough viking of a man and toss him, a plaything of its stupendous force, upon these barren rocks. Surely it was arrant folly, utter insanity, but it showed that men's lives are not regulated by clockwork, and that, however erring an ideal may be, the passions it may inspire can bring out the greatness of manhood or the ardent devotion of women. It awed me to think that among the teeming millions of the earth there were thousands upon thousands bound to potential outbursts of a love that may slumber quietly until death or awake, great and inspiring in its might. As the muttered prayers went on I watched the uneasy tossing of the child, until Susie Sweetapple came in, hurried and dripping. "You's got ter come home," she said. "Yer father he's bawlin' as how he wants yer back. My, the poor mite of a young 'un! The face o' he looks dreadful bad! D'ye know it's most midnight? Come erlong now, ma'am." I rose, feeling very trembly about the knees. There was nothing that I could do. I could not let poor Daddy worry any longer about me. "Come for me, Yves," I told the man, "if he seems worse, or if there is anything I can do." He came to me, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears as I put my hand out to him. He lifted it up to his lips with a sob. So we two hurried back home. By this time the wind had abated a little, and the moon was shining through some great rifts in the clouds, the waters of the cove reflecting a shiny path. The road was no longer in darkness; I could see it dimly, rising to higher ground. I will write again very soon, Your loving HELEN. CHAPTER XVII _From Mr. Walter B. Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _My dear Jennie_: You know I'm no great hand at letter writing when I have no stenographer at hand. It may not be courteous of me to say I am writing to you because I am the lonesomest old party you have seen in a half a century, but you have your dear sister's sweet disposition, and I know you will forgive me. I am all alone in this packing-box of a house, when I expected to be at sea and sailing for Newport to say how d'you do on my way to New York. I wanted to have the pleasure of seeing your kindly face and of having you take that niece of yours in hand for a time. The girl is getting beyond me, and when I want to bluster she looks at me just as her mother used to and I get so weak that you could knock me over with a feather. She looks so much like Dorothy that sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure it is not her mother sitting at the other end of the table. When a man is sixty, and begins to think he owns his fair share of the earth, or even a bit more, I daresay that it does him good to be humbled a little, but it's a hard thing to become used to. Hitherto when Helen wanted anything I always let her have it, for on the whole she has always been sensible in her desires and requests, or maybe I have been an old fool. Didn't some Frenchman say once that an old man is a fellow who thinks himself wise because he's been a fool longer than other people? Anyway, that's me! For the last few days I have been itching to scrap with her, and I find she minds me about as much as the man in the moon. Of course, Jennie, it is a disgruntled old brother-in-law who writes this, and you will have to make allowances. Would you believe that last night she went out and remained till after midnight in a sailor's house, watching a sick child, after I had objected to her doing so, as forcibly as I could? I had to send the queer female native who looks after us to that shanty to bring her back, and the child returned with swollen eyes and a drawn face that positively hurt me to see. She has derived so much benefit from her stay here, and was looking so splendidly just a few days ago, that I felt angry enough to have whipped her, if a silly old chap like me could ever chastise a daughter like Helen. At any rate I rushed her off to bed, and I know she never went there for a long time. I have no doubt that instead of sleeping she was probably scribbling to you. This morning she was down before eight, and I will acknowledge that she looked better than I had expected. Yet there were great dark rings under her eyes, and I tried to look as disagreeable as possible. But you women are too smart for an old fellow like me. She simply cuddled up to me as I sat in the only armchair in Sweetapple Cove and put her arm around my neck, and I could only grumble a little like a decrepit idiot. Then she looked out of doors and rushed back again, and put on that crazy woollen cap you crocheted for her, and opened the door to the kitchen, where Susie was singing some hoarse ditty of her own, and told her that she was going out again to see that child, and that she would be back in a few minutes. That Susie showed her sense, and I'm going to give her a big tip. "Ye'll not be doin' no sich thing," shrieked our domestic. "They be plenty sickness already in th' Cove, an' Doctor not back yet. Ye'll jist take yer coffee as is waitin' fer ye, an' not be goin' ter see illness on a empty stummick. An' Captain he've been round ter say they is still quite a jobble of a sea outside but he can make it fine, and he've steam up. So it's good-by to th' Cove this fine marnin.'" "Yes," I said hurriedly. "We're off just as soon as we've had breakfast and the men have moved everything down to the yacht. It is a corking fine day, and as we're all proof against sea-sickness we've got nothing to worry over. Of course you're all played out after that nursing all night, and are a foolish girl, but I suppose one can't keep women away from those jobs. Sit right down and have your breakfast." "I'll have to see that child before we leave, Daddy," she said, "and--and--and then I will be all ready." She spoke in such a queer way that I was positively alarmed. I am sure I have never seen her look like that. "What's the matter?" I asked her. "You speak in such a weary, discouraged way that you must be getting ill. You have simply tired yourself to death over that boy of Frenchy's. By George! But I'll be glad when we get away from this place!" And then the minx looked at me, just as sweetly as ever, and her voice had that little caressing tone of hers. "Don't worry, dear Daddy, I'll have plenty of rest at sea," she told me. So we had our breakfast, very pleasantly, and I was thanking my stars that all our troubles would be over in no time, little thinking that they were just beginning. So I rose, and took my stout cane, very proud of showing the population how nicely I could walk, and went out on the porch, ready to go on board the yacht. The men were coming up to get our baggage and the furniture we had taken from the _Snowbird_, and Susie was ready to boss them. Then Helen, who had run upstairs, came down and joined me. "I'll help you down the road, Daddy," she said, "and after that I'll run back to Frenchy's. I hear that Mr. Barnett went off somewhere in the middle of the night, so as to return in time to see us off. He will be back soon, and an hour or so won't matter, will it? The _Snowbird_ doesn't run on a schedule, Dad." I looked at my watch, it was a quarter to nine. "We're off by ten," I said. "First thing I know we won't get away till afternoon if I listen to you another minute." We had gone but a very little way down the road, which is nothing but a deplorable sort of goat-path or gutter running down the side of the hill, when we saw Dr. Grant coming down from Sammy's house, and the old fisherman was remonstrating with him. My dear Jennie, it gave me the shock of my life! The young man was actually staggering, and I immediately decided that he was drunker than a whole batch of lords. "Yer isn't fit ter be goin'," the old fellow was objecting. "Ye jist come back ter th' house an' git ter bed, where ye belongs. Ye'll get a mite o' sleep an' feel better. 'Tain't fair ter be goin' again right off. You can't hardly be a-holdin' of yerself up." Of course all this made me positive that the doctor had been hitting a bottle pretty hard, and I was angry and sorry that Helen should see it too, because she's taken a huge liking to that chap, and hitherto I could hardly blame her. When I turned to her she was staring at him, and looked as if some one had hit her with a club. "It is too bad, daughter," I said. "I would never have thought that he was that kind of a man." Then the poor girl grabbed my arm with a clutch which actually hurt. The doctor and the old man were coming very near. I saw the lad look up at us, and it was really pathetic to see how he tried to straighten himself up and steady his gait as he took his cap off, with a shaking hand. "It's really too bad," I said again. And then Helen just stared at me for an instant, shaking her head. "I don't believe it," she cried. "I won't believe it." She let go my arm and dashed away from me. I could see that the poor child was moved again by that instinct of helpfulness which you dear women have, and by the sense of loyalty to friends which girls like Helen always show. "Oh! What is the matter?" she cried. Then I saw the doctor move back, and hold up his hand as if seeking to repel her. "Go back! Don't come near me," he said, hoarsely, and hurried on, unsteadily, while she stood there, dumbfounded, unable to understand. I saw her sense of helplessness grow into resentment and wounded pride. The poor little girl was hurt, Jennie, deeply hurt. Our men had already invaded the house and were carrying the things away, and the population of Sweetapple Cove was gathering, for our departure was even a more wonderful event than our arrival. There was not a house in the Cove that Helen had not visited, and she has made friends with every last Tom, Dick and Harry in the place, and their wives and children. I know that the women have appreciated her friendly interest in their humble lives. Some little children were howling, possibly at the prospect of being henceforth deprived of the sweets she has distributed among them. All the fish-houses and the flakes were deserted, though it was a fine drying day. The men came towards us, with slightly embarrassed timidity, and I shook hands all around as they grinned at us and wished us a good journey. They actually wanted to carry me down to the yacht. So I took Helen's arm again, after declining their kind offers, and began my slow descent to the cove. My poor girl was walking very erect, and she often smiled at the people who surrounded us. But I could see that it took the greatest effort on her part. I'm sure she was impatient to be gone and wanted to shut herself up in her stateroom. It was so hard, Jennie, to see the dear child whose nature has ever been such a happy, cheery one, and who has never seemed to have a moment's suffering in her life, give such evidence of pain and sorrow. It was at this moment, Jennie, that the suspicion entered my soul, that I had been wrong in letting her enjoy so much of the society of this young man, who is certainly a fine, attractive fellow when in his right mind. Isn't it wonderful how young people become attracted by one another, and their heads and hearts get filled while we old people can only worry, for whether they choose well or ill it always ends in our being left alone. I noticed that Frenchy and Sammy were not among the people who crowded about us to say good-by. I looked for them in vain, and was a bit hurt that they should be absent, for we have become very fond of them. Helen was also searching the friendly faces, and I knew that she missed them. Her head was held high up, and but for the little curling up of her lip, in which her teeth bit hard, she would have looked a picture of serene indifference. We were nearing Frenchy's shack, in front of which the path leads to the cove, and finally we were opposite the ramshackle place. It must be very dreadful to a girl, who has learned to admire a man, perhaps even to love him, to discover that her idol has feet of clay. She had allowed the best of her nature, I could see it now, to be drawn in admiration and regard towards a man she deemed unworthy. That odor of the fish-houses had always been bad enough before, but now it seemed to rise in her nostrils and sicken her. And now, Jennie, I can only repeat Puck's words, "What fools we mortals be!" That man Frenchy rushed out of the door as we were going by. His face looked as if he had been suffering tortures. "Please, please!" he cried. "Come, vite, heem Docteur hawful seek. Me no can stan' it no more! You so good in de las' night, mademoiselle, now please come in, for de lofe of _le bon Dieu_!" And then the strain that had been on the heart of my poor girl seemed to give way, suddenly. The tension was released, like a powerful spring, and the hardness went out of her face. She dropped my arm and dashed past the man who sought her help, and entered the place, where I followed as fast as my leg would let me. First she looked towards the child, which I suppose she expected to see under a sheet that would have just revealed the stark little form, but the little thing was smiling at her, weakly. "_Je vous aime bien_" he said. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she turned towards the man who, with a gesture of his hand, had swept her from his path. He had arisen on her entrance, and leaned hard on the back of the chair. To my surprise he spoke quite composedly, and I realized I had made an awful mistake. "This is all wrong, Miss Jelliffe," he said. "I tried to prevent Yves from calling you. The child has diphtheria and you must leave at once." The man's voice was frightfully hoarse, and he unconsciously put his hand up to his throat. She looked at him without answering. Then she went up to the little table and picked up a small vial she had noticed. "Antitoxine, seven thousand units," she read. Then she took up a small glass syringe armed with a bright steel needle, and stared at it. "You have given it to the child?" she asked. "Yes, just a few minutes ago," he answered. "We only left Edward's Bay at sunrise. The man is getting well. I was told of this case and went up to Sammy's for the antitoxine." "But it was the last you had!" she cried, "and Atkins has only been able to start this morning for more, and the wind is very bad for him. It may be days before he returns." The man shrugged his shoulders, very slightly, and Helen went up to him, scrutinizing his face, silently. Then she put her fingers on the wrist that was supporting his hand on the back of the chair. "I am not well," he said, "and I wish you would leave. I think I will have to let Mrs. Barnett into this mess. She's away at Goslett's house, where they expect a baby." "How long have you known that you had diphtheria too?" asked Helen, and I could detect in her voice an intensity of reproof that was wonderful, for she was scolding the man, just as excited mothers sometimes scold a little one that has fallen down and hurt itself. "I was beginning to feel it last night," he answered, "but please go away now, for it is dangerous." Then he addressed me. "Mr. Jelliffe, do take her away. I hear that she was here last night and remained for hours. You will take her away to St. John's at once, and have her given a preventive injection. Now please hurry off." I could see that the poor chap's voice rasped his throat painfully. His two hands dropped to his side, with the palms turned forward, in a feeble gesture of entreaty. "You knew this morning that you had it," said Helen again. "And you only had that vial and used it all for the boy." He nodded, with another slight shrug of his shoulders. "I see that you have been playing the game!" she said quietly. Then she turned to me, seizing one of my arms. "Hurry!" she cried. "You must hurry, Daddy. Why don't you go on? He has diphtheria, and perhaps half the people here will have it now. Perhaps he is going to die! Come, Daddy, you must hurry. The _Snowbird_ will take you to St. John's and you must buy antitoxine, a lot of it, and come back with it at once. And you should get a doctor, and a nurse or two, and I will stay here, and please don't look at me that way! Do hurry, Daddy! Oh! I was forgetting your poor leg. Never mind, take your time, Daddy, but as soon as you are on board make them hurry. Susie will stay with me. A few days won't matter, Daddy!" "Oh! Daughter. Please come," I implored her. "I promise that I will send the yacht back at once with a doctor and everything." She looked at me in amazed surprise. "But how can I leave now, Dad?" she asked. "Don't you understand that a lot of people may die if you don't get help at once, and of course I must stay. You will do your best, won't you? Come, dear, and let me help you down the path. You can be gone in a few minutes." "Leave you here!" I exclaimed, indignantly. "You are crazy, girl! I'll stay with you, of course. Here, some of you fellows, run down to the cove and tell my skipper to come here at once." So I stood there, just outside the door, watching a man scramble down the road, who finally returned with Stefansson. Helen stood perfectly still, except for the toe of one of her boots, which was tapping a tattoo on the boards. "Get the _Snowbird_ under weigh at once," I shouted. "Run up to St. John's and buy all the antitoxine you can get hold of, any amount, barrels of it, if it comes that way. And bring a doctor back with you. Promise him all the money he wants. And get a nurse, or a couple of them, or a dozen. Regular trained nurses, you understand. Yes, it's antitoxine I want. Write it down. It's the stuff they use for diphtheria. Then get back here at once. Carry all the sail she'll bear and all the steam she'll take. Look lively and don't waste a minute. Here, you Sammy! Go aboard too and help pilot her back if it's dark or foggy. Good luck to you and jump her for all she's worth!" I suppose I spoke like a crazy man, but the two started down hill. Stefansson, who has long legs, only beat the old fellow by a skip and a jump. Then I saw the men casting off the hawsers, and the thin film of smoke became black, and the good old _Snowbird_ shook herself. I was tickled to see how a crew of chaps used to count seconds in racing were handling her. She was moving, the smoke pouring thicker and thicker from her funnel, and the screw began to churn hard. Then her sharp bowsprit turned around a little, till it was aimed at that cleft between the rocks. She gathered speed and struck the billowing seas outside and turned a bit. Then the big sails began to rise, as did the jibs, and I saw a man run out to the end of the bowsprit as a thick white rope ran up to the fore topmast head and broke out into a fleecy white cloud of silk. Then, under the great balloon jib topsail my little ship flew off like a scared bird and disappeared behind the edges of the cliffs. "Byes, did yer ever see the like o' that?" shouted an old fisherman, enthusiastically. "My, but Sammy's a lucky dog ter be gettin' sich a sail. I'd give a quintal fer the chance." I must say that I was pleased with this expert appreciation, and began to feel better. "But why didn't we send the doctor on her?" I suddenly asked. "He would have been attended to sooner. We could have taken him with us." "He wouldn't have gone," said Helen, whose cheeks had now become red with excitement. "He would never leave until some one came to take his place. He thinks he can still help that child of Frenchy's." So after a time we returned to the house we had thought we were seeing the last of, and it seemed very different, having been dismantled of many things which were now lying on the dock. Helen sat down for a moment, putting her elbows on the table and resting her face on her hands. So of course I went to her, and stroked her head, and she looked at me with eyes that were full of tears. "I'm ashamed," she said. "At first I thought just as you did. I was sure he had been drinking. And he seemed so awfully rude when he motioned me away. But he could hardly drag himself, the poor fellow, and he was trying to keep me away from him, because he was afraid for me." She was utterly disconsolate, and I could only keep on stroking the child's head as I used to, when she came to seek consolation for babyish sorrows. Of course I was worried about her, and realized how helpless I was. She hadn't grown over night, naturally, yet something appeared to have been added to her stature. She was a woman now, full of the instincts of womanhood, and she was escaping from my influence. Her life was shaping itself independently of me. It is pretty tough, Jennie, to see one's ewe lamb slipping away. She loves me dearly, I know it, but she is now flowering into something that will never be entirely mine again, and the realization of it is cutting my heart. After a moment she was restless again, and we went out on the porch. We could hear Susie Sweetapple messing about in her kitchen, whose destinies she again cheerfully controls, and presently some men came down the road, carrying a bed. "'Un says he've got ter have his bed at Frenchy's," one of them explained to me. "'Un's scared to give the diphtherias ter Sammy's young 'uns." They started again, wiping their brows, for the late September day was growing warm, and soon after we saw a small boat entering the cove and Helen, who seems to know everything about this place, declared that it was not one of our boats, as she calls the fleet at Sweetapple Cove. It reached the dock and a man jumped out while the sails were still slatting. Susie had stuck her head out of the window. "'Un's parson comin'," she announced. Mr. Barnett hastened towards us as fast as his little legs would carry him. He passed Frenchy's house, not knowing that the doctor was there, and stopped in surprise when he saw us. "I thought I was too late!" he exclaimed. "We saw the _Snowbird_ flying, miles away, and I thought I should never see you again." "The doctor is at Frenchy's!" cried Helen. "He is dreadfully ill. Please go and see what you can do for him." "I'll go at once," he replied. "We intercepted the mail-boat and I have a letter for you, Mr. Jelliffe, and one for the doctor. I hear he saved that man's life, over to the Bay. Been up with him day and night. You can't understand what it means to us to have a man like him here, who permeates us all with his own brave confidence. The blessing of it! It was a terrible storm that he went through when he walked over to the Bay. It is an awful country, and his steps were surely guided over pitfalls and rocks." The little man is quite admirable in the sturdiness of his faith, in the power of his belief, that is the one supreme ideal always before him, and I shook hands with him. "But I fear he is very ill now. A boy just told me they had to carry him from his boat, when he returned this morning." "I'll go with you now to Frenchy's," said Helen. "Are you not afraid?" asked the little parson. "Are you?" she asked, just a little rudely, I fear. "With me it is a matter of duty and love, you know," he replied. "With me also," she said, with head bent down. Then she looked up again. "I don't think you have any better right to expose yourself than I," she said, with spirit. "You have children of your own, and a wife to think of. Your life is a full one, rounded out and devoted to a work that is very great. Mine is only beginning; nothing has come from it yet; I have done nothing. It all lies before me and I won't stand aloof as if I were outside of laboring humanity, while there is sickness to be fought. I'm going with you." She came to me. "I hope you don't think I'm very bad, Daddy?" she said. "I'm sorry to give you so much trouble, but something tells me I must go. I just have to!" I looked at her, as she walked rapidly away with the parson, and then sat down on the steamer chair that had been brought up again, and for the first time I felt that age was creeping up on me. It looks as if all of us, ill or hale, poor or rich, are but the playthings of nature, bits of flotsam on the ocean of human passions. Your poor dear sister, Jennie, died young, and I believe that her life with me was a happy one as long as she was spared. After a little while Helen began to fill some of the emptiness she had left, but now there come again to me memories of a sweet face, uplifted lovingly to my own, and I am overcome with a sense of loss indescribable. And yet this is mingled with some pride. My daughter is no doll-like creature, no romantic, unpractical fool destined to be nothing but a clog to the man who may join his life to hers. She will never lag behind and cry for help, and hers will be the power to walk side by side with him. She can never be a mere bauble, and will play her own part. Oh! Jennie. The pluck of the child, the readiness with which she wants to give the best of herself because she thinks it right and just, and because she refuses to concede to others a monopoly of helpful love! That young man, if he lives, will be a fit mate for any woman, but I swear to you that if it comes to that I will insist upon paying the salary of some man to take his place. I want my girl nearer to me than in Sweetapple Cove! After a time I pulled out the letter Mr. Barnett had handed me. It was from that young rascal Harry Lawrence. He says he's heard from you about that caribou shooting, and wants to come up anyway and find out how I look after my tough summer in this neck of the woods, and he's never been to Newfoundland anyway, etc., etc. Of course that boy cares as much for my looks as for those of the Egyptian Sphinx. At one time I really hoped that Helen and he, since she would have to leave me some day, might grow fond of one another. I know how devoted he is to my girl, but I'm afraid she has made her own choice. I must write to Harry that we shall be leaving before long and that it will be too late for him to come now,--as, indeed, it is. What puzzles me is that, on his own part, that doctor never has seemed to be anything but a good friend to Helen. I suppose I was an old fool, and never saw things that went on under my nose. Poor Harry, he's such a splendid lad, and his father was my dearest friend, as you know. Helen has been gone for hours, and I'm going to send Susie after her. In the meanwhile I have sought to possess my soul in patience by writing to you. Affectionately yours, WALTER CHAPTER XVIII _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Aunt Jennie_: It is very disturbing to think that one has, in some ways, been a very naughty bad girl, and yet to be utterly unable to see how one could have acted any differently. It is my fault that we are still here, though we were all ready to start, and were on our way to the yacht when we discovered that Dr. Grant had just returned from one of the outports and was dreadfully ill. He has been so kind to us that it was utterly impossible for us to leave him at such a time and I just had to insist on delaying our departure, and of course I made poor Daddy very miserable. The _Snowbird_ had to wing its flight away without us, hastening to seek help. We needed succor ever so badly, so very badly that if one of those strange vows of ancient days could have hastened her return by one little hour I would willingly have undertaken to drag myself on my knees along scores of miles of this rock-strewn shore. I begged Dad to send her, and he did, at once, for he was only too glad to do anything he could for the doctor, but he has been so dreadfully anxious on my account, and was so eager to take me away at once to some big place where I could be treated if I fell ill. You understand, of course, that I am not ill at all, and never was better in my life, and that there is no reason at all to be afraid for me. Mr. Barnett and I left the house yesterday morning to go to the Frenchman's place, where the doctor has insisted on remaining. I was quite surprised to see a number of people around the poor little shack. They all knew that Dr. Grant was very ill, and were gathered there with anxious faces. They simply looked worried to death. Isn't it wonderful, Aunt Jennie, how some people have the faculty of causing themselves to be loved by every one? Of course, his coming here has been such a great thing for these poor fishermen that they have learned to regard him as their best friend, one whose loss would be a frightful calamity. He certainly has never spared himself in their behalf. Mr. Barnett stopped to shake hands with a few of them, and I heard little bits of their talk, which made me feel very unhappy. "I jist seen Frenchy little whiles ago," one of them was saying, "and they wuz tears runnin' erlong the face o' he. Yes, man, he were cryin' like a young 'un, though some does say as his bye be better. Things must sure be awful bad with th' doctor." The fisherman brandished his splitting knife as he spoke, and, with his torn oilskins dripping with blood and slime he was a terrible-looking figure, until his arms fell to his side and he stood there, an abject picture of dejection. Then I heard a woman's voice. She is a poor thing whose husband and two sons were "ketched" last year, as they say, by these dreadful seas, and some think that her brain is a little affected. "I mistrust as they is times when th' Lord 'Un's kept too busy ter be tendin' ter all as needs Him bad," she cried. "Hush, woman!" an old man reproved her. "Ye'll be temptin' the wrath o' God on all of us wid sich talkin's." The poor creature stopped, awed by the dread possibilities of bringing down further punishment upon the Cove, and began to weep in silence. The men had removed their sou'westers and their caps when we came up to them. I believe that our arrival relieved them a little from their fears. They have such a touching faith in all who have been kind and friendly to them. It looked as if our coming was something material that they could lean upon, for, in their ignorance, they deem us capable of achieving wonderful things. I am certain that they firmly believe that their little parson is able to intercede with higher powers far more effectively than they possibly can, with their humble prayers. So a few of them returned to their fish-houses, and women and children hastened back to the flakes, since the sun was shining and the cod must be dried even if the heavens fall. I remember that when we entered the house I was very nervous and afraid. It is very natural, Aunt Jennie, for a girl to be frightened when she has never seen much sickness before, and one is lying helpless who has always been such a kind friend. His little iron bed had been put up in a corner of the room, and the doctor was lying upon it, with his face very red. His breathing came very hard and rapidly, and it was horribly distressing to see a man brought to such a state, who, a few days ago, was so full of life and strength. Yet when he saw me he made an effort to rise to a sitting position, and his eyes brightened, but he looked anxiously at me. "You haven't gone yet," he said, hoarsely. "And you, Barnett, have you no regard for your little chaps? You have no right to be here, and Frenchy is looking after me all right." "You keep your breath to cool your porridge, boy," said the little parson. "I'm in charge now." What a queer sort of freemasonry there must be among strong men, Aunt Jennie, which allows them to say gruff things to one another in friendly tones. The sick man seemed to recognize the little parson's authority and lay back, exhausted and conquered. "I've done all I could," he said. I was so sorry to hear the tone of discouragement in his voice. He is just a man, Aunt Jennie, with a man's weaknesses and a man's strength, and for the moment the latter had forsaken him. I suppose that some of his self-reliance had gone, for after a moment he smiled at us, and doubtless was glad to have friends with him and was comforted by their sympathy. I could not help marvelling at the efficiency of the little parson, who, before they had a doctor here, was compelled to do the best he could to take care of sick people, assisted by his wife. He questioned the doctor, who wearily told him of some things that might be done for him, but without appearing to care. Mr. Barnett ran out of the house and up to Sammy's, returning with some bottles. He looked at labels ever so carefully and mixed some drugs with water, after which he wound some cotton on a stick to make a sort of a brush. "Now sit up a little and let me fix your throat," he said. "Yes, you've got to take some of your own medicine now, old fellow. Frenchy, you get behind him and hold him up. The light is poor here; better bring your candle. Miss Jelliffe, hold it just this way for me. That's good. Now open your mouth, my boy." He swabbed the throat, in which there were ugly, white patches, so conscientiously that it brought on severe coughing, and after this he compelled the doctor to swallow some medicine. "If keeping at it will do you any good, old man, you may depend on me. And now we'll have a look at that kiddie." I looked around the room, where there was an awful penury of all sorts of things, so that I went up to our house and brought back some provisions. I am afraid that I established a corner in milk, for I took nearly all that the poor, lone, lean cow of Sweetapple Cove could provide. When Mr. Barrett finally sat down I noticed that he looked quite weary and exhausted. "Now you must go to our house," I told him, "and get Susie to give you something to eat. I am sure that you have had nothing since last night, and I won't have you falling ill too. I have arranged it all, so please don't say anything but just go, and don't hurry back. There is plenty of time and poor Daddy would be so glad to see you. I am sure it would do him a lot of good. I can watch both the patients perfectly well. And, Frenchy, you must go too and Susie will look after you. You look perfectly starved, and I'm sure you've forgotten to have any breakfast. Make him go with you, Mr. Barnett!" They protested a little, but finally went out, reluctantly. Of course I have always looked after Daddy's comfort a good deal, but when you have plenty of servants it is very easy to do, especially when one has also an Aunt Jennie to come around from time to time and put fear in their hearts, when they don't behave. But it seemed to me that this was really the first time that I had tried to take charge of things, although it didn't really amount to anything. I suppose it comes quite naturally to a woman to boss things a little in a household. But now all I could do was to sit down by the bed, with my hands folded in my lap. I have seen so many women do this for hours at a time, Aunt Jennie, and I could never understand how they did it without an awful attack of the fidgets. But now I think I have found the solution. I am persuaded that these women just sit down quietly, and that the strength flows back into them in some mysterious way, and presently they become as strong as ever, just as happens with those storage batteries of the automobile, which are all the time having to be recharged. I don't exactly know what the folded hands have to do with it, but they are certainly an indispensable part of the process. Dr. Grant rested quietly enough, and sometimes, when he opened his eyes, I saw that he looked at me, in a strange, sad way. But he was exhausted by the malady and the hard work of the previous days, and seemed too utterly weary to be suffering much pain. At times the little boy would moan, and I would go to him. It would only take a passing of my hand over the little forehead, or a drink of water, to quiet him again. The poor wee man loves me, I think, and I hope he will never know what a tragedy he is responsible for, but, indeed, I hope he will learn, some day, that this great, rough fisherman, Yves, has laid down all of his life for him. When the child was quiet I would return and sit again by the doctor. After a short time Mr. Barnett and Yves returned, and were soon followed by Daddy and Susie, whose sturdy arm supported him. Poor Dad! He was looking aged and worried, and I felt ever so sorry for him. Susie's way of speaking to people is invariably to address them as if they were rather deaf, and as if no one else could possibly hear. "Yis, sor," she was saying, "it's jist as you says, a real crazy, foolish thing. But fur as I kin see them kind o' things is what makes up the most o' folk's lives. They is some gits ketched all by theirselves, and others gits ketched tryin' ter help others, and some niver gits ketched at all an' dies peaceful in the beds o' they. If there didn't no one take chances th' world wouldn't hardly be no fit place ter live in." I suppose that Daddy could find no reply to such philosophy. He was doubtless very angry on my account, and I am sure he had been giving Susie a piece of his mind, all the way down. He entered the shack, ordering Susie to remain outside. "Don't you dare come in," he said, quite exasperated. "I have no doubt at all that you will have to look after all the rest of us when we get ill. You can go back to your pots and pans or wait for me out of doors, just as you wish." Then he came in, closing the door behind him, and looked around the room, profoundly disgusted. Mr. Barnett was again engaged in swabbing throats while Frenchy supported the patients and I held a bottle in whose neck a candle had been planted. No one could pay much attention to him just then. Poor old Dad! He thinks that because the first emigrant in our family dates back a couple of hundred years or so we are something rather special in the way of human beings, and I know very well that he thought it most degrading for a daughter of his to be in such a miserable place. Of course it is really very clean, Aunt Jennie, because Yves has been trained on a man o' war, where the men spend nearly all of their time scrubbing things. I have seen them so often at Newport, where they wash down the decks even when it is pouring cats and dogs. The poor dear was rather red in the face, by which I recognized the fact that he was holding himself in for fear of an explosion. But you know that there never was a better man than Dad, and he got all over this in a moment. Of course he had come with the firm intention of explaining to the poor doctor what a fine mess he had made of things, but as soon as he saw that poor, pinched face on the pillow he changed entirely. Quite a look of alarm came over his countenance, and he was certainly awfully sorry. I have an idea that people who have never been very ill, and who have never seen many sick people possess a little egotism which it takes experience to drive out of them. He had surely never thought that poor Dr. Grant would look so ill, and his bit of temper melted away at once. He forced himself to take the hand that was nearest to him. "I hope you are doing very well," he said, with a queer accent of timidity that was really very foreign to his nature. "They are taking splendid care of me," answered Dr. Grant, with an effort that made him cough. Daddy smiled at him, in a puzzled sort of way, and then turned to the child's couch, gazing at it curiously. Mr. Barnett stood at his side. "He doesn't look as ill as..." He whispered this as he pointed to the bed where the doctor was lying. "The boy is getting well," answered the parson, in a low voice. "He had a large dose of antitoxine and it is beginning to show its effect." "Ah? Just so," said Daddy, weakly. Then he looked around the room again, quite helplessly. "Is there anything that I could do?" he asked in a general way. "Nothing, Daddy," I said. "Thank you ever so much for coming, but there is nothing you can do now. I would go home if I were you. I promise that I will return in time for supper." Then Daddy looked around again, as if all his habitual splendid assurance and decisiveness of manner had forsaken him. After this he tiptoed his way to the door, outside of which Susie was waiting. I followed him, because I knew he would feel better if I just put my hand on his arm for a moment and assured him that I was feeling perfectly well. The girl pointed out at sea. "It's a-comin' on dreadful foggy," she said, gloomily. Daddy and I looked at one another, and we stared at the dark pall that was sweeping in, raw and chilly. Of course we at once knew its significance. It must surely detain the _Snowbird_ on its return journey. Just then an old fisherman came up, touching his cap. "Beggin' yer pardon, sor," he said. "Is yer after findin' th' doctor gettin' any better?" "I can hardly tell you," answered Daddy, impatiently. "I know very little about such things, but he looks very badly to me." "Oh! The pity of it!" exclaimed the man. "I tells yer, sor, it's a sad day, a real sad day fer Sweetapple Cove." "Damn Sweetapple Cove!" Daddy shouted right in the poor fellow's face with such energy that he leaped back in alarm. But Susie had taken hold of Daddy's arm. "Now you come erlong o' me, sor," she said, soothingly, as if she had spoken to a child. "Don't yer be gettin' excited. Yer needs a good cup o' tea real bad, I'm a-thinkin', and a smoke. Yer ain't had a seegar to-day, and men folks is apt to get awful grumpy when they doesn't get ter smoke. Come erlong now, there's a good man." Strange to say, Daddy went with her, willingly enough, after I had kissed him. He didn't resent Susie's manner at all. As I watched he stopped after going a few yards, and looked out at sea, beyond the entrance of the cove. Everything was disappearing in a dull greyness that was beginning to blot out the rocky cliffs, and he turned to the girl. "My boat will never get back to-night," he said, "and I suppose that to-morrow will be worse. It always is. I wonder whether there is another such beastly country in the world?" "I've heerd tell," remarked Susie, sagaciously, "as how they is some places as has been fixed so them as lives in 'em will sure know what a good place Heaven is when they gits to it." CHAPTER XIX _Dr. Frank Johnson to Mrs. Charlotte Johnson_ _Dearest Mother_: I had expected to sail away from St. John's on the twentieth to return to you before resuming the hard search for something to keep together the body and soul which struggling young doctors without means have so hard a time to maintain in their proper relation. Since the old _Chandernagore_ limped into St. John's with its bow stove in, after that terrible collision, and the underwriters decided that she was hopelessly damaged, my prospects have been those of a man living on a pittance and merely entitled to his passage home and a trifle of salary. A ship-surgeon utterly stranded can hardly be a very merry soul, and the day before yesterday I was strolling rather disconsolately about the docks, when I saw a stunning yacht come in. She was a sight to feast one's eyes on, and until the last moment was under a cloud of sail while her funnel belched black smoke. For a few minutes I saw some of the smartest handling of canvas it has ever been given me to behold. As she came on the great, silken, light sails fluttered, shrank and disappeared as if by magic; her headway stopped and the screw ceased its throbbing. She was just like a grand, white bird folding its wings and going to sleep. But even before she had ceased to move a boat was overboard and four men were at the sweeps, pulling for shore. A few minutes later I was passing in front of Simpson & Co., the big ship-chandlers who were the _Chandernagore's_ agents, when one of the clerks came out and ran towards me. "Won't you come in?" he asked, excitedly. "There is the skipper of that white yacht that just came in who wants a doctor at once, and at any cost. We supplied that boat after she left dry-dock here, some weeks ago. She belongs to regular swells, awfully rich people." "Is the man hurt or ill?" I asked. "No, he's all right. There is sickness at a little outport, diphtheria, I hear, and they want a man at once. Money's no object." It really seemed as if a bit of luck might be coming my way, at last. Indeed I wanted badly to see your dear face again, and that silver hair I think so beautiful, but here was a prospect of sailing away on that stunning little ship and of earning some badly needed money, so that I felt like whooping with joy. I leaped through the open door and saw a very gold-laced man who was talking very fast to the head of the firm. "Here's just the man you want," said the latter. "He's a first-rate young chap who will go anywhere and do anything. His skipper of the _Chandernagore_ swears by him. I can send for him, if you like." "No time for that," interrupted the yacht's captain. "There is diphtheria at Sweetapple Cove, and a doctor there who is nearly dead with it, I believe. I've sent our mate for all the antitoxine he can buy, and he's driving around to all the druggists in the place. We also want a nurse, several nurses, all you can get. I'm keeping steam up and will start the minute you're ready." "And the remuneration," suggested Mr. Simpson. "Anything he wants to ask," said the captain, hurriedly, turning again to me; "just get a move on you, young man. Run off and get some nurses; promise any money they want to charge, and I won't wait over an hour." He saw a cab passing in the street and ran out to hail it. "Here," he said, "get into this thing and hunt for nurses." In his excitement he actually pushed me out of the shop and I jumped in the cab, without the slightest idea of where I might find the desired nurses. At the nearest pharmacy, however, I obtained a couple of addresses. I 'phoned to the hospital but there was none there who could be spared. On following up my clues I found both nurses away on cases. More telephoning brought the information that several might be had in a day or two, and finally I called up Simpson & Co., who informed me that the skipper was tearing his hair at the delay. "He says you're to return at once. You can kill the cab-horse if you want to. He'll pay for it." These were the last words I heard. I dashed off to the little hotel where I stayed, for my trunk, and soon we were galloping along the peaceful streets, here and there encumbered by pony-carts laden with vast piles of codfish, and finally reached the chandlery. "Well?" asked the captain, rushing out. "Not a nurse to be had to-day," I announced. "To-morrow or next day several may be disengaged." There was an ejaculation excusable under the circumstance and the skipper grabbed my arm. "I won't wait a minute," he said. "I've got a doctor, that's the main thing, and all the antitoxine in the place. Come along." We jumped in the cab, which drove off rapidly, and in a minute we reached the dock, where the yawl was waiting. Two of the men grabbed my trunk and put it on board and the skipper tossed a banknote to the driver, without waiting for change, and we were off. The men pulled towards the yacht, and they must have been watching for us on board for I heard the clanking of the small donkey engine and the anchor-chain stiffened and began to draw in, fast. We scrambled on board, the trunk was tumbled in, and before the yawl was half way up to the davits we were steaming away. "Come up on the bridge if you want to, Doctor," the captain called down to me, civilly. I accepted his invitation and ran up the steps. At his side stood a grizzled old man with a seamed, kindly face and the wrinkled eyes of the men who spend their lives searching through fog and darkness. "Good day, sor," he said to me. "You're a man as is real sore needed at Sweetapple Cove." "I hope I may be of service," I answered. "Ye will be, God willin'," he assured me. By this time we had gathered full speed and were steaming fast between the narrow headlands. The pilot was dropped a little later, without slackening our way much. We had passed swiftly by the crowded flakes which clung to the steep, rocky shore, inextricably mixed with battered-looking fish-houses. As soon as we struck the swelling seas outside we saw many little smacks engaged in fishing. We bore no canvas, for the wind was against us on the return journey. Then I noticed that the skipper was looking anxiously ahead, where, at a distance, a low fog-pall was gathering. "Yes, sor," said the old man, guessing at his thoughts, "it's a-comin' on real thick, but we's goin' ter pull her through." I ran below and got my oilskins out of my trunk, which I discovered in a beautiful little state-room, prettily furnished and dainty-looking indeed to a surgeon of tramp steamers. I did not waste much time in inspecting it, however, as I was interested in our progress towards that ominous bank of fog. When I reached the bridge again I was conscious of the moist chill of northern mists, and saw that the vapor was closing down upon us fast. The land astern was disappearing in a grey haze, while ahead the thickness was becoming more and more impenetrable. The skipper kept walking from end to end of the bridge, restlessly, and I could sympathize with him. He was in a hurry, a deadly hurry, which he had shown plainly enough from the first moment my eyes had rested upon him, and now this mist was rendering all his haste futile, as far as I could see. Every moment now I expected to see him ring down to the engine room for reduced speed, but we kept on going, doggedly, blindly, until at last we were pitching over long, smooth swells that were covered by a blanket of murk. "We'll have to slow down, Sammy!" he suddenly cried, impatiently, to the old man. "That fog's too much for us, and getting worse every minute." "Keep on a bit yet," advised the latter. "'Tis all clear goin' fer a whiles, and we's too close inshore ter run into any big craft. They'll all be standin' out to sea." I could see that the captain was torn between his keen desire to keep on speeding and his fear for the safety of his beautiful ship. He was utterly unable to keep still more than a minute at a time, but the old fisherman looked as cool and collected as if he had been puffing at his rank old pipe within the four walls of a house. And those minutes seemed very long, then, as they always do when men are laden with the weight of constant suspense. Presently even the grey and blue waters our sharp bow was cleaving lost their color and the whole world was dismal, and grey, and dripping. This went on for long hours, as it seemed to me, and finally the captain could stand it no longer. "I'm going to ring for half speed," he shouted. "We can't keep this up, Sammy!" "Let be, let be fer a whiles," the old man counselled again. "I knows jist where I be. I'll not be runnin' ye ashore, lad." And the yacht kept on for a long, long time, cleaving the grey water and the fog, between which there was no difference now. It was really a spooky thing, even if a sporting one, to be dashing at fifteen knots through that wall of vapor. Our steam whistle was sounding constantly, and old Sammy listened with his grey head cocked to one side, in a tense attitude of constant attention. "We's gettin' nigh," he said, quietly. "I knows the sound o' he." Then, after a long, wailing blast, he suddenly lifted up his hand. "Port a bit till I tells yer," he called. "That'll do. Keep her so." The next sobbing cry of the siren brought a dull prolonged echo that reverberated in the air. "I knowed we must be gettin' close to un," he said; "now we'll be havin' all open water again fer a whiles." The captain was tremulous with the excitement he bravely sought to suppress, and my own heart was certainly in my throat. We were all straining our eyes at this moment, and all at once we dimly had revealed to us something like the shadow of a great ghost-like mass that slipped by us, very fast, with a roar of the great swells bursting loudly at its foot. "Thunder! you Sammy!" shrieked the skipper. "I won't have you taking such chances. I'm just as crazy to get there as you are but I'll be hanged if I'm going to smash my ship." "We's all right now, Cap'en," answered the old man, quietly; "I sure knows all right what we is doin'." The captain had taken the wheel, and he glared at his binnacle like a wild man. Now and then he gave a swift look around him, nervously, but the old man's assurance had some effect upon him. Yet once I heard him snarling: "Any man who ever catches me cruising around this country again can have me locked up in an asylum. After I get shut of this job they can get some one else if they ever want to come back." And still the fog seemed to deepen, and the moisture dripped from everything, and the very air seemed hard to breathe. The darkness began to come and all our lights were burning, while the siren continued to moan. Several times, in answer to it, we faintly heard mournful sounds of fishermen's horns, and once we blindly swerved just in time to avoid running down a tiny schooner. "Beggin' yer pardon, sor," the old man said to me, "seem' as how ye ain't busy it might be yer wouldn't mind startin' a bit of prayer as how we don't smash up one o' them poor fellows. We jist got ter take some chances, fer I mistrust th' Lord he be wantin' ter save that doctor o' ours an' only needs be asked the right way." We were now shooting through that fog like lost wild things, like the ducks and geese bewildered of a stormy night, which mangle themselves against the wire nettings of light houses. Now and then the land abeam would give forth response to the booming of our whistle. The old man Sammy had taken the wheel and his grim face was frozen into an expression of desperate energy, as his keen little grey eyes peered through the murk. By this time there was a heavy roll and our tall spars were slashing at the mist as if seeking to cut down an unseen enemy. Every man on board was under a nervous tension, conscious that a big thing was being done. For a time there had been something akin to fear in all our hearts, but after a while it left us, to make room for the delirium of blind, reckless speed. And then, suddenly, like a flash, the captain grasped the old fellow's shoulder. "Slow down, man," he shrieked. "I bet all I've got you don't know where you are, and I can hear waves breaking ashore." But Sammy lifted up his hand, with an authority that seemed inspired, and gave another pull at the whistle cord. It brought forth a sound that was repeated, again and again, confusedly. For a frightfully long half minute we kept up our speed; then the bell jingled in the engine-room and we slowed down a little. Under the old fisherman's hands the wheel began to spin around while we breathlessly watched him aim the ship at the furious breakers inshore, at the foot of dark cliffs. "For God's sake! What are you doing?" yelled the captain. The bell rang in the engine room to slow down and suddenly, on both sides of us, appeared like devouring jaws great mass of rock upon which the huge rollers were crashing in a smother of spume. Between them the yacht slipped, gracefully, and this time the siren's shriek was like a victorious cry. The bell sounded again and the _Snowbird_, after her long swift flight, came to a stop between the hilly sides of Sweetapple Cove, where men's voices roared indistinctly at us, and their forms stood dimly revealed by twinkling lanterns. And now, mother dear, I am writing at the bedside of a man lying in a poor little hut, whom I shall leave soon for a few hours of badly needed rest. I shall stop for the moment, but I have a great deal more to say. CHAPTER XX _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Dearest Auntie:_ It is again the little girl to whom you have been a mother for so many years who comes to you now, to lay her weary head upon your dear shoulder and seek from you the kindness and sympathy you have always so freely given me. Last night I slept. Yes, slept like some dead thing that never cared whether it ever returned to life, but which would awaken, at times, stupidly, and toss until oblivion returned. I don't exactly know what it is that affects me so. It may be the long watching, I suppose, and the uneasiness of a heart that has lost its owner, and seeks and seeks again, turning for comfort like a poor lost dog to every face which may prove friendly. Just now things seem to be in such a dreadful tangle that I can not even find a thread of it that I can unravel. Late in the evening, the day before yesterday, I was sitting by the bed where Dr. Grant was lying, and the conviction kept on growing upon me that he was becoming worse all the time. I could not help whispering my fears to Mr. Barnett, who gulped when he answered, as if he also knew what it is to have that dreadful lump in one's throat. The long, weary hours dragged themselves along, and presently the doctor began to speak, and we bent forward to listen, because it was not very loud and he spoke fast. At first it was all a jumble of delirious words, but suddenly he looked at me and shook his head. "My own poor darling," he said. "I am afraid that the sea has 'ketched' me, and that I shall never make that cove again." Then he was still again, so very still that I was afraid, and the tears came and my head went down in my lap, between my hands, and the world became so full of bitterness that I did not feel as if I could stand it for another minute. The dear little parson put his hand on my shoulder, in that curiously gentle way of his. "We must be strong," he told me, "and we must pray for power to endure." He then rose, quietly, and moistened the doctor's lips and his brow while I looked on, feeling that I was the most desolate and helpless thing in the world, and as if I could weep for ever. And then all of a sudden, through the recurring booming voices of the waves breaking on the cliffs outside, burst out the shrill voice of the _Snowbird's_ siren and I rushed to the door. Frenchy followed me, and I was so weak that I hung upon his big arm. In the sodden blur of everything I saw our boat coming in, like a great white ghost, and there were more blasts of her whistle. She knew what a welcome awaited her and how we had despaired of her arrival. In the darkness I could see that people were rushing out of their houses, cheering, and I heard piercing cries of women. "Th' white ship she've come back," some of them were screaming. They were scrambling down towards the landing, just hoping that they might in some way be of service. The yacht had lost her headway but the propeller was still churning, and I could see that she was turning around to her mooring. Then I heard them putting the yawl overboard. Lights were breaking out of some of the fish-house windows, and lanterns swung on the little dock, and at last I dimly saw the rowboat coming. I ran down also, with Frenchy, and met Stefansson. "I got all of that stuff there was in St. John's," he said, "and this gentleman is the doctor. We hunted high and low for a nurse but couldn't get one right off." But what cared I for nurses just then? Was I not ready to do all that a woman possibly could? Was there a nurse in the world as ready as I to lay down her very life for her patient? I seized the doctor's hand. I had never been so glad in all my life to see any one. He looked just like a big boy, but he represented renewed hope, the possibility of the achievement of a longing so shrewd that it was a bitter pain to endure it. "You are going to help us save him!" I cried. "I will most gladly do all I possibly can," he answered, very simply and quietly. These doctors are really very nice people, Aunt Jennie dear. They speak to you so hopefully, and there seems to be something in them that makes you feel that you want to lean upon them and trust them. When I had a better look at this one he appeared to be really very young, and perhaps just a little gawky, and he wore the most appreciably store-clothes, and the funniest little black string of a neck-tie. Isn't it queer that silly things should enter one's head at such times? But he looked like a fine, strong, honest boy, and I liked him for coming, and when he smiled at me I really thought he had a very nice face, and one that gave one the impression that he knew things, too. "Please hurry," I said. "Come with me quick. Dr. Grant is dying, you know. I am sure he is dying, but perhaps those things you have brought will make him well again." "I hope so," answered that doctor boy, and together we ran up the path to that poor little hut that holds all the world for me, perhaps a dying world, like those I have been told are fading away in the heavens. He wasn't a bit out of breath, though I was panting when we reached the shack. He cast a quick look about him, and just nodded briskly to Mr. Barnett, like a man who has no leisure for small talk. He first went up to the little boy's bed, and looked at the parson, enquiringly. "He's getting better," said the latter. At once the new doctor turned away and stood by John's bed. I must say John now, Auntie dear, just when you and I are talking together. Perhaps it will only be for a few hours, or a day or two, that he can be John to me, in my heart and soul, for after that he may be only a memory, a killing one, as I feel now. For a moment he stood there, immobile, looking at John, noting that awful grey color, and the rapid, hard breathing that sometimes comes in little sobs. And then he felt the pulse, coolly, and counted the respirations, in so calm a way that I began to feel like shrieking to him to do something. But all this really took but a very short time. He went to the little table, on which a lamp was burning, rather dimly, and opened the package which contained all those vials they had brought from St. John's. Captain Sammy had just come in, and stood near the door, and he sought my eyes for some message of comfort, but I could only shake my head sadly. "This lamp gives a very poor light," said Dr. Johnson. At once the old man leaped out and sprinted towards the nearest neighbor's. There he dashed in, seized the lamp around which the family sat at their evening meal, and rushed out again, leaving them in total darkness. Of course it went out in the wind and had to be lighted again, and I noticed that the young doctor gave a calm, curious glance at me, and Frenchy, and that his eyes swiftly took in all of the poor, sordid, little place. I stood in a corner, out of the way, for now it seemed to me that I was of very little moment. This man was going to do everything that really mattered, and I would only sit by the bed, afterwards, and watch, and try and do things to help. Dr. Johnson filled a syringe with the antitoxine and injected the stuff in Dr. Grant's arm, which looked awfully white, and then he turned to me. "You need not stay any longer, Miss Jelliffe," he said, civilly. "I shall watch him all night." "You are not going to drive me away?" I cried. Then he looked at me again, curiously, and there was a tiny little nod of his head, as if he had just understood something, after which he took the poor little chair and pushed it near the bed. "Won't you sit down?" he said, so gently that my eyes filled with tears, and again everything was blurred as I blundered to the seat. He did some other things, and mixed medicines that he took out of a black bag, and made John take some. After this he sat down on a wooden box, near me, and watched in silence, and I felt that he was a friend. Mr. Barnett left, promising to return soon, and we remained there, listening to the quick breathing, and dully hearing the long, low booming of the great waves outside, till I fancied they were saying things to me, which I could not understand. After a time Susie came in. "Yer father says won't you please come in an' have yer supper," she said. "I knows ye'd rather stay here, but there ain't no jobs folks kin do better starvin' than when they's had their grub. An' th' poor dear man wants yer that bad it makes me feel sorry fer him." "You ought to go and have something to eat, and rest a little, Miss Jelliffe," said the doctor. "This young person appears to have some rather sensible ideas, and you can return whenever you want to." So I rose, because it wasn't fair to poor old Dad to leave him alone all the time. Of course it was hurting me to leave, but it would also have hurt to think that he would be having his supper all alone, so sadly. "You will let me know if...." "Of course I will," interrupted the doctor boy. "You may depend on me. I'll send the big chap here over, if there is any change." "You are very good," I said. "I think--I think you are a very nice doctor." To my surprise he blushed just a little. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much." There was a smile on his face, and I think I managed to smile a little too, and then I went off with Susie. "They is some o' th' old women as tells about love medicines as can make folks jist crazy fer one another," she said, as we walked away, rapidly. "Seems ter me 'twould be good enough if some o' them doctors found out some drug as worked t'other way. This bein' in love is harder'n the teethache, an' is enough ter make one feel like hopin' ter be an old maid." "Perhaps it does, Susie," I assented. "Come in," cried Dad, as I pushed the door open. "Glad to see you, Helen. I hope the poor chap's better. I just had Stefansson up here, and he says that old Sammy tried his best to drown them all and smash the yacht to kindling. But he admitted that the way the old fellow slapped her through was a marvel. But next year he's going back to racing boats; says he's had enough of cruising." He looked at me, as I sank wearily in a chair, too tired to answer. "What's the matter, daughter?" he asked. "You are not ill, are you?" He rose and came towards me, his dear loving face full of concern, and I jumped up too and kissed him. "That's my own dear little girl," he said, much comforted. "And--and Helen dear, I don't suppose you will want to sail to-morrow, will you, or in a day or two?" There was something very pleading in his voice, it seemed to me. "Perhaps in a day or two it won't--it won't matter much what I shall do, Daddy dear," I answered. He took me and pressed me to his breast and I felt as if many years were passing away, and I was again the desolate little girl who used to come to him with her woes, when a kitten died or a doll was broken. He sat again in his armchair, and I rested on the arm. "Let us talk as in the old days, girlie," he said. "Let us be the loving friends we've been all these years. I want to see you happy. Your happiness is the only thing in the world that really concerns me now. To obtain it for you I would spend my last cent and give the last drop of my blood. You believe me, don't you?" "Indeed I do, Daddy dear," I answered. "I don't deserve such kindness. I'm afraid I am a very selfish girl." "You haven't an atom of selfishness in you, Helen. You are a woman, a true, strong, loving woman. We shall remain here as long as you want to. Now that there is another doctor here I am not so much afraid for you. If Grant should--should not recover, your old Dad's love may comfort you. And if, as I earnestly hope, he does get well, then come to me and tell me what you want. It shall be yours, girlie, with all my love. That's what I wanted to say." I slipped off the arm of the chair, and sat down at his feet, looking up at him, through the blur that was in my eyes. "I--I hardly dare hope he will get well, Daddy," I said, "and--and I don't know yet whether he loves me or not. This evening, in his delirium, he called me his darling, but never before this has he ever said a word of love to me. He's just been a friend to me, Daddy, such a friend!" "How can he help loving you?" said the dear old man. But I did not answer, and for a time we remained in silence, watching the wood fire in the tiny chimney, until Susie came in. "Th' kittle's biled," she announced. "Me cousin Hyatt he've brung some meat off'n the mash, an' I briled some." "I'm not very hungry, Susie," I told her. "Nor me neither, ma'am, with all them goin'-ons," she confided. "But what's th' use o' despisin' any of th' Lord's blessin's, specially when they gits kinder scarce?" So Daddy and I had our supper together, very comfortably, and really I did manage to eat a little, because the thought struck me that a girl couldn't possibly be beyond all hope of comfort as long as she had such a Dad, and I did my best to be brave. But soon after we had finished I became very restless and nervous, and Dad looked at me and patted my hand. "I expect you'd better run along, my dear," he told me. "But you must really try to have some rest to-night. If that doctor promised to sit up you might just as well have a little sleep. You mustn't be ill, you know, for we all need you too much for that." So I kissed him and hurried back to the shack, overtaking Mr. Barnett, who was also going there. Frenchy met us at the door. "Mebbe heem Docteur no die now, _hein_! Mebbe heem leeve now. I think heem no die. What you think?" "We hope and pray he may get well, my good man," answered the parson. We went in, and Dr. Johnson rose. "I can see no change as yet," he said, "but then it is hardly possible that any should occur so soon. At any rate he is no worse." So Mr. Barnett and I sat down by the bed, and Dr. Johnson went away for some supper; I am sure he must have been nearly starving. "He's been muttering a good deal," said the doctor before leaving, "but that is of no very great moment. The important thing is to watch him to prevent his getting out of bed, if he should become excitable. We must have no undue strain on his weakened heart." So the little parson and I sat quietly by the patient, who appeared to be sleeping, and for a long time there was no sound at all, and I think we dreaded to move lest the slightest noise might rouse him. But after a time, so suddenly that it startled me, came the hoarse, low voice that was so painful to hear, and I bent further forward to listen. At first the words were disconnected, with queer interruptions, so that they possessed no meaning, but presently I was listening, breathlessly. He appeared to be giving orders. "You, Sammy, cast away the lines! Look lively there! Time, time, time!" he muttered. Then he seemed to be waiting for something and began again. "I told you to be ready! The years, do you hear me? You are wasting the years. She's good for sixty miles an hour and it will take forty million years to reach the nearest star, where Helen waits. Can't make it, you say? Don't I see her beckoning!" Then he turned his head, slightly, as if he were addressing some one very near. "One has to have patience," he said. "They don't understand, and their fingers are all thumbs, and the hawser is fouling my propeller, and Helen calls, and--and I can do nothing." His head, that had been slightly uplifted, fell back again, and two great drops gathered in the dark, sunken eyes and slowly ran down the hollowed cheeks. Mr. Barnett turned to me. In his eyes there was a strange look of apprehension, as when one awaits yet fears an answer. But there was nothing that I could say to him. My heart was beating as though ready to burst. I cared nothing then for the little man who stared at me, and sank on my knees beside my poor unconscious John, lifting his limp hand to my lips. CHAPTER XXI _From Miss Helen Jelliffe to Miss Jane Van Zandt_ _Aunt Jennie_, _darling_: Isn't the world just the most wonderful place? No one knows it at all until after it has played battledore and shuttlecock with them, and they have been tossed to and fro for a long time. Weren't those old Persians wonderful people? Of course they had no means of knowing the real truth but it surely was the next thing to it to worship the dear sun. It goes away and leaves things dark and dismal, and there may be hail and sleet and rain, and the outlook is all dark, but presently the clouds move and the fog blows away and the path of light twinkles over the big ocean and the very grasses of the hillsides perk up and the birds try to split their little throats with song. They are all sun-worshippers. Of course you want to know at once how it all came about. I am still shaky and uncertain, as if I had just been awakened. Sometimes I hardly believe that it is the real truth that I behold, but merely some vision that must pass away like the gold and the crimson of the fading day. John is getting well! I feel that I want to shout it farther than the voice of man ever carried before. I wish that wonderful Marconi could set all these little waves he makes in the air to vibrating at once and carry over the whole world the tidings that my John is going to live! Of course there were a few very dreadful days, and some nights that were agony, and that nice little doctor lost his red cheeks and looked pale and wan, and of course I was very, very tired. That dear Mrs. Barnett or her husband were always with me, and no one could ever make Frenchy leave the place for a minute, and old Sammy hovered around constantly. The people walked about the tiny village as if it had been a town smitten by a great pestilence, as used to happen in those old dark ages. There have been no more cases, because the doctor has injected some of that stuff in the arms of all who had been in the slightest degree exposed, and it doesn't hurt very much, Aunt Jennie. But the amazing day was the one upon which I arose, before dawn, because they had just forced me to go to bed the night before, and I hurried down to Frenchy's, in the keen cold air, and met Dr. Johnson who was quietly pacing the road and smoking his pipe, which must have been very bad for him so early in the morning. But then I think we have all lost count of hours. When he heard my steps he turned quickly, and his cheeks looked quite pink again, perhaps owing to the cold, and his eyes were just as bright as bright could be, and he just ran towards me. I think my hands began to shake, for I had lost all memory of what a happy face looked like, I think, and the sight of his was like something that strikes one full in the chest and takes one's breath away. He just grabbed both my hands, because he is such a nice friendly boy. "Do you mean to tell me...." I began, but he interrupted me. "Indeed I certainly do," he answered, speaking ever so quickly. "You had not been gone for more than a couple of hours when he opened his eyes and looked at me, very much puzzled, and made a little effort to rise, which of course I checked at once, though his pulse and temperature had gone down, and he looked a lot better. "'You just keep still, old man,' I told him. 'Now is just the time to look out for sudden heart failure, so you must keep still, and have a good swig of this stuff, and try and have a nap. You've given us a proper scare, I can tell you, but now you're right side up.' "And would you believe it, Miss Jelliffe, that big Frenchman jumped off his bunk and stared at him, and then he grabbed me and kissed me on both cheeks as if I'd been another blessed frog-eater, and I wanted to punch his nose but compromised by shaking hands instead. I could just have danced a hornpipe. And by this time Dr. Grant has taken a whole lot of nourishment, and got a good deal of real sleep during the night, and now he's behaving first-rate. I left Frenchy sitting near him, a short time ago, and came out to smoke the pipe of peace with all the world." "You have saved him!" I cried. "Well, we've all helped," he said. "It really looks now as if he were quite out of danger, because there is an immense change for the better, and that's a whole lot. I'll just take a peep in now to see if he's awake, because we mustn't disturb him if he isn't." He left me standing in front of the poor little building, within whose walls we all had spent such terrible hours, and went in on tiptoe. Frenchy came out in his stocking-feet, the most disheveled man you ever saw, and suddenly I felt as if I were about to fall, in spite of the joy his eyes betrayed, and I grasped his big, hairy arm. But I felt better in a moment. The immense newborn sun was rising out of the waters, a huge, great, blood-hued thing, and the sky was aflame at last--after the awful, somber days, and seemed to burst out with tidings of great joy, like that wondrous star in the East. And then the little parson came trotting down the road, for he is the most active little man you ever saw, and when he looked into our faces he stretched out his hands, and we grasped them happily. "Oh! Mr. Barnett," I told him. "Indeed, it seems too good to be true." "Dear young lady," he said, "nothing is ever too good to be true." He was looking far away at the flaming sky, as if beyond it he had been able to discern some wonderful vision. He surely believes in infinite goodness, Aunt Jennie. His whole life is based upon his trust in it, and it is very beautiful. His words carried with them a world of hope, and suddenly I felt as if some great blessing were perhaps hovering above, like the big, circling sea-birds, and might descend to me. Then Dr. Johnson came out and greeted the little parson, who has taken a great liking to him. Despite the great, dark circles around his eyes, strained as they had been by so many weary hours of watching, the young man's face was merry and boyish, for all that it gives promise of splendid manliness, and it was good to see. As he came to us his steps showed no signs of the fatigue he must have felt. "He's awake," he announced. "He must have a great deal of rest and quiet just now, but I am sure your presence would give him pleasure, Miss Jelliffe. You won't let him talk very much, will you?" "No," I promised, and could find no other words. I moved towards the door, slowly, expecting the others to follow me, but they never stirred. It was as if by some common consent they had acknowledged some right of mine to enter alone. Suddenly my limbs began to drag under me, as if I had been a tottering, old woman. I wondered what his first look would say to me, what the first word from his lips would portend? It seemed as if I were going in there like one who sought some hidden treasure, knowing which door it lay behind but stricken with fear lest some unseen Cerberus might be crouching in wait for the rash seeker after happiness. Oh! Aunt Jennie! The tenseness of that moment! The feeling that, like the _Snowbird_ a few days ago, I was moving through a fog-hidden world of peril! My nails were dug into the palms of my hands as I entered the shack, and his head turned slowly as I came in, and in his eyes I saw the confession his babbling had revealed to me. But then an expression of pain came also, that made me involuntarily look at Frenchy's little crucifix on the wall. So I just kneeled down by him, and once more took that poor thin hand within my own. I spoke very low, and in such a shaky voice, but very quick, for fear I might not be able to continue. "Don't give up hope," I said. "We despaired for so many long days, and now you are getting well again, and the dear sun is rising from the mists, and the world is very beautiful, and I long to make it more beautiful for you." I saw two big tears gathering in the corners of the poor sunken eyes, and the long white hand pressed mine, weakly, and that mark of the pangs of the crucified passed away. "You must lie very still," I continued, "and let us make you well and strong again, for you've made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being nearly 'ketched' by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little ship is coming safely to port." For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little, dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again. Then he looked at me once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine. "No," I said. "One mustn't talk too much to people who have been so dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now. Indeed I have said all I could, because a woman can't let her happiness fly away on account of--of people who are too proud to speak, but--but you can whisper a word or two." There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling words I had despaired of ever hearing from him. "And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul," I answered. Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy came in. "I mustn't allow you people to talk too long," he said. "It is time he had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep, and we'll have him topside up in no time." Then Mr. Barnett came in too, but he never said a word. There was just a glance, a pressure of hands, and that was all, but it seemed to mean ever so much to them. So after a short time I went away, and the bright sun was streaming down upon our poor, little, smelly Sweetapple Cove, that was really like a corner of Paradise. And now, Aunt Jennie, several more days have gone by, and John is getting stronger and stronger every hour. Yesterday, for the first time, he sat up in a long deck chair that had been brought up from the _Snowbird_, and I sat beside him, with my knitting, which was only a pretence, for it lay on my lap, idly. It seemed to me that I had a million things to talk about, but when I spoke he answered in brief little weary words, so that I became afraid I might tire him. There is no porch to the little house, so he sat indoors in front of the widely opened door, whence he could see the cove, glittering in the sunshine, and the flakes covered with the silver-grey fish that were drying. We remained in silence for a long time, and my hand rested on his, that was stretched out on the arm of the chair. Then he turned to me. "Dearest," he said, "I am but sorry company for you, after all these days of devoted attention on your part." "You are my own dear John," I answered. "I wish--I wish I knew that you were as happy as I." "Listen, Helen," he said. "There is something that you must know." And then, slowly, he told me a tale that began with his boyhood. There was a little girl, and he was very fond of her, and many times he told her she must be his little wife. And always she assented, so that gradually, as the years went by, it had become a habit of his mind to think of the days to come, when they would be married. Then he had gone away to a little college. When he returned for the holidays he always saw her again, but when he spoke of marrying her she blushed, and was timid, for she was passing away from childhood. In later days he saw less of her, but he always wrote long letters to his little comrade. After a few years he went abroad to study, but they corresponded often, telling of their plans and ambitions. One day he heard that she was going to New York to become a trained nurse, and he had finished his work abroad, so he took a steamer and went there too. On the days when she was at liberty for a few hours he met her, and those ideas of his boyhood became stronger than ever, and he asked her to marry him. Her reply was that they were too young yet and that they must wait, for she had no idea of becoming married for the present, because there were many things she wanted to do, and while she was ever so fond of him as a friend she did not think she loved him, though some day she might. But he had always thought it would be just a matter of time, for he had considered it a settled thing. Then he had come to Sweetapple Cove, and written to her often, for he expected her to return to Newfoundland soon. Her letters came rather seldom, for she was working very hard. "And now, when she comes," he continued, "I shall have to tell her it was all a ghastly mistake on my part. I shall have to tell her the truth, brutally, frankly. I will have to say that I really never loved her; that it was a boy's idea that continued into a man's thoughts, until one day he realized that he loved another woman." "But she really never loved you, John," I exclaimed. "If she had she never would have allowed you to go away." "I hope to God she never did!" he exclaimed. "But in those old days I asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her. And she has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and--and--who knows? I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some day." But I shook my head, obstinately. "No, she never loved you," I insisted. "I know now how people love. It is a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil, and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to come. And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again. Oh! John! That girl never loved you!" Just then the little parson's wife came up, smilingly as ever. "Are you two having lover's quarrels already?" she asked. "No," I answered, "I was explaining to him that no other woman ever could--or--or ever would...." "Oh! My dear," she interrupted, "the explanation of obvious things is one of the most delightful privileges of the engaged state, and I won't interrupt you any more. I'm going to see the new Burton baby, and, by the way, here is a lot of stuff for Dr. Grant, that has been accumulating. I suppose he may be allowed to show a faint interest in his mail, at least after his nurse leaves him. Good-by, you dear children." She put a large bundle of papers and letters in John's lap, and went away, waving her hand cheerily. John didn't pay the slightest attention to his correspondence at first, for we began to discuss some plans we were making for a little house, but after a few moments he idly turned over the medical papers, and the pamphlets and circulars, and suddenly his eyes fell on a letter, that was addressed in big bold characters. I knew at once that it was from that girl, and a little shudder came over me. I rose and walked away towards Frenchy's child, who was now well and playing with a long-suffering woolly pup, and began to talk to him. But all the time I was watching and listening. I suppose one can't help doing such things. Then I heard him calling me, and I hurried back. He held the letter out to me. "Read it, Helen?" he asked me. "Please," I said, "just tell me about it. It is her own letter, John, and meant for you only." "She tells me I have been the best friend a girl ever had, and that if she gives me pain it will not be without a pang on her own part. She says that the object of her being on earth is now revealed to her." "Yes," I answered, "and then...." "Then she announces her coming marriage with Dr. Farquhar, the man who has been in charge of the medical work of the Settlement." "You must write and tell her how happy you are to hear the good news, John, and you must tell her our plans. And I want to talk very seriously to you, John." "What is it, dear?" he asked. "Well," I said, "I want to say that you have been very bad, because you didn't believe me, or you only believed a little bit, when I told you she didn't love you. Now I expect you to have a great deal of respect for my opinions, in future." He promised, and said I was perfectly wonderful, and that he was the happiest man in the world. And then, Aunt Jennie, we sat again ever so long without saying more than a few words. And the stillness was like bars of a wonderful music whose notes one can't remember but which leaves in one's heart an impression of glorious melody. One can't write of such things, for I am sure that ink never flowed from a pen able really to describe that which lies in the hearts of men and women at such times. And then Daddy came, smiling all over, for he spoke the truth indeed when he said my happiness was his only concern. He's the dearest Daddy in all the world. CHAPTER XXII Dr. _Johnson to Mrs. Charlotte Johnson_ _Dearest Mother_: You will rejoice to know that your son is now a happy man. At one time the wrecking of the old _Chandernagore_ bade fair to make me despair of ever being able to justify the sacrifices you underwent to help me with my education. And now things look so bright and splendid that I can scarcely believe the marvelous luck that has befallen me. Dr. Grant is strong and well again. He is a fine fellow who has been doing great work in this place, and I have actually been chosen to continue it during his absence of a few months. Mr. Jelliffe and he sent for me, a few days ago, after I returned from a trip to a near outport to see a sick woman, and asked me if I were willing to undertake it. They also said that they were about to build a small hospital here, and that there would doubtless be work enough for two men during most of the year. They offered me a steady compensation sufficient to mean surcease from worry and an opportunity to take a little care of you at last. And the best part of it all lies in the character of the work, which is a fine one, and in the delightful people I shall be associated with. Mrs. Barnett is a woman whom you would dearly love, and her husband is of the pick of men. Dr. Grant will spend the greater part of the year here, and Sweetapple Cove is bustling with the changes that are taking place. A big schooner-load of lumber has just arrived, with a few workmen, to begin at once rearing the new hospital and the house the Grants are to build for themselves. I am alone now, for the beautiful _Snowbird_ has gone away, followed by fervent wishes for her safe journey home. Very early yesterday little two-masted smacks began to arrive from neighboring outports, and the tiny harbor was crowded with them. They fluttered out all their poor little bits of bunting, gaily, and the visitors wore their best clothes. I doubt if so great a holiday ever took place before in this part of the island. The _Snowbird_, from bowsprit to topmasts, and down again to the end of the long main-boom, was bright with waving signals and pennants. The people were crowding on the little road, to see the bride come forth on the arm of her father. Visions had come to me of her all in white, as all brides were clad whom I have ever seen before. But she appeared in her garments of every day, as if she needed no finery to make her more beautiful in the eyes of all. You should have seen her, little mother! A wonderful woman indeed, straight and fairly tall, with frank, friendly eyes that always look straight at one. Her voice has also notes that can be of exquisite tenderness, as I heard them in that poor little hut of Frenchy's. Her hair is a great, fine, chestnut mass in which are blended the most perfect hues of auburns and rich browns. And withal she is exquisitely simple in her manner, utterly unaffected, and her laughter carries joy with it into the hearts of others. The people here simply adore her, from the youngest child to the most tottering old dame. And I am sure they love her not only for herself but also in gratitude for the happiness she is bestowing upon a man who has long ago made his way into their hearts. She had insisted upon being married in this humble village, among the fishermen who had learnt to cherish her and her husband-to-be, and when we reached the little church it was already full to overflowing. People stood on tiptoe at the open windows, and crowded at the door. We all stood when she arrived with Mr. Jelliffe, and she walked to the little altar with smiles and friendly nods to all. And then the service began, and Mr. Barnett was manifestly pale with emotion. At first his voice was just the least bit husky, but soon it cleared as the majestic words fell from his lips. I sat near Mrs. Barnett, who wept a little. I could understand this, mother, for there was something that moved one's heart in the beholding of that man and that woman, who had never given others aught but the best of themselves, preparing to continue hand in hand to make the world more beautiful for others. It was over very soon and the two walked down the aisle. Old Sammy rushed out and waved his arms frantically towards the cove, whereupon the little brass gun boomed and the flag saluted, as if the _Snowbird_ also thrilled with the general rejoicing. Dr. Grant and his wife stepped out into the road, which passes by the door of the little church. The wedding reception was held there, for the Cove has no walls capable of holding all their friends. Mrs. Barnett, who had come out upon my arm, was the first to kiss the bride, but other women were thus favored, even poor decrepit old things in whose houses she had carried the sunshine of her presence. Susie Sweetapple, worthy descendant of the earliest settler, stood modestly to one side, with a very red nose, for she had been weeping copiously. "Are you not going to kiss me also, Susie?" asked her mistress. The little servant came forth, with shining red eyes showing utmost delight, and was kissed affectionately. When she retired, to make room for others, I heard her speaking to her old mother. "Belike I'll not be washin' me face fer a month now. I'll not be wantin' ter scrub that kiss away." Then I noticed that the bride was searching the crowd, and appeared to be disappointed because some one was missing! Finally she discovered that Frenchman Yves, who watched so endlessly and devotedly for days and days, and beckoned to him. He came forward, timidly, and the glorious young woman stretched out her hands to him. His own trembled as he took them. "_La Sainte Vierge vous bénisse_" he said. She thanked him, sweetly, as she does all things, and lifted his little boy up in her arms, and kissed him, tenderly. "_Je vous aime_" declared the little chap. "What's th' laddie sayin'?" a man asked me. "He says he loves her," I answered. "We all does that," he cried. "We all loves every hair o' th' heads o' they." Finally the crowd moved down towards the cove. The flakes that had been deserted, that morning, became tenanted again by an eager crowd, and on the sharply slanted roofs of the little fish-houses some boys secured precarious perches. The yacht had been warped to the little dock, and there was a gangplank over which our three dear friends went on board. There was a good deal more of fervent handshaking, and the plank was withdrawn. The siren shrieked its farewell as the ship began to move, and the little gun saluted the Cove. She moved out, slowly increasing her speed, and her great white wings began to unfold since, once outside, the breeze alone would carry them. On the rocks at the entrance stood men with heavy sealing guns, whose crashing detonations thundered a farewell. The bits of bunting ran up and down the masts of the little schooners at anchor, and everywhere gaily colored handkerchiefs were fluttering. And so she headed out into the open sea, growing dimmer in the haze of the glorious day, until she passed out of our vision, bearing away the love and blessings of Sweetapple Cove. THE END 
21915	----	images generously made available by Early Canadiana Online (http://www.canadiana.org/)) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Early Candiana Online. See http://www.canadiana.org/ECO/ItemRecord/68246?id=6575f86ccff5dee3 +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | This is a very old document which contains inconsistent and | | unusual spelling. While most of the unusual spelling has | | been preserved, a number of obvious typographical errors | | have been corrected. For a complete list, please see the | | end of this document. | | | | The illustration mentioned on the Frontispiece has been | | lost. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ DIRECTIONS For Navigating on Part of the South Coast of Newfoundland, WITH A CHART thereof, Including the ISLANDS of St. PETER's and MIQUELON, And a particular ACCOUNT of the Bays, Harbours, Rocks, Land-Marks, Depths of Water, Latitudes, Bearings, and Distances from Place to Place, the Setting of the Currents, and Flowing of the Tides, _&c._ From an actual SURVEY, taken by Order of Commodore PALLISSER, Governor of _Newfoundland_, _Labradore_, &c. By JAMES COOK, Surveyor of _Newfoundland_. LONDON: Printed for the AUTHOR, and Sold by J. MOUNT and T. PAGE on _Tower-Hill_, M,DCC,LXVI. [Illustration] DIRECTIONS FOR Navigating on Part of the South Coast of _NEWFOUNDLAND_. N.B. _All Bearings and Courses hereafter-mentioned, are the true Bearings and Courses, and not by Compass._ [Sidenote: Cape Chapeaurouge.] Cape _Chapeaurouge_, or the Mountain of the _Red Hat_, is situated on the West side of _Placentia Bay_, in the Latitude of 46° 53' North, and lies nearly West 17 or 18 Leagues from Cape St. _Maries_; it is the highest and most remarkable Land on that Part of the Coast, appearing above the rest something like the Crown of a Hat, and may be seen in clear Weather 12 Leagues. [Sidenote: Harbours of St. Laurence] Close to the Eastward of Cape _Chapeaurouge_ are the Harbours of _Great_ and _Little St. Laurence_. To sail into _Great St. Lawrence_, which is the Westermost, there is no Danger but what lies very near the Shore; taking Care with Westerly, and particularly S.W. Winds, not to come too near the _Hat Mountain_, to avoid the Flerrys and Eddy Winds under the high Land. The Course in is first N.W. till you open the upper Part of the Harbour, then N.N.W. half W. The best Place for great Ships to Anchor, and the best Ground is before a Cove on the East-side of the Harbour in 13 Fathom Water. A little above _Blue Beach Point_, which is the first Point on the West-side; here you lie only two Points open: You may Anchor any where between this Point and the Point of _Low Beach_, on the same Side near the Head of the Harbour, observing that close to the West Shore, the Ground is not so good as on the other Side. Fishing Vessels lay at the Head of the Harbour above the Beach, sheltered from all Winds. To sail into _Little St. Laurence_ you must keep the West Shore on Board, in order to avoid a sunken Rock which lies a little without the Point of the _Peninsula_, which stretches off from the East-side of the Harbour: You Anchor above this _Peninsula_, (which covers you from the Sea Winds) in 3 and 4 Fathom Water, a fine sandy Bottom. In these Harbours are good Fishing Conveniencies, and plenty of Wood and Water. Ships may Anchor without the _Peninsula_ in 12 Fathom good Ground, but open to the S.S.E. Winds. [Sidenote: Sauker Head.] _Sauker-Head_ lies 3 Miles to the Eastward of Cape _Chapeaurouge_, it is a pretty high round Point, off which lie some sunken Rocks, about a Cable's Length from the Shore. [Sidenote: Garden Bank] This Bank whereon is from 7 to 17 Fathom Water, lies about half a Mile off from _Little St. Laurence_, with _Blue Beach Point_ on with the East Point of _Great St. Laurence_. [Sidenote: Ferryland Head.] _Ferryland head_ lies S.W. 1 Mile from Cape _Chapeaurouge_, it is a high rocky Island, just seperated from the Main; it and Cape _Chapeaurouge_ are sufficient Marks to know the Harbours of St. _Laurence_. [Sidenote: Bay of Laun.] West 5 Miles from _Ferryland-Head_, lies the Bay of _Laun_, in the Bottom of which are two small Inlets, called _Great_ and _Little Laun_. _Little Laun_, which is the Eastermost, lies open to the S.W. Winds, which generally prevails upon this Coast, and therefore no Place to Anchor in. _Great Laun_ lies in about N. by E. 2 Miles, is near half a Mile wide, whereon is from 14 to 3 Fathom Water. To sail into it, you must be careful to avoid a sunken Rock, which lies about a quarter of a Mile off from the East Point. The best Place to Anchor is on the East-side, about half a Mile from the Head, in 6 and 5 Fathom; the Bottom is pretty good, and you are shelter'd from all Winds, except S. and S. by W. which blow right in, and cause a great swell. At the Head of this Place is a Bar Harbour, into which Boats can go at half Tide; and Conveniences for a Fishery, and plenty of Wood and Water. [Sidenote: Laun Islands.] Off the West Point of _Laun Bay_ lay the Islands of the same Name, not far from the Shore; the Westermost and outermost of which lie W. Southerly 10 Miles from _Ferryland-head_; near a quarter of a Mile to the Southward of this Island is a Rock whereon the Sea breaks in very bad Weather: There are other sunken Rocks about these Islands, but they are no ways Dangerous, being very near the Shore. [Sidenote: Taylor's Bay.] This Bay which lies open to the Sea, lies 3 Miles to the Westward of _Laun_ Islands; off the East Point are some sunken Rocks near a quarter of a Mile from the Shore. [Sidenote: Point Aux Gaul.] A little to the Westward of _Taylors Bay_ there stretches out a low Point of Land, called _Point Aux Gaul_; off which lies a Rock above Water, half a Mile from the Shore, called _Gaul Shag Rock_; this Rock lies West three quarters South 5 Leagues from _Ferryland-Head_, you have 14 Fathom close to the off Side of it, but between it and the Point are some sunken Rocks. [Sidenote: Lamelin Bay.] From _Point Aux Gaul Shag Rock_, to the Islands of _Lamelin_ is West three quarters N. 1 League, between them is the Bay of _Lamelin_, wherein is very shallow Water, and several small Islands, and Rocks both above and under Water, and in the Bottom of it is a Salmon River. [Sidenote: Lamelin Islands.] The two Islands of _Lamelin_ (which are but low) lie off the West Point of the Bay of the same Name, and lie West three quarters South, 6 Leagues from the Mountain of the _Red Hat_; but in steering along Shore make a W. by S. Course good, will carry you clear of all Danger. Small Vessels may Anchor in the Road between these Islands in 4 and 5 Fathom, tolerably well shelter'd from the Weather: Nearly in the Middle of the Passage going in between the two Islands, is a sunken Rock, which you avoid by keeping nearer to one Side than the other, the most Room is on the East-side. The Eastermost Island communicates with the Main at Low-water, by a narrow Beach, over which Boats can go at High-water, into the N.W. Arm of _Lamelin Bay_, where they lay in safety. Here are Conveniences for a Fishery, but little or no Wood of any Sort. Near to the South Point of the Westermost Island is a Rock pretty high above Water, called _Lamelin Shag Rock_; in going into the Road between the Islands, you leave this Rock on your Larboard Side. [Sidenote: Lamelin Ledges.] These Ledges lay along the Shore, between _Lamelin Islands_ and _Point May_, which is 3 Leagues, and are very Dangerous, some of them being 3 Miles from the Land. To avoid these Ledges in the Day-time, you must not bring the Islands of _Lamelin_ to the Southward of East, until _Point May_, or the Western extremity of the Land bear N. by E. from you; you may then steer to the Northward with safety, between _Point May_ and _Green Island_. In the Night, or foggy Weather, you ought to be very careful not to approach these Ledges within 30 Fathom Water, least you get intangled amongst them. Between them and the Main are various Soundings from 16 to 5 Fathom. [Sidenote: Observations.] All the Land about Cape _Chapeaurouge_ and _Laun_, is high and hilly close to the Sea; from _Laun Islands_ to _Lamelin_ it is of a moderate Height; from _Lamelin_ to _Point May_, the Land near the Shore is very low, with sandy Beaches, but a little way inland are Mountains. [Sidenote: Island of St. Peter's.] The Island of St. _Peter_'s lies in the Latitude 46 Degrees 46 Minutes North. West by South near 12 Leagues from Cape _Chapeaurouge_, and West by South half South 5 Leagues from the Islands of _Lamelin_; it is about 5 Leagues in circuit, and pretty high, with a craggy, broken, uneven Surface. Coming from the Westward, as soon as you raise _Gallantry Head_, which is the South Point of the Island, it will make in a round Hommock like a small Island and appears if seperated from St. _Peter_'s. On the East-side of the Island, a little to the N.E. of _Gallentry-Head_ lay three small Islands, the innermost of which is the largest, called _Dog-Island_; within this Island is the Road and Harbour of St. _Peter_'s; the Harbour is but small, and hath in it from 12 to 20 Feet Water; but there is a Bar across the Entrance, whereon there is but 6 Feet at Low-water, and 12 or 14 Feet at High-water. The Road which lies on the N.W. Side of _Dog-Island_ will admit Ships of any Burthen, but it is only fit for the Summer Season, being open to the N.E. Winds; you may lay in 8, 10, and 12 Fathom, and for the most Part is a hard rocky Bottom, there is very little clear Ground; Ships of War commonly Buoy their Cables; the best Ground is near the North Shore. Going in or out, you must not rainge too near the East-side of _Boar-Island_, which is the Eastermost of the three Islands above-mentioned, for fear of some sunken Rocks which lie East about 1 Mile from it, and which is the only Danger about St. _Peter_'s, but what lay very near the Shore. [Sidenote: Island of Columbo.] This Island is of a small circuit, but pretty high, and lies very near the N.E. Point of St. _Peter_'s; between them is a very good Passage, one-third of a Mile wide, wherein is 12 Fathom Water. On the North-side of the Island is a Rock pretty high above Water, called _Little Columbo_; and about a quarter of a Mile N.E. from this Rock is a sunken Rock, whereon is 2 Fathom Water. [Sidenote: Island of Langley.] The Island of _Langley_, which lies on the N.W. Side of St. _Peter_'s, is about 8 Leagues in Circuit, of a moderate and pretty equal height, except the N. end, wich is a low Point with Sand Hills along it; it is flat a little way off the low Land on both Sides of it, but all the high Part of the Island is very bold too, and the Passage between it and St. _Peter_'s (which is 1 League broad) is clear of Danger. You may Anchor on the N.E. Side of the Island, a little to the Southward of the _Sand Hills_, in 5 and 6 Fathom, a fine sandy Bottom, sheltered from the Southerly, S.W. and N.W. Winds. [Sidenote: Island of Miquelon.] From the North Point of _Langley_, to the South Point of _Miquelon_ is about 1 Mile; it is said that a few Years since they join'd together at this Place by a Neck of Sand, which the Sea has wash'd away and made a Channel, wherein is 2 Fathom Water. The Island of _Miquelon_ is 4 Leagues in Length from North to South, but of an unequal Breadth; the Middle of the Island is high Land, called the high Land of _Dunn_; but down by the Shore it is low, except Cape _Miquelon_, which is a lofty Promontory at the Northern extremity of the Island. [Sidenote: Dunn Harbour.] On the S.E. Side of the Island, to the Southward of the high Land, is a pretty large Bar-Harbour, called _Dunn Harbour_, which will admit Fishing Shallops at half Flood, but can never be of any Utility for a Fishery. [Sidenote: Miquelon Rocks and Bank.] _Miquelon Rocks_ stretches off from the East Point of the Island, under the high Land 1 Mile and a quarter to the Eastward, some are above and some under Water; the outermost of these Rocks are above Water, and you have 12 Fathom close to them, and 18 and 20 Fathom 1 Mile off. N.E. half N. 4 or 5 Miles from these Rocks lie _Miquelon Bank_ whereon is 6 Fathom Water. [Sidenote: Road of Miquelon.] The Road of _Miquelon_ (which is large and spacious) lies at the North-end, and on the East-side of the Island, between Cape _Miquelon_ and a very remarkable round Mountain near the Shore, called _Chapeaux_: Off the South Point of the Road are some sunken Rocks, about a quarter of a Mile from the Shore, but every where else it is clear of Danger. The best Anchorage is near the Bottom of the Road in 6 and 7 Fathom, fine sandy Bottom; you lay open to the Easterly Winds, which Winds seldom blow in the Summer. [Sidenote: Cape Miquelon.] Cape _Miquelon_, or the Northern extremity of the Island is high bluff Land; and when you are 4 or 5 Leagues to the Eastward or Westward of it, you would take it for an Island, by reason the Land at the Bottom of the Road is very low. [Sidenote: Seal Rocks] The _Seal Rocks_ are two Rocks above Water, lying 1 League and a half off from the Middle of the West-side of the Island _Miquelon_; the Passage between them and the Island is very safe, and you have 14 or 15 Fathom within a Cable's Length all round them. [Sidenote: Green Island.] This Island which is about three-quarters of a Mile in Circuit, and low, lies N.E. 5 Miles from St. _Peter_'s, and nearly in the Middle of the Channel, between it and _Point May_ on _Newfoundland_; on the South-side of this Island are some Rocks both above and under Water, extending themselves 1 Mile and a quarter to the S.W. _Description of_ Fortune Bay. _Fortune Bay_ is very large, the Entrance is form'd by _Point May_ and _Pass Island_, which are 12 Leagues N. by E. and S. by W. from each other, and it is about 23 Leagues deep, wherein are a great many Bays, Harbours, and Islands. [Sidenote: Island of Brunet.] The Island of _Brunet_ is situated nearly in the Middle of the Entrance into _Fortune Bay_, it is about 5 Leagues in Circuit, and of a tolerable Height; the East-end appears at some Points of view like Islands, by reason it is very low and narrow in two Places. On the N.E. Side of the Island is a Bay, wherein is tolerable good Anchorage for Ships in 14 and 16 Fathom, shelter'd from Southerly and Westerly Winds; you must not run too far in for fear of some sunken Rocks in the Bottom of it, a quarter of a Mile from the Shore; opposite this Bay on the South-side of the Island, is a small Cove, wherein small Vessels and Shallops can lay pretty secure from the Weather, in 6 Fathom Water; in the Middle of the Cove is a Rock above Water, and a Channel on each Side of it. The Islands laying at the West-end of _Brunet_, called _Little Brunets_, afford indifferent Shelter for Shallops in blowing Weather; you may approach these Islands, and the Island of _Brunet_, within a quarter of a Mile all round, there being no Danger but what lay very near the Shore. [Sidenote: Plate Islands] _Plate Islands_ are three Rocks of a moderate Height, lying S.W. 1 League from the West-end of _Great Brunet_. The Southermost and outermost of these Rocks, lay W. by S. half S. 11 Miles from Cape _Miquelon_, and in a direct Line between _Point May_ and _Pass Island_, 17 Miles from the former and 19 from the later; S.E. a quarter of a Mile from the _Great Plate_ (which is the Northermost) is a sunken Rock, whereon the Sea breaks, which it the only Danger about them. [Sidenote: Observations] There are several strong and irregular Settings of the Tides or Currents about the _Plate_ and _Brunet Islands_, which seem to have no dependency on the Moon, and the Course of the Tides on the Coast. [Sidenote: Island of Sagona.] The Island of _Sagona_, which lies N.N.E. 2 Leagues from the East-end of _Brunet_, is about 3 Miles and a half in circuit, of a moderate Height, and bold too all round, at the S.W. end is a small Creek that will admit Fishing Shallops; in the Middle of the Entrance is a sunken Rock which makes it exceeding narrow, and difficult to get in or out, except in fine Weather. [Sidenote: Point May.] _Point May_ is the Southern Extremity of _Fortune Bay_, and the S.W. Extremity of this Part of _Newfoundland_; it may be known by a great black Rock, nearly joining to the Pitch of the Point, and something higher than the Land, which makes it look like a black Hommock on the Point; near a quarter of a Mile right off from the Point, or this round black Rock, are three sunken Rocks, whereon the Sea always breaks. [Sidenote: Dantzic Coves.] Near 2 Miles North from _Point May_, is _Little Dantzic Cove_, and half a Leag. from _Little Dantzic_ is _Great Dantzic Cove_; these Coves are no Places of safety, being open to the Westerly Winds; the Land about them is of a moderate Height, bold too, and clear of Wood. [Sidenote: Fortune.] From _Dantzic Point_ (which is the North Point of the Coves) to _Fortune_ the Course is N.E. near 3 Leagues; the Land between them near the Shore is of a moderate Height, and bold too; you will have in most Places 10 and 12 Fathom two Cables Length from the Shore, 30 and 40 one Mile off, and 70 and 80 two Miles off. _Fortune_ lies North from the East-end of _Brunet_, it is a Bar Place that will admit Fishing Boats at a quarter Flood; and a Fishing Village situated in the Bottom of a small Bay, wherein is Anchorage for Shipping in 6, 8, 10, and 12 Fathom; the Ground is none of the best, and you lay open to near half the Compass. [Sidenote: Grand Bank.] [Sidenote: Great Garnish.] [Sidenote: Frenchman's Cove.] [Sidenote: Anchorage.] Cape of _Grand Bank_ is a pretty high Point, lying 1 League N.E. from _Fortune_; into the E. ward of the Cape is _Ship Cove_, wherein is good Anchorage for Shipping, in 8 and 10 Fathom, shelter'd from Southerly, Westerly, and N.W. Winds. _Grand Bank_ lies E.S.E. half a League from the Cape, it is a Fishing Village, and a Bar Harbour, that will admit Fishing Shallops at a quarter Flood; to this Place and _Fortune_ resort the Crews of Fishing Ships, who lay their Ships up in Harbour _Briton_. From the Cape of _Grand Bank_ to Point _Enragee_, the Course is NE. a quarter E. 8 Leagues, forming a Bay between them, in which the Shore is low with several sandy Beaches, behind which are Bar Harbours that will admit Boats on the Tide of Flood, the largest of which is _Great Garnish_, 5 Leagues from _Grand Bank_, it may be known by several Rocks above Water laying before it, 2 Miles from the Shore, the outmost of these Rocks are steep too, but between them and the Shore are dangerous sunken Rocks. To the Eastward, and within these Rocks is _Frenchman's Cove_, wherein you may Anchor with small Vessels, in 4 and 5 Fathom Water, tolerably well shelter'd from the Sea Winds, and seems a convenient Place for the Cod Fishery: The Passage in is to the Eastward of the Rocks that are the highest above Water; between them and some other lower Rocks laying off to the Eastward from the East Point of the _Cove_, there is a sunken Rock nearly in the Middle of this Passage, which you must be aware of. You may Anchor any where under the Shore, between _Grand Bank_ and _Great Garnish_ in 8 and 10 Fathom Water, but you are only shelter'd from the Land Winds. [Sidenote: Point Enragee.] _Point Enragee_ is but low, but a little way in the Country is high Land; this Point may be known by two Hommocks upon it close to the Shore, but you must be very near, otherwise the Elevation of the high Lands will hinder you from discovering them; close to the Point is a Rock under Water. From _Point Enragee_ to the Head of the Bay, the Course is first N.E. a quarter E. 3 Leagues to _Grand Jervey_; then N.E. by E. half E. 7 Leagues and a half to the Head of the Bay; the Land in general along the South-side is high, bold too, and of an uneven Height, with Hills and Vallies of various extent; the Vallies for the most Part cloathed with Wood, and water'd with small Rivulets. [Sidenote: Bay L'Arjent.] Seven Leagues to the Eastward of _Point Enragee_, is the Bay _L'Argent_, wherein you may Anchor in 30 or 40 Fathom Water, shelter'd from all Winds. [Sidenote: Harbour Millee.] The Entrance of Harbour _Millee_ is to the Eastward of the East Point of _L'Argent_; before this Harbour and the Bay _L'Argent_ is a remarkable Rock, that at a Distance appears like a Shallop under Sail. _Harbour Millee_ branches into two Arms, one laying into the N.E. and the other towards the E. at the upper Part of both is good Anchorage, and various Sorts of Wood. Between this Harbour and _Point Enragee_, are several Bar Harbours in small Bays, wherein are sandy Beaches, off which Vessels may Anchor, but they must be very near the Shore to be in a moderate Depth of Water. [Sidenote: Cape Millee.] _Cape Millee_ lies N.N.E. half E. 1 League from the afore-mentioned _Shallop Rock_, and near 3 Leagues from the Head of _Fortune Bay_ is a high reddish barren Rock. The wedth of _Fortune Bay_ at _Cape Millee_ doth not exceed half a League, but immediately below it, it is twice as wide, by which this Cape may be easily known; above this Cape the Land on both Sides is high, with steep craggy Cliffs. The Head of the Bay is terminated by a low Beach, behind which is a large Pond or Bar Harbour, into which Boats can go at quarter Flood. In this and all the Bar Harbours between it and _Grand Bank_, are convenient Places for building of Stages, and good Beaches for drying of Fish, for great Numbers of Boats. [Sidenote: Grand L'Pierre Harbour] _Grand L'Pierre_ is a good Harbour, situated on the North-side of the Bay, half a League from the Head, you can see no Entrance until you are abreast of it; there is not the least Danger in going in, and you may Anchor in any Depth from 8 to 4 Fathom, shelter'd from all Winds. [Sidenote: English Harbour.] _English Harbour_ lies a little to the Westward of _Grand L'Pierre_, it is very small, and fit only for Boats and small Vessels. [Sidenote: Little Bay de Leau.] To the Westward of _English Harbour_ is a small Bay called _Little Bay de Leau_, wherein are some small Islands, behind which is shelter for small Vessels. [Sidenote: New Harbour] This Harbour is situated opposite _Cape Millee_, to the Westward of _Bay de Leau_; it is but a small Inlet, yet hath good Anchorage on the West-side in 9, 8, 7, and 5 Fathom Water, sheltered from the S.W. Winds. [Sidenote: Harbour Femme.] Harbour _Femme_, which lies half a League to the Westward of _New Harbour_, lies in NE. half a League, it is very narrow, and hath in it 23 Fathom Water, before the Entrance is an Island, near to which are some Rocks above Water: the Passage into the Harbour is to the Eastward of the Island. [Sidenote: Brewer's Hole.] One League to the Westward of _Harbour Femme_, is a small Cove called _Brewer's Hole_, wherein is Shelter for Fishing Boats; before this Cove is a small Island near the Shore, and some Rocks above Water. [Sidenote: Harbour la Conte.] This Harbour is situated one Mile to the Westward of _Brewer's Hole_, before which are two Islands, one without the other; the outermost, which is the largest is of a tolerable Height, and lies in a Line with the Coast, and is not easy to be distinguished from the Main in sailing along the Shore. To sail into this Harbour, the best Passage is on the West-side of the outer Island, and between the two; as soon as you begin to open the Harbour, you must keep the inner Island close on Board, in order to avoid some sunken Rocks that lay near a small Island, which you will discover between the NE. Point of the outer Island, and the opposite Point on the Main; and likewise another Rock under Water, which lays higher up on the Side of the Main; this Rock appears at Low Water. As soon as you are above these Dangers, you may steer up in the middle of the Channel, until you open a fine spacious Bason, wherein you may Anchor in any Depth from 5 to 17 Fathom Water, shut up from all Winds, the Bottom is Sand and Mud. In to the Eastward of the outer Island, is a small Cove fit for small Vessels and Boats, and Conveniencies for the Fishery. [Sidenote: Long Harbour.] This Harbour lies 4 Miles to the Westward of Harbour _La Conte_, and N.E. by N. 5 Leagues from _Point Enragee_; it may be known by a small Island in the Mouth of it, called _Gull Island_; and half a Mile without this Island, is a Rock above Water, that hath the Appearance of a small Boat. There is a Passage into the Harbour on each Side of the Island, but the broadest is the Westermost. Nearly in the middle of this Passage, a little without the Island is a Ledge of Rocks, whereon is two Fathom Water; a little within the Island on the S.E. Side are some sunken Rocks, about two Cables length from the Shore laying off two sandy Coves; some of these Rocks appear at Low-water. On the N.W. Side of the Harbour, two Miles within the Island is _Morgan's Cove_, wherein you may Anchor in 15 Fathom Water, and the only Place you can Anchor, unless you run into, or above the _Narrows_, being every where else very deep Water. This Harbour runs five Leagues into the Country, at the Head of which is a Salmon Fishery. [Sidenote: Bell Bay, and its contain'd Bays & Harbours.] [Sidenote: Hare Harbours.] A little to the Westward of _Long Harbour_, is _Bell Bay_, which extends three Leagues every Way, and contains several Bays and Harbours. On the East Point of this Bay, is _Hare Harbour_, which is fit only for small Vessels and Boats, before which are two small Islands, and some Rocks above and under Water. [Sidenote: Mall Bay.] Two Miles to the Northward of _Hare Harbour_, or the Point of _Bell Bay_, is _Mall Bay_, being a narrow Arm, laying in NE. by N. 5 Miles, wherein is deep Water, and no Anchorage until at the Head. [Sidenote: Rencontre Islands.] _Rencontre Islands_ lies to the Westward of _Mall Bay_, near the Shore; the Westermost, which is the largest, hath a Communication with the Main at low Water; in and about this Island are shelter for small Vessels and Boats. [Sidenote: Bell Harbour] _Bell Harbour_ lies one League to the Westward of _Rencontre_ Islands: The Passage into the Harbour is on the West Side of the Island; in the Mouth of it, as soon as you are within the Island, you will open a small Cove on the E. Side, wherein small Vessels anchor, but large Ships must run up to the Head of the Harbour, and Anchor in 20 Fathom Water, there being most Room. [Sidenote: Lally Cove.] _Lally Cove_ lies a little to the Westward of _Bell Harbour_, it is a very snug Place for small Vessels, being covered from all Winds behind the Island in the Cove. [Sidenote: Lally Cove. Back Cove.] _Lally Head_ is the West Point of _Lally Cove_, it is a high bluff white Point; to the Northward of the Head is _Lally Cove back Cove_, wherein you may anchor in 16 Fathom Water. [Sidenote: Bay of the East, and Bay of the North.] Two Miles to the Northward of _Lally Cove Head_, is the Bay of the East, and Bay of the North, in both is deep Water, and no Anchorage, unless very near the Shore. At the Head of the North Bay is the largest River in _Fortune Bay_, and seems a good Place for a Salmon Fishery. [Sidenote: Bay of Cinq Isles.] The Bay of _Cinq Isles_ lies to the Southward of the North Bay, and opposite to _Lally Cove Head_ there is tolerable good Anchorage for large Ships on the S.W. Side of the Islands in the Bottom of the Bay. The North Arm is a very snug Place for small Vessels; at the Head of this Arm is a Salmon River. [Sidenote: Corben Bay.] A little to the Southward of the Bay of _Cinq_ Isles is _Corben Bay_, wherein is good Anchorage for any Ships in 22 or 24 Fathom Water. [Sidenote: Bell & Dog Islands.] South East about two Miles from _Lally Cove Head_, are two Islands about a Mile from each other, the North Eastermost is called _Bell Island_, and the other _Dog Island_, they are of a tolerable Height, and bold too all round. Between _Dogg Island_, and _Lord and Lady Island_, which lies off the S. Point of _Corben Bay_, is a sunken Rock, (somewhat nearer to _Lord and Lady_, than _Dogg-Island_) whereon the Sea breaks in very bad Weather, and every where round it very deep Water. About a quarter of a Mile to the Northward of the North-end of _Lord and Lady_ Island, is a Rock that appears at low Water. [Sidenote: Bande de La'rier Bay and Harbour.] _Bande de La'rier_ Bay lies on the West Point of _Bell Bay_, and NNW. half W. near 3 Leagues from Point _Enragee_, it may be known by a very high Mountain over the Bay, which rises almost perpendicular from the Sea, called _Iron-Head_. _Chappel Island_, which forms the East-side of the Bay is high Land also. The Harbour lies on the West-side of the Bay, just within the Point, formed by a narrow low Beach, it is very small, but a snug Place, and conveniently situated for the _Cod Fishery_. There is a tolerable good Anchorage along the West Side of the Bay from the Harbour up towards _Iron Head_ in 18 and 20 Fathom Water. [Sidenote: Bande de La'rier Bank.] The Bank of _Bande de La'rier_, whereon is not less than 7 Fathom, lies with the Beach of _Bande de Lourier_ Harbour, just open of the West Point of the Bay, and _Boxy Point_ on with the North End of St. _Jaques_ Island. [Sidenote: St. Jaques.] Two Miles to the W. ward of _Bande de La'rier_, is the Harbour of St. _Jaques_, which may be easily known by the Island before it. This Island is high at each End, and low in the Middle, and at a Distance looks like two Islands, it lies N. 30d. E. 8 and a half Leagues from the Cape of _Grand Bank_, and N. E. by E. 7 Leagues from the East-end of _Brunet_. The Passage into the Harbour is on the West Side of the Island; there is not the least Danger in going in, or in any Part of the Harbour; you may anchor in any Depth from 17 to 4 Fathom. [Sidenote: Blue Pinion.] Two Miles to the Westward of St. _Jaques_, is the Harbour of _Blue Pinion_, it is not near so large, or so safe as that of St. _Jaques_; near to the Head of the Harbour on the West Side is a Shoal, whereon is two Fathom at Low Water. [Sidenote: English Cove] A little to the Westward of _Blue Pinion_, is _English Cove_, which is very small, wherein small Vessels and Boats can Anchor; before it, and very near the Shore is a small Island. [Sidenote: Boxy point.] _Boxy_ Point lies SW. by W. a quarter W. two Leagues and a half from St. _Jaques_ Island, NNE. near 7 Leagues from the Cape of _Grand Bank_, and NE. half E. 13 Miles from the East End of _Brunet_ Island; it is of a moderate Height, the most advanced to the Southward of any Land on the Coast, and may be distinguished at a considerable Distance; there are some sunken Rocks off it, but they lay very near the Shore, and are no ways dangerous. [Sidenote: Boxy Harbour.] NNE. three Miles from _Boxey_ Point is the Harbour of _Boxy_; to sail into it you must keep _Boxy_ Point just open of _Fryer's_ Head (a black Head a little within the Point) in this Direction you will keep in the middle of the Channel between the Shoals which lay off from each Point of the Harbour, where the Stages are; as soon as you are within these Shoals, which cover you from the Sea Winds, you may anchor in 5 and 4 Fathom Water, fine sandy Ground. [Sidenote: St. John's Island, Head, Bay and Harbour.] West 1 Mile from _Boxy_ Point is the Island of St. _John_'s, which is of a tollerable Height, and steep too, except at the N.E. Point, where is a Shoal a little way off. N.W. half a League from St. _John_'s _Island_ is St. _John_'s _Head_, which is a high, steep, craggy Point. Between St _John_'s _Head_ and _Boxy Point_, is St. _John_'s _Bay_, in the Bottom of which is St. _John_'s _Harbour_, wherein is only Water for Boats. [Sidenote: Gull and Shag.] On the North-side of St. _John_'s _Head_ are two rocky Islands, called the _Gull_ and _Shag_; at the West-end of these Islands are some sunken Rocks. [Sidenote: Great Bay de Leau.] One League and a half to the Northward of St. _John_'s _Head_ is the _Great Bay de Leau_, wherein is good Anchorage in various depths of Water, sheltered from all Winds. The best Passage in is on the East-side of the Island, laying in the Mouth of it; nothing can enter in on the West-side but small Vessels and Shallops. [Sidenote: Little Bay Barrysway.] To the Westward of _Bay de Leau_, 3 Miles NNW. from St. _John_'s _Head_ is _Little Bay Barrysway_, on the West-side of which is good Anchorage for large Ships in 7, 8, or 10 Fathom Water; here is good Fishing Conveniencies, with plenty of Wood and Water. [Sidenote: Harbour Briton.] [Sidenote: South West Arm.] _Harbour Briton_ lies to the Westward of _Little Bay Barrysway_, North 1 Leag. and a half from the Island of _Sagona_, and N. by E. from East-end of _Brunet_. The two Heads, which from the Entrance of this Harbour or Bay are pretty high, and lay from each other E.N.E. and W.S.W. above 2 Miles; near the East Head is a Rock above Water, by which it may be known: There are no Dangers in going in until you are the Length of the South Point of the S.W. Arm, which is more than a Mile within the West Head; from off this Point stretches out a Ledge of Rocks N.E. about two Cables Length; the only Place for King's Ships to Anchor is above this Point, before the S.W. Arm in 16 or 18 Fathom Water, mooring nearly East and West, and so near the Shore as to have the East Head on with the Point above-mentioned; the Bottom is very good, and the Place convenient for Wooding and Watering. In the SW. Arm is Room for a great Number of Merchant Ships, and many Conveniencies for Fishing Vessels. [Sidenote: Jerseyman's Harbour.] Opposite to the S.W. Arm is the N.E. Arm or _Jerseyman_'s _Harbour_, which is capable of holding a great number of Ships, securely shelter'd from all Winds. To sail into it you must keep the Point of _Thompson_'s _Beach_ (which is the Beach Point, at the Entrance into the S.W. Arm) open of _Jerseyman_'s _Head_, (which is a high bluff Head at the North Entrance into _Jerseyman_'s _Harbour_) this Mark will lead you over the Bar in the best of the Channel, where you will have 3 Fathom at Low-water; as soon as you open the Harbour, haul up North, and Anchor where its most convenient in 8, 7 or 6 Fathom Water, good Ground, and shelter'd from all Winds. In this Harbour are several convenient Places for erecting many Stages, and good Beach room. _Jerseymen_ generally lay their Ships up in this Harbour, and cure their Fish at _Fortune_ and _Grand Bank_. [Sidenote: Gull Island, and Deadman's Bay.] From Harbour _Briton_ to the W. end of _Brunet_, and to the _Plate Islands_, the Course is S.W. by S. 6 Leagues and a half to the Southermost _Plate_. From _Harbour Briton_ to _Cape Miquelon_ is S.W. a quarter W. 10 Leagues. From the West Head of _Harbour Briton_ to _Cannaigre Head_, the Course is W. by S. Distant 2 Leagues; between them are _Gull-Island_ and _Deadman's Bay_. _Gull-Island_ lies close under the Land, 2 Miles to the Westward of Harbour _Briton_. _Deadman's Bay_ is to the Westward of _Gull-Island_, wherein you may Anchor with the Land Winds. Between _Harbour Briton_ and _Cannaigre Head_, is a Bank stretching off from the Shore between 2 and 3 Miles, whereon is various Depths of Water from 34 to 4 Fathom. Fishermen say that they have seen the Sea break in very bad Weather, a good way without _Gull-Island_. [Sidenote: Cannaigre Head.] [Sidenote: Cannaigre Bay.] [Sidenote: Cannaigre Rocks.] _Cannaigre Head_ which forms the East Point of the Bay of the same Name, lies North Easterly 3 Leagues and a half from the West-end of _Brunet_; it is a high craggy Point, easy to be distinguished from any Point of view. From this Head to _Basstarre_ Point, the Course is W. by N. half N. 2 Leagues, and likewise W. by N. half N. 3 Leagues and a half to the Rocks of _Pass Island_; but to give them a Birth make a W. by N. Course good. Between _Cannaigre Head_ and _Basstarre Point_ is _Cannaigre Bay_, which extends itself about 4 Leagues Inland, at the Head of which is a Salmon River. In the Mouth of the Bay lay the Rocks of the same Name above Water, you may approach these Rocks very near, there being no Danger but what discovers itself. The Channel between them and the North Shore is something Dangerous, by reason of a range of Rocks which lie along Shore, and extend themselves 1 Mile off. [Sidenote: Cannaigre Harbour.] _Cannaigre Harbour_ which is very small, with 7 Fathom Water in it, is within a Point on the South-side of the Bay, 5 Miles above the Head: The Passage into the Harbour is on the S.E. Side of the Island, lying before it. Nearly in the Middle of the Bay, abreast of this Harbour, are two Islands of a tolerable Height, on the South-side of the Westermost Island, which is the largest, are some Rocks above Water. [Sidenote: Dawson's Cove.] This Cove is on the N.W. Side of the Bay, bears North, Distance about 4 Miles from the Head, and East 2 Miles from the W. end of the _Great Island_. In it are good Fishing Conveniences, and Anchorage for Vessels in 6 and 5 Fathom Water, but they will lay open to the Southerly Winds. Between the S.W. Point of this Cove and _Basstarre Point_, which is 5 Miles Distance, lays the Range of Rocks beforementioned. [Sidenote: Basstarre Point.] _Basstarre Point_ which forms the West Point of _Cannaigre Bay_, is of a moderate Height, clear of Wood, and bold too, all the way from it to _Pass-Island_, which bears N.W. by W. 1 League from _Basstarre Point_. [Sidenote: Observations.] The Land on the North-side of _Fortune Bay_ for the most Part is hilly, rising directly from the Sea, with craggy, barren Hills, which extends 4 or 5 Leag. Inland, with a great Number of Rivulets and Ponds. The Land on the South side of _Fortune Bay_, has a different Appearance to that on the North-side, being not so full of craggy Mountains, and better cloathed with Woods, which are of a short brushy kind, which makes the face of the Country look green. [Sidenote: Pass Island.] _Pass Island_ lies N. 16° 30' East 7 Leagues and a half from _Cape Miquelon_, it is the N.W. extremity of _Fortune Bay_, and lies very near the Shore, is more than 2 Miles in circuit and is pretty high. On the S.W. Side are several Rocks above Water, which extend themselves 1 Mile from the Island, and on the N.W. Side is a sunken Rock at a quarter of a Mile from the Island; the Passage between this Island and the Main, which is near two Cables Length wide, is very safe for small Vessels, wherein you may Anchor in 6 Fathom, a fine sandy Bottom. This Island is well situated for the Cod Fishery, there being very good Fishing Ground about it. [Sidenote: On the Soundings.] In the Night time, or in foggy Weather, Ships ought to place no great Dependance on the Soundings in _Fortune Bay_, least they may be deceived thereby, for you have more Water in many Parts near the Shore, and in several of its contained Bays and Harbours, than in the middle of the Bay itself. Description of _Hermitage Bay_. From _Pass Island_ to _Great Jervis Harbour_, at the Entrance into the Bay of _Despair_, the Course is N. by E. a quarter E. near three Leagues; and from _Pass Island_ to the West End of _Long Island_, the Course is NNE. 8 Miles, between them is the Bay of _Hermitage_, which lies in ENE. 8 Leagues from _Pass Island_, with very deep Water in most Parts of it. [Sidenote: Fox Islands.] The two _Fox Islands_, which are but small, lie nearly in the middle of _Hermitage Bay_, 3 Leagues and a half from _Pass Island_; near to these Islands is good Fishing Ground. [Sidenote: Hermitage Cove.] _Hermitage Cove_ is on the South-side of the Bay, opposite to _Fox's Islands_. To sail into it, you must keep between the Islands and the South Shore, where there is not the least Danger; in this Cove is good Anchorage for Shipping in 8 and 10 Fathom Water, and good Fishing Conveniences, with plenty of Wood and Water. [Sidenote: Long Island.] _Long Island_, which separates the Bay of _Despair_ from _Hermitage_, is of a triangular Form, about 8 Leagues in Circuit, of a tolerable Height, is hilly, uneven and barren. The East Entrance into the Bay of _Despair_ from _Hermitage Bay_, is by the West-end of _Long Island_; about half a Mile from the S.W. Point of the said Island, are two Rocks above Water, with deep Water all round them. [Sidenote: Long Island Harbour.] This Harbour lies on the South-side of _Long Island_, 2 Miles and a half from the West-end; before which is an Island, and several Rocks above Water, there is a narrow Passage into the Harbour on each Side of the Island; this Harbour is formed by two Arms, one laying into the North, and the other to the Eastward; they are both very narrow, and have in them from 42 to 7 Fathom Water; the East Arm is the deepest, and the best Anchorage. [Sidenote: Round Harbour.] This Harbour, wherein is 6 Fathom Water, lies near 2 Miles to the E. ward of _Long Island Harbour_, is also in _Long-Island_; it will only admit very small Vessels, by reason the Channel going in is very narrow. [Sidenote: Picarre.] _Harbour Picarre_ lies N. by W. half a League from _Little Fox Island_, (which is the Westermost of _Fox Islands_) to sail into it you must keep near the West-point to avoid some sunken Rocks off the other, and anchor in the first Cove on the East-side in 9 or 10 Fathom, sheltered from all Winds. [Sidenote: Galtaus.] This Harbour, which is but small, lies near the East-point of _Long-Island_; at the Entrance is several rocky Islands. The best Channel into the Harbour is on the West-side of these Islands, wherein is 4 Fathom Water, but in the harbour is from 15 to 24 Fathom. Here are several Places proper for erecting of Stages; and both this Harbour and _Picarre_ are conveniently situated for a Fishery, they laying contiguous to the Fishing Ground about _Fox Islands_. [Sidenote: Passage of Long Island] Between the East-end of _Long Island_ and the Main, is a very good Passage out of _Hermitage Bay_, into the Bay of _Despair_. Description of the Bay of _Despair_. The Entrance of the Bay of _Despair_ lies between the West-end of _Long Island_ and _Great Jervis Island_, (an Island in the Mouth of the Harbour of the same Name) the Distance from one to the other is 1 Mile and a Quarter, and in the Middle between them is no Soundings with 280 Fathoms. [Sidenote: Great Jervis Island.] _Great Jervis Harbour_ is situated at the West Entrance into the Bay of _Despair_ is a snug and safe Harbour, with good Anchorage in every Part of it, in 16, 18 or 20 Fathom, though but small will contain a great Number of Shipping, securely sheltered from all Winds, and very convenient for wooding and watering. There is a Passage into this Harbour on either Side of _Great Jervis Island_, the southermost is the safest, there being in it no Danger but the Shore itself. To sail in on the North-side of the Island, you must keep in the middle of the Passage, until you are within two small Rocks above Water near to each other on your Starboard-side, a little within the North Point of the Passage; you must then bring the said North Point between these Rocks, and steer into the Harbour, in that Directions will carry you clear of some sunken Rocks which lie off the West Point of the Island; these Rocks appear at Low-water. The Entrance into this Harbour may be known by the East-end of _Great Jervis Island_, which is a high steep craggy Point, called _Great Jervis Head_, and is the North Point of the South Entrance into the Harbour. [Sidenote: North Bay.] This is an Arm of the Bay of _Despair_, which extends to the Northward 5 Leagues from _Great Jervis Island_. In this Bay is very deep Water, and no Anchorage but in the small Bays and Coves which are on each Side of it. At the Head of the Bay of the East, which is an Arm of the North Bay, is a very fine Salmon River, and plenty of various Sorts of Wood. [Sidenote: Eagle Island.] To the Northward of _Long Island_, the Bay of _Despair_ extends itself to the NE. about 8 Leagues, whereon are several Arms and Islands. The first is _Eagle Island_ laying on the North-side of _Long Island_, about half a Cable's Length from the Shore; a little to the Eastward of it is a small Cove, wherein small Vessels can Anchor in 5 Fathom Water; off the E. Point of this Cove are some sunken Rocks, the outermost of which lay a quarter of a Mile from the Shore, and appears at half Ebb. [Sidenote: Frenchman's Harbour.] This harbour lies on the North-side of _Long Island_, 2 Miles above _Eagle Island_, in and before which Vessels may anchor in various Depths of Water; about a Cable's length to the Eastward of the West Point of the Harbour is a sunken Rock whereon is 8 Feet Water; a little way further to the Eastward is a small Island not far from the Shore, near to which is a Rock that just Covers at high Water. [Sidenote: Isle Bois.] On the North-side of the Bay, opposite to _Long Island_, lies the _Isle Bois_, it is near 3 Leagues in Length, and of a tolerable Height; the Passage on the North-side of it (called _Lampadois_ Passage) is very safe, but very deep Water. [Sidenote: Fox Island.] This Island lies nearly in the middle of the Bay, between the East-end of the Isle of _Bois_ and _Long Island_, it is of a round Form, pretty high, and bold too all round. [Sidenote: Isle Riches.] The _Isle Riches_ lies off the East-end of the Isle of _Bois_, it is about a Mile in Circuit, and pretty high; on the East-side of it are some small Islands, and some sunken Rocks quite a-cross from the Island to the Main, so that in sailing up the Bay of _Despair_, you must leave this Island on your Starboard-side. [Sidenote: Little River.] This is an Arm of the Bay laying in to the Eastward from the Isle of _Riches_, it is very narrow, and counted a good Place for a Salmon Fishery; its Banks are stored with various Sorts of Wood. [Sidenote: Bay Rotte.] This is a small Bay which lays North from the East-end of the Isle of _Bois_, in which are some sunken Rocks near the Head. [Sidenote: Bay of Conne.] From the Isle of _Riches_ the Bay extends itself to the Northward about five Miles, commonly called the Bay or River of _Conne_, then branches into two Arms, one still tending to the North, and the other to the Eastward; the Water is very shallow for some Distance from the Head of both. About these Arms, and the Bay of _Conne_, are great Plenty of all Sorts of Wood, common to this Country, such as Firr, Pine, Birch, Witch-Hasle, Spruce, _&c._ [Sidenote: Observations.] All the Country about the Entrance into the Bay of _Despair_, and for a good Way up it is very mountainous and barren, but about the Head of the Bay it appears to be pretty level, and well cloathed with Wood. [Sidenote: On the Tides.] Between St. _Laurence_ and Point _May_, an ESE. Moon makes high Water at the Islands of St. _Peters_ and _Miquelon_, and in all Parts of _Fortune Bay_ a S.E. Moon makes High Water. In the Bay of _Despair_ a SE. by S. Moon makes High Water; in all which Places it flows up and down, or upon a perpendicular Spring Tides 7 or 8 Feet; but it must be observed that they are every where greatly governed by the Winds and Weather. [Sidenote: Currents.] The Currents on the Sea Coasts from Cape _Chapeaurouge_ towards St. _Peter's_, sets generally to the SW. On the South-side of _Fortune Bay_ it sets to the Eastward, and on the North-side to the Westward. [Sidenote: Winds.] The South West, and Westerly Winds generally blow in the Day during the Summer, and about the Evening they die away; and in the Night you have Land Breezes or Calms. * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 5: sefety replaced with safety | | Page 6: Leagus replaced with League | | Page 8: Dantzc Poinit replaced with Dantzic Point | | Page 8: Shiping replaced with Shipping | | Page 11: In the sidenote, Recontre replaced with Rencontre | | Page 12: Larier replaced with La'rier | | Page 15: In the sidenote, Cannaigree replaced with Cannaigre | | Page 18: aud replaced with and | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
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19452	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 19452-h.htm or 19452-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/5/19452/19452-h/19452-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/4/5/19452/19452-h.zip) +-------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and unusual spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | The illustration captions, listed only at the front of the | | original text, have been added to the illustrations for | | the benefit of the reader. | | | | One obvious typographical error was corrected in this | | text, but not the dialect. For details, please see | | the end of this document. | | | +-------------------------------------------------------------+ LE PETIT NORD Or Annals of a Labrador Harbour by ANNE GRENFELL and KATIE SPALDING [Illustration: AN AWFUL NIGHT FOR A SINNER] [Illustration] Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company The Riverside Press Cambridge 1920 Copyright, 1920, by Houghton Mifflin Company All Rights Reserved FOREWORD A friend from the Hub of the Universe, in a somewhat supercilious manner, not long ago informed one of our local friends that his own home was hundreds of miles to the southward. "'Deed, sir, how does you manage to live so far off?" with a scarcely perceptible twinkle of one eye, was the answer. If home is the spot on earth where one spends the larger part of one's prime, and where one's family comes into being, then for over a quarter of a century "Le Petit Nord" of this book has been my home. With the authors I share for it and its people the love which alone keeps us here. Necessity has compelled me to perform, however imperfectly, functions usually distributed amongst many and varied professions, and the resultant intimacy has become unusual. As, therefore, I read the amusing experiences herein narrated, I feel that the "other half," who know us not, will love us better even if we are not exactly as they. That is not our fault. They should not live "so far off." The incidents told are all actual, but the name of every single person and place has been changed to afford any hypersensitive among the actors the protection which pseudonymity confers. We here who have been permitted a glimpse of these pages feel that we really owe the authors another debt beyond the love for the people to which they have testified by the more substantial offering of long and voluntary personal service. WILFRED T. GRENFELL, M.D. _Labrador, 1919_ ILLUSTRATIONS AN AWFUL NIGHT FOR A SINNER _Frontispiece_ SAD SEASICK SOULS STREWN AROUND 20 THE HERRING OF HIGH ESTATE 29 "HAVE YOU A PLUG OF BACCY, SKIPPER?" 40 RHODA'S RANDY 42 TOPSY'S AMBITION IS TO BECOME LIKE A FAT PIG 53 TOPSY WAS CREEPING FROM BED TO BED WITH THE CARVING-KNIFE 54 THE PROPHET OF DOOM 59 ANANIAS HAS BROKEN YET ANOTHER WINDOW 61 NOT FAT, BUT FINE AND HEARTY 68 DELILAH BAWLING 70 MRS. UNCLE LIFE FOUND THE LEADER OF THE TEAM IN HER BED 92 "TEACHER, I HAVE A PAIN" 95 THE YOHO 100 THEY ATE THE ENTIRE BOOT 108 HE HAD TAKEN THE STRANGER IN 117 HE FROZE HIS TOE IN BED 127 A LONG WAY ON THE HEAVENWARD ROAD 131 THE SEVENTH SON 140 ITS ACTION WAS PROMPT AND POWERFUL 141 IT WAS HIS LAST BULLET 153 A PUFFIN GHETTO 180 THE BEAR BIT HIS LEG OFF 189 P.S. 199 _From drawings by Dr. Grenfell_ LE PETIT NORD OR ANNALS OF A LABRADOR HARBOUR _Off the Narrows, St. John's_ _June 10_ DEAR JOAN The Far North calls and I am on my way:-- There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail. There gloom the dark broad seas. * * * * * The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks. Why write as if I had taken a lifelong vow of separation from the British Isles and all things civilized, when after all it is only one short year out of my allotted span of life that I have promised to Mission work? Your steamer letter, with its Machiavellian arguments for returning immediately and directly from St. John's, was duly received. Of my unfitness for the work there is no possible doubt, no shadow of doubt whatever, and therein you and I are at one. But you will do me the justice to admit that I put very forcibly before those in charge of the Mission the delusion under which they were labouring; the responsibility now lies with them, and I "go to prove my soul." What awaits me I know not, but except when the mighty billows rocked me, not soothingly with gentle motion, but harshly and immoderately. I have never wavered in my decision; and even at such times it was to the bottom of Father Neptune that I aspired to travel rather than to the shores of "Merrie England." The voyage so far has been uneventful, and we are now swaying luxuriously at anchor in a dense fog. This I believe is the usual welcome accorded to travellers to the island of Newfoundland. There is no chart for icebergs, and "growlers" are formidable opponents to encounter at any time. Therefore it behoves us to possess our souls in patience, and only to indulge at intervals in the right to grumble which is by virtue of tradition ours. We have already been here a day and a half, and we know not how much longer it will be before the curtain rises and the first act of the drama can begin. These boats are far from large and none too comfortable. We have taken ten days to come from Liverpool. Think of that, you who disdain to cross the water in anything but an ocean greyhound! What hardships we poor missionaries endure! Incidentally I want to tell you that my fellow passengers arch their eyebrows and look politely amused when I tell them to what place I am bound. I ventured to ask my room-mate if she had ever been on Le Petit Nord. I wish you could have seen her face. I might as well have asked if she had ever been exiled to Siberia! I therefore judge it prudent not to thirst too lustily for information, lest I be supplied with more than I desire or can assimilate at this stage. I shall write you again when I board the coastal steamer, which I am credibly informed makes the journey to St. Antoine once every fortnight during the summer months. Till then, _au revoir_. _Run-by-Guess, June 15_ I landed on the wharf at St. John's to be met with the cheering information that the steamer had left for the north two days before. This necessitated a delay of twelve days at least. Will all the babies at the Orphanage be dead before I arrive on the scene of action? Shall I take the next boat back and be in England before the coastal steamer comes south to claim me? Conflicting emotions disturb my troubled soul, but "on and always on!" The island boasts a railroad of which the rural inhabitants are inordinately proud. Just prior to my arrival a daily service had been inaugurated. Formerly the passenger trains ran only three times a week. There are no Sunday trains. As I had so much time to spare, I decided that I could not do better than spend some of it in going across the island and thus see the Southern part of the country, catching my boat at Come-by-Chance Junction on the return journey. Truth compels me to add that I find myself a sadder and wiser woman. I left St. John's one evening at six o'clock, being due to arrive at our destination at eight o'clock the following night. There is no unpleasant "hustle" on this railway, and you may wait leisurely and humbly for a solid hour while your very simple meal is prepared. If you do not happen to be hungry, this is only a delightful interlude in the incessant rush of modern life, but if perchance Nature has endowed you with a moderate appetite, that one hour seems incurably long. All went well the first night, or at least my fellow passengers showed no signs of there being anything unusual, so like Brer Rabbit, I lay low and said nothing. At noon the following day a slightly bigger and more prolonged jolt caused the curious among us to look from the window. The engine, tender, and luggage van were derailed. As the speed of the trains never exceeds twenty-five miles an hour, such little _contretemps_ which occur from time to time do not ruffle the serenity of those concerned. Resigning myself to a delay of a few hours, I determined to alight and explore the country. But alas! I had no mosquito veiling, and to stand for a moment outside without this protection was to risk disfigurement for life. So I humbly yielded to adverse circumstances and returned to try and read, the previous bumping having made this out of the question. But the interior was by this time a veritable Gehenna, and no ventilation could be obtained, as the Company had not thought it necessary to provide their windows with screens. For twenty-five hours we remained in durance vile, until at last the relief train lumbered to our rescue and conveyed us to Run-by-Guess, our destination. _Northward Bound. On board_ _June 25_ If you could have been present during the return journey from Run-by-Guess your worst prophecies would have seemed to you justified. The railroad is of the genus known as narrow-gauge; the roadbed was not constructed on the principles laid down by the Romans. In a country where the bones of Mother Earth protrude so insistently, it is beating the devil round the stump to mend the bed with fir branches tucked even ever so solicitously under the ties. That, nevertheless, was an attempt at "safety first" which I saw. Towards morning a furious rain and wind storm broke over us. Before many minutes I noticed that my berth was becoming both cold and damp. Looking up I made out in the dim dawn a small but persistent stream pouring down upon me. I had had the upper berth pushed up so as to get the air! Again the train came to an unscheduled stop. By this time assorted heads were emerging from behind the curtains, and from each came forcible protests against the weather. There was nothing to be done but to sit with my feet tucked up and my arms around my knees, occupying thus the smallest possible space for one of my proportions, and wait developments. Ten minutes later, after much shouting outside my window, a ladder was planted against the car, and two trainmen in yellow oilskins climbed to the roof. I noted with satisfaction that they carried hammers, tacks, and strips of tin. A series of resounding blows and the almost immediate cessation of the descending floods told how effective their methods had proved. Directly afterwards the startled squeak of the engine whistle, as if some one had trodden on its toe, warned us that we were off once more. We landed (you will note that the nautical phraseology of the country has already gripped me) in the same storm at Come-by-Chance Junction. But the next morning broke bright and shining, as if rain and wind were inhabitants of another planet. It is quite obvious that this land is a lineal descendant of Albion's Isle. Now I am aboard the coastal steamer and we are nosing our way gingerly through the packed floe ice, as we steam slowly north for Cape St. John. Yes, I know it is Midsummer's Day, but as the captain tersely put it, "the slob is a bit late." The storm of two days ago blowing in from the broad Atlantic drove the great field of leftover pans before it, and packed them tight against the cliffs. If we had not had that sudden change in the weather's mind yesterday, we should not be even as far along as we now find ourselves. You can form no idea of one's sensations as the steamer pushes her way through an ice jam. For miles around, as far as the eye can reach, the sea is covered with huge, glistening blocks. Sometimes the deep-blue water shows between, and sometimes they are so tightly massed together that they look like a hummocky white field. How any one can get a steamer along through it is a never-ending source of amazement, and my admiration for the captain is unstinted. I stand on the bridge by the hour, and watch him and listen to the reports of the man on the cross-trees as to the prospects of "leads" of open water ahead. Every few minutes we back astern, and then butt the ice. If one stays below decks the noise of the grinding on the ship's side is so persistent and so menacing that I prefer the deck in spite of its barrels and crates and boxes and smells. Here at least one would not feel like a rat in a hole if a long, gleaming, icy, giant finger should rip the ship's side open down the length of her. As we grate and scrape painfully along I look back and see that the ice-pan channel we leave behind is lined with scarlet. It is the paint off our hull. The spectacle is all too suggestive for one who has always regarded the most attractive aspect of the sea to be viewed from the landwash. Of course the scenery is beautiful--almost too trite to write--but the beauty is lonesome and terrifying, and my city-bred soul longs for some good, homely, human "blot on the landscape." There are no trees on the cliffs now. I understand, however, that Nature is not responsible for this oversight. The people are sorely in need of firewood, and not being far-seeing enough to realize what a menace it is to the country to denude it so unscientifically, they have razed every treelet. Nature has done her best to rectify their mistake, and the rocky hills are covered with jolly bright mosses and lichens. Naturally, there are compensations for even this kind of voyage, for no swell can make itself felt through the heavy ice pack. We steam along for miles on a keel so even that only the throb of our engines, and the inevitable "ship-py" odour, remind one that the North Atlantic rolls beneath the staunch little steamer. The "staunch little steamer's" whistle has just made a noise out of all proportion to its size. It reminded me of an English sparrow's blatant personality. We have turned into a "tickle," and around the bend ahead of us are a handful of tiny whitewashed cottages clinging to the sides of the rocky shore. I cannot get used to the quaint language of the people, and from the helpless way in which they stare at me, my tongue must be equally unintelligible. A delightful _camaraderie_ exists; every one knows every one else, or they all act as if they did. As we come to anchor in the little ports, the men from the shore lash their punts fast to the bottom of the ship's ladder, and clamber with gazelle-like agility over our side. If you happen to be leaning curiously over the rail near by, they jerk their heads and remark, "Good morning," or, "Good evening," according as it is before or after midday. This is an afternoon-less country. The day is divided into morning, evening, and night. Their caps seem to have been born on their heads and to continue to grow there like their hair, or like the clothing of the children of Israel, which fitted them just as well when they came out of the wilderness as when they went in. But no incivility is meant. You may dissect the meaning and grammar of that paragraph alone. You have had long practice in such puzzles. _Seventy-five miles later_ We are out of the ice field and steaming past Cape St. John. This was the dividing line between the English and French in the settlement of their troubles in 1635. North of it is called the French or Treaty Shore, or as the French themselves so much more quaintly named it, "Le Petit Nord." It is at the north end of Le Petit Nord that St. Antoine is located. The very character of the country and vegetation has changed. It is as if the great, forbidding fortress of St. John's Cape cut off the milder influences of southern Newfoundland, and left the northern peninsula a prey to ice and winds and fog. The people, too, have felt the influence of this discrimination of Nature. There is a line of demarcation between those who have been able to enjoy the benefits of the southern island, and those who have had to cope with the recurrent problems of the northland. I cannot help thinking of the change this shore must have been from their beloved and smiling Brittany to those first eager Frenchmen. The names on the map reveal their pathetic attempts to stifle their _nostalgie_ by christening the coves and harbours with the familiar titles of their homeland. I fear in my former letter I made some rather disparaging remarks about certain ocean liners, but I want to take them all back. Life is a series of comparisons and in retrospect the steamer on which I crossed seems a veritable floating palace. I offer it my humble apologies. Of one thing only I am certain--I shall never, never have the courage to face the return journey. The time for the steamer to make the journey from Come-by-Chance to St. Antoine is from four to five days, but when there is much ice these days have been known to stretch to a month. The distance in mileage is under three hundred, but because of the many harbours into which the boat has to put to land supplies, it is really a much greater distance. There are thirty-three ports of call between St. John's and St. Antoine, most of which are tiny fishing settlements consisting of a few wooden houses at the water's edge. This coast possesses scores of the most wonderful natural harbours, which are not only extremely picturesque, but which alone make the dangerous shore possible for navigation. As the steamer puts in at Bear Cove, Poverty Cove, Deadman's Cove, and Seldom-Come-By (this last from the fact that, although boats pass, they seldom anchor there), out shoot the little rowboats to fetch their freight. It is certainly a wonderfully fascinating coast, beautifully green and wooded in the south, and becoming bleaker and barer the farther north one travels. But the bare ruggedness and naked strength of the north have perhaps the deeper appeal. To those who have to sail its waters and wrest a living from the harvest of the sea, this must be a cruel shore, with its dangers from rocks and icebergs and fog, and insufficient lighting and charting. Apart from the glory of the scenery the journey leaves much to be desired, and the weather, being exceedingly stormy since we left the ice field behind, has added greatly to our trials. The accommodations on the boat are strictly limited, and it is crowded with fishermen going north to the Labrador, and with patients for the Mission Hospital. As they come on in shoals at each harbour the refrain persistently runs through my head, "Will there be beds for all who come?" But the answer, alas, does not fit the poem. Far from there being enough and to spare, I know of two at least of my fellow passengers who took their rest in the hand basins when not otherwise wanted. Tables as beds were a luxury which only the fortunate could secure. Almost the entire space on deck is filled with cargo of every description, from building lumber to live-stock. While the passengers number nearly three hundred, there are seating accommodations on four tiny wooden benches without backs, for a dozen, if packed like sardines. Barrels of flour, kerosene, or molasses provide the rest. Although somewhat hard for a succession of days, these latter are saved from the deadly ill of monotony by the fact that as they are discharged and fresh taken on, such vantage-points have to be secured anew from day to day; and one learns to regard with equanimity if not with thankfulness what the gods please to send. There are many sad, seasick souls strewn around. If cleanliness be next to godliness, then there is little hope of this steamer making the Kingdom of Heaven. One habit of the men is disgusting; they expectorate freely over everything but the ocean. The cold outside is so intense as to be scarcely endurable, while the closeness of the atmosphere within is less so. These are a few of the minor discomforts of travel to a mission station; the rest can be better imagined than described. If, to the Moslem, to be slain in battle signifies an immediate entrance into the pleasures of Paradise, what should be the reward of those who suffer the vagaries of this northern ocean, and endure to the end? [Illustration: SAD SEASICK SOULS STREWN AROUND] My trunk is lost. In the excitement of carpentering incidental to the cloudburst, the crew of the train omitted to drop it off at Come-by-Chance. I am informed that it has returned across the country to St. John's. If I had not already been travelling for a fortnight, or if Heaven had endowed me with fewer inches so that my clothing were not so exclusively my own, the problem of the interim till the next boat would be simpler. I have had my first, and I may add my last, experience of "brewis," an indeterminate concoction much in favour as an article of diet on this coast. The dish consists of hard bread (ship's biscuit) and codfish boiled together in a copious basis of what I took to be sea-water. "On the surface of the waters" float partially disintegrated chunks of fat salt pork. I am not finicking. I could face any one of these articles of diet alone; but in combination, boiled, and served up lukewarm in a soup plate for breakfast, in the hot cabin of a violently rolling little steamer, they take more than my slender stock of philosophy to cope with. Yet they save the delicacy for the Holy Sabbath. The only justification of this policy that I can see is that, being a day of rest, their stomachs can turn undivided and dogged attention to the process of digestion. Did I say "day of rest"? The phrase is utterly inadequate. These people are the strictest of Sabbatarians. The Puritan fathers, whom we now look back upon with a shivery thankfulness that our lot did not fall among them, would, and perhaps do, regard them as kindred spirits. But they are earnest Christians, with a truly uncomplaining selflessness of life. By some twist of my brain that reminds me of a story told me the other day which brings an old legend very prettily to this country. It is said that when Joseph of Arimathea was hounded from place to place by the Jews, he fled to England taking the Grail with him. The spot where he settled he called Avalon. When Lord Baltimore, a devout Catholic, was given a huge tract of land in the south of this little island, he christened it Avalon in commemoration of Joseph of Arimathea's also distant journey. To the disgrace of the Protestants, the Catholic exiles arrived in the "land of promise" only to discover that the spirit of persecution was rampant in this then far-off colony. Evidently the people of the country think that every man bound for the Mission is a doctor, and every woman a nurse. If my Puritan conscience had not blocked the way, I could have made a considerable sum prescribing for the ailments of my fellow passengers. One little thin woman on board has just confided to me, "Why, miss, I found myself in my stomach three times last week"--and looked up for advice. As for me, I was "taken all aback," and hastened to assure her that nothing approaching so astonishing an event had ever come within the range of my experience. I hated to suggest it to her, but I have a lurking suspicion that the catastrophe had some not too distant connection with the "brewis." By the way, all right-minded Newfoundlanders and Labradormen call it "bruse." Also by the way, it is incorrect to speak of _New_foundland. It is Newfound_land_. Neither do you go up north if you know what you are about. You go "down North"; and your friend is not bound for Labrador. She is going to "the Labrador," or, to be more of a purist still, "the Larbadore." Having put you right on these rudiments--oh! I forgot another: "Fish" is always codfish. Other finny sea-dwellers may have to be designated by their special names, but the unpretentious cod is "t' fish"; and the salutation of friends is not, "How is your wife?" or, "How is your health?" But, "How's t' fish, B'y?" I like it. It is friendly and different--a kind of password to the country. I am glad that I am not coming here as a mere traveller. The land looks so reserved that, like people of the same type, you are sure it is well worth knowing. So when, perhaps, I have been able to discover a little of its "subliminal self," the tables will be turned, and you will be eager to make its acquaintance. Then it will be my chance to offer you sage and unaccepted advice as to your inability to cope with the climate and its _entourage_. I too shall be able to prophesy unheeded a shattered constitution and undermined nerves. To be sure, old Jacques Cartier had such a poor opinion of the coast that he remarked it ought to have been the land God gave to Cain. But J.C. has gone to his long rest. After the length of this letter I judge that you envy him that repose, so I release you with my love. _St. Antoine Orphanage at last Address for one year July 6_ I have at last arrived at the back of beyond. We should have steamed right past the entrance of our harbour if the navigation had been in my hands. You make straight for a great headland jutting out into the Atlantic, when the ship suddenly takes a sharp turn round an abrupt corner, and before you know it, you are advancing into the most perfect of landlocked harbours. A great cliff rises on the left,--Quirpon Point they call it,--and clinging to its base like an overgrown limpet is a tiny cottage, with its inevitable fish stage. Farther along are more houses; then a white church with a pointed spire, and a bright-green building near by, while across the path is a very pretty square green school. Next are the Mission buildings in a group. Beyond them come more small houses--"Little Labrador" I learned later that this group is called, because the people living there have almost all come over from the other side of the Straits of Belle Isle. The ship's ladder was dropped as we came to anchor opposite the small Mission wharf. The water is too shallow to allow a large steamer to go into it, but the hospital boat, the Northern Light, with her draft of only eight feet, can easily make a landing there. We scrambled over the side and secured a seat in the mail boat. Before we knew it four hearty sailors were sweeping us along towards the little dock. Here, absolutely wretched and forlorn, painfully conscious of crumpled and disordered garments, I turned to face the formidable row of Mission staff drawn up in solemn array to greet us. As the doctor-in-charge stepped forward and with a bland smile hoped I had had a "comfortable journey," and bade me welcome to St. Antoine, with a prodigious effort I contorted my features into something resembling a grin, and limply shook his outstretched hand. To-morrow I mean to make enquiries about retiring pensions for Mission workers! No one had much sympathy with me over the loss of my trunk. They laughed and said I would be fortunate if it appeared by the end of the summer. You had better send me a box by freight with some clothing in it; I otherwise shall have to live in bed, or seek admission to hospital as a "chronic." How perfectly dear of you to have a letter awaiting me at the Orphanage. Regardless of manners I fell to and devoured it, while all the "little oysters stood and waited in a row." Like the walrus, with a few becoming words I introduced myself as their future guardian, but never a word said they. As, led by a diminutive maid, I passed from their gaze I heard an awe-struck whisper, "IT'S gone upstairs!" [Illustration: THE HERRING OF HIGH ESTATE] In answer to my questions the little maid informed me that the last mistress had left by the boat I had just missed, and that since then the children had been in her charge, with such help and supervision as the various members of the Mission staff could give. I therefore felt it was "up to me" to make a start, and I delicately enquired when the next meal was due. An exhaustive exploration of the larder revealed two herrings, one undoubtedly of very high estate. As the children looked fairly plump, I concluded that they had only been on such meagre diet since the departure of the last "mistress." The barrenness of the larder suggested a fruitful topic of conversation with which to win the confidence of these staring, open-mouthed children, and I therefore tenderly asked what they would most like to eat, supposing IT were there. One and all affirmed that "swile" meat was a delicacy such as their souls loved--and repeated questions could elucidate no further. Subsequently, on making enquiries of one of the Mission staff, I thought I detected a look which led me to suppose that I had not yet acquired the correct pronunciation of the word. We dined off the herring of lowly origin, and consigned the other to the garbage pail. Nerve as well as skill, I can assure you, is required to divide one herring into thirty-six equal parts. There is no occasion for alarm. I have not the slightest intention of starving these infants. To-morrow I go on a foraging expedition to the Mission commissariat department (there must be one somewhere), and then the fat years shall succeed the lean ones. To-night I am too tired to do more, and there is a quite absurd longing to see some one's face again. The coming year looks very long and very dreary, and although I know I shall grow to love these children, yet, oh, I wish they did not stare so when one has to blink so hard to keep the tears from falling. _July 7_ Morning! And the children may stare all they like. I no longer need to repress youthful emotions. All the same it is a trifle disconcerting. I had chosen, as I thought, a very impressive portion of Scripture for Prayers, and the children were as quiet as mice. But they never let their eyes wander from me for a single moment, until I began to feel I ought at least to have a smut on the tip of my nose. The alluring advertisement of Newfoundland, as "the coolest country on the Atlantic seaboard in the summer," is all too painfully true. It is very, very cold at present, and the sun, if sun there be, is safely ensconced behind an impenetrable bank of fog. If this is summer weather, what will the winter be! I started to write this to you in the morning, but the day has been one long series of interruptions. The work is all new to me and not exactly what I expected, but the spice of variety is not lacking. I find it very hard to understand these children and it is evident from their faces that they fail to comprehend my meaning. Yet I have a lurking suspicion that when it is an order to be obeyed, their desire to understand is not overwhelming. The children are supposed to do the work of the Home under my superintendency, the girls undertaking the housework and the boys the outside "chores." Apparently from all I hear my predecessor was a strict disciplinarian, an economical manager, an expert needlewoman, and everything I should be and am not. The sewing simply appalls me! I confess that stitching for three dozen children of all sizes had not entered into my calculations as one of the duties of a "missionary"! Yet of course I realize they must be clad as well as taught. What a pity that the climate will not allow of a simple loin cloth and a string of beads. And how infinitely more becoming. Then, too, how much easier would be the food problem were we dusky Papuans dwelling in the far-off isles of the sea. This country produces nothing but fish, and we have to plan our food supplies for a year in advance. How much corn-meal mush will David eat in twelve months? And if David eats so much in twelve months, how much will Noah, two months younger, eat in the same period of time? If one herring satisfies thirty-six, how many dozen will a herring and a half feed? Picture me with a cold bandage round my head seeking to emulate Hoover. A little mite has just come to the door to inform me that her dress has "gone abroad." Seeing my mystified look, she enlightened me by holding up a tattered garment which had all too evidently "gone abroad" almost beyond recall. Throwing the food problem to the winds I set myself with a businesslike air to sew together the ragged threads. A second knock brought me the cheerful tidings that the kitchen fire had languished from lack of sustenance. Now I had previously in my most impressive tones commanded one of the elder boys to attend to this matter, and he had promptly departed, as I thought, to "cleave the splits." Searching for him I found this industrious youth lying on his back complacently contemplating the heavens. To my remonstrance he somewhat indignantly remarked that he was only "taking a spell." A really magnificent and grandiloquent appeal to the boy's sense of honour and a homily on the dignity of labour were abruptly terminated by shrill cries resounding from the house. Rushing in, I was informed that Noah was "bawling" (which fact was perfectly evident), having jammed his fingers in trying to "hist" the window. In this country children never cry; they always "bawl." I foresee that the life of a Superintendent of an Orphan Asylum is not a simple one, and that I shall be in no danger of being "carried to the skies" on a "flowery bed of ease." Certain I am that there will only be opportunity to write to you at "scattered times"; so for the present, fare thee well. _Sunday, August 4_ You see before you, or you would if my very obvious instead of merely my astral body were in your presence, a changed and sobered being. I have made the acquaintance of the Labrador fly, and he has made mine. The affection is all on his side. Mosquito, black fly, sand fly--they are all alike cannibals. You have probably heard the old story about the difference between the Labrador and the New Jersey mosquito? The Labrador species can be readily distinguished by the black patch between his eyes about the size of a man's hand. Of the lot I prefer the mosquito. He at least is open about his evil intentions. The black fly darts at you quietly, settles down on an un-get-at-able spot, and sucks your blood. If I did not find my appetite so unimpaired, I should fancy this morning I was suffering from an acute attack of mumps. Mumps is at the moment in our midst, and as is generally the case has fallen on the poorest of the community. In this instance it is a widow by the name of Kinsey, who has six children, and lives in a miserable hovel. More of her anon. Her twelve-year-old boy comes to the Home daily to get milk for the wretched baby, whom we had heard was down with the disease. When he came this morning I told him to stay outdoors while we fetched the milk, because I knew how sketchy are the precautions of his ilk against carrying infection. "No fear, miss," he assured me. "The baby was terrible bad last night, but he's all clear this morning." But to return to the Kinsey parent. She had eight children. The Newfoundlanders are a prolific race, and life is consequently doubly hard on the women. Her husband died last fall, leaving her without a sou, and no roof over her head. The Mission gave her a sort of shack, and took two of her kiddies into the Home. The place was too crowded at the time to take any more. The doctor then wrote to the orphanages at the capital presenting the problem, and asking that they take a consignment of children. The Church of England Orphanage, of which denomination the mother is a member, was full; and the other one, which has just had a gift of beautiful buildings and grounds, "regretted they could not take any of the children, as their orphanage was exclusively for their denomination." The mother did not respond to the doctor's ironic suggestion that she should "turncoat" under the press of circumstances. They tell a story here about Kinsey, the late and unlamented. Last spring a steamer heading north on Government business sighted a fishing punt being rowed rapidly towards it, the occupant waving a flag. The captain ordered, "Stop her," thinking that some acute emergency had arisen on the land during the long winter. A burly old chap cased in dirt clambered deliberately over the rail. "Well, what's up?" asked the captain testily. "Can't you see you're keeping the steamer?" [Illustration: "HAVE YOU A PLUG OF BACCY, SKIPPER?"] "Have you got a plug or so of baccy you could give me, skipper? I hasn't had any for nigh a month, and it do be wonderful hard." The captain's reply was unrepeatable, but for such short acquaintance it was an accurate résumé of the character of the applicant. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ is all very well, but it depends on the _mortuis_; and that man's wife and children had been short of food he had "smoked away." I have the greatest admiration for the women of this coast. They work like dogs from morning till nightfall, summer and winter, with "ne'er a spell," as one of them told me quite cheerfully. The men are out on the sea in boats, which at least is a life of variety, and in winter they can go into the woods for firewood. The women hang forever over the stove or the washtub, go into the stages to split the fish, or into the gardens to grow "'taties." Yet oddly enough, there is less illiteracy among the women than among the men. [Illustration: RHODA'S RANDY] Such a nice girl is here from Adlavik as maid in the hospital. Rhoda Macpherson is her name. She told me the other day that one winter the doctor of the station near her asked the men to clear a trail down a very steep hill leading to the village, as the dense trees made the descent dangerous for the dogs. Weeks went by and the men did nothing. Finally three girls, with Rhoda as leader, took their axes every Sunday afternoon and went out and worked clearing that road. In a month it was done. The doctor now calls it "Rhoda's Randy." Yesterday afternoon I was out with my camera. (Saturday you will note. I have learned already that to be seen on Sundays in this Sabbatarian spot, even walking about with that inconspicuous black box, is anathema.) A crowd of children in a disjointed procession had collected in front of the hospital, and the patients on the balconies were delightedly craning their necks. A biting blast was blowing, but the children, clad in white garments, looked oblivious to wind and weather. It was a Sunday-School picnic. A dear old fisherman was with them, evidently the leader. "What's it all about?" I asked. "We've come to serenade the sick, miss. 'Tis little enough pleasure 'em has. Now, children, sing up"; and the "serenade" began. It was "Asleep in Jesus," and the patients loved it! I got my picture, "sketched them off," as the old fellow expressed it. In the many weeks since I saw you--and it seems a lifetime--I have forgotten to mention one important item of news. Every properly appointed settlement along this coast has its cemetery. This place boasts two. With your predilection for epitaphs you would be content. The prevailing mode appears to be clasped hands under a bristling crown; but all the same that sort of thing makes a more "cheerful" graveyard than those gloomily beautiful monuments with their hopeless "[Greek: chairete]" that you remember in the museum at Athens. There is one here which reads: Memory of John Hill who Died December 30th. 1889 Weep not, dear Parents, For your loss 'tis My etarnal gain May Christ you all take up the Cross that we Should meat again. The spelling may not always be according to Webster, but the sentiments portray the love and hope of a God-fearing people unspoiled by the roughening touch of civilization. I must to bed. Stupidly enough, this climate gives me insomnia. Probably it is the mixture of the cold and the long twilight (I can read at 9.30), and the ridiculous habit of growing light again at about three in the morning. I am beginning to have a fellow feeling with the chickens of Norway, poor dears! _August 9_ I want to violently controvert your disparaging remarks about this "insignificant little island." Do you realize that this same "insignificant little island" is four times bigger than Scotland, and that it has under its dominion a large section of Labrador? If, as the local people say, "God made the world in five days, made Labrador on the sixth, and spent the seventh throwing stones at it," then a goodly portion of those stones landed by mischance in St. Antoine. Indeed, Le Petit Nord and Labrador are so much alike in climate, people, and conditions that this part of the island is often designated locally as Labrador (never has it been my lot to see a more desolate, bleak, and barren spot). The traveller who described Newfoundland as a country composed chiefly of ponds with a little land to divide them from the sea, at least cannot be impeached for unveracity. In this northern part even that little is rendered almost impenetrable in the summer-time by the thick under-brush, known as "tuckamore," and the formidable swarms of mosquitoes and black flies. All the inhabitants live on the coast, and the interior is only travelled over in the winter with komatik and dogs. No, I am _not_ living in the midst of Indians or Eskimos. Please be good enough to scatter this information broadcast, for each letter from England reveals the fear that I am in imminent danger of being scalped alive or buried in an igloo. There are a few scattered Eskimos on Le Petit Nord, but for the most part the inhabitants are whites and half-breeds. The Indians live almost entirely in the interior of Labrador and the Eskimos around the Moravian stations. I am living amongst the descendants of the fishermen of Dorset and Devon who came out about two hundred years ago and settled on this coast for the cod-fishery. Those who live in the south are comparatively well off, but many in the north are in great poverty and often on the verge of starvation. When I look about me and see this poverty, the ignorance born of lack of opportunity, the suffering, the dirt, and degradation which are in so large a measure no fault of these poor folk, I am overwhelmed at the wealth of opportunities. Here at least every talent one has to offer counts for double what it would at home. Thousands of fishermen come from the south each spring to take part in the summer's fishery. The Labrador "liveyeres," who remain on the coast all the year round, often have only little one-roomed huts made of wood and covered with sods. In the winter the northern people move up the bays and go "furring." Both the Indians and Eskimos are diminishing in numbers, and the former at the present time do not amount to more than three or four thousand persons--and of these the Montagnais tribe make up more than half. The Moravian missionaries have toiled untiringly amongst the Eskimos, and assuredly not for any earthly reward. They go out as young men and practically spend their whole life on the coast, their wives being selected and sent out to them from home! The work of this Mission is among the white settlers. In the Home we have only one pure Eskimo, a few half-breeds (Indians and Eskimo), and the remainder are of English descent. Almost all are from Labrador. I often fancy that I must surely have slept the sleep of Rip Van Winkle. When he woke he found that the world had marched ahead a hundred years. With me the process is reversed. I am almost inclined to yield a grudging agreement to the transmigrationalists, and believe that I am re-living one of my former existences. For the part of the country in which I have awakened is a generation or so behind the world in which we live. There is no education worthy of the name, in many places no schools at all, and in others half-educated teachers eking out a miserable existence on a mere pittance. This is chiefly due to the antediluvian custom of dividing the Government educational grant on a denominational basis. A large proportion of the people can neither read nor write. There are no roads, no means of communication, no doctors or hospitals (save the Mission ones), no opportunities for improvement, no industrial work, practically no domestic animals, and on Labrador, taxation without representation! There is only one hospital provided by the Government for the whole of this island, and that one is at St. John's, which is inaccessible to these northern people for the greater part of the year. No provision whatever is made by the Government for hospitals for the Labrador. Again the only ones are those maintained by this Mission. Lack of education, lack of opportunity, and abundance of overwhelming poverty make up the lot of the majority of people in this north part of the country. Little wonder from their point of view, that one youth, returning to this land after seeing others, declared that the man he desired above all others to shoot was John Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland. _August 15_ You complain that I have told you almost nothing about these children, and you want to know what they are like. And I wish you to know, so that you will stop sending dolls to Mary who is sixteen, and cakes of scented soap to David who hates above all else to be washed. I find these children very difficult in some ways; many of them are mentally deficient, but it appears that no provision is made by the Government for dealing with such cases, and so there is nothing to do but take them in or let them starve. Some are very wild and none have the slightest idea of obedience when they first arrive. [Illustration: TOPSY'S AMBITION IS TO BECOME LIKE A FAT PIG] One girl I have christened "Topsy," and I only wish you could see her when she is in one of her tantrums, which she has at frequent intervals. With her flashing black eyes, straight, jet-black hair, square, squat shoulders, she looks the very embodiment of the Evil One. She is twelve, but shows neither ability nor desire to learn. Her habits are disgusting, and unless closely watched she will be found filling her pockets with the contents of the garbage pail--and this in spite of the fact that we are no longer dining off one herring. She says that her ambition in life is to become like a fat pig! Last night, when the children were safely tucked in bed and I had sat down to write to you, piercing shrieks were heard resounding through the stillness of the house. A tour of investigation revealed Topsy creeping from bed to bed in the darkness, pretending to cut the throats of the girls with a large carving-knife which she had stolen for this purpose. To-day Topsy is going around with her hands tied behind her back as a punishment, and in the hope that without the use of her hands we may have one day of peace at least. Poor Topsy, kindness and severity alike seem unavailing. She steals and lies with the greatest readiness, and one wonders what life holds in store for her. [Illustration: TOPSY WAS CREEPING FROM BED TO BED WITH THE CARVING-KNIFE] We have just admitted three children, so we now number more than the three dozen. One little mite of five was found last winter in a Labrador hut, deserted, half-starved, and nearly frozen to death. She was kept by a kindly neighbour until the ice conditions allowed of her being brought here. The other two, brother and sister, were found, the girl clothed in a sack, her one and only garment, and the boy in bed, minus even that covering. This is the type of child who comes to us. The doctor in charge has just paid me a visit. He says there is an epidemic of smallpox in the island, and he wants all the children to be vaccinated. The number of cases of smallpox this year in this "insignificant little island" is greater _pro rata_ than in any other country of the world. So two o'clock this afternoon is the time set apart for the massacre of the innocents. The laugh is against me! Two of our boys fell ill with a mysterious sickness, and tenderly and carefully were they nursed by me and fed with delicate portions from the king's table. I later learned with much chagrin that "chewing tobacco" (strictly forbidden) was the cause of this sudden onset. My sense of humour alone saved the situation for them! _The Children's Home August 19_ In response to my frantic cables your box reached here safely, but it has not reached me. Picture if you can my amazed incredulity yesterday to see an exact replica of myself as I once was, walking on the dock. I rubbed my eyes and stared. Yes, it _was_ my purple gown. My first impulse was to jerk it off the culprit, but I decided on more diplomatic tactics. A very little detective work elucidated the mystery. You had addressed the box in care of the Mission, thinking doubtless, in your far-sighted, Scotch way, that if sent to an individual, the said individual would have duty to pay. Knowing all too well the chronic state of my pocket-book, you anticipated untoward complications. Now, none of the Mission staff pay duties. The contents of the box were mistaken for reinforcements for the charity clothing store, and to-day my purple chambray gown, "to memory dear," walks the street on another. _Sic transit_. I should add that one of the modernists of our harbour has chosen it. The old conservatives regard our collarless necks and abbreviated skirts with horror. What with the loss _en route_ of several necessary articles of apparel, and the discovery of this further depletion of my wardrobe, I regard the oncoming winter with some misgivings. One of the crew on the Northern Light, _alias_ the Prophet, so-called because he is spirit brother to the Prophet of Doom, took a keen relish in my discomfiture, or I fancied he did. He it was who put the question in the doctor's Bible class, "Is it religious to wear overalls to church?" The house officer had carefully saved a pair of clean khaki trousers to honour the Sunday services, but in the local judgment they were no fit garment for the Lord's house. Local judgment, I may add, was not so drastic in its strictures on boudoir caps. Some very pretty ones came to service on the heads of the choir, but the verdict was a unanimously favourable one. A nomadic _Ladies' Home Journal_ was responsible for their origin. [Illustration: THE PROPHET OF DOOM] "Out of the mouths of babes," etc. I have been trying to teach the little ones the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians. Whilst undressing Solomon the other night I had occasion, or it seemed to me that I had, to speak somewhat sharply to one of the others. When I turned my attention again to Solomon, he enunciated solemnly in his baby tones, "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not love, I am become as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal." You complain most unjustly that I do not give a chronological account of events. I give you the incidents which punctuate my days, and as for the background, nothing could be simpler than to fill it in. To divert your mind from such adverse criticism, let me tell you that there is a strong suspicion abroad that I am a devout adherent of the Roman Church. Rumours of this have been coming to me from time to time, but I determined to withhold the news till its source was less in question. Now I have it on the undeniable authority of the Prophet. I have candles, lighted ones, on the dining-room table at dinner. _Post hoc, propter hoc_--and what further proof is needed! [Illustration: ANANIAS HAS BROKEN YET ANOTHER WINDOW] Ananias has broken yet another window. When I questioned him as to when the deed had been committed, he replied politely, but mournfully, that he really could not tell me how many YEARS ago it was, as if I were seeking to unearth some long undiscovered crime. _August 25_ The other day Topsy had the misfortune to fall out of bed and hit her two front teeth such a violent blow on the iron bar of the cot beside hers that bits of ivory flew about the dormitory. This necessitated a prompt matutinal visit to Dr. B., the dentist. As we waited our turn in the Convalescent Room, I overheard one patient-to-be remark to his neighbour, "They do be shockin' hard on us poor sailors. They says I've got to take a bath when I comes into hospital. Why, B'y, I hasn't had a bath since my mother washed me!" The ethics of dentistry here are so mixed that one needs a Solomon to disentangle them. Mrs. "Uncle Life"--her husband is Uncle Eliphalet--recently had all her teeth pulled out, or, to be more accurate, all her remaining teeth. As the operation involved considerable time, labour, and novocaine, she was charged for the benefit of the hospital. When two shining sets, uppers and lowers, were ready for her, she was as pleased as a boy with his first jack-knife; but not so Uncle Life. He considered it a work of supererogation that not only must one pay to have the old teeth removed, but for the new ones to replace them. Did I ever write you about our chambermaid's feet--the new one? Her name is Asenath, and she is so perfectly spherical that if you were to start her rolling down a plank she could no more stop than can those humpty-dumpty weighted dolls. 'Senath's temper is exemplary, and her intentions of the best; in fact, she will turn into a model maid. But the process of turning is in progress at the moment. It began with our cook, a pattern of neatness and all the virtues, coming into my office and complaining, "One of us'll have to go, miss." "What? Which?" I enquired, dazed by the abruptness of this decision, and wondering whether she were referring to me. "This morning, miss, you know how hot it was? Well, 'Senath comes into the kitchen and says to me, 'Tryphena, I finds my feet something wonderful.' 'Wash them, and change your stockings,' I says. 'Wash them! Why, Tryphena, I'se feared to do that. I might get a chill as would strike in.'" In a few well-chosen sentences I have explained to 'Senath the basic rules of hygiene and of this house regarding water and its uses. She has decided to stay and accept the inevitable weekly bath, but she warns me fairly that if she goes "into a decline," I must take the responsibility with her parents! With your zeal for gardens, and your attachment to angle-worms--which you will recall I do not share--you would be interested in our efforts along these lines--the gardens, not the worms. In this climate a garden is a lottery, and in ten seasons to one a spiteful summer frost will fall upon the promising potatoes and kill the lot just as they are ripening. The Eskimos at the Moravian stations put their vegetal charges to bed each night with long covers over the rows. The other day, in an old journal about the country, I came upon this passage, and it struck me "How history does repeat itself." It runs: "The soyle along the coast is not deep of earth, but bringing forth abundantly peason small, peason which our countrymen have sowen have come up faire, of which our Generall had a present acceptable for the rarenesse, being the first fruits coming up by art and industrie in that desolate and dishabited land." I can assure you that the sight of a "peason," however small, if it did not come out of a tin can, would be an acceptable offering to your friend. Even in summer we get no fresh vegetables or fruits with the exception of occasional lettuce or local berries. The epitome of this spot is a tin! In the same old journal Whitbourne goes on to say that "Nature had recompensed that only defect and incommoditie of some sharpe cold by many benefits--with incredible quantitie and no less varietie of kindes of fish in the sea and fresh water, of trouts and salmons and other fish to us unknowen." I have eaten fish (interspersed liberally with tinned stuff) and drunken fish and thought and spoken and dreamt fish ever since I arrived. But don't pity me for imaginary hardships. I like fish better than I do meat, and for that matter our winter meat supply is walking past my window this minute. He goes by the name of "Billy the Ox"; and I am informed that as soon as it begins to freeze, he is to be killed and frozen _in toto_, for the winter consumption of the staff, patients, and children. So our winter is not to consist of one long Friday. _August 28_ You already know the worst about my leanings to Papacy; but to-day I propose to set your mind at rest on an idea with which you have hypnotized yourself--namely, that I am going to die of malnutrition during what you are pleased to term the "long Arctic winter." I have no intention of starving, and as for the "long Arctic winter," I do not believe there is any such beast, as the farmer said when he looked at the kangaroo in the circus. I was sitting by my window quietly sewing the other day (that sentence alone should reveal to you how many miles I have travelled from your tutelage) when I overheard one of the children stoutly defending what I took at first to be my character. The next sentence disabused me--it was my figure under discussion. "She's not fat!" averred Topsy. "I'll smack you if you says it again." "Well," muttered David, the light of reason being thus forcibly borne in upon him, "she may not be 'zactly fat, but she's fine and hearty." [Illustration: NOT FAT, BUT FINE AND HEARTY] If this is the case, and my mirror all too plainly confirms the verdict, and the summer has not waned, what will the "last estate of that woman be," after the winter has passed over her? They tell me that every one here puts on fat in the cold weather as a kind of windproof jacket. I enclose a photograph of me on landing, so you may remember me as I was. No, you need not worry either over communications in the winter. You really ought to have an intimate acquaintance with our telegraph service, after you have, so to speak, subsidized it during the past three months. It runs in winter as well as summer; and I see no prospect of its closing if you keep it on such a sound financial basis. Moreover, the building is devoted to the administration of the law in all its branches. One half of it is the post and telegraph office, while the other serves as the jail. The whole structure is within a stone's throw of the church and school, as if the corrective institutions of the place believed in intensive cultivation. But to return to the jail. The walls are very thin, and every sound from it can be plainly heard in the telegraph office adjoining. Friday morning the operator, a capable and long-suffering young woman, came over to complain to the doctor that she really found it impossible to carry out the duties of her office, if the feeble-minded Delilah Freak was to be incarcerated only six inches distant from her ear. It seems that Delilah spends her days yelling at the top of her lungs, and Miss Dennis states that she prefers to take telegraphic messages down in competition with the mail steamer's winch rather than with Delilah's "bawling." [Illustration: DELILAH BAWLING] I know all about competition in noises after trying to write in this house. The ceilings are low and thin, and the walls are near and thin, and the children are omnipresent and not thin, and their wants and their joys and their quarrels are as numerous as the fishes in the sea, and there you have the problem in a nutshell. Now I must "hapse the door," and hie me to bed. As a matter of fact the people here are far too honest for us to lock the doors. Such a thing as theft is unheard of. Some may call it uncivilized. I call it the millennium! _August 31_ I believe that the writer who described the climate of this country as being "nine months snow and three months winter" was not far from the truth. In June the temperature of our rooms registered just above freezing point, in July we were enveloped in continuous fog, and in August we are having snow. Such a tragic event has occurred. Our lettuce has been eaten by the Mission cow! You know how hard it is to get anything to grow here. Well, after having nearly killed ourselves in making a square inch of ground into something resembling a bed, we had watched this lettuce grow from day to day as the little green shoots struggled bravely against the frost and cold. Then a few nights ago I was awakened by the tinkle of a bell beneath my window. Hastily flinging on wrapper and shoes I fled to save our one and only ewe lamb. But all the morning light revealed was a desperate cold in the head, and an empty bed from which the glory had departed. Topsy has just been amusing herself by turning on the corridor taps to watch the water run downstairs! Oh! Topsy, "'Tis thine to teach us what dull hearts forget How near of kin we are to springing flowers." News has just reached us that the mail boat from St. Barbe to St. Antoine has gone ashore on the rocks and is a total wreck. Happily no lives were lost, but unhappily wrecks are of such frequent occurrence on this dangerous coast as to excite little comment. Drusilla, aged five, has been to my door to enquire if the children may play with their dolls in the house. I believe in open-air treatment, so I replied with kindness, but firmly withal, that "out of doors" was the order of the day. I was a little electrified to hear her return to the playroom and announce that "Teacher says you are to go out, every darned one of you!" I was equally electrified the other day to overhear Drusilla enquiring of her fellow philosophers which they liked the best, "Teacher, the Doctor, or the Lord Jesus Christ." In the midst of writing to you I was called away to interview a young man from the other side of the harbour. He wanted me to give him some of the milk used in the Home, for his baby, as at the hospital they could only furnish him with canned milk, guaranteed by the label, he claimed, to give "typhoid, diphtheria, and scarlet fever"! _September 7_ It is a windy, rainy night, and I have told Topsy, who has a cold, that she cannot come with us to church. After a wild outburst of anger she was heard to mutter that "Teacher wouldn't let her go to church because she was afraid she would get too good." The fall of the year is coming on and the evenings are made wonderful by two phenomena--the departure of the cannibalistic flies, and the Northern lights. Twice at home I remember seeing an attenuated aurora and thinking it wonderful. No words can describe this display on these crisp and lovely nights. There is a tang and snap in the air, and the earth beneath and the heavens above seem vibrating with unearthly life. The Eskimos say that the Northern lights are the spirits of the dead at play, but I like to think of them, too, as the translated souls of the icebergs which have gone south and met a too warm and watery death in the Gulf Stream. Certainly all the colours of those lovely monarchs of the North are reflected dimly in the heavens. The lights move about so constantly that one fancies that the soul of the berg, freed at last from its long prison, is showing the astonished worlds of what it is capable. The odd thing was that when I first saw them on a clear night, the stars shone through them, only they looked like Coleridge's "wan stars which danced between." I can vouch for the truth of another "sidelight," though from only one experience. One night last week, clear and frosty, I had just gone to my room at about eleven o'clock when the doctor called me to come out and "hear the lights." I thought surely I must have misunderstood, but on reaching the balcony and listening, I could distinctly hear the swish of the "spirits" as they rushed across the sky. It sounds like a diminished silk petticoat which has lost its blatancy, but retains its personality. Little did I realize at the time my good fortune in arriving here in daylight. It seems that it is the invariable habit of all coastal steamers to reach here at night, and dump the dumbly resenting passengers in the darkness into the tiny punts which cluster around the ship's side. Since my arrival every single boat has appeared shortly before midnight, or shortly after. In either case it means that the men of the Mission must work all night landing patients and freight, and the next day there is a chastened and sleepy community to meet the forthcoming tasks. It is especially hard on the hospital folk, for the steamer only takes about twenty hours to go to the end of her run and return, and they try and send those cases which do not have to be admitted back by the same boat on her southern journey. This means an all-night clinic. But I can say to the credit of the patients and staff that I have never heard one word of complaint. That is certainly a charming feature about this life. There are plenty of things to growl about, but one is so reduced to essentials that the ones selected are of more importance than those which afford such fruitful topics in civilization. I have just overheard Gabriel informing the other children that "Satan was once an angel, but he got real saucy, so God turned him out of heaven." Paradise Lost in a sentence! The night after the audible lights a furious rain and wind storm broke over us. No wonder the trees have such a struggle for existence, if these storms are frequent. They do not last long, but they are the real thing while they are in progress. I used to smile when I was told that the Home was riveted with iron bolts to the solid bedrock, but that night when I lay wide awake, combating an incipient feeling of _mal de mer_ as my bed rocked with the force of the gale, I thanked the fates for the foresight of the builders. Never before had I believed in the tale of the church having been blown bodily into the harbour; but during those wild hours of darkness I was certain at each succeeding gust that we were going to follow its example. Dawn--a pale affair looking out suspiciously on the chastened world--broke at last, and I "histed" my window (to quote the estimable 'Senath). The rain had stopped. The cheated wind was whistling around the corners of the old wooden buildings, and taking out its spite on any passers-by who must venture forth to work. The harbour, usually so peaceful and so sheltered, was lashed into a cauldron of boiling white foam, and the rocks were swept so clean that they at least had "shining morning faces." I dressed quickly and ran down to the wharf to enquire as to the health of the Northern Light. The first person I met was the Prophet. He was positively elate. If I were a pantheist I should think him a relative of the northeast wind. The storm of the previous night had been exactly to his liking. All his worst prognostications had been fulfilled, and quite a bit thrown in _par dessus le marché_. He told me that a tiny, rickety house across the harbour had first been unroofed, and then one of the walls blown in. It is a real disaster for the family, for they are poor enough without having Kismet thus descend upon them. The hospital boat had held on safely, but several little craft were driven ashore. Naturally the children love the aftermath of such an event, for the world is turned for them into one large, entrancing puddle, bordered with embryo mud pies. Topsy again! I am informed that she has tried to convert her Sunday best into a hobble skirt, reducing it in the process to something hopelessly ludicrous. It can never, never be worn again. My arm aches and I cannot decide whether it is from much orphan scrubbing or from much writing, but in either case I must bid you _au revoir_. _September 25_ Last night I was awakened by a terrific noise proceeding from the lower regions. Armed with my umbrella, the only semblance of a stick within reach, I descended on a tour of investigation. Opening the larder door I beheld six huge dogs, and devastation reigning supreme. These dogs are half wolf in breed, and very destructive, as I can testify. When I wildly brandished my umbrella, which could not possibly have harmed them, they jumped through the closed window leaving not a pane of glass behind. This, I suppose, is merely a nocturnal interlude to break the monotony of life in a country which boasts no burglars. The children attend the Mission school, and yesterday Topsy was sent home in dire disgrace for lying and cheating. She is not to be permitted to return until she is willing to confess and apologize. She thereupon tried to commit suicide by swallowing paper pellets, and in the night the doctor had to be called in to prescribe. She is white and wan to-day, but when I went in to bid her good-night I found her thrilling over a new prayer which she had learned, and which she repeated to me with deep emotion: "Little children, be ye wise, Speak the truth and tell no lies. The LORD'S portion is to dwell Forever in the flames of hell." I want to tell you something about our babies. They are four in number. David, aged five, considers himself quite a big boy, and a leader of the others. His father was frozen to death in Eskimo Bay some years ago whilst hunting food for his family. Although David is always boasting of his strength and the superior wisdom of his years, yet he is really very tiny for his age. He is a delightful little optimist, who announces cheerfully after each failure to do right that he is "going to be good all the time now," to which we add the mental reservation, "until next time." He is the proud possessor of a Teddy bear. This long-suffering animal was a source of great pleasure until a short time ago when David started making a first-hand investigation to find out where the "squeak" came from--an investigation which ended disastrously for the bear, however it may have furthered the cause of science. Last month I went to Nameless Cove to fetch to the Home a little boy of three, of whom I have already written you. Nameless Cove is about twelve miles west of St. Antoine. I have never seen such a wretched hovel--a one-roomed log hut, completely destitute of furniture. The door was so low I had to bend almost double to enter. A rough shelf did duty for a bed, upon which lay an old bedridden man, while at the other end lay a sick woman with a child beside her, and crouched below was an idiot daughter. Altogether nine persons lived in this hut, eight adults and this one boy. Ananias is an illegitimate child, and has lived with these grandparents since his mother lost her reason and was removed to the asylum at St. John's. The child was almost destitute of clothing, and covered with vermin. He has the face of a seraph, and a voice that lisps out curses with the fluency of a veteran trooper. Ananias is David's shadow; he follows him everywhere, and echoes all his words as if they were gems of wisdom, far above rubies. Indeed, when David has ceased speaking, one waits involuntarily for Ananias to begin in his shrill treble tones. He is a hopeless child to correct, for when you imagine you are scolding him very severely, and you look for the tears of penitence to flow, he puts up his little face with an angelic smile, and lisps, "Tiss me." Drusilla, whose slight acquaintance you have already made, is three and comes from Savage Cove. The father has gradually become blind and the mother is crippled. Drusilla keeps us all on the alert, for we never know what she will be doing next. On Sunday mornings she is put to rest with the other little ones while we are at church. On returning last Sunday I found that she had secured a box of white ointment (thought to be quite beyond her reach), and with her toothbrush painted one side of the baby's face white, which with her other rosy cheek gave her the appearance of a clown. Not content with portrait painting, Drusilla then turned her energies to house decoration, the result attained on the wall being entirely to the satisfaction of the artist, as was evidenced by the proud smile with which our outcry was greeted. The real baby is Beulah, just two years, and she exercises her gentle but despotic sway over all, from the least to the greatest. She is continually upsetting the standard of neatness which was once the glory of this Home, by sprawling on the floors, dragging after her a headless doll with sawdust oozing from every pore. A dilapidated bunny and several mangled pictures complete the procession. It is hopeless to protest, for she just looks as if she could not understand how any one could object to such priceless treasures. She awakens us at unconscionable hours in the morning, when all reasonable beings are still sleeping the sleep of the just, and keeps up a perpetual chatter interspersed with highly dangerous gymnastic feats upon her bed. Can you find any babies throughout the British Isles to match mine? _October 20_ Since last I wrote you we have had a very strenuous time in the Home; the entire family has been down with measles. Then when that was over and the children well, the sewing maid, whom I had engaged shortly after my arrival, gave notice, shook the dust from her feet, and I was left single-handed. It took the whole of my time to keep these forty-odd infants fed, clothed, and washed, and I had no leisure to write to you even at "scattered times." It seemed to me that the appetites of these _enfants terribles_ grew abnormally, that their clothes rent asunder with lightning-like rapidity, and that they fell into mud heaps with even greater facility than usual. It was sometimes a delicate problem to decide which of many pressing duties had the prior claim. Whether to try and feed the hungry (the kitchen range having sprung a leak), to start to repair two hundred odd garments (the weekly mend), or to resuscitate one of the babies (just rescued from the reservoir). At such times I would wonder if I were somewhere near attaining to that state of experience when I should be able to appreciate your alluring phrase, "the fun of mothering an orphanage." I must begin and tell you now about the children we have received since my last letter. Mike, aged eight, came to us from St. Barbe Hospital, as he had no home to which he could return. Incidentally it takes the entire staff to keep this boy moderately tidy, for he and his garments have an unfortunate inclination to part asunder, and we are kept in constant apprehension for the credit of the Orphanage. But Mike, whether with his clothes or without, always turns up smiling and on excellent terms with himself, entirely regardless of the mental torture we endure as he comes into view. Indeed, the wider apart are his garments, the broader is his smile. He weeps quietly each night as we wash him, for that is a work of supererogation for which he has at present no use. Deborah and her brother Gabriel were here when I came. Their ages are eleven and five, and they come from the far north. Deborah was in the Mission Hospital at Iron Bound Islands for some time as the result of a burning accident. While trying to lift a pan of dog-food from the stove she upset the scalding contents over her legs. Her elder brother had to drive her eighteen miles on a komatik to the hospital, and the poor child must have suffered greatly. Gabriel is a very naughty, but equally lovable child. He is never out of mischief, but he is always very penitent for his misdeeds--afterwards! His bent is towards theology, and he speaks with the authority of an ancient divine on all matters pertaining thereto, and with an air of finality which brooks no argument. When some one was being given the priority in point of age over me, he was heard to indignantly exclaim that "Jesus and Teacher are the oldest people in the world." He is no advocate for the equality of the sexes, and closes all discussion on equal rights by explaining that "God made the boys and Jesus the girls." Our fast-coming winter is sending its harbingers, seen and unseen, into our harbour. Chief among these one notices the assertiveness of the dogs. All through the summer they slink pariah-like about the place, eating whatever they can pick up, and seeking to keep their miserable existence as much in the background as possible. Now the winter is approaching, and it is "their little day." Mrs. Uncle Life can testify to the fact that they are not wholly suppressed when it is not "their little day." Last summer she found no less important a personage than the leader of the team in her bed. Her newly baked "loaf" was lying on the pantry shelf before the open window. Whiskey (this place is strictly prohibition, but every team boasts its "Whiskey") leaped in, made a satisfying banquet off her bread, and then forced open the door into her bedroom adjoining the pantry. He found it a singularly barren field for adventure, but after his unaccustomed hearty meal the bed looked tempting. He was found there two hours later placidly asleep. [Illustration: MRS. UNCLE LIFE FOUND THE LEADER OF THE TEAM IN HER BED] The children are looking forward to Christmas and are already writing letters to Santa Claus, which are handed to me with great secrecy to mail to him. I once watched the little ones playing at Christmas with an old stump of a bush to which they attached twigs as gifts and gravely distributed them to one another. When I saw one mite handing a dead twig to a smaller edition of himself, and announcing in a lordly fashion that it was a PIANO, I realized what Father Christmas was expected to be able to produce. _November 1_ My world is transformed into fairyland. Light snow has fallen during the night, and every "starigan," every patch of "tuckamore" is "decked in sparkling raiment white." As I was dressing I looked out of my window, and for the first time in my life saw a dog team and komatik passing. The day was full of adventure. For the children the snow meant only rejoicing; but as the highway was as slippery as glass, and the older folk had not yet got their "winter legs," there were many minor casualties. Mrs. Uncle Life, aged seventy and small and spherical, solved the problem of the hills by sitting down and sliding. She commended the method to me, saying that it served very well on week days, but was lamentably detrimental to her Sunday best. Ananias is developing fast and bids fair to rival Topsy. He has a mania for eating anything and everything, and what he cannot eat, he destroys. Within the past few weeks he has swallowed the arm of his Teddy bear, half a cake of soap, and a tube of tooth-paste. He has also bitten through two new hot-water bottles. During the short time he has been here he has broken more windows than any other child in the Home. If he thinks politeness will save the day, he says in the sweetest way possible, "Excuse me, Teacher, for doing it"; but if he sees by my face that retribution is swift and sure, he says in the most pathetic of tones, "Teacher, I have a pain." [Illustration: "TEACHER, I HAVE A PAIN"] I must make you acquainted with our "Yoho." Every well-regulated fishing village has one, but we have to thank our neighbour, the Eskimo, for the picturesque name. In our more prosaic parlance it is plain "ghost." Many years ago when the Mission was in need of a building in which to accommodate some of its workers, it purchased a house belonging to a local trader by the name of Isaac Spouseworthy. This made an admirable Guest House; but it has since fallen into disuse for its original purpose, and is being employed as a temporary repository for the clothing sent for the poor, till the fine new storehouse shall have been built. This old Guest House has been selected by our local apparition as a place of visitation. It is affirmed, on the incontrovertible testimony of the Prophet and no inconsiderable following, that the spirit returns of an evening to the old house he built forty years ago, to wander through the familiar rooms. The villagers see lights there nightly; and though all our investigation has failed to reveal any presence (barring the rats), bodily or otherwise, the bravest of them would hesitate many a long minute before he would enter the haunted spot after nightfall. Rumour has it that the Guest House is built on the site of an old French cemetery. Our "irrepressible Ike" therefore cannot lack for society, though how congenial it is cannot be determined. Judging from the records of the ceaseless rows between the French and English on Le Petit Nord, there must be some lively nights in ghostland. The doctor suggested that if a burglar wished to steal the clothing, this spook would be his most effective accomplice, but such tortuous psychology has failed to satisfy the fishermen. To them we seem callous souls, to whom the spirit world is alien. This ghostly encroachment on our erstwhile quiet domain has had more than one inconvenient result. The Mission is very short of houses for its workmen, and was planning to rebuild and put in order a part of this now haunted domicile for one family. The man for whom it was destined now refuses to live there, as his children have vetoed the idea. In this land the word of the rising generation is law, and this refusal is therefore final. The children of this North Country are given what they wish and when and how. Naturally the results of such a policy are serious. There are many cases of hopeless cripples about here who refused to go to hospital for treatment when their trouble was so slight that it could have been rectified. Now the children must look forward to a life of disability through their parents' short-sightedness. But when I think of what it means to these poor women to have perhaps ten children to care for, and all the rest of the work of the house and garden on their shoulders, I cannot wonder that their motto is "peace at any price." Spirits might be called the outstanding feature of our harbour, for the Piquenais rocks at the very entrance are the abode of another familiar _revenant_. The Prophet assures me that thirty years ago a vessel and crew were wrecked there, and on every succeeding stormy evening since that day, the captain, with creditable perseverance, waves his light on that wind-and surf-swept rock. In this instance the prophetical authority is in dispute, for there are those who assert that the light is shown by fairies to toll boats to their doom on the foggy point. The more scientifically minded explain the mysterious light as a defunct animal giving out gas. It must be a persistent gas which can retain its efficacy for thirty long and adventurous years. [Illustration: THE YOHO] In the course of these researches several interesting points of natural history and science have been elucidated. Doubtless you do not know that all cats are related to the devil, but you can readily see the brimstone in their fur if you have the temerity to rub them on a dusky evening. Neither has it come to your attention that under no consideration must you allow the water in which potatoes have been washed to run over your hands. In the latter event, warts innumerable will result. Our cook has just come in with the news that supper is not to be forthcoming. 'Senath was left in charge while Tryphena went on an errand for me. Left-over salad was to have formed the basis of the evening meal, but the said basis has now disintegrated, 'Senath having placed the dish in a superheated oven. The nature of the resultant object is indeterminate, but uneatable. I solace myself that sanctified starvation will be beneficial to my "fine and hearty" figure. We have suffered again with the dogs. One of the children's birthdays fell on Saturday, and we decided to give the whole "crew" ice-cream to fittingly celebrate the event. It was made in good time and put out to keep cool in what we took to be a safe spot. The party preceding the _pièce de résistance_ was in full swing when an ominous disturbance was detected from the direction of the woodshed. Investigation revealed two angry dogs alternately snarling at each other and devouring the last lick of the treat. The catholicity of canine taste was no solace to the aggrieved assembly. The children have lately been making excursions into the theological field. The latest problem brought to me for settlement was, "Does God live in the Methodist Church?" Truly a two-horned dilemma. If I said "yes" the anthropomorphic teaching was undoubted; while if the answer were in the negative I should be guilty of fostering the abominable denominational spirit which ruins this land. My reply must have been unconvincing, for I overheard the children later deciding, the Methodist Church having been barred as a place of residence, that the attic was the only remaining possibility. It is the one spot in the Home unvisited by them, and therefore "unseen." Unseemly altercations have summoned me to the kitchen, and I return to close this over-long chronicle. I was met there by Tryphena, a large sheet in her hands, and an accusing expression on her face which stamped her as a family connection of the Prophet's. "It's not my fault, miss," she began. "No, Tryphena? Well, whose is it, and what is it?" "Look at that sheet, miss, a new one. 'Senath was ironing, and had folded it just ready to put away. Then she suddenly wants a drink, so she goes off leaving the iron in the middle of the sheet. Half an hour later she remembers. When she got back, of course the iron had burnt its way straight through all the layers." Aside from destruction, in what direction would you say that 'Senath's forte did lie? _November 17_ I have received your letter with its pointed remarks about the long delays of the mail-carrier. I consider them both unnecessary and unkind. But as David would say, "I am going to be good all the time now." We have this moment returned from church, to which the children love to go; it is the great excitement of the week. They sit very quietly, except Topsy, but how much they understand I cannot say. The people sing with deliberation, each syllable being made to do duty for three, to prolong the enjoyment--or the agony--according as your musical talent decides. Frequently there is no one to play the instrument, and the hymns are started several times, until something resembling the right pitch is struck. Sometimes a six-line hymn will be started to a common metre tune, and all goes swimmingly until the inevitable crash at the end of the fourth line. But nothing daunted, we try and try again. I have supplied our smiling-faced cherubs with hymn books in order that "Their voices may in tune be found Like David's harp of solemn sound" --excuse the adaptation. This morning the service was particularly dreary. Hymn after hymn started to end in conspicuous failure, followed by an interminable discourse on the sufferings of the damned. But we ended cheerfully by warbling forth the joys of heaven-- "Where congregations ne'er break up And Sabbaths never end!" Last week we had a thrilling event; one of the girls formerly in this Home was married, and we all went to the wedding, even the little tots who are too young for regular services. They afterwards told me they would like to go on Sundays, so I imagine they think the marriage ceremony a regular item of Divine worship. Alas! I almost disgraced myself when the clergyman solemnly announced to the intending bride and bridegroom that the holy estate of matrimony had been "ordained of God for the persecution of children"! * * * * * How you would have laughed to see me the other night. The steamer arrived at midnight, and as we were expecting some children I went down to meet them. There were three little boys, Esau, Joseph, and Nathan, eight, six, and four years of age. I bore them in triumph to the bathroom, feeling that even at that late hour cleanliness should be compulsory. But I soon desisted from my purpose and as quickly as possible bundled the dirty children into my neat, snowy beds! They kicked, they fought, they bit, they yelled and they swore! All my sleeping innocents awoke at the noise and added their voices to the confusion. I momentarily expected an in-rush of neighbours, and a summons the following day for cruelty to children. Uriah has come to inform me that he cannot "cleave the splits," as his "stomach has capsized." I felt it incumbent to administer a dose of castor oil, thinking that might be sufficient punishment for what I had reason to believe was only a dodge to escape work. It was hard for me to give the oil, but harder still to have the boy look up after it with a quite cherubic smile, and ask if it were the same oil as Elisha gave the widow woman! Whatever can survive in this land of difficulties survives with a zeal and vitality which only proves the strength of the obstacles overcome. The flies, the mosquitoes, and the rats are proofs. We have none of your meek little wharf rats here. Ours are brazen imps, sleek and shameless, undaunted by cats or men. Their footmarks are as big as those of young puppies (withal not too well-fed puppies), and their raids on man and beast alike ally them with the horde Pandora loosed. Each day the toll mounts. One morning Miss Perrin, the head nurse, awakened to find one of her prize North Labrador boots gnawed to the rim. All that remained to tell the tale was the bright tape by which it was hung up, and the skin groove through which the tape threads. [Illustration: THEY ATE THE ENTIRE BOOT] On the next occasion of their public appearance the night nurse was summoned by agonized shrieks to the children's ward. A large rodent had climbed upon Ishimay's bed and bitten her. There were the marks of his teeth in her hand, and the blood was dripping. Nor do they limit their depredations to the hospital. The barn man turned over a bale of hay last week and disclosed no less than twenty-seven rats young and old, fat and lean, though chiefly fat. I rejoice to record that this galaxy at least has departed Purgatory-wards. The dentist left a whole bag of clean linen on the floor of his bedroom. The morning following he found that the raiders had eaten their way through the sack, cutting a series of neat round holes in each folded garment as they progressed. The scuffling and the squealing and the scraping and the gnawing and the scratching of rats in the walls and cupboards are worse than any phalanx of "Yohos" ever summoned from spookland! Oh! Pied Piper of Hamelin, why tarry so long! _December 14_ The last boat of the season has come and gone and now we settle down to the real life of the winter. Plans innumerable are under way for winter activities, and the children are on tiptoe over the prospect of approaching Christmastide. Their jubilations fill the house, and writing is even more difficult than usual. For days before the last steamer finally reached us there were speculations as to her coming. Rumour, a healthy customer in these parts, three times had it that she had gone back, having given up the unequal contest with the ice. As all our Christmas mail was aboard her, the atmosphere was tense. Then came the news from Croque that she was there, busily unloading freight. Six hours later her smoke was sighted, and from the yells my bairns set up, you would have thought that the mythical sea serpent was entering port. She butted her way into the standing harbour ice as far as she could get, and promptly began discharging cargo. Teams of dogs sprang up seemingly out of the snow-covered earth, and in a mere twinkling our frozen and silent harbour was an arena of activity. The freight is dumped on the ice over the ship's side with the big winch, and each man must hunt for his own as it descends. Some of the goods are dropped with such a thud that the packages "burst abroad." This is all very well if the contents are of a solid and resisting nature; but if butter, or beans, or such like receive the shock, most regrettable results ensue. During the hours of waiting here she froze solidly into the ice, and had to be blasted out before she could commence her journey to the southward. She has taken the mails with her, and this letter must come to you by dog team--your first by that method. In the early part of this summer three little orphan girls came to us from Mistaken Cove. Their names are Carmen, Selina, and Rachel, and their ages, ten, seven, and five. Their father has been dead for some years, and the mother recently died of tuberculosis. They did look such a pathetic little trio when they first arrived. I went down to the wharf to meet them, and three quaint little figures stepped from the hospital boat, with dresses almost to their feet. Carmen held the hands of her two sisters, and greeted me with "Are you the woman wot's going to look after we?" I assured her that I hoped to perform that function to the best of my ability, and then she confided to me that she had brought with her a box containing her mother's dresses and her mother's hair. I fancy the responsibility of the entire household must have rested on Carmen's tiny shoulders; she is like a little old woman, and even her voice is care-worn. I hunted up some dolls for the two younger kiddies, but had not the courage to offer one to their elder sister. She evidently felt that dolls were altogether too precious for common use, and carefully explained to her charges that they were only for Sundays! When I next went to the playroom it was to find the three little sisters sitting solemnly in a row on the locker with their dolls safely packed away beneath. I persuaded them that dolls were not too good for "human nature's daily food," and since then they have been supremely happy with their babies. Carmen is so devoted to little Rachel that she cannot bear the thought of her being in trouble. Rachel is very human, and in the brief time she has been with us has had many falls from the paths of rectitude. One day shortly after their arrival Rachel had been naughty, and I had taken her upstairs to explain to her the enormity of her offence, Carmen standing meanwhile at the bottom of the stairs wringing her hands. When Rachel reappeared and announced that she had not even been punished, Carmen was seen to give her a good slap on her own account, although evidently well pleased that no one else had dared to touch her child. Carmen is extremely religious, and her prayers at night are lengthy and devout. She starts off with the Lord's Prayer, the Apostles' Creed; several collects follow, and she concludes with a "Hail Mary!" You have already made the acquaintance of Billy the Ox, the now dear departed, who constitutes our winter's frozen meat supply. Our allotted portion of him is hung in the balcony outside my window. Being on the second floor it was thought to be sanctuary from marauders. Last night I was awakened by an uneasy feeling of a presence entering my room. Starting up, I made out in the moonlight the great tawny form of one of our biggest dogs. He was in the balcony making so far futile leaps to secure a section of Billy. My shout discouraged him, and he jumped off the roof to the snow beneath. He had managed to scale the side of the house--but how? For some time I was at a loss to discover, till I remembered a ladder which had been placed perpendicularly against the wall on the other side. One of the double windows had broken loose in a recent storm of wind, and the barn man had had to go up and mend it. True to type he had left the ladder _in statu quo_. Up master dog had climbed straight into the air, along the slippery rungs of the ladder. When he reached the level of the tempting odour, he had alighted on the balcony roof. Then, pursuing the odour to its lair, he had discovered Billy, and me! At breakfast I told my adventurette, and the story was instantly capped with others. Only one shall you have. The doctor was away on a travel last winter, and late one blustersome night came to a little village. He happened to have a very beautiful leader of which he was inordinately careful, so he asked his host for the night if he had a shed into which he could put Spider out of the weather. "Why, to be sure, just at the left of the door." It was dark and blowing, and the doctor went outside and thrust the beastie into the only building in sight. After breakfast he went with his host to get the dogs. When he started to open the door of the shelter in which Spider was incarcerated, the fisherman burst out in dismay, "You never put him in there? That's where I keeps my only sheep." At that second the dog appeared, a spherical and satisfied specimen. He had taken the stranger in--completely. [Illustration: HE HAD TAKEN THE STRANGER IN] The cold is intense, and to combat it in these buildings of green lumber is a task worthy of Hercules. We make futile attempts to keep the pipes from freezing; but the north wind has a new trump each night. He squeezes in through every chink and cranny, and once inside the house goes whistling malignantly through the chilly rooms and corridors. We keep an oil stove burning in our bathroom at night with a kettle of water on it ready for our morning ablutions. To-day, when I went in to dress--one does not dress in one's bedroom, but waits in bed till the bathroom door's warning slam informs that the coast is clear--there was the stove still merrily burning, and there was the kettle of water on it--FROZEN. Next month there is to be a sale in Nameless Cove, twelve miles to the westward of us. The doctor has asked me to attend. I accepted delightedly, as twenty-four hours free from fear of rats and frozen pipes draws me like a magnet. Moreover, who wouldn't be on edge if it were one's first dog drive! I found Gabriel crying bitterly in bed the other night because he had in a fit of mischief thrown a stone at the Northern lights, which is regarded as an act of impiety by the Eskimo people. It was some time before I could pacify the child, or get him to believe that no dire results would follow his dreadful deed. But at length when "comforting time" was come for him, he consoled himself by supposing that Teacher must be "stronger than the devil." _December 27_ I certainly was never born to be a teacher and it is something to discover one's limitations. For several Sundays now I have been labouring to instruct our little ones in the story of the birth of Jesus, and I have repeated the details again and again in order to impress them upon their wandering minds. Last Sunday I questioned them, and finally asked triumphantly, "Well, David, who was the Babe in the manger?" With a wild look round the room for inspiration, David enunciated with swelling pride, "Beulah, Teacher." We had a lovely time on Christmas. The night before the children hung up their stockings, but it was midnight before I could get round to fill them, they were so excited and wakeful. I "hied me softly to my stilly couch," and was just dropping off into delicious slumber when at 1 A.M. the strains of musical instruments (which you had sent) were heard below. Then I appreciated to the full the sentiment of that poet who sang: "Were children silent, we should half believe That joy were dead, its lamp would burn so low." Later in the day we had our Christmas tree, when Topsy was overjoyed at receiving her first doll. There is something very sweet about the child in spite of all her wilful ways, and she is a real little mother to her doll. We had a great dinner, as you may imagine. I overheard some of the little boys teasing Solomon, who is only three, to see if he would not forgo some particular choice morsel upon his plate, to which an emphatic "no" was always returned. Then by varying gradations of importance came the question, would he give it to Teacher? The answer not being considered satisfactory, Gabriel felt that the time had come for the supreme test, Would Solomon give it to God and the angels? The reply left so much to be desired that it is better unrecorded. In our harbour lives a blind Frenchman, François Détier by name. He came here in his youth to escape conscription. The fisher people have travelled a long road since the old feuds which scarred the early history of Le Petit Nord, and François is a much-loved member of the community. Since the oncoming of the inoperable tumour, which little by little has deprived him of his sight, the neighbours vie with each other by helping him. One day a load of wood will find its way to his door. The next a few fresh "turr," a very "fishy" sea auk, are left ever so quietly inside his woodshed--and so it goes. It is a constant marvel to me that these people, who live so perilously near the margin of want, are always so eager to share up. François is sitting in our cellar as I write pulling nails from old boxes with my new patent nail-drawer. A moment ago I could not resist the temptation of putting the _Marseillaise_ on the gramophone, and I went down to find him with tears rolling down his cheeks as he hummed, "Allons, enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé." We've invented a new job for him; he is to "serve" our pipes with bandages. This means swathing them round and round, and finally adding an outer covering of newspaper, which has a much-vaunted reputation for keeping cold out. Let me tell you the latest epic of the hospital pipes. Those to the bathroom run through the office. In the last blizzard they burst. The fire in the fireplace was a conflagration; the steam radiator was singing a credible song; and as the water trickled down the pipe from the little fissure, it froze solid before it was three inches on its way! A friend sent me for Christmas a charming little poem. One verse runs: "May nothing evil cross this door, And may ill fortune never pry About these Windows; may the roar And rains go by. "Strengthened by faith, these rafters will Withstand the battering of the storm; This hearth, though all the world grow chill, Will keep us warm." I am thinking of hanging the card opposite our pipes as a reminder of the "way they should go." _January 15_ The journey to Nameless Cove Fair was all that I had hoped for and a little more thrown in to make weight. Clear and shining, with glittering white snow below and sparkling blue sky above, the day promised fair in spite of a mercury standing at ten below zero, and a number of komatiks from the Mission started merrily forth. All went well, and we reached Nameless Cove without adventure, but at sundown the wind rose. When we left the sale at ten o'clock to return to the house where I was to spend the night, we had to face the full fury of a living winter gale. I "caught" both my cheeks on the way, or in common parlance I froze them. All through that long tug we were cheered by the thought of a large jug of cream which we had placed on the stove to thaw when we left the house. Do you fancy that cream had thawed? Not a bit of it. The fire was doing its best, but old Boreas was holding our feast prisoner. It had not even begun to disintegrate around the edges. We cut lumps from the icy mass, dropped them into our cocoa (which we made by cooking it inside the stove and directly on top of the coals), hastily popped the mixture into our mouths before it should have a chance to freeze _en route_, and went promptly to bed. I draw a veil over that night. I drew everything else I could find over me in the course of it. A sadder and a wiser and a chillier woman I rose the morrow morn. Another member of the staff, who had slept in an adjoining house, froze his toe in bed. When we reached home, and I left the komatik at the hospital door, I made out 'Senath dancing in an agitatedly aimless fashion on our platform. She was also waving her arms about. For a moment it crossed my mind that she had lost her modicum of wits, but as she was immediately joined by Tryphena, I gave up the theory as untenable, and continued to hasten up the hill to the Home. Our boiler had sprung, not one but many leaks, and the precious hot water destined for the cleansing of forty was flooding the already spotless kitchen floor. As it is the middle of the week I had not suspected this calamity, Sunday being the invariable day selected for all burst pipes, special rat banquets, broken noses, toothaches, skinned shins, and such misadventures. The problem now presenting itself for prompt solution is: 20° below zero, a gale blowing from the northwest, twoscore small, unwashed orphans, and a burst boiler! [Illustration: HE FROZE HIS TOE IN BED] _January 21_ The oldest inhabitants, and all the others as well, claim that this is the most remarkable winter in thirty years. Not that one is deceived. I suspect them rather of making excuses for the consistently disconcerting climate of Britain's oldest colony. All the same, literally the worst storm I ever experienced has been in progress for the last two days. It began in the morning by the falling of a few innocent flakes. Then the north wind decided to take a hand. All night and all day and all night again it shrieked around the house, driving incredible quantities of snow before it. Half an hour after it began, you could not see two yards in front of your face. The man who attends to the hospital heating-plant had to crawl on his hands and knees in order to reach his destination, taking exactly one hour to make the distance of two hundred yards. At this institution it is the time-honoured custom to rise at five-thirty each morning, which custom, although doubtless good for our immortal souls, is distinctly trying to our too painfully mortal flesh. Added to which, in spite of all our efforts, our pipes are frozen, and in this country the ground does not thaw out completely until July or August, when we are making preparations for being frozen in again. Think of what this means for a household of over forty when every drop of water has to be hauled in barrels by our boys, and the superintendent has to stand over them to compel them to bring enough. Cleanliness at such a cost must surely be a long way towards godliness. I can now appreciate the story of the chaplain from a whaling ship who is said to have wandered into an encampment of the Eskimos. He told the people of heaven with all its glories, and it meant nothing to these children of the North; they were not interested in his story. But when he changed his theme and spoke of hell, with its everlasting fires which needed no replenishing, they cried, "Where is it? Tell us that we may go"; and big and little, they clambered over him, eager for details. [Illustration: A LONG WAY ON THE HEAVENWARD ROAD] By morning every room on the windward side of our house looked like the inside of an igloo. The fine drift had silted in through each most minute cranny and crevice--even though we have double windows all over the building; and on the night in question we had decided that sufficient fresh air was entering in spite of us to permit our disobeying our self-imposed anti-tuberculosis regulations. The wind and snow are so persistent and so penetrating that the merest slit gives them entrance, and the accumulations of such a night make one fancy in the morning that the King of the Golden River has paid an infuriated visit to our part of the globe. When I went into the babies' dormitory every little bed was snowed under, and only the children's dark hair contrasted with the universal whiteness. The second night I verily thought the house would come about our ears. The gale had increased in fury, the thermometer stood at thirty below, and I stayed up to be ready for emergencies. At midnight, thinking one room must surely be blown in, I carried the sleeping babes into another wing of the house. If for any reason we had had to leave the building that night, none of us could have lived to reach a place of safety. I wish you could have seen us the following morning. The snow had drifted in so that in places it was over six feet high. I ventured out and found that every exit but one from the Home was snowed up. We had therefore to dig ourselves out of the woodshed door and into the others from the outside. You make a dab with a shovel in the direction where you think you last saw the desired door before the storm, and trust the fates for results. Part of our roof has blown off and our chimney is in a tottering condition. The greatest menace was the telegraph wires. The drifts in places were so huge that as one walked along, the wires were liable to trip one up. The doctor has just taken a picture of the dog team being fed from the third-story window of the hospital. They are clustered on the snow just outside and on a level with the bottom of the window. Some of the fishermen in their tiny cottages had to be dug out by kindly neighbours, as they were completely snowed under! The storm will greatly delay travelling and it may be almost spring before this reaches you. It may interest you to know how my letters come to you in the winter-time, and then perhaps you will not wonder so much at the delays. The mail is carried across country to Mistaken Cove, on the west coast, and then by eight relays of couriers with their dog teams to Deerlake where the railway touches. It is a slow method of progress, and there are countless delays owing to the frequent blizzards. Often the mail men fail to make connections, and the letters may lie a week or a fortnight at some outlandish station. At one place the postmaster cannot even read, and the letters have to be marked with crosses at the previous stopping-places, to indicate the direction of their destination. Another postmaster, well known for his dishonesty, failed to get removed by the authorities because he was the only man in the place who could either read or write, and was therefore indispensable. Formerly all the letters had to go to St. John's, a day's extra journey, and be sorted there, sent back across the island to Run-by-Guess, eight hours across Cabot Straits, and then across the Atlantic to England. In this way a letter might take nearly three months to make the journey, and we are sometimes that length of time without news. Now a "mild" has set in, and the incessant drip, drip, drip on the balcony roof outside my window makes me perfectly understand how lunacy and death follow the persistent falling of a single drop on one spot on the forehead. _February 11_ Last week I had a three days' "cruise" while the doctor considerately sent a nurse up here to try her hand at my family. This time the cruise was "on the dogs" instead of the rolling sea. We left for Belvy (Bellevue) Bay in good time in the morning--"got our anchors early," as our "carter" put it. The animation of the dogs, the lovely snow-covered country, the bright winter's sun pouring down, and doubly brilliant by reflection from the dazzling snow, the huge bonfire in the woods where we "cooked the kettle," all make one understand the call which the gipsy answers. Of course there is another side to the story, when one is caught out in bitter weather in a blizzard of driving snow and sleet, and loses the way, or perhaps has to stay out in the open through the night. For instance, this winter four of the Mission dogs have perished through frost-bite on these journeys; and only last week we heard that one of the mail carriers on the west coast had been frozen to death. A few years ago one dark and stormy night the Church of England clergyman was called to the sick-bed of a parishioner. He set out at once to cross the frozen bay and reached the cottage in safety. After a visit with the dying man he started on his homeward way. It was cold but clear, and he covered half the distance without trouble. Then the weather veered and blinding snow began to drive. The traveller lost his way battling against it, and finally sank down utterly exhausted. He was found dead in the morning on the open bay. A day's trip brought us to Grevigneux, a charming little village nestling in a great bowl formed by the towering cliffs above and around it. Every one in the settlement is a Roman Catholic. Never did I receive such a welcome; the people are so friendly and unspoiled. The priest is a Frenchman, sensible, hearty, full of humour and love for his people. Both his ideas and his manner of expressing them are naïve and appealing. I had been told that in his sermons he admonished certain members of his flock by name for their shortcomings. When I questioned him about this he gave me the following explanation: "You see, miss, when I die I shall stand before the Lord and my people will be standing behind me. The Lord will look them over and then look at me, and if any one of them isn't there he will say, 'Cartier, where is Tom Flannigan?' And I should have to answer, 'Gone to Purgatory for stealing boots.' And the Lord will say to me, 'Why, didn't he know better than to steal boots? You ought to have told him.' Whatever could I say for myself then?" The next night we spent at Lance au Diable, locally known as "Lancy Jobble." In this place there is a "medicine man," with methods unique in science. He is the seventh son of a seventh son, and his healing powers are reputed to be little short of miraculous. Legend has it that such must never request payment for services, nor must the patient ever thank him, lest the efficacy of the cure be nullified. He is an unselfish man, a thorough believer in his own "gift"; and last summer, for instance, right in the middle of the fishing season, he walked thirty miles through swamp and marsh ridden with black flies, to see a sick woman who desired his aid. Doubtless the spell of his buoyant personality does bring comfort and relief. In the adjoining settlement of Bareneed lives an enormously fat old woman of seventy-odd summers. Life passes over her, and its only effect is to make her rotund and unwieldy. When the sick come to Brother Luke for treatment, if any of the few drugs which he has accumulated chance to have lost their labels--a not uncommon contingency in this land of mist and fog--he takes down a likely-looking bottle from the shelf, and tries a dose of the contents on this Mrs. Goochy--and awaits results. If nothing untoward transpires, he then passes the medicine on to the patient. Mrs. Goochy has a strong acquisitive bias, and raises no objections to this vicarious proceeding. She argues: "I doesn't need 'un now, but there be's no tellin'. I may need 'un when I can't get 'un." [Illustration: THE SEVENTH SON] Occasionally the sailing is not so smooth. While we were there the doctor saw a case of a woman from whom this �sculapius had attempted to extract an offending molar, his only instrument being a kind of miniature winch which screws on to the undesired tooth. Its action proved so prompt and powerful that not only did it remove the tooth intended, but four others as well, and the entire alveolar process connected with them. [Illustration: ITS ACTION WAS PROMPT AND POWERFUL] It often made me feel ashamed to find how much some of these people have made of their meagre opportunities. At one house a mother told me that she had only been able to go to school for six months when she was a girl, yet she had taught herself to read, and later her children also. She showed me most interesting articles which she had written for a Canadian newspaper describing the life on Le Petit Nord. She often had to sit up until two in the morning to knit her children's clothes, and rise again at dawn to prepare breakfast for the men of the household. The following day saw us homeward bound, only this time the travelling was not so romantic, for a "mild" had set in, and the going was superlatively slushy. The dogs had all they could do to drag the komatik with the luggage on it. The humans walked, generally in front of the dogs, and on snow racquets, to make the trail a bit easier for the animals. This may sound an interesting way to spend a winter's day, but after twenty minutes of it you would cry "enough." When we reached Belvy Bay the ice around the shore was broken into great pans, but in the middle it looked good. To go round is an endless task, so we risked crossing. It was easy to get off to the centre, for the big pans at the edge would float a far greater weight than a komatik and dogs and three people. The ice in the middle, however, which had looked so sure from the landwash, proved to be "black"--that is, very, very thin, though being salt-water ice, it was elastic. It was waving up and down so as almost to make one seasick, but in its elasticity lay our only chance of safety. We flung ourselves down at full length on the komatik to give as broad a surface of resistance as possible, and what encouragement was given the dogs we did with our voices. Four miles did we drive over that swaying surface, and though at the time we were too excited to be nervous, we were glad to reach the "_terra firma_" of the standing ice edge. At each place we were received with the most cordial welcome, and scarcely allowed even to express our gratitude. It was always they who were so eager to thank us for giving them unasked the "pleasure of our company." Their reception is always very touching. They put the best they have before you and will take nothing for their hospitality. In my various letters to you I have so often taken away the characters of our dogs that I must tell you of one, just to show that I have not altered in my devotion to our "true first friend." This dog's name was "Black," and he lived many years ago at Mistaken Cove. The tales of his beauty, his cleverness at tricks, and his endurance of difficulties are still told, but chiefly of his devotion to his master. After years of this companionship the beloved master died and was buried in the woods near his lonely little house. Black was inconsolable. He would eat nothing; he started up at every slightest noise hoping for the familiar whistle; he haunted the well-worn woodpath where they had had so many happy days together. Finally he discovered his master's grave and was found frantically tearing at the hard earth and heavy stones. Nor would he leave the spot. Food was brought him daily, but it went untouched. For one whole week he lay in the wind and weather in the hole he had dug on the grave. There the children found him on the eighth morning curled up and apparently asleep. His long quest and vigil were ended, for he had reached the happy hunting grounds. Who shall say that a beloved hand and voice did not welcome him home? _St. Antoine Children's Home (by courtesy) February 28_ Of one thing I am certain, we must have a new Home, for this house is not fit for habitation, and it is not nearly large enough. Even after my recent return from living in the tiny homes of the people which one would fancy to be far less comfortable, this is forcibly impressed upon me. We simply cannot go on refusing to take in children who need its shelter so badly. So please spread this broadcast among the friends in England. This Home has been enlarged once since it was built, and yet it is not nearly big enough for our present needs. We have no nursery, and I only wish you could see the tiny room which has to do duty for a sewing-room. It is certainly only called "room" by courtesy, for there is scarcely space to sit down, much less to use a needle without risk of injury to one's neighbour. The weekly mend alone, without the making of new things, means now between two and three hundred garments in addition to the boots, which the boys repair. As you can imagine, this is no light task and we are often driven almost distracted. I think the stockings are the worst, sometimes a hundred pairs to face at once! I fear we must once have been led into making some rather pointed remarks on this subject, for later, on going into the sewing-room, we found a slip of printed paper, cut from a magazine, and bearing the title of an article: "DON'T SCOLD THE CHILDREN WHEN THEY TEAR THEIR STOCKINGS." This building rocks like a ship at sea; the roof continually leaks, the windows are always "coming abroad," and the panes drop out at "scattered times," while even when shut, the wind whistles through as if to show his utter disdain of our inhospitable and paltry efforts to keep him outside. On stormy nights, in spite of closed windows, the rooms resemble huge snowdrifts. Seven maids with seven mops sweeping for half a year could never get it clear. The building heaves so much with the frost that the doors constantly refuse to work, because the floors have risen, and if they are planed, when the frost disappears, a yawning chasm confronts you. Our storeroom is so cold in winter that we put on Arctic furs to fetch in the food, and in summer it is flooded so that we swim from barrel to barrel as Alice floated in her pool of tears. But far above all these minor discomforts is the one overwhelming desire not to have to refuse "one of these little ones." One's heart aches when one remembers all the money and effort and love expended on a single child at home, that he may lack nothing to be prepared in body and spirit to meet the vicissitudes of his coming life journey. But in this land are hundreds of children, our own blood and kin, who must face their crushing problems often with bodies stunted from insufficient nourishment in childhood, and minds unopened and undeveloped, not through lack of natural ability, but because opportunity has never come to them. As one looks ahead one sees clearly what a contribution these eager children could offer their "day" if only their cousins at home had "the eyes of their understanding purged to behold things invisible and unseen." _March 10_ The seals are in! That to you doubtless does not seem the most engrossing item of news that could be communicated, but that merely proves what a long road you have to travel. Before the break of day every man capable of carrying a weapon is out on the ice to try and get his share of the spoils. They carry every conceivable sort of gun, but the six-foot muzzle-loaders are the favourites. These ancient weapons have been handed down from father to son for generations, and locally go by the somewhat misleading soubriquet of the "little darlints." The people call the seals "swiles." There is an old story about a foreigner who once asked, "How do you spell 'swile'?" The answer the fisherman gave him was, "We don't spell [carry] 'em. We mostly hauls 'em." Sea-birds have also come in the "swatches" of open water between the pans. A gale of wind and sea has broken up the ice, and driven it out of St. Mien's Bay, which is just round the corner from us. Thousands of "turr" are there, and the men are reaping many a banquet. A man's wealth is now gauged by the number of birds which are strung around the eaves of his house. It is a safe spot, for it keeps the birds thoroughly frozen, and well out of reach, at this time of year, of the ever-present dog. Some of the men were prevented from being on the spot for bird shooting as promptly as they desired by the fact that their boats, having lain up all winter, were not "plymmed." If you put a dried apple, for instance, into water it "plymms"; so do beans, and so do boats. When a boat is not "plymmed," it leaks in all its seams, and is therefore looked upon as unsafe for these sub-Arctic waters by the more conservative amongst us. To stop a boat leaking you "chinch" the seams with oakum. Our fisherman sexton has just told me that "the church was right chinched last night." One by one our supplies are giving out or diminishing. Each week as I send down an order to the store it is returned with some item crossed off. These articles at home would be considered the indispensables. Already potatoes have gone the way of all flesh; there is no more butter (though that is less loss than it sounds, for it was packed on the schooner directly next the kerosene barrels, and a liberal quantity of that volatile liquid incorporated itself in each tub of "oleo"). We are warned that the remaining amount of flour will not hold out till the spring boat--our first possible chance of getting reinforcements for our larder--unless we exercise the watchfulness of the Sphinx. The year before I came the first boat did not reach St. Antoine till the 28th of June. More excitement has just been communicated to me by Topsy: much more. A man from the Baie des Français has killed a huge polar bear. It took ten men and six dogs to haul the beast home after he had been finally dispatched. The man fired several shots at him, but did not hit a vital spot. One bullet only remained to him, and the bear was coming at him in a very purposeful manner. "Now or never," thought the fisherman, and fired. The creature fell dead almost at his feet. When they skinned him they found bullets in his legs and flank, but searched and searched in vain for the fatal one which had been the end of him. There was no mark on the skin in any vital spot. At last they found it. The ball had penetrated exactly through the bear's ear into his brain. All the countryside is now dining off bear steak; and there is a splendid skin to be purchased if you are so minded. I have eaten a bit of the steak, though I confess I did not sit down to the feast with any pleasurable anticipation, as the men said that they found the remains of a recently devoured seal in Bruin's "tum." I had an agreeable surprise. The meat was fibrous and a little tough, but it was quite good--a vast improvement on the sea-birds which are so highly valued in the local commissariat. [Illustration: IT WAS HIS LAST BULLET] The Prophet has a vivid idea of the processes going on in the heads of animals. He says that up to fifteen years ago there were bears innumerable "in the country." "And one day, miss," he explained, "the whole crew of them gets their anchors and leaves in a body." To hear him one would imagine that at a concerted signal the bears came out of their burrows and shook the dust of the land from their feet. The Eskimos toll the seals. They lie on the ice and wave their legs in the air, and the seals, curious animals, approach to discover the nature of the phenomenon, and are forthwith dispatched. One Eskimo of a histrionic temperament decided to "go one better." He went out to the ice edge, climbed into his sealskin sleeping-bag, and waved his legs, as per stage directions. We are not informed whether the device would have proved a successful decoy to the seals, for before any had been lured within range, another Innuit, having seen the sealskin legs gesticulating on the ice edge, naturally mistook them for the real thing, fired with regrettable accuracy, and went out to find a dead cousin. The story is the only deterrent I have from dressing in my white Russian hareskin coat, and sitting in the graveyard some dusky evening. The people claim that the place is haunted. I have never met a "Yoho" and never expect to, but I would dearly love to see how others act when they think they have. Only the suspicion that they would "plump for safety," and fire the inevitable muzzle-loader at my white garment, keeps me from making the experiment _in corpore vile_. The birds and the seals and the bears and white foxes coming south on the moving ice are signs of spring. There is a stir in the air as if the people as well sensed that the back of the long winter was broken. How it has flown! You cannot fancy my sensations of lonesomeness when I think that I shall never spend another in this country. You cannot describe or analyze the lure of the land and its people, but it is there, and grips you. I have grown to love it, and you will welcome home an uncomplimentary homesick comrade when September comes. _April 1_ Last minute of Sunday, so here's to you. To-morrow I shall be cheerfully immersed up to the eyes in work. Oh! this Home. How little it deserves the name! Our English storms are nothing but babies compared with the appalling blasts which sweep down upon us from the north. In summer the furious seas dash against the cliffs as if to protect them from the desecration of human encroachment. The fine snow filters in between the roof and ceiling of this building, and in a "mild," such as we are now experiencing, it melts, and endless little rivulets trickle down in nearly every room. The water comes in on my bed, on the kitchen range, and on the dining-room table. It falls on the sewing-machine in one room, on the piano and bookcase in another. Its catholicity of taste is plain disheartening! You ask whether these kiddies have the stuff in them to repay what you are pleased to term "such an outlay of effort." My emphatic "yes" should have been so insistent as to have reached you by telepathy when the doubt first presented itself. The Home has been established now long enough to have some of its "graduates" go out into life; and the splendid manhood and womanhood of these young people are at once a sufficient reward to us and a silencing response to you. Many of them have been sent to the States and Canada for further education, and are now not only writing a successful story for themselves, but helping their less fortunate neighbours, in a way we from outside never can, to turn over many a new leaf in their books. Yesterday I attended the theatre, only it was the operating theatre. The patient on this occasion was a doll, the surgeon a lad of seven, himself a victim of infantile paralysis, and the head nurse assisting was aged nine, and wears a brace on each leg. The stage was the children's ward of the hospital. Here are several pathetic little people, orthopedic cases, brought in for treatment during the winter, and who must stay till the spring boat arrives, as their homes are now cut off by interminable miles of snow wastes and icy sea. Nothing escapes their notice. They tear up their Christmas picture books, and when charged with the enormity of their offence, explain that they "must have adhesive tape for their operative work." Dick, the surgeon, was overheard the other day telling Margaret, the head nurse, as together they amputated the legs of her doll, "This is the way Sir Robert Jones does it." Next to operating, the children love music; and they love it with a repertoire varied to meet every mood, from "Keep the Home Fires Burning" to "In the Courts of Belshazzar and a Hundred of his Lords." One three-year-old scrap comes from a Salvation Army household, and listens to all such melodies with marked disapproval. But when the others finish, she "pipes up," shutting her eyes, clapping her hands and swaying back and forth-- "Baby's left the cradle for the Golden Shore: Now he floats, now he floats, Happy as before." Three of the kiddies are Roman Catholics and have taught their companions to say their prayers properly of an evening. They all cross themselves devoutly at the close; but this instruction has fallen on fallow ground in the wee three-year-old. She sits with eyes tightly screwed together lest she be forced even to witness such heresy and schism. Yesterday I was walking with Gabriel when we came upon a tiny bird essaying his first spring song on a tree-top nearby. Gabriel looked at the newcomer silently for several minutes, and finally, turning his luminous brown eyes up to my face, asked, "Do he sing hymns, Teacher?" _April 19_ The village sale was held last week. This has become an annual occurrence, and the proceeds are devoted to varying good objects. This time the hospital was the beneficiary. For months the countryside, men and women, have been making articles, and I can assure you it is a relief to have it over and such a success to boot, and life's quiet tone restored. We made large numbers of purchases, and consumed unbelievable quantities of more than solid nourishment. The people have shown the greatest ingenuity and diligence, and the display was a credit to their talent. I was particularly struck with the really clever carving representing local scenes which the fishermen had done with no other tools than their jack-knives. The auction was the keynote of the evening, due largely to the signal ability of the auctioneer. His methods are effective, but strictly his own. Cakes, made generally in graded layers and liberally coated with different coloured sugar, were the favourites. As he held up the last teetering mountain he "bawled": "What am I bid for this wonderful cake? 'Tis a bargain at any price. Why, she's so heavy I can't hold her with one hand." It fetched seven dollars! The yearly meet for sports was held in the afternoon before the sale, and was voted by all to be a great success. It is a far cry from the days when games were introduced here by the Mission. Then the people's lives were so drab, and they had little idea of the sporting qualities which every Englishman values so highly. In those early days if in a game of football one side kicked a goal, they had to wait till the other had done the same before the game could proceed, or the play would have been turned into a battle. Now everything in trousers in the place can be seen of an evening out on the harbour ice kicking a ball about. The harbour is our very roomy athletic field. Twenty-two teams had entered for the dog race, and the start, when the whole number were ranged up in the line, was pandemonium unloosed. The dogs were barking out threatenings and slaughter to the teams next them, their masters were shouting unheeded words of command, the crowd were cheering their favourites, and altogether you would never have guessed from the racket and confusion that you were north of the Roaring Forties. The last event on the sports programme was a scramble for coloured candies by all the children of the village. Our flock from the Home participated. The proceeding was as unhygienic as it was alluring, and our surprise was great when a universally healthy household greeted the morrow morn. When I heard the amount the poor folk had raised for charity out of their meagre pittance, I felt reproached. It is a consistent fact here that the people give and do more than their means justify, and it must involve a hard pinch for them in some other quarter. Coming from the sale at ten at night I looked for our "Yoho" in passing the churchyard, but was unrewarded, though some of the harbour people assured me in the morning that they had seen it plainly. Can there be anything in the current belief that the men of the sea are more psychic than we case-hardened products of civilization, or is it merely superstition? There is a story here of a man called Gaulton, which is vouched for by all the older men who can recall the incident. It seems that in Savage Cove this old George Gaulton lived till he was ninety. He died on December 4, 1883. On the 16th he appeared in the flesh to a former acquaintance at Port au Choix, fifty miles from the spot at which he had died. This man Shenicks gives the following account of the curious visitation: "I was in the woods cutting timber for a day and a half. During the whole of that time I was sure I heard footsteps near me in the snow, although I could see nothing. On the evening of the second day, in consequence of heavy rain, I returned home early. I knew my cattle had plenty of food, but something forced me to go to the hay-pook. While there, in a few moments I stood face to face with old George Gaulton. I was not frightened. We stood in the rain and talked for some time. In the course of the conversation the old man gave me a message for his eldest son, and begged me to deliver it to him myself before the end of March. Immediately afterwards he disappeared, and then I was terribly afraid." A few weeks later Shenicks went all the way to Savage Cove and delivered the message given to him in so strange a fashion. A word of apology and I close. In an early letter to you I recall judging harshly a concoction called "brewis." Experience here has taught me that our own delicacies meet with a similar fate at the hands of my present fellow countrymen. I offered Carmen on her arrival a cup of cocoa for Sunday supper. After one sniff, biddable and polite child though she was, I saw her surreptitiously pour the "hemlock cup" out of the open window behind her. _May 23_ Many miles over the hills from St. Antoine lies one of the wildest and most beautiful harbours on this coast. Nestling within magnificently high rocks, the picturesque colouring of which is reflected in the quiet water beneath, lies the little village of Crémaillière. It is only a small settlement of tiny cottages beside the edge of the sea, but it has the unenviable reputation of being the worst village on the coast. In winter only three families live there, but in the summer-time a number of men come for the fishing, and they with their wives and children exist in almost indescribable hovels. Some of these huts are just rough board affairs, about six feet by ten, and resemble cow sheds more than houses. If there is a window at all, it is merely a small square of glass (not made to open) high up on one side of the wall. In some there is not even the pretence of a window, but in cases of severe sickness a hole is knocked through for ventilation on hearing of the near approach of the Mission doctor. The walls have only one thickness of board with no lining and the roofs are thatched with sods. There is no flooring whatever. Not one person in Crémaillière can either read or write. Yesterday there was a funeral held in one of the little villages, and the mingling of pathos and humour made one realize more vividly than ever how "all the world's akin." A young mother had died who could have been saved if her folk had realized the danger in time and sent for the doctor. She was lying in a rude board coffin in the bare kitchen. As space was at a premium the casket had been placed on the top of the long box which serves as a residence for the family rooster and chickens. They kept popping their heads, with their round, quick eyes out through the slats, and emitting startled crows and clucks at the visitors. The young woman was dressed in all her outdoor clothing; a cherished lace curtain sought to hide the rough, unplaned boards of the coffin--for it had been hewn from the forest the day before. The depth of her husband's grief was evidenced by the fact that he had spent his last and only two dollars in the purchase, at the Nameless Cove general store, of the highly flowered hat which surmounted his wife's young careworn but peaceful face as she lay at rest. I saw for the first time an old custom preserved on the coast. Before the coffin was closed all the family passed by the head of the deceased and kissed the face of their loved one for the last time, while all the visitors followed and laid their hands reverently on the forehead. Only when the master of ceremonies, who is always specially appointed, had cried out in a sonorous voice, "Any more?" and met with no response, was the ceremony of closing the lid permitted. Surely the children are the one and only hope of this country. Through them we may trust to raise the moral standard of the generations to come, but it is going to be a very slow process to make any headway against the ignorance and absence of desire for better things which prevails so largely here. I must tell you of the latest addition to our family. On the first boat in the spring there arrived a family, brought by neighbours, to say what the Mission could do for them. I think I have never seen a more forlorn sight than this group presented when they stepped from the steamer. There was the father (the mother is dead), an elderly half-witted cripple capable neither of caring for himself nor for his children, four boys of varying sizes, and a girl of fourteen in the last stages of tuberculosis. The family were nearly frozen, half-starved, and completely dazed at the hopelessness of their situation. The girl was admitted to the hospital, where she has since died, and the youngest boy, Israel, we took into the Home. Alas, we had only room for the one. Israel was at first much overawed by the standard of cleanliness required in this institution, and protested vigorously when we tried to put him into the bathtub. He explained to us that he never washed more than his face and hands at home, not even his neck and ears, the limitation of territory being strictly defined and scrupulously observed. _June 20_ Unlike last year this summer promises to be hot, at least for this country. I have felt one great lack this year. You have to pass the long months of what would be lovely spring in England without a sign of a living blade of flower, though a few little songbirds did their best bravely to make it up to us. Already we are being driven almost crazy with the mosquitoes and black flies, songsters of no mean calibre, especially at night. In desperation our little ones yesterday succeeded in killing an unusually large specimen, and after burying it with great solemnity were heard singing around the grave in no uncheerful tones, "Nearer, my God, to Thee." I hate to think that these next few weeks will be the last I shall spend in this country and with these children. The North seems to weave over one a kind of spell and fascination all its own. I look back sometimes and smile that I should ever have felt the year long or dreary; it has passed so quickly that I can scarcely believe it already time to be thinking of you and England again. I may emulate the example of Mrs. Lot, but with the certainty that a similar fate to hers does not await me. I have just unpacked a barrel of clothing sent from home to the Orphanage, and find to my disgust that it is almost entirely composed of muslin blouses and old ladies' bonnets! What am I to do with them? The blouses I can use as mosquito veiling, but these bonnets are not the kind our babies wear. I shall present one to Topsy, who will look adorable in it. You hint it is hard to get up interest in Labrador because we are neither heathen nor black. I can imagine your sewing circle of dear old ladies (perhaps they sent the bonnets) discussing the relative merits of working to send aeroplanes to the Arabs, bicycles to the Bedouins, comforters to the Chinese, jumpers to the Japanese, handkerchiefs to the Hottentots, hair nets to the Hindoos, mouth organs to the Mohammedans, pinafores to the Parsees, pyjamas to the Papuans, prayer-books to the Pigmies, sandwiches to the South Sea Islanders, or zithers to the Zulus. Just wait till I can talk to your dear old ladies! A few days ago we had a very narrow escape from fire; indeed, it seemed for some time as if the whole of the Mission would be wiped out. It was a half-holiday and our boys had gone fishing to the Devil's Pond, a favourite spot of theirs, about a mile away. Unfortunately Noah was seized with the idea of lighting a fire by which to cook the trout, the matches having been stolen from my room. It had been dry for several days, there was quite a wind, and the fire, catching the furze, quickly got beyond the one required for culinary purposes. The boys first tried to smother it with their coats, but finding that of no avail ran home to give the alarm. By the time the men could get to the spot the fire had spread so rapidly that attention had to be turned towards trying to save the houses. The doctor's house was the one most directly threatened at first, and we proceeded to strip it of all furniture, carrying everything to the fore-shore to be ready to be taken off if necessary. The doctor was away on a medical call, and you can imagine my feelings when I expected every moment to see the Northern Light come round the point, the doctor's house in flames and his household goods scattered to the winds! Then we dismantled this place--the children having been sent at the outset to a place of safety--and removed the patients from the hospital. Every man in the place was hard at work, and there were few of us who dared to hope that we should have a roof over our heads that night. Happily the wind suddenly dropped, the fire died down, and late that night we were able to return and endeavour to sort out babies and furniture. The goddess of disorder reigned supreme, and it was only after many weary hours that we were able to find beds for the babies and babies for the beds. And it was our boys who started the fire! I am covered with confusion every second when I stop to think of it, and wonder if this is not the psychological moment to make my exit from this Mission. _July 11_ By invitation of the doctor I am off for a trip on the Northern Light next week. He offers me thus the chance to see other portions of the Shore before he drops me at the Iron Bound Islands, where I can connect with the southern-going coastal steamer. The Prophet has encouraged me with the observation that "nearly all the female ladies what comes aboard her do be wonderful sick," but I am not to be deterred. So: "Now, Brothers, for the icebergs of frozen Labrador, Floating spectral in the moonshine along the low, black shore. Where in the mist the rock is hiding, and the sharp reef lurks below; And the white squall smites in summer, and the autumn tempests blow." This is a mere scrap of a greeting, for the day of departure is so near that I feel I want to spend every minute with the kiddies. I count on your forbearance, and your knowledge that though my pen is quiet, my heart still holds you without rival. _On board the Northern Light July 16_ Is to-day as lovely in your part of the world as it is in mine, and do you greet it with a background of as exciting a night as the one that has just passed over us? I wonder. I came across some old forms of bills of lading sent out to this country from England. They always closed with this most appropriate expression, "And so God send the good ship to her desired port in safety." It has fallen into disuse long ago, but about break of early day the idea took a very compelling shape in my mind. We put out from Bonne Espérance just as night was falling, and there was no moon to aid us. The doctor had decided on the outside run, and brief as is my acquaintance with the "lonely Labrador," I knew what that meant. I therefore betook myself betimes to bed as the best spot for an unseasoned mariner. Twelve o'clock found us barely holding our own against a furious head wind and sea--"An awful night for a sinner," as our cheery Prophet remarked as he lurched past my cabin door. Icebergs were dotted about. Great combers were pouring over our bow and the floods came sweeping down the decks sounding like the roar of a thousand cataracts. The only way one could keep from being hurled out of one's berth was to cling like a leech to a rope fastened to a ring in the wall, for the little ship was bouncing back and forth so fast and so far that it was impossible to compare it with the motion of any other craft. Day began to dawn about 3 A.M. By the dim light I could make out mighty mountains of green foaming water. At each roll of the steamer we seemed to be at the bottom of a huge emerald pit. Suddenly some one yelled, "There she goes!" and that second the boat was dragged down, down, down. An immense wave had caught us, rolled us so far over that our dory in davits had filled with water to the brim. As the ship righted herself, the weight of the dory snapped off the davit at the deck, and the boat, still attached by her painter, was dragged underneath our hull, and threatened to pull us down with it. In two seconds the men had cut her away, but not before she had nearly banged herself to matchwood against our side. Now we are lying under the lea of St. Augustine Island waiting for the wind to abate. The chief engineer has just offered to row me ashore to hunt for young puffins. More later. [Illustration: A PUFFIN GHETTO] There were hundreds of them in every family, and so many families that it resembled nothing so much as a puffin ghetto. I judged from the turmoil that they were screeching for "a place in the sun." The noise they made did not in the least accord with their respectable Quaker appearance. Shall I bring you one as a pet? Its austere presence would help you to remember your "latter end." When I wrote you that there was ice about, I did not refer to the field ice through which we travelled on my way north. This is the real thing this time--icebergs, and lots of them. They call the little ones "growlers," and big and little alike are classed as "pieces of ice"! They are not my idea of a "piece" of anything. I know now what the Ancient Mariner meant when he said: "And ice mast high came floating by As green as emerald." It exactly describes them, only it doesn't wholly describe them, for no one could. They loom up in every shape and size and variation of form, pinnacles and towers and battlements, stately palaces of glittering crystal, triumphal archways more gorgeous than ever welcomed a conqueror home. Sometimes they are shining white, too dazzling to look at; and sometimes they are streaked with great vivid bands of green and azure which are so unearthly and brilliant that I feel certain some fairy has dipped his brush in the solar spectrum and dabbed the colours on this gigantic palette. A sea without these jewels of the Arctic will forever look barren and unfinished to me after this. Even the sailors, who know too well what a menace they are to their craft, yield to their beauty a mute and grudging homage. To sit in the sun or the moonlight, and watch a heavy sea hurling mountains of water and foam over one of these ocean monarchs is a never-to-be-forgotten experience. So too it is to listen to the thunder of one of them "foundering"; for their equilibrium is very unstable, and the action of the sea, as they travel southwards to their death in the Gulf Stream, cuts them away at the surface of the water. Blocks weighing unbelievable tons crash off them, or they will suddenly, without a second's warning, break into a million pieces. I can never conquer a creepiness of the spine as I listen to one of these tragedies. It is a startling, new sensation such as we never expect to meet again after childhood has shut its doors on us. In the quiet that follows the gigantic disintegration one half expects to see a new heaven and a new earth emerge out of the chaos of ice quivering in the water. You often warned me in the course of the past year how dull life would be. You knew how I loved a city. I still do. But the last word on earth one could apply to the life here is "dull." Nature takes care of that. I defy you to walk along any street in London and see six porpoises and a whale! That is what I saw this morning. Oh! of course you may counter by telling me that neither can I see an automobile or a fire engine, but I have you, because I can answer that I have seen them already. How are you going to get out of that corner, except by saying that you do not want to see the old porpoises and whales and bergs?--and I know your "Scotch" conscience forbids such distortion of facts. I have come to believe in the personality of porpoises. They swam beside the ship, playing about in the water all the while, rolling over and diving, and chasing each other just as if they knew they had a "gallery." We did not reward them very well either, for the Prophet shot one, and we ate bits of him for lunch--the porpoise, I mean, not the Prophet. I thought he would make a good companion-piece for the polar bear, and he was quite edible. He only needed a rasher of bacon to make you believe he was calf's liver. So you see that between puffins and porpoises and whales, and "growlers" and lost dories, I crowded enough into one day to give me dreams that Alice in Wonderland might covet. In your secret heart don't you wish that you too were "Where the squat-legged Eskimo Waddles in the ice and snow, And the playful polar bear Nips the hunter unaware; Where the air is kind o' pure, And the snow crop's pretty sure"? _July 22_ It has been days since I wrote you, and they have slipped by so stealthily I must have missed half they held. Since coming aboard I have taken to rising promptly. It is a necessary measure if I am to be able to rise at all. One morning I stuck my head out just in time to see my favourite sweater, which I had counted on for service on the homeward voyage, disappearing over the rail--legitimately, so far as concerned the wearer. Last week, by the merest fluke, I rescued my best boots from a similar fate. The doctor explained lamely on each occasion that they got mixed with the clothing sent for distribution to the poor. This may be a literal statement of fact, but I doubt the manner of the mixing. We celebrated to-day by running aground on the flats. You can "squeak" over them if you happen to strike the channel. The difficulty is, however, that the sandy bottom shifts. To-day it is, and to-morrow it is not. I was eating one of those large, hearty breakfasts which the combination of a dead flat calm and a sunshiny brisk air make such a desideratum. I was, moreover, perched on the top of the wheel house, and reflecting on the poor taste of the author of the Book of Revelation when he said that in heaven "there shall be no more sea." At this moment I came to with a lurch. "She's stuck!" yelled, or as he himself would put it, "bawled," the Prophet. For once he was undeniably right. Fortunately the tide was on the flood, and we floated off a short while after. In the afternoon we visited an Eskimo Moravian station. They--the Eskimos, not the Moravians--are a jolly little people, and picturesque as possible. Not that any aspersions on the Moravians are intended, for I have the greatest respect for them. My shining leather coat made a great hit. They fondled it and stroked it, and coo-ed at it as if it were a new baby. All the women past their very first youth seemed toothless. I wondered if it could be a characteristic of the tribe--sort of Manx Eskimo. I asked the Prophet what was the cause of the universal shortage, and was told that the Eskimo women all chew the sealskin to soften it for making into boots. You can take this statement for what it may be worth. Speaking of which I have just finished reading a ludicrously furious attack on the Mission in a St. John's paper, for its alleged misrepresentations. It seems that last year the former superintendent took down a boy from the Children's Home to give him a chance at further education. He had a wooden leg, his own having been removed by an operation for tuberculosis. On his arrival in Montreal the omnivorous reporter saw in him excellent copy, and forthwith printed the following purely fictitious account of the cause of his disability. Little Kommak, so the story ran (the boy is of pure Irish extraction, and is named Michael Flynn), was one day sitting with his mother in his igloo when he saw a large polar bear approaching. Having no weapon, and not desiring the presence of the bear in any capacity at their midday meal, he stuck his leg out through the small aperture of the igloo. The bear bit it off on the principle of half a loaf being better than no bread. The whole thing was a fabric of lies from beginning to end. The St. John's papers discovered the article, pounced upon it, and printed the article "_que je viens de finir_." Of course, if the local editor lacked humour enough to credit the doctor with such a fairy tale, one could pity the poor soul, but his diatribe has rather the earmarks of jealousy. [Illustration: THE BEAR BIT HIS LEG OFF] A lovely sunset is lighting up the sea and sky and hills, and turning the plain little settlement, in the harbour of which we are anchored, into the Never, Never Land. The scene is so bewitching that I find my soul purged by it of the bad taste of the attack. I'll leave you to digest the mixed metaphor undisturbed while I go below and help with the patients who have begun pouring aboard. _Same evening_ An old chap has just climbed over the rail, who looks like an early patriarch, but his dignity is impaired by the moth-eaten high silk hat which surmounts his white hair. The people regard him with apparent deference, due either to the hat or his inherent character. Looking at his fine old face, one is inclined to believe it is the latter. The expressions these people use are so nautical and so apt! Every patient who comes aboard expressed the wish to be "sounded" in some portion of his or her anatomy for the suspected ailment which has brought him. One burly fisherman solemnly took off his huge oily sea-boot, placed a grimy forefinger on his heel, and remarked sententiously that the doctor "must sound him right there." The prescription was soap and water--a diagnosis in which I entirely concurred. The next case was a young girl with a "kink in her glutch." It has the sound of all too familiar motor trouble, but was dismissed as psychopathic. I wish that a similarly simple diagnosis accounted for the mysterious ailments of automobiles. My meditations on modern science were interrupted by an insistent voice proclaiming that "my head is like to burst abroad." If I were a woman on this coast my temper would "burst abroad" to see the men--some of them--spitting all over the floors of the cottages: disgusting and particularly dangerous in a country where the arch-enemy, tuberculosis, is ever on the watch for victims. But the new era is slowly dawning. Now, instead of hooking "Welcome Home" into the fireside mat, you find "DONT SPIT" worked in letters of flame. It is the harbinger of the feminist movement in the land. Speaking of the feminist movement makes me think of a woman at Aquaforte Harbour. She deserves a book written about her. In the first place, Elmira had the courage of her convictions, and did not marry. Her convictions were that marriage was desirable if you get the right man who can support you properly, and not otherwise. This is generations in advance of the local attitude to the holy estate. She has lived a life of single blessedness to the coast. In every trouble along her section of the shore it is "routine" to send for "Aunt" 'Mira. She has more sense and unselfishness and native wit than you would meet in ten products of civilization. For a year she acted as nurse to the little boy of one of the staff, and never was child better cared for. They once told 'Mira she really must make baby take his bottle. (He had the habit of profound slumber at that time.) "Oh! I does, ma'm," 'Mira replied. "If he dwalls off, I gives him a scattered jolt." The family took her to England with them, and her remarks on the trains showed where her ancestry lay. When they backed she exclaimed, "My happy day! We're goin' astern!" She requested to be allowed to "open the port"; and at a certain junction where there was a long delay she asked to go "ashore for a spell." That "hell is paved with good intentions" is no longer a glib phrase to me; it is a conviction born of seeing some of the suffering of this country. The doctor has just been ashore to see a woman with a five-days old baby. No attempt whatever had been made to get her or her bed clean or comfortable. She had developed a violent fever, and the local midwives, with their congenital terror of the use of water--internal or external--had larded the miserable creature over from head to foot with butter, and finished off with a liberal coating of oakum. The doctor said, by the time he had himself scraped and bathed her, put her in a fresh cool bed with a jug of spring water beside her to drink, she looked as if she thought the gates of Paradise had opened. Mails reached us at the Moravian station, and your most welcome letters loomed large on the postal horizon. You ask if I have not found the year long. I will answer by telling you the accepted derivation of the name "Labrador." It comes from the Portuguese, and means "the labourer," because those early voyagers intended to send slaves back to His Majesty. Well-filled time, so the psychologists tell us, is short in passing, and "down North," before you are half into the day's tasks, you look up to find that "the embers of the day are red." You must have guessed, too, that I should not have evinced such contentment during these months if my fellow workers had not been congenial. I shall always remember their devotion, and readiness to serve both one another and the people; and I know that the years to come will only deepen my appreciation of what their friendship has meant to me. How glad I was when the winter came, and I was no longer classed as a newcomer! I had heard so much about dog driving that I remember thinking the resultant sensations must be akin to those Elijah experienced in his chariot. But now I have driven with dogs in summer, and that is more than most of the older stagers can boast. In a prosperous little village in the Straits lives the rural dean. He is a devoted and practical example of what a shepherd and bishop of souls can be. There is not a good work for the benefit of his flock--and he is not bound by the conventional and unchristian denominational prejudices--which does not find in him a leader. His interests range from coöperation to a skin-boot industry. But the problem of getting about when you have no Aladdin's carpet is acute. He goes by dog sled and shanks' pony in winter, and used to go by boat and shanks' pony in summer. Then one day he had the inspiration of building a two-wheeled shay, and harnessing in his lusty and idle dog team. Now he drives about at a rate that "Jehu the son of Nimshi would approve," and is independent of winds and weather. Sunday to-morrow. We are running south for the Ragged Islands. If I were not on the hospital ship, and therefore an involuntary example to the people, I would fall into my bunk at night with my clothes on, I am so weary. _Ragged Islands Sunday night_ Just aboard again after Prayers at the little church. It is a quaint and crude little edifice, and the people were so kindly and the service so hearty that one feels "wonderfu' lifted up." To be sure, during the sermon I was suddenly brought up "all standing" by the amazing statement that the "Harch Hangels go Hup, Hup, Hup." One felt in one's bones that this was a misapprehension. The very earnest clergyman may have noticed my obvious disagreement, for at the close he announced, "We will now sing the 398th hymn"-- "Day of Wrath, oh! Day of Mourning, See fulfilled the Prophet's warning, Heaven and earth in ashes burning." This goes off into the blue on the chance of its reaching you before I come myself and share a secret with you; for to-morrow we are due at the Iron Bound Islands, and there I leave the Northern Light, and end the chapter of my life as a member of the Mission staff. The appropriateness of the closing hymn in the little church last night is borne more than ever forcibly in upon me with the chill light of early morning, for I verily feel as though my world were tottering about my ears. I am still optimist enough to know that life will hold many experiences which will enrich it, but in my secret heart I cherish the conviction that this year will always stand out as a keynote, and a touchstone by which to judge those which succeed it. My greatest solace in the ache which I feel in taking so long a farewell of a people and country that I love is that I shall always possess them in memory--a treasure which no one can take from me. As I look back over the quickly speeding year I find that I have forgotten those trivial incidents of discomfort which pricked my hurrying feet. All I can recall is the rugged beauty of the land, the brave and simple people with their hardy manhood and more than generous hospitality, and most of all my little bairns who hold in their tiny hands the future of Le Petit Nord. [Illustration: P.S.] The Riverside Press Cambridge · Massachusetts U.S.A. * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical error corrected in text: | | | | Page 175: household gods replaced with household goods | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
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3338	----	SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT'S VOYAGE TO NEWFOUNDLAND By Edward Hayes PREPARER'S NOTE This text is one of the items included in Voyages and Travels: Ancient and Modern and was prepared from a 1910 edition, published by P F Collier & Son Company, New York. INTRODUCTORY NOTE Sir Humphrey Gilbert, the founder of the first English colony in North America, was born about 1539, the son of a Devonshire gentleman, whose widow afterward married the father of Sir Walter Raleigh. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, served under Sir Philip Sidney's father in Ireland, and fought for the Netherlands against Spain. After his return he composed a pamphlet urging the search for a northwest passage to Cathay, which led to Frobisher's license for his explorations to that end. In 1578 Gilbert obtained from Queen Elizabeth the charter he had long sought, to plant a colony in North America. His first attempt failed, and cost him his whole fortune; but, after further service in Ireland, he sailed again in 1583 for Newfoundland. In the August of that year he took possession of the harbor of St. John and founded his colony, but on the return voyage he went down with his ship in a storm south of the Azores. The following narrative is an account of this last voyage of Gilbert's, told by Edward Hayes, commander of "The Golden Hind," the only one to reach England of the three ships which set out from Newfoundland with Gilbert. The settlement at St. John was viewed by its promoter as merely the beginning of a scheme for ousting Spain from America in favor of England. The plan did not progress as he hoped; but after long delays, and under far other impulses than Gilbert ever thought of, much of his dream was realized. SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT'S VOYAGE TO NEWFOUNDLAND A report of the Voyage and success thereof, attempted in the year of our Lord 1583, by Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Knight, with other gentlemen assisting him in that action, intended to discover and to plant Christian inhabitants in place convenient, upon those large and ample countries extended northward from the Cape of Florida, lying under very temperate climes, esteemed fertile and rich in minerals, yet not in the actual possession of any Christian prince. Written by Mr. Edward Hayes, gentleman, and principal actor in the same voyage,[*] who alone continued unto the end, and, by God's special assistance, returned home with his retinue safe and entire. [*] Hayes was captain and owner of the _Golden Hind_, Gilbert's Rear-Admiral. Many voyages have been pretended, yet hitherto never any thoroughly accomplished by our nation, of exact discovery into the bowels of those main, ample, and vast countries extended infinitely into the north from thirty degrees, or rather from twenty-five degrees, of septentrional latitude, neither hath a right way been taken of planting a Christian habitation and regiment (government) upon the same, as well may appear both by the little we yet do actually possess therein, and by our ignorance of the riches and secrets within those lands, which unto this day we know chiefly by the travel and report of other nations, and most of the French, who albeit they cannot challenge such right and interest unto the said countries as we, neither these many years have had opportunity nor means so great to discover and to plant, being vexed with the calamities of intestine wars, as we have had by the inestimable benefit of our long and happy peace, yet have they both ways performed more, and had long since attained a sure possession and settled government of many provinces in those northerly parts of _America_, if their many attempts into those foreign and remote lands had not been impeached by their garboils at home. The first discovery of these coasts, never heard of before, was well begun by John Cabot the father and Sebastian his son, an Englishman born, who were the first finders out of all that great tract of land stretching from the Cape of Florida, into those islands which we now call the Newfoundland; all which they brought and annexed unto the crown of England. Since when, if with like diligence the search of inland countries had been followed, as the discovery upon the coast and outparts thereof was performed by those two men, no doubt her Majesty's territories and revenue had been mightily enlarged and advanced by this day; and, which is more, the seed of Christian religion had been sowed amongst those pagans, which by this time might have brought forth a most plentiful harvest and copious congregation of Christians; which must be the chief intent of such as shall make any attempt that way; or else whatsoever is builded upon other foundation shall never obtain happy success nor continuance. And although we cannot precisely judge (which only belongeth to God) what have been the humours of men stirred up to great attempts of discovering and planting in those remote countries, yet the events do shew that either God's cause hath not been chiefly preferred by them, or else God hath not permitted so abundant grace as the light of His word and knowledge of Him to be yet revealed unto those infidels before the appointed time. But most assuredly, the only cause of religion hitherto hath kept back, and will also bring forward at the time assigned by God, an effectual and complete discovery and possession by Christians both of those ample countries and the riches within them hitherto concealed; whereof, notwithstanding, God in His wisdom hath permitted to be revealed from time to time a certain obscure and misty knowledge, by little and little to allure the minds of men that way, which else will be dull enough in the zeal of His cause, and thereby to prepare us unto a readiness for the execution of His will, against the due time ordained of calling those pagans unto Christianity. In the meanwhile it behoveth every man of great calling, in whom is any instinct of inclination unto this attempt, to examine his own motions, which, if the same proceed of ambition or avarice, he may assure himself it cometh not of God, and therefore cannot have confidence of God's protection and assistance against the violence (else irresistible) both of sea and infinite perils upon the land; whom God yet may use as an instrument to further His cause and glory some way, but not to build upon so bad a foundation. Otherwise, if his motives be derived from a virtuous and heroical mind, preferring chiefly the honour of God, compassion of poor infidels captived by the devil, tyrannizing in most wonderful and dreadful manner over their bodies and souls; advancement of his honest and well-disposed countrymen, willing to accompany him in such honourable actions; relief of sundry people within this realm distressed; all these be honourable purposes, imitating the nature of the munificent God, wherewith He is well pleased, who will assist such an actor beyond expectation of many. And the same, who feeleth this inclination in himself, by all likelihood may hope or rather confidently repose in the preordinance of God, that in this last age of the world (or likely never) the time is complete of receiving also these gentiles into His mercy, and that God will raise Him an instrument to effect the same; it seeming probable by event of precedent attempts made by the Spaniards and French sundry times, that the countries lying north of Florida God hath reserved the same to be reduced into Christian civility by the English nation. For not long after that Christopher Columbus had discovered the islands and continent of the West Indies for Spain, John and Sebastian Cabot made discovery also of the rest from Florida northwards to the behoof of England. And whensoever afterwards the Spaniards, very prosperous in all their southern discoveries, did attempt anything into Florida and those regions inclining towards the north, they proved most unhappy, and were at length discouraged utterly by the hard and lamentable success of many both religious and valiant in arms, endeavouring to bring those northerly regions also under the Spanish jurisdiction, as if God had prescribed limits unto the Spanish nation which they might not exceed; as by their own gests recorded may be aptly gathered. The French, as they can pretend less title unto these northern parts than the Spaniard, by how much the Spaniard made the first discovery of the same continent so far northward as unto Florida, and the French did but review that before discovered by the English nation, usurping upon our right, and imposing names upon countries, rivers, bays, capes, or headlands as if they had been the first finders of those coasts; which injury we offered not unto the Spaniards, but left off to discover when we approached the Spanish limits; even so God hath not hitherto permitted them to establish a possession permanent upon another's right, notwithstanding their manifold attempts, in which the issue hath been no less tragical than that of the Spaniards, as by their own reports is extant. Then, seeing the English nation only hath right unto these countries of America from the Cape of Florida northward by the privilege of first discovery, unto which Cabot was authorised by regal authority, and set forth by the expense of our late famous King Henry the Seventh; which right also seemeth strongly defended on our behalf by the powerful hand of Almighty God withstanding the enterprises of other nations; it may greatly encourage us upon so just ground, as is our right, and upon so sacred an intent, as to plant religion (our right and intent being meet foundations for the same), to prosecute effectually the full possession of those so ample and pleasant countries appertaining unto the crown of England; the same, as is to be conjectured by infallible arguments of the world's end approaching, being now arrived unto the time of God prescribed of their vocation, if ever their calling unto the knowledge of God may be expected. Which also is very probable by the revolution and course of God's word and religion, which from the beginning hath moved from the east towards, and at last unto, the west, where it is like to end, unless the same begin again where it did in the east, which were to expect a like world again. But we are assured of the contrary by the prophecy of Christ, whereby we gather that after His word preached throughout the world shall be the end. And as the Gospel when it descended westward began in the south, and afterward begun in the south countries of America, no less hope may be gathered that it will also spread into the north. These considerations may help to suppress all dreads rising of hard events in attempts made this way by other nations, as also of the heavy success and issue in the late enterprise made by a worthy gentleman our countryman, Sir Humfrey Gilbert, Knight, who was the first of our nations that carried people to erect an habitation and government in those northerly countries of America. About which albeit he had consumed much substance, and lost his life at last, his people also perishing for the most part: yet the mystery thereof we must leave unto God, and judge charitably both of the cause, which was just in all pretence, and of the person, who was very zealous in prosecuting the same, deserving honourable remembrance for his good mind and expense of life in so virtuous an enterprise. Whereby nevertheless, lest any man should be dismayed by example of other folks' calamity, and misdeem that God doth resist all attempts intended that way, I thought good, so far as myself was an eye-witness, to deliver the circumstance and manner of our proceedings in that action; in which the gentleman was so unfortunately encumbered with wants, and worse matched with many ill-disposed people, that his rare judgment and regiment premeditated for those affairs was subjected to tolerate abuses, and in sundry extremities to hold on a course more to uphold credit than likely in his own conceit happily to succeed. The issue of such actions, being always miserable, not guided by God, who abhorreth confusion and disorder, hath left this for admonition, being the first attempt by our nation to plant, unto such as shall take the same cause in hand hereafter, not to be discouraged from it; but to make men well advised how they handle His so high and excellent matters, as the carriage is of His word into those very mighty and vast countries. An action doubtless not to be intermeddled with base purposes, as many have made the same but a colour to shadow actions otherwise scarce justifiable; which doth excite God's heavy judgments in the end, to the terrifying of weak minds from the cause, without pondering His just proceedings; and doth also incense foreign princes against our attempts, how just soever, who cannot but deem the sequel very dangerous unto their state (if in those parts we should grow to strength), seeing the very beginnings are entered with spoil. And with this admonition denounced upon zeal towards God's cause, also towards those in whom appeareth disposition honourable unto this action of planting Christian people and religion in those remote and barbarous nations of America (unto whom I wish all happiness), I will now proceed to make relations briefly, yet particularly, of our voyage undertaken with Sir Humfrey Gilbert, begun, continued, and ended adversely. When first Sir Humfrey Gilbert undertook the western discovery of America, and had procured from her Majesty a very large commission to inhabit and possess at his choice all remote and heathen lands not in the actual possession of any Christian prince, the same commission exemplified with many privileges, such as in his discretion he might demand, very many gentlemen of good estimation drew unto him, to associate him in so commendable an enterprise, so that the preparation was expected to grow unto a puissant fleet, able to encounter a king's power by sea. Nevertheless, amongst a multitude of voluntary men, their dispositions were diverse, which bred a jar, and made a division in the end, to the confusion of that attempt even before the same was begun. And when the shipping was in a manner prepared, and men ready upon the coast to go aboard, at that time some brake consort, and followed courses degenerating from the voyage before pretended. Others failed of their promises contracted, and the greater number were dispersed, leaving the General with few of his assured friends, with whom he adventured to sea; where, having tasted of no less misfortune, he was shortly driven to retire home with the loss of a tall ship and, more to his grief, of a valiant gentleman, Miles Morgan. Having buried, only in a preparation, a great mass of substance, whereby his estate was impaired, his mind yet not dismayed, he continued his former designment, and purposed to revive this enterprise, good occasion serving. Upon which determination standing long without means to satisfy his desire, at last he granted certain assignments out of his commission to sundry persons of mean ability, desiring the privilege of his grant, to plant and fortify in the north parts of America about the river of Canada; to whom if God gave good success in the north parts (where then no matter of moment was expected), the same, he thought, would greatly advance the hope of the south, and be a furtherance unto his determination that way. And the worst that might happen in that course might be excused, without prejudice unto him, by the former supposition that those north regions were of no regard. But chiefly, a possession taken in any parcel of those heathen countries, by virtue of his grant, did invest him of territories extending every way 200 leagues; which induced Sir Humfrey Gilbert to make those assignments, desiring greatly their expedition, because his commission did expire after six years, if in that space he had not gotten actual possession. Time went away without anything done by his assigns; insomuch that at last he must resolve himself to take a voyage in person, for more assurance to keep his patent in force, which then almost was expired or within two years. In furtherance of his determination, amongst others, Sir George Peckham, Knight, shewed himself very zealous to the action, greatly aiding him both by his advice and in the charge. Other gentlemen to their ability joined unto him, resolving to adventure their substance and lives in the same cause. Who beginning their preparation from that time, both of shipping, munition, victual, men, and things requisite, some of them continued the charge two years complete without intermission. Such were the difficulties and cross accidents opposing these proceedings, which took not end in less than two years; many of which circumstances I will omit. The last place of our assembly, before we left the coast of England, was in Cawset Bay, near unto Plymouth, then resolved to put unto the sea with shipping and provision such as we had, before our store yet remaining, but chiefly the time and season of the year, were too far spent. Nevertheless, it seemed first very doubtful by what way to shape our course, and to begin our intended discovery, either from the south northward or from the north southward. The first, that is, beginning south, without all controversy was the likeliest, wherein we were assured to have commodity of the current which from the Cape of Florida setteth northward, and would have furthered greatly our navigation, discovering from the foresaid cape along towards Cape Breton, and all those lands lying to the north. Also, the year being far spent, and arrived to the month of June, we were not to spend time in northerly courses, where we should be surprised with timely winter, but to covet the south, which we had space enough then to have attained, and there might with less detriment have wintered that season, being more mild and short in the south than in the north, where winter is both long and rigorous. These and other like reasons alleged in favour of the southern course first to be taken, to the contrary was inferred that forasmuch as both our victuals and many other needful provisions were diminished and left insufficient for so long a voyage and for the wintering of so many men, we ought to shape a course most likely to minister supply; and that was to take the Newfoundland in our way, which was but 700 leagues from our English coast. Where being usually at that time of the year, and until the fine of August, a multitude of ships repairing thither for fish, we should be relieved abundantly with many necessaries, which, after the fishing ended, they might well spare and freely impart unto us. Not staying long upon that Newland coast, we might proceed southward, and follow still the sun, until we arrived at places more temperate to our content. By which reasons we were the rather induced to follow this northerly course, obeying unto necessity, which must be supplied. Otherwise, we doubted that sudden approach of winter, bringing with it continual fog and thick mists, tempest and rage of weather, also contrariety of currents descending from the Cape of Florida unto Cape Breton and Cape Race, would fall out to be great and irresistible impediments unto our further proceeding for that year, and compel us to winter in those north and cold regions. Wherefore, suppressing all objections to the contrary, we resolved to begin our course northward, and to follow, directly as we might, the trade way unto Newfoundland; from whence, after our refreshing and reparation of wants, we intended without delay, by God's permission, to proceed into the south, not omitting any river or bay which in all that large tract of land appeared to our view worthy of search. Immediately we agreed upon the manner of our course and orders to be observed in our voyage; which were delivered in writing, unto the captains and masters of every ship a copy, in manner following. Every ship had delivered two bullets or scrolls, the one sealed up in wax, the other left open; in both which were included several watchwords. That open, serving upon our own coast or the coast of Ireland; the other sealed, was promised on all hands not to be broken up until we should be clear of the Irish coast; which from thenceforth did serve until we arrived and met all together in such harbours of the Newfoundland as were agreed for our rendezvous. The said watchwords being requisite to know our consorts whensoever by night, either by fortune of weather, our fleet dispersed should come together again; or one should hail another; or if by ill watch and steerage one ship should chance to fall aboard of another in the dark. The reason of the bullet sealed was to keep secret that watchword while we were upon our own coast, lest any of the company stealing from the fleet might bewray the same; which known to an enemy, he might board us by night without mistrust, having our own watchword. Orders agreed upon by the Captains and Masters to be observed by the fleet of Sir Humfrey Gilbert. First, The Admiral to carry his flag by day, and his light by night. 2. Item, if the Admiral shall shorten his sail by night, then to shew two lights until he be answered again by every ship shewing one light for a short time. 3. Item, if the Admiral after his shortening of sail, as aforesaid, shall make more sail again; then he to shew three lights one above another. 4. Item, if the Admiral shall happen to hull in the night, then to make a wavering light over his other light, wavering the light upon a pole. 5. Item, if the fleet should happen to be scattered by weather, or other mishap, then so soon as one shall descry another, to hoise both topsails twice, if the weather will serve, and to strike them twice again; but if the weather serve not, then to hoise the maintopsail twice, and forthwith to strike it twice again. 6. Item, if it shall happen a great fog to fall, then presently every ship to bear up with the Admiral, if there be wind; but if it be a calm, then every ship to hull, and so to lie at hull till it clear. And if the fog do continue long, then the Admiral to shoot off two pieces every evening, and every ship to answer it with one shot; and every man bearing to the ship that is to leeward so near as he may. 7. Item, every master to give charge unto the watch to look out well, for laying aboard one of another in the night, and in fogs. 8. Item, every evening every ship to hail the Admiral, and so to fall astern him, sailing through the ocean; and being on the coast, every ship to hail him both morning and evening. 9. Item, if any ship be in danger in any way, by leak or otherwise, then she to shoot off a piece, and presently to bring out one light; whereupon every man to bear towards her, answering her with one light for a short time, and so to put it out again; thereby to give knowledge that they have seen her token. 10. Item, whensoever the Admiral shall hang out her ensign in the main shrouds, then every man to come aboard her as a token of counsel. 11. Item, if there happen any storm or contrary wind to the fleet after the discovery, whereby they are separated; then every ship to repair unto their last good port, there to meet again. OUR COURSE _agreed upon_. The course first to be taken for the discovery is to bear directly to Cape Race, the most southerly cape of Newfoundland; and there to harbour ourselves either in Rogneux or Fermous, being the first places appointed for our rendezvous, and the next harbours unto the northward of Cape Race: and therefore every ship separated from the fleet to repair to that place so fast as God shall permit, whether you shall fall to the southward or to the northward of it, and there to stay for the meeting of the whole fleet the space of ten days; and when you shall depart, to leave marks. Beginning our course from Scilly, the nearest is by west-south-west (if the wind serve) until such time as we have brought ourselves in the latitude of 43 or 44 degrees, because the ocean is subject much to southerly winds in June and July. Then to take traverse from 45 to 47 degrees of latitude, if we be enforced by contrary winds; and not to go to the northward of the height of 47 degrees of septentrional latitude by no means, if God shall not enforce the contrary; but to do your endeavour to keep in the height of 46 degrees, so near as you can possibly, because Cape Race lieth about that height. NOTE. If by contrary winds we be driven back upon the coast of England, then to repair unto Scilly for a place of our assembly or meeting. If we be driven back by contrary winds that we cannot pass the coast of Ireland, then the place of our assembly to be at Bere haven or Baltimore haven. If we shall not happen to meet at Cape Race, then the place of rendezvous to be at Cape Breton, or the nearest harbour unto the westward of Cape Breton. If by means of other shipping we may not safely stay there, then to rest at the very next safe port to the westward; every ship leaving their marks behind them for the more certainty of the after comers to know where to find them. The marks that every man ought to leave in such a case, were of the General's private device written by himself, sealed also in close wax, and delivered unto every ship one scroll, which was not to be opened until occasion required, whereby every man was certified what to leave for instruction of after comers; that every of us coming into any harbour or river might know who had been there, or whether any were still there up higher into the river, or departed, and which way. Orders thus determined, and promises mutually given to be observed, every man withdrew himself unto his charge; the anchors being already weighed, and our ships under sail, having a soft gale of wind, we began our voyage upon Tuesday, the 11 day of June, in the year of our Lord 1583, having in our fleet (at our departure from Cawset Bay) these ships, whose names and burthens, with the names of the captains and masters of them, I have also inserted, as followeth:--1. The _Delight_, alias the _George_, of burthen 120 tons, was Admiral; in which went the General, and William Winter, captain in her and part owner, and Richard Clarke, master. 2. The bark _Raleigh_, set forth by Master Walter Raleigh, of the burthen of 200 tons, was then Vice-Admiral; in which went Master Butler, captain, and Robert Davis, of Bristol, master. 3. The _Golden Hind_, of burthen 40 tons, was then Rear-Admiral; in which went Edward Hayes, captain and owner, and William Cox, of Limehouse, master. 4. The _Swallow_, of burthen 40 tons; in her was captain Maurice Browne. 5. The _Squirrel_, of burthen 10 tons; in which went captain William Andrews, and one Cade, master. We were in number in all about 260 men; among whom we had of every faculty good choice, as shipwrights, masons, carpenters, smiths, and such like, requisite to such an action; also mineral men and refiners. Besides, for solace of our people, and allurement of the savages, we were provided of music in good variety; not omitting the least toys, as morris-dancers, hobby-horse, and May-like conceits to delight the savage people, whom we intended to win by all fair means possible. And to that end we were indifferently furnished of all petty haberdashery wares to barter with those simple people. In this manner we set forward, departing (as hath been said) out of Cawset Bay the 11 day of June, being Tuesday, the weather and wind fair and good all day; but a great storm of thunder and wind fell the same night. Thursday following, when we hailed one another in the evening, according to the order before specified, they signified unto us out of the Vice-Admiral, that both the captain, and very many of the men, were fallen sick. And about midnight the Vice-Admiral forsook us, notwithstanding we had the wind east, fair and good. But it was after credibly reported that they were infected with a contagious sickness, and arrived greatly distressed at Plymouth; the reason I could never understand. Sure I am, no cost was spared by their owner, Master Raleigh, in setting them forth; therefore I leave it unto God. By this time we were in 48 degrees of latitude, not a little grieved with the loss of the most puissant ship in our fleet; after whose departure the _Golden Hind_ succeeded in the place of Vice-Admiral, and removed her flag from the mizen into the foretop. From Saturday, the 15 of June, until the 28, which was upon a Friday, we never had fair day without fog or rain, and winds bad, much to the west-north-west, whereby we were driven southward unto 41 degrees scarce. About this time of the year the winds are commonly west towards the Newfoundland, keeping ordinarily within two points of west to the south or to the north; whereby the course thither falleth out to be long and tedious after June, which in March, April, and May, hath been performed out of England in 22 days and less. We had wind always so scant from the west-north-west, and from west-south-west again, that our traverse was great, running south unto 41 degrees almost, and afterwards north into 51 degrees. Also we were encumbered with much fog and mists in manner palpable, in which we could not keep so well together, but were discovered, losing the company of the _Swallow_ and the _Squirrel_ upon the 20 day of July, whom we met again at several places upon the Newfoundland coast the 3 of August, as shall be declared in place convenient. Saturday, the 27 July, we might descry, not far from us, as it were mountains of ice driven upon the sea, being then in 50 degrees, which were carried southward to the weather of us; whereby may be conjectured that some current doth set that way from the north. Before we came to Newfoundland, about 50 leagues on this side, we pass the bank, which are high grounds rising within the sea and under water, yet deep enough and without danger, being commonly not less than 25 and 30 fathom water upon them; the same, as it were some vein of mountains within the sea, do run along and form the Newfoundland, beginning northward about 52 or 53 degrees of latitude, and do extend into the south infinitely. The breadth of this bank is somewhere more, and somewhere less; but we found the same about ten leagues over, having sounded both on this side thereof, and the other toward Newfoundland, but found no ground with almost 200 fathom of line, both before and after we had passed the bank. The Portugals, and French chiefly, have a notable trade of fishing upon this bank, where are sometimes an hundred or more sails of ships, who commonly begin the fishing in April, and have ended by July. That fish is large, always wet, having no land near to dry, and is called cod fish. During the time of fishing, a man shall know without sounding when he is upon the bank, by the incredible multitude of sea-fowl hovering over the same, to prey upon the offals and garbage of fish thrown out by fishermen, and floating upon the sea. Upon Tuesday, the 11 of June we forsook the coast of England. So again on Tuesday, the 30 of July, seven weeks after, we got sight of land, being immediately embayed in the Grand Bay, or some other great bay; the certainty whereof we could not judge, so great haze and fog did hang upon the coast, as neither we might discern the land well, nor take the sun's height. But by our best computation we were then in the 51 degrees of latitude. Forsaking this bay and uncomfortable coast (nothing appearing unto us but hideous rocks and mountains, bare of trees, and void of any green herb) we followed the coast to the south, with weather fair and clear. We had sight of an island named Penguin, of a fowl there breeding in abundance almost incredible, which cannot fly, their wings not able to carry their body, being very large (not much less than a goose) and exceeding fat, which the Frenchmen use to take without difficulty upon that island, and to barrel them up with salt. But for lingering of time, we had made us there the like provision. Trending this coast, we came to the island called Baccalaos, being not past two leagues from the main; to the north thereof lieth Cape St. Francis, five leagues distant from Baccalaos, between which goeth in a great bay, by the vulgar sort called the Bay of Conception. Here we met with the _Swallow_ again, whom we had lost in the fog, and all her men altered into other apparel; whereof it seemed their store was so amended, that for joy and congratulation of our meeting, they spared not to cast up into the air and overboard their caps and hats in good plenty. The captain, albeit himself was very honest and religious, yet was he not appointed of men to his humour and desert; who for the most part were such as had been by us surprised upon the narrow seas of England, being pirates, and had taken at that instant certain Frenchmen laden, one bark with wines, and another with salt. Both which we rescued, and took the man-of-war with all her men, which was the same ship now called the _Swallow_; following still their kind so oft as, being separated from the General, they found opportunity to rob and spoil. And because God's justice did follow the same company, even to destruction, and to the overthrow also of the captain (though not consenting to their misdemeanour) I will not conceal anything that maketh to the manifestation and approbation of His judgments, for examples of others; persuaded that God more sharply took revenge upon them, and hath tolerated longer as great outrage in others, by how much these went under protection of His cause and religion, which was then pretended. Therefore upon further enquiry it was known how this company met with a bark returning home after the fishing with his freight; and because the men in the _Swallow_ were very near scanted of victuals, and chiefly of apparel, doubtful withal where or when to find and meet with their Admiral, they besought the captain that they might go aboard this _Newlander_, only to borrow what might be spared, the rather because the same was bound homeward. Leave given, not without charge to deal favourably, they came aboard the fisherman, whom they rifled of tackle, sails, cables, victuals, and the men of their apparel; not sparing by torture, winding cords about their heads, to draw out else what they thought good. This done with expedition, like men skilful in such mischief, as they took their cockboat to go aboard their own ship, it was overwhelmed in the sea, and certain of these men there drowned; the rest were preserved even by those silly souls whom they had before spoiled, who saved and delivered them aboard the _Swallow_. What became afterwards of the poor _Newlander_, perhaps destitute of sails and furniture sufficient to carry them home, whither they had not less to run than 700 leagues, God alone knoweth; who took vengeance not long after of the rest that escaped at this instant, to reveal the fact, and justify to the world God's judgments indicted upon them, as shall be declared in place convenient. Thus after we had met with the _Swallow_, we held on our course southward, until we came against the harbour called St. John, about five leagues from the former Cape of St. Francis, where before the entrance into the harbour, we found also the frigate or _Squirrel_ lying at anchor; whom the English merchants, that were and always be Admirals by turns interchangeably over the fleets of fishermen within the same harbour, would not permit to enter into the harbour. Glad of so happy meeting, both of the _Swallow_ and frigate in one day, being Saturday, the third of August, we made ready our fights, and prepared to enter the harbour, any resistance to the contrary notwithstanding, there being within of all nations to the number of 36 sails. But first the General despatched a boat to give them knowledge of his coming for no ill intent, having commission from her Majesty for his voyage he had in hand; and immediately we followed with a slack gale, and in the very entrance, which is but narrow, not above two butts' length, the Admiral fell upon a rock on the larboard side by great oversight, in that the weather was fair, the rock much above water fast by the shore, where neither went any sea-gate. But we found such readiness in the English merchants to help us in that danger, that without delay there were brought a number of boats, which towed off the ship, and cleared her of danger. Having taken place convenient in the road, we let fall anchors, the captains and masters repairing aboard our Admiral; whither also came immediately the masters and owners of the fishing fleet of Englishmen, to understand the General's intent and cause of our arrival there. They were all satisfied when the General had shewed his commission and purpose to take possession of those lands to the behalf of the crown of England, and the advancement of the Christian religion in those paganish regions, requiring but their lawful aid for repairing of his fleet, and supply of some necessaries, so far as conveniently might be afforded him, both out of that and other harbours adjoining. In lieu whereof he made offer to gratify them with any favour and privilege, which upon their better advice they should demand, the like being not to be obtained hereafter for greater price. So craving expedition of his demand, minding to proceed further south without long detention in those parts, he dismissed them, after promise given of their best endeavour to satisfy speedily his so reasonable request. The merchants with their masters departed, they caused forthwith to be discharged all the great ordnance of their fleet in token of our welcome. It was further determined that every ship of our fleet should deliver unto the merchants and masters of that harbour a note of all their wants: which done, the ships, as well English as strangers, were taxed at an easy rate to make supply. And besides, commissioners were appointed, part of our own company and part of theirs, to go into other harbours adjoining (for our English merchants command all there) to levy our provision: whereunto the Portugals, above other nations, did most willingly and liberally contribute. In so much as we were presented, above our allowance, with wines, marmalades, most fine rusk or biscuit, sweet oils, and sundry delicacies. Also we wanted not of fresh salmons, trouts, lobsters, and other fresh fish brought daily unto us. Moreover as the manner is in their fishing, every week to choose their Admiral anew, or rather they succeed in orderly course, and have weekly their Admiral's feast solemnized: even so the General, captains, and masters of our fleet were continually invited and feasted. To grow short in our abundance at home the entertainment had been delightful; but after our wants and tedious passage through the ocean, it seemed more acceptable and of greater contentation, by how much the same was unexpected in that desolate corner of the world; where, at other times of the year, wild beasts and birds have only the fruition of all those countries, which now seemed a place very populous and much frequented. The next morning being Sunday, and the fourth of August, the General and his company were brought on land by English merchants, who shewed unto us their accustomed walks unto a place they call the Garden. But nothing appeared more than nature itself without art: who confusedly hath brought forth roses abundantly, wild, but odoriferous, and to sense very comfortable. Also the like plenty of raspberries, which do grow in every place. Monday following, the General had his tent set up; who, being accompanied with his own followers, summoned the merchants and masters, both English and strangers, to be present at his taking possession of those countries. Before whom openly was read, and interpreted unto the strangers, his commission: by virtue whereof he took possession in the same harbour of St. John, and 200 leagues every way, invested the Queen's Majesty with the title and dignity thereof, had delivered unto him, after the custom of England, a rod, and a turf of the same soil, entering possession also for him, his heirs and assigns for ever; and signified unto all men, that from that time forward, they should take the same land as a territory appertaining to the Queen of England, and himself authorised under her Majesty to possess and enjoy it, and to ordain laws for the government thereof, agreeable, so near as conveniently might be, unto the laws of England, under which all people coming thither hereafter, either to inhabit, or by way of traffic, should be subjected and governed. And especially at the same time for a beginning, he proposed and delivered three laws to be in force immediately. That is to say the first for religion, which in public exercise should be according to the Church of England. The second, for maintenance of her Majesty's right and possession of those territories, against which if any thing were attempted prejudicial, the party or parties offending should be adjudged and executed as in case of high treason, according to the laws of England. The third, if any person should utter words sounding to the dishonour of her Majesty, he should lose his ears, and have his ship and goods confiscate. These contents published, obedience was promised by general voice and consent of the multitude, as well of Englishmen as strangers, praying for continuance of this possession and government begun; after this, the assembly was dismissed. And afterwards were erected not far from that place the arms of England engraven in lead, and infixed upon a pillar of wood. Yet further and actually to establish this possession taken in the right of her Majesty, and to the behoof of Sir Humfrey Gilbert, knight, his heirs and assigns for ever, the General granted in fee-farm divers parcels of land lying by the water-side, both in this harbour of St. John, and elsewhere, which was to the owners a great commodity, being thereby assured, by their proper inheritance, of grounds convenient to dress and to dry their fish; whereof many times before they did fail, being prevented by them that came first into the harbour. For which grounds they did covenant to pay a certain rent and service unto Sir Humfrey Gilbert, his heirs or assigns for ever, and yearly to maintain possession of the same, by themselves or their assigns. Now remained only to take in provision granted, according as every ship was taxed, which did fish upon the coast adjoining. In the meanwhile, the General appointed men unto their charge: some to repair and trim the ships, others to attend in gathering together our supply and provisions: others to search the commodities and singularities of the country, to be found by sea or land, and to make relation unto the General what either themselves could know by their own travail and experience, or by good intelligence of Englishmen or strangers, who had longest frequented the same coast. Also some observed the elevation of the pole, and drew plots of the country exactly graded. And by that I could gather by each man's several relation, I have drawn a brief description of the Newfoundland, with the commodities by sea or land already made, and such also as are in possibility and great likelihood to be made. Nevertheless the cards and plots that were drawn, with the due gradation of the harbours, bays, and capes, did perish with the Admiral: wherefore in the description following, I must omit the particulars of such things. That which we do call the Newfoundland, and the Frenchmen _Baccalaos_, is an island, or rather, after the opinion of some, it consisteth of sundry islands and broken lands, situate in the north regions of America, upon the gulf and entrance of a great river called St. Lawrence in Canada; into the which, navigation may be made both on the south and north side of this island. The land lieth south and north, containing in length between 300 and 400 miles, accounting from Cape Race, which is in 46 degrees 25 minutes, unto the Grand Bay in 52 degrees, of septentrional latitude. The land round about hath very many goodly bays and harbours, safe roads for ships, the like not to be found in any part of the known world. The common opinion that is had of intemperature and extreme cold that should be in this country, as of some part it may be verified, namely the north, where I grant it is more cold than in countries of Europe, which are under the same elevation: even so it cannot stand with reason and nature of the clime, that the south parts should be so intemperate as the bruit hath gone. For as the same do lie under the climes of Bretagne, Anjou, Poictou in France, between 46 and 49 degrees, so can they not so much differ from the temperature of those countries: unless upon the out-coast lying open unto the ocean and sharp winds, it must indeed be subject to more cold than further within the land, where the mountains are interposed as walls and bulwarks, to defend and to resist the asperity and rigour of the sea and weather. Some hold opinion that the Newfoundland might be the more subject to cold, by how much it lieth high and near unto the middle region. I grant that not in Newfoundland alone, but in Germany, Italy and Afric, even under the equinoctial line, the mountains are extreme cold, and seldom uncovered of snow, in their culm and highest tops, which cometh to pass by the same reason that they are extended towards the middle region: yet in the countries lying beneath them, it is found quite contrary. Even so, all hills having their descents, the valleys also and low grounds must be likewise hot or temperate, as the clime doth give in Newfoundland: though I am of opinion that the sun's reflection is much cooled, and cannot be so forcible in Newfoundland, nor generally throughout America, as in Europe or Afric: by how much the sun in his diurnal course from east to west, passeth over, for the most part, dry land and sandy countries, before he arriveth at the west of Europe or Afric, whereby his motion increaseth heat, with little or no qualification by moist vapours. Whereas, on the contrary, he passeth from Europe and Afric unto American over the ocean, from whence he draweth and carrieth with him abundance of moist vapours, which do qualify and enfeeble greatly the sun's reverberation upon this country chiefly of Newfoundland, being so much to the northward. Nevertheless, as I said before, the cold cannot be so intolerable under the latitude of 46, 47, and 48, especial within land, that it should be unhabitable, as some do suppose, seeing also there are very many people more to the north by a great deal. And in these south parts there be certain beasts, ounces or leopards, and birds in like manner, which in the summer we have seen, not heard of in countries of extreme and vehement coldness. Besides, as in the months of June, July, August and September, the heat is somewhat more than in England at those seasons: so men remaining upon the south parts near unto Cape Race, until after holland-tide (All-hallow-tide--November 1), have not found the cold so extreme, nor much differing from the temperature of England. Those which have arrived there after November and December have found the snow exceeding deep, whereat no marvel, considering the ground upon the coast is rough and uneven, and the snow is driven into the places most declining, as the like is to be seen with us. The like depth of snow happily shall not be found within land upon the plainer countries, which also are defended by the mountains, breaking off the violence of winds and weather. But admitting extraordinary cold in those south parts, above that with us here, it cannot be so great as in Swedeland, much less in Moscovia or Russia: yet are the same countries very populous, and the rigour of cold is dispensed with by the commodity of stoves, warm clothing, meats and drinks: all of which need not be wanting in the Newfoundland, if we had intent there to inhabit. In the south parts we found no inhabitants, which by all likelihood have abandoned those coasts, the same being so much frequented by Christians; but in the north are savages altogether harmless. Touching the commodities of this country, serving either for sustentation of inhabitants or for maintenance of traffic, there are and may be made divers; so that it seemeth that nature hath recompensed that only defect and incommodity of some sharp cold, by many benefits; namely, with incredible quantity, and no less variety, of kinds of fish in the sea and fresh waters, as trouts, salmons, and other fish to us unknown; also cod, which alone draweth many nations thither, and is become the most famous fishing of the world; abundance of whales, for which also is a very great trade in the bays of Placentia and the Grand Bay, where is made train oil of the whale; herring, the largest that have been heard of, and exceeding the Marstrand herring of Norway; but hitherto was never benefit taken of the herring fishing. There are sundry other fish very delicate, namely, the bonito, lobsters, turbot, with others infinite not sought after; oysters having pearl but not orient in colour; I took it, by reason they were not gathered in season. Concerning the inland commodities, as well to be drawn from this land, as from the exceeding large countries adjoining, there is nothing which our east and northerly countries of Europe do yield, but the like also may be made in them as plentifully, by time and industry; namely, resin, pitch, tar, soap-ashes, deal-board, masts for ships, hides, furs, flax, hemp, corn, cables, cordage, linen cloth, metals, and many more. All which the countries will afford, and the soil is apt to yield. The trees for the most in those south parts are fir-trees, pine, and cypress, all yielding gum and turpentine. Cherry trees bearing fruit no bigger than a small pease. Also pear-trees, but fruitless. Other trees of some sort to us unknown. The soil along the coast is not deep of earth, bringing forth abundantly peasen small, yet good feeding for cattle. Roses passing sweet, like unto our musk roses in form; raspises; a berry which we call whorts, good and wholesome to eat. The grass and herb doth fat sheep in very short space, proved by English merchants which have carried sheep thither for fresh victual and had them raised exceeding fat in less than three weeks. Peasen which our countrymen have sown in the time of May, have come up fair, and been gathered in the beginning of August, of which our General had a present acceptable for the rareness, being the first fruits coming up by art and industry in that desolate and dishabited land. Lakes or pools of fresh water, both on the tops of mountains and in the valleys; in which are said to be muscles not unlike to have pearl, which I had put in trial, if by mischance falling unto me I had not been letted from that and other good experiments I was minded to make. Fowl both of water and land in great plenty and diversity. All kind of green fowl; others as big as bustards, yet not the same. A great white fowl called of some a gaunt. Upon the land divers sort of hawks, as falcons, and others by report. Partridges most plentiful, larger than ours, grey and white of colour, and rough-footed like doves, which our men after one flight did kill with cudgels, they were so fat and unable to fly. Birds, some like blackbirds, linnets, canary birds, and other very small. Beasts of sundry kinds; red deer, buffles, or a beast as it seemeth by the tract and foot very large, in manner of an ox. Bears, ounces or leopards, some greater and some lesser; wolves, foxes, which to the northward a little farther are black, whose fur is esteemed in some countries of Europe very rich. Otters, beavers, marterns; and in the opinion of most men that saw it, the General had brought unto him a sable alive, which he sent unto his brother, Sir John Gilbert, Knight, of Devonshire, but it was never delivered, as after I understood. We could not observe the hundredth part of creatures in those unhabited lands; but these mentioned may induce us to glorify the magnificent God, who hath super-abundantly replenished the earth with creatures serving for the use of man, though man hath not used the fifth part of the same, which the more doth aggravate the fault and foolish sloth in many of our nations, choosing rather to live indirectly, and very miserably to live and die within this realm pestered with inhabitants, then to adventure as becometh men, to obtain an habitation in those remote lands, in which nature very prodigally doth minister unto men's endeavours, and for art to work upon. For besides these already recounted and infinite more, the mountains generally make shew of mineral substance; iron very common, lead, and somewhere copper. I will not aver of richer metals; albeit by the circumstances following, more than hope may be conceived thereof. For amongst other charges given to enquire out the singularities of this country, the General was most curious in the search of metals, commanding the mineral-man and refiner especially to be diligent. The same was a Saxon born, honest, and religious, named Daniel. Who after search brought at first some sort of ore, seeming rather to be iron than other metal. The next time he found ore, which with no small show of contentment he delivered unto the General, using protestation that if silver were the thing which might satisfy the General and his followers, there it was, advising him to seek no further; the peril whereof he undertook upon his life (as dear unto him as the crown of England unto her Majesty, that I may use his own words) if it fell not out accordingly. Myself at this instant liker to die than to live, by a mischance, could not follow this confident opinion of our refiner to my own satisfaction; but afterward demanding our General's opinion therein, and to have some part of the ore, he replied, _Content yourself, I have seen enough; and were it but to satisfy my private humour, I would proceed no further. The promise unto my friends, and necessity to bring also the south countries within compass of my patent near expired, as we have already done these north parts, do only persuade me further. And touching the ore, I have sent it aboard, whereof I would have no speech to be made so long as we remain within harbour; here being both Portugals, Biscayans, and Frenchmen, not far off, from whom must be kept any bruit or muttering of such matter. When we are at sea, proof shall be made; if it be our desire, we may return the sooner hither again._ Whose answer I judged reasonable, and contenting me well; wherewith I will conclude this narration and description of the Newfoundland, and proceed to the rest of our voyage, which ended tragically. While the better sort of us were seriously occupied in repairing our wants, and contriving of matters for the commodity of our voyage, others of another sort and disposition were plotting of mischief; some casting to steal away our shipping by night, watching opportunity by the General's and captains' lying on the shore; whose conspiracies discovered, they were prevented. Others drew together in company, and carried away out of the harbours adjoining a ship laden with fish, setting the poor men on shore. A great many more of our people stole into the woods to hide themselves, attending time and means to return home by such shipping as daily departed from the coast. Some were sick of fluxes, and many dead; and in brief, by one means or other our company was diminished, and many by the General licensed to return home. Insomuch as after we had reviewed our people, resolved to see an end of our voyage, we grew scant of men to furnish all our shipping; it seemed good thereof unto the General to leave the _Swallow_ with such provision as might be spared for transporting home the sick people. The captain of the _Delight_ or Admiral, returned into England, in whose stead was appointed captain Maurice Browne, before the captain of the _Swallow_; who also brought with him into the _Delight_ all his men of the _Swallow_, which before have been noted of outrage perpetrated and committed upon fishermen there met at sea. The General made choice to go in his frigate the _Squirrel_, whereof the captain also was amongst them that returned into England; the same frigate being most convenient to discover upon the coast, and to search into every harbour or creek, which a great ship could not do. Therefore the frigate was prepared with her nettings and fights, and overcharged with bases and such small ordnance, more to give a show, than with judgment to foresee unto the safety of her and the men, which afterward was an occasion also of their overthrow. Now having made ready our shipping, that is to say, the _Delight_, the _Golden Hind_, and the _Squirrel_, we put aboard our provision, which was wines, bread or rusk, fish wet and dry, sweet oils, besides many other, as marmalades, figs, limons barrelled, and such like. Also we had other necessary provision for trimming our ships, nets and lines to fish withal, boats or pinnaces fit for discovery. In brief, we were supplied of our wants commodiously, as if we had been in a country or some city populous and plentiful of all things. We departed from this harbour of St. John's upon Tuesday, the 20 of August, which we found by exact observation to be in 47 degrees 40 minutes; and the next day by night we were at Cape Race, 25 leagues from the same harborough. This cape lieth south-south-west from St. John's; it is a low land, being off from the cape about half a league; within the sea riseth up a rock against the point of the cape, which thereby is easily known. It is in latitude 46 degrees 25 minutes. Under this cape we were becalmed a small time, during which we laid out hooks and lines to take cod, and drew in less than two hours fish so large and in such abundance, that many days after we fed upon no other provision. From hence we shaped our course unto the island of Sablon, if conveniently it would so fall out, also directly to Cape Breton. Sablon lieth to the seaward of Cape Breton about 25 leagues, whither we were determined to go upon intelligence we had of a Portugal, during our abode in St. John's, who was himself present when the Portugals, above thirty years past, did put into the same island both neat and swine to breed, which were since exceedingly multiplied. This seemed unto us very happy tidings, to have in an island lying so near unto the main, which we intended to plant upon, such store of cattle, whereby we might at all times conveniently be relieved of victual, and served of store for breed. In this course we trended along the coast, which from Cape Race stretcheth into the north-west, making a bay which some called Trepassa. Then it goeth out again towards the west, and maketh a point, which with Cape Race lieth in manner east and west. But this point inclineth to the north, to the west of which goeth in the Bay of Placentia. We sent men on land to take view of the soil along this coast, whereof they made good report, and some of them had will to be planted there. They saw pease growing in great abundance everywhere. The distance between Cape Race and Cape Breton is 87 leagues; in which navigation we spent eight days, having many times the wind indifferent good, yet could we never attain sight of any land all that time, seeing we were hindered by the current. At last we fell into such flats and dangers that hardly any of us escaped; where nevertheless we lost our Admiral (the _Delight_) with all the men and provisions, not knowing certainly the place. Yet for inducing men of skill to make conjecture, by our course and way we held from Cape Race thither, that thereby the flats and dangers may be inserted in sea cards, for warning to others that may follow the same course hereafter, I have set down the best reckonings that were kept by expert men, William Cox, Master of the _Hind_, and John Paul, his mate, both of Limehouse. . . . Our course we held in clearing us of these flats was east-south-east, and south-east, and south, fourteen leagues, with a marvellous scant wind. Upon Tuesday, the 27 of August, toward the evening, our General caused them in his frigate to sound, who found white sand at 35 fathom, being then in latitude about 44 degrees. Wednesday, toward night, the wind came south, and we bare with the land all that night, west-north-west, contrary to the mind of Master Cox; nevertheless we followed the Admiral, deprived of power to prevent a mischief, which by no contradiction could be brought to hold another course, alleging they could not make the ship to work better, nor to lie otherways. The evening was fair and pleasant, yet not without token of storm to ensue, and most part of this Wednesday night, like the swan that singeth before her death, they in the Admiral, or _Delight_, continued in sounding of trumpets, with drums and fifes; also winding the cornets and hautboys, and in the end of their jollity, left with the battle and ringing of doleful knells. Towards the evening also we caught in the _Golden Hind_ a very mighty porpoise with harping iron, having first stricken divers of them, and brought away part of their flesh sticking upon the iron, but could recover only that one. These also, passing through the ocean in herds, did portend storm. I omit to recite frivolous report by them in the frigate, of strange voices the same night, which scared some from the helm. Thursday, the 29 of August, the wind rose, and blew vehemently at south and by east, bringing withal rain and thick mist, so that we could not see a cable length before us; and betimes in the morning we were altogether run and folded in amongst flats and sands, amongst which we found shoal and deep in every three or four ships' length, after we began to sound; but first we were upon them unawares, until Master Cox looking out, discerned, in his judgment, white cliffs, crying _Land!_ withal; though we could not afterward descry any land, it being very likely the breaking of the sea white, which seemed to be white cliffs, through the haze and thick weather. Immediately tokens were given unto the _Delight_, to cast about to seaward, which, being the greater ship, and of burthen 120 tons, was yet foremost upon the breach, keeping so ill watch, that they knew not the danger, before they felt the same, too late to recover it; for presently the Admiral struck aground, and has soon after her stern and hinder parts beaten in pieces; whereupon the rest (that is to say, the frigate, in which was the General, and the _Golden Hind_) cast about east-south-east, bearing to the south, even for our lives, into the wind's eye, because that way carried us to the seaward. Making out from this danger, we sounded one while seven fathom, then five fathom, then four fathom and less, again deeper, immediately four fathom then but three fathom, the sea going mightily and high. At last we recovered, God be thanked, in some despair, to sea room enough. In this distress, we had vigilant eye unto the Admiral, whom we saw cast away, without power to give the men succour, neither could we espy any of the men that leaped overboard to save themselves, either in the same pinnace, or cock, or upon rafters, and such like means presenting themselves to men in those extremities, for we desired to save the men by every possible means. But all in vain, sith God had determined their ruin; yet all that day, and part of the next, we beat up and down as near unto the wrack as was possible for us, looking out if by good hap we might espy any of them. This was a heavy and grievous event, to lose at one blow our chief ship freighted with great provision, gathered together with much travail, care, long time, and difficulty; but more was the loss of our men, which perished to the number almost of a hundred souls. Amongst whom was drowned a learned man, a Hungarian (Stephen Parmenius), born in the city of Buda, called thereof Budoeus, who, of piety and zeal to good attempts, adventured in this action, minding to record in the Latin tongue the gests and things worthy of remembrance, happening in this discovery, to the honour of our nations, the same being adorned with the eloquent style of this orator and rare poet of our time. Here also perished our Saxon refiner and discoverer of inestimable riches, as it was left amongst some of us in undoubted hope. No less heavy was the loss of the captain, Maurice Browne, a virtuous, honest, and discreet gentleman, overseen only in liberty given late before to men that ought to have been restrained, who showed himself a man resolved, and never unprepared for death, as by his last act of this tragedy appeared, by report of them that escaped this wrack miraculously, as shall be hereafter declared. For when all hope was past of recovering the ship, and that men began to give over, and to save themselves, the captain was advised before to shift also for his life, by the pinnace at the stern of the ship; but refusing that counsel, he would not give example with the first to leave the ship, but used all means to exhort his people not to despair, nor so to leave off their labour, choosing rather to die than to incur infamy by forsaking his charge, which then might be thought to have perished through his default, showing an ill precedent unto his men, by leaving the ship first himself. With this mind he mounted upon the highest deck, where he attended imminent death, and unavoidable; how long, I leave it to God, who withdraweth not his comfort from his servants at such times. In the mean season, certain, to the number of fourteen persons, leaped into a small pinnace, the bigness of a Thames barge, which was made in the Newfoundland, cut off the rope wherewith it was towed, and committed themselves to God's mercy, amidst the storm, and rage of sea and winds, destitute of food, not so much as a drop of fresh water. The boat seeming overcharged in foul weather with company, Edward Headly, a valiant soldier, and well reputed of his company, preferring the greater to the lesser, thought better that some of them perished than all, made this motion, to cast lots, and them to be thrown overboard upon whom the lots fell, thereby to lighten the boat, which otherways seemed impossible to live, and offered himself with the first, content to take his adventure gladly: which nevertheless Richard Clarke, that was master of the Admiral, and one of this number, refused, advising to abide God's pleasure, who was able to save all, as well as a few. The boat was carried before the wind, continuing six days and nights in the ocean, and arrived at last with the men, alive, but weak, upon the Newfoundland, saving that the foresaid Headly, who had been late sick, and another called of us Brazil, of his travel into those countries, died by the way, famished, and less able to hold out than those of better health. . . . Thus whom God delivered from drowning, he appointed to be famished; who doth give limits to man's times, and ordaineth the manner and circumstance of dying: whom, again, he will preserve, neither sea nor famine can confound. For those that arrived upon the Newfoundland were brought into France by certain Frenchmen, then being upon the coast. After this heavy chance, we continued in beating the sea up and down, expecting when the weather would clear up that we might yet bear in with the land, which we judged not far off either the continent or some island. For we many times, and in sundry places found ground at 50, 45, 40 fathoms, and less. The ground coming upon our lead, being sometime cozy sand and other while a broad shell, with a little sand about it. Our people lost courage daily after this ill success, the weather continuing thick and blustering, with increase of cold, winter drawing on, which took from them all hope of amendment, settling an assurance of worse weather to grow upon us every day. The leeside of us lay full of flats and dangers, inevitable if the wind blew hard at south. Some again doubted we were ingulfed in the Bay of St. Lawrence, the coast full of dangers, and unto us unknown. But above all, provision waxed scant, and hope of supply was gone with the loss of our Admiral. Those in the frigate were already pinched with spare allowance, and want of clothes chiefly: thereupon they besought the General to return to England before they all perished. And to them of the _Golden Hind_ they made signs of distress, pointing to their mouths, and to their clothes thin and ragged: then immediately they also of the _Golden Hind_ grew to be of the same opinion and desire to return home. The former reasons having also moved the General to have compassion of his poor men, in whom he saw no want of good will, but of means fit to perform the action they came for, he resolved upon retire: and calling the captain and master of the _Hind_, he yielded them many reasons, enforcing this unexpected return, withal protesting himself greatly satisfied with that he had seen and knew already, reiterating these words: _Be content, we have seen enough, and take no care of expense past: I will set you forth royally the next spring, if God send us safe home. Therefore I pray you let us no longer strive here, where we fight against the elements._ Omitting circumstance, how unwillingly the captain and master of the _Hind_ condescended to this motion, his own company can testify; yet comforted with the General's promise of a speedy return at spring, and induced by other apparent reasons, proving an impossibility to accomplish the action at that time, it was concluded on all hands to retire. So upon Saturday in the afternoon, the 31 of August, we changed our course, and returned back for England. At which very instant, even in winding about, there passed along between us and towards the land which we now forsook a very lion to our seeming, in shape, hair, and colour, not swimming after the manner of a beast by moving of his feet, but rather sliding upon the water with his whole body excepting the legs, in sight, neither yet diving under, and again rising above the water, as the manner is of whales, dolphins, tunnies, porpoises, and all other fish: but confidently showing himself above water without hiding: notwithstanding, we presented ourselves in open view and gesture to amaze him, as all creatures will be commonly at a sudden gaze and sight of men. Thus he passed along turning his head to and fro, yawing and gaping wide, with ugly demonstration of long teeth, and glaring eyes; and to bid us a farewell, coming right against the _Hind_, he sent forth a horrible voice, roaring or bellowing as doth a lion, which spectacle we all beheld so far as we were able to discern the same, as men prone to wonder at every strange thing, as this doubtless was, to see a lion in the ocean sea, or fish in shape of a lion. What opinion others had thereof, and chiefly the General himself, I forbear to deliver: but he took it for _bonum omen_, rejoicing that he was in war against such an enemy, if it were the devil. The wind was large for England at our return, but very high, and the sea rough, insomuch as the frigate, wherein the General went, was almost swallowed up. Monday in the afternoon we passed in sight of Cape Race, having made as much way in little more than two days and nights back again, as before we had done in eight days from Cape Race unto the place where our ship perished. Which hindrance thitherward, and speed back again, is to be imputed unto the swift current, as well as to the winds, which we had more large in our return. This Monday the General came aboard the _Hind_, to have the surgeon of the _Hind_ to dress his foot, which he hurt by treading upon a nail: at which time we comforted each other with hope of hard success to be all past, and of the good to come. So agreeing to carry out lights always by night, that we might keep together, he departed into his frigate, being by no means to be entreated to tarry in the _Hind_, which had been more for his security. Immediately after followed a sharp storm, which we over passed for that time, praised be God. The weather fair, the General came aboard the _Hind_ again, to make merry together with the captain, master, and company, which was the last meeting, and continued there from morning until night. During which time there passed sundry discourses touching affairs past and to come, lamenting greatly the loss of his great ship, more of the men, but most of all his books and notes, and what else I know not, for which he was out of measure grieved, the same doubtless being some matter of more importance than his books, which I could not draw from him: yet by circumstance I gathered the same to be the ore which Daniel the Saxon had brought unto him in the Newfoundland. Whatsoever it was, the remembrance touched him so deep as, not able to contain himself, he beat his boy in great rage, even at the same time, so long after the miscarrying of the great ship, because upon a fair day, when we were becalmed upon the coast of the Newfoundland near unto Cape Race, he sent his boy aboard the Admiral to fetch certain things: amongst which, this being chief, was yet forgotten and left behind. After which time he could never conveniently send again aboard the great ship, much less he doubted her ruin so near at hand. Herein my opinion was better confirmed diversely, and by sundry conjectures, which maketh me have the greater hope of this rich mine. For whereas the General had never before good conceit of these north parts of the world, now his mind was wholly fixed upon the Newfoundland. And as before he refused not to grant assignments liberally to them that required the same into these north parts, now he became contrarily affected, refusing to make any so large grants, especially of St. John's, which certain English merchants made suit for, offering to employ their money and travail upon the same yet neither by their own suit, nor of others of his own company, whom he seemed willing to pleasure, it could be obtained. Also laying down his determination in the spring following for disposing of his voyage then to be re-attempted: he assigned the captain and master of the _Golden Hind_ unto the south discovery, and reserved unto himself the north, affirming that this voyage had won his heart from the south, and that he was now become a northern man altogether. Last, being demanded what means he had, at his arrival in England, to compass the charges of so great preparation as he intended to make the next spring, having determined upon two fleets, one for the south, another for the north; _Leave that to me_, he replied, _I will ask a penny of no man. I will bring good tiding unto her Majesty, who will be so gracious to lend me 10,000 pounds_, willing us therefore to be of good cheer; for _he did thank God_, he said, _with all his heart for that he had seen, the same being enough for us all, and that we needed not to seek any further_. And these last words he would often repeat, with demonstration of great fervency of mind, being himself very confident and settled in belief of inestimable good by this voyage; which the greater number of his followers nevertheless mistrusted altogether, not being made partakers of those secrets, which the General kept unto himself. Yet all of them that are living may be witnesses of his words and protestations, which sparingly I have delivered. Leaving the issue of this good hope unto God, who knoweth the truth only, and can at His good pleasure bring the same to light, I will hasten to the end of this tragedy, which must be knit up in the person of our General. And as it was God's ordinance upon him, even so the vehement persuasion and entreaty of his friends could nothing avail to divert him of a wilful resolution of going through in his frigate; which was overcharged upon the decks with fights, nettings, and small artillery, too cumbersome for so small a boat that was to pass through the ocean sea at that season of the year, when by course we might expect much storm of foul weather. Whereof, indeed, we had enough. But when he was entreated by the captain, master, and other his well-willers of the _Hind_ not to venture in the frigate, this was his answer: _I will not forsake my little company going homeward, with whom I have passed so many storms and perils._ And in very truth he was urged to be so over hard by hard reports given of him that he was afraid of the sea; albeit this was rather rashness than advised resolution, to prefer the wind of a vain report to the weight of his own life. Seeing he would not bend to reason, he had provision out of the _Hind_, such as was wanting aboard his frigate. And so we committed him to God's protection, and set him aboard his pinnace, we being more than 300 leagues onward of our way home. By that time we had brought the Islands of Azores south of us; yet we then keeping much to the north, until we had got into the height and elevation of England, we met with very foul weather and terrible seas, breaking short and high, pyramid-wise. The reason whereof seemed to proceed either of hilly grounds high and low within the sea, as we see hills and vales upon the land, upon which the seas do mount and fall, or else the cause proceedeth of diversity of winds, shifting often in sundry points, all which having power to move the great ocean, which again is not presently settled, so many seas do encounter together, as there had been diversity of winds. Howsoever it cometh to pass, men which all their lifetime had occupied the sea never saw more outrageous seas, we had also upon our mainyard an apparition of a little fire by night, which seamen do call Castor and Pollux. But we had only one, which they take an evil sign of more tempest; the same is usual in storms. Monday, the 9 of September, in the afternoon, the frigate was near cast away, oppressed by waves, yet at that time recovered; and giving forth signs of joy, the General, sitting abaft with a book in his hand, cried out to us in the _Hind_, so oft as we did approach within hearing, _We are as near to heaven by sea as by land!_ Reiterating the same speech, well beseeming a soldier, resolute in Jesus Christ, as I can testify he was. The same Monday night, about twelve of the clock, or not long after, the frigate being ahead of us in the _Golden Hind_, suddenly her lights were out, whereof as it were in a moment we lost the sight, and withal our watch cried _the General was cast away_, which was too true. For in that moment the frigate was devoured and swallowed up of the sea. Yet still we looked out all that night, and ever after until we arrived upon the coast of England; omitting no small sail at sea, unto which we gave not the tokens between us agreed upon to have perfect knowledge of each other, if we should at any time be separated. In great torment of weather and peril of drowning it pleased God to send safe home the _Golden Hind_, which arrived in Falmouth the 22 of September, being Sunday, not without as great danger escaped in a flaw coming from the south-east, with such thick mist that we could not discern land to put in right with the haven. From Falmouth we went to Dartmouth, and lay there at anchor before the Range, while the captain went aland to enquire if there had been any news of the frigate, which, sailing well, might happily have been before us; also to certify Sir John Gilbert, brother unto the General, of our hard success, whom the captain desired, while his men were yet aboard him, and were witnesses of all occurrences in that voyage, it might please him to take the examination of every person particularly, in discharge of his and their faithful endeavour. Sir John Gilbert refused so to do, holding himself satisfied with report made by the captain, and not altogether despairing of his brother's safety, offered friendship and courtesy to the captain and his company, requiring to have his bark brought into the harbour; in furtherance whereof a boat was sent to help to tow her in. Nevertheless, when the captain returned aboard his ship, he found his men bent to depart every man to his home; and then the wind serving to proceed higher upon the coast, they demanded money to carry them home, some to London, others to Harwich, and elsewhere, if the barque should be carried into Dartmouth and they discharged so far from home, or else to take benefit of the wind, then serving to draw nearer home, which should be a less charge unto the captain, and great ease unto the men, having else far to go. Reason accompanied with necessity persuaded the captain, who sent his lawful excuse and cause of this sudden departure unto Sir John Gilbert, by the boat of Dartmouth, and from thence the _Golden Hind_ departed and took harbour at Weymouth. All the men tired with the tediousness of so unprofitable a voyage to their seeming, in which their long expense of time, much toil and labour, hard diet, and continual hazard of life was unrecompensed; their captain nevertheless by his great charges impaired greatly thereby, yet comforted in the goodness of God, and His undoubted providence following him in all that voyage, as it doth always those at other times whosoever have confidence in Him alone. Yet have we more near feeling and perseverance of His powerful hand and protection when God doth bring us together with others into one same peril, in which He leaveth them and delivereth us, making us thereby the beholders, but not partakers, of their ruin. Even so, amongst very many difficulties, discontentments, mutinies, conspiracies, sicknesses, mortality, spoilings, and wracks by sea, which were afflictions more than in so small a fleet or so short a time may be supposed, albeit true in every particularity, as partly by the former relation may be collected, and some I suppressed with silence for their sakes living, it pleased God to support this company, of which only one man died of a malady inveterate, and long infested, the rest kept together in reasonable contentment and concord, beginning, continuing, and ending the voyage, which none else did accomplish, either not pleased with the action, or impatient of wants, or prevented by death. Thus have I delivered the contents of the enterprise and last action of Sir Humfrey Gilbert, Knight, faithfully, for so much as I thought meet to be published; wherein may always appear, though he be extinguished, some sparks of his virtues, be remaining firm and resolute in a purpose by all pretence honest and godly, as was this, to discover, possess, and to reduce unto the service of God and Christian piety those remote and heathen countries of America not actually possessed by Christians, and most rightly appertaining unto the crown of England, unto the which as his zeal deserveth high commendation, even so he may justly be taxed of temerity, and presumption rather, in two respects. First, when yet there was only probability, not a certain and determinate place of habitation selected, neither any demonstration if commodity there _in esse_, to induce his followers; nevertheless, he both was too prodigal of his own patrimony and too careless of other men's expenses to employ both his and their substance upon a ground imagined good. The which falling, very like his associates were promised, and made it their best reckoning, to be salved some other way, which pleased not God to prosper in his first and great preparation. Secondly, when by his former preparation he was enfeebled of ability and credit to perform his designments, as it were impatient to abide in expectation better opportunity, and means which God might raise, he thrust himself again into the action, for which he was not fit, presuming the cause pretended on God's behalf would carry him to the desired end. Into which having thus made re-entry, he could not yield again to withdraw, though he saw no encouragement to proceed; lest his credit, foiled in his first attempt, in a second should utterly be disgraced. Between extremities he made a right adventure, putting all to God and good fortune; and, which was worst, refused not to entertain every person and means whatsoever, to furnish out this expedition, the success whereof hath been declared. But such is the infinite bounty of God, who from every evil deriveth good. For besides that fruit may grow in time of our travelling into those north-west lands, the crosses, turmoils, and afflictions, both in the preparation and execution of this voyage, did correct the intemperate humours which before we noted to be in this gentleman, and made unsavoury and less delightful his other manifold virtues. Then as he was refined, and made nearer drawing unto the image of God so it pleased the Divine will to resume him unto Himself, whither both his and every other high and noble mind have always aspired. 
16809	----	* * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: Throughout the whole book, St. | | John's (Newfoundland) is spelled St. Johns. A list | | of typos fixed in this text are listed at the end. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * THE STORY OF GRENFELL OF THE LABRADOR [Illustration: THE PHYSICIAN IN THE LABRADOR] The Story of Grenfell of the Labrador A Boy's Life of Wilfred T. Grenfell By DILLON WALLACE, Author of "_Grit-a-Plenty_," "_The Ragged Inlet Guards_," "_Ungava Bob_," etc., etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CHICAGO Fleming H. Revell Company LONDON AND EDINBURGH Copyright, 1922, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street Foreword In a land where there was no doctor and no school, and through an evil system of barter and trade the people were practically bound to serfdom, Doctor Wilfred T. Grenfell has established hospitals and nursing stations, schools and co-operative stores, and raised the people to a degree of self dependence and a much happier condition of life. All this has been done through his personal activity, and is today being supported through his personal administration. The author has lived among the people of Labrador and shared some of their hardships. He has witnessed with his own eyes some of the marvelous achievements of Doctor Grenfell. In the following pages he has made a poor attempt to offer his testimony. The book lays no claim to either originality or literary merit. It barely touches upon the field. The half has not been told. He also wishes to acknowledge reference in compiling the book to old files and scrapbooks of published articles concerning Doctor Grenfell and his work, to Doctor Grenfell's book _Vikings of Today_, and to having verified dates and incidents through Doctor Grenfell's Autobiography, published by Houghton Mifflin & Company, of Boston. D.W. _Beacon, N.Y._ Contents I. THE SANDS OF DEE 11 II. THE NORTH SEA FLEETS 26 III. ON THE HIGH SEAS 31 IV. DOWN ON THE LABRADOR 39 V. THE RAGGED MAN IN THE RICKETY BOAT 52 VI. OVERBOARD! 61 VII. IN THE BREAKERS 68 VIII. AN ADVENTUROUS VOYAGE 74 IX. IN THE DEEP WILDERNESS 83 X. THE SEAL HUNTER 99 XI. UNCLE WILLY WOLFREY 109 XII. A DOZEN FOX TRAPS 116 XIII. SKIPPER TOM'S COD TRAP 126 XIV. THE SAVING OF RED BAY 135 XV. A LAD OF THE NORTH 146 XVI. MAKING A HOME FOR THE ORPHANS 158 XVII. THE DOGS OF THE ICE TRAIL 171 XVIII. FACING AN ARCTIC BLIZZARD 183 XIX. HOW AMBROSE WAS MADE TO WALK 193 XX. LOST ON THE ICE FLOE 203 XXI. WRECKED AND ADRIFT 213 XXII. SAVING A LIFE 219 XXIII. REINDEER AND OTHER THINGS 225 XXIV. THE SAME GRENFELL 233 ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE The Physician in the LABRADOR _Title_ The LABRADOR "LIVEYERE" 40 "Sails North to Remain Until the End of Summer, Catching Cod" 46 The Doctor on a Winter's Journey 84 "The Trap is Submerged a Hundred Yards or so from Shore" 130 "NEXT" 172 "Please Look at My Tongue, Doctor" 172 The Hospital Ship, STRATHCONA 220 "I Have a Crew Strong Enough to Take You into My District" 234 I THE SANDS OF DEE The first great adventure in the life of our hero occurred on the twenty-eighth day of February in the year 1865. He was born that day. The greatest adventure as well as the greatest event that ever comes into anybody's life is the adventure of being born. If there is such a thing as luck, Wilfred Thomason Grenfell, as his parents named him, fell into luck, when he was born on February twenty-eighth, 1865. He might have been born on February twenty-ninth one year earlier, and that would have been little short of a catastrophe, for in that case his birthdays would have been separated by intervals of four years, and every boy knows what a hardship it would be to wait four years for a birthday, when every one else is having one every year. There _are_ people, to be sure, who would like their birthdays to be four years apart, but they are not boys. Grenfell was also lucky, or, let us say, fortunate in the place where he was born and spent his early boyhood. His father was Head Master of Mostyn House, a school for boys at Parkgate, England, a little fishing village not far from the historic old city of Chester. By referring to your map you will find Chester a dozen miles or so to the southward of Liverpool, though you may not find Parkgate, for it is so small a village that the map makers are quite likely to overlook it. Here at Parkgate the River Dee flows down into an estuary that opens out into the Irish Sea, and here spread the famous "Sands of Dee," known the world over through Charles Kingsley's pathetic poem, which we have all read, and over which, I confess, I shed tears when a boy: O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the Sands o' Dee; The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she. Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drown'ed maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee. They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the Sands o' Dee. Charles Kingsley and the poem become nearer and dearer to us than ever with the knowledge that he was a cousin of Grenfell, and knew the Sands o' Dee, over which Grenfell tramped and hunted as a boy, for the sandy plain was close by his father's house. There was a time when the estuary was a wide deep harbor, and really a part of Liverpool Bay, and great ships from all over the world came into it and sailed up to Chester, which in those days was a famous port. But as years passed the sands, loosened by floods and carried down by the river current, choked and blocked the harbor, and before Grenfell was born it had become so shallow that only fishing vessels and small craft could use it. Parkgate is on the northern side of the River Dee. On the southern side and beyond the Sands of Dee, rise the green hills of Wales, melting away into blue mysterious distance. Near as Wales is the people over there speak a different tongue from the English, and to young Grenfell and his companions it was a strange and foreign land and the people a strange and mysterious people. We have most of us, in our young days perhaps, thought that all Welshmen were like Taffy, of whom Mother Goose sings: "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef; I went to Taffy's house, Taffy wasn't home, Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow bone; I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed, I took the marrow-bone, and beat about his head." But it was Grenfell's privilege, living so near, to make little visits over into Wales, and he early had an opportunity to learn that Taffy was not in the least like Welshmen. He found them fine, honest, kind-hearted folk, with no more Taffys among them than there are among the English or Americans. The great Lloyd George, perhaps the greatest of living statesmen, is a Welshman, and by him and not by Taffy, we are now measuring the worth of this people who were the near neighbors of Grenfell in his young days. Mostyn House, where Grenfell lived, overlooked the estuary. From the windows of his father's house he could see the fishing smacks going out upon the great adventurous sea and coming back laden with fish. Living by the sea where he heard the roar of the breakers and every day smelled the good salt breath of the ocean, it was natural that he should love it, and to learn, almost as soon as he could run about, to row and sail a boat, and to swim and take part in all sorts of water sports. Time and again he went with the fishermen and spent the night and the day with them out upon the sea. This is why it was fortunate that he was born at Parkgate, for his life there as a boy trained him to meet adventures fearlessly and prepared him for the later years which were destined to be years of adventure. Far up the river, wide marshes reached; and over these marshes, and the Sands of Dee, Grenfell roamed at will. His father and mother were usually away during the long holidays when school was closed, and he and his brothers were left at these times with a vast deal of freedom to do as they pleased and seek the adventure that every boy loves, and on the sands and in the marshes there was always adventure enough to be found. Shooting in the marshes and out upon the sands was a favorite sport, and when not with the fishermen Grenfell was usually to be found with his gun stalking curlew, oyster diggers, or some other of the numerous birds that frequented the marshes and shores. Barefooted, until the weather grew too cold in autumn, and wearing barely enough clothing to cover his nakedness, he would set out in early morning and not return until night fell. As often as not he returned from his day's hunting empty handed so far as game was concerned, but this in no wise detracted from the pleasure of the hunt. Game was always worth the getting, but the great joy was in being out of doors and in tramping over the wide flats. With all the freedom given him to hunt, he early learned that no animals or birds were to be killed on any account save for food or purposes of study. This is the rule of every true sportsman. Grenfell has always been a great hunter and a fine shot, but he has never killed needlessly. Young Grenfell through these expeditions soon learned to take a great deal of interest in the habits of birds and their life history. This led him to try his skill at skinning and mounting specimens. An old fisherman living near his home was an excellent hand at this and gave him his first lessons, and presently he developed into a really expert taxidermist, while his brother made the cases in which he mounted and exhibited his specimens. His interest in birds excited an interest in flowers and plants and finally in moths and butterflies. The taste for nature study is like the taste for olives. You have to cultivate it, and once the taste is acquired you become extremely fond of it. Grenfell became a student of moths and butterflies. He captured, mounted and identified specimens. He was out of nights with his net hunting them and "sugaring" trees to attract them, and he even bred them. A fine collection was the result, and this, together with one of flowers and plants, was added to that of his mounted birds. In the course of time he had accumulated a creditable museum of natural history, which to this day may be seen at Mostyn House, in Parkgate; and to it have been added specimens of caribou, seals, foxes, porcupines and other Labrador animals, which in his busy later years he has found time to mount, for he is still the same eager and devoted student of nature. During these early years, with odds and ends of boards that they collected, Grenfell and his brother built a boat to supply a better means of stealing upon flocks of water birds. It was a curious flat-bottomed affair with square ends and resembled a scow more than a rowboat, but it served its purpose well enough, and was doubtless the first craft which the young adventurer, later to become a master mariner, ever commanded. Up and down the estuary, venturing even to the sea, the two lads cruised in their clumsy craft, stopping over night with the kind-hearted fishermen or "sleeping out" when they found themselves too far from home. Many a fine time the ugly little boat gave them until finally it capsized one day leaving them to swim for it and reach the shore as best they could. At the age of fourteen Grenfell was sent to Marlborough "College," where he had earned a scholarship. This was not a college as we speak of a college in America, but a large university preparatory school. In the beginning he had a fight with an "old boy," and being victor firmly established his place among his fellow students. Whether at Mostyn House, or later at Marlborough College, Grenfell learned early to use the gloves. It was quite natural, devoted as he was to athletics, that he should become a fine boxer. To this day he loves the sport, and is always ready to put on the gloves for a bout, and it is a mighty good man that can stand up before him. In most boys' schools of that day, and doubtless at Marlborough College, boys settled their differences with gloves, and in all probability Grenfell had plenty of practice, for he was never a mollycoddle. He was perhaps not always the winner, but he was always a true sportsman. There is a vast difference between a "sportsman" and a "sport." Grenfell was a sportsman, never a sport. His life in the open taught him to accept success modestly or failure smilingly, and all through his life he has been a sportsman of high type. The three years that Grenfell spent at Marlborough College were active ones. He not only made good grades in his studies but he took a leading part in all athletics. Study was easy for him, and this made it possible to devote much time to physical work. Not only did he become an expert boxer, but he had no difficulty in making the school teams, in football, cricket, and other sports that demanded skill, nerve and physical energy. Like all youngsters running over with the joy of youth and life, he got into his full share of scrapes. If there was anything on foot, mischievous or otherwise, Grenfell was on hand, though his mischief and escapades were all innocent pranks or evasion of rules, such as going out of bounds at prohibited hours to secure goodies. The greater the element of adventure the keener he was for an enterprise. He was not by any means always caught in his pranks, but when he was he admitted his guilt with heroic candor, and like a hero stood up for his punishment. Those were the days when the hickory switch in America, and the cane in England, were the chief instruments of torture. With the end of his course at Marlborough College, Grenfell was confronted with the momentous question of his future and what he was to do in life. This is a serious question for any young fellow to answer. It is a question that involves one's whole life. Upon the decision rests to a large degree happiness or unhappiness, content or discontent, success or failure. It impressed him now as a question that demanded his most serious thought. For the first time there came to him a full realization that some day he would have to earn his way in the world with his own brain and hands. A vista of the future years with their responsibilities, lay before him as a reality, and he decided that it was up to him to make the most of those years and to make a success of life. No doubt this realization fell upon him as a shock, as it does upon most lads whose parents have supplied their every need. Now he was called upon to decide the matter for himself, and his future education was to be guided by his choice. At various periods of his youthful career nearly every boy has an ambition to be an Indian fighter, or a pirate, or a locomotive engineer, or a fireman and save people from burning buildings at the risk of his own life, or to be a hunter of ferocious wild animals. Grenfell had dreamed of a romantic and adventurous career. Now he realized that these ambitions must give place to a sedate profession that would earn him a living and in which he would be contented. All of his people had been literary workers, educators, clergymen, or officers in the army or navy. There was Charles Kingsley and "Westward Ho." There was Sir Richard Grenvil, immortalized by Tennyson in "The Revenge." There was his own dear grandfather who was a master at Rugby under the great Arnold, whom everybody knows through "Tom Brown at Rugby." It was the wish of some of his friends and family that he become a clergyman. This did not in the least suit his tastes, and he immediately decided that whatever profession he might choose, it would _not_ be the ministry. The ministry was distasteful to him as a profession, and he had no desire or intention to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. He wished to be original, and to blaze a new trail for himself. Grenfell was exceedingly fond of the family physician, and one day he went to him to discuss his problem. This physician had a large practice. He kept several horses to take him about the country visiting his patients, and in his daily rounds he traveled many miles. This was appealing to one who had lived so much out of doors as Grenfell had. As a doctor he, too, could drive about the country visiting patients. He could enjoy the sunshine and feel the drive of rain and wind in his face. He rebelled at the thought of engaging in any profession that would rob him of the open sky. But he also demanded that the profession he should choose should be one of creative work. This would be necessary if his life were to be happy and successful. Observing the old doctor jogging along the country roads visiting his far-scattered patients, it occurred to Grenfell that here was not only a pleasant but a useful profession. With his knowledge of medicine the doctor assisted nature in restoring people to health. Man must have a well body if he would be happy and useful. Without a well body man's hands would be idle and his brain dull. Only healthy men could invent and build and administer. It was the doctor's job to keep them fit. Here then was creative work of the highest kind! The thought thrilled him! Every boy of the right sort yearns to be of the greatest possible use in the world. Unselfishness is a natural instinct. Boys are not born selfish. They grow selfish because of association or training, and because they see others about them practicing selfishness. Grenfell's whole training had been toward unselfishness and usefulness. Here was a life calling that promised both unselfish and useful service and at the same time would gratify his desire to be a great deal out of doors, and he decided at once that he would study medicine and be a doctor. His father was pleased with the decision. His course at Marlborough College was completed, and he immediately took special work preparatory to entering London Hospital and University. In the University he did well. He passed his examinations creditably at the College of Physicians and Surgeons and at London University, and had time to take a most active part in the University athletics as a member of various 'Varsity teams. At one time or another he was secretary of the cricket, football and rowing clubs, and he took part in several famous championship games, and during one term that he was in residence at Oxford University he played on the University football team. One evening in 1885 Grenfell, largely through curiosity, dropped into a tent where evangelistic meetings were in progress. The evangelists conducting the meeting happened to be the then famous D.L. Moody and Ira D. Sankey. Both Mr. Moody and Mr. Sankey were men of marvelous power and magnetism. Moody was big, wholesome and practical. He preached a religion of smiles and happiness and helpfulness. He lived what he preached. There was no humbug or hypocrisy in him. Sankey never had a peer as a leader of mass singing. Moody was announcing a hymn when Grenfell entered. Sankey, in his illimitable style, struck up the music. In a moment the vast audience was singing as Grenfell had never heard an audience sing before. After the hymn Moody spoke. Grenfell told me once that that sermon changed his whole outlook upon life. He realized that he was a Christian in name only and not in fact. His religious life was a fraud. There and then he determined that he must be either an out and out Christian or honestly renounce Christianity. With his home training and teachings he could not do the latter. He decided upon a Christian life. He would do nothing as a doctor that he could not do with a clear conscience as a Christian gentleman. This he also decided: a man's religion is something for him to be proud of and any one ashamed to acknowledge the faith of his fathers is a moral coward, and a moral coward is more contemptible than a physical coward. He also was convinced that a boy or man afraid or ashamed to acknowledge his religious belief could only be a mental weakling. It was characteristic of Grenfell that whatever he attempted to do he did with courage and enthusiasm. He never was a slacker. The hospital to which he was attached was situated in the centre of the worst slums of London. It occurred to him that he might help the boys, and he secured a room, fitted it up as a gymnasium, and established a sort of boys' club, where on Sundays he held a Bible study class and where he gave the boys physical work on Saturdays. There was no Y.M.C.A. in England at that time where they could enjoy these privileges. In the beginning, there were young thugs who attempted to make trouble. He simply pitched them out, and in the end they were glad enough to return and behave themselves. Grenfell and his brother, with one of their friends, spent the long holidays when college was closed cruising along the coast in an old fishing smack which they rented. In the course of his cruising, the thought came to him that it was hardly fair to the boys in the slums to run away from them and enjoy himself in the open while they sweltered in the streets, and he began at once to plan a camp for the boys. This was long before the days of Boy Scouts and their camps. It was before the days of any boys' camps in England. It was an original idea with him that a summer camp would be a fine experience for his boys. At his own expense he established such a camp on the Welsh coast, and during every summer until he finished his studies in the University he took his boys out of the city and gave them a fine outing during a part of the summer holiday period. It was just at this time that the first boys' camp in America was founded by Chief Dudley as an experiment, now the famous Camp Dudley on Lake Champlain. We may therefore consider Grenfell as one of the pioneers in making popular the boys' camp idea, and every boy that has a good time in a summer camp should thank him. But a time comes when all things must end, good as well as bad, and the time came when Grenfell received his degree and graduated a full-fledged doctor, and a good one, too, we may be sure. Now he was to face the world, and earn his own bread and butter. Pleasant holidays, and boys' camps were behind him. The big work of life, which every boy loves to tackle, was before him. Then it was that Dr. Frederick Treves, later Sir Frederick, a famous surgeon under whom he had studied, made a suggestion that was to shape young Dr. Grenfell's destiny and make his name known wherever the English tongue is spoken. II THE NORTH SEA FLEETS The North Sea, big as it is, has no great depth. Geologists say that not long ago, as geologists calculate time, its bottom was dry land and connected the British Isles with the continent of Europe. Then it began to sink until the water swept in and covered it, and it is still sinking. The deepest point in the North Sea is not more than thirty fathoms, or one hundred eighty feet. There are areas where it is not over five fathoms deep, and the larger part of it is less than twenty fathoms. Fish are attracted to the North Sea because it is shallow. Its bottom forms an extensive fishing "bank," we might say, though it is not, properly speaking, a bank at all, and here is found some of the finest fishing in the world. From time immemorial fishing fleets have gone to the North Sea, and the North Sea fisheries is one of the important industries of Great Britain. Men are born to it and live their lives on the small fishing craft, and their sons follow them for generation after generation. It is a hazardous calling, and the men of the fleets are brave and hardy fellows. The fishing fleets keep to the sea in winter as well as in summer, and it is a hard life indeed when decks and rigging are covered with ice, and fierce north winds blow the snow down, and the cold is bitter enough to freeze a man's very blood. Seas run high and rough, which is always the case in shallow waters, and great rollers sweep over the decks of the little craft, which of necessity have small draft and low freeboard. The fishing fleets were like large villages on the sea. At the time of which we write, and it may be so to this day, fast vessels came daily to collect the fish they caught and to take the catch to market. Once in every three months a vessel was permitted to return to its home port for rest and necessary re-fitting, and then the men of her crew were allowed one day ashore for each week they had spent at sea. Now and again there came to the hospital sick or injured men returned from the fleet on these home-coming vessels. When Grenfell passed his final examinations in 1886, and was admitted to the College of Physicians and Royal College of Surgeons of England, Sir Frederick Treves suggested that he visit the North Sea fishing fleets and lend his service to the fishermen for a time before entering upon private practice. The great surgeon, himself a lover of the sea and acquainted with Grenfell's inclinations toward an active outdoor life, was also aware that Grenfell was a good sailor. "Don't go in summer," admonished Sir Frederick. "Go in winter when you can see the life of the men at its hardest and when they have the greatest need of a doctor. Anyhow you'll have some rugged days at sea if you go in winter." He went on to explain that a few men had become interested in the fishermen of the fleets and had chartered a vessel to go among them to offer diversion in the hope of counteracting to some extent the attraction of the whiskey and rum traders whose vessels sold much liquor to the men and did a vast deal of harm. This vessel was open to the visits of the fishermen. Religious services were held aboard her on Sundays. There was no doctor in the fleet, and the skipper, who had been instructed in ordinary bandaging and in giving simple remedies for temporary relief, rendered first aid to the injured or sick until they could be sent away on some home-bound vessel and placed in a hospital for medical or surgical treatment. Thus a week or sometimes two weeks would elapse before the sufferer could be put under a doctor's care. Because of this long delay many men died who, with prompt attention, would doubtless have lived. "The men who have fitted out this mission boat would like a young doctor to go with it," concluded Sir Frederick. "Go with them for a little while. You'll find plenty of high sea's adventure, and you'll like it." In more than one way this suited Grenfell exactly. The opportunity for adventure that such a cruise offered appealed to him strongly, as it would appeal to any real live red-blooded man or boy. It also offered an opportunity to gain practical experience in his profession and at the same time render service to brave men who sadly needed it; and he could lend a hand in fighting the liquor evil among the seamen and thus share in helping to care for their moral, as well as their physical welfare. He had seen much of the evils of the liquor traffic during his student days in London, and he had acquired a wholesome hatred for it. In short, he saw an opportunity to help make the lives of these men happier. That is a high ideal for any one--to do something whenever possible to bring happiness into the lives of others. This was too good an opportunity to let pass. It offered not only practice in his profession but service for others, and there would be the spice of adventure. He applied without delay for the post, requesting to go on duty the following January. Whether Sir Frederick Treves said a word for him to the newly founded mission or not, I do not know, but at any rate Grenfell, to his great delight, was accepted, and it is probable the group of big hearted men who were sending the vessel to the fishermen were no less pleased to secure the services of a young doctor of his character. At last the time came for departure. The mission ship was to sail from Yarmouth. Grenfell had been impatiently awaiting orders to begin his duties, when suddenly he received directions to join his vessel prepared to go to sea at once. Filled with enthusiasm and keen for the adventure he boarded the first train for Yarmouth. It was a dark and rainy night when he arrived. Searching down among the wharves he found the mission ship tied to her moorings. She proved to be a rather diminutive schooner of the type and class used by the North Sea fishermen, and if the young doctor had pictured a large and commodious vessel he was disappointed. But Grenfell had been accustomed in his boyhood to knocking about with fishermen and now he was quite content with nothing better than fell to the lot of those he was to serve. The little vessel was neat as wax below deck. The crew were big-hearted, brawny, good-natured fellows, and gave the Doctor a fine welcome. Of course his quarters were small and crowded, but he was bound on a mission and an adventure, and cramped quarters were no obstacle to his enthusiasm. Grenfell was not the sort of man to growl or complain at little inconveniences. He was thinking only of the duties he had assumed and the adventures that were before him. At last he was on the seas, and his life work, though he did not know it then, had begun. III ON THE HIGH SEAS The skipper of the vessel was a bluff, hearty man of the old school of seamen. At the same time he was a sincere Christian devoted to his duties. At the beginning he made it plain that Grenfell was to have quite enough to do to keep him occupied, not only in his capacity as doctor, but in assisting to conduct afloat a work that in many respects resembled that of our present Young Men's Christian Association ashore. The mission steamer was now to run across to Ostend, Belgium, where supplies were to be taken aboard before joining the fishing fleets. It was bitterly cold, and while they lay at Ostend taking on cargo the harbor froze over, and they found themselves so firm and fast in the ice that it became necessary to engage a steamer to go around them to break them loose. At last, cargo loaded and ice smashed, they sailed away from Ostend and pointed their bow towards the great fleets, not again to see land for two full months, save Heligoland and Terschelling in the far distant offing. The little vessel upon which Grenfell sailed was the first sent to the fisheries by the now famous Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen; and the young Doctor on her deck, hardly yet realizing all that was expected of him, was destined to do no small part in the development of the splendid service that the Mission has since rendered the fishermen. On the starboard side of the vessel's bow appeared in bold carved letters the words, "Heal the sick," on the port side of the bow, "Preach the Word." "Preaching the Word" does not necessarily mean, and did not mean here, getting up into a pulpit for an hour or two and preaching orthodox sermons, sometimes as dry as dead husks, on Sundays. Sometimes just a smile and a cheery greeting is the best sermon in the world, and the finest sort of preaching. Just the example of living honestly and speaking truthfully and always lending a hand to the fellow who is in trouble or discouraged, is a fine sermon, for there is not a man or boy living whose life and actions do not have an influence for good or bad on some one else. We do not always realize this, but it is true. Grenfell little dreamed of the future that this voyage was to open to him. He knew little or nothing at that time of Labrador or Newfoundland. He had never seen an Eskimo nor an American Indian, unless he had chanced to visit a "wild west" show. He had no other expectation than that he should make a single winter cruise with the mission schooner, and then return to England and settle in some promising locality to the practice of his profession, there to rise to success or fade into hum-drum obscurity, as Providence might will. The fishermen of the North Sea fleet were as rough and ready as the old buccaneers. They were constantly risking their lives and they had not much regard for their own lives or the lives of others. With them life was cheap. Night and day they faced the dangers of the sea as they worked at the trawls, and when they were not sleeping or working there was no amusement for them. Then they were prone to resort to the grog ships, which hovered around them, and they too often drank a great deal more rum than was good for them. They were reared to a rough and cruel life, these fishermen. Hard punishments were dealt the men by the skippers. It was the way of the sea, as they knew it. There were more than twenty thousand of these men in the North Sea fleets. Grenfell must have been overwhelmed with the thought that he was to be the only doctor within reach of that great number of men. "Heal the sick"--that was his job! But he resolved to do much more than that! He was going to "Preach the Word" in smiles and cheering words, and was going to help the men in other ways than with his pill box and surgical bandages. As a doctor he realized how harmful liquor was to them, and he was going to fight the grog ships and do his best to put them out of business. In a word, he was not only going to doctor the men but he was going to help them to live straight, clean lives. He was going to play the game as he had played foot ball or pulled his oar with the winning crew at college. He was going to put into it the best that was in him! That was the way Grenfell always did everything he undertook. When he had to pummel the "old boy" at Marlborough College he did it the best he knew how. Now he had a big job on his hands. He resolved, figuratively, to pummel the rum ships, and he was already planning and inventing ways that would make the men's lives easier. He went into the thing with his characteristic zeal, determined to make good. It is a mighty fine thing to make good. Any of us can make good if we go at things in the way Grenfell went at them--determined, whatever obstacles arise, not to fail. Grenfell never whined about luck going against him. He made his own luck. That is the mark of every successful and big man. "There are the fleets," said the skipper one day, pointing out over the bow. "We'll make a round of the fleets, and you'll have a chance to get busy patching the men up." And he was busy. There came as many patients every day as any young doctor could wish to treat. But that was what Grenfell wanted. As the skipper suggested, the mission boat made a tour of the fleets, of which there were several, each fleet with its own name and colours and commanded by an Admiral. There were the Columbias, the Rashers, the Great Northerners and many others. It was finally with the Great Northerners that the mission boat took its station. Grenfell visited among the vessels and made friends among the men, who were like big boys, rough and ready. They were always prepared to go into daring ventures. They never flinched at danger. Few of them had ever enjoyed the privilege of going to school, and none of the men and few of the skippers could write. They could read the compass just as men who cannot read can tell the time of day from the clock. But they had their method of dead reckoning and always appeared to know where they were, even though land had not been sighted for days. Most of these men had been apprentised to the vessels as boys and had followed the sea all their lives. There were always many apprentised boys on the ships, and these worked without other pay than clothing, food and a little pocket money until they were twenty-one years of age. In many cases they received little consideration from the skippers and sometimes were treated with unnecessary roughness and even cruelty. From the beginning Doctor Grenfell devoted himself not only to healing the sick, but also to bettering the condition of the fishermen. His skill was applied to the healing of their moral as well as their physical ills. Of necessity their life was a rough and rugged one, but there were opportunities to introduce some pleasure into it and to make it happier in many ways. Here was a strong human call that, from the beginning, Grenfell could not resist. Using his own influence together with the influence of other good men, necessary funds were raised to meet the expenses of additional mission ships, and additional doctors and workers were sent out. Those selected were not only doctors, but men who were qualified by character and ability to guide the seamen to better and cleaner and more wholesome living. Queen Victoria became interested. The grog ships were finally driven from the sea. Laws were enacted to better conditions upon the fishing vessels that the lives of the fishermen might be easier and happier. In the course of time, as the result of Grenfell's tireless efforts, a marvelous change for the better took place. Thus the years passed. Dr. Grenfell, who in the beginning had given his services to the Mission for a single winter, still remained. He felt it a duty that he could not desert. The work was hard, and it denied him the private practice and the home life to which he had looked forward so hopefully. He never had the time to drive fine horses about the country as he visited patients. But he had no regrets. He had chosen to accept and share the life of the fishermen on the high seas. It was no less a service to his country and to mankind than the service of the soldier fighting in the trenches. When he saw the need and heard the call he was willing enough to sacrifice personal ambitions that he might help others to become finer, better men, and live nobler happier lives. Looking back over that period there is no doubt that Doctor Grenfell feels a thousand times repaid for any sacrifices he may have made. It is always that way. When we give up something for the other fellow, or do some fine thing to help him, our pleasure at the happiness we have given him makes us somehow forget ourselves and all we have given up. And so came the year 1891. It was in that year that a member of the Mission Board returned from a visit to Canada and Newfoundland and reported to the Board great need of work among the Newfoundland fishermen similar to that that had been done by Grenfell in the North Sea. The members of the Board were stirred by what they heard, and it was decided to send a ship across the Atlantic. It was necessary that the man in command be a doctor understanding the work to be done. It was also necessary that he should be a man of high executive and administrative ability, capable of organizing and carrying it on successfully. The man that has made good is the man always looked for to occupy such a post. Grenfell had made good in the North Sea. His work there indeed had been a brilliant success. He was the one man the Board thought of, and he was asked to go. He accepted. Here was a new field of work and adventure offering ever greater possibilities than the old, and he never hesitated about it. He began preparations for the new enterprise at once. The _Albert_, a little ketch-rigged vessel of ninety-seven tons register, was selected. Iron hatches were put into her, she was sheathed with greenhart to withstand the pressure of ice, and thoroughly refitted. Captain Trevize, a Cornishman, was engaged as skipper. Though Doctor Grenfell was himself a master mariner and thoroughly qualified as a navigator, he had never crossed the Atlantic, and in any case he was to be fully occupied with other duties. There was a crew of eight men including the mate, Skipper Joe White, a famous skipper of the North Sea fleets. On June 15, 1892, the _Albert_ was towed out of Great Yarmouth Harbor, and that day she spread her sails and set her course westward. The great work of Doctor Grenfell's life was now to begin. All the years of toil on the North Sea had been but an introduction to it and a preparation for it. His little vessel was to carry him to the bleak and desolate coast of Labrador and into the ice fields of the North. He was to meet new and strange people, and he was destined to experience many stirring adventures. IV DOWN ON THE LABRADOR Heavy seas and head winds met the _Albert_, and she ran in at the Irish port of Cookhaven to await better weather. In a day or two she again spread her canvas, Fastnet Rock, at the south end of Ireland, the last land of the Old World to be seen, was lost to view, and in heavy weather she pointed her bow toward St. Johns, Newfoundland. Twelve days later, in a thick fog, a huge iceberg loomed suddenly up before them, and the _Albert_ barely missed a collision that might have ended the mission. It was the first iceberg that Doctor Grenfell had ever seen. Presently, and through the following years, they were to become as familiar to him as the trees of the forests. Four hundred years had passed since Cabot on his voyage of discovery had, in his little caraval, passed over the same course that Grenfell now sailed in the _Albert_. Nineteen days after Fastnet Rock was lost to view, the shores of Newfoundland rose before them. That was fine sailing for the landfall was made almost exactly opposite St. Johns. The harbor of St. Johns is like a great bowl. The entrance is a narrow passage between high, beetling cliffs rising on either side. From the sea the city is hidden by hills flanked by the cliffs, and a vessel must enter the narrow gateway and pass nearly through it before the city of St. Johns is seen rising from the water's edge upon sloping hill-sides on the opposite side of the harbor. It is one of the safest as well as most picturesque harbors in the world. As the _Albert_ approached the entrance Doctor Grenfell and the crew were astonished to see clouds of smoke rising from within and obscuring the sky. As they passed the cliffs waves of scorching air met them. The city was in flames. Much of it was already in ashes. Stark, blackened chimneys rose where buildings had once stood. Flames were still shooting upward from those as yet but partly consumed. Some of the vessels anchored in the harbor were ablaze. Everything had been destroyed or was still burning. The Colonial public buildings, the fine churches, the great warehouses that had lined the wharves, even the wharves themselves, were smouldering ruins, and scarcely a private house remained. It was a scene of complete and terrible desolation. The fire had even extended to the forests beyond the city, and for weeks afterward continued to rage and carry destruction to quiet, scattered homes of the country. [Illustration: "THE LABRADOR 'LIVEYERE'"] The cause or origin of the fire no one knew. It had come as a devastating scourge. It had left the beautiful little city a mass of blackened, smoking ruins. The Newfoundlanders are as fine and brave a people as ever lived. Deep trouble had come to them, but they met it with their characteristic heroism. No one was whining, or wringing his hands, or crying out against God. They were accepting it all as cheerfully as any people can ever accept so sweeping a calamity. Benjamin Franklin said, "God helps them that help themselves." That is as true of a city as it is of a person. That is what the St. Johns people were doing, and already, while the fire still burned, they were making plans to take care of themselves and rebuild their city. Of course Doctor Grenfell could do little to help with his one small ship, but he did what he could. The officials and the people found time to welcome him and to tell him how glad they were that he was to go to Labrador to heal the sick of their fleets and make the lives of the fishermen and the natives of the northern coast happier and pleasanter. A pilot was necessary to guide the _Albert_ along the uncharted coast of Labrador. Captain Nicholas Fitzgerald was provided by the Newfoundland government to serve in this capacity. Doctor Grenfell invited Mr. Adolph Neilson, Superintendent of Fisheries for Newfoundland, to accompany them, and he accepted the invitation, that he might lend his aid to getting the work of the mission started. He proved a valuable addition to the party. Then the _Albert_ sailed away to cruise her new field of service. It will be interesting to turn to a map and see for ourselves the country to which Doctor Grenfell was going. We will find Labrador in the northeastern corner of the North American continent, just as Alaska is in the northwestern corner. Like Alaska, Labrador is a great peninsula and is nearly, though not quite, so large as Alaska. Some maps will show only a narrow strip along the Atlantic east of the peninsula marked "Labrador." This is incorrect. The whole peninsula, bounded on the south by the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Straits of Belle Isle, the east by the Atlantic Ocean, the north by Hudson Straits, the west by Hudson Bay and James Bay and the Province of Quebec, is included in Labrador. The narrow strip on the east is under the jurisdiction of Newfoundland, while the remainder is owned by Quebec. Newfoundland is the oldest colony of Great Britain. It is not a part of Canada, but has a separate government. The only people living in the interior of Labrador are a few wandering Indians who live by hunting. There are still large parts of the interior that have never been explored by white men, and of which we know little or no more than was known of America when Columbus discovered the then new world. The people who live on the coast are white men, half-breeds and Eskimos. None of these ever go far inland, and they live by fishing, hunting, and trapping animals for the fur. Those on the south, as far east as Blanc Sablon, on the straits of Belle Isle, speak French. Eastward from Blanc Sablon and northward to a point a little north of Indian Harbor at the northern side of the entrance of Hamilton Inlet, English is spoken. The language on the remainder of the coast is Eskimo, and nearly all of the people are Eskimos. Once upon a time the Eskimos lived and hunted on the southern coast along the Straits of Belle Isle, but only white people and half-breeds are now found south of Hamilton Inlet. The Labrador coast from Cape Charles in the south to Cape Chidley in the north is scoured as clean as the paving stones of a street. Naked, desolate, forbidding it lies in a somber mist. In part it is low and ragged but as we pass north it gradually rises into bare slopes and finally in the vicinity of Nachbak Bay high mountains, perpendicular and grey, stand out against the sky. Behind the storm-scoured rocky islands lie the bays and tickles and runs and at the head of the bays the forest begins, reaching back over rolling hills into the mysterious and unknown regions beyond. There is not one beaten road in all the land. There is no sandy beach, no grassy bank, no green field. Nature has been kind to Labrador, however, in one respect. There are innumerable harbors snugly sheltered behind the islands and well out of reach of the rolling breakers and the wind. There is an old saying down on the Labrador that "from one peril there are two ways of escape to three sheltered places." The ice and fog are always perils but the skippers of the coast appear to hold them in disdain and plunge forward through storm and sea when any navigator on earth would expect to meet disaster. For the most part the coast is uncharted and the skippers, many of whom never saw an instrument of navigation in their life, or at least never owned one, sail by rhyme: "When Joe Bett's P'int you is abreast, Dane's Rock bears due west. West-nor'west you must steer, 'Til Brimstone Head do appear. "The tickle's narrow, not very wide; The deepest water's on the starboard side When in the harbor you is shot, Four fathoms you has got." It is an evil coast, with hidden reefs and islands scattered like dust its whole length. "The man who sails the Labrador must know it all like his own back yard--not in sunny weather alone, but in the night, when the headlands are like black clouds ahead, and in the mist, when the noise of breakers tells him all that he may know of his whereabouts. A flash of white in the gray distance, a thud and swish from a hidden place: the one is his beacon, the other his fog-horn. It is thus, often, that the Doctor gets along." Labrador has an Arctic climate in winter. The extreme cold of the country is caused by the Arctic current washing its shores. All winter the ocean is frozen as far as one can see. In June, when the ice breaks away, the great Newfoundland fishing fleet of little schooners sails north to remain until the end of September catching cod, for here are the finest cod fishing grounds in the world. In 1892 there were nearly twenty-five thousand Newfoundlanders on this fleet. Doctor Grenfell's mission was to aid and assist these deep sea fishermen. In those days there was no doctor with the fleet and none on the whole coast, and any one taken seriously ill or badly injured usually died for lack of medical or surgical care. Of course, Grenfell was also to help the people who lived on the coast, that is, the native inhabitants, who needed him. This service he was giving free. At this season there is more fog than sunshine in those northern latitudes. It settles in a dense pall over the sea, adding to the dangers of navigation. Now the fog was so thick that they could scarcely see the length of the vessel. On the fourth day out the fog lifted for a brief time, and Cape Bauld the northeasterly point of Newfoundland Island, showed his grim old head, as if to bid them goodbye and to wish them good luck "down on The Labrador." Then they were again swallowed by the fog and plunged into the rough seas where the Straits of Belle Isle meet the wide ocean. No more land was seen, as they ploughed northward through the fog, until August 4th. This was a Thursday. Like the lifting of a curtain on a stage the fog, all at once, melted away, to reveal a scene of marvellous though rugged beauty. As though touched by a hand of magic, the atmosphere, for so many days dank and thick, suddenly became brilliantly clear and transparent, and the sun shone bright and warm. Off the port bow lay The Labrador, the great silent peninsula of the north. Doctor Grenfell turned to it with a thrill. Here was the land he had come so far to see! Here he would find the people to whom he was to devote his life work! There before him lay her scattered islands, her grim and rocky headlands and beetling cliffs, and beyond the islands, rolling away into illimitable blue distances her seared hills and the vast unknown region of her interior, whose mysterious secrets she had kept locked within her heart through all time. Back there, hidden from the world, were numberless lakes and rivers and mountains that no white man had ever seen. [Illustration: "SAILS NORTH TO REMAIN UNTIL THE END OF SUMMER CATCHING COD"] The sea rose and fell in a lazy swell. Not far away a school of whales were playing, now and again spouting geysers of water high into the air. Shoals of caplin[A] gave silver flashes upon the surface of the sea where thousands of the little fish crowded one another to the surface of the water. Countless birds and sea fowl hovered before the face of the cliffs and above the placid sea. A half hundred icebergs, children of age-old glaciers of the far North, were scattered over the green-blue waters. Some of them were of gigantic proportions and strange outlines. There were hills with lofty summits, marvellous castles, turreted and towered, and majestic cathedrals, their icy pinnacles and spires reaching high above the top-masts of the ship and their polished adamantine surfaces sparkling in the brilliant sunshine and scintillating fire and colour with the wondrous iridescent beauty of mammoth opals. "There's Domino Run," said the pilot. "Domino Run? What is that?" "'Tis a fine deep run behind the islands," explained the pilot. "All the fleets of schooners cruisin' north and south go through Domino Run. There's a fine tidy harbor in there, and we'd be findin' some schooners anchored there now." "We'll go in and see." "I think 'twould be well and meet some of the fleet. There's liviyeres in there too. There's some liviyeres handy to most of the harbors on the coast." "Liveyeres? What are liveyeres?" "They're the folk that live on the coast all the time,--the whites and half-breeds. Newfoundlanders only come to fish in summer, but liveyeres stay the winter. The shop keepers we calls planters. They're set up by traders that has fishin' places. The liveyeres has their homes up the heads of bays in winter, and when the ice fastens over they trap fur. In the summer they come out to the islands to fish." Doctor Grenfell had heard all this before, but now as he looked at the dreary desolation of the rocks it seemed almost incredible that children could be born and grow to manhood and womanhood and live their lives here, forever fighting for mere existence, and die at last without ever once knowing the comforts that we who live in kindlier warmer lands enjoy. Presently a beautiful and splendid harbor opened before the _Albert_. Several schooners were lying at anchor within the harbor's shelter, and the strange new ship created a vast sensation as she hove to and dropped her anchor among them, and hoisted the blue flag of the Deep Sea Mission. From masthead after masthead rose flags of greeting. It was a glorious welcome for any visitor to receive. A warmer or more cordial greeting could scarcely have been offered the Governor General himself. It was given with the fine hearty fervour and characteristic hospitality of the Newfoundland fishermen and seamen. The _Albert's_ anchor chains had scarce ceased to rattle before boats were pulling toward her from every vessel in the harbor. Ships enough sailed down the coast, to be sure, but if they were not fishing vessels they were traders looking to barter for fish, bearing sharp men who drove hard bargains with the fishermen, as we shall see. But here was a different vessel from any of them. Everybody knew that _this_ was not a fisherman, and that she was _not_ a trader. What _was_ her business? What had she come for? What did her blue flag mean? These were questions to which everybody must needs find the answer for himself. Great was their joy when it was learned that the _Albert_ was a hospital ship with a real doctor aboard come to care for and heal their sick and injured, and that the doctor made no charge for his services or his medicine. This was a big point that went to their hearts, for there was scarce a man among them with any money in his pocket, and if Doctor Grenfell had charged them money they could not have called upon him to help them, for they could not have paid him. But here he was ready to serve them without money and without price. The richest, who were poor enough, and the poorest, could alike have his care and medicine. Here, indeed, was cause to wonder and rejoice. Many of the fishermen took their families with them to live in little huts at the fishing places during the summer, and to help them prepare the fish for market. Forty or fifty men, women and children were packed, like figs in a box, on some of the schooners, with no other sleeping place than under the deck, on top of the cargo of provisions and salt in the hold, wherever they could find a place big enough to squeeze and stow themselves. Under such conditions there were ailing people enough on the schooners who needed a doctor's care. The mail boat from St. Johns came once a fortnight, to be sure, and she had a doctor aboard her. But he could only see for a moment the more serious cases, and not all of them, hurriedly leave some medicine and go, and then he would not return to see them again in another two weeks. The mail boat had a schedule to make, and the time given her for the voyage between St. Johns and The Labrador was all too short, and she never reached the northernmost coast. There were calls enough from the very beginning to keep Doctor Grenfell busy with the sick folk of the schooners. All that day the people came, and it was late that evening when the sick on the schooners had been cared for and the last of the visitors had departed. Thus, on that first day in this new land, in the Harbor of Domino Run, Doctor Grenfell's life work among the deep sea fishermen of The Labrador began in earnest. But even yet Doctor Grenfell's day's work was not to end. He was to witness a scene that would sicken his heart and excite his deepest pity. An experience awaited him that was to guide him to new and greater plans and to bigger things than he had yet dreamed of. For a long while a rickety old rowboat had been lying off from the _Albert_. A bronzed and bearded man sat alone in the boat, eyeing the strange vessel as though afraid to approach nearer. He was thin and gaunt. The evening was chilly, but he was poorly clad, and his clothing was as ragged and as tattered as his old boat. Finally, as though fearing to intrude, and not sure of his reception, he hailed the _Albert_. FOOTNOTES: [A] A small fish about the size of a smelt. V THE RAGGED MAN IN THE RICKETY BOAT Grenfell, who had been standing at the rail for some time watching the decrepid old boat and its strange occupant, answered the hail cheerily. "Be there a doctor aboard, sir?" asked the man. "Yes," answered Grenfell. "I'm a doctor." "Us were hearin' now they's a doctor on your vessel," said the man with satisfaction. "Be you a _real_ doctor, sir?" "Yes," assured the Doctor. "I hope I am." "They's a man ashore that's wonderful bad off, but us hasn't no money," suggested the man, adding expectantly, "You couldn't come to doctor he now could you, sir?" "Certainly I will," assured the Doctor. "What's the matter with the man? Do you know?" "He have a distemper in his chest, sir, and a wonderful bad cough," explained the man. "All right," said the Doctor. "I'll go at once. How far is it?" "Right handy, sir," said the man with evident relief. "Pull alongside and I'll be with you in a jiffy," and the Doctor hurried below for his medicine case. The man was alongside waiting for him when he returned a few moments later, and he stepped into the rickety old boat. As the liveyere rowed away Grenfell may have thought of his own famous flat-boat that sank with him and his brother in the estuary below Parkgate years before when they were left to swim for it. But in his mental comparison it is probable that the flat-boat, even in her oldest and most decrepid days, would have passed for a rather fine and seaworthy craft in contrast to this rickety old rowboat. The boat kept afloat, however, and presently the liveyere pulled it alongside the gray rock that served for a landing. They stepped out and the guide led the way up the rocks to a lonely and miserable little sod hut. At the door he halted. "Here we is, sir," he announced. "Step right in. They'll be wonderful glad to see you, sir." Grenfell entered. Within was a room perhaps twelve by fourteen feet in size. A single small window of pieces of glass patched together was designed to admit light and at the same time to exclude God's good fresh air. The floor was of earth, partially paved with small round stones. Built against the walls were six berths, fashioned after the model of ship's berths, three lower and three upper ones. A broken old stove, with its pipe extending through the roof into a mud protection rising upon the peak outside in lieu of a chimney, made a smoky attempt to heat the place. The lower berths and floor served as seats. There was no furniture. The walls of the hut were damp. The atmosphere was dank and unwholesome and heavy with the ill-smelling odor of stale seal oil and fish. The place was dirty and as unsanitary and unhealthful as any human habitation could well be. Six ragged, half-starved little children huddled timidly into a corner upon the entrance of the visitor from the ship and gazed at the Doctor with wide-open frightened eyes. In one of the lower bunks lay the sick man coughing himself to death. At his side a gaunt woman, miserably and scantily clothed, was offering him water in a spoon. It was evident to the trained eye of the Doctor that the man was fatally ill and could live but a short time. He was a hopeless consumptive, and a hasty examination revealed the fact that he was also suffering from a severe attack of pneumonia. Doctor Grenfell's big sympathetic heart went out to the poor sufferer and his destitute family. What could he do? How could he help the man in such a place? He might remove him to one of the clean, white hospital cots on the _Albert_, but it would scarcely serve to make easier the impending death, and the exposure and effort of the transfer might even hasten it. Then, too, the wife and children would be denied the satisfaction of the last moments with the departing soul of the husband and father, for the _Albert_ was to sail at once. The summer was short, and up and down the coast many others were in sore need of the Doctor's care, and delay might cost some of them their lives. Grenfell sat silently for several minutes observing his patient and asking himself the question: "What can I do for this poor man?" If there had only been a doctor that the man could have called a few days earlier his life, at least might have been prolonged. There was but one answer to the question. There was nothing to do but leave medicine and give advice and directions for the man's care, and to supply the ill-nourished family much-needed food and perhaps some warmer clothing. If there were only a hospital on the coast where such cases could be taken and properly treated! If there were only some place where fatherless and orphaned children could be cared for! These were some of the thoughts that crowded upon Doctor Grenfell as he left the hut that evening and was rowed back to the _Albert_. And in the weeks that followed his mind was filled with plans, for never did the picture of the dying man and helpless little ones fade as he saw it that first day in Domino Run. Another call to go ashore came that evening, and the Doctor answered it promptly. Again he was guided to a little mud hut, but this had an advantage over the other in that it was well ventilated. The one window which it boasted was an open hole in the side wall with no glass or other covering to exclude the fresh air. There was no stove, and an open fire on the earthen floor supplied warmth, while a large opening in the roof, for there was no chimney, offered an escape for the smoke, an offer of which the smoke did not freely take advantage. On a wooden bench in a corner of the room a man sat doubled up with pain. Here too was a family consisting of the man's wife and several children. "What's the trouble?" asked the Doctor. "I'm wonderful bad with a distemper in my insides, sir," answered the man with a groan. "Been ill long?" "Aye, sir, for three weeks." "We'll see what can be done." "Thank you, sir." "We'll patch you up and make you as well as ever in a little while," assured the Doctor after a thorough examination, for this proved to be a curable case. "That'll be fine, sir." Medicine was provided, with directions for taking, and, as the Doctor had promised, and as he later learned, the man soon recovered his health and returned to his fishing. The _Albert_ sailed north. Into every little harbor and settlement she dropped her anchor for a visit. She called at the trading posts of the old Hudson's Bay Company at Cartwright, Rigolet and Davis Inlet and the Moravian Missions among the Eskimos in the North. She was welcomed everywhere, and everywhere Doctor Grenfell found so many sick or injured people that the whole summer long he was kept constantly busy. The waters of this coast were unknown to him. He knew nothing of their tides or reefs or currents. But with confidence in himself and a courage that was well-nigh reckless, he sought out the people of every little harbor that he might give them the help that he had come to give. If there was too great a hazard for the schooner, he used a whale-boat. Once this whale-boat was blown out to sea, once it was driven upon the rocks, once it capsized with all on board, and before the summer ended it became a complete wreck. Nine hundred cases were treated, some trivial though perhaps painful enough maladies, others most serious or even hopeless. Here was a tooth to be extracted, there a limb to be amputated,--cases of all kinds and descriptions, with never a doctor to whom the people could turn for relief until Doctor Grenfell providentially appeared. With all the work, the voyage was one of pleasure. Not only the pleasure of making others happier,--the greatest pleasure any one can know,--but it was a rattling fine adventure finding the way among islands that had never appeared on any map and were still unnamed. It was fine fun, too, cruising deep and magnificent fjords past lofty towering cliffs, and exploring new channels. And there were the Eskimos and their great wolfish dogs, and their primitive manner of living and dressing. It was all interesting and fascinating. Never, however, since that August night in Domino Run, had the little mud hut, the dying man, the grief-stricken, miserable mother, and the neglected and starving little ones been out of Doctor Grenfell's thoughts, and often enough his big heart had ached for the stricken ones. He had never before witnessed such awful depths of poverty. In other harbors that he had visited in his northern voyage similar heartrending cases had, to be sure, fallen under his attention. In one harbor he found a poor Eskimo both of whose hands had been blown off by the premature discharge of a gun. For days and days the man had endured indescribable agony. Nothing had been done for him, save to bathe the stubs of his shattered arms in cold water, until Doctor Grenfell appeared, for there was no surgeon to call upon to relieve the sufferer. Everywhere there was a mute cry for help. The people were in need of doctors and hospitals. They were in need of hospital ships to cruise the coast and visit the sick of the harbors. They were in need of clothing that they were unable to purchase for themselves. They were in great need of some one to devise a way that would help them to free themselves from the ancient truck system that kept them forever hopelessly in debt to the traders. The case of the man in the little mud hut at Domino Run, however, first suggested to Grenfell the need of these things and the thought that he might do something to bring them about. As a result of this visit, he made, during his northward cruise, a most thorough investigation of the requirements of the coast. It was early October, and snow covered the ground, when the _Albert_, sailing south, again entered Domino Run and anchored in the harbor. Grenfell was put ashore and walked up the trail to the hut. The man had long since died and been laid to rest. The wife and children were still there. They had no provisions for the winter, and Grenfell, we may be sure, did all in his power to help them and make them more comfortable. His plans had crystalized. He had determined upon the course he should take. He would go back to England and exert himself to the utmost to raise funds to build hospitals and to provide additional doctors and nurses for The Labrador. He would return to Labrador himself and give his life and strength and the best that was in him for the rest of his days in an attempt to make these people happier. Grenfell the athlete, the football player, the naturalist, and, above all, the doctor, was ready to answer the human call and to sacrifice his own comfort and ease and worldly possessions to the needs of these people. The man that will freely give his life to relieve the suffering of others represents the highest type of manhood. It is divine. It was characteristic of Grenfell. And so it came about that the ragged man in the rickety boat who led Doctor Grenfell to the dying man in the mud hut was the indirect means of bringing hospitals and stores and many fine things to The Labrador that the coast had never known before. The ragged man in going for the doctor was simply doing a kindly act, a good turn for a needy neighbor. What magnificent results may come from one little act of kindness! This one laid the foundation for a work whose fame has encircled the world. VI OVERBOARD! When Grenfell set out to do a thing he did it. He never in all his life said, "I will if I can." His motto has always been, "I _can_ if I will." He had determined to plant hospitals on the Labrador coast and to send doctors and nurses there to help the people. When he determined to do a thing there was an end of it. It would be done. A great many people plan to do things, but when they find it is hard to carry out their plans, they give them up. They forget that anything that is worth having is hard to get. If diamonds were as easy to find as pebbles they would be worth no more than pebbles. That was a hard job that Grenfell had set himself, and he knew it. When you have a hard job to do, the best way is to go at it just as soon as ever you can and work at it as hard as ever you can until it is done. That was Grenfell's way, and as soon as he reached St. Johns he began to start things moving. Someone else might have waited to return to England to make a formal report to the Deep Sea Missions Board, and await the Board's approval. Not so with Grenfell. He knew the Board would approve, and time was valuable. Down on The Labrador winter begins in earnest in October. Already the fishing fleets had returned from Labrador when the _Albert_ reached St. Johns, and the fishermen had brought with them the news of the _Albert_'s visit to The Labrador and the wonderful things Doctor Grenfell had done in the course of his summer's cruise. Praise of his magnificent work was on everybody's lips. The newspapers, always hungry for startling news, had published articles about it. Doctor Grenfell was hailed as a benefactor. All creeds and classes welcomed and praised him,--fishermen, merchants, politicians. Even the dignified Board of Trade had recorded its praise. It was November when Grenfell arrived in St. Johns. He immediately waited upon the government officials with the result that His Excellency, the Governor of the Colony, at once called a meeting in the Government House that Grenfell might present his plans for the future to the people. All the great men of the Colony were there. They listened with interest and were moved with enthusiasm. Some fine things were said, and then with the unanimous vote of the meeting resolutions were passed in commendation of Doctor Grenfell's summer's work and expressing the desire that it might continue and grow in accordance with Doctor Grenfell's plans. The resolutions finally pledged the "co-operation of all classes of this community." Here was an assurance that the whole of the fine old Colony was behind him, and it made Grenfell happy. But this was not all. It is not the way of Newfoundland people to hold meetings and say fine things and pass high-sounding resolutions and then let the whole matter drop as though they felt they had done their duty. Doctor Grenfell would need something more than fine words and pats on the back if he were to put his plans through successfully, though the fine words helped, too, with their encouragement. He would need the help of men of responsibility who would work with him, and His Excellency, the Governor, recognizing this fact, appointed a committee composed of some of Newfoundland's best men for this purpose. Then it was that Mr. W. Baine Grieve arose and began to speak. Mr. Grieve was a famous merchant of the Colony, and a member of the firm of Baine Johnston and Company, who owned a large trading station and stores at Battle Harbor, on an island near Cape Charles, at the southeastern extremity of Labrador. He was a man of importance in St. Johns and a leader in the Colony. As he spoke Grenfell suddenly realized that Mr. Grieve was presenting the Mission with a building at Battle Harbor which was to be fitted as a hospital and made ready for use the following summer. What a thrill must have come to Grenfell at that moment! The whole Newfoundland government was behind him! His first hospital was already assured! We can easily imagine that he was fairly overwhelmed and dazed with the success that he had met so suddenly and unexpectedly. But Grenfell was not a man to lose his head. This was only a beginning. He must have more hospitals than one. He must have doctors and nurses, medicines and hospital supplies, food and clothing, and a steam vessel that would take him quickly about to see the sick of the harbors. A great deal of money would be required, and when the _Albert_ sailed out of St. John's Harbor and turned back to England he knew that he had assumed a stupendous job, and that the winter was not to be an idle one for him by any means. It was December first when the _Albert_ reached England. With the backing and assistance of the Mission Board, Doctor Grenfell and Captain Trevize of the _Albert_ arranged a speaking tour for the purpose of exciting interest in the Labrador work. Men and women were moved by the tale of their experiences and the suffering and needs of the fishermen and liveres. Gifts were made and sufficient funds subscribed to purchase necessary supplies and hospital equipment, and a fine rowboat was donated to replace the _Albert's_ whaleboat which had been smashed during the previous summer. Then word came from St. Johns that the great shipping firm of Job Brothers, who owned a fisheries' station at Indian Harbor, had donated a hospital to the Newfoundland committee. This was to be erected at Indian Harbor, at the northern side of the entrance to Hamilton Inlet, two hundred miles north of Battle Harbor, and was to be ready for use during the summer. This was fine news. Not only were there large fishery stations at both Battle Harbor and Indian Harbor, but both were regular stopping places for the fishing schooners when going north and again on their homeward voyage. With two hospitals on the coast a splendid beginning for the work would be made. But there was still one necessity lacking,--a little steamer in which Doctor Grenfell could visit the folk of the scattered harbors. At Chester on the River Dee and not far from his boyhood home at Parkgate Grenfell discovered a boat one day that was for sale and that he believed would answer his purpose. It was a sturdy little steam launch, forty-five feet over all. It was, however, ridiculously narrow, with a beam of only eight feet, and was sure to roll terribly in any sea and even in an ordinary swell. But Grenfell was a good seaman, and he could make out in a boat that did a bit of tumbling. He was the sort of man to do a good job with a tool that did not suit him if he could not get just the sort of tool he wanted, and never find fault with it either. The necessary amount to purchase the launch was subscribed by a friend of the Mission. Grenfell bought it and was mightily pleased that this last need was filled. Later the little launch was christened the "Princess May." Then the _Albert_ was made ready for her second voyage to Labrador. The Mission Board appointed two young physicians to accompany Doctor Grenfell, Doctor Arthur O. Bobardt and Doctor Eliott Curwen, and two trained nurses, Miss Cecilia Williams and Miss Ada Cawardine, that there might be a doctor and a nurse for the hospital at Battle Harbor and a doctor and a nurse for the hospital at Indian Harbor. The launch _Princess May_ was swung aboard the big Allan liner _Corean_ and shipped to St. John's, and on June second Doctor Grenfell and his staff sailed from Queenstown on the _Albert_. Grenfell was as fond of sports as ever he was in his boyhood and college days, and now, when the weather permitted, he played cricket with any on board who would play with him. The deck of so small a vessel as the _Albert_ offers small space for a game of this sort, and one after another the cricket balls were lost overboard until but one remained. Then, one day, in the midst of a game in mid-ocean, that last ball unceremoniously followed the others into the sea. Grenfell ran to the rail. He could see the ball rise on a wave astern. "Tack back and pick me up!" he yelled to the helmsman, and to the astonishment and consternation of everyone, over the rail he dived in pursuit of the ball. Grenfell could swim like a fish. He learned that in the River Dee and the estuary, when he was a boy, and he always kept himself in athletic training. But he had never before jumped into the middle of so large a swimming pool as the Atlantic ocean, with the nearest land a thousand miles away! The steersman lost his head. He put over the helm, but failed to cut Grenfell off, and the Doctor presently found himself a long way from the ship struggling for life in the icy cold waters of the North Atlantic. VII IN THE BREAKERS The young adventurer did not lose his head, and he did not waste his strength in desperate efforts to overtake the vessel. He calmly laid-to, kept his head above water, and waited for the helmsman to bring the ship around again. A man less inured to hardships, or less physically fit, would have surrendered to the icy waters or to fatigue. Grenfell was as fit as ever a man could be. In school and college he had made a record in athletic sports, and since leaving the university he had not permitted himself to get out of training. An athlete cannot keep in condition who indulges in cigarettes or liquor or otherwise dissipates, and Grenfell had lived clean and straight. It was this that saved his life now. He knew he was fit and he had confidence in himself, and was unafraid. While he appreciated his peril, he never lost his nerve, and when finally he was rescued and found himself on deck he was little the worse for his experience, and with a change of dry clothing was ready to resume the interrupted game of cricket with the rescued ball. With no further adventure than once coming to close quarters with an iceberg and escaping without serious damage, the _Albert_ arrived in due time at St. John's, and Grenfell was at once occupied in preparation for his summer's work on The Labrador. Materials with which to construct the Indian Harbor hospital were shipped north by steamer. Supplies were taken aboard the _Albert_, and with Dr. Curwin and nurses Williams and Cawardine she sailed for Battle Harbor, where the building to be utilized as a hospital was already erected. Then the launch _Princess May_, which had been landed from the _Corean_, was made ready for sea, and with an engineer and a cook as his crew and Dr. Bobardt as a companion, Dr. Grenfell as skipper put to sea in the tiny craft on July 7th. There were many pessimistic prophets to see the _Princess May_ off. From skipper to cook not a man aboard her was familiar with the coast, or could recognize a single landmark or headland either on the Newfoundland coast or on The Labrador. They were going into rugged, fog-clogged seas. They might encounter an ice-pack, and the sea was always strewn with menacing icebergs. True, they had charts, but the charts were most incomplete, and no Newfoundlander sails by them. The _Princess May_, a mere cockle-shell, was too small, it was said, for the undertaking. She was six years old and Grenfell had not given her a try-out. The consensus of opinion among the wise old Newfoundland seamen who gathered on the wharf as she sailed was that Doctor Grenfell and his crew were much like the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. Still, not a man of them but would have ventured forth upon the high seas in an ancient rotten old hull of a schooner. They were acquainted with schooners and the coast, while the little launch _Princess May_ was a new species of craft to them, and was manned by green hands. "'Tis a dangerous voyage for green hands to be makin'," said one, "and that small boat were never meant for the sea." "Aye, for green hands," said another. "They'll never make un without mishap." "If they does, 'twill be by the mercy o' God." "And how'll they make harbor, not knowin' what to sail by?" "That bit of a craft would never stand half a gale, and if she meets th' ice she'll crumple up like an eggshell." "And they'll be havin' some nasty weather, _I_ says. We'll never hear o' _she_ again or any o' them on board." "Unless by the mercy o' God." Such were the remarks of those ashore as the _Princess May_ steamed down the harbor and out through the narrow channel between the beetling cliffs, into the broad Atlantic. Dr. Grenfell has confessed that he was not wholly without misgivings himself, and they seemed well founded when, at the end of the first five miles, the engineer reported: "She's sprung a leak, sir!" and anxiously asked, "Had we better put back?" "No! We'll stand on!" answered Grenfell. "Those croakers ashore would never let us hear the end of it if we turned back. We'll see what's happened." An examination discovered a small opening in the bottom. A wooden plug was shaped and driven into the hole. To Doctor Grenfell's satisfaction and relief, this was found to heal the leak effectually, and the _Princess May_ continued on her course. But this was not to end the difficulties. In those waters dense fogs settled suddenly and without warning, and now such a fog fell upon them to shut out all view of land and the surrounding sea. Nevertheless, the _Princess May_ steamed bravely ahead. To avoid danger Grenfell was holding her, as he believed, well out to sea, when suddenly there rose out of the fog a perpendicular towering cliff. They were almost in the white surf of the waves pounding upon the rocky base of the cliff before they were aware of their perilous position. Every one expected that the little vessel would be driven upon the rocks and lost, and they realized if that were to happen only a miracle could save them. Grenfell shouted to the engineer, the engine was reversed and by skillful maneuvering the _Princess May_ succeeded, by the narrowest margin, in escaping unharmed. To their own steady nerves, and the intervention of Providence the fearless mariner and his little crew undoubtedly owed their lives. Grenfell suspected that the compass was not registering correctly. Standing out to sea until they were at a safe distance from the treacherous shore rocks, a careful examination was made. The binnacle had been left in St. Johns for necessary repairs, and the examination discovered that iron screws had been used to make the compass box fast to the cabin. These screws were responsible for a serious deviation of the needle, and this it was that had so nearly led them to fatal disaster. A heavy swell was running, and the little vessel, with but eight feet beam, rolled so rapidly that the compass needle, even when the defect had been remedied, made a wide swing from side to side as the vessel rolled. The best that could be done was to read the dial midway between the extreme points of the needle's swing. This was deemed safe enough, and away the _Princess May_ ploughed again through the fog. At five o'clock in the afternoon it was decided to work in toward shore and search for a sheltering harbor in which to anchor for the night. Under any circumstance it would be foolhardy for so small a vessel to remain in the open sea outside, after darkness set in, in those ice-menaced fog-choked northern waters. The course of the _Princess May_ was accordingly changed to bear to the westward and Grenfell was continuously feeling his way through the fog when suddenly, and to the dismay of all on board, they found themselves surrounded by jagged reefs and small rocky islands and in the midst of boiling surf. Now they were indeed in grave peril. They must needs maintain sufficient headway to keep the vessel under her helm. Black rocks capped with foam rose on every side, they did not know the depth of the water, and the fog was so thick they could scarce see two boat lengths from her bow. VIII AN ADVENTUROUS VOYAGE The finest school of courage in the world is the open. The Sands of Dee, the estuary and the hills of Wales made a fine school of this sort for Grenfell. The out-of-doors clears the brain, and there a man learns to think straight and to the point. When he is on intimate terms with the woods and mountains, and can laugh at howling gales and the wind beating in his face, and can take care of himself and be happy without the effeminating comforts of steam heat and luxurious beds, a man will prove himself no coward when he comes some day face to face with grave danger. He has been trained in a school of courage. He has learned to depend upon himself. Fine, active games of competition like baseball, football, basketball and boxing, give nerve, self-confidence and poise. Through them the hand learns instinctively, and without a moment's hesitation, to do the thing the brain tells it to do. Down on The Labrador they say that Grenfell has always been "lucky" in getting out of tight places and bad corners. But we all know, 'way down in our hearts, that there is no such thing as "luck." "God helps them that help themselves." That's the secret of Grenfell's getting out of such tight corners as this one that he had now run into in the fog. He was trained in the school of courage. He helped himself, and he knew how. He was unafraid. So it was now as always afterward. Grim danger was threatening the _Princess May_ on every side. Each moment Grenfell and his companions expected to feel the shock of collision and hear the fatal crunching and splintering of the vessel's timbers upon the rocks. All of Grenfell's experiences on the Sands of Dee and in the hills of Wales and out on the estuary came to his rescue. He did not lose his head for a moment. That would have been fatal. He had acquired courage and resourcefulness in that out-of-door school he had attended when a boy. The situation called for all the grit and good judgment he and his crew possessed. Under just enough steam to give the vessel steerageway, they wound in and out between protruding rocks and miniature islands amidst the white foam of breakers that pounded upon the rocks all around them. At length they were headed about. Then cautiously they threaded their way into the open sea and safety. This was to be but an incident in the years of labor that lay before Grenfell on The Labrador. He was to have no end of exciting experiences, some of them so thrilling that this one was, in comparison, to fade into insignificance. Labrador is a land of adventures. The man who casts his lot in that bleak country cannot escape them. Adventure lurks in every cove and harbor, on every turn of the trail, ready to spring out upon you and try your mettle, and learn the sort of stuff you are made of. Later in the evening they again felt their way landward through the fog. To their delight they presently found themselves in a harbor, and that night they rested in a safe and snug anchorage sheltered from wind and pounding sea. There was adventure enough on that voyage to satisfy anybody. The sun did not set that the voyagers had not experienced at least one good thrill during the daylight hours. On the seventh day from St. Johns the _Princess May_ crossed the Straits of Belle Isle, and drew alongside the _Albert_ at Battle Harbor. The new hospital was nearly ready to receive patients, the first of the hospitals to be built as a result of the visit to the _Albert_ the previous summer of the ragged man in the rickety boat. The other hospital was in course of building at Indian Harbor, and Doctor Grenfell dispatched the _Albert_, with Doctor Curwin and Miss Williams to assist in preparing it for patients, while Doctor Bobart and Miss Cawardine remained in charge of the Battle Harbor hospital. Away Doctor Grenfell steamed again in the _Princess May_ nothing daunted by his many difficulties with the little craft in his voyage from St. John's. It was necessary that he know the headlands and the harbors, the dangerous places and the safe ones along the whole coast. The only way to do this was by visiting them, and the quickest and best way to learn them was by finding them out for himself while navigating his own craft. Now, light houses stand on two or three of the most dangerous points of the coast, but in those days there were none, and there were no correct charts. The mariner had to carry everything in his head, and indeed he must still do so. He must know the eight hundred miles of coast as we know the nooks and corners of our dooryards. Doctor Grenfell wished also to make the acquaintance of the people. He wished to visit them in their homes that he might learn their needs and troubles and so know better how to help them. He was not alone to be their doctor. He was to clothe and feed the poor so far as he could and to put them in a way to help themselves. To do this it was necessary that he know them as a man knows his near neighbors. He must needs know them as the family doctor knows his patients. He was no preacher, but, to some degree, he was to be their pastor and look after their moral as well as their physical welfare. In short, he was to be their friend, and if he were to do his best for them, they would have to look upon him as a friend and not only call upon him when they were in need, but lend him any assistance they could. To this end they would have to be taught to accept him as one of themselves, come to live among them, and not as an occasional visitor or a foreigner. With the exception of a few small settlements of a half-dozen houses or so in each settlement, the cabins on the Labrador coast are ten or fifteen and often twenty or more miles apart. If all of them were brought together there would scarcely be enough to make one fair-sized village. All of the people, as we have seen, live on the seacoast, and not inland. Only wandering Indians live in the interior. Though Labrador is nearly as large as Alaska, there is no permanent dwelling in the whole interior. It is a vast, trackless, uninhabited wilderness of stunted forests and wide, naked barrens. The Liveyeres, as the natives, other than Indians and Eskimos, are called, have no other occupation than trapping and hunting in winter, and fishing in summer. Their winter cabins are at the heads of deep bays, in the edge of the forest. In the summer they move to their fishing places farther down the bays or on scattered, barren islands, where they live in rude huts or, sometimes, in tents. They catch cod chiefly, but also, at the mouths of rivers, salmon and trout. All the fish are salted, and, like the furs caught in winter, bartered to traders for tea and flour and pork and other necessities of life. To make the acquaintance of these scattered people, along hundreds of miles of coast, was a big undertaking. And then, too, there were the settlements in the north of Newfoundland, among whose people he was to work. Doctor Grenfell, and his assistants were the only doctors that any of them could call upon. And there were the fishermen of the fleet. The twenty-five thousand or more men, women and children attached to the Newfoundland summer fisheries on The Labrador formed a temporary summer population. He could not hope, of course, in the two or three months they were there, to get on intimate terms with all of them, but he was to meet as many as he could, and renew and increase both his acquaintances and his service of the year before. With the _Princess May_ to visit the sick folk ashore, and the hospital ship _Albert_, which was to serve, in a manner, as a sea ambulance to take serious cases to the new hospitals at Indian Harbor and Battle Harbor, Doctor Grenfell felt that he had made a good start. As already suggested, this was an adventurous voyage. Twice that summer the _Princess May_ went aground on the rocks, and once the _Albert_ was fastened on a reef. Both vessels lost sections of their keels, but otherwise, due to good seamanship, escaped with minor injuries. At every place the Doctor visited he made a record of the people. After the names of the poorer and destitute ones was listed the things of which they were most in need. In one poor little cabin the mother of a large family had, though ill, kept to her duties in and out of the house until she could stand on her feet no longer, and when Doctor Grenfell entered the cabin he found her lying helpless on a rough couch of boards, with scarce enough bed clothing to cover her. Some half-clad children shivered behind a miserable broken stove, which radiated little heat but sent forth much smoke. The haggard and worn out father was walking up and down the chill room with a wee mite of a baby in his arms, while it cried pitifully for food. Like all the family the poor little thing was starving. The mother was suffering with an acute attack of bronchitis and pleurisy. All were suffering from lack of food and clothing. The children were barefooted. One little fellow had no other covering than an old trouser leg drawn over his frail little body. The man's fur hunt had failed the previous winter. Sickness prevented fishing. There was nothing in the house to eat and the family were helpless. Doctor Grenfell came to them none too soon. In every harbor and bay and cove there was enough for Doctor Grenfell to do. His heart and hands were full that summer as they have ever been since. His skill was constantly in demand. Here was some one desperately ill, there a finger or an arm to be amputated, or a more serious operation to be performed. The hospitals were soon filled to overflowing. Doctor Grenfell afloat, and his two assistants with the nurses in the hospitals were busy night and day. The best of it all was many lives were saved. Some who would have been helpless invalids as long as they lived were sent home from the hospitals strong and well and hearty. An instance of this was a girl of fourteen, who had suffered for three years with internal absesses that would eventually have killed her. She was taken to the Battle Harbor Hospital, operated upon, and was soon perfectly well. To this day she is living, a robust contented woman, the mother of a family, and, perchance, a grandmother. Grenfell was happy. Here was something better than jogging over English highways behind a horse and visiting well-to-do grumbling patients. He was out on the sea he loved, meeting adventure in fog and storm and gale. That was better than a gig on a country road. He was helping people to be happy. He prized that far more than the wealth he might have accumulated, or the reputation he might have gained at home, as a famous physician or surgeon. There is no happiness in the world to compare with the happiness that comes with the knowledge that one is making others happy and helping them to better living and contentment. Without knowing it, Grenfell was building a world-fame. If he had known it, he would not have cared a straw. He was working not for fame but for results--for the good he could do others. Nothing else has ever influenced him. Every day he was doing endless good turns without pay or the thought of pay. In this he was serving not only God but his country. And he never neglected his athletics, for it was necessary that he keep his body in the finest physical condition that his brain might always be keen and alert. Grenfell could not have remained a year in the field if he had neglected his body, and he was still an athlete in the pink of condition. IX IN THE DEEP WILDERNESS Imagine, if you will, a vast primeval wilderness spreading away before you for hundreds of miles, uninhabited, grim and solitary. None but wild beasts and the roving Indians that hunt them live there. None but they know the mysteries that lie hidden and guarded by those trackless miles of forests and barren reaches of unexplored country. And so this wilderness has lain since creation, unmarred by the hand of civilized man, clean and unsullied, as God made it. The air, laden with the perfume of spruce and balsam, is pure and wholesome. The water carries no germs from the refuse of man, and one may drink it freely, from river and brook and lake, without fear of contamination. There is no sound to break the silence of ages save the song of river rapids, the thunder of mighty falls, or the whisper or moan of wind in the tree tops; or, perchance, the distant cry of a wolf, the weird laugh of a loon or the honk of the wild goose. There are no roads or beaten trails other than the trails of the caribou, the wild deer that make this their home. The nearest railroad is half a thousand miles away. Automobiles are unknown and would be quite useless here. Great rivers and innumerable emerald lakes render the land impassable for horses. The traveler must make his own trails, and he must depend in summer upon his canoe or boat, and in winter upon his snowshoes and his sledge, hauled by great wolf dogs. With his gun and traps and fishing gear he must glean his living from the wilderness or from the sea. If he would have a shelter he must fell trees with his axe and build it with his own skill. He has little that his own hands and brain do not provide. He must be resourceful and self-reliant. I venture to say there is not a boy living--a real red-blooded boy or red-blooded man either for that matter--who has not dreamed of the day when he might experience the thrill of venturing into such a wilderness as we have described. This was America as the discoverers found it, and as it was before the great explorers and adventurers opened it to civilization. This was Labrador as Grenfell found Labrador, and as it is to-day--the great "silent peninsula of the North." It occupies a large corner of the North American continent, and much of it is still unexplored, a vast, grim, lonely land, but one of majestic grandeur and beauty. [Illustration: "THE DOCTOR ON A WINTER'S JOURNEY"] The hardy pioneers and settlers of Labrador, as we have seen, have made their homes only on the seacoast, leaving the interior to wandering Indian hunters. They do, to be sure, enter the wilderness for short distances in winter when they are following their business as hunters, but none has ever made his home beyond the sound of the sea. In the forests of the south and southeast are the Mountaineer Indians, as they are called by all English speaking people; or, if we wish to put on airs and assume French we may call them the _Montaignais_ Indians. In the North are the Nascaupees, today the most primitive Indians on the North American continent. In the west and southwest are the Crees. All of these Indians are of the great Algonquin family, and are much like those that Natty Bumpo chummed with or fought against, and those who lived in New York and New England when the settlers first came to what are now our eastern states. Labrador is so large, and there are so few Indians to occupy it, however, that the explorer may wander through it for months, as I have done, without ever once seeing the smoke rising from an Indian tepee or hearing a human voice. The Eskimos of the north coast are much like the Eskimos of Greenland, both in language and in the way they live. Their summer shelters are skin tents, which they call _tupeks_. In winter they build dome-shaped houses from blocks of snow, though they sometimes have cave-like shelters of stone and earth built against the side of a hill. The snow houses they call _iglooweuks_, or houses of snow; the stone and earth shelters are _igloosoaks_, or big igloos, the word igloo, in the Eskimo language, meaning house. When winter comes big snow drifts soon cover the igloosoaks, and the snow keeps out the wind and cold. As a further protection, snow tunnels, through which the people crawl on hands and knees, are built out from the entrance to the igloosoak, and these keep all drafts, when a gale blows, from those within. The Eskimos heat their snow igloos, and in treeless regions their igloosoaks also, with lamps of hollowed stone. These lamps are made in the form of a half moon. Seal oil is used as fuel, and a rag, if there is any to be had, or moss, resting upon the straight side of the lamp, does service as the wick. Of course the snow igloos must never be permitted to get so warm that the snow will melt. The temperature in a snow house is therefore kept at about thirty degrees, or a little lower. Nevertheless it is comfortable enough, when the temperature outside is perhaps forty or fifty degrees below zero and quite likely a stiff breeze blowing. Comfort is always a matter of comparison. I have spent a good many nights in snow houses, and was always glad to enjoy the comfort they offered. To the traveler who has been in the open all day, the snow house is a cozy retreat and a snug enough place to rest and sleep in. On the east coast the Eskimos are more civilized and live much like the liveyeres. All Eskimos are kind hearted, hospitable people. Once, I remember, when an Eskimo host noticed that the bottom of my sealskin mocasins had worn through to the stocking, he pulled those he wore off his feet, and insisted upon me wearing them. He had others, to be sure, but they were not so good as those he gave me. No matter how poorly off he is, an Eskimo will feel quite offended if a visitor does not share with him what he has to eat. Though Dr. Grenfell's hospitals are farther south, on the coast where the liveyeres have their cabins, he cruises northward to the Eskimo country of the east coast every summer, and in the summer has nursing stations there. Sometimes, when there is a case demanding it, he brings the sick Eskimos to one of the hospitals. But, generally, the east coast Eskimos are looked after by the Moravian Brethren in their missions, and in summer Dr. Grenfell calls at the missions to give them his medical and surgical assistance. As stated before, the liveyeres and others than the Indians, build their cabins on the coast, usually on the shores of bays, but always by the salt water and where they can hear the sound of the sea. Every man of them is a hunter or a fisherman or both, and the boys grow up with guns in their hands, and pulling at an oar or sailing a boat. They begin as soon as they can walk to learn the ways of the wilderness and of the wild things that live in it, and they are good sailors and know a great deal about the sea and the fish while they are still wee lads. That is to be their profession, and they are preparing for it. The Labrador home of the liveyere usually contains two rooms, but occasionally three, though there are many, especially north of Hamilton Inlet, of but a single room. All have an enclosed lean-to porch at the entrance. This serves not only as a protection from drifting snow in winter, but as a place where stovewood is piled, dog harness and snowshoes are hung, and various articles stored. In the cabin is a large wood-burning stove, the first and most important piece of furniture. There is a home-made table and sometimes a home-made chair or two, though usually chests in which clothing and furs are stored are utilized also as seats. A closet built at one side holds the meager supply of dishes. On a mantelshelf the clock ticks, if the cabin boasts one, and by its side rests a well-thumbed Bible. Bunks, built against the rear of the room, serve as beds. If there is a second room, it supplies additional sleeping quarters, with bunks built against the walls as in the living room. Travelers and visitors carry their own sleeping bags and bedding with them and sleep upon the floor. This is the sort of bed Dr. Grenfell enjoys when sleeping at night in a liveyere's home. On the beams overhead are rifles and shotguns, always within easy reach, for a shot at some game may offer at any time. The side walls of the cabins are papered with old newspapers, or illustrations cut from old magazines. The more thrifty and cleanly scrub floors, tables, doors and all woodwork with soap and sand once a week, until everything is spotlessly clean. But along the coast one comes upon cabins often enough that appear never to have had a cleaning day, and in which the odor of seal oil and fish is heavy. Those of the Newfoundland fishermen that bring their families to the coast live in all sorts of cabins. Some are well built and comfortable, while others are merely sod-covered huts with earthen floor. These are occupied, however, only during the fishing season. The fishermen move into them early in July and begin to leave them early in September. As stated elsewhere, no farming can be done in Labrador, and the only way men can make a living is by hunting and fishing. Eskimos seldom venture far inland on their hunting and trapping expeditions, but some of the liveyeres go fifty or sixty miles from the coast to set their traps, and some of those in Hamilton Inlet go up the Grand River for a distance of more than two hundred and fifty miles, and others go up the Nascaupee River for upwards of a hundred miles. Trapping is all done in winter and it is a lonely and adventurous calling. Early in September, the men who go the greatest distance inland set out for their trapping grounds. Usually two men go together. They build a small log hut called a "tilt," about eight by ten feet in size. Against each of two sides a bunk is made of saplings and covered with spruce or balsam boughs. On the boughs the sleeping bags are spread, and the result is a comfortable bed. The bunks also serve as seats. A little sheet iron stove that weighs, including stovepipe, about eighteen pounds and is easy to transport, heats the tilt, and answers very well for the trapper's simple cooking. The stovepipe, protruding through the roof, serves as a chimney. The main tilt is used as a base of supplies, and here reserve provisions are stored together with accumulations of furs as they are caught. Fat salt pork, flour, baking powder or soda, salt, tea and Barbadoes molasses complete the list of provisions carried into the wilderness from the trading post. Other provisions must be hunted. Each man provides himself with a frying pan, a tin cup, a spoon or two, a tin pail to serve as a tea kettle and sometimes a slightly larger pail for cooking. On his belt he carries a sheath knife, which he uses for cooking, skinning, eating and general utility. He rarely encumbers himself with a fork. For use on the trail each man has a stove similar to the one that heats the tilt, a small cotton tent, and a toboggan. From the base tilt the trapping paths or trails lead out. Each trapper has a path which he has established and which he works alone. He hauls his sleeping bag, provisions and other equipment on his toboggan or, as he calls it, "flat sled." He carries his rifle in his hand and his ax is stowed on the toboggan, for he never knows when a quick shot will get him a pelt or a day's food. Sometimes tilts are built along the path at the end of a day's journey, but if there is no tilt the cotton tent is pitched. In likely places traps are set for marten, mink or fox. Ice prevents trapping for the otter in winter, but they are often shot. At the end of a week or fortnight the partners meet at the base tilt. Otherwise each man is alone, and we may imagine how glad they are to see each other when the meeting time comes. But they cannot be idle. Out through the snow-covered forest, along the shores of frozen lakes and on wide bleak marshes the trapper has one hundred traps at least, and some of them as many as three hundred. The men must keep busy to look after them properly, and so, after a Sunday's rest together they again separate and are away on their snowshoes hauling their toboggans after them. At Christmas time they go back to their homes, down by the sea, to see their wives and children and to make merry for a week. What a meeting that always is! How eagerly the little ones have been looking forward to the day when Daddy would come! O, that blessed Christmas week! But it is only seven days long, and on the second day of January the trappers are away again to their tilts and trails and traps. Again early in March they visit their homes for another week, and then again return to the deep wilderness to remain there until June. Sometimes the father never comes back, and then the wilderness carries in its heart the secret of his end. Then, oh, those hours of happy expectancy that become days of grave anxiety and finally weeks of black despair! Such a case happened once when I was in Labrador. Later they found the young trapper's body where the man had perished, seventy miles from his home. As I have said, the life of the trapper is filled with adventure. Many a narrow escape he has, but he never loses his grit. He cannot afford to. Gilbert Blake was one of four trappers that rescued me several years ago, when I had been on short rations in the wilderness for several weeks, and without food for two weeks. I had eaten my moccasins, my feet were frozen and I was so weak I could not walk. Gilbert and I have been friends since then and we later traveled the wilderness together. Gilbert has no trapping partner. His "path" is a hundred miles inland from his home. All winter, with no other companion than a little dog, he works alone in that lonely wilderness. One winter game was scarce, and Gilbert's provisions were practically exhausted when he set out to strike up his traps preparatory to his visit home in March. He was several miles from his tilt when suddenly one of his snowshoes broke beyond repair. He could not move a step without snowshoes, for the snow lay ten feet deep. He had no skin with him with which to net another snowshoe, even if he were to make the frame; and he had nothing to eat. A Labrador blizzard came on, and Gilbert for three days was held prisoner in his tent. He spent his time trying to make a serviceable snowshoe with netting woven from parts of his clothing torn into strips. When at last the storm ended and he struck his tent he was famished. Packing his things on his toboggan he set out for the tilt, but had gone only a short distance when the improvised snowshoe broke. He made repeated efforts to mend it, but always it broke after a few steps forward. He was in a desperate situation. He had now been nearly three days without eating. He was still several miles from the tilt where he had a scant supply that had been reserved for his journey home. To proceed to the tilt was obviously impossible, and he could only perish by remaining where he was. Utterly exhausted after a fruitless effort to flounder forward, he sat down upon his flatsled, and looked out over the silent snow waste. Weakened with hunger, it seemed to him that he had reached the end of his endurance. So far as he knew there was not another human being within a hundred miles of where he sat, and he had no expectation or slightest hope of any one coming to his assistance. "I was scrammed," said he, which meant, in our vernacular, he was "all in." Gilbert is a fine Christian man, and all the time, as he told me in relating his experience, he had been praying God to show him a way to safety. He never was a coward, and he was not afraid to die, for he had faced death many times before and men of the wilderness become accustomed to the thought that sometime, out there in the silence and alone, the hand of the grim messenger may grasp them. But he was afraid for Mrs. Blake and the four little ones at home. Were he to perish there would be no one to earn a living for them. He was frightened to think of the privations those he loved would suffer. Suddenly, in the distance, he glimpsed two objects moving over the snow. As they came nearer he discovered that they were men. He shouted and waved his arms, and there was an answering signal. Presently two Mountaineer Indians approached, hauling loaded toboggans, laughing and shouting a greeting as they recognized him. "'Twas an answer to my prayers," said Gilbert in relating the incident to me. "I was fair scrammed when I saw them Indians. They were the first Indians I had seen the whole winter. They weren't pretty, but just then they looked to me like angels from heaven, and just as pretty as any angels could look." The Indians had recently made a killing, and their toboggans were loaded with fresh caribou meat. They made Gilbert eat until they nearly killed him with kindness, and they had an extra pair of snowshoes, which they gave him. This is the life of the trapper on The Labrador. This is the sort of man he is--hardy, patient, brave and reverent. He is a man of grit and daring, as he must be to cheerfully meet, with a stout heart and a smile, the constant hardships and adventures that beset him. Dr. Grenfell declares that it is no hardship to devote his life to helping men like this. His work among them brings constant joy to him. They appreciate him, and he has grown to look upon them as all members of his big family. He takes a personal and devoted interest in each. It is a great comfort to the men to know that if any are sick or injured at home while they are away on the trails the mission doctor will do his best to heal them. Before Grenfell went to The Labrador there was no doctor to call upon the whole winter through. The trapping season for fur ends in April. Then the trapper "strikes up" his traps, hangs them in trees where he will find them the following fall, packs his belongings on his toboggan and returns home, unless he is to remain to hunt bear. In that case he must wait for the bears to come forth from their winter's sleep, and this will keep the hunter in the wilderness until after the "break-up" comes and the ice goes out. Those who go far inland usually wait in any case until the ice is out of the streams and boat or canoe traveling is possible and safe. The break-up sets in, usually, early in June. Then come torrential rains. The snow-covered wilderness is transformed into a sea of slush. New brooks rise everywhere and pour down with rush and roar into lakes and rivers. The rivers over-flow their banks. Trees are uprooted and are swept forward on the flood. Broken ice jams and pounds its way through the rapids with sound like thunder. The spring break-up is an inspiring and wonderful spectacle. When the hunting season ends and the trappers return from their winter trails, they enjoy a respite at home mending fishing nets, repairing boats and making things tidy and ship-shape for the summer's fishing. Everyone is now looking forward with keen anticipation to the first run of fish. From the time the ice goes out all one hears along the coast is talk of fish. "Any signs of fish, b'y?" One hears it everywhere, for everybody is asking everybody else that question. In Hamilton Inlet and Sandwich Bay salmon fisheries are of chief importance. Salmon here are all salted down in barrels and not tinned, as on the Pacific coast. Once there was a salmon cannery in Sandwich Bay, but the Hudson's Bay Company bought it and demolished it, as there was doubtless less work and more profit for the Company in salted salmon. Elsewhere the fisheries are mainly for cod. In a frontier land it is not easy to earn a living. Everybody must work hard all the time. Men, women, boys and girls all do their share at the fishing. Women and children help to split and cure the fish. It is a proud day for any lad when he is big enough and strong enough to pull a stroke with the heavy oar, and go out to sea with his father. The Labrador, or Arctic, current now and again keeps ice drifting along the coast the whole summer through. When ice is there fishermen cannot set their nets and fish traps, for the ice would tear the gear and ruin it. Neither can they fish successfully with hook and line when the ice is in. When this happens few fish are caught. Then, too, there are seasons when game and animals move away from certain regions, and then the trapper cannot get them. Perhaps they go farther inland, and too far for him to follow. I have seen times when ptarmigans were so thick men killed them for dog food, and perhaps the next year there would not be a ptarmigan to be found to put into the pot for dinner. I have seen the snow trampled down everywhere in the woods and among the brush by innumerable snowshoe rabbits, and I have seen other years when not a single rabbit track was to be found anywhere. It is the same with caribou and the fur bearing animals as well. In those years when game is scarce the people are hard put to it to get a bit of fresh meat to eat. When no fresh meat is to be had salt fish, bread (rarely with butter) and tea, with molasses as sweetening, is the diet. There is no milk, even for the babies. If all the salt fish has been sold or traded in for flour and tea, bread and tea three times a day is all there is to eat. People cannot keep well on just bread and tea, or even bread and salt fish and tea. It is not hard for us to imagine how we would feel if every meal we had day in and day out was only bread and tea, and sometimes not enough of that. X THE SEAL HUNTER No less perilous is the business of fisherman and sealer than that of hunter and trapper. Every turn a man makes down on The Labrador is likely to carry him into some adventure that will place his life in danger, at sea as on land. But there is no way out of it if a living is to be made. It is a strange fact that one never recognizes a great deal of danger in the life that one is accustomed to living, no matter how perilous it may seem to others. If a Labradorman were to come to any of our towns or cities his heart would be in his mouth at every turn, for a time at least, dodging automobiles and street cars. It would appear to him an exceedingly hazardous existence that we live, and he would long to be back to the peace and quiet and safety of his sea and wilderness. And our streets would be dangerous ground to him, indeed, until he became accustomed to dodging motor cars. He is nimble enough, and on his own ground could put most of us to shame in that respect, but here he is lacking in experience. The same hunter will face the storms and solitude of the wilderness trail without ever once feeling that he is in danger or afraid. He knows how to do it. That is the life that he has been reared to live. The average city man would perish in a day if left alone to care for himself on a trapper's trail. He has never learned the business, and he would not know how to take care of himself. The Labradorman being both hunter and fisherman, is perfectly at home both in the wilderness and on the sea. He has the dangers of both to meet, but he does not recognize them as dangerous callings, though every year some mate or neighbor loses his life. "'Tis the way o' th' Lard." Ice still covers the Labrador harbors in May, and this is when the seal hunt begins, or, as the liveyere says, he goes "swileing." He calls a seal a "swile." With a harpoon attached to a long line he stations himself at a breathing hole in the ice which the seals under the ice have kept open, and out of which, now and again, one raises its nose and fills its lungs with air, for seals are animals, not fish, and must have air to breathe or they will drown. The hole is a small one, but large enough to cast the spear, or harpoon, into. Seals are exceedingly shy animals, and the slightest movement will frighten them away. Therefore the seal hunter must stand perfectly still, like a graven image, with harpoon poised, and that is pretty cold work in zero weather. If luck is with him he will after a time see a small movement in the water, and a moment later a seal's nose will appear. Then like a flash of lightning, he casts the harpoon, and if his aim is good, as it usually is, a seal is fast on the barbs of the harpoon. The harpoon point is attached to a long line, while the harpoon shaft, by an ingenious arrangement, will slip free from the point. Now, while the shaft remains in the hands of the hunter, the line begins running rapidly down through the hole, for the seal in a vain endeavor to free itself dives deeply. The other end of the line also remaining in the hands of the hunter is fastened to the shaft of the harpoon, and there is a struggle. In time, the seal, unable to return to its hole for air, is drowned, and then is hauled out through the hole upon the ice. These north Atlantic seals, having no fine fur like the Pacific seals, are chiefly valuable for their fat. The pelts are, however, of considerable value to the natives. The women tan them and make them into watertight boots or other clothing. Of course a good many of them find their way to civilization, where they are made into pocketbooks and bags, and they make a very fine tough leather indeed. The flesh is utilized for dog food, though, as in the case of young seals particularly, it is often eaten by the people, particularly when other sorts of meat is scarce. Most of the people, and particularly the Eskimos, are fond of the flippers and liver. Sometimes the seals come out of their holes to lie on the ice and bask in the sun. Then the hunter, simulating the movements of a seal, crawls toward his game until he is within rifle shot. Should a gale of wind arise suddenly, the ice may be separated into pans and drift abroad before the seal hunters can make their escape to land. In that case a hunter may be driven to sea on an ice pan, and he is fortunate if his neighbors discover him and rescue him in boats. After the ice goes out, those who own seal nets set them, and a great many seals are caught in this way. At this season the seals frequently are seen sunning themselves on the shore rocks, and the hunters stalk and shoot them. Newfoundlanders carry on their sealing in steamers built for the purpose. They go out to the great ice floe, far out to sea and quite too far for the liveyeres to reach in small craft. Here the seals are found in thousands. These vessels, depending upon the size, bring home a cargo sometimes numbering as many as 20,000 to 30,000 seals in a single ship, and there are about twenty-five ships in the fleet. This terrible slaughter has seriously decreased the numbers. The Labrador Eskimos used to depend upon them largely for their living. They can do this no longer, for not every season, as formerly, are there enough seals to supply needs. All of the five varieties of North Atlantic seals are caught on the coast--harbor, jar, harp, hooded and square flipper. The last named is also called the great bearded seal and sometimes the sealion. The first named is the smallest of all. Scarce a year passes that we do not hear of a serious disaster in the Newfoundland sealing fleet. Sometimes severe snow storms arise when the men are hunting on the floe, and then the men are often lost. Sometimes the ships are crushed in the big floe and go to the bottom. The latest of these disasters was the disappearance of the _Southern Cross_, with a crew of one hundred seventy-five men. One of my good friends, Captain Jacob Kean, used to command the _Virginia Lake_, one of the largest of the sealers. She carried a crew of about two hundred men. A few years before Captain Kean lost his life in one of the awful sea disasters of the coast, he related to me one of his experiences at the sealing. Captain Kean was in luck that year, and found the seals early and in great numbers. The crew had made a good hunt on the floe, and they are loading them with about a third of a cargo aboard when suddenly the ice closed in and the _Virginia Lake_ was "pinched," with the result that a good sized hole was broken in her planking on the port side forward below the water line. The sea rushed in, and it looked for a time as though the vessel would sink, and there were not boats enough to accommodate the crew even if boats could have been used, which was hardly possible under the conditions, for the sea was clogged with heaving ice pans. The pumps were manned, and Captain Kean, and with every man not working the pumps, with feverish haste shifted the cargo to the starboard side and aft. Presently, with the weight shifted, the ship lay over on her starboard side and her bow rose above the water until the crushed planking and the hole were above the water line. The hole now exposed, Captain Kean stuffed it with sea biscuit, or hardtack. Over this he nailed a covering of canvas. Tubs of butter were brought up, and the canvas thoroughly and thickly buttered. This done, a sheathing of planking was spiked on over the buttered canvas. Then the cargo was re-shifted into place, the vessel settled back upon an even keel, and it was found that the leak was healed. The sea biscuit, absorbing moisture, swelled, and this together with the canvas, butter and planking proved effectual. Captain Kean loaded his ship with seals and took her into St. John's harbor safely with a full cargo. The following year the _Virginia Lake_ was again pinched by the ice, but this time was lost. Captain Kean and his crew took refuge on the ice floe, and were fortunately rescued by another sealer. When Captain Kean lost his life a few years later the sealing fleet lost one of its most successful masters. He was a fine Christian gentleman and as able a seaman as ever trod a bridge. But this is the life of the sealer and the fisherman of the northern sees. Terrible storms sometimes sweep down that rugged, barren coast and leave behind them a harvest of wrecked vessels and drowned men and destitute families that have lost their only support. These were the conditions that Grenfell found in Labrador, and this was the breed of men, these hunters and trappers, fishermen and sealers--sturdy, honest, God-fearing folk--with whom Grenfell took up his life. He had elected to share with them the hardships of their desolate land and the perils of their ice-choked sea. They needed him, and to them he offered a service that was Christ-like in its breadth and devotion. It was a peculiar field. No ordinary man could have entered it with hope of success. Mere ability as a physician and surgeon of wide experience was not enough. In addition to this, success demanded that he be a Christian gentleman with high ideals, and freedom from bigotry. Courage, moral as well as physical, was a necessity. Only a man who was himself a fearless and capable navigator could make the rounds of the coast and respond promptly to the hurried and urgent calls to widely separated patients. Constant exposure to hardship and peril demanded a strong body and a level head. Balanced judgment, high executive and administrative ability, deep insight into human character and unbounded sympathy for those who suffered or were in trouble were indispensable characteristics. All of these attributes Grenfell possessed. A short time before Mr. Moody's death, Grenfell met Moody and told him of the inspiration he had received from that sermon, delivered in London many years before by the great evangelist. "What have you been doing since?" asked Moody. What has Grenfell been doing since? He has established hospitals at Battle Harbor, Indian Harbor, Harrington and Northwest River in Labrador, and at St. Anthony in northeastern Newfoundland. He has established schools and nursing stations both in Labrador and Newfoundland. He has built and maintains two orphanages. He founded the Seamen's Institute in St. Johns. Year after year, since that summer's day when the _Albert_ anchored in Domino Run and Grenfell first met the men of the Newfoundland fishing fleet and the liveyeres of the Labrador coast, winter and summer, Grenfell himself and the doctors that assist him have patrolled that long desolate coast giving the best that was in them to the people that lived there. Grenfell has preached the Word, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, sheltered the homeless and righted many wrongs. He has fought disease and poverty, evil and oppression. Hardship, peril and prejudice have fallen to his lot, but he has met them with a courage and determination that never faltered, and he is still "up and at it." Grenfell's life has been a life of service to others. Freely and joyfully he has given himself and all that was in him to the work of making others happier, and the people of the coast love and trust him. With pathetic confidence they lean upon him and call him in their need, as children lean upon their father, and he has never failed to respond. When a man who had lost a leg felt the need for an artificial one, he appealed to Grenfell: Docter plase I whant to see you. Docter sir have you got a leg if you have Will you plase send him Down Praps he may fet and you would oblig. One who wished clothing for his family wrote: To Dr. Gransfield Dear honrabel Sir, I would be pleased to ask you Sir if you would be pleased to give me and my wife a littel poor close. I was going in the Bay to cut some wood. But I am all amost blind and cant Do much so if you would spear me some Sir I would Be very thankful to you Sir. Calls to visit the sick are continuously received. The following are genuine examples: Reverance dr. Grandfell. Dear sir we are expecting you hup and we would like for you to come so quick as you can for my dater is very sick with a very large sore under her left harm we emenangin that the old is two enchis deep and two enches wide plase com as quick as you can to save life I remains yours truely. Docker--Please wel you send me somting for the pain in my feet and what you proismed to send my little boy. Docker I am almost cripple, it is up my hips, I can hardly walk. This is my housban is gaining you this note. doctor--i have a compleant i ham weak with wind on the chest, weakness all over me up in my harm. Dear Dr. Grenfell. I would like for you to Have time to come Down to my House Before you leaves to go to St. Anthony. My little Girl is very Bad. it seems all in Her neck. Cant Ply her Neck forward if do she nearly goes in the fits. i dont know what it is the matter with Her myself. But if you would see Her you would know what the matter with Her. Please send a word by the Bearer what gives you this note and let me know where you will have time to come down to my House, i lives down the Bay a Place called Berry Head. These people are made of the same clay as you and I. They are moved by the same human emotions. They love those who are near and dear to them no less than we love those who are near and dear to us. The same heights or depths of joy and sorrow, hopes and disappointments enter into their lives. In the following chapters let us meet some of them, and travel with Doctor Grenfell as he goes about his work among them. XI UNCLE WILLIE WOLFREY One bitterly cold day in winter our dog team halted before a cabin. We had been hailed as we were passing by the man of the house. He gave us a hearty hand shake and invitation to have "a drop o' tea and a bit to eat," adding, "you'd never ha' been passin' without stoppin' for a cup o' tea to warm you up, whatever." It was early, and we had intended to stop farther on to boil our kettle in the edge of the woods with as little loss of time as possible, but there was no getting away from the hospitality of the liveyere. There were three of us, and we were as hungry as bears, for there is nothing like snowshoe traveling in thirty and forty degrees below zero weather to give one an appetite. As we entered we sniffed a delicious odor of roasting meat, and that one sniff made us glad we had stopped, and made us equally certain we had never before in our lives been so hungry for a good meal. For days we had been subsisting on hardtack and jerked venison, two articles of food that will not freeze for they contain no moisture, and tea; or, when we stopped at a cabin, on bread and tea. The man's wife was already placing plates, cups and saucers on the bare table for us, and two little boys were helping with hungry eagerness. "Hang your adikeys on the pegs there and get warmed up," our host invited. "Dinner's a'most ready. 'Tis a wonderful frosty day to be cruisin'." We did as he directed, and then seated ourselves on chests that he pulled forward for seats. He had many questions to ask concerning the folk to the northward, their health and their luck at the winter's trapping, until, presently, the woman brought forth from the oven and placed upon the table a pan of deliciously browned, smoking meat. "Set in! Set in!" beamed our host. "'Tis fine you comes today and not yesterday," adding as we drew up to the table: "All we'd been havin' to give you yesterday and all th' winter, were bread and tea. Game's been wonderful scarce, and this is the first bit o' meat we has th' whole winter, barrin' a pa'tridge or two in November. But this marnin' I finds a lynx in one o' my traps, and a fine prime skin he has. I'll show un to you after we eats, though he's on the dryin' board and you can't see the fur of he." We bowed our heads while the host asked the blessing. The Labradorman rarely omits the blessing, and often the meal is closed with a final thanks, for men of the wilderness live near to God. He is very near to them and they reverence Him. "Help yourself, sir! Help yourself!" Each of us helped himself sparingly to the cat meat. There was bread, but no butter, and there was hot tea with black molasses for sweetening. "Take more o' th' meat now! Help yourselves! Don't be afraid of un," our hospitable host urged, and we did help ourselves again, for it was good. Whenever we passed within hailing distance of a cabin, we had to stop for a "cup o' hot tea, whatever." Otherwise the people would have felt sorely hurt. We seldom found more elaborate meals than bread, tea and molasses, rarely butter, and of course never any vegetables. We soon discovered that we could not pay the head of the family for our entertainment, but where there were children we left money with the mother with which to buy something for the little ones, which doubtless would be clothing or provisions for the family. If there were no children we left the money on the table or somewhere where it surely would be discovered after our departure. I remember one of this fine breed of men well. I met him on this journey, and he once drove dog team for me--Uncle Willie Wolfrey. Doctor Grenfell says of him: "Uncle Willie isn't a scholar, a social light, or a capitalist magnate, but all the same ten minutes' visit to Uncle Willie Wolfrey is worth five dollars of any man's investment." It requires a lot of physical energy for any man to tramp the trails day after day through a frigid, snow-covered wilderness, and months of it at a stretch. It is a big job for a young and hearty man, and a tremendous one for a man of Uncle Willie's years. And it is a man's job, too, to handle a boat in all weather, in calm and in gale, in clear and in fog, sixteen to twenty hours a day, and the fisherman's day is seldom shorter than that. The fish must be caught when they are there to be caught, and they must be split and salted the day they are caught, and then there's the work of spreading them on the "flakes," and turning them, and piling and covering them when rain threatens. A cataract began to form on Uncle Willie's eyes, and every day he could see just a little less plainly than the day before. The prospects were that he would soon be blind, and without his eyesight he could neither hunt nor fish. But with his growing age and misfortune Uncle Willie was never a whit less cheerful. He had to earn his living and he kept at his work. "'Tis the way of the Lard," said he. "He's blessed me with fine health all my life, and kept the house warm, and we've always had a bit to eat, whatever. The Lard has been wonderful good to us, and I'll never be complainin'." It was never Uncle Willie's way to complain about hard luck. He always did his best, and somehow, no matter how hard a pinch in which he found himself, it always came out right in the end. Finally Uncle Willie's eyesight became so poor that it was difficult for him to see sufficiently to get around, and one day last summer (1921) he stepped off his fish stage where he was at work, and the fall broke his thigh. This happened at the very beginning of the fishing season, and put an end to the summer's fishing for Uncle Willie, and, of course, to all hope of hunting and trapping during last winter. Then Doctor Grenfell happened along with his brave old hospital ship _Strathcona_. Dr. Grenfell has a way of happening along just when people are desperately in need of him. With Dr. Grenfell was Dr. Morlan, a skillful and well-known eye and throat specialist from Chicago. Dr. Morlan was spending his holiday with Dr. Grenfell, helping heal the sick down on The Labrador, giving free his services and his great skill. Dr. Grenfell set and dressed Uncle Willie Wolfrey's broken thigh. Dr. Morlan was to remain but a few days. If he were to help Uncle Willie's eyes there could be no time given for a recovery from the operation on the thigh. Uncle Willie was game for it. They had settled Uncle Willie comfortably at Indian Harbor Hospital, and immediately the thigh was set Dr. Morlan operated upon one of the eyes. The operation was successful, and when the freeze-up came with the beginning of winter, Uncle Willie, hobbling about on crutches and with one good eye was home again in his cabin. Uncle Willie lives in a lonely place, and for many miles north and south he has but one neighbor. The outlook for the winter was dismal indeed. His flour barrel was empty. He had no money. But that stout old heart could not be discouraged or subdued. Uncle Willie was as full of grit as ever he was in his life. He was still a fountain of cheery optimism and hope. He could see with one eye now, and out of that eye the world looked like a pretty good place in which to live, and he was decided to make the best of it. Dr. Grenfell, passing down the coast, called in to see the crippled old fisherman and hunter, and in commenting on that visit he said: "There are certain men it always does one good to meet. Uncle Willie is a channel of blessing. His sincerity and faith do one good. There is always a merry glint in his eye. Even with one eye out, and his crutches on, and his prospect of hunger, Uncle Willie was just the same." Dr. Grenfell left some money, donated by the Doctor's friends, and made other provisions for the comfort of Uncle Willie Wolfrey during the winter. If all goes well he will be at his fishing again, when the ice clears away; and the snows of another winter will see him again on his trapping path setting traps for martens and foxes. And with his rifle and one good eye, who knows but he may knock over a silver fox or a bear or two? Good luck to Uncle Willie Wolfrey and his spirit, which cannot be downed. As Dr. Grenfell has often said, the Labradorman is a fountain of faith and hope and inspiration. If the fishing season is a failure he turns to his winter's trapping with unwavering faith that it will yield him well. If his trapping fails his hope and faith are none the less when he sets out in the spring to hunt seals. Seals may be scarce and the reward poor, but never mind! The summer fishing is at hand, and _this_ year it will certainly bring a good catch! "The Lard be wonderful good to us, _what_ever." XII A DOZEN FOX TRAPS On that same voyage along the coast when Uncle Willie Wolfrey was found with a broken thigh, Dr. Grenfell, after he had operated upon Uncle Willie, in the course of his voyage, stopping at many harbors to give medical assistance to the needy ones, ran in one day to Kaipokok Bay, at Turnavik Islands. As the vessel dropped her anchor he observed a man sitting on the rocks eagerly watching the ship. The jolly boat was launched, and as it approached the land the man arose and coming down to the water's edge, shouted: "Be that you, Doctor?" "Yes, Uncle Tom, it is I?" the Doctor shouted back, for he had already recognized Uncle Tom, one of the fine old men of the coast. When Grenfell stepped ashore and took Uncle Tom's hand in a hearty grasp, the old man broke down and cried like a child. Uncle Tom was evidently in keen distress. "Oh, Doctor, I'm so glad you comes. I were lookin' for you, Doctor," said the old man in a voice broken by emotion. "I were watchin' and watchin' out here on the rocks, not knowin' whether you'd be comin' this way, but hopin', and prayin' the Lard to send you. He sends you, Doctor. 'Twere the Lard sends you when I'm needin' you, sir, sorely needin' you." Uncle Tom is seventy years of age. He was born and bred on The Labrador, but he has not spent all his life there. In his younger days he shipped as a sailor, and as a seaman saw many parts of the world. But long ago he returned to his home to settle down as a fisherman and a trapper. When the war came, the brave old soul, stirred by patriotism, paid his own passage and expenses on the mail boat to St. Johns, and offered to volunteer for service. Of course he was too old and was rejected because of his age. Uncle Tom, his patriotism not in the least dampened, returned to his Labrador home and divided all the fur of his winter's hunt into two equal piles. To one pile he added a ten dollar bill, and that pile, with the ten dollars added, he shipped at once to the "Patriotic Fund" in St. Johns. He had offered himself, and they would not take him, and this was all he could do to help win the war, and he did it freely and wistfully, out of his noble, generous patriotic soul. "What is the trouble, Uncle Tom?" asked Grenfell, when Uncle Tom had to some extent regained his composure, and the old man told his story. He was in hard luck. Late the previous fall (1920) or early in the winter he had met with a severe accident that had resulted in several broken ribs. Navigation had closed, and he was cut off from all surgical assistance, and his broken ribs had never had attention and had not healed. He could scarcely draw a breath without pain, or even rest without pain at night, and he could not go to his trapping path. He depended upon his winter's hunt mainly for support, and with no fur to sell he was, for the first time in his life, compelled to contract a debt. Then, suddenly, the trader with whom he dealt discontinued giving credit. Uncle Tom was stranded high and dry, and when the fishing season came he had no outfit or means of purchasing one, and could not go fishing. Besides his wife there were six children in Uncle Tom's family, though none of them was his own or related to him. When the "flu" came to the coast in 1918, and one out of every five of the people around Turnavik Islands died, several little ones were left homeless and orphans. The generous hearts of Uncle Tom and his wife opened to them and they took these six children into their home as their own. And so it happened that Uncle Tom had, and still has, a large family depending upon him. "As we neared the cottage," said Doctor Grenfell, "his good wife, beaming from head to foot as usual, came out to greet us. Optimist to the last ditch, she _knew_ that somehow provision would be made. She, too, had had her troubles, for twice she had been operated on at Indian Harbor for cancer." Uncle Tom must have suffered severely during all those months that he had lived with his broken ribs uncared for. Now Dr. Grenfell, without loss of time, strapped them up good and tight. Mrs. Grenfell supplied the six youngsters with a fine outfit of good warm clothes, and when Dr. Grenfell sailed out of Kaipokok Bay Uncle Tom and Mrs. Tom had no further cause for worry concerning the source from which provisions would come for themselves and the six orphans they had adopted. These are but a few incidents in the life of the people to whom Dr. Grenfell is devoting his skill and his sympathy year in and year out. I could relate enough of them to fill a dozen volumes like this, but space is limited. There is always hardship and always will be in a frontier land like Labrador, and Labrador north of Cape Charles is the most primitive of frontier lands. Dr. Grenfell and his helpers find plenty to do in addition to giving out medicines and dressing wounds. A little boost sometimes puts a family on its feet, raising it from abject poverty to independence and self-respect. Just a little momentum to push them over the line. Grenfell knows how to do this. Several years ago Dr. Grenfell anchored his vessel in Big Bight, and went ashore to visit David Long. David had had a hard winter, and among other kindnesses to the family, Dr. Grenfell presented David's two oldest boys, lads of fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts, with a dozen steel fox traps. Lack of traps had prevented the boys taking part in trapping during the previous winter. The next year after giving the boys the traps, Grenfell again cast anchor in Big Bight, and, as usual, rowed ashore to visit the Longs. There was great excitement in their joyous greeting. Something important had happened. There was no doubt of that! David and Mrs. Long and the two lads and all the little Longs were exuding mystery, but particularly the two lads. Whatever this mysterious secret was they could scarce keep it until they had led Dr. Grenfell into the cabin, and he was comfortably seated. Then, with vast importance and some show of deliberate dignity, David opened a chest. From its depths he drew forth a pelt. Dr. Grenfell watched with interest while David shook it to make the fur stand out to best advantage, and then held up to his admiring gaze the skin of a beautiful silver fox! The lads had caught it in one of the dozen traps he had given them. "We keeps un for you," announced David exultantly. "It's a prime one, too!" exclaimed the Doctor, duly impressed, as he examined it. "She _be_ that," emphasized David proudly. "No finer were caught on the coast the winter." "It was a good winter's work," said the Doctor. "'Twere _that_ now! 'Twere a _wonder_ful good winter's work--just t'cotch that un!" enthused Mrs. Long. "What are you going to do with it?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "We keeps un for you," said David. "The time was th' winter when we has ne'er a bit o' grub but what we hunts, all of our flour and molasses gone. But we don't take _he_ to the trade, _what_ever. We keeps _he_ for you." Out on a coast island Captain William Bartlett, of Brigus, Newfoundland, kept a fishing station and a supply store. Captain Will is a famous Arctic navigator. He is one of the best known and most successful masters of the great sealing fleet. He is also a cod fisherman of renown and he is the father of Captain "Bob" Bartlett, master of explorer Peary's _Roosevelt_, and it was under Captain Will Bartlett's instruction that Captain "Bob" learned seamanship and navigation. Captain William Bartlett is as fine a man as ever trod a deck. He is just and honest to a degree, and he has a big generous heart. Doctor Grenfell accepted the silver fox pelt, and as he steamed down the coast he ran his vessel in at Captain Bartlett's station. He had confidence in Captain Bartlett. "Here's a silver fox skin that belongs to David Long's lads," said he, depositing the pelt on the counter. "I wish you'd take it, and do the best you can for David, Captain Will. I'll leave it with you." Captain Bartlett shook the pelt out, and admired its lustrous beauty. "It's a good one! David's lads were in luck when they caught _that_ fellow. I'll do the best I can with it," he promised. "They'll take the pay in provisions and other necessaries," suggested Grenfell. "All right," agreed Captain Will. "I'll send the goods over to them." On his way to the southward a month later Doctor Grenfell again cast anchor at Big Bight. David Long and Mrs. Long, the two big lads, and all the little Longs, were as beaming and happy as any family could be in the whole wide world. Captain Bartlett's vessel had run in at Big Bight one day, and paid for the silver fox pelt in merchandise. The cabin was literally packed with provisions. The family were well clothed. There was enough and to spare to keep them in affluence, as affluence goes down on The Labrador, for a whole year and longer. Need and poverty were vanished. Captain Will had, indeed, done well with the silver fox pelt. These are stories of life on The Labrador as Doctor Grenfell found it. From the day he reached the coast and every day since his heart has ached with the troubles and poverty existing among the liveyeres. He has been thrilled again and again by incidents of heroic struggle and sacrifice among them. He has done a vast deal to make them more comfortable and happy, as in the case of David Long. Still, in spite of it all, there are cases of desperate poverty and suffering there, and doubtless will always be. In every city and town and village of our great and prosperous country people throw away clothing and many things that would help to make the lives of the Longs and the hundreds of other liveyeres of the coast who are toiling for bare existence easier to endure. Enough is wasted every year, indeed, in any one of our cities to make the whole population of Labrador happy and comfortable. And there's the pity. If Grenfell could _only_ be given _some_ of this waste to take to them! From the beginning this thought troubled Doctor Grenfell. And in winter when the ice shuts the whole coast off from the rest of the world, he turned his attention to efforts to secure the help of good people the world over in his work. Making others happy is the greatest happiness that any one can experience, and Grenfell wished others to share his happiness with him. Nearly every winter for many years he has lectured in the United States and Canada and Great Britain with this in view. The Grenfell Association was organized with headquarters in New York, where money and donations of clothing and other necessaries might be sent.[B] As we shall see, many great things have been accomplished by Doctor Grenfell and this Association, organized by his friends several years ago. Every year a great many boxes and barrels of clothing go to him down on The Labrador, filled with good things for the needy ones. Boys and girls, as well as men and women, send warm things for winter. Not only clothing, but now and again toys for the Wee Tots find their way into the boxes. Just like other children the world over, the Wee Tots of The Labrador like toys to play with and they are made joyous with toys discarded by the over-supplied youngsters of our land. Of course there are foolish people who send useless things too. Scattered through the boxes are now and again found evening clothes for men and women, silk top hats, flimsy little women's bonnets, dancing pumps, and even crepe-de-chene nighties. These serve as playthings for the grown-ups, many of whom, especially the Indians and Eskimos, are quite childlike with gimcracks. I recall once seeing an Eskimo parading around on a warm day in the glory of a full dress coat and silk hat, the coat drawn on over his ordinary clothing. He was the envy of his friends. While Grenfell dispensed medical and surgical treatment, and at the same time did what he could for the needy, he also turned his attention to an attack upon the truck system. This system of barter was responsible for the depths of poverty in which he found the liveyeres. He was mightily wrought up against it, as well he might have been, and still is, and he laid plans at once to relieve the liveyeres and northern Newfoundlanders from its grip. This was a great undertaking. It was a stroke for freedom, for the truck system, as we have seen, is simply a species of slavery. He realized that in attacking it he was to create powerful enemies who would do their utmost to injure him and interfere with his work. Some of these men he knew would go to any length to drive him off The Labrador. It required courage, but Grenfell was never lacking in courage. He rolled up his sleeves and went at it. He always did things openly and fearlessly, first satisfying himself he was right. FOOTNOTES: [B] The address of the Grenfell Association is 156 Fifth Avenue, New York. XIII SKIPPER TOM'S COD TRAP Skipper Tom lived, and for aught I know still lives, at Red Bay, a little settlement on the Straits of Belle Isle, some sixty miles to the westward of Battle Harbor. Along the southern coast of Labrador the cabins are much closer together than on the east coast, and there are some small settlements in the bays and harbors, with snug little painted cottages. Red Bay, where Skipper Tom lived, is one of these settlements. It boasts a neat little Methodist chapel, built by the fishermen and trappers from lumber cut in the near-by forest, and laboriously sawn into boards with the pit saw. Skipper Tom lived in one of the snuggest and coziest of the cottages. I remember the cottage and I remember Skipper Tom well. I happened into the settlement one evening directly ahead of a winter blizzard, and Skipper Tom and his good family opened their little home to me and sheltered me with a hospitable cordial welcome for three days, until the weather cleared and the dogs could travel again and I pushed forward on my journey. Skipper Tom stood an inch or two above six feet in his moccasins. He was a broad-shouldered, strong-limbed man of the wilderness and the sea. His face was kindly and gentle, but at the same time reflected firmness, strength and thoughtfulness. When he spoke you were sure to listen, for there was always the conviction that he was about to utter some word of wisdom, or tell you something of importance. The moment you looked at him and heard his voice you said to yourself: "Here is a man upon whom I can rely and in whom I can place absolute confidence." If Skipper Tom promised to do anything, he did it, unless Providence intervened. If he said he would not do a thing, he would not do it, and you could depend on it. He was a man of his word. That was Skipper Tom--big, straight spoken, and as square as any man that ever lived. That is what his neighbors said of him, and that is the way Doctor Grenfell found him. Now and again the Methodist missionary visited Red Bay in his circuit of the settlements, and when he came he made his headquarters in the home of Skipper Tom. On the occasion of these visits he conducted services in the chapel on Sunday, and on week days visited every home in Red Bay. Skipper Tom was class leader, and looked after the religious welfare of the little community, presiding over his class in the chapel, on the great majority of Sundays, when the missionary was engaged elsewhere. The people looked up to Skipper Tom. The folk of Red Bay, like most people who live much in the open and close to nature, have a deep religious reverence and a wholesome fear of God. As their class leader Skipper Tom guided them in their worship, and they looked upon him as an example of upright living. So it was that he had a great burden of responsibility, with the morals of the community thrust upon him. In one respect Skipper Tom was fortunate. He did not inherit a debt, and all his life he had kept free from the truck system under which his neighbors toiled hopelessly, year in and year out. He had, in one way or another, picked up enough education to read and write and figure. He could read and interpret his Bible and he could calculate his accounts. He knew that two times two make four. If he sold two hundred quintals[C] of fish at $2.25 a quintal, he knew that $450.00 were due him. No trader had a mortgage upon the product of _his_ labor, as they had upon that of his neighbors, and he was free to sell his fur and fish to whoever would pay him the highest price. To be sure there were seasons when Skipper Tom was hard put to it to make ends meet, and a scant diet and a good many hardships fell to his lot and to the lot of his family. And when he had enough and his neighbors were in need, he denied himself to see others through, and even pinched himself to do it. But he saved bit by bit until, at the age of forty-five, he was able to purchase a cod trap, which was valued at about $400.00. The purchase of this cod trap had been the ambition of his life and we can imagine his joy when finally the day came that brought it to him. It made more certain his catch of cod, and therefore lessened the possibility of winters of privation. It is interesting to know how the fishermen of The Labrador catch cod. It may be worth while also to explain that when the Labradorman or Newfoundlander speaks of "fish" he means cod in his vocabulary. A trout is a trout, a salmon is a salmon and a caplin is a caplin, but a cod is a fish. He never thinks of anything as fish but cod. Early in the season, directly the ice breaks up, a little fish called the caplin, which is about the size of a smelt, runs inshore in great schools of countless millions, to spawn. I have seen them lying in windrows along the shore where the receding tide had left them high and dry upon the land. This is a great time for the dogs, which feast upon them and grow fat. It is a great time also for the cod, which feed on the caplin, and for the fishermen who catch the cod. Cod follow the caplin schools, and this is the season when the fisherman, if he is so fortunate as to own a trap, reaps his greatest harvest. The trap is a net with four sides and a bottom, but no top. It is like a great room without a ceiling. On one side is a door or opening. The trap is submerged a hundred yards or so from shore, at a point where the caplin, with the cod at their heels, are likely to run in. A net attached to the trap at the center of the door is stretched to the nearest shore. Like a flock of geese that follows the old gander cod follow their leaders. When the leaders pilot the school in close to shore in pursuit of the caplin, they encounter the obstructing net, then follow along its side with the purpose of going around it. This leads them into the trap. Once into the trap they remain there until the fishermen haul their catch. The fisherman who owns no trap must rely upon the hook and line. Though sometimes hook and line fishermen meet with good fortune, the results are much less certain than with the traps and the work much slower and vastly more difficult. When the water is not too deep jigging with unbaited hooks proves successful when fish are plentiful. Two large hooks fastened back to back, with lead to act as a sinker, serve the purpose. This double hook at the end of the line is dropped over the side of the boat and lowered until it touches bottom. Then it is raised about three feet, and from this point "jigged," or raised and lowered continuously until taken by a cod. [Illustration: "THE TRAP IS SUBMERGED A HUNDRED YARDS OR SO FROM SHORE"] In deep water, however, bait is necessary and the squid is a favorite bait. A squid is a baby octopus, or "devil fish." The squid is caught by jigging up and down a lead weight filled with wire spikes and painted bright red. It seizes the weight with its tentacles. When raised into the boat it releases its hold and squirts a small stream of black inky fluid. In the water, when attacked, this inky fluid discolors the water and screens it from its enemy. The octopus grows to immense size, with many long arms. Two Newfoundlanders were once fishing in an open boat, when an octopus attacked the boat, reaching for it with two enormous arms, with the purpose of dragging it down. One of the fishermen seized an ax that lay handy in the boat and chopped the arms off. The octopus sank and all the sea about was made black with its screen of ink. The sections of arms cut off were nineteen feet in length. They are still on exhibition in the St. Johns Museum, where I have seen them many times. Shortly afterward a dead octopus was found, measuring, with tentacles spread, forty feet over all. It was not, however, the same octopus which attacked the fishermen, for that must have been much larger. We can understand, then, how much Skipper Tom's cod trap meant to him. We can visualize his pleasure, and share his joy. The trap was, to a large extent, insurance against privation and hardship. It was his reward for the self-denial of himself and his family for years, and represented his life's savings. When at last the ice cleared from his fishing place and the trap was set, there was no prouder or happier man on The Labrador than Skipper Tom. The trap was in the water when the _Princess May_, one Saturday afternoon, steamed into Red Bay and Doctor Grenfell accepted the hospitable invitation of Skipper Tom to spend the night at his home. It was still early in the season and icebergs were plentiful enough, as, indeed, they are the whole summer long. They are always a menace to cod traps, for should a berg drift against a trap, that will be the end of the trap forever. Fishermen watch their traps closely, and if an iceberg comes so near as to threaten it the trap must be removed to save it. A little lack of watchfulness leads to ruin. "The trap's well set," said Skipper Tom, when Doctor Grenfell inquired concerning it. "The ice is keepin' clear, but I watches close." "What are the signs of fish?" asked the Doctor. "Fine!" said Skipper Tom. "The signs be _wonderful_ fine." "I hope you'll have a big year." "There's a promise of un," Skipper Tom grinned happily. "The trap's sure to do fine for us." But nobody knows from one day to another what will happen on The Labrador. According to habit Skipper Tom was up bright and early on Sunday morning and went for a look at the trap. When presently he returned to join Doctor Grenfell at breakfast he was plainly worried. "There's a berg driftin' down on the trap. We'll have to take her in," he announced. "But 'tis Sunday," exclaimed his wife. "You'll never be workin' on Sunday." "Aye, 'tis Sunday and 'tis against my principles to fish on the Sabbath day. I never did before, but 'tis to save our cod trap now. The lads and I'll not fish. We'll just haul the trap." "The Lard'll forgive _that, what_ever," agreed his wife. Skipper Tom went out when he had eaten, but it was not long until he returned. "I'm not goin' to haul the trap today," he said quietly and decisively. "There are those in this harbor," he added, turning to Doctor Grenfell, "who would say, if I hauled that trap, that 'twould be no worse for them to fish on Sunday than for me to haul my trap. Then they'd go fishin' Sundays the same as other days, and none of un would keep Sunday any more as a day of rest, as the Lard intends us to keep un, and has told us in His own words we must keep un. I'll not haul the trap this day, though 'tis sore hard to lose un." For a principle, and because he was well aware of his influence upon the folk of the settlement, Skipper Tom had made his decision to sacrifice his cod trap and the earnings of his lifetime. His conscience told him it would be wrong to do a thing that might lead others to do wrong. When our conscience tells us it is wrong to do a thing, it is wrong for us to do it. Conscience is the voice of God. If we disobey our conscience God will soon cease to speak to us through it. That is the way every criminal in the world began his downward career. He disobeyed his conscience, and continued to disobey it until he no longer heard it. Skipper Tom never disobeyed his conscience. Now the temptation was strong. His whole life's savings were threatened to be swept away. There was still time to save the trap. But Skipper Tom was strong. He turned his back upon the cod trap and the iceberg and temptation, and as he and Doctor Grenfell climbed the hill to the chapel he greeted his neighbors calmly and cheerily. Every eye in Red Bay was on Skipper Tom that day. Every person knew of the cod trap and its danger, and all that it meant to Skipper Tom, and the temptation Skipper Tom was facing; but from all outward appearance he had dismissed the cod trap and the iceberg from his mind. When dusk fell that night the iceberg was almost upon the cod trap. FOOTNOTES: [C] Pronounced kentel in Labrador; 112 pounds. XIV THE SAVING OF RED BAY At an early hour on Sunday evening Skipper Tom went to his bed as usual, and it is quite probable that within a period of ten minutes after his head rested upon his pillow he was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing else to do. He had no doubt that his cod trap was lying under the iceberg a hopeless wreck. Well, what of it? In any case he had acted as his conscience had him act. He knew that there were those who would say that his conscience was over-sensitive. Perhaps it was, but it was _his_ conscience, not theirs. He was class leader in the chapel. He never forgot that. And he was the leading citizen of the settlement. At whatever cost, he must needs prove a good example to his neighbors in his deeds. Worry would not help the case in the least. Too much of it would incapacitate him. He had lived forty-four years without a cod trap, and he had not starved, and he could finish his days without one. "The Lard'll take care of us," Skipper Tom often said when they were in a tight pinch, but he always added, "if we does our best to make the best of things and look after ourselves and the things the Lard gives us to do with. He calls on us to do that." Though Skipper Tom could scarce see how his trap might have escaped destruction he had no intention of resting upon that supposition and perhaps he still entertained a lingering hope that it had escaped. There is no doubt he prayed for its preservation, and he had strong faith in prayer. At any rate, at half past eleven o'clock that night he was up and dressed, and routed his two sons out of their beds. At the stroke of midnight, waiting a tick longer perhaps, to be quite sure that Sunday had gone and Monday morning had arrived, he and his sons pushed out in their big boat. Skipper Tom would not be doing his best if he did not make certain of what had actually happened to the cod trap. Every one in Red Bay said it had been destroyed, and no doubt of that. But no one knew for a certainty, and there _might_ have been an intervention of Divine Providence. "The Lard helped us to get that trap," said Skipper Tom, "and 'tis hard to believe he'll take un away from us so soon, for I tried not to be vain about un, only just a bit proud of un and glad I has un. If He's took un from me I'll know 'twere to try my faith, and I'll never complain." Down they rowed toward the iceberg, whose polished surface gleamed white in the starlight. "She's right over where the trap were set! The trap's gone," said one of the sons. "I'm doubtin'," Skipper Tom was measuring the distance critically with his eye. "The trap's tore to pieces," insisted the son with discouragement in his voice. "The berg's to the lee'ard of she," declared Skipper Tom finally. "Tis too close t' shore." "'Tis to the lee'ard!" "Is you sure, now, Pop?" "The trap's safe and sound! The berg _is_ t' the lee'ard!" Tom was right. A shift of tide had come at the right moment to save the trap. "The Lard is good to us," breathed Skipper Tom. "He've saved our trap! He always takes care of them that does what they feels is right. We'll thank the Lard, lads." In the trap was a fine haul of cod, and when they had removed the fish the trap was transferred to a new position where it would be quite safe until the menacing iceberg had drifted away. There were seventeen families living in Red Bay. As settlements go, down on The Labrador, seventeen cabins, each housing a family, is deemed a pretty good sized place. At Red Bay, as elsewhere on the coast, bad seasons for fishing came now and again. These occur when the ice holds inshore so long that the best run of cod has passed before the men can get at them; or because for some unexplained reason the cod do not appear at all along certain sections of the coast. When two bad seasons come in succession, starvation looms on the horizon. Seasons when the ice held in, Skipper Tom could not set his cod trap. When this happened he was as badly off as any of his neighbors. In a season when there were no fish to catch, it goes without saying that his trap brought him no harvest. Fishing and trapping is a gamble at best, and Skipper Tom, like his neighbors, had to take his chance, and sometimes lost. If he accumulated anything in the good seasons, he used his accumulation to assist the needy ones when the bad seasons came, and, in the end, though he kept out of debt, he could not get ahead, try as he would. The seasons of 1904 and 1905 were both poor seasons, and when, in the fall of 1905, Doctor Grenfell's vessel anchored in Red Bay Harbor he found that several of the seventeen families had packed their belongings and were expectantly awaiting his arrival in the hope that he would take them to some place where they might find better opportunities. They were destitute and desperate. There was nowhere to take them where their condition would be better. Grenfell, already aware of their desperate poverty, had been giving the problem much consideration. The truck system was directly responsible for the conditions at Red Bay and for similar conditions at every other harbor along the coast. Something had to be done, and done at once. With the assistance of Skipper Tom and one or two others, Doctor Grenfell called a meeting of the people of the settlement that evening, to talk the matter over. The men and women were despondent and discouraged, but nearly all of them believed they could get on well enough if they could sell their fish and fur at a fair valuation, and could buy their supplies at reasonable prices. All of them declared they could no longer subsist at Red Bay upon the restricted outfits allowed them by the traders, which amounted to little or nothing when the fishing failed. They preferred to go somewhere else and try their luck where perhaps the traders would be more liberal. If they remained at Red Bay under the old conditions they would all starve, and they might as well starve somewhere else. Doctor Grenfell then suggested his plan. It was this. They would form a company. They would open a store for themselves. Through the store their furs and fish would be sent to market and they would get just as big a price for their products as the traders got. They would buy the store supplies at wholesale just as cheaply as the traders could buy them. They would elect one of their number, who could keep accounts, to be storekeeper. They would buy the things they needed from the store at a reasonable price, and at the end of the year each would be credited with his share of the profits. In other words, they would organize a co-operative store and trading system and be their own traders and storekeepers. This meant breaking off from the traders with whom they had always dealt and all hope of ever securing advance of supplies from them again. It was a hazardous venture for the fishermen to make. They did not understand business, but they were desperate and ready for any chance that offered relief, and in the end they decided to do as Doctor Grenfell suggested. Each man was to have a certain number of shares of stock in the new enterprise. The store would be supplied at once, and each family would be able to get from it what was needed to live upon during the winter. Any fish they might have on hand would be turned over to the store, credited as cash, and sent to market at once, in a schooner to be chartered for the purpose and this schooner would bring back to Red Bay the winter's supplies. A canvass then was made with the result that among the seventeen families the entire assets available for purchasing supplies amounted to but eighty-five dollars. This was little better than nothing. Doctor Grenfell had faith in Skipper Tom and the others. They were honest and hard-working folk. He knew that all they required was an opportunity to make good. He was determined to give them the opportunity, and he announced, without hesitation, that he would personally lend them enough to pay for the first cargo and establish the enterprise. Can any one wonder that the people love Grenfell? He was the one man in the whole world that would have done this, or who had the courage to do it. He knew well enough that he was calling down upon his own head the wrath of the traders. The schooner was chartered, the store was stocked and opened, and there was enough to keep the people well-fed, well-clothed, happy and comfortable through the first year. In the beginning there were some of the men who were actually afraid to have it known they were interested in the store, such was the fear with which the traders had ruled them. They were so timid, indeed, about the whole matter that they requested no sign designating the building as a store be placed upon it. That, they declared, would make the traders angry, and no one knew to what lengths these former slaveholders might go to have revenge upon them. It is no easy matter to shake oneself free from the traditions of generations and it was hard for these trappers and fishermen to realize that they were freed from their ancient bondage. But Doctor Grenfell fears no man, and, with his usual aggressiveness, he nailed upon the front of the store a big sign, reading: RED BAY CO-OPERATIVE STORE. It was during the winter of 1905-1906 and ten years after the launching of the enterprise and the opening of the store, that I drove into Red Bay with a train of dogs one cold afternoon. Skipper Tom was my host, and after we had a cheery cup of tea, he said: "Come out. I wants to show you something." He led me a little way down from his cottage to the store, and pointing up at the big bold sign, which Grenfell had nailed there, he announced proudly: "'Tis _our_ co-operative store, the first on the whole coast. Doctor Grenfell starts un for us." Then after a pause: "Doctor Grenfell be a wonderful man! He be a man of God." As expected, there was a furore among the little traders when the news was spread that a co-operative store had been opened in Red Bay. The big Newfoundland traders and merchants were heartily in favor of it, and even stood ready to give the experiment their support. But the little traders who had dealt with the Red Bay settlement for so long, and had bled the people and grown fat upon their labors, were bitterly hostile. They began a campaign of defamation against Doctor Grenfell and his whole field of work. They questioned his honesty, and criticised the conduct of his hospitals. They even enlisted the support of a Newfoundland paper in their opposition to him. They did everything in their power to drive him from the coast, so that they would have the field again in their own greedy hands. It was a dastardly exhibition of selfishness, but there are people in the world who will sell their own souls for profit. Grenfell went on about his business of making people happier. He was in the right. If the traders would fight he would give it to them. He was never a quitter. He was the same Grenfell that beat up the big boy at school, years before. He was going to have his way about it, and do what he went to Labrador to do. He was going to do more. He was determined now to improve the trading conditions of the people of Labrador and northern Newfoundland, as well as to heal their sick. From the day the co-operative store was opened in Red Bay not one fish and not one pelt of fur has ever gone to market from that harbor through a trader. The store has handled everything and it has prospered and the people have prospered beyond all expectation. Every one at Red Bay lives comfortably now. The debt to Doctor Grenfell was long since paid and cancelled. And it is characteristic of him that he would not accept one cent of interest. Shares of stock in the store, originally issued at five dollars a share, are now worth one hundred and four dollars a share, the difference being represented by profits that have not been withdrawn. Every share is owned by the people of the prosperous little settlement. Up and down the Labrador coast and in northern Newfoundland nine co-operative stores have been established by Doctor Grenfell since that autumn evening when he met the Red Bay folk in conference and they voted to stake their all, even their life, in the venture that proved so successful. Two or three of the stores had to discontinue because the people in the localities where they were placed lived so far apart that there were not enough of them to make a store successful. Every one of these stores was a great venture to the people who cast their lot with it. True they had little in money, but the stake of their venture was literally in each case their life. The man who never ventures never succeeds. Opportunity often comes to us in the form of a venture. Sometimes, it is a desperate venture too. Doctor Grenfell had to fight the traders all along the line. They even had the Government of Newfoundland appoint a Commission to inquire into the operation of the Missions as a "menace to honest trade." A menace to honest trade! Think of it! The result of the investigation proved that Grenfell and his mission was doing a big self-sacrificing work, and the finest kind of work to help the poor folk, and were doing it at a great cost and at no profit to the mission. So down went the traders in defeat. The fellow that's right is the fellow that wins in the end. The fellow that's wrong is the fellow that is going to get the worst of it at the proper time. Grenfell only tried to help others. He never reaped a penny of personal gain. He always came out on top. It's a good thing to be a scrapper sometimes, but if you're a scrapper be a good one. Grenfell is a scrapper when it is necessary, and when he has to scrap he goes at it with the best that's in him. He never does things half way. He never was a quitter. When he starts out to do anything he does it. XV A LAD OF THE NORTH The needs of the children attracted Dr. Grenfell's attention from the beginning. A great many of them were neglected because the parents were too poor to provide for them properly. Those who were orphaned were thrown upon the care of their neighbors, and though the neighbors were willing they were usually too poor to take upon themselves this added burden. There were no schools save those conducted by the Brethren of the Moravian missions among the Eskimos to the northward, and these were Eskimo schools where the people were taught to read and write in their own strange language, and to keep their accounts. But for the English speaking folk south of the Eskimo coast no provision for schools had ever been made. The hospitals were overflowing with the sick or injured, and there was no room for children, unless they were in need of medical or surgical attention. There was great need of a home for the orphans where they would be cared for and receive motherly training and attention and could go to school. Dr. Grenfell had thought about this a great deal. He had made the best arrangements possible for the actually destitute little ones by finding more or less comfortable homes for them, and seeking contributions from generous folk in the United States, Canada and Great Britain to pay for their expense. But it was not, perhaps, until Pomiuk, a little Eskimo boy, came under his care that he finally decided that the establishment of a children's home could no longer be delayed. Pomiuk's home was in the far north of Labrador, where no trees grow, and where the seasons are quite as frigid as those of northern Greenland. In summer he lived with his father and mother in a skin tent, or tupek, and in winter in a snow igloo, or iglooweuk. Pomiuk's mother cooked the food over the usual stone lamp, which also served to heat their igloo in winter. This lamp, which was referred to in an earlier chapter, and described as a hollowed stone in the form of a half moon, was an exceedingly crude affair, measuring eighteen inches long on its straight side and nine inches broad at its widest part. When it was filled with oil squeezed from a piece of seal blubber, the blubber was suspended over it at the back that the heat, when the wick of moss was lighted, would cause the blubber oil to continue to drip and keep the lamp supplied with oil. The lamp gave forth a smoky, yellow flame. This was the only fireside that little Pomiuk knew. You and I would not think it a very cheerful one, perhaps, but Pomiuk was accustomed to cold and he looked upon it as quite comfortable and cheerful enough. Ka-i-a-chou-ouk, Pomiuk's father, was a hunter and fisherman, as are all the Eskimos. He moved his tupek in summer, or built his igloo of blocks of snow in winter, wherever hunting and fishing were the best, but always close to the sea. Here, under the shadow of mighty cliffs and towering, rugged mountains, by the side of the great water, Pomiuk was born and grew into young boyhood, and played and climbed among the mountain crags or along the ocean shore with other boys. He loved the rugged, naked mountains, they stood so firm and solid! No storm or gale could ever make them afraid, or weaken them. Always they were the same, towering high into the heavens, untrod and unchanged by man, just as they had stood facing the arctic storms through untold ages. From the high places he could look out over the sea, where icebergs glistened in the sunshine, and sometimes he could see the sail of a fishing schooner that had come out of the mysterious places beyond the horizon. He loved the sea. Day and night in summer the sound of surf pounding ceaselessly upon the cliffs was in his ears. It was music to him, and his lullaby by night. But he loved the sea no less in winter when it lay frozen and silent and white. As far as his vision reached toward the rising sun, the endless plain of ice stretched away to the misty place where the ice and sky met. Pomiuk thought it would be a fine adventure, some night, when he was grown to be a man and a great hunter, to take the dogs and komatik and drive out over the ice to the place from which the sun rose, and be there in the morning to meet him. He had no doubt the sun rose out of a hole in the ice, and it did not seem so far away. Pomiuk's world was filled with beautiful and wonderful things. He loved the bright flowers that bloomed under the cliffs when the winter snows were gone, and the brilliant colors that lighted the sky and mountains and sea, when the sun set of evenings. He loved the mists, and the mighty storms that sent the sea rolling in upon the cliffs in summer. He never ceased to marvel at the aurora borealis, which by night flashed over the heavens in wondrous streams of fire and lighted the darkened world. His father told him the aurora borealis was the spirits of their departed people dancing in the sky. He learned the ways of the wild things in sea and on land and never tired of following the tracks of beasts in the snow, or of watching the seals sunning themselves on rocks or playing about in the water. The big wolf dogs were his special delight. His father kept nine of them, and many an exciting ride Pomiuk had behind them when his father took him on the komatik to hunt seals or to look at fox traps, or to visit the Trading Post. When he was a wee lad his father made for him a small dog whip of braided walrus hide. This was Pomiuk's favorite possession. He practiced wielding it, until he became so expert he could flip a pebble no larger than a marble with the tip end of the long lash; and he could snap and crack the lash with a report like a pistol shot. As he grew older and stronger he practiced with his father's whip, until he became quite as expert with that as with his own smaller one. This big whip had a wooden handle ten inches in length, and a supple lash of braided walrus hide thirty-five feet long. The lash was about an inch in diameter where it joined the handle, tapering to a thin tip at the end. One summer day, when Pomiuk was ten years of age, a strange ship dropped anchor off the rocky shore where Pomiuk's father and several other Eskimo families had pitched their tupeks, while they fished in the sea near by for cod or hunted seals. A boat was launched from the ship, and as it came toward the shore all of the excited Eskimos from the tupeks, men, women and children, and among them Pomiuk, ran down to the landing place to greet the visitors, and as they ran every one shouted, "Kablunak! Kablunak!" which meant, "Stranger! Stranger!" Some white men and an Eskimo stepped out of the boat, and in the hospitable, kindly manner of the Eskimo Pomiuk's father and Pomiuk and their friends greeted the strangers with handshakes and cheerful laughter, and said "Oksunae" to each as he shook his hand, which is the Eskimo greeting, and means "Be strong." The Eskimo that came with the ship was from an Eskimo settlement called Karwalla, in Hamilton Inlet, on the east of Labrador, but a long way to the south of Nachvak Bay where Pomiuk's people lived. He could speak English as well as Eskimo, and acted as interpreter for the strangers. This Eskimo explained that the white men had come from America to invite some of the Labrador Eskimos to go to America to see their country. People from all the nations of the world, he said, were to gather there to meet each other and to get acquainted. They were to bring strange and wonderful things with them, that the people of each nation might see how the people of other nations made and used their things, and how they lived. They wished the Labrador Eskimos to come and show how they dressed their skins and made their skin clothing and skin boats, and to bring with them dogs and sledges, and harpoons and other implements of the hunt. The white men promised it would be a most wonderful experience for those that went. They agreed to take them and all their things on the ship and after the big affair in America was over bring them back to their homes, and give them enough to make them all rich for the rest of their lives. The Eskimos were naturally quite excited with the glowing descriptions, the opportunity to travel far into new lands, and the prospect of wealth and happiness offered them when they again returned to their Labrador homes. Pomiuk and his mother were eager for the journey, but his father did not care to leave the land and the life he knew. He decided that he had best remain in Labrador and hunt; but he agreed that Pomiuk's mother might go to make skin boots and clothing, and Pomiuk might go with her and take the long dog whip to show how well he could use it. And so one day Pomiuk and his mother said goodbye to his father, and with several other Eskimos sailed away to the United States, destined to take their place as exhibits at the great World's Fair in Chicago. The suffering of the Eskimos in the strange land to which they were taken was terrible. In Labrador they lived in the open, breathing God's fresh air. In Chicago they were housed in close and often poorly ventilated quarters. The heat was unbearable, and through all the long hours of day and night when they were on exhibition they were compelled to wear their heavy winter skin or fur clothing. They were unaccustomed to the food. Some of them died, and the white men buried them with little more thought or ceremony than was given those of their dogs that died. Pomiuk, in spite of his suffering, kept his spirits. He loved to wield his long dog whip. It was his pride. Visitors at the fair pitched nickles and dimes into the enclosure where the Eskimos and their exhibits were kept. Pomiuk with the tip of his thirty-five foot lash would clip the coins, and laugh with delight, for every coin he clipped was to be his. He was the life of the Eskimo exhibit. Visitors could always distinguish his ringing laugh. He was always smiling. The white men who had induced the Eskimos to leave their homes failed to keep their promise when the fair closed. The poor Eskimos were abandoned in a practically penniless condition and no means was provided to return them to their homes. To add to the distress of Pomiuk's mother, Pomiuk fell and injured his hip. Proper surgical treatment was not supplied, the injury, because of this neglect, did not heal, and Pomiuk could no longer run about or walk or even stand upon his feet. Those of the Eskimos who survived the heat and unaccustomed climate, in some manner, God alone knows how, found their way to Newfoundland. Pomiuk, in his mother's care, was among them. The hospitality of big hearted fishermen of Newfoundland, who sheltered and fed the Eskimos in their cabins, kept them through the winter. It was a period of intense suffering for poor little Pomiuk, whose hip constantly grew worse. When summer came again, Doctor Frederick Cook, the explorer, bound to the Arctic on an exploring expedition, heard of the stranded Eskimos, and carried some of them to their Labrador homes on his ship; and when the schooners of the great fishing fleets sailed north, kindly skippers made room aboard their little craft for others of the destitute Eskimos. Thus Pomiuk, once so active and happy, now a helpless cripple, found his way back on a fishing schooner to Labrador. We can understand, perhaps, the joy and hope with which Pomiuk looked again upon the rock-bound coast that he loved so well. On _these_ shores he had lived care-free and happy and full of bounding health until the deceitful white men had lured him away. He had no doubt that once again in his own native land and among his own people in old familiar surroundings, he would soon get well and be as strong as ever he had been to run over the rocks and to help his father with the dogs and traps and at the fishing. Pomiuk could scarcely wait to meet his father. He laughed and chattered eagerly of the good times he and his father would have together. He was deeply attached to his father who had always been kind and good to him, and who loved him better, even, than his mother loved him. Pomiuk's heart beat high, when at last, one day, the vessel drew into the narrow channel that leads between high cliffs into Nachvak Bay. He looked up at the rocky walls towering two thousand feet above him on either side. They were as firm and unchanging as always. He loved them, and his eyes filled with happy tears. Just beyond, at the other end of the channel, lay the broad bay and the white buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post, where his father used to bring him sometimes with the dogs in winter or in the boat in summer. What fine times he and his father had on those excursions! And somewhere, back there, camped in his tupek, was his father. What a surprise his coming would be to his father! Pomiuk was carried ashore at the Post. Eskimos camped near-by crowded down to greet him and his mother and the other wanderers who had returned with them. It would be a short journey now in the boat to his father's fishing place and his own dear home in their snug tupek. What a lot of things he had to tell his father! And at home, with his father's help he would soon be well and strong again. Then he heard some one say his father was dead. Dazed with grief he was taken to one of the Eskimo tupeks where he was to make his home. All that day and for days afterward, days of deep, unspoken sorrow, the thought that he would never again hear his father's dear voice was in his mind and forcing itself upon him. The world had grown suddenly dark for the crippled boy. All of his fine plans were vanished. One day late that fall Dr. Grenfell found Pomiuk lying helpless and naked upon the rocks near the tupek of the Eskimo who had taken him in. The little lad was carried aboard the hospital ship. He was washed and his diseased hip dressed, he was given clean warm clothing to wear, and altogether he was made more comfortable than he had been in many months. Then, with Pomiuk as a patient on board, the ship steamed away. Thus Pomiuk bade goodbye to his home, to the towering cliffs and rugged sturdy mountains that he loved so well, and to his people. The dear days when he was so jolly and happy in health were only a memory, though he was to know much happiness again. Perhaps, lying helpless upon the deck of the hospital ship, he shed a tear as he recalled the fine trips he used to have when his father took him to the post with dogs and komatik in winter, or he and his father went cruising in the boat along the coast in summer. And now he would never see his dear father again, and could never be a great hunter like his father, as he had once dreamed he would be. But the cruise was a pleasant one, with every moment something new to attract his attention. Dr. Grenfell was as kind and considerate as a father. Pomiuk had never known such care and attention. His diseased hip was dressed regularly, and had not been so free from pain since it was injured. Appetizing, wholesome meals were served him. Everyone aboard ship did everything possible for his comfort and entertainment. Pomiuk was taken to the Indian Harbor Hospital where he remained until the cold of winter settled, and the hospital was closed for the winter season. Then he was removed to a comfortable home up the Bay. Under careful surgical treatment his hip improved until he was able to get about well on crutches. There was never a happier boy in the world than this little Eskimo cripple in his new surroundings and with his new friends. He laughed and played about quite as though he had the use of his limbs, and had forgotten his affliction. During the winter one of the good missionaries from the Moravian Mission at Hopedale visited him and baptized him "Gabriel"--the angel of comfort. He was a comfort indeed and a joy to those who had his care. XVI MAKING A HOME FOR THE ORPHANS The next winter Pomiuk was taken to the hospital at Battle Harbor where he could receive more constant surgical treatment. He was a joy to the doctors and nurses. His face was always happy and smiling. He never complained, and his amiable disposition endeared him not only to the doctors and nurses but to the other patients as well. But Pomiuk was never to be well again. The diseased hip was beyond control, and was wearing down his constitution and his strength. One day he fell suddenly very ill. For a week he lay in bed, at times unconscious, and then early one morning passed away. Many shed tears for Pomiuk when he was gone. They missed his joyous laughter and his smiling face. Doctor Grenfell missed him sorely. He could not forget the suffering, naked little boy that he had rescued from the rocks of Nachvak Bay, and he decided that some provision should be made to care for the other orphaned, homeless, neglected children of Labrador. In some way, he decided, the funds for such a home had to be found, though he had no means then at his disposal for the purpose. He further decided that the home must not be an institution merely but a real home made pleasant for the boys and girls, where they would have motherly care and sympathy, and where they should have a school to go to like the children of our own favoured land. With cheerful optimism and heroic determination Doctor Grenfell set for himself the task of establishing such a home. And in the end great things grew out of the suffering and death of Gabriel Pomiuk. The splendid courage and cheerfulness of the little Eskimo lad was to result in happiness for many other little sufferers. Now, as always it was, with Doctor Grenfell, "I can if I will,"--none of the uncertainty of, "I will if I can." He pitched into the work of raising money to build that children's home. He lectured, and wrote, and talked about it in his usual enthusiastic way, and money began to come to him from good people all over the world. At length enough was raised and the home was built. He had already picked up and taken into his mission family so many boys and girls, orphans or otherwise, that were without home or shelter, and that he could not leave behind him to suffer and die, that he had nearly enough on his hands to populate the new building before it was ready for them. Indeed he soon found himself almost in the position of the "old woman that lived in a shoe," and "had so many children she didn't know what to do." His big kind fatherly heart would never permit him to abandon a homeless child, and so he took them under his care, and somehow always managed to provide for them. It was about the time of Pomiuk's death, I believe, that the first of these children came to him. One day, when cruising north in the _Strathcona_, he was told that a family living in an isolated and lonely spot on the Labrador coast required the attention of a doctor. He answered the call at once. When he approached the bleak headland where the cabin stood, and his vessel hove her anchor, he was quite astonished that no one came out of the cabin to offer welcome, as is the custom with Labradormen everywhere when vessels anchor near their homes. He and his mate were put ashore in a boat, and as they walked up the trail to the cabin still no one appeared and no smoke issued from the stovepipe, which, rising through the roof, served as a chimney. When he lifted the latch he was quite decided no one, after all, was at home. Upon entering the cabin a shocking scene presented itself. The mother of the family lay upon the bed with wide-open stare. Doctor Grenfell's practiced eye told him she was dead. The father, a Scotch fisherman and trapper, was stretched upon the floor, helplessly ill, and a hasty examination proved that he was dying. Five frightened, hungry, cold little children were huddled in a corner. That night the father died, though every effort was made to revive him and save his life. Grenfell and his crew gave the man and woman as decent a Christian burial as the wilderness and conditions would permit, and when all was over the Doctor found five small children on his hands. An uncle of the children lived upon the coast and this uncle volunteered to take one of them into his home. The other four Doctor Grenfell carried south on the hospital ship. There was no proper provision for their care at St. Anthony, his headquarters hospital, and he advertised in a New England paper for homes for them. One response was received, and this from the wife of a New England farmer, offering to provide for two. The Doctor sent two to the farm, the other two remaining at St. Anthony hospital. The next child to come to him was a baby of three years. The child's father had died and the mother married a widower with a large family of his own. He was a hard-hearted rascal, and the mother was a selfish woman with small love for her baby. The man declined to permit her to take it into his home and she left it in a mud hut, a cellar-like place, with no other floor than the earth. A kind-hearted woman, who lived near by, ran in now and again to see the baby and to take it scraps of food and give it some care. She could not adopt it, for she and her husband were scarce able to feed the many mouths in their own family. So alone this tiny little girl of three lived in the mud hut through the long days and the longer and darker nights. There was no mother's knee at which to kneel; no one to teach her to lisp her first prayer; no one to tuck her snugly into a little white bed; no one to kiss her before she slept. O, how lonely she must have been! Think of those chilly Labrador nights, when she huddled down on the floor in the ragged blanket that was her bed! How many nights she must have cried herself to sleep with loneliness and fear! Here, in the mud hut, Doctor Grenfell found her one day. She was sitting on the earthen floor, talking to herself and playing with a bit of broken crockery, her only toy. He gathered her into his big strong arms and I have no doubt that tears filled his eyes as he looked into her innocent little face and carried her down to his boat. In a locker on his ship, the _Strathcona_, there were neat little clothes that thoughtful children in our own country had sent him to give to the destitute little ones of Labrador. He turned the baby girl over to his big mate, who had babies of his own at home. The mate stroked her tangled hair with a brawney hand, and talked baby talk to her, and as she snuggled close in his fatherly arms, he carried her below decks. The baby's mother would not have known her little daughter if, two hours later, she had gone aboard the _Strathcona_ and heard the peals of laughter and seen the happy little thing, bathed, dressed in neat clean clothes, and well fed, playing on deck with a pretty doll that Doctor Grenfell had somewhere found. It was on his last cruise south late one fall, and not long before navigation closed, that Doctor Grenfell learned that a family of liveyeres encamped on one of the coastal islands was in a destitute condition, without food and practically unsheltered and unclothed. He went immediately in search, steaming nearly around the island, and discerning no sign of life he had decided that the people had gone, when a little curl of smoke rising from the center of the island caught his eye. He at once brought his vessel to, let go the anchor, lowered away a boat and accompanied by his mate pulled ashore. Making the boat fast the two men scrambled up the rocks and set out in the direction from which they had seen the smoke rise. Near the center of the island they suddenly brought up before a cliff, against which, supported by poles, was stretched a sheet of old canvas, pieced out by bits of matting and bagging, to form the roof of a lean-to shelter. In front of the lean-to a fire burned, and under the shelter by the fire sat a scantily clad, bedraggled woman. In her arms she held a bundle of rags, which proved to envelop a tiny new born baby, nursing at her breast. A little girl of five, barefooted and ragged, slunk timidly back as the strangers approached. The woman grunted a greeting, but did not rise. "Where is your man?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "He's right handy, huntin' gulls," she answered. Upon inquiry it was learned that there were three boys in the family and that they were also "somewheres handy about." A search discovered two of them, lads of seven and eight, practically naked, but tough as little bears, feeding upon wild berries. Their bodies were tanned brown by sun and wind, and streaked and splotched with the blue and red stain of berry juice. They were jabbering contentedly and both were as plump and happy in their foraging as a pair of young cubs. Snow had begun to fall before Doctor Grenfell followed by the two lads returned to the fire at the cliff, soon to be joined by the boys' father, tall, gaunt and bearded. His hair, untrimmed for many weeks, was long and snarled. He was nearly barefooted and his clothing hung in tatters. In one hand he carried a rusty old trade gun, (a single-barreled, old-fashioned muzzle loading shotgun), in the other he clutched by its wing a gull that he had recently shot. Following the father came an older lad, perhaps fourteen years of age, little better clothed than his two brothers and as wild and unkempt in appearance as the father. "Evenin'," greeted the man, as he leaned his gun against the cliff and dropped the gull by its side. It was cold. The now thickly falling snow spoke loudly of the Arctic winter so near at hand. The liveyere and his family, however, seemed not to feel or mind the chill in the least, and apparently gave no more thought to the morrow or the coming winter, upon whose frigid threshold they stood, than did the white-winged gulls flying low over the water. Fresh wood was placed upon the fire, and Grenfell and the mate joined the family circle around the blaze. "Do you kill much game here on the island?" asked Doctor Grenfell. "One gull is all I gets today," announced the man. "They bides too far out. I has no shot. I uses pebbles for shot, and 'tis hard to hit un with pebbles. 'Tis wonderful hard to knock un down with no shot." "What have you to eat?" inquired the Doctor. "Have you any provisions on hand?" "All us has is the gull," the man glanced toward the limp bird. "We eats berries." "'Tis the Gover'me't's place to give us things," broke in the woman in a high key. "The Gov'me't don't give us no flour and nothin'." "It's snowing and the berries will soon be covered," suggested Grenfell. "You can't live without something to eat and now winter is coming you'll need a house to live in. You haven't even a tent." "Us would make out and the Gover'me't gave us a bit o' flour and tea and some clodin' (clothing)," harped the woman. "The Gover'me't don't give un to us. The Gover'me't folks don't care what becomes o' we." "How are you going to take care of these children this winter?" asked Grenfell. "You can't feed them and without clothing they'll freeze. Let us take them with us. We'll give them plenty to eat and clothe them well." "Don't be sayin' now you'll let un go!" broke in the mother in a high voice, turning to the man, who stood mute. "Don't be givin' away your own flesh and blood now! Don't let un go." "You can't keep yourselves and these children alive through the winter. Some of you will starve or freeze," persisted Grenfell. "Suppose you let us have the two young lads and the little maid. We'll take good care of them and we'll give you some clothing we have aboard the vessel, and some flour and tea to start you." "And a bit o' shot for my gun?" asked the man, showing interest. "Don't be givin' away your own flesh and blood!" interjected the woman in the same high key. "'Tis the Gov'me't's place to be givin' us what we needs, clodin' and grub too." "I'll let you have one o' th' lads and you lets me have a bit o' shot," the man compromised. The sympathetic mate, with no intention of giving the man an opportunity to change his mind, seized the naked boy nearest him, tucked the lad, kicking and struggling, under one arm, and started for the boat, but upon Doctor Grenfell's suggestion waited, with the lad still under his arm, for developments. In the beginning, to be sure, Doctor Grenfell had intended to issue supplies to the man, whether or no. But no matter how much or what supplies were issued there was no doubt these people would be reduced to severe suffering before summer came again. He wished to save the children from want, and to give them a chance to make good in the world as he believed they would with opportunity. The oldest boy could be of assistance to his father in the winter hunting, and he could scarce expect the mother to give up her new-born baby. Therefore negotiations were confined to a view of securing the two small boys and the little girl. Presently, in spite of violent protests from the mother, the father was moved, by promises of additional supplies, to consent to Grenfell taking the other boy. And immediately the man had said, "Take un both," the mate seized the second lad and with a youngster struggling under each arm, and with four bare legs kicking in a wild but vain effort for freedom and two pairs of lusty young lungs howling rebellion, he strode exultantly away through the falling snow to the boat with his captives. No arguments and no amount of promised stores could move the father to open his mouth again, and Grenfell was finally compelled to be content with the two boys and to leave the little girl behind him to face the hardships and rigors of a northern winter. Poor little thing! She did not realize the wonderful opportunity her parents had denied her. When negotiations were ended Doctor Grenfell arranged for the liveyeres to occupy a comfortable cabin on the mainland. He conspired with the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company, with the result that they were properly clothed and provisioned, a better gun was found for the man and an ample supply of ammunition. Hundreds of stories might be told of the destitute little ones that have been, since the day he found Pomiuk on the rocks of Nochvak, gathered together by Doctor Grenfell and tenderly cared for in the Children's Home that was built at St. Anthony. There was a little girl whose feet were so badly frozen that her father had to chop them both off with an ax to save her life, and who Doctor Grenfell found helpless in the poor little cabin where her people lived. I wish there was time and room to tell about her. He took her away with him, and healed her wounds, and fitted cork feet to her stumps of legs so that she could go to school and run around and play with the other children. Indeed, she learned to use her new feet so well that today, if you saw her you would never guess that her feet were not her real ones. And there was a little boy whose father was frozen to death at his trapping one winter, a bright little chap now in the home and going to school. These are but a few of the many, many children that have been made happy and have been trained at the Home and under Doctor Grenfell's care to useful lives. Some of them have worked their way through college. Some of the boys served in the Great War at the front. Many are holding positions of importance. Let us see, however, what became of those particular ones, mentioned in this chapter. One of the Scotch trapper's daughters found by Doctor Grenfell in the lonely cabin when her mother lay dead and her father dying is a trained nurse. The others are also in responsible positions. The baby of the mud hut is a charming young lady, a graduate of a school in the United States, and the successful member of a useful profession. Both of the little naked boys taken from the island that snowy day are grown men now, and graduates of the famous Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York. One is a master carpenter, the other the manager of a big trading store on the Labrador coast. Now, as I write, in the fall of 1921, the walls of a new fine concrete home for the children are under construction at St. Anthony, to be used in conjunction with the original wooden building which is crowded to capacity. Children of the United States, Canada, and Great Britain giving of their pennies made the new building possible. More money is needed to furnish it, but enough will surely be given for the homeless little ones of the Labrador must be cared for. And so, in the end, great things grew out of the suffering and death of Gabriel Pomiuk, the little Eskimo lad. His splendid courage and cheerfulness has led to happiness for many other little sufferers. XVII THE DOGS OF THE ICE TRAIL One of the most interesting features of Labrador life in winter is dog travel. The dogs are interesting the year round, for they are always in evidence winter and summer, but in the fall when the sea freezes and snow comes, they take a most important place in the life of the people of the coast. They are the horses and automobiles and locomotives of the country. No one can travel far without them. The true Eskimo dog of Labrador, the "husky," as he is called, is the direct descendant of the great Labrador wolf. The Labrador wolf is the biggest and fiercest wolf on the North American continent, and the Eskimo dog of northern Labrador, his brother, is the biggest and finest sledge dog to be found anywhere in the world. He is larger and more capable than the Greenland species of which so much has been written, and he is quite superior to those at present found in Alaska. The true husky dog of northern Labrador has the head and jawls and upstanding ears of the wild wolf. He has the same powerful shoulders, thick forelegs, and bristling mane. He does not bark like other dogs, but has the characteristic howl of the wolf. There is apparently but one difference between him and the wild wolf, and this comes, possibly, through domestication. He curls his tail over his back, while the wolf does not. Even this distinction does not always hold, for I have seen and used dogs that did not curl their tail. These big fellows often weigh a full hundred pounds and more. Indeed these northern huskies and the wild wolves mix together sometimes to fight, and sometimes in good fellowship. Once I had a wolf follow my komatik for two days, and at night when we stopped and turned our dogs loose the wolf joined them and staid the night with them only to slink out of rifle shot with the coming of dawn. One of my friends, an agent of the Hudson's Bay Company, was once traveling with a native Labradorman driver along the Labrador coast, when his train of eight big huskies, suddenly becoming excited, gave an extra strain on their traces and snapped the "bridle," the long walrus hide thong that connects the traces with the komatik. Away the dogs ran, heading over a low hill, apparently in pursuit of some game they had scented. [Illustration: "PLEASE LOOK AT MY TONGUE, DOCTOR!"] [Illustration: "NEXT!"] My friend, on snowshoes, ran in pursuit, while the driver made a circuit around the hill in the hope of heading the dogs off. Ten minutes later the team swung down over the hill and back to the komatik. From a distance the men saw them and also turned back, but to their astonishment they counted not the eight dogs that composed their team, but thirteen. On drawing nearer they realized that five great wolves had joined the dogs. The men's guns were lashed on the komatik, and both were, therefore, unarmed, and before they could reach the komatik and unlash the rifles the wolves had fled over the hill and out of range. The dogs, however, answered the driver's call and were captured. One winter evening a few years ago I drove my dog team to the isolated cabin of Tom Broomfield, a trapper of the coast, where I was to spend the night. When our dogs were fed and we had eaten our own supper, Tom went to a chest and drew forth a huge wolf skin, which he held up for my inspection. "He's a big un, now! A wonderful big un!" he commented. "Most big enough all by hisself for a man's sleepin' bag!" "It's a monster!" I exclaimed. "Where did you kill it?" "Right here handy t' th' door," he grinned. "I were standin' just outside th' door o' th' porch when I fires and knocks he over th' first shot." "He were here th' day before Tom kills he," interjected Tom's wife. "He gives me a wonderful scare that wolf does. I were alone wi' th' two young ones." "Tell me about it," I suggested. "'Twere this way sir," said Tom, spreading the pelt over a big chest where we could admire it. "I were away 'tendin' fox traps, and I has th' komatik and all th' dogs, savin' one, which I leaves behind. Th' woman were bidin' home alone wi' th' two young ones. In th' evenin'[D] her hears dogs a fightin' outside, and thinkin' 'tis one o' th' team broke loose and runned home that's fightin' th' dog I leaves behind, she starts t' go out t' beat un apart and stop th' fightin' when she sees 'tis a wolf and no dog at all. 'Twere a wonderful big un too. He were inside that skin you sees there, sir, and you can see for yourself th' bigness o' he. "Her tries t' take down th' rifle, th' one as is there on th' pegs, sir. Th' wolf and th' dog be now fightin' agin' th' door, and th' door is bendin' in and handy t' breakin' open. She's a bit scared, sir, and shakin' in th' hands, and she makes a slip, and th' rifle, he goes off, bang! and th' bullet makes that hole marrin' th' timber above th' windy." Tom arose and pointed out a bullet hole above the window. "Then th' wolf, he goes off too, bein' scared at th' shootin'. "I were home th' next day mendin' dog harness, when I hears th' dogs fightin', and I takes a look out th' windy, and there I sees that wolf fightin' wi' th' dogs, and right handy t' th' house. I just takes my rifle down spry as I can, and goes out. When th' dogs sees me open th' door they runs away and leaves th' wolf apart from un, and I ups and knocks he over wi' a bullet, sir. I gets he fair in th' head first shot I takes, and there be th' skin. 'Tis worth a good four dollars too, for 'tis an extra fine one." They are treacherous beasts, but, like the wolf, cowardly, these big dogs of the Labrador. If a man should trip and fall among them, the likelihood is he would be torn to pieces by their fangs before he could help himself. You cannot make pals of them as you can of other dogs. They would as lief snap off the hand that reared and feeds them as not. It is never safe for a stranger to move among a pack of them without a stick in his hand. But a threatened kick or the swing of a menacing stick will send them off crawling and whining. The Hudson's Bay Company once had a dozen or so of these big fellows at Cartwright Post, in Sandwich Bay. They were exceptionally fine dogs of the true husky breed, brought down from one of the more northerly posts, and the agent was proud of them. This was the same agent whose dogs ran away to chum with the wolves, and I believe these were some of the same dogs. They were splendid animals in harness, well broken and tireless travelers on the trail. One evening, late in the fall, the agent's wife was standing at the open door of the post house, and her little boy, a lad of about your years, was playing near the doorstep. Labrador dogs are fed but once a day, and this is always in the evening. It was feeding time for the dogs, and a servant down at the feed house, where the dog rations were kept, called them. With a rush they responded. Just when some of them were passing the post house the little boy in his play stumbled and fell. In an instant the dogs were upon him. The mother, with rare presence of mind, sprang forward, seized the boy, sprang back into the house and slammed the door upon the dogs. The boy was on the ground but a moment, but in that moment he was horribly torn by the sharp fangs. At one place his entrails were laid bare. There were over sixty wounds on his little body. The dogs lapped up the blood that fell upon the ground and doorstep. That night the pack, like a pack of hungry wolves, congregated outside the window where they heard the child crying and moaning with pain and all night howled as wolves howl when they have cornered prey. The following morning it happened providentially that Doctor Grenfell's hospital ship steamed into Cartwright Harbor and dropped anchor. The Doctor himself was aboard. He took the boy under his charge and the little one's life was saved through his skill. After the attack the dogs became extremely aggressive and surly. They were like a pack of fierce wolves. No one about the place was safe, and the agent was compelled to shoot every animal in defense of human life. Usually in Labrador when dogs are guilty of attacking people they are hung by the neck to a gibbet until dead, and left hanging for several days. I have seen dogs thus hanging after execution. When I left Davis Inlet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company with my dog team one cold winter morning, a native trapper told me that he would follow later in the day and probably overtake me at the Moravian Mission Station at Hopedale. We made half the journey to Hopedale that night and spent the night in a native cabin. A storm was threatening the next morning, but, nevertheless, we set forward. Shortly after midday the storm broke with a gale of wind and driving, smothering snow, and a temperature 30 degrees below zero. Every moment it increased in fury, but fortunately we reached the mission station before it had reached its worst, and here remained stormbound for two days, during which time the trapper did not appear. Later I learned that, with his wife and young son he left Davis Inlet a few hours after our departure. After the storm had abated his dog team appeared at Davis Inlet, but he and his wife and child were not heard from. A searching party set out, but could find no trace of the missing ones. In the spring, when the snow had begun to melt, the komatik was found and scattered about it were human bones. It was supposed that the man had halted to camp and await the passing of the storm. Benumbed by the cold he had probably fallen among his dogs, and they had torn him to pieces, and with whetted appetite had then attacked and killed his wife and child. These great wolf dogs of the north are quite different from those of the south. It is doubtful if today a true Eskimo dog is to be found south of Sandwich Bay, and here and for a long distance north of Sandwich Bay many of the animals have mongrel blood in their veins. They are smaller and inferior. But from Sandwich Bay southward the difference is marked. These southern dogs are faster, in a spurt of half a day or so, than the big wolf dog, but they lack size and strength, and therefore the staying powers that will carry them forward tirelessly day after day. The strain of wolf in their blood often makes them vicious, but in general they respond to kindly treatment and may be petted like dogs the world over, and sometimes the natives make house dogs of their leaders. The dogs of Newfoundland, such as Doctor Grenfell uses in his winter journeys in going out from St. Anthony to visit patients, are still a different type. These are usually big lop-eared kindly fellows, and just as friendly as any dog in the world. The laws of Newfoundland provide a heavy fine upon any one bringing upon the island a Labrador dog that is related even remotely to the husky wolf dog. The leader of the dog team is the best disciplined dog in the team but not always by any means the "boss" dog, or bully, of the pack. Every pack has its bully and generally, also, its under dog that all the others pick upon. Eskimo dogs fight among themselves, but the packs hold together as a gang against strange packs, and when sledges meet each other on the trail the drivers must exert their utmost effort and caution, and wield the whip freely, or there will be a fine mix-up, resulting often in crippled animals. The komatik or sledge used in dog travel is from ten to fourteen feet in length, though in the far north I have seen them a full eighteen feet long. In the extreme north of Labrador, where the largest ones are found, they are but sixteen inches wide. Further south, in the region where the mission hospitals are situated, from ten to twelve feet is the usual length and about two feet the breadth. In Alaska and the Northwest dogs are harnessed tandem, that is one in front of another in a straight line. This is a white man's method, and a fine method too when driving through timbered regions. But in Labrador dog travel is usually on the naked coast and seldom in timbered country, and here the old Eskimo method is used. Each dog has its individual trace, which is fastened to the end of a single line of walrus skin leading from the komatik and called the bridle. The leading dog, which is especially trained to answer the driver's direction, has the longest trace, the next two dogs nearer the komatik shorter ones, the next two still shorter, and so on. Thus, when they travel the leader is in advance with the pack spread out behind him on either side, fan-shaped. Dogs follow the leader like a pack of wolves. When the driver wishes the dogs to go forward he shouts "oo-isht," and to hurry "oksuit."[E] If he wishes them to turn to the right he calls "ouk!", to the left "rah-der!", and to stop "Ah!" In Newfoundland "Hist!" means "Go on"; "Keep off!" "to the right"; "Hold on!" "to the left." The dogs are harnessed in a similar manner to that used in Labrador, and the sledges are of the same form, though of the widest type. When the dogs are put in harness in preparation for a journey they are always keen for the start. They will leap and howl in eagerness to be off unless the menace of a whip compels them to lie down. When the driver is ready he shouts "oo-isht!" to the dogs, as he pulls the nose of the komatik sharply to one side to "break" it loose from the snow. Immediately the dogs are away at a mad gallop, with the komatik swinging wildly from side to side. Quickly enough the animals settle down to a slow pace, only to spurt if game is scented or on approaching a building. The usual dog whip is thirty or thirty-five feet in length, though I have seen them nearly fifty feet long. Eskimo drivers are exceedingly expert in handling the long whip, and in the hands of a cruel driver it is an instrument of torture. In southeastern and southern Labrador and in Newfoundland the dog whip is used much less freely than in the north, and the people are less expert in its manipulation than are the Eskimos. The different species of dogs renders the use of the whip less necessary. Dog travel is seldom over smooth unobstructed ice fields. Sometimes it is over frozen bays where the tide has thrown up rough hummocks and ridges. I have been, under such conditions, nearly half a day crossing the mouth of a river one mile wide. Often the trail leads over high hills, with long hard steep climbs to be made and sometimes dangerous descents. In traveling over sea ice, especially in the late winter and spring, and always when an off shore wind prevails, there is danger of encountering bad ice, and breaking through, or having the ice "go abroad," and cutting you off from shore. When the tide has smashed the ice, it is often necessary to drive the team on the "ballicaders," or ice barricade, a narrow strip of ice clinging to the rocky shore. This is sometimes scarce wide enough for the komatik, and the greatest skill is necessary on the part of the driver to keep the komatik from slipping off the ballicader and falling and pulling the dogs into the sea. When the snow is soft some one on snowshoes must go in advance of the dogs and pack the trail for them. Where traveling is rough, and in up-hill work, it is more than often necessary to pull with the dogs, and lift the komatik over obstructions. In descending steep slopes the driver has a thick hoop of woven walrus hide, which he throws over the nose of one of the runners to serve as a drag. Even then, the descent may be rapid and exciting, and not a little dangerous for dogs and men. The driver throws himself on his side on the komatik clinging to it with both hands. His legs extend forward at the side of the sledge, he sticks his heels into the snow ahead to retard the progress, in imminent danger of a broken leg. Winter settles early in Labrador and northern Newfoundland. Snow comes, the sea smokes, and then one morning men wake up to find a field of ice where waves were lapping the day before and where boats have sailed all summer. Then it is that Doctor Grenfell sets out with his dogs and komatik over the great silent snow waste to visit his far scattered patients. Adventures meet him at every turn and some exciting experiences he has had, as we shall see. FOOTNOTES: [D] Afternoon is referred to as "evening" by Labradormen. [E] In Alaska they say "Mush," but this is never heard in Labrador. XVIII FACING AN ARCTIC BLIZZARD The leader of Doctor Grenfell's dog team at St. Anthony, Newfoundland, is Gypsy, a big black and white fellow, friendly as ever a good dog can be, and trained to a nicety, always obedient and prompt in responding to the driver's commands. Running next behind Gypsy, and pulling side by side, are Tiger and Spider. Tiger is a large, good-natured red and white fellow, and Spider, his brother, is black and white. The next is Spot, a great white fellow with a black spot on his neck, which gives him his name. His mate in harness is a tawny yellow dog called Scotty. Then come Rover and Shaver. Rover is a small, black, lop-eared dog, about half the size of Shaver, who looks upon Rover as an inconsequent attachment, and though he thinks that Rover is of small assistance, he takes upon himself the responsibility of making this little working mate of his keep busy when in harness. Tad and Eric, the rear dogs, are the largest and heaviest of the pack, and perhaps the best haulers. Their traces are never slack, and they attend strictly to business. This is the team that hauls Doctor Grenfell in long winter journeys, when he visits the coast settlements of northern Newfoundland, in every one of which he finds no end of eager folk welcoming him and calling him to their homes to heal their sick. In the scattered hamlets and sparsely settled coast of northern Newfoundland the folk have no doctor to call upon at a moment's notice when they are sick, as we have. They live apart and isolated from many of the conveniences of life that we look upon as necessities. It was this condition that led Doctor Grenfell to build his fine mission hospital at St. Anthony, and from St. Anthony, to brave the bitter storms of winter, traveling over hundreds of miles of dreary frozen storm-swept sea and land to help the needy, often to save life. He never charges a fee, but the Newfoundlander is independent and self-respecting, and when he is able to do so he pays. All that comes to Doctor Grenfell in this way he gives to the mission to help support the hospitals. Those who cannot pay receive from him and his assistants the same skilled and careful treatment as those who do pay. Money makes no difference. Doctor Grenfell is giving his life to the people because they need him, and he never keeps for his own use any part of the small fees paid him. He is never so happy as when he is helping others, and to help others who are in trouble is his one great object in life. Two or three years ago the Newfoundland Government extended a telegraph line to St. Anthony. This offers the people an opportunity to call upon Doctor Grenfell when they are in need of him, though sometimes they live so far away that in the storms of winter and uncertainty of dog travel several days may pass before he can reach the sick ones in answer to the calls. But let the weather be what it may, he always responds, for there is no other doctor than Doctor Grenfell and his assistant, the surgeon at St. Anthony Hospital, within several hundred miles, north and west of St. Anthony. Late one January afternoon in 1919 such a telegram came from a young fisherman living at Cape Norman, urging Doctor Grenfell to come to his home at once, and stating that the fisherman's wife was seriously ill. Grenfell's assistant had taken the dog team the previous day to answer a call, and had not returned, and if he were to go before his assistant's return there would be no doctor at the hospital. He therefore answered the man, stating these facts. During the evening another wire was received urging him to find a team somewhere and come at all costs. It was evidently indeed a serious case. Cape Norman lies thirty miles to the northward of St. Anthony, and the trail is a rough one. The night was moonless and pitchy black, but Grenfell set out at once to look for dogs. He borrowed four from one man, hired one from another, and arranged with a man, named Walter, to furnish four additional ones and to drive the team. Walter was to report at the hospital at 4:30 in the morning prepared to start, though it would still be long before daybreak. Having made these arrangements Grenfell went back to the hospital and with the head nurse called upon every patient in the wards, providing so far as possible for any contingency that might arise during his absence. It was midnight when he had finished. Snow had set in, and the wind was rising with the promise of bad weather ahead. At 4:30 he was dressed and ready for the journey. He looked out into the darkness. The air was thick with swirling clouds of snow driven before a gale. He made out a dim figure battling its way to the door, and as the figure approached he discovered it was Walter, but without the dogs. "Where are the dogs, Walter?" he asked. "I didn't bring un, sir," Walter stepped inside and shook the accumulation of snow from his garments. "'Tis a wonderful nasty mornin', and I'm thinkin' 'tis too bad to try un before daylight. I've been watchin' the weather all night, sir. 'Tis growin' worse. We has only a scratch team and the dog'll not work together right 'till they gets used to each other. I'm thinkin' we'll have to wait 'till it comes light." "You've the team to drive and you know best," conceded the Doctor. "Under the circumstances I suppose we'll save time by waiting." "That we will, sir. We'd be wastin' the dogs' strength and ours and losin' time goin' now. We couldn't get on at all, sir." "Very well; at daylight." Walter returned home and Doctor Grenfell to his room to make the most of the two hours' rest. It was scarce daylight and Walter had not yet appeared when another telegram was clicked in over the wires: "Come along soon. Wife worse." The storm had increased in fury since Walter's early visit. It was now blowing a living gale, and the snow was so thick one could scarce breathe in it. The trail lay directly in the teeth of the storm. No dogs on earth could face and stem it and certainly not the picked up, or "scratch" team as Walter called it, for strange dogs never work well together, and will never do their best by any means for a strange driver, and Walter had never driven any of these except his own four. With visions of the suffering woman whose life might depend upon his presence, the Doctor chafed the forenoon through. Then at midday came another telegram: "Come immediately if you can. Wife still holding out." He had but just read this telegram when, to his astonishment, two snow-enveloped, bedraggled men limped up to the door. "Where did you come from in this storm?" he asked, hardly believing his eyes that men could travel in that drift and gale. "We comes from Cape Norman, sir, to fetch you," answered one of the men. "Fetch me!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Do you believe dogs can travel against this gale?" "No, sir, they never could stem it, not 'till the wind shifts, whatever," said the man. "Us comes with un drivin' from behind. The gale blows us here." That was literally true. Ten miles of their journey had been over partially protected land, but for twenty miles it lay over unobstructed sea ice where the gale blew with all its force. Only the deep snow prevented them being carried at a pace that would have wrecked their sledge, in which case they would certainly have perished. "When did you leave Cape Norman?" asked the Doctor. "Eight o'clock last evenin', sir," said the man. All night these brave men, with no thought of reward, had been enduring that terrible storm to bring assistance to a neighbor! After the manner of the Newfoundlanders they had already fed and cared for the comfort of their wearied dogs, before giving thought to themselves, staggering with fatigue as they were. "Go into the hospital and get your dinner," directed the Doctor. "When you've eaten, go to bed. We'll call you when we think it's safe to start." "Thank you, sir," and the grateful men left for the hospital kitchen. It was after dark that evening when the two men again appeared at Doctor Grenfell's house. They were troubled for the safety of their neighbor's sick wife, and could not rest. "Us were just gettin' another telegram sayin' to hurry, sir," announced the spokesman. "The storm has eased up a bit, and we're thinkin' to make a try for un if you're ready." "Call Walter, and I'll be right with you," directed the Doctor. "Us has been and called he, sir," said the man. "He's gettin' the dogs together and he'll be right here." A lull in a winter storm in this north country, with the clouds still hanging low and no change of wind, does not promise the end of the storm. It indicates that this is the center, that it is working in a circle and will soon break upon the world again with even increased fury. Doctor Grenfell knew this and the men knew it full well, but their anxiety for the suffering woman at Cape Norman would not permit them to sleep. Anything was better than sitting still. The decision to start was a source of vast relief to Doctor Grenfell, even though it were to venture into the face of the terrible storm and bitter cold. Grenfell will venture anything with any man, and if those men could face the wind and snow and cold he could. In half an hour they were off. Before them lay the harbor of St. Anthony, and the ice must be crossed. Through the darkness of night and swirling snow they floundered down to it. The men were immediately knee-deep in slush and the two teams of dogs were nearly swimming. Their feet could not reach the solid bed of ice below. The immense weight of snow had pushed the ice down with the falling tide and the rising tide had flooded it. The team from Cape Norman took the lead to break the way. Every one put on his snowshoes, for traveling without them was impossible. One of those with the advance team went ahead of the dogs to tramp the path for the sledge and make the work easier for the poor animals, while the other remained with the team to drive. In like manner Walter tramped ahead of the rear dogs and Doctor Grenfell drove them. At length they reached the opposite shore, fighting against the gale at every step. Now there was a hill to cross. Here on the lee side of the hill they met mighty drifts of feathery snow into which the dogs wallowed to their backs and the snowshoes of the men sunk deep. They were compelled to haul on the traces with the dogs. They had to lift and manipulate the sledges with tremendous effort. Up the grade they toiled and strained, yard by yard, foot by foot. Sometimes it seemed to them they were making no appreciable progress, but on they fought through the black night and the driving snow, sweating in spite of the Arctic blasts and clouds of drift that sometimes nearly stopped their breath and carried them off their feet. The life of the young fisherman's wife at Cape Norman hung in the balance. The toiling men visualized her lying on a bed of pain and perhaps dying for the need of a doctor. They saw the agonized husband by her side, tortured by his helplessness to save her. They forgot themselves and the risk they were taking in their desire to bring to the fisherman's wife the help her husband was beseeching God to send. This is true heroism. As the saying on the coast goes, "'tis dogged as does it," and as Grenfell himself says, "not inspiration, but perspiration wins the prizes of life." They finally reached the crest of the hill. On the opposite or weather side of the hill the gale met them with full force. It had swept the slope clean and left it a glade of ice. They slid down at a dangerous speed, taking all sorts of chances, colliding in the darkness with stumps and ice-coated rocks and other snags, in imminent danger of having their brains knocked out or limbs broken. The open places below were little better. Everything was ice-coated. They slipped and slid about, falling and rising with every dozen steps. If they threw themselves on the sledges to ride the dogs came to a stop, for they could not haul them. If they walked they could not keep their feet. Their course took them along the bed of Bartlett River, and twice Grenfell and some of the others broke through into the icy rapids. At half past one in the morning they reached the mouth of Bartlett River where it empties into the sea and between them and Cape Norman lay twenty miles of unobstructed sea ice. They had been traveling for nearly six hours and had covered but ten miles of the journey. The temporary lull in the storm had long since passed, and now, beating down upon the world with redoubled fury, it met them squarely in the face. No dog could stem it. The men could scarce stand upright. The clouds of snow suffocated them, and the cold was withering. Far out they could hear the thunder of smashing ice. It was a threat that the still firm ice lying before them might be broken into fragments at any time. Sea water had already driven over it, forming a thick coating of half-frozen slush. Even though the gale that swept the ice field had not been too fierce to face, any attempt to cross would obviously have been a foolhardy undertaking. XIX HOW AMBROSE WAS MADE TO WALK One of the men from Cape Norman had been acting as leader on the trail from St. Anthony. His name was Will, and he was a big broad-shouldered man, a giant of a fellow. He knew all the trappers on this part of the coast, and where their trapping grounds lay. One of his neighbors, whom he spoke of as "Si," trapped in the neighborhood where the baffled men now found themselves. "I'm rememberin', now, Si built a tilt handy by here," he suddenly exclaimed. "A tilt!" Grenfell was sceptical. "I've been going up and down this coast for twenty years and I never heard of a tilt near here." "He built un last fall. I thinks, now, I could find un," Will suggested. "Find it if you can," urged Grenfell hopefully. "Where is it?" "'Tis in a bunch of trees, somewheres handy." "Is there a stove in it?" "I'm not knowin' that. I'll try to find un and see." They had retreated to the edge of the forest. Will disappeared among the trees, and Grenfell and the others waited. It was still six hours to daylight, and to stand inactive for six hours in the storm and biting cold would have been perilous if not fatal. Presently Will's shout came out of the forest, rising above the road of wind: "Ti-l-t and St-o-ve!" They followed Will's voice, bumping against trees, groping through flying snow and darkness, and quickly came upon Will and the tilt. There was indeed, to their great joy, a stove in it. There was also a supply of dry wood, all cut and piled ready for use. In one end of the tilt was a bench covered with spruce boughs which Si used as a bed. There was nothing to feed the exhausted dogs, but they were unharnessed and were glad enough to curl up in the snow, where the drift would cover them, after the manner of northern dogs. Then a fire was lighted in the stove. Will went out with the ax and kettle, and presently returned with the kettle filled with water dipped from Bartlett River after he had cut a hole through the ice. Setting the kettle on the stove, Will, standing by the stove, proceeded to fill and light his pipe while Doctor Grenfell opened his dunnage bag to get the tea and sugar. Suddenly Will's pipe clattered to the floor. Will, standing like a statue, did not stoop to pick it up and Grenfell rescued it and rising offered it to him, when, to his vast astonishment, he discovered that the man, standing erect upon his feet was fast asleep. He had been nearly sixty hours without sleep and forty-eight hours of this had been spent on the trail. They aroused Will and had him sit down on the bench. He re-lighted his pipe but in a moment it fell from his teeth again. He rolled over on the bench and was too soundly asleep to be interested in pipe or tea or anything to eat. Daylight brought no abatement in the storm. The ice was deep under a coating of slush, and quite impassable for dogs and men, and the sea was pounding and battering at the outer edge, as the roar of smashing ice testified, though quite shut out from view by driving snow. There was nothing to do but follow the shore, a long way around, and off they started. Here and there was an opportunity to cut across small coves and inlets where the ice was safe enough, and at two o'clock in the afternoon they reached Crow Island, a small island three-quarters of a mile from the mainland. Under the shelter of scraggly fir trees on Crow Island an attempt was made to light a fire and boil the kettle for tea. But there was no protection from the blizzard. They failed to get the fire, and finally compelled by the elements to give it up they took a compass course for a small settlement on the mainland. The instinct of the dogs led them straight, and when the men had almost despaired of locating the settlement they suddenly drew up before a snug cottage. A cup of steaming tea, a bit to eat, and Grenfell and his men were off again. Cape Norman was not far away, and that evening they reached the fisherman's home. The joy and thankfulness of the young fisherman was beyond bounds. His wife was in agony and in a critical condition. Doctor Grenfell relieved her pain at once, and by skillful treatment in due time restored her to health. Had he hesitated to face the storm or had he been made of less heroic stuff and permitted himself to be driven back by the blizzard, she would have died. Indeed there are few men on the coast that would have ventured out in that storm. But he went and he saved the woman's life, and today that young fisherman's wife is as well and happy as ever she could be, and she and her husband will forever be grateful to Doctor Grenfell for his heroic struggle to reach them. In a few days Doctor Grenfell was back again in St. Anthony, and then a telegram came calling him to a village to the south. The weather was fair. His own splendid team was at home, and he was going through a region where settlements were closer together than on the Cape Norman trail. The first night was spent in his sleeping bag stretched on the floor of a small building kept open for the convenience of travelers with dog sledges. The next night he was comfortably housed in a little cabin in the woods, also used for the convenience of travelers, and generally each night he was quite as well housed. He was going now to see a lad of fifteen whose thigh had been broken while steering a komatik down a steep hill. Dog driving, as we have seen, is frequently a dangerous occupation, and this young fellow had suffered. In every settlement Doctor Grenfell was hailed by folk who needed a doctor. There was one broken leg that required attention, one man had a broken knee cap. In one house he found a young woman dying of consumption. There were many cases of Spanish influenza and several people dangerously ill with bronchial pneumonia. There was one little blind child later taken to the hospital at St. Anthony to undergo an operation to restore her sight. In the course of that single journey he treated eighty-six different cases, and but for his fortunate coming none of them could have had a doctor's care. He found the lad Ambrose suffering intense pain. After his accident the lad had been carried home by a friend. His people did not know that the thigh was broken, and when it swelled they rubbed and bandaged it. The pain grew almost too great for the boy to bear. A priest passing through the settlement advised them to put the leg in splints. This was done, but no padding was used, which, as every Boy Scout knows, was a serious omission. Boards were used as splints, extending from thigh to heel and they cut into the flesh, causing painful sores. The priest had gone, and though Ambrose was suffering so intensely that he could not sleep at night no one dared remove the splints. The neighbors declared the lad's suffering was caused by the pain from the injured thigh coming out at the heel. Ambrose was in a terrible condition when Doctor Grenfell arrived. The pain had been continuous and for a long time he had not slept. The broken thigh had knit in a bowed position, leaving that leg three inches shorter than the other. It was necessary to re-break the thigh to straighten it. Doctor Grenfell could not do this without assistance. There was but one thing to do, take the lad to St. Anthony hospital. A special team and komatik would be required for the journey, but the lad's father had no dogs, and with a family of ten children to support, in addition to Ambrose, no money with which to hire one. A friend came to the rescue and volunteered to haul the lad to the hospital. It was a journey of sixty miles. The trail from the village where Ambrose lived rose over a high range of hills. The snow was deep and the traveling hard, and several men turned out to help the dogs haul the komatik to the summit. Then, with Doctor Grenfell's sledge ahead to break the trail, and the other following with the helpless lad packed in a box they set out, Ambrose's father on snowshoes walking by the side of the komatik to offer his boy any assistance the lad might need. The next morning Doctor Grenfell was delayed with patients and the other komatik went ahead, only to be lost and to finally turn back on the trail until they met Grenfell's komatik, which was searching for them. The cold was bitter and terrible that day. The men on snowshoes were comfortable enough with their hard exercise, but it was almost impossible to keep poor Ambrose from freezing in spite of heavy covering. Now and again his father had to remove the moccasins from Ambrose's feet and rub them briskly with bare hands to restore circulation. He even removed the warm mittens from his own hands and gave them to Ambrose to pull on over the ones he already wore. At midday a halt was made to "boil the kettle," and by the side of the big fire that was built in the shelter of the forest Ambrose was restored to comparative comfort. On the trail again it was colder than ever in the afternoon, and they thought the lad, though he never once uttered a complaint, would freeze before they could reach the cabin that was to shelter them for the night. At last the cabin was reached. A fire was hurriedly built in the stove, and with much rubbing of hands and legs and feet, and a roaring fire, he was made so comfortable that he could eat, and a fine supper they had for him. At the place where they stopped the previous night Doctor Grenfell had mentioned that the oven that sat on the stove in this cabin, was worn out. One of the men immediately went out, procured some corrugated iron, pounded it flat with the back of an ax and then proceeded to make an oven for Grenfell to take with him on his komatik. Upon opening the oven now it was found that the good friend who had made the oven had packed it full of rabbits and ptarmigans, the white partridge or grouse of the north. In a little while a delicious stew was sending forth its appetizing odors. A pan of nicely browned hot biscuits, freshly baked in the new oven and a kettle of steaming tea completed a feast that would have tempted anyone's appetite, and Ambrose, for the first time in many a day relieved of much of his pain, through Doctor Grenfell's ministrations, enjoyed it immensely, and for the first time in many a night, followed his meal with refreshing sleep. The next morning the cold was more intense than ever. Ambrose was wrapped in every blanket they had and, as additional protection, Doctor Grenfell stowed him away in his own sleeping bag, and packed him on the sledge. Off they went on the trail again. Late that afternoon they crossed a big bay, and St. Anthony was but eighteen mile away. When Ambrose was made comfortable in a settler's cottage, Doctor Grenfell directed that he was to be brought on to the hospital the following morning, and he himself much needed at the hospital pushed forward at once, arriving at St. Anthony long after night. But before morning the worst storm of the winter broke upon them. The buildings at St. Anthony rocked in the gale until the maids on the top floor of the hospital said they were seasick. And when the storm was over the snow was so deep that men with snowshoes walked from the gigantic snow banks to some of the roofs which were on a level with the drifts. Tunnels had to be cut through the snow to doors. The storm delayed Ambrose and his friends, but after the weather cleared their komatik appeared. The lad was put on the operating table, the thigh re-broken and properly set by Doctor Grenfell, and the leg brought down to its proper length. Presently the time came when Grenfell was able to tell the father that, after all their fears, Ambrose was not to be a cripple and that he would be as strong and nimble as ever he was. This was actually the case. Doctor Grenfell is a remarkably skillful surgeon and he had wrought a miracle. The thankful and relieved father shed tears of joy. "When I gets un," said he, his voice choked by emotion, "I'll send five dollars for the hospital." Five dollars, to Ambrose's father, was a lot of money. Winter storms, as we have seen, never hold Doctor Grenfell back when he is called to the sick and injured. Many times he has broken through the sea ice, and many times he has narrowly escaped death. The story of a few of these experiences would fill a volume of rattling fine adventure. I am tempted to go on with them. One of these big adventures at least we must not pass by. As we shall see in the next chapter, it came dangerously near being his last one. XX LOST ON THE ICE FLOE One day in April several years ago, Dr. Grenfell, who was at the time at St. Anthony Hospital, received an urgent call to visit a sick man two days' journey with dogs to the southward. The patient was dangerously ill. No time was to be lost, for delay might cost the man's life. It is still winter in northern Newfoundland in April, though the days are growing long and at midday the sun, climbing high now in the heavens, sends forth a genial warmth that softens the snow. At this season winds spring up suddenly and unexpectedly, and blow with tremendous velocity. Sometimes the winds are accompanied by squalls of rain or snow, with a sudden fall in temperature, and an off-shore wind is quite certain to break up the ice that has covered the bays all winter, and to send it abroad in pans upon the wide Atlantic, to melt presently and disappear. This breaking up of the ice sometimes comes so suddenly that traveling with dogs upon the frozen bays at this season is a hazardous undertaking. Scarcely a year passes that some one is not lost. Sometimes men are carried far to sea on ice pans and are never heard from again. A man must know the trails to travel with dogs along this rough coast. Much better progress is made traveling upon sea ice than on land trails, for the latter are usually up and down over rocky hills and through entangling brush and forest, while the former is a smooth straight-away course. When the ice is rotted by the sun's heat, however, and is covered by deep slush, and is broken by dangerous holes and open leads that cannot safely be crossed, the driver keeps close to shore, and is sometimes forced to turn to the land and leave the ice altogether. When the ice is good and sound the dog traveler only leaves it to cross necks of land separating bays and inlets, where distance may be shortened, and makes as straight a course across the frozen bays as possible. There is a great temptation always, even when the ice is in poor condition, to cross it and "take a chance," which usually means a considerable risk, rather than travel the long course around shore. Long experience at dog travel, instead of breeding greater caution in the men of the coast, leads them to take risks from which the less experienced man would shrink. These were the conditions when the call came that April day to Dr. Grenfell. Traveling at this season was, at best, attended by risk. But this man's life depended upon his going, and no risk could be permitted to stand in the way of duty. Without delay he packed his komatik box with medicines, bandages and instruments. It was certain he would have many calls, both for medical and surgical attention, from the scattered cottages he should pass, and on these expeditions he always travels fully prepared to meet any ordinary emergency from administering pills to amputating a leg or an arm. He also packed in the box a supply of provisions and his usual cooking kit. Only in cases of stress do men take long journeys with dogs alone, but there was no man about the hospital at this time that Grenfell could take with him as a traveling companion and to assist him, and no time to wait for any one, and so, quite alone and driving his own team, he set out upon his journey. It was mid-afternoon when he "broke" his komatik loose, and his dogs, eager for the journey, turned down upon the trail at a run. The dogs were fresh and in the pink of condition, and many miles were behind him when he halted his team at dusk before a fisherman's cottage. Here he spent the night, and the following morning, bright and early, harnessed his dogs and was again hurrying forward. The morning was fine and snappy. The snow, frozen and crisp, gave the dogs good footing. The komatik slid freely over the surface. Dr. Grenfell urged the animals forward that they might take all the advantage possible of the good sledging before the heat of the midday sun should soften the snow and make the hauling hard. The fisherman's cottage where he had spent the night was on the shores of a deep inlet, and a few rods beyond the cottage the trail turned down upon the inlet ice, and here took a straight course across the ice to the opposite shore, some five miles distant, where it plunged into the forest to cross another neck of land. A light breeze was coming in from the sea, the ice had every appearance of being solid and secure, and Dr. Grenfell dove out upon it for a straight line across. To have followed the shore would have increased the distance to nearly thirty miles. Everything went well until perhaps half the distance had been covered. Then suddenly there came a shift of wind, and Grenfell discovered, with some apprehension, that a stiff breeze was rising, and now blowing from land toward the sea, instead of from the sea toward the land as it had done when he started early in the morning from the fisherman's cottage. Still the ice was firm enough, and in any case there was no advantage to be had by turning back, for he was as near one shore as the other. Already the surface of the ice, which, with several warm days, had become more or less porous and rotten, was covered with deep slush. The western sky was now blackened by heavy wind clouds, and with scarce any warning the breeze developed into a gale. Forcing his dogs forward at their best pace, while he ran by the side of the komatik, he soon put another mile behind him. Before him the shore loomed up, and did not seem far away. But every minute counted. It was evident the ice could not stand the strain of the wind much longer. Presently one of Grenfell's feet went through where slush covered an opening crack. He shouted at the dogs, but, buffeted by wind and floundering through slush, they could travel no faster though they made every effort to do so, for they, no less perhaps than their master, realized the danger that threatened them. Then, suddenly, the ice went asunder, not in large pans as it would have done earlier in the winter when it was stout and hard, but in a mass of small pieces, with only now and again a small pan. Grenfell and the dogs found themselves floundering in a sea of slush ice that would not bear their weight. The faithful dogs had done their best, but their best had not been good enough. With super-human effort Grenfell managed to cut their traces and set them free from the komatik, which was pulling them down. Even now, with his own life in the gravest peril, he thought of them. When the dogs were freed, Grenfell succeeded in clambering upon a small ice pan that was scarce large enough to bear his weight, and for the moment was safe. But the poor dogs, much more frightened than their master, and looking to him for protection, climbed upon the pan with him, and with this added weight it sank from under him. Swimming in the ice-clogged water must have been well nigh impossible. The shock of the ice-cold water itself, even had there been no ice, was enough to paralyze a man. But Grenfell, accustomed to cold, and with nerves of iron as a result of keeping his body always in the pink of physical condition, succeeded finally in reaching a pan that would support both himself and the dogs. The animals followed him and took refuge at his feet. Standing upon the pan, with the dogs huddled about him, he scanned the naked shores, but no man or sign of human life was to be seen. How long his own pan would hold together was a question, for the broken ice, grinding against it, would steadily eat it away. There was a steady drift of the ice toward the open sea. The wind was bitterly cold. There was nothing to eat for himself and nothing to feed the dogs, for the loaded komatik had long since disappeared beneath the surface of the sea. Exposed to the frigid wind, wet to the skin, and with no other protection than the clothes upon his back, it seemed inevitable that the cold would presently benumb him and that he would perish from it even though his pan withstood the wearing effects of the water. The pan was too small to admit of sufficient exercise to keep up the circulation of blood, and though he slapped his arms around his shoulders and stamped his feet, a deadening numbness was crawling over him as the sun began to sink in the west and cold increased. Though, in the end he might drown, Grenfell determined to live as long as he could. Perhaps this was a test of courage that God had given him! It is a man's duty, whatever befalls him, to fight for life to the last ditch, and live as long as he can. Most men, placed as Grenfell was placed, would have sunk down in despair, and said: "It's all over! I've done the best I could!" And there they would have waited for death to find them. When a man is driven to the wall, as Grenfell was, it is easier to die than live. When God brings a man face to face with death, He robs death of all its terrors, and when that time comes it is no harder for a man who has lived right with God to die than it is for him to lie down at night and sleep. But Grenfell was never a quitter. He was going to fight it out now with the elements as best he could with what he had at hand. These northern dogs, when driven to desperation by hunger, will turn upon their best friend and master, and here was another danger. If he and the dogs survived the night and another day, what would the dogs do? Then it would be, as Grenfell knew full well, his life or theirs. The dogs wore good warm coats of fur, and if he had a coat made of dog skins it would keep him warm enough to protect his life, at least, from the cold. Now the animals were docile enough. Clustered about his feet, they were looking up into his face expectantly and confidently. He loved them as a good man always loves the beasts that serve him. They had hauled him over many a weary mile of snow and ice, and had been his companions and shared with him the hardships of many a winter's storm. But it was his life or theirs. If he were to survive the night, some of the dogs must be sacrificed. In all probability he and they would be drowned anyway before another night fell upon the world. There was no time to be lost in vain regrets and indecision. Grenfell drew his sheath knife, and as hard as we know it was for him, slaughtered three of the animals. This done, he removed their pelts, and wrapping the skins about him, huddled down among the living dogs for a night of long, tedious hours of waiting and uncertainty, until another day should break. That must have been a period of terrible suffering for Grenfell, but he had a stout heart and he survived it. He has said that the dog skins saved his life, and without them he certainly would have perished. The ice pan still held together, and with a new day came fresh hope of the possibility of rescue. The coast was still well in sight, and there was a chance that a change of wind might drive the pan toward it on an incoming tide. At this season, too, the men of the coast were out scanning the sea for "signs" of seals, and some of them might see him. This thought suggested that if he could erect a signal on a pole, it would attract attention more readily. He had no pole, and he thought at first no means of raising the signal, which was, indeed, necessary, for at that distance from shore only a moving signal would be likely to attract the attention of even the keenly observant fishermen. Then his eyes fell upon the carcasses of the three dogs with their stiff legs sticking up. He drew his sheath knife and went at them immediately. In a little while he had severed the legs from the bodies and stripped the flesh from the bones. Now with pieces of dog harness he lashed the legs together, and presently had a serviceable pole, but one which must have been far from straight. Elated with the result of his experiment, he hastily stripped the shirt from his back, fastened it to one end of his staff, and raising it over his head began moving it back and forth. It was an ingenious idea to make a flagstaff from the bones of dogs' legs. Hardly one man in a thousand would have thought of it. It was an exemplification of Grenfell's resourcefulness, and in the end it saved his life. As he had hoped, men were out upon the rocky bluffs scanning the sea for seals. The keen eyes of one of them discovered, far away, something dark and unusual. The men of this land never take anything for granted. It is a part of the training of the woodsman and seaman to identify any unusual movement or object, or to trace any unusual sound, before he is satisfied to let it pass unheeded. Centering his attention upon the distant object the man distinguished a movement back and forth. Nothing but a man could make such a movement he knew, and he also knew that any man out there was in grave danger. He called some other fishermen, manned a boat and Dr. Grenfell and his surviving dogs were rescued. XXI WRECKED AND ADRIFT It happened that it was necessary for Dr. Grenfell to go to New York one spring three or four years ago. Men interested in raising funds to support the Labrador and Newfoundland hospitals were to hold a meeting, and it was essential that he attend the meeting and tell them of the work on the coast, and what he needed to carry it on. This meeting was to have been held in May, and to reach New York in season to attend it Dr. Grenfell decided to leave St. Anthony Hospital, where he then was, toward the end of April, for in any case traveling would be slow. It was his plan to travel northward, by dog team, to the Straits of Belle Isle, thence westward along the shores, and finally southward, down the western coast of Newfoundland, to Port Aux Basque, from which point a steamer would carry him over to North Sydney, in Nova Scotia. There he could get a train and direct railway connections to New York. There is an excellent, and ordinarily, at this season, an expeditious route for dog travel down the western coast of Newfoundland, and Grenfell anticipated no difficulties. Just as he was ready to start a blizzard set in with a northeast gale, and smash! went the ice. This put an end to dog travel. There was but one alternative, and that was by boat. Traveling along the coast in a small boat is pretty exciting and sometimes perilous when you have to navigate the boat through narrow lanes of water, with land ice on one side and the big Arctic ice pack on the other, and a shift of wind is likely to send the pack driving in upon you before you can get out of the way. And if the ice pack catches you, that's the end of it, for your boat will be ground up like a grain of wheat between mill stones, and there you are, stranded upon the ice, and as like as not cut off from land, too. But there was no other way to get to that meeting in New York, and Grenfell was determined to get there. And so, when the blizzard had passed he got out a small motor boat, and made ready for the journey. If he could reach a point several days' journey by boat to the southward, he could leave the boat and travel one hundred miles on foot overland to the railroad. This hike of one hundred miles, with provisions and equipment on his back, was a tremendous journey in itself. It would not be on a beaten road, but through an unpopulated wilderness still lying deep under winter snows. To Grenfell, however, it would be but an incident in his active life. He was accustomed to following a dog team, and that hardens a man for nearly any physical effort. It requires that a man keep at a trot the livelong day, and it demands a good heart and good lungs and staying powers and plenty of grit, and Grenfell was well equipped with all of these. The menacing Arctic ice pack lay a mile or so seaward when Grenfell and one companion turned their backs on St. Anthony, and the motor boat chugged southward, out of the harbor and along the coast. For a time all went well, and then an easterly wind sprang up and there followed a touch-and-go game between Dr. Grenfell and the ice. In an attempt to dodge the ice the boat struck upon rocks. This caused some damage to her bottom, but not sufficient to incapacitate her, as it was found the hole could be plugged. The weather turned bitterly cold, and the circulating pipes of the motor froze and burst. This was a more serious accident, but it was temporarily repaired while Grenfell bivouaced ashore, sleeping at night under the stars with a bed of juniper boughs for a mattress and an open fire to keep him warm. Ice now blocked the way to the southward, though open leads of water to the northward offered opportunity to retreat, and, with the motor boat in a crippled condition, it was decided to return to St. Anthony and make an attempt, with fresh equipment, to try a route through the Straits of Belle Isle. They were still some miles from St. Anthony when they found it necessary to abandon the motor boat in one of the small harbor settlements. Leaving it in charge of the people, Grenfell borrowed a small rowboat. Rowing the small boat through open lanes and hauling it over obstructing ice pans they made slow progress and the month of May was nearing its close when one day the pack suddenly drove in upon them. They were fairly caught. Ice surrounded them on every side. The boat was in imminent danger of being crushed before they realized their danger. Grenfell and his companion sprang from the boat to a pan, and seizing the prow of the boat hauled upon it with the energy of desperation. They succeeded in raising the prow upon the ice, but they were too late. The edge of the ice was high and the pans were moving rapidly, and to their chagrin they heard a smashing and splintering of wood, and the next instant were aware that the stern of the boat had been completely bitten off and that they were adrift on an ice pan, cut off from the land by open water. An inspection of the boat proved that it was wrecked beyond repair. All of the after part had been cut off and ground to pulp between the ice pans. In the distance, to the westward, rose the coast, a grim outline of rocky bluffs. Between them and the shore the sea was dotted with pans and pieces of ice, separated by canals of black water. The men looked at each other in consternation as they realized that they had no means of reaching land and safety, and that a few hours might find them far out on the Atlantic. In the hope of attracting attention, Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor, his companion, fired their guns at regular intervals. Expectantly they waited, but there was no answering signal from shore and no sign of life anywhere within their vision. For a long while they waited and watched and signalled. With a turn in the tide it became evident, finally, that the pan on which they were marooned was drifting slowly seaward. If this continued they would soon be out of sight of land, and then all hope of rescue would vanish. "I'll tell you what I'll do, now," suggested Taylor. "I'll copy toward shore. I'll try to get close enough for some one to see me." To "copy" is to jump from one pan or piece of ice to another. The gaps of water separating them are sometimes wide, and a man must be a good jumper who lands. Some of the pieces of ice are quite too small to bear a man's weight, and he must leap instantly to the next or he will sink with the ice. It is perilous work at best, and much too dangerous for any one to attempt without much practice and experience. They had a boat hook with them, and taking it to assist in the long leaps, Taylor started shore-ward. Dr. Grenfell watched him anxiously as he sprang from pan to pan making a zigzag course toward shore, now and again taking hair-raising risks, sometimes resting for a moment on a substantial pan while he looked ahead to select his route, then running, and using the boat hook as a vaulting pole, spanning a wide chasm. Then, suddenly, Dr. Grenfell saw him totter, throw up his hands and disappear beneath the surface of the water. In a hazardous leap he had missed his footing, or a small cake of ice had turned under his weight. XXII SAVING A LIFE It was a terrible moment for Grenfell when he saw his friend disappear beneath the icy waves. Would the cold so paralyze him as to render him helpless? Would he be caught under an ice pan? A hundred such thoughts flashed through Grenfell's mind as he stood, impotent to help because of the distance between them. Then to his great joy he saw Taylor rise to the surface and scramble out upon a pan in safety. The ice was too far separated now for Taylor either to advance or retreat, and the pan upon which he had taken refuge began a rapid drift seaward. He had made a valiant effort, but the attempt had failed. Grenfell resumed firing his gun, still hoping that some one might hear it and come to their rescue. Time passed and Taylor drifted abreast of Grenfell and finally drifted past him. Then, in the far distance, Grenfell glimpsed the flash of an oar. The flash was repeated with rhythmic regularity. The outlines of a boat came into view. The men shouted the good news to each other. Help was coming! The signals had been heard, and in due time, and with much thankfulness, Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor were safely in the boat and on their way to St. Anthony. Not long after his return to St. Anthony, the ice drifted eastward and an open strip of sea appeared leading northward toward the Straits of Belle Isle. The ice was now a full mile off shore, it was the beginning of June, and Dr. Grenfell, expecting that at this late season the Straits would be open for navigation, had the _Strathcona_ made ready for sea at once, and with high hopes, stowed the anchor and steamed northward. It was his plan to have the vessel carry him westward through the Straits and land him at some port on the west coast of Newfoundland where he could take passage on the regular mail boat, which he had been advised had begun its summer service. Thence he could continue his trip to New York, where the important meeting had been adjourned several times in expectation of his coming. But again he was doomed to disappointment. The Straits were found to be packed from shore to shore with heavy floe ice and clogged with icebergs. Before the _Strathcona_ could make her escape she was surrounded by ice and frozen tight and fast into the floe. [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL SHIP. STRATHCONA"] Grenfell was determined to reach New York and attend that meeting. It was supremely important that he do so. Now there was but one way to reach the mail boat, and that was to walk. The distance to the nearest port of call was ninety miles. Making up a pack of food, cooking utensils, bedding and a suit of clothes that would permit him to present a civilized and respectable appearance when he reached New York, he made ready for the long overland journey. Shouldering his big pack, he bade goodbye to Mrs. Grenfell, who was with him on the _Strathcona_, and to the crew, and set out over the ice pack to the land. Three days later Dr. Grenfell reached the harbor where he was to board the mail boat upon her arrival. He was wearied and stiff in his joints after the hard overland hike with a heavy pack on his back, and looking forward to rest and a good meal, he went directly to the home of a mission clergyman living in the little village. His welcome was hearty, as a welcome always is on this coast. The clergyman showered him with kindnesses. A pot of steaming tea and an appetizing meal was on the table in a jiffy. It was luxury after the long days on the trail and Grenfell sat down with anticipation of keen enjoyment. At the moment that Grenfell seated himself the door opened unceremoniously, and an excited fisherman burst into the room with the exclamation: "For God's sake, some one come! Come and save my brother's life! He's bleeding to death!" Dr. Grenfell learned in a few hurried inquiries that the man's brother had accidentally shot his leg nearly off an hour before and was already in a comatose condition from loss of blood. The family lived five miles distant, and the only way to reach the cabin where the wounded man lay was on foot. Grenfell forgot all about the steaming tea, the good meal and rest. A moment's delay might cost the man his life. Grenfell ran. Over that five miles of broken country he ran as he had never run before, with the half-frenzied fisherman leading the way. The wounded man was a young fellow of twenty. Dr. Grenfell knew him well. He was a hero of the world war. He had volunteered when a mere boy, served bravely through four years of the terrible conflict and though he had taken part in many of the great battles he had lived to return to his home and his fishing. "I never knew a better cure for stiffness than a splendid chance for serving," said Grenfell in referring to that run from the missionary's home to the fisherman's cottage. All his stiff joints and weary muscles were forgotten as he ran. When Dr. Grenfell entered the room where the man lay, he found the young fisherman soaked with blood and sea water, lying stretched upon a hard table. The remnant of his shattered leg rested upon a feather pillow and was strung up to the ceiling in an effort to stop the flow of blood. He was moaning, but was practically unconscious, and barely alive. The room was crowded to suffocation with weeping relatives and sympathetic neighbors. Dr. Grenfell cleared it at once. The place was small and the light poor and a difficult place in which to treat so critical a case or to operate successfully. He had no surgical instruments or medicines, and even for him, accustomed as he was to work under handicaps and difficulties, a serious problem confronted him. The man was so far gone that an operation seemed hopeless, but nevertheless it was worth trying. Grenfell sent messengers far and near for reserve supplies that he had left at various points to be drawn upon in cases of emergency, and in a little while had at his command some opiates, a small amount of ether, some silk for ligatures, some crude substitutes for instruments, and the supply of communal wine from the missionary's little church, five miles away. While these things had been gathered in, the flow of blood had been abated by the use of a tourniquet. There was scarcely enough ether to be of use, but with the assistance of two men Dr. Grenfell applied it and operated. One of the assistants fainted, but the other stuck faithfully to his post, and with a cool head and steady hand did Dr. Grenfell's bidding. The operation was performed successfully, and the young soldier's life was saved through Dr. Grenfell's skillful treatment. Today this fisherman has but one leg, but he is well and happy and a useful man in the world. Fate takes a hand in our lives sometimes, and plays strange pranks with us. In New York a group of gentlemen were impatiently awaiting the arrival of Dr. Grenfell, while he, in an isolated cottage on the rugged coast of Northern Newfoundland was saving a fisherman's life, and in the importance and joy of this service had perhaps for the time quite forgotten the gentlemen and the meeting and even New York. Perhaps Providence had a hand in it all. If the water lanes had not closed, and the motor boat had not been damaged, and Dr. Grenfell and William Taylor had not been sent adrift on the ice, and no obstacles had stood in the way of Dr. Grenfell's journey to New York, and the _Strathcona_ had not been frozen into the ice pack, in all probability this brave young soldier and fisherman would have died. There is no doubt that _he_ believes God set the stage to send Dr. Grenfell on that ninety-mile hike. XXIII REINDEER AND OTHER THINGS Hunting in a northern wilderness is never to be depended upon. Sometimes game is plentiful, and sometimes it is scarcely to be had at all. This is the case both with fur bearing animals and food game. So it is in Labrador. When I have been in that country I have depended upon my gun to get my living, just as the Indians do. One year I all but starved to death, because caribou and other game was scarce. Other years I have lived in plenty, with a caribou to shoot whenever I needed meat. In Labrador the Eskimos and liveyeres rely upon the seals to supply them with the greater part of their dog feed, supplemented by fish, cod heads and nearly any offal. The Eskimos eat seal meat, too, with a fine relish, both cooked and raw, and when the seals are not too old their meat, properly cooked, is very good eating indeed for anybody. The Indians rely on the caribou, or wild reindeer, to furnish their chief food supply, and to a large extent the caribou is also the chief meat animal of the liveyeres. Sometimes caribou are plentiful enough on certain sections of the coast north of Hamilton Inlet. I remember that in January, 1903, an immense herd came out to the coast north of Hamilton Inlet, They passed in thousands in front of a liveyere's cabin, and standing in his door the liveyere shot with his rifle more than one hundred of them, only stopping his slaughter when his last cartridge was used. From up and down the coast for a hundred miles Eskimos and liveyeres came with dogs and komatik to haul the carcasses to their homes, for the liveyere who killed the animals gave to those who had killed none all that he could not use himself, and none was wasted. That was a year of plenty. Oftener than not no caribou come within reach of the folk that live on the coast, and in these frequent seasons of scarcity the only meat they have in winter is the salt pork they buy at the trading posts, if they have the means to buy it, together with the rabbits and grouse they hunt, and, in the wooded districts, an occasional porcupine. Now and again, to be sure, a polar bear is killed, but this is seldom. Owls are eaten with no less relish than partridges, and lynx meat is excellent, as I can testify from experience. But the smaller game is not sufficient to supply the needs and it occurred to Doctor Grenfell that, if the Lapland reindeer could be introduced, this animal would not only prove superior to the dog for driving, but would also furnish a regular supply of meat to the people, and also milk for the babies. The domestic reindeer is a species of caribou. In other words, the caribou is the wild reindeer. The domestic and the wild animals eat the same food, the gray caribou moss, which carpets northern Newfoundland and the whole of Labrador, furnishing an inexhaustible supply of forage everywhere in forest and in barrens. The Lapland reindeer had been introduced into Alaska and northwestern Canada with great success. They would thrive equally well in Labrador and Newfoundland. With this in mind Doctor Grenfell learned all he could about reindeer and reindeer raising. The more he studied the subject the better convinced he was that domesticated reindeer introduced into Labrador would prove a boon to the people. He appealed to some of his generous friends and they subscribed sufficient money to undertake the experiment. In 1907 three hundred reindeer were purchased and landed safely at St. Anthony, Newfoundland. With experienced Lapland herders to care for them they were turned loose in the open country. For a time the herd grew and thrived and the prospects for complete success of the experiment were bright. It was Doctor Grenfell's policy to first demonstrate the usefulness of reindeer in Newfoundland, and finally transfer a part of the herd to Labrador. The great difficulty that stood in the way of rearing the animals in eastern Labrador was the vicious wolf dogs. It was obvious that dogs and reindeer could not live together, for the dogs would hunt and kill the inoffensive reindeer just as their primitive progenitors, the wolves, hunt and kill the wild caribou. Because of the dogs, no domestic animals can be kept in eastern Labrador. Once Malcolm MacLean, a Scotch settler at Carter's Basin, in Hamilton Inlet, imported a cow. He built a strong stable for it adjoining his cabin. Twelve miles away, at Northwest River, the dogs one winter night when the Inlet had frozen sniffed the air blowing across the ice. They smelled the cow. Like a pack of wolves they were off. They trailed the scent those twelve miles over the ice to the door of the stable where Malcolm's cow was munching wild hay. They broke down the stable door, and before Malcolm was aware of what was taking place the cow was killed and partly devoured. For generations untold, Labradormen have kept dogs for hauling their loads and the dogs have served them well. They were not willing to substitute reindeer. They knew their dogs and they did not know the reindeer, and they refused to kill their dogs. To educate them to the change it was evident would be a long process. In the meantime the herd in Newfoundland was growing. In 1911 it numbered one thousand head, and in 1912 approximated thirteen hundred. Then an epidemic attacked them and numbers died. Following this, illegitimate hunting of the animals began, and without proper means of guarding them Doctor Grenfell decided to turn them over to the Canadian Government. During those strenuous years of war, when food was so scarce, a good many of the herd had been killed by poachers. Perhaps we cannot blame the poachers, for when a man's family is hungry he will go to lengths to get food for his children, and Doctor Grenfell recognized the stress of circumstances that led men to kill his animals and carry off the meat. The epidemic, as stated, had proved fatal to a considerable number of the animals, and the herd therefore was much reduced in size. The remnant were corralled in 1918, and shipped to the Canadian Government at St. Augustine, in southern Labrador, where they are now thriving and promise marvelous results. Some day Doctor Grenfell's efforts with reindeer will prove a great success at least in southern Labrador, where the dogs are less vicious, and play a less important part in the life of the people than on the eastern coast. Upon these thousands of acres of uncultivated and otherwise useless land the reindeer will multiply until they will not only feed the people of Labrador but will become no small part of the meat supply of eastern Canada. His introduction of reindeer into southern Labrador will be remembered as one of the great acts of his great life of activity. Their introduction was the introduction of an industry that will in time place the people of this section in a position of thrifty independence. There never was yet a man with any degree of self-respect who did not wish to pay his own way in the world. Every real man wishes to stand squarely upon his own feet, and pay for what he receives. To accept charity from others always makes a man feel that he has lost out in the battle of life. It robs him of ambition for future effort and of self-reliance and self-respect. Doctor Grenfell has always recognized this human characteristic. It was evident to him when he entered the mission field in Labrador that in seasons when the fisheries failed and no fur could be trapped a great many of the people in Labrador and some in northern Newfoundland would be left without a means of earning their living. There are no factories there and no work to be had except at the fisheries in the summer, trapping in winter and the brief seal hunt in the spring and fall. When any of these fail, the pantries are empty and the men and their families must suffer. But most of the people are too proud to admit their poverty when a season of poverty comes to them. They are eager for work and willing and ready always to turn their hand to anything that offers a chance to earn a dollar. To provide for such emergencies Grenfell, many years ago, established a lumber camp in the north of Newfoundland, and at Canada Bay in the extreme northeast a ship building yard where schooners and other small craft could be built, and nearly everyone out of work could find employment. In southern and eastern Labrador, where wood is to be had for the cutting, he arranged to purchase such wood as the people might deliver to his vessels. In return for the wood he gave clothing and other supplies. Then came mat and rug weaving, spinning and knitting and basket making. Through Grenfell's efforts volunteer teachers went north in summers to teach the people these useful arts. He supplied looms. Every one was eager to learn and today Labrador women are making rugs, baskets and various saleable articles in their homes, and Grenfell sells for them in the "States" and Canada all they make. Thus a new means of earning a livelihood was opened to the women, where formerly there was nothing to which they could turn their hand to earn money when the men were away at the hunting and trapping. Mrs. Grenfell has more recently introduced the art of making artificial flowers. The women learned it readily, and their product is quite equal to that of the French makers. Doctor Grenfell had been many years on the coast before he was married. Mrs. Grenfell was Miss Anna MacCalahan, of Chicago. Upon her marriage to Doctor Grenfell, Mrs. Grenfell went with him to his northern field. She cruises with him on his hospital ship, the _Strathcona_, acting as his secretary, braving stormy seas, and working for the people with all his own self-sacrificing devotion. She is a noble inspiration in his great work, and the "mother of the coast." Doctor Grenfell has established a school at St. Anthony open not only to the orphans of the children's home but to all the children of the coast. There are schools on the Labrador also, connected with the mission. It is a fine thing to see the eagerness of the Labrador boys and girls to learn. They are offered an opportunity through Doctor Grenfell's thoughtfulness that their parents never had and they appreciate it. It is no exaggeration to say that they enjoy their schools quite as much as our boys and girls enjoy moving pictures, and they give as close attention to their books and to the instruction as any of us would give to a picture. They look upon the school as a fine gift, as indeed it is. The teachers are giving them something every day--a much finer thing than a new sled or a new doll--knowledge that they will carry with them all their lives and that they can use constantly. And so it happens that study is not work to them. How much Doctor Grenfell has done for the Labrador! How much he is doing every day! How much more he would do if those who have in abundance would give but a little more to aid him! How much happiness he has spread and is spreading in that northland! XXIV THE SAME GRENFELL Doctor Grenfell is not alone the doctor of the coast. He is also a duly appointed magistrate, and wherever he happens to be on Sundays, where there is no preacher to conduct religious services, and it rarely happens there is one, for preachers are scarce on the coast, he takes the preacher's place. It does not matter whether it is a Church of England, a Presbyterian, a Methodist, or a Baptist congregation, he speaks to the people and conducts the service with fine unsectarian religious devotion. Grenfell is a deeply religious man, and in his religious life there is no buncomb or humbug. He lives what he preaches. In his audiences at his Sunday services are Protestants and Roman Catholics alike, and they all love him and will travel far to hear him. Norman Duncan, in that splendid book, "Doctor Grenfell's Parish," tells the story of a man who had committed a great wrong, amounting to a crime. The man was brought before Grenfell, as Labrador magistrate. He acknowledged his crime, but was defiant. The man cursed the doctor. "You will do as I tell you," said the Doctor, "or I will put you under arrest, and lock you up." The man laughed, and called Doctor Grenfell's attention to the fact that he was outside his judicial district, and had no power to make the arrest. "Never mind," warned the Doctor quietly. "I have a crew strong enough to take you into my district." The man retorted that he, also, had a crew. "Are the men of your crew loyal enough to fight for you?" asked the Doctor. "There's going to be a fight if you don't submit without it. This is what you must do," he continued. "You will come to the church service at seven o'clock on Sunday evening, and before the whole congregation you will confess your crime." Again the man cursed the Doctor and defied him. It happened that this man was a rich trader and felt his power. The man did not appear at the church on Sunday evening. Doctor Grenfell announced to the congregation that the man was to appear to confess and receive judgment, and he asked every one to keep his seat while he went to fetch the fellow. He found the man in a neighbor's house, surrounded by his friends. It was evident the man's crew had no mind to fight for him, they knew he was guilty. The man was praying, perhaps to soften the Doctor's heart. [Illustration: "I HAVE A CREW STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE YOU INTO MY DISTRICT"] "Prayer is a good thing in its place," said the Doctor, "but it doesn't 'go' here. Come with me." The man, like a whipped dog, went with the Doctor. Entering the meeting room, he stood before the waiting congregation and made a complete confession. "You deserve the punishment of man and God?" asked the Doctor. "I do," said the man, no longer defiant. The Doctor told him that God would forgive him if he truly repented, but that the people, being human, could not, for he had wronged them sorely. Then he charged the people that for a whole year none of them should speak or deal with that man; but if he made an honest effort to mend his way, they could feel free to talk with him and deal with him again at the end of the year. "This relentless judge," says Norman Duncan, "on a stormy July day carried many bundles ashore at Cartwright, in Sandwich Bay of the Labrador. The wife of the Hudson's Bay Company's agent examined them with delight. They were Christmas gifts from the children of the "States" to the lads and little maids of that coast. The Doctor never forgets the Christmas gifts." The wife of the agent stowed away the gifts to distribute them at next Christmas time. "It makes them _very_ happy," said the agent's wife. "Not long ago," said Duncan, "I saw a little girl with a stick of wood for a dolly. Are they not afraid to play with these pretty things?" "Sometimes," she laughed, "but it makes them happy just to look at them. But they do play with them. There is a little girl up the bay who _has kissed the paint off her dolly_!" And so even the tiniest, most forlorn little lad or lass is not forgotten by Doctor Grenfell. He is the Santa Claus of the coast. He never forgets. Nothing, if it will bring joy into the life of any one, is too big or too small for his attention. Can we wonder that Grenfell is happy in his work? Can we wonder that nothing in the world could induce him to leave the Labrador for a life of ease? Battling, year in and year out, with stormy seas in summer, and ice and snow and arctic blizzards in winter, the joy of life is in him. Every day has a thrill for him. Here in this rugged land of endeavor he has for thirty years been healing the sick and saving life, easing pain, restoring cripples to strength, feeding and clothing and housing the poor, and putting upon their feet with useful work unfortunate men that they might look the world in the face bravely and independently. There is no happiness in the world so keen as the happiness that comes through making others happy. This is what Doctor Grenfell is doing. He is giving his life to others, and he is getting no end of joy out of life himself. The life he leads possesses for him no element of self-denial, after all, and he never looks upon it as a life of hardship. He loves the adventure of it, and by straight, clean living he has prepared himself, physically and mentally, to meet the storms and cold and privations with no great sense of discomfort. Wilfred Thomason Grenfell is the same sportsman, as, when a lad, he roamed the Sands o' Dee; the same lover of fun that he was when he went to Marlborough College; the same athlete that made the football team and rowed with the winning crew when a student in the University--sympathetic, courageous, tireless, a doer among men and above all, a Christian gentleman. * * * * * _Printed in the United States of America_ * * * * * Obvious typos fixed: "book" for "look", page 132 "alseep" for "asleep", page 195 (twice) "hundrel" for "hundred", page 214 "seaprated" for "separated", page 216 "Malcom's" for "Malcolm's", page 228 (twice) "bad" for "bade", page 156 "Trezize" for "Trevize", page 38 * * * * * 
21710	----	THE CREW OF THE WATER WAGTAIL, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE CHAPTER ONE. A ROUGH BEGINNING. It is well that mankind cannot pry into the secrets of futurity. At all events, it is certain that if the crew of the _Water Wagtail_ had known what was in store for them when they set sail from Bristol, one fine spring morning at the beginning of the sixteenth century, most of them would have remained at home--though it is not improbable that, even with full knowledge of coming events, some of the romantic among them, and a few of the reckless, might have decided to go on. Undoubtedly Paul Burns would have scorned to draw back, for he was a "hero of romance;" an enthusiast of the deepest dye, with an inquiring mind, a sanguine disposition, and a fervent belief in all things great and good and grand. He was also a six-footer in his socks, a horse in constitution, a Hercules in frame, with a hook nose and a hawk eye and a strong jaw--and all the rest of it. Paul had a good brain, too, and was well educated--as education went in those days. Yes, there can be little doubt that even though Paul Burns had been able to see into the future, he would have deliberately chosen to go on that voyage. So would Oliver Trench, for Oliver worshipped Paul! He loved him as if he had been an elder brother. He admired him, afar off, as a rare specimen of human perfection. He looked up to him, physically as well as mentally, for Oliver was at that time little more than a boy of medium size, but bold as a bull-dog and active as a weasel. Yes, we are safe to say that a revelation of the disasters, dangers, sufferings, etcetera, in store, would not have deterred Oliver Trench. He would have gone on that voyage simply because Paul Burns went. That was reason enough for him. The devotion of Ruth to Naomi was mild compared with that of Oliver to Paul--if words are a test of feelings--for Ruth's beautiful language could not compare with the forcible expressions with which Oliver assured his friend that he would stick to him, neck or nothing, through thick and thin, to the latest hour of life! As for the rest of the crew--Big Swinton, Little Stubbs, George Blazer, Squill, and the like--it was well, as we have said, that they could not see into the future. There were forty of them, all told, including the cook and the cabin-boy. We do not include Paul Burns or Oliver Trench, because the former was naturalist to the expedition--a sort of semi-scientific freelance; and the latter, besides being the master's, or skipper's, son, was a free-and-easy lance, so to speak, whose duties were too numerous to mention, and too indefinite to understand. Most of the men were what is expressed by the phrase "no better than they should be." Some of them, indeed, were even worse than that. The wars of the period had rendered it difficult to obtain good seamen at that particular time, so that merchant skippers had to content themselves with whatever they could get. The crew of the _Water Wagtail_ was unusually bad, including, as it did, several burglars and a few pickpockets, besides loafers and idlers; so that, before leaving Bristol, a friend of the skipper, whose imagination was lively, styled it a crew of forty thieves. The coast of Norway was the destination of the _Water Wagtail_. She never reached the coast of--but we must not anticipate. What her object was in reference to Norway we cannot tell. Ancient records are silent on the point. The object of Paul Burns was to gather general information. At that period the world was not rich in general information. To discover, to dare, to do--if need were, to die--was the intention of our big hero. To be similarly circumstanced in a small way was our little hero's ambition. "Goin' to blow," remarked Skipper Trench, on the evening of the day on which he sailed, as he paced the deck with his hands in his pockets, and, as his son Oliver said, his "weather-eye" open. It seemed as though the weather, having overheard the prophecy, was eager to fulfil it, for a squall could be seen bearing down on the ship even while the words were being uttered. "Close reef to-o-o-p-s'ls!" roared Master Trench, with the energy of a man who means what he says. We are not sure of the precise nautical terms used, but the result was a sudden and extensive reduction of canvas; and not a moment too soon, for the operation had scarcely been completed when the squall struck the ship, almost capsized her, and sent her careering over the billows "like a thing of life." This was the first of a succession of squalls, or gales, which blew the _Water Wagtail_ far out upon the Atlantic Ocean, stove in her bulwarks, carried away her bowsprit and foretopmast, damaged her skylights, strained her rudder, and cleared her decks of loose hamper. After many days the weather moderated a little and cleared up, enabling Master Trench to repair damages and shape his course for Norway. But the easterly gales returned with increased violence, undid all the repairs, carried away the compass, and compelled these ancient mariners to run westward under bare poles--little better than a wreck for winds and waves to play with. In these adverse circumstances the skipper did what too many men are apt to do in their day of sorrow--he sought comfort in the bottle. Love of strong drink was Master Trench's weakest point. It was one of the few points on which he and his friend Burns disagreed. "Now, my dear man," said Paul, seating himself one evening at the cabin table and laying his hand impressively on his friend's arm, "do let me lock up this bottle. You can't navigate the ship, you know, when you've got so much of that stuff under your belt." "O yes, I can," said the skipper, with an imbecile smile, for his friend had a winning way with him that conciliated even while he rebuked. "Don't you fear, Paul, I--I'm all right!" The half-offended idiotic expression of the man's face was intensely ludicrous, but Paul could not see the ludicrous at that time. He only saw his usually sedate, manly, generous friend reduced to a state of imbecility. "Come, now, Master Trench," he said persuasively, taking hold of the case-bottle, "let me put it away." "N-no, I won't" said the captain sharply, for he was short of temper. The persuasive look on Paul's face suddenly vanished. He rose, grasped the bottle firmly, went to the open hatch, and sent it whizzing up into the air with such force that it went far over the stern of the ship and dropped into the sea, to the unutterable amazement of the man at the helm, who observed the bottle's unaccountable flight with an expression of visage all his own. There is no accounting for the rapid transitions of thought and feeling in drunken men. The skipper sprang up, clenched his right hand, and gazed in fierce astonishment at his friend, who advanced towards him with a benignant smile, quite regardless of consequences. Even in the act of striking, the captain restrained his arm and opened his hand. Paul met it with a friendly grasp, while the faces of both men expanded in smiling goodwill. "Y-you're a trump, P-Paul," said the captain. "I--I--won't drink a-another d'op!" And Master Trench kept his word. From that day forth, till circumstances rendered drinking impossible, he drank nothing stronger than water. Soon after this event the weather improved, damages were again repaired, and the skipper--in whom there was much of the spirit of the old vikings--once more laid his course for Norway, resolving to steer, as the said vikings were wont to do, by the stars. But a spirit of mutiny was abroad in the forecastle by that time. If hard work, hard fare, and hard fortune are trying even to good men and true, what must they be to bad men and false? "Here's how it lays, men," said Big Swinton, in a subdued voice, to a knot of friends around him. "Blowin' hard as it has bin ever since we left England, it stands to reason that we must have pretty nigh got across the western sea to that noo land discovered by that man wi' the queer name--I can't remember rightly--" "Columbus, you mean," cried George Blazer. "Why, my father sailed with Columbus on his first voyage." "No, it wasn't Columbus," returned Swinton, in a sharp tone, "an' you needn't speak as if we was all deaf, Blazer. It was John Cabot I was thinkin' of, who, with his son Sebastian, discovered land a long way to the nor'ard o' Columbus's track. They called it Newfoundland. Well, as I was sayin', we must be a long way nearer to that land than to Norway, an' it will be far easier to reach it. Moreover, the Cabots said that the natives there are friendly and peaceable, so it's my opinion that we should carry on as we go till we reach Newfoundland, an' see whether we can't lead a jollier life there than we did in Old England." "But it's _my_ opinion," suggested Little Stubbs, "that the skipper's opinion on that point will have to be found out first, Swinton, for it's of more importance than yours. You ain't skipper _yet_, you know." "That's so, Stubbs," said Squill, with a nod. "Let your tongues lie still," retorted Swinton, in an undertoned growl. "Of course I know I'm not skipper yet, but if you men have the courage of rabbits I'll be skipper before another sun rises--or whoever you choose to appoint." A sudden silence ensued for a few moments, for, although there had been mutinous whisperings before, no one had, up to that time, ventured to make a distinct proposal that action should be taken. "What! steal the ship?" exclaimed a huge black-bearded fellow named Grummidge. "Nay--I'll have no hand in that." "Of course not; we have no intention to _steal_ the ship," retorted Swinton, before any one else had time to express an opinion; "we are all upright honourable men here. We only mean to take the _loan_ of her. After all we have suffered we are entitled surely to a pleasure-trip, and when that's over we can return the ship to the owners--if so disposed. You'll join us in that, Grummidge, won't you? And we'll make you skipper--or first mate, if you're too modest to take command." This sally was received with a subdued laugh, and with marks of such decided approval, that Grummidge was carried with the current--at all events, he held his tongue after that. An earnest undertoned discussion followed, and it was finally arranged that Big Swinton should sound Master Trench about the propriety of running to Newfoundland instead of returning on their track to Norway. The seaman was not slow to act. That afternoon, while at the helm, he made the suggestion to the skipper, but met with a sharp rebuke and an order to attend to his duty. No word did Big Swinton reply, but that very night he entered the cabin with a dozen men and seized the skipper, his son, and Paul Burns, while they slept. Of course, being greatly outnumbered, they were overcome and bound. The two officers of the vessel were also seized by another party on deck, and all the five were imprisoned in the hold. Next morning they were brought on deck, and made to stand in a row before Big Swinton, who had, in the meantime, been appointed by the mutineers to the command of the ship. "Now, Master Trench," said Swinton, "we are no pirates. We have no desire to kill you, so that whether you are killed or not will depend on yourself. If you agree to navigate this ship to Newfoundland--good; if not we will heave you overboard." "Heave away then," growled the skipper, his nature being such that the more he was defied the more defiant he became. "Well, Master Trench, you shall have your way. Get the plank ready, boys," said Swinton, turning to the men. "Now stand aside and let the first mate choose." The same question being put to the two mates, they returned similar answers, and were ordered to prepare to walk the plank. "You don't understand navigation, I fancy, Master Burns," said Swinton to Paul, "but as you can set broken bones, and things of that sort, we will spare you if you agree to serve us." "Thank you," replied Paul, with quiet urbanity. "I prefer to accompany Master Trench, if you have no objection." There was a slight laugh at the coolness of this reply, which enraged the new skipper. "Say you so?" he exclaimed, jumping up. "Come, then, shove out the plank, lads, and bring them on one at a time." "Stop!" cried little Oliver, at this point. "You've forgot _me_." "No, my little man, I haven't," returned Swinton, with a cynical smile. "You shall accompany your amiable father; but first I'll give you a fair chance," he added, in a bantering tone: "will _you_ navigate the ship?" "Yes, I will," answered Oliver promptly. "Indeed!" exclaimed the new skipper, taken aback by the boy's boldness, and at a loss for a reply. "Yes, indeed," retorted Oliver, "only put me in command, with an auger, and I'll navigate the ship to the bottom of the sea, with you and all your cowardly crew on board of her!" "Well said, little master," cried Grummidge, while a general laugh of approval went round. Seeing that there was a symptom of better feeling among some of the men, Master Trench was about to make an appeal to them, when-- "Land ho!" was shouted by the look-out in stentorian tones. CHAPTER TWO. THE ADVENTURERS LAND ON THE ISLAND. The excitement caused by the sight of land was tremendous. Nearly every one ran to the bow or leaped on the bulwarks, and the prisoners were left unguarded. Seeing this, Grummidge quietly cut their bonds unobserved, and then hurried forward to gaze with the rest. Even the man at the tiller left his post for a moment to get a better view of the land. On returning, he found Master Trench occupying his place, and Paul Burns standing beside him with a handspike in his grasp. Oliver had also armed himself with a marlinespike in default of a better weapon. "Go for'ard, my man," said the skipper, in a quiet voice, "an' tell your mates to get ready the anchor and stand by the cable. Haste ye, if you value life." The man slunk away without a word. "We seem far from land yet, Master Trench; why such haste?" asked Paul. "Look over the stern," was the skipper's curt reply. Paul and Oliver both did so, and saw that another squall was bearing down on them. "Is it Newfoundland?" asked Paul. "Ay, and an ugly coast to make in a squall. Hallo! there--if ye would not be food for fishes lay aloft and take in all sail!" The skipper, as his wont was, gave the order in a stern tone of command, and resigned the tiller to Grummidge, who came aft at the moment. The men saw with surprise that a heavy squall was bearing down on them from the eastward. Mutiny flew, as it were, out at the hawseholes, while discipline re-entered by the cabin windows. Even Big Swinton was cowed for the moment. It may be that the peculiar way in which Paul Burns eyed him and toyed with the handspike had some effect on him. Possibly he was keenly alive to the danger which threatened them. At all events, he went to work like the rest! And there was occasion for haste. Before the sails were properly secured, the squall struck them; the foremast was snapped off close to the deck; for a time the ship became unmanageable and drifted rapidly towards the land. "Is that a small island that I see on the weather bow, Olly?" said the skipper to his son. "Look, your eyes are better than mine." "Yes, father. It looks like a small one." "Steer for that, Grummidge. We'll take shelter in its lee." The sails were braced, and the direction of the vessel was changed, while the wreck of the foremast was being cleared away; but, just as they were drawing near to the island, the wind chopped round, and the hoped-for shelter they were approaching became suddenly a lee shore. "Nothing can save us now," muttered Grummidge, "the _Water Wagtail_ is going to her doom." "You're right, my man. Before another hour goes by, she will have wagged her tail for the last time," said Master Trench, somewhat bitterly. They were both right. In less than an hour after that the ship was hurled upon the outlying rocks of a low island. Shaken and strained as she had been during her disastrous voyage, it took but a short time to break her up, but the bow had been thrust high between two rocks and remained fast. Circumstances do not change character, but they often bring it to the front. Heroes and poltroons may remain unknown until a sudden incident or change of condition reveals them. As the crew of the wrecked ship clustered on the fragment of the bow, and gazed on the tumultuous flood of foaming water that seethed between them and the shore, their hearts failed them for fear. Some sternly compressed their lips, and looked like men who had made up their minds to "die game." A few even looked defiant, as if daring Fate to do her worst, though the pallor of their countenances gave the lie to the expression of their features; but many of them, in the terror of the moment, cried aloud for mercy, and wildly promised amendment if their lives should be spared. A few were composed and grave. Brave men, though bad. Possibly some of these prayed. If so, they had the sense to do it silently to Him who knows the secrets of all hearts. "No man can cross that and live," said the skipper, in a low, sad tone. "It is my intention to try, Master Trench," said Paul Burns, grasping the end of a light line and tying it round his waist. Little Oliver looked quickly and anxiously at his friend. His heart sank, for he saw at a glance that it was not possible to follow him. The deed, if done at all, must be done by his friend alone. Great, therefore, was the rebound of joy in the boy's heart when Paul said-- "Now, Olly, attend to me. My life, under God, may depend on close attention to my signals and the management of the line. I can trust your father and the men to haul me back to the ship if need be, but I will trust only you to pay out and read my signals. Observe, now, let there be no _slack_ to the line; keep it just taut but without any pull on it, so that you may _feel_ the signals at once. One pull means _pay out faster_, two pulls mean _haul me aboard_, three pulls is _all right and fix the big hawser to the line so that I may haul it ashore_. Now, Olly, I trust to you to read my signals and act promptly." Oliver's heart was too full to speak. He looked at his friend with swimming eyes and nodded his head. "Men," said Paul to the crew, "let me beg you to obey the boy's orders smartly. If God wills it so, we shall all be saved." He leaped over the side as he concluded. Another moment and he was seen to rise and buffet the plunging waters manfully. Great as was the muscular strength of the young man, it seemed absolute feebleness to those who looked on; nevertheless he made headway towards the shore, which was strewn with great boulders with a low cliff behind them. It was among these boulders that his chief danger and difficulty lay, for his strong frame would have been as nothing if dashed against them. Quickly he was lost to view in the hurly-burly of foam and spray. With the utmost care did Oliver Trench perform his duty. It required both vigour of hand and delicacy of touch to keep the line right, but it was manipulated by hands whose vigour and touch were intensified by love. "Ease off!" he cried, looking back impatiently at the strong fellows who held the slack of the line. The men obeyed so readily that the line ran out too fast and the boy had much ado to check it. Just as he got it sufficiently taut, he felt what seemed to him like _two_ pulls--"haul me in!" Could it be? He was not certain. In an agony of anxiety he held on, and was about to give the signal to haul in, when his father, who watched his every movement, instantly said, "Give him another second or two, Olly." Just then there was a strong single pull at the line. "Pay out!--faster!" shouted Oliver, and, at the same moment he eased off his own feelings in a tremendous sigh of relief. After that the line ran steadily for a few seconds, and no signals came. Then it ceased to run, and poor Oliver's fears began to rush in upon him again, but he was speedily relieved by feeling three distinct and vigorous pulls. "Thank God, he's safe," cried the boy. "Now then, pass along the hawser--quick!" This was done, the light line was attached to a three-inch rope, and the party on the wreck waited anxiously. "Give it a pull, Olly, by way of signal," suggested Master Trench. "He did not tell me to do that, father," returned the boy, hesitating. "No doubt he forgot it in the hurry--try it, anyhow." A hearty pull on the line was accordingly given, and they soon had the satisfaction of seeing the hawser move over the side and run towards the shore. When it ceased to run out they knew that Paul must have got hold of the end of it, so, making their end fast to the heel of the bowsprit, they waited, for as yet the rope lay deep in the heaving waters, and quite useless as a means of escape. Presently the rope began to jerk, then it tightened, soon the bight of it rose out of the sea and remained there--rigid. "Well done, Paul," exclaimed the skipper, when this was accomplished. "Now, Olly, you go first, you're light." But the boy hesitated. "No, father, you first," he said. "Obey orders, Olly," returned the skipper sternly. Without another word Oliver got upon the rope and proceeded to clamber along it. The operation was by no means easy, but the boy was strong and active, and the water not very cold. It leaped up and drenched him, however, as he passed the lowest point of the bight, and thereafter the weight of his wet garments delayed him, so that on nearing the shore he was pretty well exhausted. There, however, he found Paul up to the waist in the sea waiting for him, and the last few yards of the journey were traversed in his friend's arms. By means of this rope was every man of the _Water Wagtail's_ crew saved from a watery grave. They found that the island on which they had been cast was sufficiently large to afford them shelter, and a brief survey of it proved that there was both wood and water enough to serve them, but nothing of animal or vegetable life was to be found. This was serious, because all their provisions were lost with the wrecked portion of the ship, so that starvation stared them in the face. "If only the rum-kegs had been saved," said one of the men, when they assembled, after searching the island, to discuss their prospects, "we might, at least, have led a merry life while it lasted." "Humph! Much good that would do you when you came to think over it in the next world," said Grummidge contemptuously. "I don't believe in the next world," returned the first speaker gruffly. "A blind man says he doesn't see the sun, and don't believe in it," rejoined Grummidge: "does that prove that there's no sun?" Here Master Trench interposed. "My lads," he said, "don't you think that instead of talking rubbish it would be wise to scatter yourselves along the coast and see what you can pick up from the wreck? Depend on't some of the provisions have been stranded among the rocks, and, as they will be smashed to pieces before long, the sooner we go about it the better. The truth is, that while you have been wastin' your time running about the island, Master Burns and I have been doin' this, an' we've saved some things already--among them a barrel of pork. Come, rouse up and go to work--some to the shore, others to make a camp in the bush." This advice seemed so good that the men acted on it at once, with the result that before dark they had rescued two more barrels of pork and a barrel of flour from the grasp of the sea, besides some cases of goods which they had not taken time to examine. Returning from the shore together, laden with various rescued articles, Paul and Oliver halted and sat down on a rock to rest for a few minutes. "Olly," said the former, "what was that I saw you wrapping up in a bit of tarred canvas, and stuffing so carefully under the breast of your coat, soon after the ship struck?" "Mother's last letter to me," said the boy, with a flush of pleasure as he tapped his breast. "I have it safe here, and scarcely damaged at all." "Strange," remarked Paul, as he pulled a well-covered packet from his own breast-pocket; "strange that your mind and mine should have been running on the same subject. See here, this is _my_ mother's last gift to me before she died--a letter, too, but it is God's letter to fallen man." With great care the young man unrolled the packet and displayed a well-worn manuscript copy of a portion of the Gospel of John. "This is copied," he said, "from the translation of God's Word by the great Wycliffe. It was given to my mother by an old friend, and was, as I have said, her parting gift to me." The friends were interrupted in their examination of this interesting M.S. by the arrival of one of the sailors, with whom they returned to the encampment in the bush. CHAPTER THREE. FIRST EXPERIENCES ON THE ISLAND. A wonderfully picturesque appearance did these shipwrecked mariners present that night when, under the shelter of the shrubbery that crowned their small island, they kindled several camp-fires, and busied themselves in preparing supper. As there was no law in the island--and our skipper, having lost his ship, forbore to assert any right to command--every one naturally did what seemed right in his own eyes. As yet there had arisen no bone of contention among them. Of food they had secured enough for at least a few days. Fire they had procured by means of flint, steel, and tinder. A clear spring furnished them with water, and ships' buckets washed ashore enabled them to convey the same to their encampment. Fortunately, no rum-kegs had been found, so that evil passions were not stirred up, and, on the whole, the first night on the island was spent in a fair degree of harmony--considering the character of the men. Those who had been kindred souls on board ship naturally drew together on shore, and kindled their several fires apart. Thus it came to pass that the skipper and his son, the two mates, and Paul Burns found themselves assembled round the same fire. But the two mates, it is right to add, were only sympathetic in a small degree, because of their former position as officers, and their recent imprisonment together. In reality they were men of no principle and of weak character, whose tendency was always to throw in their lot with the winning side. Being a little uncertain as to which was the winning side that night, they had the wisdom to keep their own counsel. Oliver presided over the culinary department. "You see, I'm rather fond of cookin'," he said, apologetically, "that's why I take it in hand." "Ah, that comes of his bein' a good boy to his mother," said Master Trench in explanation, and with a nod of approval. "Olly was always ready to lend her a helpin' hand in the house at anything that had to be done, which has made him a Jack-of-all-trades--cookin' among the rest, as you see." "A pity that the means of displaying his powers are so limited," said Paul, who busied himself in levelling the ground beside the fire for their beds. "Limited!" exclaimed Trench, "you are hard to please, Master Paul; I have lived on worse food than salt pork and pancakes." "If so, father," said Oliver, as he deftly tossed one of the cakes into the air and neatly caught it on its other side in the pan, "you must either have had the pork without the pancakes or the pancakes without the pork." "Nay, Master Shallowpate, I had neither." "What! did you live on nothing?" "On nothing better than boiled sheepskin--and it was uncommon tough as well as tasteless; but it is wonderful what men will eat when they're starving." "I think, father," returned the boy, as he tossed and deftly caught the cake again, "that it is more wonderful what men will eat when they're _not_ starving! Of all the abominations that mortal man ever put between his grinders, I think the worst is that vile stuff--" He was interrupted by a sudden outbreak of wrath at the fire next to theirs, where Big Swinton, Grummidge, and several others were engaged, like themselves, in preparing supper. "There will be trouble in the camp before long, I see plainly enough," remarked Paul, looking in the direction of the disputants. "These two men, Swinton and Grummidge, are too well-matched in body and mind and self-will to live at peace, and I foresee that they will dispute your right to command." "They won't do that, Paul," returned Trench quietly, "for I have already given up a right which I no longer possess. When the _Water Wagtail_ went on the rocks, my reign came to an end. For the future we have no need to concern ourselves. The man with the most powerful will and the strongest mind will naturally come to the top--and that's how it _should_ be. I think that all the troubles of mankind arise from our interfering with the laws of Nature." "Agreed, heartily," replied Paul, "only I would prefer to call them the laws of God. By the way, Master Trench, I have not yet told you that I have in my possession some of these same laws in a book." "Have you, indeed?--in a book! That's a rare and not altogether a safe possession now-a-days." "You speak the sober truth, Master Trench," returned Paul, putting his hand into a breast-pocket and drawing forth the packet which contained the fragment of the Gospel of John. "Persecution because of our beliefs is waxing hotter and hotter just now in unfortunate England. However, we run no risk of being roasted alive in Newfoundland for reading God's blessed Word--see, there it is. A portion of the Gospel of John in manuscript, copied from the English translation of good Master Wycliffe." "A good and true man, I've heard say," responded the skipper, as he turned over the leaves of the precious document with a species of solemn wonder, for it was the first time he had either seen or handled a portion of the Bible. "Pity that such a friend of the people should not have lived to the age o' that ancient fellow--what's his name--Thoosle, something or other?" "Methuselah," said Paul; "you're right there, Master Trench. What might not a good man like Wycliffe have accomplished if he had been permitted to live and teach and fight for the truth for nine hundred and sixty-nine years?" "You don't mean to say he lived as long as that?" exclaimed the boy, looking up from his pots and pans. "Indeed I do." "Well, well! he must have been little better than a live mummy by the end of that time!" replied Oliver, resuming his interest in his pots and pans. "But how came you to know about all that Master Paul, if this is all the Scripture you've had?" asked Trench. "My mother was deeply learned in the Scriptures," answered Paul, "and she taught me diligently from my boyhood. The way she came to be so learned is curious. I will tell you how it came about, while we are doing justice to Oliver's cookery." "You must know, Master Trench," continued Paul, after the first demands of appetite had been appeased, "that my dear mother was a true Christian from her youth. Her father was converted to Christ by one of that noble band of missionaries who were trained by the great Wycliffe, and whom he sent throughout England to preach the Gospel to the poor, carrying in their hands manuscript portions of that Gospel, translated by Wycliffe into plain English. You see, that curious invention of the German, John Gutenberg--I mean printing by movable types--was not known at that time, and even now, although half a century has passed since the Bible was printed abroad in Latin, no one with means and the power to do it has yet arisen to print an English Bible, but the day is not far distant when that work shall be done, I venture to prophesy, though I make no pretence to be among the prophets! "Well, as I was going to say, the missionary was a hoary old man when he preached the sermon that turned my grandfather from darkness to light. My grandfather was just fifteen years old at that time. Ten years later the same missionary came to grandfather's house, worn out with years and labours, and died there, leaving all his treasure to his host. That treasure was a small portion of the New Testament in English, copied from Wycliffe's own translation. You may be sure that my grandfather valued the legacy very highly. When he died he left it to my mother. About that time my mother married and went to live on the banks of the Severn. Not far from our farm there dwelt a family of the name of Hutchins. The father had changed his name and taken refuge there during the recent civil wars. This family possessed a Latin Bible, and the head of it was well acquainted with its contents. It was through him that my mother became well acquainted with the Old as well as the New Testament, and thus it was that I also came in course of time to know about Methuselah, and a good many more characters about whom I may perhaps tell you one of these days." "So, then, this is the manuscript the old missionary carried about, is it?" said Trench, fingering the fragment tenderly. "Ay, and a good translation it is, I have been told by one whom most people would think too young to be a judge. You must know that this Mr Hutchins has a son named William, who is considerably younger than I am, but he is such a clever, precocious fellow, that before he left home for college I used to find him a most interesting companion. Indeed, I owe to him much of what little I have learned, for he is a wonderful linguist, being able to read Hebrew and Greek about as easily as Latin or English. He is at Oxford now--at least he was there when I last heard of him. Moreover, it was through the Hutchins' family, in a roundabout way, that _your_ mother, Olly, came to learn to write such letters as you have got so carefully stowed away there in your breast-pocket." "Good luck to the Hutchins' family then, say I," returned Olly, "for I'm glad to be able to read, though, on account of the scarcity and dearness of manuscripts, I don't have the chance of makin' much use of my knowledge. But you puzzle me, Paul. It was poor Lucy Wentworth who used to live with us, and who died only last year, that taught me to read, and I never heard her mention the name of Hutchins. Did you, father?" "No, I never did, Olly. She said she had lived with a family named Tyndale before she came to us, poor thing! She was an amazin' clever girl to teach, and made your mother good at it in a wonderful short time. She tried me too, but it was of no use, I was too tough an' old!" "Just so, Master Trench," rejoined Paul. "Hutchins' real name was Tyndale, and he had resumed the name before Lucy Wentworth went to live with the family. So, you see, Olly, you are indebted, in a roundabout way, as I said, to the Tyndales for your mother's letter. William will make his mark pretty deeply on the generation, I think, if God spares him." Little did Paul Burns think, when he made this prophetic speech by the camp-fire on that distant isle of the sea, that, even while he spoke William Tyndale was laying the foundation of that minute knowledge of the Greek and Hebrew languages, which afterwards enabled him to give the Bible to England in her own tongue, and that so ably translated, that, after numerous revisions by the most capable of scholars, large portions of his work remain unaltered at the present day. The night was far spent, and the other members of the camp had been long buried in slumber before Paul and Trench and Oliver could tear themselves away from the manuscript Gospel of John. The latter two, who knew comparatively little of its contents, were at first impressed chiefly with the fact that they were examining that rare and costly article--a book, and a forbidden book, too, for the reading of which many a man and woman had been burned to death in times past--but they became still more deeply impressed as Paul went on reading and commenting and pointing out the value of the Book as God's own "Word" to fallen man. "Here is a promise to rest upon," said Paul, as he finally closed the book and repeated the verse from memory, "Jesus said, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." "Ay, that's it, Paul--_free_! We're all slaves, more or less, to something or other. What we all want is to be _free_," said Master Trench, as he drew his blanket round him, pillowed his head on his cloak, and went to sleep. Silently Paul and Oliver followed his example, the fires died out, and in a few minutes the slumbering camp was shrouded in the mantle of night. Energetic action was the order of the next day, for those shipwrecked mariners knew well enough that nothing but hard and steady labour could enable them to live on an apparently desolate island. By daybreak most of the crew had scattered themselves along the shores, or over the interior, to spy out the land. About two hours later they began to drop into camp as hungry as hawks, each carrying the result of his researches in his arms or on his shoulders. "Well done, Squill!" said Paul, who chanced to be first back in camp, with a huge sail bundled up on his shoulder, and who, just then, was busy blowing up his fire; "got another barrel of pork, eh?" "It's myself as doesn't know, sur," answered Squill, "and it wasn't me as found it, but Jim Heron there. I only helped to sling it on the pole, and shoulder an end. It's aither pork or gunpowther, so if it ain't good for a blow out it'll be good for a blow up, anyhow." "Did you see little Oliver anywhere?" asked Paul. "Ay, sur, I saw him on the shore, bringing up what seemed to me the ship's bowsprit--anyhow, a spar o' some sort, about as big as he could haul along." "Just so," returned Paul, with a laugh, "a ridge-pole for our tent. He's a smart boy, little Olly." "Sure he's all that, sur, and more. Here he comes, blowin' like a porpoise." Sure enough, Oliver appeared at the moment, dragging a heavy spar behind him. Several of the men appeared at the same time, staggering through the bushes, with various loads of wreckage, which they flung down, and noisily began discussing their experiences as they lighted the fires and prepared breakfast. "Here comes Little Stubbs," cried Jim Heron. "What fortune, comrade?" "Good fortune, though my load is the lightest yet brought in." He flung down a small piece of wood with an air of satisfaction. "Why, it's only a boat's rudder!" said Oliver. "Ay, so it is, and the boat lies where I picked it up, but it was too heavy to bring into camp without your assistance, boy. And the best of it is that it's not much damaged. Very little repair will make her fit for sea again." This was indeed a find of immense importance, and the assembled party discussed the event in all its bearings till their mouths were partially stopped by pork and pancakes. In the midst of this they were interrupted by the arrival of Big Swinton, George Blazer, and Grummidge with another find, which afterwards cost them much trouble and regret--namely, a couple of young lads, natives, whom they led into camp with their wrists tightly bound behind their backs. CHAPTER FOUR. STRANGE VISITORS--DARK PLOTS--AND EVIL PURPOSES. The youths who had been captured were simple savages, with very little clothing, and with an expression of considerable alarm on their faces. As was afterwards learned, they had been coasting along the shore of the large neighbouring island in a canoe; had observed the strange fires in the night-time, and had crossed over the channel to see what could be the cause thereof. On reaching the highest part of the island they discovered some of the sailors, and turned to fly to their canoe, but Blazer had observed them, their retreat was cut off, and they were captured--not without a severe struggle, however, in which they were very roughly handled. Big Swinton, still smarting under the bruises and bites he had received in the scuffle, dragged them forward, and demanded angrily what was to be done to them. "What have they done?" asked Trench. "Done!--why, they have kicked and bitten like wildcats, and I doubt not have come over here to see what they can steal. In my opinion a thief deserves keel-hauling at the very least." Master Trench's mouth expanded into a very broad smile as he looked round the group of men. "D'ye hear that, lads, what _Master_ Swinton thinks ought to be done to _thieves_?" The men broke into a loud laugh, for even the most obtuse among them could not fail to perceive the humour of the skipper's look and question. "You have nothing more to do wi' the matter, Trench, than any one else has," returned Swinton. "I claim these lads as my prisoners, and I'll do with them what I please. No man is master now. Might is right on this island!" The words had scarcely been uttered when Big Swinton felt his right shoulder grasped as if in a vice, and next moment he was flung violently to the ground, while Paul Burns stood over him with a huge piece of wood in his hand, and a half-stern, half-smiling look on his countenance. The men were taken completely by surprise, for Paul had, up to this time, shown such a gentle unwarlike spirit that the crew had come to regard him as "a soft lump of a fellow." "Big Swinton," he said, in the mildest of voices, "as you have laid down the law that `might is right,' you cannot, of course, object to my acting on it. In virtue of that law, I claim these prisoners as mine, so you may get up and go about your business. You see, lads," he added, turning to the men, while Swinton rose and retired, "though I have no wish to domineer over you or to usurp authority. I have a right to claim that my voice shall be heard and my reasons weighed. As Swinton truly remarked, no man is master now, but as he followed this remark by making _himself_ master, and laying down a law for us, I thought it might be complimentary to him just to act, for once, under his law, and show him how well it works! Now, let me have a word with you. "It is evident that the land over there is peopled with savages who, probably, never saw white men before. If we treat these young fellows kindly, and send them away with gifts in their hands, we shall, no doubt, make friends of the savages. If we treat them ill, or kill them, their relations will come over, mayhap in swarms, and drive us into the sea. I drop the Swinton law of might being right, and ask you who are now the law-makers--which is it to be--kindness or cruelty?" "Kindness!" shouted by far the greater number of the audience, for even bad men are ready enough to see and admit the beauty of truth and justice when they are not themselves unpleasantly affected by these principles. The decision being thus made, Paul took the arm of one of the young Indians and led him gently towards his fire, while the men scattered to their several camps. Master Trench led the other youth in the same kindly way, and little Oliver, motioning to them to sit down, set before them two platters of pork and pancakes. This he did with such a benignant smile that the poor youths were obviously relieved from the dread of immediate and personal violence. After some glances of timid uncertainty they began to eat. "That's right," said Oliver, patting the bigger of the two on the shoulder, "you'll find the victuals pretty good, though you're not much used to 'em, mayhap." Of course the youths did not understand the words, but they understood and fully appreciated the feeling with which they were expressed. They also appreciated most powerfully the viands. At first they were greatly perplexed by the offer of knives and forks; but, after looking at these implements gravely for a few moments, they laid them gently down, and went to work in the natural way with fingers and teeth. After they had finished the food, and licked the platters clean, they were presented with several bright brass buttons, an old clasp-knife, a comb, and a kerchief or two, with which inestimable gifts they embarked in their canoe, and returned to the opposite shore. That day a most important discovery was made among the wreckage, namely, a case containing fish-hooks of various sizes and a number of lines. With these, and the boat repaired, Master Trench saw his way to prolonged existence on the island. "To tell ye the plain truth," he remarked to Little Stubbs, with whom he fell in while searching on the shore, "before this case of tackle was found, I had no hope at all of surviving here, for a few barrels of pork and flour could not last long among so many, and our end would have bin something awful; but now, with God's blessing, we may do well enough until we have time to think and plan for our escape." "But d'ye think, master," said Stubbs, "that we shall find fish in them waters?" "Find 'em! Ay, I make no doubt o' that, but we shall soon put it to the test, for the boat will be ready by to-morrow or next day at furthest, and then we shall see what the fish hereabouts think o' salt pork. If they take to it as kindly as the Indians did, we shall soon have grub enough and to spare." The natural tendency of man to bow to the best leader was shown immediately after the incident of the capture of the Indians, for Paul Burns was thence-forward quietly appealed to by most of the crew in all circumstances which required much consideration. Paul, being a law-respecting man, naturally turned to the skipper, whose decision was usually final, and thus Master Trench dropped, by general consent, into his old position of commander. But it must not be supposed that all the party acquiesced in this arrangement. There were men among that crew--such as Swinton, Blazer, Garnet, and others--who, either from false training, bad example, or warped spirits, had come to the condition of believing that the world was made for their special behoof; that they possessed that "divine right" to rule which is sometimes claimed by kings, and that whoever chanced to differ from them was guilty of arrogance, and required to be put down! These men were not only bad, like most of the others, but revengeful and resolute. They submitted, in the meantime, to the "might" of Paul Burns, backed as he was by numbers, but they nursed their wrath to keep it warm, and, under the leadership of Big Swinton, plotted the downfall of their rivals. Meanwhile, being unquestionably "in power," Master Trench, Paul, Oliver, Grummidge, Stubbs, and several of the well-affected, took possession of the boat when ready, and, inviting Swinton to join them--as a stroke of policy--pushed off, with hooks and lines, to make the first essay in the way of fishing on the now famous Banks of Newfoundland. Anchoring the boat in what they deemed a suitable spot, they went to work. "I wonder if they'll take to pork," remarked Stubbs, as he baited a large hook. "If they take to it as you do, we shall soon run short o' that article," said Swinton, dropping his hook into the water. "I have brought off some shellfish," remarked Master Trench. "They may prefer that." "So have I, father," said Oliver, whose bait was already at the bottom, "and if--hallo! hold on! hi! Oh! I say!" While the boy was thus ejaculating, in a state of blazing excitement, his arms, and indeed his body, to say nothing of his spirit, were being jerked violently by his line in a way that suggested something awful at the other end! "Have a care, Olly!" "Gently, lad!" "Hold on, boy!" "Let 'im run!" were among the contradictory pieces of advice given in various tones of warning, remonstrance, or simple recommendation; but Oliver heeded them not. Acting on his own judgment he drew his fish, or whatever it might be, gradually and carefully from the deep. "A mermaid it must be, to tug so hard," muttered Stubbs, as he and the others looked on with eager interest. "A mer_man_ if it's anything," said Squill; "sure there was never a maid in the say, or out of it, as would tug like that." "That depends," said Grummidge. "I've had 'em tuggin' at my heart-strings worse than that many a time." "Look out! Here it comes," cried Oliver, as something huge and white was seen to flash wildly in the green depths. "Have the cleek ready." "All ready, my boy," said his father, in a low voice, leaning over the side with a stick, at the end of which was a large iron hook. "Now then, father! Quick! Missed it? No! Hurrah!" For a moment it seemed as if Master Trench had got Neptune himself on his cleek, so severely did his stout frame quiver. Then he gave a tremendous heave--"ya-hoy!" and up came a magnificent cod--the first of a grand hecatomb of cod-fish which have since that day enriched the world, nauseated the sick with "liver oil," and placed Newfoundland among the most important islands of the British Empire. "Well done, Olly!" exclaimed the delighted father; but he had barely time to open his mouth for the next remark, when Squill uttered an Irish yell, and was seen holding on to his line with desperate resolve stamped on every feature. "That's the merman this time," cried Stubbs. "His gran'mother, no less," muttered Squill, in a strongly suppressed voice, while he anxiously hauled in the line. A shout from the other side of the boat here diverted attention. "Attacked front and rear!" cried Paul, with a hilarious laugh, "I shouldn't wonder if--hallo! N-no, it was only a nib--ha! there he is!" And, truly, there he was in a few minutes, another splendid cod in the bottom of the boat. To make a long story short, the boat was nearly filled with cod before the sun set, and that night was spent in general rejoicing and feasting on fish--with a second course of pork and pancakes for those who were insatiable. But the state of contentment did not last long. The very next day there was quarrelling as to who should go in the boat. To allay the contention, Trench and Paul volunteered to stay in camp and help the party that should be left to split and clean the fish, and erect tents and booths. Again the fishing was successful, but dissensions about the use of the boat soon became more violent than ever. Of course, in all this Master Trench and his friend Paul took a prominent part in trying to smooth matters, to the intense jealousy of Big Swinton and his sympathisers. In short, the camp ere long was divided into two hostile bands--the moderately bad and the immoderately wicked, if we may so put it. The first, who were few in number, sided with Trench and his friends; the second declared for Swinton. But the resolute bearing of Paul and the skipper, and the fact that the whole party was destitute of weapons (except clubs cut out of the bush, and a few clasp-knives), kept the larger and more vicious party in check. Swinton and his friends, therefore, had recourse to secret plotting; but, plot as they would, they had not sufficient brain-power among them to devise a method by which to free themselves of the men they envied. At last circumstances favoured them. It was found necessary to send men to the other side of the island to cut and fetch over some small trees that grew there, in order to make stages on which to dry their fish. As the operation would require part of two days, it was proposed to spend the night there. Swinton was to command the party, and Master Trench said, jestingly, that he and Master Burns, with Olly, would stay to guard the camp! The wood-cutting party was to start early the next day. Then a plan of revenge flashed into Big Swinton's mind. That night he revealed it to those of his friends whom he could trust, and who were necessary to his purpose. The night following--while the men around them should be sleeping at the other side of the island, and their enemies were alone in the camp--was fixed on for the execution of their purpose. CHAPTER FIVE. TURNED ADRIFT IN A FOREIGN LAND. It was a calm but very dark night when Swinton, Blazer, Garnet, Heron, Taylor, and several other men of kindred spirit, rose from their couches at the further end of the island, and, stealthily quitting the place, hastened back to their original camp. They reached it about midnight, and, as they had expected, found all quiet, for the so-called "guard" of the camp had been hard at work all day and were at that moment fast asleep. Paul and the captain, with Oliver, lay side by side under a tent which they had constructed out of broken spars and a piece of sailcloth. Their foes drew together not far from the spot. "Now, men," said Swinton, "this is a tough job we have in hand, for they are strong men, and the boy, albeit not big, is a very tiger-cat to fight. You see, if our plan was murder we could easily settle their business while they slept but that's not our plan. We are _not_ murderers--by no means!" "Certainly not," growled Blazer, with virtuous solemnity. "Well, that bein' so, we must take them alive. I will creep into the tent with you, Jim Heron, for you're big and strong enough. You will fall on Trench and hold 'im down. I'll do the same to Burns. Garnet will manage the boy. The moment the rest of you hear the row begin, you will jump in and lend a hand wi' the ropes. After we've got 'em all safe into the boat, we will pull to the big island--land them there, an' bid them a tender farewell!" "But surely you won't land them without a morsel to eat?" said Taylor. "Why not? They're sure to fall in wi' their _dear_ friends the savages, who will, doubtless, be very grateful to 'em, an' supply grub gratis! Now, lads, you understand what you've got to do?" "Ay, ay," was the response, in a low tone, as they moved cautiously away, like evil spirits, to carry out their wicked plans. "Fortune," it is said, "favours the brave," but in this case she did not thus bestow her favours, for the cowardly plan was successfully carried out. Before the sleepers were well awake, they were overwhelmed by numbers, secured and bound. They were not gagged, however, as no one was near to hear even if they shouted their loudest, which they knew it was useless to do. In a few minutes the three prisoners were hurried into the boat and rowed across the wide channel that separated the islet from the opposite shore. At that time it was not supposed, either by the original discoverers or those who immediately followed them, that Newfoundland was one large island--considerably larger than Ireland. Not till many a year afterwards did explorers ascertain that it was an island of about three hundred and seventeen miles in length, by about the same in breadth; but so cut up by deep bays, inlets, and fords as to have much the appearance of a group of islands. During their passage across the channel both Trench and Paul attempted to reason with Swinton, but that hardened villain refused to utter a word till their prisoners were marched up the shingly beach, and told to sit down on a ledge of rock under the steep cliffs, where innumerable sea-birds were screaming a clamorous welcome, or, perchance, a noisy remonstrance. "Now, my friends," said their foe, "as you are fond of commanding, you may take command o' them there sea-birds--they won't object!--and if ye fall in wi' your friends the savages, you may give them my love an' good wishes." "But surely you don't mean to leave us here without food, and with our hands tied behind us?" fiercely exclaimed Master Trench, whose wrath at any thing like injustice was always prone to get the better of his wisdom. "As to grub," answered Swinton, "there's plenty of that around, if you only exert yourself to find it. I won't cut your lashin's, however, till we are fairly in the boat, for we can't trust you. Come along, lads; and, Garnet, you bring the boy with ye." Under the impression that he was to be separated from his father and friend, and taken back again to the islet, poor Oliver, whom they had not thought it worth while to bind, struggled with a ferocity that would have done credit to the wildcats with which he had been compared; but Garnet was a strong man, and held him fast. "Take it easy, my boy," said Paul, who, being helpless, could only look on with intense pity. "Submit to God's will--we will pray for you." But Olly's spirit could by no means reach the submitting point until he was fairly exhausted. While they dragged him towards the boat, Taylor turned back and flung a small canvas bag at the captain's feet. "There, Master Trench," he said, "you'll find a lump o' pork in that bag to keep you goin' till ye get hold o' somethin' else. An' don't take on about the boy. _We_ don't want 'im, bless you. Why, we only want to prevent him settin' you free before we gets fairly away." This was true. When the boat was reached and the men were on board, ready to shove off, Garnet, still holding Olly fast by the arm, said, "Keep still, will you, and hear what Master Swinton has got to say?" "Now, you fiery polecat," said Swinton, "you may go and cut their lashin's, and take _that_ as a parting gift." The gift was a sounding box on the ear; but Olly minded it not, for while Garnet was speaking, as he stood knee-deep in the water close to the boat, he had observed an axe lying on one of the thwarts near to him. The instant he was set free, therefore, he seized the axe, and, flourishing it close past Garnet's nose, with a cheer of defiance he sprang towards the beach. Garnet leaped after him, but he was no match for the agile boy, who in another minute had severed Paul's bonds and placed the weapon in his hands. "Hallo! hi, you've forgot _me_. Cut my--ho!" But there was no occasion for Master Trench to cry out and struggle with the cords that bound him. A furious rush of Paul with the axe caused Garnet to double with the neatness of a hunted hare. He bounded into the boat which was immediately shoved off, and the sailors rowed away, leaving Paul to return and liberate the captain at leisure. Silently the trio stood and watched the receding boat, until it was lost in the darkness of the night. Then they looked at each other solemnly. Their case was certainly a grave one. "Cast away on an unknown shore," murmured the captain, in a low tone; as if he communed with his own spirit rather than with his companions, "without food, without a ship or boat--without hope!" "Nay, Master Trench," said Paul, "not without hope; for `God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in trouble,' so says His own Word, as my mother has often read to me." "It is well for you, Paul," returned the captain, "that you can find comfort in such words--I can find none. Stern realities and facts are too strong for me. How can I take comfort in unfulfilled promises? Here we are in trouble enough, surely. In what sense is God a `refuge' to us--or `strength,' or a `present help'? Why, we are left absolutely destitute here, without so much as a bite of food to keep our bodies and souls together." He spoke with some bitterness, for he was still chafing under the sense of the wrong which he had suffered at the hands of men to whom he had been invariably kind and forbearing. As he turned from Paul with a gesture of impatience his foot struck against the canvas bag of pork which the man Taylor had flung to him on leaving, and which had been forgotten. He stopped suddenly and gazed at it; so did Paul. "Looks like as if God had already helped us--at least to food--does it not?" said the latter. "It was Taylor helped us to that," objected Trench. "And who put it into Taylor's heart to help us?" asked Paul. "He is one of the worst men of our crew, so we can hardly say it was his own tenderness, and certainly it was not the devil who moved him to it. Am I wrong in holding that it was `Our Father'?" "I believe you are right, Paul. Anyhow, I have neither the capacity nor the inclination to dispute the point now. Pick up the bag, Olly, and come along. We must try to find some sort of shelter in which to spend the rest o' the night and consider our future plans." With a lighter heart and firmer faith, Paul Burns followed his leader, silently thanking God as he went along for thus far, and so opportunely, demonstrating His own faithfulness. They had to wander some time before a suitable camping spot was found, for that part of the Newfoundland coast on which they had been landed was almost inaccessible. The cliffs in many places rose sheer out of the water to a height of full three hundred feet. Only in a few places little strips of shingly beach lay between the base of the cliffs and the sea, so that the finding of an opening in those stupendous ramparts of rock was no easy matter in a dark night. At last they came to a place where the cliffs appeared to rise less precipitously. After careful clambering for some minutes they discovered a sort of gap in the rampart, up which they climbed, amid rugged and broken masses, until they reached a somewhat level plateau, or shelf, covered with small bushes. Here they resolved to encamp. "Whether it's the top o' the cliffs or not, there's no findin' out," remarked Trench, as he tried to survey the ground; "but whether or not don't matter, for it looks level enough to lie on, an' we're as like as not to break our necks if we try to go further." "Agreed," said Paul; "but now it occurs to me that our pork may be raw, and that we shall want fire to cook it. Have you got flint and steel in your pocket, Master Trench?" "Ay--never travel without it; but by ill-luck I've got no tinder. Flint and steel are useless, you know, without that." "If ill-luck troubles _you_," returned Paul, "good luck favours _me_, for I have got a bit of tinder, and--" "The pork's raw," exclaimed Oliver, who had been hastily investigating the contents of the canvas bag; "but, I say, there's more than pork here. There's a lot o' the little flour-cakes our cook was so fond of makin'." "Good. Now then let us have a search for wood," said Paul. "If we find that, we shall get along well enough till morning. But have a care, Olly, keep from the edge of the cliff. The ledge is not broad. Have an eye too, or rather an ear, for water as you go along." Success attended their search, for in a few minutes Paul and the captain returned with loads of dry branches, and Olly came back reporting water close at hand, trickling from a crevice in the cliffs. "Your shirt-front tells the tale, Olly. You've been drinking," said Paul, who was busy striking a light at the time. "Indeed I have; and we shall all be obliged to drink under difficulties, for we have neither cup nor mug with us." "Neither is wanted, boy, as I'll soon show you," said Paul. "Why, a bit of birch-bark, even a piece of paper, forms a good drinking vessel if you only know how to use it. Ha! caught at last," he added, referring to some dry grasses and twigs which burst into flame as he spoke. Another moment and a ruddy glare lit up the spot, giving to things near at hand a cosy, red-hot appearance, and to more distant objects a spectral aspect, while, strangely enough, it seemed to deepen to profounder darkness all else around. Heaping on fresh fuel and pressing it down, for it consisted chiefly of small branches, they soon had a glowing furnace, in front of which the pork ere long sputtered pleasantly, sending up a smell that might have charmed a gourmand. "Now, then, while this is getting ready let us examine our possessions," said the captain, "for we shall greatly need all that we have. It is quite clear that we could not return to our shipmates even if we would--" "No, and I would not even if I could," interrupted Oliver, while busy with the pork chops. "And," continued his father, regardless of the interruption, "it is equally clear that we shall have to earn our own livelihood somehow." Upon careful examination it was found that their entire possessions consisted of two large clasp-knives; a sheath hunting-knife; flint, steel, and tinder; the captain's watch; a small axe; a large note-book, belonging to Paul; three pencils; bit of indiarubber; several fish-hooks; a long piece of twine, and three brass buttons, the property of Oliver, besides the manuscript Gospel of John, and Olly's treasured letter from his mother. These articles, with the garments in which they stood, constituted the small fortune of our wanderers, and it became a matter of profound speculation, during the progress of the supper, as to whether it was possible to exist in an unknown wilderness on such very slender means. Olly thought it was--as a matter of course. Master Trench doubted, and shook his head with an air of much sagacity, a method of expressing an opinion which is eminently unassailable. Paul Burns condescended on reasons for his belief--which, like Olly's, was favourable. "You see," he said, wiping his uncommonly greasy fingers on the grass, "we have enough of pork and cakes here for several days--on short allowance. Then it is likely that we shall find some wild fruits, and manage to kill something or other with stones, and it cannot be long till we fall in with natives, who will be sure to be friendly--if not, we will make them so--and where _they_ can live, _we_ can live. So I am going to turn in and dream about it. Luckily the weather is warm. Good-night." Thus did our three adventurers, turning in on that giddy ledge, spend their first night in Newfoundland. CHAPTER SIX. DIFFICULTIES MET AND OVERCOME. The position in which the trio found themselves next morning, when daylight revealed it, was, we might almost say, tremendously romantic. The ledge on which they had passed the night was much narrower than they had supposed it to be, and their beds, if we may so call them, had been dangerously near to the edge of a frightful precipice which descended sheer down to a strip of sand that looked like a yellow thread two hundred feet below. The cliff behind them rose almost perpendicularly another hundred feet or more, and the narrow path or gully by which they had gained their eyrie was so steep and rugged that their reaching the spot at all in safety seemed little short of a miracle. The sun was brightening with its first beams an absolutely tranquil sea when the sleepers opened their eyes, and beheld what seemed to them a great universe of liquid light. Their ears at the same time drank in the soft sound of murmuring ripples far below, and the occasional cry of sportive sea-birds. "Grand! glorious!" exclaimed Trench, as he sat up and gazed with enthusiasm on the scene. Paul did not speak. His thoughts were too deep for utterance, but his mind reverted irresistibly to some of the verses in that manuscript Gospel which he carried so carefully in his bosom. As for Oliver, his flushed young face and glittering eyes told their own tale. At first he felt inclined to shout for joy, but his feelings choked him; so he, too, remained speechless. The silence was broken at last by a commonplace remark from Paul, as he pointed to the horizon--"The home of our shipmates is further off than I thought it was." "The rascals!" exclaimed the captain, thinking of the shipmates, not of the home; "the place is too good for 'em." "But all of them are not equally bad," suggested Paul gently. "Humph!" replied Trench, for kind and good-natured though he was he always found it difficult to restrain his indignation at anything that savoured of injustice. In occasionally giving way to this temper, he failed to perceive at first that he was himself sometimes guilty of injustice. It is only fair to add, however, that in his cooler moments our captain freely condemned himself. "`Humph!' is a very expressive word," observed Paul, "and in some sense satisfactory to those who utter it, but it is ambiguous. Do you mean to deny, Master Trench, that some of your late crew were very good fellows? and don't you admit that Little Stubbs and Squill and Grummidge were first-rate specimens of--" "I don't admit or deny anything!" said the captain, rising, with a light laugh, "and I have no intention of engaging in a controversy with you before breakfast. Come, Olly, blow up the fire, and go to work with your pork and cakes. I'll fetch some more wood, and Paul will help me, no doubt." With a good grace Paul dropped the discussion and went to work. In a few minutes breakfast was not only ready, but consumed; for a certain measure of anxiety as to the probability of there being an available path to the top of the cliffs tended to hasten their proceedings. The question was soon settled, for after ascending a few yards above their encampment they found an indentation or crevice in the cliff which led into an open spot--a sort of broader shelf--which sloped upwards, and finally conducted them to the summit. Here, to their surprise, they discovered that their new home, instead of being, as they had supposed it, one of a series of large islands, was in truth a territory of vast, apparently boundless, extent, covered with dense forests. Far as the eye could reach, interminable woods presented themselves, merging, in the far distance, into what appeared to be a range of low hills. "Newfoundland is bigger than we have been led to believe," said Paul Burns, surveying the prospect with great satisfaction. "Ay is it," responded Trench. "The fact is that discoverers of new lands, bein' naturally in ships, have not much chance to go far inland. In a country like this, with such a wild seaboard, it's no wonder they have made mistakes. We will find out the truth about it now, however, for we'll undertake a land voyage of discovery." "What! without arms or provisions, father?" asked Oliver. "What d'ye call the two things dangling from your shoulders, boy?" returned the captain, with some severity; "are these not `arms'? and have not woods--generally got lakes in 'em and rivers which usually swarm with provisions?" "That's so, father," returned the lad, somewhat abashed; "but I did not raise the question as a difficulty, only I've heard you sometimes say that a ship is not fit for sea till she is well-armed and provisioned, so I thought that it might be the same with land expeditions." Before the skipper could reply, Paul drew attention to an opening in the woods not far from them, where an animal of some kind was seen to emerge into an open space, gaze for a moment around it, and then trot quietly away. "Some of our provisions--uncooked as yet," remarked Oliver. "More of them," returned his father, pointing to a covey of birds resembling grouse, which flashed past them at the moment on whirring wings. "How we are to get hold of 'em, however, remains, of course, to be seen." "There are many ways of getting hold of them, and with some of these I am familiar," said Paul. "For instance, I can use the long-bow with some skill--at least I could do so when at school. And I have no doubt, captain, that you know how to use the cross-bow?" "That I do," returned Trench, with a broad grin. "I was noted at school as bein' out o' sight the worst shot in the neighbourhood where I lived. Indeed, I've bin known to miss a barn-door at twenty yards!" "Well, well, you must learn to shoot, that's all," said Paul, "and you may, perchance, turn out better with the sling. That weapon did great execution, as no doubt you know, in the hands of King David." "But where are we to get long-bows and cross-bows and slings?" asked Oliver eagerly. "Why, Olly, my boy, excitement seems to have confused your brain, or the air of Newfoundland disagrees with you," said Paul. "We shall make them, of course. But come," he added, in a more serious tone, "we have reached a point--I may say a crisis--in our lives, for we must now decide definitely what we shall do, and I pray God to direct us so that we may do only that which is right and wise. Are you prepared, captain, to give up all hope of returning to our shipmates?" "Of course I am," returned Trench firmly, while a slight frown gathered on his brow. "The few who are on our side could not make the rest friendly. They may now fight it out amongst themselves as best they can, for all that I care. We did not forsake _them_. They sent _us_ away. Besides, we could not return, if we wished it ever so much. No; a grand new country has been opened up to us, and I mean to have a cruise of exploration. What say _you_, Olly?" "I'm with 'ee, father!" answered the boy, with a nod of the head that was even more emphatic than the tone of his voice. With a laugh at Oliver's enthusiasm, Paul declared himself to be of much the same mind, and added that, as they had no boxes to pack or friends to bid farewell to, they should commence the journey there and then. "I don't agree with that," said the captain. "Why not, Master Trench?" "Because we have not yet made our weapons, and it may be that we shall have some good chances of getting supplies at the very beginning of our travels. My opinion is that we should arm ourselves before starting, for the pork and cakes cannot last long." This being at once recognised as sound advice, they entered the forest, which was not so thick at that place as it at first appeared to be. They went just far enough to enable them to obtain a species of hardwood, which the experienced eye of Paul Burns told them was suitable for bow-making. Here they pitched their camp. Paul took the axe and cut down several small trees; the captain gathered firewood, and Oliver set about the fabrication of a hut or booth, with poles, bark, turf, and leaves, which was to shelter them from rain if it should _fall_, though there was little chance of that, the weather being fine and settled at the time. The work which they had undertaken was by no means as easy as they had anticipated. Paul had indeed made bows and arrows in former years, but then all the materials had been furnished "in the rough" to his hands, whereas he had now not only to select the tree best adapted to his purpose, but had to choose the best part of it, and to reduce that portion from a massive trunk to suitably slender proportions. It was much the same with the arrows and cross-bow bolts. However, there was resolution and perseverance in each member of the party far more than sufficient to overcome such little difficulties; only, as we have said, they were slower about it than had been expected, and the work was far from completed when the descent of night obliged them to seek repose. "Not a bad little bower," remarked Paul, as they sat down to supper in the primitive edifice which Oliver had erected. The said bower was about four feet high, eight wide, and five deep, of irregular form, with three sides and a roof; walls and roof being of the same material--branchy, leafy, and turfy. The fourth side was an open space in which the inhabitants sat, facing the fire. The latter, being large enough to roast a sheep whole, was built outside. "Why, Olly, you're a selfish fellow," said the captain, during a pause in the meal; "you've thought only of yourself in building this bower. Just look at Paul's feet. They are sticking out ten or twelve inches beyond our shelter!" "That comes of his being so tall, daddy. But it does not matter much. If it should come on to rain he can draw his feet inside; there's room enough to double up. Don't you think so, Paul?" But Paul replied not, save by a gentle snore, for he was a healthy man, and child-like in many respects, especially in the matter of going off to the land of Nod the moment his head touched his pillow. Possibly the fresh air, the excitement, the energy with which he had wrought, and the relish with which he had supped, intensified this tendency on the present occasion. Oliver very soon followed his friend's example, and so Captain Trench was left to meditate beside the fire. He gazed into its glowing embers, or sometimes glanced beyond it towards an open space where a tiny rivulet glittered in the moonlight, and a little cascade sent its purling music into the still air. Ere long he passed from the meditative to the blinking stage. Then he turned his eyes on the sleepers, smiled meekly once or twice and nodded to them--quite inadvertently! After that he stretched his bulky frame beside them, and resigned himself to repose. Now, it is probable that we should have had nothing more to record in reference to that first night in Newfoundland if Captain Trench had been in the habit of taking his rest like ordinary mortals, but such was not his habit. He bounced in his sleep! Why he did so no one could ever find out. He himself denied the "soft impeachment," and, in his waking moments, was wont to express disbelief as well as profound ignorance in regard to the subject. Several broken beds, however, had, in the course of his career, testified against him; but, like the man who blamed "the salmon," not "the whisky," for his headaches, Trench blamed "the beds," not "the bouncing," for his misfortunes. One might have counted him safe with the solid earth of Newfoundland for his bed, but danger often lurks where least expected. Oliver Trench was not an architect either by nature or training. His bower had been erected on several false principles. The bouncing of a big man inside was too much for its infirm constitution. Its weak points were discovered by the captain. A bounce into one of its salient supports proved fatal, and the structure finally collapsed, burying its family in a compost of earth and herbage. With a roar that would have done credit to a native walrus, the captain struggled to free himself, under the impression that a band of savages had attacked them. All three quickly threw off the comparatively light material that covered them, and stood in warlike attitudes for a few seconds, glancing around for foes who did not exist! Then the roar of alarm was transformed into shouts of laughter, but these were quickly checked by a real foe who crept up insidiously and leaped on them unexpectedly. The half-extinguished fire, having been replenished by the falling structure--much of which was dry and inflammable--caught on the roof and flashed down into the interior. "Save the pork, lad!" shouted the captain, as he sprang out of the kindling mass. "Ay, ay, father," replied the son. Paul meanwhile grasped the half-finished bows and arrows in his arms, and thus their little all was rescued from the flames. Of course, the bower was utterly consumed, but that caused them little grief. Having extinguished the flames, they all lay down to finish off the night under a neighbouring tree, and even its architect became so oblivious of what had occurred that he employed the remainder of his slumbering hours in dreaming of the home in old England, and of that dear mother whose last letter was still carefully guarded in the pocket of the coat that covered his ardent little bosom. CHAPTER SEVEN. THEY BEGIN THEIR TRAVELS IN EARNEST. When their weapons were complete our three travellers started on their journey of exploration in the new-found land. Captain Trench armed himself with a strong, heavily-made cross-bow, and a birch-bark quiver full of bolts. Paul Burns carried a bow as long as himself, with a quiver full of the orthodox "cloth-yard shafts." Oliver provided himself with a bow and arrows more suited to his size, and, being naturally sanguine, he had also made for himself a sling with the cord he chanced to possess and the leathern tongue of one of his shoes. He likewise carried a heavy bludgeon, somewhat like a policeman's baton, which was slung at his side. Not content with this, he sought and obtained permission to carry the axe in his belt. Of course, none of the bolts or arrows had metal points; but that mattered little, as the wood of which they were made was very hard, and could be sharpened to a fine point; and, being feathered, the missiles flew straight to the mark when pointed in the right direction. "Now, captain," said Paul, on the morning they set out, "let's see what you can do with your cross-bow at the first bird you meet. I mean the first eatable bird; for I have no heart to kill the little twitterers around us for the mere sake of practice." "That will I right gladly," said Trench, fixing his bow and string, and inserting a bolt with a confident air. "And there's a chance, daddy! See! a bird that seems to wish to be shot, it sits so quietly on the tree." The seaman raised his weapon slowly to his shoulder, shut the wrong eye, glared at the bird with the other, took a long unsteady aim, and sent his bolt high over the creature's head, as well as very much to one side. "Might have been worse!" said the captain. "Might have been better," returned Paul, with equal truth. "Now it's my turn." The bird, all ignorant of the fate intended for it, sat still, apparently in surprise. Paul drew his cloth-yard shaft to his ear and let fly. It went apparently in search of the captain's bolt. "Now me!" cried the impatient Olly, in a hoarse whisper, as he placed a stone in the sling and whirled it round his head. His companions drew off! There was a "burring" noise as the stone sped on its mission and struck the tree-stem with a sounding crack, three yards from the bird, which, learning wisdom from experience, at last took wing. In anticipation of their chance coming round again, both Paul and the captain had got ready their artillery, and Oliver hastily put another stone in his sling. A look and exclamation of disappointment were given by each as the bird vanished, but just at that moment a large rabbit darted across their path. Whiz! twang! burr! went bolt and bow and stone, and that rabbit, pierced in head and heart, and smitten on flank, fell to rise no more. "Strange!" said Trench, in open-mouthed surprise, "I've often heard of coincidences, but I never did see or hear of the like of that." "All three to hit it at once!" exclaimed Paul. "Ay, and all three of us doin' our best to hit it, too," exclaimed Oliver. "Just so--that's the puzzle, lad," rejoined the captain. "If we had been tryin' to hit something else now, there would have been nothing strange about it! But to hit what we all aimed at--" Apparently the captain failed to find words adequately to express his ideas, for he did not finish the sentence; meanwhile Paul picked up the rabbit and attached it to his belt. After this, advancing through the woods in a north-westerly direction, they made for a somewhat elevated ridge, hoping to obtain from that point a more extended view of the land. Towards noon, feeling hungry, they began to look out for a suitable spot whereon to lunch, or rather to dine; for while travelling on foot in wild countries men usually find it convenient to take a very substantial meal about, or soon after, noon. "To have water handy," remarked Paul, as they stopped to look round, "is essential to comfort as well as cookery." "Look there, away to the nor'-west o' that bunch o' trees," said the captain, pointing to a distant spot, "there's a depression in the ground there; and from the lie o' the land all round I should say we shall find a stream o' some sort near it." "I hope so," said Oliver; "for I shall want water to wash the rabbit with, and I have a strong hope that we may find fish in the rivers of this land, and although my hooks are big, I think the fish may not be particular, seein' that they have never before been tempted in that way." "That's true, Olly; I hope you won't be disappointed. But what makes you want to wash the rabbit, my boy?" asked the captain; "it is not dirty?" "Perhaps not; but I don't quite relish the dirty work of cleaning out a rabbit before cooking it, so I want to try the plan of cutting it open, holding it under water, and scraping out the inside while in that position." "My son, you won't be so particular when you've been a few weeks huntin' in the wild woods. But what about the hair?" "Oh, we can singe that off, daddy." "What! singe off wet hair? And the skin--I doubt we might find that tough?" The young cook--for such he became to the exploring expedition--looked puzzled. "I never skinned a rabbit," he said, "but no doubt it is easy enough. I'll just cut it open at the head--or tail--and pull it off like a glove." "Not quite so easily done as that" remarked Paul, with a laugh; "but I happen to know something about skinning birds and beasts, Olly, so make your mind easy. I will show you how to do it." "You happen to know something about almost everything, I think," said the captain. "Tell me now, d'ye happen to know what sort o' beast it is that I see starin' at us over the bushes yonder?" "No, Master Trench, I do not; but it looks marvellously like a deer of some sort," said Paul, as he hastily fitted an arrow to his bow. But before he could discharge it the animal wisely retired into the shelter of its native wilds. By this time, having walked smartly, they had gained the crest of one of the lower ridges, or plateaus, that rose in gentle slopes from the rocky shore, and there, as had been anticipated, they found a small rivulet, such as Americans would call a creek, and Scotsmen a burn. It flowed in a north-easterly direction, and was broken by several small rapids and cascades. With a little shout of satisfaction, Oliver ran down to its banks, getting his hooks out as he went. Arriving at the margin of a deep pool, he bent over it and gazed earnestly down. The water was as clear as crystal, showing every stone at the bottom as if it had been covered merely with a sheet of glass, and there, apparently undisturbed by the intruder, lay several large fish. What they were he knew not--cared not. Sufficient for him that they seemed large and fat. His first impulse was to turn and shout the discovery to his companions; but seeing that they had already set to work to cut firewood a little higher up the stream, he checked himself. "I'll catch a fish first maybe," he muttered, as he quickly adjusted to his piece of cord one of the smallest cod-hooks he possessed. A few minutes sufficed for this; but when he was ready, it occurred to him that he had no bait. He looked around him, but nothing suitable was to be seen, and he was about to attempt the all but hopeless task of tearing up the soil with his fingers in search of a worm, when his eyes fell on a small bright feather that had been dropped by some passing bird. "Happy thoughts" occurred to people in the days of which we write, even as now, though they were not recognised or classified as such. Fly-fishing was instantly suggested to the eager boy. He had often tried it in Old England; why not try it in Newfoundland? A very brief period sufficed to unwind a thread from the cord, and therewith to attach the feather to the hook. He had no rod, and neither time nor patience to make one. Gathering the cord into a coil, such as wharfmen form when casting ropes to steamers; he swung it round his head, and hove his hook half-way across the glassy pool. The fish looked up at him, apparently in calm surprise--certainly without alarm. Then Olly began to haul in the hook. It was a fearful fly to look at, such as had never desecrated those waters since the days of Adam, yet those covetous fish rushed at it in a body. The biggest caught it, and found himself caught! The boy held on tenderly, while the fish in wild amazement darted from side to side, or sprang high into the air. Oliver was far too experienced a fisher not to know that the captive might be but slightly hooked, so he played it skilfully, casting a sidelong glance now and then at his busy comrades in the hope that they had not observed him. At last the fish became tired, and the fisher drew it slowly to the bank--a four- or five-pound trout at the very least! Unfortunately the bank was steep, and the boy found, to his distress, that the hook had only caught hold slightly of the fish's lip. To lift out the heavy creature with the line was therefore impossible, to catch hold of it with the hand was almost equally so; for when he lay down and stretched out his arm as far as possible, he could scarcely touch it with the end of his finger. "If it makes another dash it'll escape," muttered the anxious boy, as he slid further and further down the bank--a hairbreadth at a time. Just then the fish showed symptoms of revival. Olly could stand this no longer. He made a desperate grasp and caught it by the gills just as the hook came away. The act destroyed what little balance he had retained, and he went with a sharp short yell into the pool. Paul looked up in time to see his friend's legs disappear. He ran to the spot in considerable alarm, supposing that the boy might have taken a fit, and not knowing whether he could swim. He was relieved, however, to find that Olly, on reappearing, struck out manfully with one hand for a shallow place at the lower end of the pool, while with the other he pressed some object tightly to his bosom. "You don't mean to say," exclaimed Paul, as he assisted his friend out of the water, "that you went in for that splendid trout and caught it with your hands!" "You saw me dive," replied the boy, throwing the fish down with affected indifference, and stooping to wring the water from his garments as well as to hide his face; "and you don't suppose, surely, that I caught it with my feet. Come, look at the depth I had to go down to catch him!" Seizing his prize, Olly led his friend to the spot where he had fallen in, and pointed with a look of triumph to the clear, deep pool. At the moment a smile of intelligence lit up Paul's features, and he pointed to the extemporised fly-hook which still dangled from the bank. Bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, the successful fisher ran up to the encampment, swinging the trout round his head, to the surprise and great satisfaction of his father, who had already got the fire alight and the rabbit skinned. Need it be said that the meal which followed was a hearty one, though there was no variety save roast rabbit, roast trout, and roast pork, with the last of the cakes as pudding? "A first-rate dinner!" exclaimed Paul, after swallowing a draft of sparkling water from the stream. "Not bad," admitted Captain Trench, "if we only had something stronger than water to wash it down." Paul made no reply to this remark, but he secretly rejoiced in the necessity which delivered his friend from the only foe that had power to overcome him. "Now," remarked Paul, when he had finished dinner, "I will strengthen my bow before starting, for it does not send the arrows with sufficient force, and the only way to do that, that I can think of, is to shorten it." "And I will feather the last arrow I made," said Oliver, drawing the shaft in question out of his quiver. "Well, as my bow and bolts are all ship-shape and in perfect order, I will ramble to the top of the ridge before us and take a look out ahead." So saying the captain departed, and the other two were soon so deeply absorbed in their work and in conversation about future plans that they had almost forgotten him when a loud shout caused them to start up. On looking towards the ridge they beheld Captain Trench tossing his arms wildly in the air, and shouting and gesticulating violently. "Sees savages, I think," said Paul. "Or gone mad!" cried Olly. Catching up their arms, the two ran hastily to the top of the ridge, where they arrived perspiring and panting, to find that their excitable comrade had only gone into ecstasies about the magnificent scenery that had burst upon his sight. CHAPTER EIGHT. BEAUTIFUL SCENES AND STRANGE EXPERIENCES. And, truly, the scene which met their gaze was of a nature calculated to arouse enthusiasm in a much less ardent bosom than that of Captain Trench. A wide undulating country, studded with lakelets and rich with verdure, stretched away from their feet to the horizon, where a range of purple hills seemed to melt and mingle with cloudland, so that the eye was carried, as it were, by imperceptible gradations from the rugged earth up into the soft blue sky; indeed, it was difficult to distinguish where the former ended and the latter began. The lakes and ponds were gay with yellow water-lilies, and the air was musical with the sweet cries of wildfowl; while the noon-tide sun bathed the whole in a golden glory. The effect of such a sight on our wanderers was at first too powerful for words, and when words did burst forth they served to show how wonderfully diverse are the spirits of men. Captain Trench, as we have seen, was moved by this vision of beauty to shout, almost to dance, with delight, while in thought he bounded over the length and breadth of the new land, taking bearings, and making notes and charts with the view of extending the geographical knowledge of mankind! His son Oliver, on the other hand, allowed his imagination to revel freely through the forests and over the hills and across lakes and savannahs in powerful sympathy with the aspirations which must have animated Nimrod; while to Paul Burns, whose temperament was sedate and earnest, as well as cheerful and hearty, the glorious vision at once suggested thoughts of that tranquil home in which man's lot was originally cast by the loving heart of God. "Now it is quite plain," said Trench, as they slowly descended into this beautiful scene, "that this land is no collection of small islands, as we have been led to suppose, but a great land full of all that is needful to make it the happy abode of man." "Just so, daddy!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Oliver, "and _we_ have been sent to explore it and carry home the news--perhaps to bring out the first settlers and show them the way!" "Why, Olly, you carry too much sail for so small a craft; you look out rather too far ahead. And what mean ye by saying we are sent? Nobody sent us on this journey that I know of, unless you mean that Swinton-- the big scoundrel!--sent us." "Whatever Olly meant by the expression," interposed Paul, "I think he is right; for all men are sent by the Almighty, no matter where they go." "What! d'ye mean that men are sent by the Almighty whether they go to do good or evil?" "Ay, Master Trench, that is what I mean; they _are_ sent by Him, though not sent to _do evil_. Look here, don't you admit that God created all men and _sent_ them into this world?" "Of course I do." "And that He made you an Englishman, and so _sent_ you to England; and that He made you a sea-captain, and among other places _sent_ you to Newfoundland." "Well--I--I suppose He did," returned the captain, with that puzzled expression of countenance which was wont to indicate that his mind was grappling difficulties. "Well, then," continued Paul, "_being_ good, of course the Almighty sent us to _do_ good; but He also gave us free wills, which just means permission to do as we please; so it remains to be seen whether we will use our free wills in working with Him, or in _trying_ to work against Him, for, strange to say, we cannot really work against God, we can only _try_ to do it, and in so trying we establish the fact of our own wickedness; but His grand and good purposes shall be carried out in spite of us notwithstanding, for he can bring good out of evil." "Now, Paul, I've lost soundings altogether, and it's my opinion that you are foolishly talking about things that you, don't understand." "I never heard, Master Trench, that it was foolish to talk about what one does not understand! On the contrary, it is by talking of things that we don't understand that we manage at last to understand them. You had a deal of talking about navigation, had you not, before you understood it?" "Look 'ee here, lad," said Trench, stopping suddenly, with his legs planted firmly apart as though on the quarter-deck of his ship in a cross sea, while he drove his right fist into the palm of his left hand argumentatively. "Look 'ee here. How can it be possible that--that-- pooh! Come along, we'll never get on with our survey of the land if we dispute at this rate." The stout mariner turned away with an air of exasperation, and resumed his walk at a rapid pace, closely followed by his amused friend and son. This irreverent mode of dismissing a grave and difficult subject was not peculiar to Captain Trench. It has probably been adopted by those who shrink from mental effort ever since the days of Adam and Eve. Minds great and small have exercised themselves since the beginning of time on this perplexing subject--God's sovereignty and man's free will--with benefit, probably, to themselves. We recommend it in passing, good reader, to your attention, and we will claim to be guiltless of presumption in thus advising, so long as the writing stands, "Prove all things, and hold fast that which is good." Before the sun went down that night our explorers had plunged into the very heart of the beautiful country which we have described--now pushing through tangled underwood, or following the innumerable deer-tracks with which the country was seamed, or breasting the hill-sides, or making detours to get round small lakes, being guided, in a westerly direction, by a small pocket-compass which Captain Trench was fortunately in the habit of carrying with him wherever he went. No large lakes or broad rivers had yet been met with, so that up to this point the divergencies from the direct line had not been great. Thus they advanced for several days, subsisting on game and fish, chiefly the last, however; for their shooting powers were very defective, and Oliver was an ardent--too ardent--fisher. Their inability to shoot became at last a serious matter, for many arrows and bolts were lost, as well as much game. "Look, now, there's _another_ chance," whispered Paul, pointing to a plump willow-grouse that sat in a bush in front of them. "You try first, Master Trench." "An' _don't_ miss, daddy," said Oliver entreatingly; "there's only the bones of a rabbit left from this morning's breakfast." The captain took a fervently careful aim, but went far wide of the mark, to his intense chagrin. Paul then bent his bow, but without success, though his arrows stuck in a branch close under the bird, which, being very tame, only glanced down inquiringly. Oliver's arrow went over it, and the stone which he afterwards slang made such a rattling in the bush that the puzzled creature finally retired. "This is becoming serious," remarked the captain, with a face so solemn that Paul burst into a fit of laughter. "Ha! you may laugh, lad," continued Trench, "but if you were as hungry as I am you'd be more inclined to cry. D'ye think a stout man like me can sup heartily on rabbit bones?" "You've forgot, daddy, the four big trout I caught to-day." "So I have, Olly; well, come and let's have 'em cooked at once." The fish, which were really more than sufficient without the rabbit bones, were soon grilling over a huge fire under the canopy of a spreading birch-tree. When the skipper had disposed of enough to allay the pangs of hunger, he turned and said to his comrades, in a tone of marked decision-- "Now, mess-mates, I've been rummagin' my brains a bit, and the outcome of it is as follows:--`Whatever is worth doin' is worth doin' well,' as the old proverb puts it. If we are to explore this country, we must set about learning to shoot, for if we don't, we are likely to starve in the midst of plenty, and leave our bones to bleach in this beautiful wilderness." "True, Master Trench," remarked Paul, for the seaman had paused at this point; "thus far you and I think alike. What more have you to say?" "This I have to say, that I am resolved not to explore another fathom o' this land until I can make sure of hittin' the crown o' my cap with a cross-bow bolt at a reasonable distance; and I would advise you both to make the same resolution, for if you don't you will have to do your exploring without me." "Just so, captain," said Paul, putting the last morsel of fish into his mouth, with a sigh of contentment; "you are commander of this expedition. I will obey orders." "But what do you call a `reasonable' distance, daddy?" asked Oliver, with that pert cock of the head peculiar to insolent youths; "a yard, or a fathom?" "Well, now," continued Trench, ignoring the question, "we will set about it to-morrow morning, first thing after breakfast; stick up a target, retire to a _reasonable_ distance, and work away from morning till night, and every day till we become perfect." "Agreed, captain," said Paul; "but what about food?" "We will give Olly leave of absence for an hour or two daily to go and fish," said the captain; "that will keep us alive, coupled with what birds or beasts may come accidentally in front of our arrows." This plan, although proposed at first half in jest, was carried into operation next day, during the whole of which they practised shooting at a mark most diligently. At supper-time, over a couple of fine trout, it was admitted sadly by each that the progress made was very slight-- indeed, scarcely perceptible. Next night, however, the report was more favourable, and the third night it was felt that the prospect ahead was becoming hopeful; for, besides the improvement in shooting, two rabbits graced their supper, one having been arrested by an almost miraculous bolt when bolting; the other having been caught, unintentionally, by a stone similar to that which brought down the giant of Gath. The fact that skill had nothing to do with the procuring of either did not in the least detract from the enjoyment with which they consumed both. "Nothing is denied," they say, "to well-directed labour, and nothing can be done without it." Like most of the world's maxims, this is a partially erroneous statement; for many things are denied to well-directed labour, and sometimes amazing success is accorded to ill-directed and blundering efforts. Still, what truth does exist in the saying was verified by our three friends; for, after two weeks of unremitting, unwearied, persistent labour, each labourer succeeded in raising enormous blisters on two fingers of his right hand, and in hitting objects the size of a swan six times out of ten, at a "reasonable distance!" Having arrived at this state of proficiency with their weapons, they resumed their journey, fortified with a hearty breakfast, the foundation of which was fish, the superstructure willow-grouse interspersed with rabbit, and the apex plover. Not long after that the first deer was shot. It occurred thus:-- They were walking one beautiful morning slowly along one of the numerous deer-tracks of which we have already made mention, and were approaching the summit of a ridge at the very time that a herd of deer, headed by a noble stag, were ascending the same ridge from the opposite side. The little air that moved was blowing in the right direction--from the deer towards the travellers. As they topped the ridge about the same instant, the two parties stood suddenly face to face, and it would be difficult to determine which party looked most amazed. Facility in fitting arrows, etcetera, had been acquired by that time. The hunters were ready in a couple of seconds. The deer, recovering, wheeled about; but before they could take the first bound, "burr, twang, and whizz," sounded in their ears. The stone struck an antler of the stag, the arrow pierced his flank, the bolt quivered in his heart, and the monarch of the woods, leaping wildly into the air, fell dead upon the ground. "Well done, Master Trench!" shouted Paul, with a hearty cheer. As for Oliver, he uttered a squeal of delight, threw an uncontrollable somersault, and landed, sittingwise, on a bed of soft moss. This was a tremendous triumph and source of jubilation, and it soon became obvious to each that the other two had a hard struggle to keep their expressions of satisfaction within the limits of moderation; for not only had they now obtained the crowning evidence of their skill, but they were provided with a supply of meat which, if properly dried, would furnish them with food for many days to come. It was a striking and picturesque, though perhaps not an agreeable, sight to witness the party that night, in the ruddy light of the camp-fire, with sleeves rolled to the shoulders, and bloody knives in hands, operating on the carcase of the deer, and it was several hours past their usual supper-time before they felt themselves at liberty to sit down on a bed of spruce-fir branches and enjoy the luxury of rest and food. Next day, while proceeding slowly through the woods, chatting merrily over the incidents of the previous day, a sudden silence fell upon them; for out of the thick shrubbery there stalked a tall, noble-looking man of middle age. He was dressed in the garb of a hunter. Long yellow curls hung on his shoulders, and a heavy beard and moustache of the same colour concealed the lower part of a bronzed and handsome countenance. His bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle with good humour as he gazed inquiringly, yet sadly, at the astonished faces of the three travellers. CHAPTER NINE. THEIR NEW ACQUAINTANCE BECOMES INTERESTED AND PRACTICAL. The tall stranger who had thus suddenly presented himself bore so strong a resemblance to the vikings of old that Paul Burns, who was familiar with tales and legends about the ancient sea-rovers, felt stealing over him at the first glance a sensation somewhat akin to awe, for it seemed as if one of the sea-kings had actually risen from his grave to visit them. This feeling was succeeded, however, by one of intense surprise when the stranger addressed them in the English tongue. "I thought, years ago," he said, "that I had seen the last of white faces!" It immediately occurred to Oliver Trench that, as their faces were by that time deeply embrowned by the sun, the stranger must be in a bantering mood, but neither he nor his companions replied. They were too much astonished to speak or even move, and waited for more. "This is not a land where the men whose ruling ideas seem to be war and gold are likely to find what they want," continued the stranger, somewhat sternly. "Whence come ye? Are you alone, or only the advance-guard of the bloodthirsty race?" There was something so commanding as well as courtly in the tone and bearing of this extraordinary man, that Paul half involuntarily removed his cap as he replied: "Forgive me, sir, if astonishment at your sudden appearance has made me appear rude. Will you sit down beside us and share our meal, while I answer your questions?" With a quiet air and slight smile the stranger accepted the invitation, and listened with profound interest to Paul as he gave a brief outline of the wreck of the _Water Wagtail_, the landing of the crew, the mutinous conduct of Big Swinton and his comrades, and the subsequent adventures and wanderings of himself, Master Trench, and Oliver. "Your voices are like the echoes of an old, old song," said the stranger, in a low sad voice, when the narrative was concluded. "It is many years since I heard my native tongue from English lips. I had forgotten it ere now if I had not taken special means to keep it in mind." "And pray, good sir," said Paul, "may I ask how it happens that we should find an Englishman in this almost unheard-of wilderness? To tell you the truth, my first impression on seeing you was that you were the ghost of an ancient sea-king." "I am the ghost of my former self," returned the stranger, "and you are not far wrong about the sea-kings, for I am in very truth a descendant of those rovers who carried death and destruction round the world in ancient times. War and gold--or what gold represents--were their gods in those days." "It seems to me," said Captain Trench, at last joining in the conversation, "that if you were in Old England just now, or any other part of Europe, you'd say that war and gold are as much worshipped now-a-days as they ever were in the days of old." "If you add love and wine to the catalogue," said Paul, "you have pretty much the motive powers that have swayed the world since the fall of man. But tell us, friend, how you came to be here all alone." "Not now--not now," replied the stranger hurriedly, and with a sudden gleam in his blue eyes that told of latent power and passion under his calm exterior. "When we are better acquainted, perhaps you shall know. At present, it is enough to say that I have been a wanderer on the face of the earth for many years. For the last ten years my home has been in this wilderness. My native land is one of those rugged isles which form the advance-guard of Scotland in the Northern Ocean." "But are you quite alone here?" asked Captain Trench, with increasing interest. "Not quite alone. One woman has had pity on me, and shares my solitude. We dwell, with our children, on an island in a great lake, to which I will conduct you if you will accept my hospitality. Red men have often visited me there, but I had thought that the face of a white man would never more grieve my sight." "Is, then, the face of the white man so distasteful to you?" asked Paul. "It _was_; but some change must have come over me, for while I hold converse with you the old hatred seems melting away. If I had met you eight or ten years ago, I verily believe that I would have killed you all in cold blood, but now--" He stopped abruptly, and gazed into the flames of the camp-fire, with a grave, almost tender air that seemed greatly at variance with his last murderous remark. "However, the feeling is past and gone--it is dead," he presently resumed, with a toss of his head which sent the yellow curls back, and appeared at the same time to cast unpleasant memories behind him, "and I am now glad to see and welcome you, though I cannot help grieving that the white race has discovered my lonely island. They might have discovered it long ago if they had only kept their ears open." "Is it a big island, then--not a cluster of islands?" asked Trench eagerly. "Yes, it is a large island, and there is a great continent of unknown extent to the westward of it." "But what do you mean, stranger, by saying that it might have been discovered long ago if people had kept their ears open?" asked Paul. "It is well known that only a few years ago a sea-captain named Columbus discovered the great continent of which you speak, and that so recently as the year 1497 the bold mariner, John Cabot, with his son Sebastian, discovered these islands, which they have named Newfoundland." The stranger listened with evident interest, not unmingled with surprise, to this. "Of Columbus and Cabot I have never heard," he replied, "having had no intercourse with the civilised world for twenty years. I knew of this island and dwelt on it long before the time you say that Cabot came. But that reminds me that once, on returning from a hunting expedition into the interior, it was reported to me by Indians that a giant canoe had been seen off the coast. That may have been Cabot's ship. As to Columbus, my forefathers discovered the great continent lying to the west of this about five hundred years before he could have been born. When I was a boy, my father, whose memory was stored with innumerable scraps of the old viking sagas, or stories, used to tell me about the discovery of Vinland by the Norsemen, which is just the land that seems to have been re-discovered by Columbus and Cabot. My father used to say that many of the written sagas were believed to exist among the colonists of Iceland. I know not. It is long since my thoughts ceased to be troubled by such matters, but what you tell me has opened up the flood-gates of old memories that I had thought were dead and buried for ever." All that day the strange hunter accompanied them, and encamped with them at night. Next morning he resumed with ever-increasing interest the conversation which had been interrupted by the necessity of taking rest. It was evident that his heart was powerfully stirred; not so much by the news which he received, as by the old thoughts and feelings that had been revived. He was very sociable, and, among other things, showed his new friends how to slice and dry their venison, so as to keep it fresh and make it convenient for carriage. "But you won't require to carry much with you," he explained, "for the country swarms with living creatures at all times--especially just now." On this head he gave them so much information, particularly as to the habits and characteristics of birds, beasts, and fishes, that Paul's natural-historic enthusiasm was aroused; and Oliver, who had hitherto concerned himself exclusively with the uses to which wild animals might be applied--in the way of bone-points for arrows, twisted sinews for bowstrings, flesh for the pot, and furs for garments--began to feel considerable curiosity as to what the creatures did when at home, and why they did it. "If we could only find out what they think about," he remarked to the hunter, "we might become quite sociable together." What it was in this not very remarkable speech that interested their new friend we cannot tell, but certain it is that from the time it was uttered he took greater interest in the boy, and addressed many of his remarks and explanations to him. There was a species of dignity about this strange being which prevented undue familiarity either with or by him; hence, he always addressed the boy by his full name, and never condescended to "Olly!" The name by which he himself chose to be called was Hendrick, but whether that was a real or assumed name of course they had no means of knowing. Continuing to advance through a most beautiful country, the party came at last to a river of considerable size and depth, up the banks of which they travelled for several days. Hendrick had by tacit agreement assumed the leadership of the party, because, being intimately acquainted with the land, both as to its character, form, and resources, he was naturally fitted to be their guide. "It seems to me," said Captain Trench, as they sat down to rest one afternoon on a sunny bank by the river side--out of which Olly had just pulled a magnificent trout--"that the climate of this island has been grossly misrepresented. The report was brought to us that it was a wild barren land, always enveloped in thick fogs; whereas, although I am bound to say we found fogs enough on the coast we have found nothing but beauty, sunshine, and fertility in the interior." "Does not this arise from the tendency of mankind to found and form opinions on insufficient knowledge?" said Hendrick. "Even the Indians among whom I dwell are prone to this error. If your discoverer Cabot had dwelt as many years as I have in this great island, he would have told you that it has a splendid climate, and is admirably adapted for the abode of man. Just look around you--the region which extends from your feet to the horizon in all directions is watered as you see by lakes and rivers, which swarm with fish and are alive with wildfowl; the woods, which are largely composed of magnificent and useful trees, give shelter to myriads of animals suitable for food to man; the soil is excellent, and the grazing lands would maintain thousands of cattle-- what more could man desire?" "Nothing more," answered Paul, "save the opportunity to utilise it all, and the blessing of God upon his efforts." "The opportunity to utilise it won't be long of coming, now that the facts about it are known, or soon to be made known, by us," remarked Trench. "I'm not so sure about that" said Paul. "It is wonderful how slow men are to believe, and still more wonderful how slow they are to act." That the captain's hopes were not well founded, and that Paul's doubts were justified, is amply proved by the history of Newfoundland. At first its character was misunderstood; then, when its unparalleled cod-fishing banks were discovered, attention was entirely confined to its rugged shores. After that the trade fell into the hands of selfish and unprincipled monopolists, who wilfully misrepresented the nature of this island, and prevailed on the British Government to enact repressive laws, which effectually prevented colonisation. Then prejudice, privileges, and error perpetuated the evil state of things, so that the true character of the land was not known until the present century; its grand interior was not systematically explored till only a few years ago, and thus it comes to pass that even at the present day one of the finest islands belonging to the British Crown--as regards vast portions of its interior--still remains a beautiful wilderness unused by man. But with this we have nothing at present to do. Our business is, in spirit, to follow Hendrick and his friends through that wilderness, as it was at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Deer-tracks, as we have said, were innumerable, and along one of those tracks a herd of deer were seen trotting one day about two bow-shots from the party. With characteristic eagerness Oliver Trench hastily let fly an arrow at them. He might as well have let it fly at the pole-star. The only effect it had was to startle the deer and send them galloping into the shelter of the woods. "_What_ a pity!" exclaimed Oliver. "Not so, my boy," remarked his father. "Experience, they say, teaches fools; and if experience has now taught you that it is foolish to shoot at game out of range, you are no fool, which is not a pity, but matter for congratulation." "But what about practice, daddy? Did you not say only last night that there is nothing like practice to make perfect?" "True, lad, but I did not recommend practising at deer beyond range. Besides, you can practise at stumps and stones." "But stumps and stones don't afford _running_ shots," objected Olly. "Yes they do, boy. You can run past the stumps while you shoot, and as to stones, you can roll them down hill and let fly at them as they roll. Now clap the hatches on your mouth; you're too fond of argument." "I'm only a chip of the ancient tree, father," retorted the boy, with a quiet laugh. How much further this little skirmish might have proceeded we cannot tell, for it was brought to an abrupt close by the sudden appearance of a black bear. It was on turning a cliff which bordered the edge of a stream that they came upon the monster--so close to it that they had barely time to get ready their weapons when it rose on its hind legs to attack them. "Look out!" yelled Oliver, who, being in advance, was the first to see the bear. A stone from his sling was well though hastily aimed, for it hit the animal fairly on the nose, thereby rendering it particularly angry. Almost at the same moment a bolt and an arrow flew from the weapons of Paul and Trench; but they flew wide of the mark, and there is no saying what the result might have been had not Hendrick bent his short but powerful bow, and sent an arrow to the feather into the creature's breast. The modern bullet is no doubt more deadly than the ancient arrow, nevertheless the latter had some advantages over the former. One of these was that, as it transfixed several muscles, it tended to hamper the movements of the victim shot. It also drew attention in some degree from the assailant. Thus, on the present occasion the bear, with a savage growl, seized the head of the arrow which projected from the wound and wrenched it off. This, although little more than a momentary act, gave the hunter time to fit and discharge a second arrow, which entered the animal's throat, causing it to fall writhing on the ground, while Oliver, who had gone almost mad with excitement, grasped his axe, bounded forward, and brought it down on bruin's skull. Well was it for the reckless boy that Hendrick's arrows had done their work, for, although his young arm was stout and the axe sharp, little impression was made on the hard-headed creature by the blow. Hendrick's knife, however, completed the work and despatched the bear. Then they all sat down to rest while the hunter set to work to skin the animal. CHAPTER TEN. OLLY'S FIRST SALMON AND HENDRICK'S HOME. From this time forward the opportunities for hunting and fishing became so numerous that poor Oliver was kept in a constantly bubbling-over condition of excitement, and his father had to restrain him a good deal in order to prevent the larder from being greatly overstocked. One afternoon they came to a river which their guide told them was one of the largest in the country. "It flows out of the lake, on one of the islands of which I have built my home." "May I ask," said Paul, with some hesitation, "if your wife came with you from the Shetland Isles?" A profoundly sad expression flitted across the hunter's countenance. "No," he replied. "Trueheart, as she is named in the Micmac tongue, is a native of this island--at least her mother was; but her father, I have been told, was a white man--a wanderer like myself--who came in an open boat from no one knows where, and cast his lot among the Indians, one of whom he married. Both parents are dead. I never saw them; but my wife, I think, must resemble her white father in many respects. My children are like her. Look now, Oliver," he said, as if desirous of changing the subject, "yonder is a pool in which it will be worth while to cast your hook. You will find something larger there than you have yet caught in the smaller streams. Get ready. I will find bait for you." Olly needed no urging. His cod-hook and line, being always handy, were arranged in a few minutes, and his friend, turning up the sod with a piece of wood, soon procured several large worms, which were duly impaled, until they formed a bunch on the hook. With this the lad hurried eagerly to the edge of a magnificent pool, where the oily ripples and curling eddies, as well as the great depth, effectually concealed the bottom from view. He was about to whirl the bunch of worms round his head, preparatory to a grand heave, when he was arrested by the guide. "Stay, Oliver; you will need a rod for this river. Without one you will be apt to lose your fish. I will cut one." So saying, he went into the woods that bordered the pool, and soon returned with what seemed to the boy to be a small tree about fourteen feet long. "Why, Hendrick, do you take me for Goliath, who as Paul Burns tells us, was brought down by a stone from the sling of David? I'll never be able to fish with that." "Oliver," returned the hunter gravely, as he continued the peeling of the bark from the rod, "a lad with strong limbs and a stout heart should never use the words `not able' till he has tried. I have seen many promising and goodly young men come to wreck because `I can't' was too often on their lips. You never know what you can do till you try." The boy listened to this reproof with a slight feeling of displeasure, for he felt in his heart that he was not one of those lazy fellows to whom his friend referred. However, he wisely said nothing, but Hendrick observed, with some amusement, that his brow flushed and his lips were firmly compressed. "There now," he said in a cheery tone, being anxious to remove the impression he had made, "you will find the rod is lighter than it looks, and supple, as you see. We will tie your line half-way down and run it through a loop at the end--so!--to prevent its being lost if the point should break. Now, try to cast your hook into the spot yonder where a curl in the water meets and battles with an eddy. Do you see it?" "Yes, I see it," replied Olly, advancing to the pool, with the rod grasped in both hands. "It would be better," continued Hendrick, "if you could cast out into the stream beyond, but the line is too short for that, unless you could jump on to that big rock in the rapid, which is impossible with the river so high." Oliver looked at the rock referred to. It stood up in the midst of foaming water, full twenty feet from the bank. He knew that he might as well try to jump over the moon as attempt to leap upon that rock; nevertheless, without a moment's hesitation, he rushed down the bank, sprang furiously off, cleared considerably more than half the distance, and disappeared in the foaming flood! Hendrick was suddenly changed from a slow and sedate elephant into an agile panther. He sprang along the bank to a point lower down the stream, and was up to the waist in the water before Olly reached the point--struggling to keep his head above the surface, and at the same time to hold on to his rod. Hendrick caught him by the collar, and dragged him, panting, to land. Paul and his father had each, with a shout of surprise or alarm, rushed for the same point, but they would have been too late. "Olly, my son," said Trench, in a remonstrative tone, "have you gone mad?" "No, father; I knew that I could not jump it, but I've been advised never to say so till I have tried!" "Nay, Oliver, be just," said the guide, with a laugh. "I did truly advise you never to say `I can't' till you had tried, but I never told you to try the impossible. However, I am not sorry you did this, for I'd rather see a boy try and fail, than see him fail because of unwillingness to try. Come, now, I will show you something else to try." He took Oliver up the stream a few yards, and pointed to a ledge of rock, more than knee-deep under water, which communicated with the rock he had failed to reach. "The ledge is narrow," he said, "and the current crossing it is strong, but from what I've seen of you I think you will manage to wade out if you go cautiously, and don't lose heart. I will go down stream again, so that if you should slip I'll be ready to rescue." Boldly did Oliver step out upon the ledge; cautiously did he advance each foot, until he was more than leg-deep, and wildly, like an insane semaphore, did he wave his arms, as well as the heavy rod, in his frantic efforts not to lose his balance! At last he planted his feet, with a cheer of triumph, on the rock. "Hush, Olly, you'll frighten the fish," cried Paul, with feigned anxiety. "You'll tumble in again, if you don't mind," said his cautious father. But Olly heard not. The whole of his little soul was centred on the oily pool into which he had just cast the bunch of worms. Another moment, and the stout rod was almost wrenched from his grasp. "Have a care! Hold on! Stand fast!" saluted him in various keys, from the bank. "A cod! or a whale!" was the response from the rock. "More likely a salmon," remarked Hendrick, in an undertone, while a sober smile lit up his features. At the moment a magnificent salmon, not less than twenty pounds weight, leapt like a bar of silver from the flood, and fell back, with a mighty splash. The leap caused a momentary and sudden removal of the strain on the rod. Oliver staggered, slipped, and fell with a yell that told of anxiety more than alarm; but he got up smartly, still holding on by both hands. In fishing with the tapering rods and rattling reels of modern days, fishers never become fully aware of the strength of salmon, unless, indeed, a hitch in their line occurs, and everything snaps! It was otherwise about the beginning of the sixteenth century. It is otherwise still with primitive fishers everywhere. Oliver's line could not run; his rod was rigid, save at the point. The result was that it was all he could do to stand and hold on to his captive. The rod, bent down into the water, sprang up to the perpendicular, flew hither and thither, jerked and quivered, causing the poor boy to jerk and quiver in irresistible sympathy. At last a mighty rush of the fish drew the fisher headlong into the flood. "He'll be drowned or killed on the boulders below," gasped his father, running wildly down the bank of the river. "Don't fear," said Hendrick, as he ran beside him. "There is a shallow just above the boulders. We will stop him there." Paul Burns was already abreast of the shallow in question, and Oliver was stranded on it, but a deep rapid stream ran between it and the bank, so that Paul hesitated and looked eagerly about for the best spot to cross. "Follow me," cried Hendrick, "I know the ford." He led his comrade swiftly to a point where the river widened and became shallow, enabling them to wade to the tail of the bank at the top of which Oliver stood engaged in a double struggle--with the water that hissed and leaped around him, and the fish that still surged wildly about in its vain efforts to escape. As the three men waded nearer to him they got into shallower water, and then perceived that the boy had not lost his self-possession, but was still tightly grasping the butt of his rod. Just as they came up the salmon, in its blind terror, ran straight against the boy's legs. Olly fell upon it, let go the rod, and embraced it! Happily, his friends reached him at the moment, else the water that rushed over his head would have compelled him to let go--or die! Paul lifted him up. The great fish struggled in its captor's arms. It was slippery as an eel, and its strength tremendous. No digging of his ten nails into it was of any use. Slowly but surely it was wriggling out of his tight embrace when Hendrick inserted his great thumbs into its gills, and grasped it round the throat. "Let go, Oliver," he said, "I've got him safe." But Olly would not let go. Indeed, in the state of his mind and body at the moment it is probable that he could _not_ let go. His father, having made some ineffectual attempts to clear the line, with which, and the rod, they had got completely entangled, was obliged to "stand by" and see that the entanglement became no worse. Thus, holding on each to the other and all together, they staggered slowly and safely to land with their beautiful prize. "Are there many fish like that in these rivers?" asked Paul, as they all stood contemplating the salmon, and recovering breath. "Ay, thousands of them in all the rivers, and the rivers are numerous-- some of them large," replied Hendrick. "This will be a great country some day, you take my word for it," said the captain, in a dogmatic manner, which was peculiar to him when he attempted amateur prophecy. That prophecy, however, like many other prophecies, has been only partly fulfilled. It has come true, indeed, that Newfoundland now possesses the most valuable cod-fishery in the world, and that her exports of salmon are considerable, but as to her being a great country--well, that still remains unfulfilled prophecy; for, owing to no fault of her people, but to the evils of monopoly and selfishness, as we have already said, her career has been severely checked. Not many days after the catching of the salmon--which remained a memorable point in the career of Oliver Trench--the explorers were led by Hendrick to the shores of a magnificent lake. It was so large that the captain at first doubted whether it was not the great ocean itself. "It is not the sea," said their guide, as he surveyed the watery expanse with evident enthusiasm. "It is a lake full fifty miles long, yet it is not the largest lake in this island. Taste its waters and you will find them sweet. Here," he added, with a look of gratification, "is my home." "God has given you a wide domain," said Paul, gazing with pleasure on the verdant islets with which the bay before him was studded. "Yet I cannot help thinking that it is a waste of one's life to spend it in a solitude, however beautiful, when the sorrowing and the suffering world around us calls for the active energies of all good men." The hunter seemed to ponder Paul's words. "It appears to me," he said at last, "that our Creator meant us to serve Him by making ourselves and those around us happy. I have to do so here, and in some degree have succeeded." As he spoke he raised both hands to his mouth and gave vent to a prolonged halloo that swept out over the calm waters of the bay. It was quickly replied to by a shrill cry, and in a few minutes a canoe, emerging from one of the islets, was seen paddling swiftly towards them. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE HUNTER'S HOME. The canoe, which approached the shores of the lake where our explorers stood, was a large one, built after the fashion of the coracle of the ancient Britons, namely, with a frame of wicker-work covered with deerskin. It was propelled with paddles by a woman seated in the stern and a little girl in the bow. "My wife is a woman of forethought," remarked Hendrick, with a pleased expression. "Seeing that we are a large party, she has not only brought our largest canoe, but has made Oscar get out the small one." He pointed to the island, from a creek in which a little canoe of a reddish colour was seen to issue. It was made of birch-bark, and was propelled by a small boy, who seemed from his exertions to be in urgent haste to overtake the other craft. "Your son, I suppose?" said Paul. "Yes, my eldest. His younger brother is but a babe yet. These, with my daughter Goodred, and my wife Trueheart, who are now approaching, constitute the family which God has given to me." A feeling of satisfaction filled the heart of Paul Burns as he listened to the last words, for they proved that their new friend was not among those who deem it weakness or hypocrisy in men to openly acknowledge their Maker as the Giver of all that they possess. This feeling was merged in one of surprise when the canoe touched the shore, and an exceedingly pretty child, with fair complexion, blue eyes, and curling hair, stepped lightly out, and ran to her father, who stooped to kiss her on the cheek. Hendrick was not demonstrative, that was evident; neither was his wife, nor his child. Whatever depth of feeling they possessed, the surface ran smooth. Yet there was an air of quiet gladness about the meeting which enabled Paul to understand what the hunter meant when, in a former conversation, he had said that he "made those around him happy." "Is baby well?" he asked quickly. "Yes, father, quite well, and I very sure wishing much that you come home soon. You been long time away." "Longer than I expected, Goodred. And I have brought friends with me," he added, turning to his wife. "Friends whom I have found in the forest, Trueheart." "You friends be welcome," said Trueheart, with a modest yet self-possessed air. The woman, who advanced and held out a small hand to be shaken in European fashion, was obviously of Indian extraction, yet her brown hair, refined cast of features, and easy manner, showed as obviously the characteristics of her white father. Though not nearly so fair as her child, she was still far removed from the deep colour of her mother's race. Before more could be said on either side the enthusiastic youngster in the bark canoe leaped ashore, burst into the midst of the group with a cheer, and began wildly to embrace one of his father's huge legs, which was about as much of his person as he could conveniently grasp. He was a miniature Hendrick, clad in leather from top to toe. The whole party now entered the canoes, skimmed over the lake, and past the wooded islets, towards the particular island which the hunter called "home." It was as romantic a spot as one could desire for a residence. Though only a quarter of a mile or so in diameter, the island, which was composed of granite, was wonderfully diversified in form and character. There was a little cove which formed a harbour for the hunter's canoes; bordering it was a patch of open ground backed by shrubs, above which rose a miniature precipice. The ground in the centre of the isle was rugged--as the captain remarked, quite mountainous in a small way! Hendrick had taught his children to call it the mountain, and in the midst of its miniature fastnesses he had arranged a sort of citadel, to which he and his family could retire in case of attack from savages. One peak of this mountainette rose in naked grandeur to a height of about fifty feet above the lake. Elsewhere the islet was wooded to the water's edge with spruce and birch-trees, in some places fringed with willows. On a few open patches were multitudes of ripe berries, which here and there seemed literally to cover the ground with a carpet of bright red. On the open ground, or lawn, beside the cove, stood the hunter's hut, a small structure of rounded logs, with a door, on either side of which was a window. From those glassless windows there was a view of lake and isles and distant woods, with purple mountains beyond, which formed a scene of indescribable beauty. Close to the door, forming, as it were, a porch to it, there stood a semi-circular erection of poles covered with birch-bark and deerskins, in front of which blazed the household fire, with a tripod over it, and a bubbling earthen pot hanging therefrom. Around the inner side of the fire, under the semi-circular tent, were spread a number of deerskins to serve as couches. On one of these sat an Indian woman, with the family babe in her arms. It was a wonderful babe! and obviously a wise one, for it knew its own father directly, stretched out its little arms, and shouted for instant recognition. Nor had it to shout long, for Hendrick, being fond of it and regardless of appearances, seized it in his arms and smothered it in his beard, out of which retreat crows and squalls of satisfaction thereafter issued. "Excuse me, friends," said Hendrick at last, delivering the child to its mother. "I have been absent on a visit to my wife's relations, and have not seen little Ian for a long time. Sit down, and we will see what cheer the pot contains. I don't ask you to enter the hut, because while the weather is mild it is pleasanter outside. When winter comes we make more use of the house. My wife, you see, does not like it, having been accustomed to tents all her life." "But me--I--likes it when the snow fall," said Trueheart, looking up with a bright smile from the pot, into which she had previously been making investigations. "True--true. I think you like whatever I like; at least you try to!" returned the hunter, as he sat down and began to tie the feathers on the head of an arrow. "You even try to speak good grammar for my sake!" Trueheart laughed and continued her culinary duties. "You told us when we first met," said Captain Trench, who had made himself comfortable on a deerskin beside the baby, "that you had taken special means not to forget your native tongue. Do I guess rightly in supposing that the teaching of it to your wife and children was the means?" "You are right, captain. Of course, the language of the Micmac Indians is more familiar and agreeable to Trueheart, but she is obstinate, though a good creature on the whole, and insists on speaking English, as you hear." Another little laugh in the vicinity of the earthen pot showed that his wife appreciated the remark. Meanwhile Goodred busied herself in preparing venison steaks over the same fire, and Oscar undertook to roast marrow bones for the whole party, as well as to instruct Oliver Trench in that delicate operation. While they were thus engaged the shades of evening gradually descended on the scene, but that did not interfere with their enjoyment, for by heaping fresh resinous logs on the fire they produced a ruddy light, which seemed scarcely inferior to that of day; a light which glowed on the pretty and pleasant features of the wife and daughter as they moved about placing plates of birch-bark before the guests, and ladling soup and viands into trenchers of the same. Savoury smells floated on the air, and gradually expelled the scent of shrub and flower from the banqueting-hall. Truly, it was a right royal banquet; fit for a king--if not too particular a king--to say nothing of its being spread before one who was monarch of all he surveyed, and served by his queen and princess! There was, first of all, soup of excellent quality. Then followed boiled salmon and roast sea-trout. Next came a course of boiled venison, fat and juicy, with an alternative of steaks and grilled ribs. This was followed by what may be styled a haunch of beaver, accompanied by the animal's tail--a prime delicacy--in regard to which Captain Trench, with his mouth full of it, said-- "This is excellent eatin', Master Hendrick. What may it be--if I may presume to ask?" "Beaver's tail," replied the hunter. "Dear me!" exclaimed Olly, withdrawing a roast rib from his mouth for the purpose of speech; "beavers seem to have wonderfully broad and flat tails." "They have, Oliver, and if you will try a bit you will find that their tails are wonderfully good." Oliver tried, and admitted that it was good; then, observing that little Oscar had just finished his fourth venison steak, he politely handed him the trencher. The greasy-fingered boy gravely helped himself to number five, and assailed it as if he had only just begun to terminate a long fast. There were no vegetables at that feast, and instead of bread they had cakes of hard deer's-fat, with scraps of suet toasted brown intermixed-- a species of plum-cake, which was greatly relished by the visitors. At the last, when repletion seemed imminent, they finished off with marrow bones. With these they trifled far on into the night. Of course as the demands of appetite abated the flow of soul began. "I see neither nets, hooks, nor lines about the camp, Hendrick," said Paul Burns, after the queen and princess had retired into the hut for the night. "How do you manage to catch salmon?" The hunter replied by pointing to a spear somewhat resembling Neptune's trident which stood against a neighbouring tree. "We spear them by torchlight," he said. "Oscar is a pretty good hand at it now." "You live well, Master Hendrick," remarked Trench, raising a bark flagon to his lips and tossing off a pint of venison soup, with the memory of pots of ale strong upon him. "Do you ever have a scarcity of food?" "Never; for the country, as you have seen, swarms with game. We dry the flesh of deer, otter, martens, and musk-rats, and store it for winter, and during that season we have willow-grouse and rabbits for fresh meat. Besides, in autumn we freeze both flesh and fish, and thus keep it fresh till spring, at which time the wildfowl return to us. The skins and furs of these creatures furnish us with plenty of clothing--in fact, more than we can use. The question sometimes comes into my mind, Why did the Great Father provide such abundance for the use of man without sending men to use it?--for the few Micmacs who dwell in the land are but as a drop in the ocean, and they totally neglect some things, while they waste others. I have seen them slaughter thousands of deer merely for the sake of their tongues and other tit-bits." "There is much of mystery connected with that, Master Hendrick, which we cannot clear up," remarked Trench. "Mystery there is, no doubt," said Paul quickly. "Yet there are some things about it that are plain enough to those who choose to look. The Word of God (which, by the way, is beginning to be circulated now among us in England in our mother tongue), that Word tells man plainly to go forth and replenish the earth. Common sense, from the beginning of time, has told us the same thing, but what does man do? He sticks to several small patches of the earth, and there he trades, and works, and builds, and propagates, until these patches swarm like ant-hills, and then he wars, and fights, and kills off the surplus population; in other words, slays the _young_ men of the world and sows misery, debt and desolation broadcast. In fact, man seems to me to be mad. Rather than obey God and the dictates of common sense, he will leave the fairest portions of the world untenanted, and waste his life and energies in toiling for a crust of bread or fighting for a foot of land!" "Some such thoughts have passed through my mind," said Hendrick thoughtfully, "when I have remembered that my ancestors, as I have told you, discovered this land, as well as that which lies to the west and south of it, long before this Columbus you speak of was born. But surely we may now expect that with all our modern appliances and knowledge, the earth will soon be overrun and peopled." "I don't feel very sanguine about it," said Paul, with a prophetic shake of the head. That Paul was justified in his doubts must be obvious to every reader who is aware of the fact that in the present year of grace (1889) there are millions of the world's fair and fertile acres still left untenanted and almost untrodden by the foot of man. "It's my opinion," remarked Captain Trench, with a blink of the eyes, induced possibly by wisdom and partly by sleep, "that you two are talking nonsense on a subject which is quite beyond the reach of man's intellect." "It may be so," replied Paul, with a laugh which merged into a yawn, "and perhaps it would be wiser that we should go to rest. Olly and Oscar have already set us a good example. What say you, Hendrick?" "As you please," answered the polite hunter. "I am ready either to sleep or to converse." "Then I will not tax your good-nature. We will seek repose. But what of our future movements? My sleep will be sounder if I could lie down with the assurance that you will continue to be our guide into the fertile interior of which you have said so much." "I will go with you," returned Hendrick, after a few moments' thought, "but I must ask you to spend a few days in my camp to rest yourselves, while I provide a supply of fresh meat and fish for my family; for, willing and able though Oscar is to provide for them, he is yet too young to have the duty laid upon his little shoulders." This having been satisfactorily settled, the captain and Paul wrapped themselves in deerskin blankets, and lay down with their feet to the fire. Hendrick, having heaped a fresh supply of fuel on the embers, followed their example, and the camp was soon buried in profound silence. CHAPTER TWELVE. A SURPRISE, A FIGHT, AND A WAR PARTY. At this point in our tale we might profitably turn aside for a little to dilate upon the interesting--not to say exciting--proceedings of our explorers and the hunter's family during the few days spent in the island home and its neighbourhood, were it not that incidents of a more stirring and important nature claim our attention. We might, if time and space permitted, tell how they all went fishing in the lake with Oliver's cod-hooks, which were, of course, greatly superior to the bone-hooks which Hendrick had been accustomed to manufacture; how they went salmon-spearing by torchlight in a neighbouring stream, in which operation Oliver soon became as expert as his entertainers, and even more enthusiastic, insomuch that he several times met what seemed to be his ordinary fate--a ducking in the water; how, in consequence, he caught a bad cold, as well as fish, and was compelled to lie up and be nursed for several days, during which time of forced inaction he learned to appreciate the excellent nursing qualities of Trueheart and her daughter Goodred. He also learned to estimate at its true value the yelling power of the family baby, whose will was iron and whose lungs were leather, besides being inflated by the fresh, wholesome air of the grand wilderness. We might tell of the short but thrilling expeditions undertaken by the men and boys in pursuit of bears, otters, beaver, and deer, in which Hendrick displayed the certainty of his deadly aim, and Master Trench the uncertainty of his dreadful shooting, despite all his former "practice." We might relate the interesting stories, anecdotes, and narratives with which the explorers and the hunter sought to beguile the pleasant periods that used to follow supper and precede repose, and describe the tremendous energy of Paul Burns in springing to the rescue of the self-willed baby when it fell into the fire, and the cool courage of Oliver Trench in succouring the same baby when it tumbled into the water. All this we might dilate on, and a great deal more--such as the great friendship struck up between Oscar and Oliver, and the intense interest expressed by Hendrick on finding that his friend Paul possessed a manuscript copy of the Gospel of John, and the frequent perusals of that Gospel over the camp-fire, and the discussions that followed on the great subjects of man's duty, the soul's destiny, and the love of God, as shown in and by Jesus Christ--but over all this we must unwillingly draw a curtain and leave it to the courteous reader's imagination, while we pass on to subjects which bear more directly on the issues of our tale. One day, some time after leaving Hendrick's camp on the great lake, Captain Trench and his son, with Paul Burns and the hunter, halted to rest on the summit of a cliff from which they could obtain a magnificent view of the country lying beyond. They had by that time passed over the rich grassland with its park-like plains, its lakes and streams and belts of woodland, and had entered upon that mountainous region which lies towards the southwesterly portion of the island. "Hendrick," said Paul, as he gazed with admiration on the wild scene before him, "I have now seen enough to know that this land is most suitable for the abode of man. The soil is admirable; the woods contain magnificent timber; fish, flesh, and fowl are plentiful; coal exists in, I should think, extensive fields, while there are indications in many places of great mineral wealth, especially copper. Besides this, the land, you tell me, is pierced by innumerable bays, inlets, fords, and natural harbours; and, to crown all, the climate, except on some parts of the coast, is exceedingly good. Now it seems to me that these facts ought to be made known in England, and that our King should not only take possession, but should send out colonists to settle all over this island and develop its resources. If permitted, it will be my part to finish this exploration and carry home the news." Hendrick did not reply for a few minutes, then a faint sigh escaped him as he replied-- "No doubt what you say is just, and I doubt not that these plains and hills will one day resound with the activities of civilised life: the plough will obliterate the deer-tracks, the axe will lay low the forests, and the lowing of cattle and the bark of dogs will replace the trumpeting of the wild-goose and the cry of plover; but when the change begins to come, I will strike my tent and go to the great unknown lands of the west, for I cannot bear the clatter and the strife of men." Paul was about to reply, when an arrow whizzed through the air, pierced the sleeve of his coat, scratched his left arm slightly as it passed, and quivered in a tree behind them. Leaping up, each member of the party sprang for shelter behind a neighbouring tree. At the same moment there arose a terrible cry, as of men rushing to attack each other. The form of the ground prevented our travellers from seeing the combatants, though the sound of their strife proved them to be close at hand. Suddenly Hendrick left the tree behind which he had taken shelter, and, running towards a precipitous bank or cliff, called to his companions to follow. They obeyed at once. "I fear," he said, as Paul ran up alongside of him, "that I know the meaning of this. Some of the voices sound familiar to me. That arrow was not, I think, discharged at us. We shall be wanted here. May I count on you?" "You may," said Paul. "I cannot doubt that your cause must be a just one." "I'm with you!" exclaimed Master Trench, plucking the hatchet from his son's belt--a weapon that the youngster could well spare, as the bludgeon and the bow were still left to him. Hendrick had spoken in quick, sharp tones, for he was evidently much excited. On reaching the crest of a rising ground he looked cautiously over it. "As I thought!" he said; "my wife's relations are attacked by savages from Labrador. Come, follow me!" He ran swiftly round the base of the rising ground, not giving his comrades time even to see the combatants to whom he referred. Suddenly they came in full sight of perhaps the most terrible sight that our fallen world can present--two bands of armed men, mad with rage, engaged in the fiendish work of butchering each other. In the immediate foreground two powerful Indians were struggling each to plant a short spear in the other's heart. One, who was shorter than the other but equally powerful, was making a desperate effort to wrench his right hand from his foe's grasp, and another foe was on the point of stabbing the short man in the back, when the white men appeared on the scene. Paul, the captain, and Oliver, although ready with arrow and bolt hesitated, for they knew not which to regard as foes, and which as friends. No such difficulty, however, interfered with Hendrick, who sent an arrow into the brain of the savage who meant to strike from behind. At the same instant the short warrior succeeded in his effort; his spear flashed upwards, and the next moment his tall enemy fell to rise no more. Hendrick, who seemed to have been transformed into a human tiger, rushed to the attack with a shout and a display of fury that for a moment arrested the fight. The short Indian, whose life he had just saved, bestowed on him and his companions one look of surprise, and joined him in the rush. Captain Trench, whose combative tendencies were easily aroused, joined them with a roar which was somewhat intensified by the fact that he was still a little uncertain as to which was "the enemy." Oliver relieved his overcharged bosom by an involuntary shriek or howl, that rose high and shrill above the tumult, as he followed suit, whirling his bludgeon with some difficulty round his head. The combined effect of all this was to strike terror into the enemy who, turning short round, fled precipitately, and were followed for a considerable distance by some of the victorious Indians. On returning from the pursuit, Hendrick introduced the short Indian as his wife's cousin, who, with a party of hunters, had been out for a supply of fresh meat when attacked by the Labrador savages. "It is an old feud," remarked Hendrick, as he and Paul sat a little apart that evening, while their comrades assisted the Indians to prepare supper; "an old feud. Oh! war--war! There is no place of rest from it, I fear, in this world." The hunter's tone was so sad that Paul looked at him inquiringly. "You are surprised," said his companion, "that I should long thus for escape from the warring passions of men, but if you knew what reason I have for hating war, you would not wonder. Listen! Many years ago I went with my wife and child to visit a kinsman in the Scottish Highlands. I need scarcely tell you that it was not my present wife and child. She was young, fair, faultless in person and disposition. Our little daughter resembled her in all respects. There chanced to be a miserable feud existing between my relative and a neighbouring chief. It originated in some disputed boundary, and always smouldered, like a subdued volcano, but occasionally broke forth in open warfare. At the time of my visit my kinsman, who was a bachelor, had gone to transact some business at a town not far distant, leaving a message for me to follow him as he required my assistance in some family arrangements, and meant to return home the same night. I went, leaving my wife and child in the castle. That very night my kinsman's foe--knowing nothing of my arrival--came to the castle, took the small body of defenders by surprise, overcame them, and set the place on fire. Fiendish and revengeful though the marauders were, I believe they would not wantonly have murdered the helpless ones, had they known of their being in the place, but they knew it not until too late. "When we returned that night the castle was a black smoking ruin, and my wife and little one had perished! Can you wonder that I fled from the horrible spot; that I left my native land for ever; and that I shudder at the very thought of strife?" "Nay, brother, I wonder not," said Paul, in a sympathetic tone; "but I fear there is no region on the face of this earth where the terrible war-spirit, or, rather, war-fiend, is not alive." "Why, the man whose life I took this very day," resumed Hendrick, clenching his right hand almost fiercely, "has doubtless left a woman at home who is now a widow, and it may be children, whom I have rendered fatherless! No rest--no rest anywhere from this constant slaying of our fellow-men; yet I was forced to do it to save the life of my wife's kinsman! Oh! is there no deliverance, no hope for this poor world?" "Hendrick," said Paul, laying his hand impressively on his friend's arm, "there _is_ deliverance--there _is_ hope. See here." He pulled out the manuscript Gospel as he spoke, and turning over the well-thumbed leaves, read the words-- "`Jesus saith... A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another... Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In My Father's house are many mansions.' Hendrick, this same Jesus, who is Immanuel, God with us, has said, `Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you _rest_.' `Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.' These latter words are not here, but they are in other scriptures which I have often heard read." "But how shall I know," said the hunter earnestly, "that these words are true--that they are the words of God?" For some time Paul made no reply, then suddenly, to the surprise of his friend, he looked upwards, and, in a low voice, said-- "O Holy Spirit of God, convince my friend that these words are Thine,-- in Jesus' name!" Then, turning to the hunter, he continued: "Come, let us examine this writing together." "Something of this have I heard before," said Hendrick, "and, as I thirst for light and truth, I will gladly examine it with you." Need we say that those two earnest men were soon engrossed in the study of the Word, and that the interruption of the evening meal did not prevent them from afterwards poring over the manuscript far into the night by the light of the camp-fire. Hendrick was well able to do so, for, like Paul, he had received a better education than fell to the lot of most men in those days. At first Captain Trench and his son had listened to the conversation and discussion of the students with much interest and the sturdy matter-of-fact mariner even ventured to put one or two puzzling questions to them; but by degrees their interest flagged, and at last taking example by the Indians, they rolled themselves in deerskin robes and sought repose. Continuing their journey next day, they were about to part from their Indian friends on the mountain ridge, from which a view of the Western ocean could be obtained, when they observed a band of Indians in the far distance travelling eastward. "On the war-path!" suggested Hendrick. After a prolonged gaze the kinsman of Trueheart came to the same conclusion, and said he felt sure that they were not from Labrador, but were evidently men of the Island. "Can you guess what they are going to do?" asked Hendrick. The Indian shook his head solemnly. "No, he did not know--he could not guess, and as they were separated by some miles of valleys, precipices, and mountain gorges, there was no possibility of finding out." After some time spent in speculation and guessing as to the intention of the war party, our explorers, bidding farewell to their red friends, proceeded on their journey, while the latter diverged to the southward, and continued their hunt after fresh meat. If Paul Burns and his friends had known the purpose of the warriors whom they had just seen, it is probable that they might not have slept quite as soundly as they did that night under the greenwood trees. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. UNLOOKED-FOR INTERRUPTIONS AND DIFFICULTIES. No elaborate dissertation is needed to prove that we are ignorant of what the morrow may bring forth, and that the best-laid plans of men are at all times subject to dislocation. It is sufficient here to state that immediately after parting from the Indians, Paul Burns and Captain Trench had their plans and hopes, in regard to exploration, overturned in a sudden and effective, though exceedingly simple, manner. On the evening of the day on which their travels were resumed they halted sooner than usual in order to have time to form their camp with some care, for the weather had suddenly become cold, and that night seemed particularly threatening. Accordingly they selected a spot surrounded by dense bushes, canopied by the branches of a wide-spreading fir-tree, and backed by a precipitous cliff, which afforded complete shelter from a sharp nor'-west gale that was blowing at the time. In this calm retreat they erected a rough-and-ready wall of birch-bark and branches, which enclosed them on all sides except one, where a glorious fire was kindled--a fire that would have roasted anything from a tom-tit to an ox, and the roaring flames of which had to be occasionally subdued, lest they should roast the whole encampment. There, saturated, so to speak, with ruddy light and warmth, they revelled in the enjoyment of a hearty meal and social intercourse until the claims of tired Nature subdued Captain Trench and Oliver, leaving Paul and Hendrick to resume their eager and sometimes argumentative perusal of the Gospel according to John. At last, they also succumbed to the irresistible influences of Nature, and lay down beside their fellows. Then it was that Nature--as if she had only waited for the opportunity--began to unfold her "little game" for overturning the sleepers' plans. She quietly opened her storehouse of northern clouds, and silently dropped upon them a heavy shower of snow. It was early in the season for such a shower, consequently the flakes were large. Had the cold been excessive the flakes would have been small. As it was, they covered the landscape by imperceptible but rapid degrees until everything turned from ghostly grey to ghastly white, which had the effect of lighting, somehow, the darkness of the night. But in the midst of the effective though silent transformation the camp of our explorers remained unchanged; and the dying embers of the slowly sinking fire continued to cast their dull red glow on the recumbent forms which were thoroughly protected by the spreading fir-tree. By degrees the morning light began to flow over the dreary scene, and at length it had the effect of rousing Oliver Trench from slumber. With the innate laziness of youth the lad turned on his other side, and was about to settle down to a further spell of sleep when he chanced to wink. That wink sufficed to reveal something that induced another wink, then a stare, then a start into a sitting posture, a rubbing of the eyes, an opening of the mouth, and a succession of exclamations, of which "Oh! hallo! I say!" and "Hi-i-i-i!" were among the least impressive. Of course every one started up and made a sudden grasp at weapons, for the memory of the recent fight was still fresh. "Winter!" exclaimed Paul and the captain, in the same breath. "Not quite so bad as that," remarked Hendrick, as he stepped out into the snow and began to look round him with an anxious expression; "but it may, nevertheless, put an end to your explorations if the snow continues." "Never a bit on't, man!" exclaimed the captain promptly. "What! d'ye think we are to be frightened by a sprinkling of snow?" To this Hendrick replied only with a gentle smile, as he returned and set about blowing up the embers of the fire which were still smouldering. "There is more than a sprinkling, Master Trench," observed Paul, as he began to overhaul the remnants of last night's supper; "but I confess it would be greatly against the grain were we to be beaten at this point in our travels. Let us hope that the storm won't last." "Anyhow we can go on till we can't, daddy," said Oliver, with a tremendous yawn and stretch. "Well said, my son; as you once truly remarked, you are a chip of the ancient log." "Just so, daddy. Don't quite finish that marrow bone; I want some of it." "There, you young rascal, I leave you the lion's share," returned the captain, throwing the bone in question to his son. "But now, Hendrick, what d'ye really think o' this state of things? Shall we be forced to give in an' 'bout ship?" "No one can tell," answered the hunter. "If the snow stops and the weather gets warm, all will be well. If not, it will be useless to continue our journeying till winter fairly sets in, and the snow becomes deep, and the rivers and lakes are frozen. In which case you must come and stay with me in my island home." "You are very good, Hendrick; but don't let us talk of givin' up till the masts go by the board. We will carry all sail till then," said the captain, rather gloomily, for he felt that the hunter knew best. This first snowfall occurred about the middle of October; there was, therefore, some reasonable prospect that it might melt under an improved state of the weather, and there was also the possibility of the fall ceasing, and still permitting them to advance. Under the impulse of hope derived from these considerations, they set forth once more to the westward. The prospect in that direction, however, was not cheering. Mountain succeeded mountain in irregular succession, rugged and bleak--the dark precipices and sombre pine-woods looking blacker by contrast with the newly-fallen snow. Some of the hills were wooded to their summits; others, bristling and castellated in outline, afforded no hold to the roots of trees, and stood out in naked sterility. Everywhere the land seemed to have put on its winter garb, and all day, as they advanced, snow continued to fall at intervals, so that wading through it became an exhausting labour, and Oliver's immature frame began to suffer, though his brave spirit forbade him to complain. That night there came another heavy fall, and when they awoke next morning it was found that the country was buried under a carpet of snow full three feet deep. "Do you admit now, Master Trench, that the masts have gone by the board," asked Paul, "and that it is impossible to carry sail any longer?" "I admit nothing," returned the captain grumpily. "That's right, daddy, never give in!" cried Oliver; "but what has Master Hendrick got to say to it?" "We must turn in our tracks!" said the hunter gravely, "and make for home." "Home, indeed!" murmured the captain, whose mind naturally flew back to old England. "If we are to get to any sort of home at all, the sooner we set about making sail for it the better." There was something in the captain's remark, as well as in his tone, which caused a slight flush on Hendrick's brow, but he let no expression of feeling escape him. He only said-- "You are right, Captain Trench. We must set off with the least possible delay. Will you and your son start off in advance to get something fresh for breakfast while Master Paul and I remain to pack up and bring on our camp equipage? Hunters, you know, should travel light--we will do the heavy work for you." The captain was surprised, but replied at once-- "Most gladly, Master Hendrick, will I do your bidding; but as we don't know what course to steer, won't we be apt to go astray?" "There is no fear of that, captain. See you yonder bluff with the bush on the top of it?" "Where away, Master Hendrick? D'ye mean the one lyin' to wind'ard o' that cliff shaped like the side of a Dutch galliot?" "The same. It is not more than a quarter of a mile off--make straight for that. You'll be sure to fall in with game of some sort between this and that. Wait there till we come up, for we shall breakfast there. You can keep yourself warm by cutting wood and kindling a fire." Rather pleased than otherwise with this little bit of pioneer work that had been given him to do, Trench stepped boldly into the snow, carrying his cross-bow in one hand, and the hatchet over his shoulder with the other. He was surprised, indeed, to find that at the first step beyond the encampment he sank considerably above the knees, but, being wonderfully strong, he dashed the snow aside and was soon hid from view by intervening bushes. Oliver, bearing his bow and bludgeon, followed smartly in his track. When they were gone Paul turned a look of inquiry on his companion. Hendrick returned the look with profound gravity, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes which induced Paul to laugh. "What mean you by this?" he asked. "I mean that Master Trench will be the better of a lesson from experience. He will soon return--sooner, perhaps, than you expect." "Why so--how? I don't understand." "Because," returned the hunter, "it is next to impossible to travel over such ground in deep snow without snow-shoes. We must make these, whether we advance or retreat. Meanwhile you had better blow up the fire, and I will prepare breakfast." "Did you not tell the captain we were to breakfast on the bluff?" "I did; but the captain will never reach the bluff. Methinks I hear him returning even now!" The hunter was right. A quarter of an hour had barely elapsed when our sturdy mariner re-entered the encampment, blowing like a grampus and perspiring at every pore! Oliver was close at his heels, but not nearly so much exhausted, for he had not been obliged to "beat the track." "Master Hendrick," gasped the captain, when he had recovered breath, "it's my opinion that we have only come here to lay down our bones and give up the ghost--ay, and it's no laughing business; Master Paul, as you'll find when you try to haul your long legs out of a hole three futt deep at every step." "Three futt deep!" echoed Oliver, "why, it's _four_ futt if it's an inch--look at me. I've been wadin' up to the waist all the time!" It need scarcely be said that their minds were much relieved when they were made acquainted with the true state of matters, and that by means of shoes that could be made by Hendrick, they would be enabled to traverse with comparative ease the snow-clad wilderness--which else were impassable. But this work involved several days' delay in camp. Hendrick fashioned the large though light wooden framework of the shoes--five feet long by eighteen inches broad--and Oliver cut several deerskins into fine threads, with which, and deer sinews, Paul and the captain, under direction, filled in the net-work of the frames when ready. "Can you go after deer on such things?" asked the captain one night while they were all busy over this work. "Ay, we can walk thirty or forty miles a day over deep snow with these shoes," answered Hendrick. "Where do the deer all come from?" asked Oliver, pausing in his work to sharpen his knife on a stone. "If you mean where did the reindeer come from at first, I cannot tell," said Hendrick. "Perhaps they came from the great unknown lands lying to the westward. But those in this island have settled down here for life, apparently like myself. I have hunted them in every part of the island, and know their habits well. Their movements are as regular as the seasons. The winter months they pass in the south, where the snow is not so deep as to prevent their scraping it away and getting at the lichens on which they feed. In spring--about March--they turn their faces northward, for then the snow begins to be softened by the increased power of the sun, so that they can get at the herbage beneath. They migrate to the north-west of the island in innumerable herds of from twenty to two hundred each--the animals following one another in single file, and each herd being led by a noble stag. Thus they move in thousands towards the hills of the west and nor'-west, where they arrive in April. Here, on the plains and mountains, they browse on their favourite mossy food and mountain herbage; and here they bring forth their young in May or June. In October, when the frosty nights set in, they again turn southward and march back to winter-quarters over the same tracks, with which, as you have seen, the whole country is seamed. Thus they proceed from year to year. They move over the land in parallel lines, save where mountain passes oblige them to converge, and at these points, I regret to say, my kinsmen! the Bethuck Indians, lie in wait and slaughter them in great numbers, merely for the sake of their tongues and other tit-bits." "There is no call for regret, Master Hendrick," said Captain Trench. "Surely where the deer are in such numbers, the killing of a few more or less don't matter much." "I think it wrong, captain, to slay God's creatures wantonly," returned the hunter. "Besides, if it is continued, I fear that the descendants of the present race of men will suffer from scarcity of food." That Hendrick's fears were not groundless has been proved in many regions of the earth, where wanton destruction of game in former days has resulted in great scarcity or extinction at the present time. In a few days a pair of snowshoes for each traveller was completed, and the party was prepared to set out with renewed vigour on their return to the hunter's home. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. TELLS OF A TREMENDOUS STORM AND A STRANGE SHELTER, ETCETERA. Proverbial philosophy teaches us that misfortunes seldom come singly. Newfoundland, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, does not seem to have been a place of refuge from the operation of that law. On the morning of the day in which the explorers meant to commence the return journey, a storm of unwonted rigour burst upon them, and swept over the land with devastating violence--overturning trees, snapping off mighty limbs, uplifting the new-fallen snow in great masses, and hurling it in wild confusion into space, so that earth and sky seemed to commingle in a horrid chaos. The first intimation the travellers had of the impending storm was the rending of a limb of the tree under which they reposed. The way in which Oliver Trench received the rude awakening might, in other circumstances, have raised a laugh, for he leaped up like a harlequin, with a glare of sudden amazement, and, plunging headlong away from the threatened danger, buried himself in the snow. From this he instantly emerged with an aspect similar to that of "Father Christmas," minus the good-natured serenity of that liberal-hearted personage. "Daddy!" he gasped, "are you there?" The question was not uncalled for, the captain having made a plunge like that of his son, but unlike his son, having found it difficult to extricate himself quickly. Paul and Hendrick had also sprung up, but the latter, remaining close to the stem of the tree, kept his eye watchfully on the branches. "Come here--quick!" he cried--"the stem is our safeguard. Look out!" As he spoke his voice was drowned in a crash which mingled with the shrieking blast, and a great branch fell to the ground. Fortunately the wind blew it sufficiently to one side to clear the camp. The air was so charged with snow particles that the captain and his son seemed to stagger out of a white mist as they returned to their comrades who were clinging to the weather-side of the tree. "D'ye think it will go by the board?" asked the captain, as he observed Hendrick's anxious gaze fixed on the swaying tree. "It is a good stout stick," replied his friend, "but the blast is powerful." The captain looked up at the thick stem with a doubtful expression, and then turned to Hendrick with a nautical shake of the head. "I never saw a stick," he said, "that would stand the like o' that without fore an' back stays, but it may be that shoregoin' sticks are--" He stopped abruptly, for a terrific crash almost stunned him, as the tree by which they stood went down, tearing its way through the adjacent branches in its fall, and causing the whole party to stagger. "Keep still!" shouted Hendrick in a voice of stern command, as he glanced critically at the fallen tree. "Yes," he added, "it will do. Come here." He scrambled quickly among the crushed branches until he stood directly under the prostrate stem, which was supported by its roots and stouter branches. "Here," said he, "we are safe." His comrades glanced upwards with uneasy expressions that showed they did not quite share his feelings of safety. "Seems to me, Master Hendrick," roared the captain, for the noise of the hurly-burly around was tremendous, "that it was safer where we were. What if the stem should sink further and flatten us?" "As long as we stood to windward of it" replied Hendrick, "we were safe from the tree itself, though in danger from surrounding trees, but now, with this great trunk above us, other trees can do us no harm. As for the stem sinking lower, it can't do that until this solid branch that supports it becomes rotten. Come now," he added, "we will encamp here. Give me the axe, Oliver, and the three of you help to carry away the branches as I chop them off." In little more than an hour a circular space was cleared of snow and branches, and a hut was thus formed, with the great tree-stem for a ridge-pole, and innumerable branches, great and small, serving at once for walls and supports. Having rescued their newly made snow-shoes and brought them, with their other property, into this place of refuge, they sat or reclined on their deerskins to await the end of the storm. This event did not, however, seem to be near. Hour after hour they sat, scarcely able to converse because of the noise, and quite unable to kindle a fire. Towards evening, however, the wind veered round a little, and a hill close to their camp sheltered them from its direct force. At the same time, an eddy in the gale piled up the snow on the fallen tree, till it almost buried them; converting their refuge into a sort of snow-hut, with a branchy framework inside. This change also permitted them to light a small fire and cook some venison, so that they made a sudden bound from a state of great discomfort and depression, to one of considerable comfort and hilarity. "A wonderful change," observed Trench, looking round the now ruddy walls of their curious dwelling with great satisfaction. "About the quickest built house on record, I should think--and the strongest." "Yes, daddy, and built under the worst of circumstances too. What puzzles me is that such a tree should have given way at all." "Don't you see, Olly," said Paul, "that some of its roots are hollow, rotten at the core?" "Ah! boy--same with men as trees," remarked the captain, moralising. "Rotten at the core--sure to come down, sooner or later. Lay that to heart, Olly." "If ever I do come down, daddy, I hope it won't be with so much noise. Why, it went off like a cannon." "A cannon!" echoed the captain. "More like as if the main-mast o' the world had gone by the board!" "What if the gale should last a week?" asked Olly. "Then we shall have to stay here a week," returned Hendrick; "but there's no fear of that. The fiercer the gale the sooner the calm. It won't delay us long." The hunter was right. The day following found the party _en route_, with a clear sky, bright sun, and sharp calm air. But the art of snow-shoe walking, though easy enough, is not learned in an hour. "They're clumsy things to look at--more like small boats flattened than anything else," remarked the captain, when Hendrick had fastened the strange but indispensable instruments on his feet--as he had already fastened those of the other two. "Now look at me," said Hendrick. "I'll take a turn round of a few hundred yards to show you how. The chief thing you have to guard against is treading with one shoe on the edge of the other, at the same time you must not straddle. Just pass the inner edge of one shoe over the inner edge of the other, and walk very much as if you had no snow-shoes on at all--so." He stepped off at a round pace, the broad and long shoes keeping him so well on the surface of the snow that he sank only a few inches. "Why, it seems quite easy," observed the captain. "Remarkably so," said Paul. "Anybody can do that," cried Oliver. "Now then, up anchor--here goes!" said the captain. He stepped out valiantly; took the first five paces like a trained walker; tripped at the sixth step, and went headlong down at the seventh, with such a wild plunge that his anxious son, running hastily to his aid, summarily shared his fate. Paul burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, lost his balance, and went down--as the captain said--stern foremost! It was a perplexing commencement, but the ice having been broken, they managed in the course of a few hours to advance with only an occasional fall, and, before the next day had closed, walked almost as easily as their guide. This was so far satisfactory. Our three travellers were quite charmed with their proficiency in the new mode of progression, when a sudden thaw set in and damped not only their spirits but their shoes. The netting and lines became flabby. The moccasins, with which Hendrick had supplied them from the bundle he carried for his own use, were reduced to something of the nature of tripe. The damp snow, which when rendered powdery by frost had fallen through the net-work of the shoes, now fell upon it in soft heaps and remained there, increasing the weight so much as to wrench joints and strain muscles, while the higher temperature rendered exertion fatiguing and clothing unbearable. "I wonder how long I can stand this without my legs coming off," said poor Oliver, giving way at last to a feeling of despair. "Seems to me to get hotter and hotter," growled his father, as he wiped the perspiration from his face with the tail of his coat--having lost the solitary handkerchief with which he had landed. "I'm glad the thaw is so complete," said Hendrick, "for it may perhaps clear away the snow altogether. It is too early for winter to begin in earnest. I would suggest now that we encamp again for a few days, to see whether the weather is really going to change; hunt a little, and rest a while. What say you?" With a sigh of contentment the captain answered, "Amen!" Paul said, "Agreed!" and Oliver cried, "Hurrah!" at the same time throwing his cap in the air. Two days after that they were enabled to continue the journey on snowless ground, with the unwieldy shoes slung at their backs. The change, although decidedly an improvement was not perfect, for the ground had been made soft, the rivers and rills had been swollen, and the conditions altogether were rendered much less agreeable than they had been on the outward journey. The travellers enjoyed themselves greatly, notwithstanding, and the captain added many important jottings in what he styled the log-book of his memory as to bearings of salient points, distances, etcetera, while Paul took notes of the fauna and flora, soils, products, and geological features of the country, on the same convenient tablets. "There can be no doubt about it," said the latter one morning, as he surveyed the country around him. "No doubt about what?" asked the captain. "About the suitableness of this great island for the abode of man," answered Paul; and then, continuing to speak with enthusiasm, "the indication of minerals is undoubted. See you that serpentine deposit mingled with a variety of other rocks, varying in colour from darkest green to yellow, and from the translucent to the almost transparent? Wherever that is seen, there we have good reason to believe that copper ore will be found." "If so," observed Hendrick, "much copper ore will be found on the sea-coast, on the north side of the island, for I have seen the same rocks in many places there." "But there are indications of other metals," continued Paul, "which I perceive; though my acquaintance with geological science is unfortunately not sufficient to make me certain, still, I think I can see that, besides copper, nickel, lead, and iron may be dug from the mines of Newfoundland; indeed, I should not wonder if silver and gold were also to be found. Of the existence of coal-beds there can be no doubt, though what their extent may be I cannot guess; but of this I am certain, that the day cannot be far distant when the mineral and forest wealth of this land shall be developed by a large and thriving population." "It may be as you say, Paul," remarked Captain Trench, with a dubious shake of the head; "but if you had lived as long as I have, and seen as much of the world and its ways, you wouldn't be quite so sanguine about the thriving population or the speedy development. You see, hitches are apt to occur in the affairs of men which cause wonderful delays, and tanglements come about that take years to unravel." If Captain Trench had been a professional prophet he could hardly have hit the nail more fairly on the head, for he indicated exactly what bad government has actually done for Newfoundland--only he might have said centuries instead of years--for its internal resources, even at the present time, remain to a very great extent undeveloped. However, not being a professional prophet, but merely an ancient mariner, the captain wound up his remark with a recommendation to hoist all sail and lay their course, as there was no saying how long the mild weather would last. For several days after this they plodded steadily onward, sometimes over the mountains or across the grassy plains, where migrating reindeer supplied them with abundant venison; at other times among lakelets and streams, whose excellent fish and innumerable wildfowl provided them with variety for the table and music for the ear. Now and then they saw the great moose-deer, which rivals the horse in size, and once Hendrick shot one, at a time when they chanced to have consumed their last caribou steak, and happened to enter a great forest without anything for supper in their wallets. For, occasionally, circumstances may render men supperless even when surrounded by plenty. At last they reached the great lake, with its beautiful islands, where Hendrick had set up his home. The hunter became very silent as they drew near to its shores. "You seem anxious," remarked Paul, as they approached the lake. "Have you reason to fear aught?" "None--none," replied his friend quickly; "but I never return after a long absence without feeling anxious." A loud halloo soon brought the echoing answer in the shrill voice of little Oscar, whose canoe quickly shot out from the creek. It was speedily followed by the deerskin boat, and, when near enough to be heard, the reply to Hendrick's anxious inquiry was the gratifying assurance--"All's well!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. GRUMMIDGE ASSERTS HIMSELF--GREAT DISCOVERIES ARE MADE AND THE CREW FLITS. We must turn aside now for a time to inquire into the doings of the crew of the _Water Wagtail_, whom we left on the little island off the eastern seaboard of Newfoundland. At first, when the discovery was made that the captain, Paul, and Oliver had been put ashore and left to take care of themselves without weapons or supplies, there was a disposition on the part of the better men of the crew to apply what we now style Lynch law to Big Swinton, David Garnet, and Fred Taylor. "Let's hang 'em," suggested Grummidge, at a meeting of the men when the culprits were not present. "Sure an' I'll howld the rope wid pleasure," said Squill. "An' I'll help ye," cried Little Stubbs. But Jim Heron shook his head, and did not quite see his way to that, while George Blazer protested against such violent proceedings altogether. As he was backed up by the majority of the crew, the proposal was negatived. "But what are we to do, boys?" cried Grummidge vehemently. "Are we goin' to be domineered over by Swinton? Why, every man he takes a dislike to, he'll sneak into his tent when he's asleep, make him fast, heave him into the boat, pull to the big island, land him there, and bid him good-bye. There won't be one of us safe while he prowls about an' gits help from three or four rascals as bad as himself." "Ay, that's it, boys," said Little Stubbs; "it won't be safe to trust him. Hang him, say I." Stubbs was a very emphatic little man, but his emphasis only roused the idea of drollery in the minds of those whom he addressed, and rather influenced them towards leniency. "No, no," cried the first mate of the _Water Wagtail_ who, since the wreck, had seldom ventured to raise his voice in council; "I would advise rather that we should give him a thrashing, and teach him that we refuse to obey or recognise a self-constituted commander." "Ah, sure now, that's a raisonable plan," said Squill with something of sarcasm in his tone; "an' if I might make so bowld I'd suggist that yoursilf, sor, shud give him the thrashin'." "Nay, I am far from being the strongest man of the crew. The one that is best able should do the job." The mate looked pointedly at Grummidge as he spoke; but Grummidge, being a modest man, pretended not to see him. "Yes, yes, you're right, sir, Grummidge is the very man," cried Stubbs. "Hear, hear," chorused several of the others. "Come, old boy, you'll do it, won't you? and we'll all promise to back you up." "Well, look 'ee here, lads," said Grummidge, who seemed to have suddenly made up his mind, "this man has bin quarrellin' wi' me, off an' on, since the beginning of the voyage, whether I would or not, so it may be as well to settle the matter now as at another time. I'll do the job on one consideration." "What's that?" cried several men. "That you promises, on your honour (though none o' you's got much o' _that_), that when I've done the job you agree to make me captain of the crew. It's a moral impossibility, d'ee see, for people to git along without a leader, so if I agree to lead you in this, you must agree to follow me in everything--is it so?" "Agreed, agreed!" chorused his friends, only too glad that one of the physically strongest among them--also one of the best-humoured--should stand up to stem the tide of anarchy which they all clearly saw was rising among them. "Well, then," resumed Grummidge, "I see Swinton with his three friends a-comin'. I'll expect you to stand by an' see fair play, for he's rather too ready wi' his knife." While he spoke the comrade in question was seen approaching, with Fred Taylor and David Garnet, carrying a quantity of cod-fish that had just been caught. "You've been holding a meeting, comrades, I think," said Swinton, looking somewhat suspiciously at the group of men, as he came up and flung down his load. "Yes, we have," said Grummidge, advancing, hands in pockets, and with a peculiar nautical roll which distinguished him. "You're right, Big Swinton, we _have_ bin havin' a meetin', a sort of trial, so to speak, an' as you are the man what's bin tried, it may interest you to know what sentence has bin passed upon you." "Oh indeed!" returned Swinton, with a look of cool insolence which he knew well how to assume, no matter what he felt. "Well, yes, it _would_ interest me greatly to hear the sentence of the learned judge--whoever he is." The fingers of the man fumbled as he spoke at his waist-belt, near the handle of his knife. Observing this, Grummidge kept a watchful eye on him, but did not abate his _nonchalant_ free-and-easy air, as he stepped close up to him. "The sentence is," he said firmly but quietly, "that you no longer presume to give orders as if you was the captain o' this here crew; that from this hour you fall to the rear and undertake second fiddle--or fourth fiddle, for the matter o' that; and that you head a party to guide them in a sarch which is just a-goin' to begin for the two men and the boy you have so sneakingly betrayed and put on shore--an' all this you'll have to do with a ready goodwill, on pain o' havin' your brains knocked out if you don't. Moreover, you may be thankful that the sentence is so light, for some o' your comrades would have had you hanged right off, if others hadn't seen fit to be marciful." While this sentence was being pronounced, Swinton's expression underwent various changes, and his face became visibly paler under the steady gaze of Grummidge. At the last word he grasped his knife and drew it, but his foe was prepared. Like a flash of light he planted his hard knuckles between Swinton's eyes, and followed up the blow with another on the chest, which felled him to the ground. There was no need for more. The big bully was rendered insensible, besides being effectually subdued, and from that time forward he quietly consented to play any fiddle--chiefly, however, the bass one. But he harboured in his heart a bitter hatred of Grummidge, and resolved secretly to take a fearful revenge at the first favourable opportunity. Soon after that the boat was manned by as many of the crew as it could contain, and an exploring party went to the spot where Captain Trench and his companions had been landed, guided thereto by Swinton, and led by his foe Grummidge, whose bearing indicated, without swagger or threat, that the braining part of the sentence would be carried out on the slightest symptom of insubordination on the part of the former. While this party was away; those who remained on the islet continued to fish, and to preserve the fish for winter use by drying them in the sun. We need scarcely add that the exploring party did not discover those for whom they sought, but they discovered the true nature of the main island, which, up to that time, they had supposed to be a group of isles. When the search was finally given up as hopeless, an examination of the coast was made, with a view to a change of abode. "You see, lads," observed Grummidge, when discussing this subject, "it's quite plain that we shall have to spend the winter here, an' as I was a short bit to the south of these seas in the late autumn one voyage, I have reason to believe that we had better house ourselves, an' lay in a stock o' provisions if we would escape bein' froze an' starved." "Troth, it's well to escape that, boys," remarked Squills, "for it's froze I was mesilf wance--all but--on a voyage to the Baltic, an' it's starved to death was me owld grandmother--almost--so I can spake from experience." "An' we couldn't find a better place for winter-quarters than what we see before us," said Garnet. "It looks like a sort o' paradise." We cannot say what sort of idea Garnet meant to convey by this comparison, but there could be no question that the scene before them was exceedingly beautiful. The party had held their consultation on the crest of a bluff, and just beyond it lay a magnificent bay, the shores of which were clothed with luxuriant forests, and the waters studded with many islets. At the distant head of the bay the formation or dip of the land clearly indicated the mouth of a large river, while small streams and ponds were seen gleaming amid the foliage nearer at hand. At the time the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky, and those thick fogs which so frequently enshroud the coasts of Newfoundland had not yet descended from the icy north. "I say, look yonder. What's Blazer about?" whispered Jim Heron, pointing to his comrade, who had separated from the party, and was seen with a large stone in each hand creeping cautiously round a rocky point below them. Conjecture was useless and needless, for, while they watched him, Blazer rose up, made a wild rush forward, hurled the stones in advance, and disappeared round the point. A few moments later he reappeared, carrying a large bird in his arms. The creature which he had thus killed with man's most primitive weapon was a specimen of the great auk--a bird which is now extinct. It was the size of a large goose, with a coal-black head and back, short wings, resembling the flippers of a seal, which assisted it wonderfully in the water, but were useless for flight, broad webbed feet, and legs set so far back that on land it sat erect like the penguins of the southern seas. At the time of which we write, the great auk was found in myriads on the low rocky islets on the eastern shores of Newfoundland. Now-a-days there is not a single bird to be found anywhere, and only a few specimens and skeletons remain in the museums of the world to tell that such creatures once existed. Their extermination was the result of man's reckless slaughter of them when the Newfoundland banks became the resort of the world's fishermen. Not only was the great auk slain in vast numbers, for the sake of fresh food, but it was salted by tons for future use and sale. The valuable feathers, or down, also proved a source of temptation, and as the birds could not fly to other breeding-places, they gradually diminished in numbers and finally disappeared. "Why, Blazer," exclaimed Heron, "that's one o' the sodger-like birds we frightened away from our little island when we first landed." "Ay, an' there's plenty more where this one came from," said Blazer, throwing the bird down; "an' they are so tame on the rocks round the point that I do believe we could knock 'em on the head with sticks, if we took 'em unawares. What d'ee say to try, lads?" "Agreed--for I'm gettin' tired o' fish now," said Grummidge. "How should we set about it, think 'ee?" "Cut cudgels for ourselves, then take to the boat creep round to one o' the little islands in the bay, and go at 'em!" answered Blazer. This plan was carried out with as little delay as possible. An islet was boarded, as Squill said, and the clumsy, astonished creatures lost numbers of their companions before making their escape into the sea. A further treasure was found in a large supply of their eggs. Laden almost to the gunwale with fresh provisions, the search-party returned to their camp--some of them, indeed, distressed at having failed to find their banished friends, but most of them elated by their success with the great auks, and the prospect of soon going into pleasant winter-quarters. So eager were they all to flit into this new region--this paradise of Garnet--that operations were commenced on the very next day at early morn. The boat was launched and manned, and as much of their property as it would hold was put on board. "You call it paradise, Garnet," said Grummidge, as the two carried a bundle of dried cod slung on a pole between them, "but if you, and the like of ye, don't give up swearin', an' try to mend your manners, the place we pitch on will be more like hell than paradise, no matter how comfortable and pretty it may be." Garnet was not in a humour either to discuss this point or to accept a rebuke, so he only replied to the remark with a surly "Humph!" Landing on the main island to the northward of the large bay, so as to secure a southern exposure, the boat-party proceeded to pitch their camp on a lovely spot, where cliff and coppice formed a luxuriant background. Ramparts of rock protected them from the nor'-west gales, and purling rivulets hummed their lullaby. Here they pitched their tents, and in a short space of time ran up several log huts, the material for which was supplied in abundance by the surrounding forest. When the little settlement was sufficiently established, and all the goods and stores were removed from what now was known as Wreck Island, they once more launched the boat, and turned their attention to fishing--not on the Great Bank, about which at the time they were ignorant, but on the smaller banks nearer shore, where cod-fish were found in incredible numbers. Some of the party, however, had more of the hunter's than the fisher's spirit in them, and prepared to make raids on the homes of the great auk, or to ramble in the forests. Squill was among the latter. One day, while rambling on the sea-shore looking for shellfish, he discovered a creature which not only caused him to fire off all the exclamations of his rich Irish vocabulary, but induced him to run back to camp with heaving chest and distended eyes-- almost bursting from excitement. "What is it, boy?" chorused his comrades. "Och! musha! I've found it at long last!--the great say--sur--no, not exactly that, but the--the great, sprawlin', long-legged--och! what shall I say? The great-grandfather of all the--the--words is wantin', boys. Come an' see for yourselves!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A GIANT DISCOVERED--NEW HOME AT WAGTAIL BAY--A STRANGE ADDITION TO THE SETTLEMENT. The creature which had so powerfully affected the feelings of the Irishman was dead; but dead and harmless though it was, it drew forth from his comrades a shout of intense surprise when they saw it, for it was no less than a cuttlefish of proportions so gigantic that they felt themselves in the presence of one of those terrible monsters of the deep, about which fabulous tales have been told, and exaggerated descriptions given since the beginning of historical time. "Av he's not the say-sarpint himself, boys," panted Squill, as he pointed to him with looks of unmitigated admiration, "sure he must be his first cousin." And Squill was not far wrong, for it was found that the monstrous fish measured fifty-two feet between the extremities of its outspread arms. Its body was about eight feet long and four feet broad. Its great arms, of which it had ten radiating from its body, varied in length and thickness--the longest being about twenty-four feet, and the shortest about eight. The under sides of these arms were supplied with innumerable suckers, while from the body there projected a horny beak, like the beak of a parrot. "It's wishin', I am, that I might see wan o' yer family alive," said Squill, as he turned over the dead arms; "but I'd rather not be embraced by ye. Och! what a hug ye could give--an' as to howldin' on--a thousand limpets would be nothin' to ye." "A miser grippin' his gold would be more like it," suggested Grummidge. "I don't expect ever to see one alive," said Little Stubbs, "an' yet there must surely be more where that came from." The very next day Squill had his wish gratified, and Stubbs his unbelief rebuked, for, while they were out in the boat rowing towards one of the fishing-banks with several of their comrades, they discovered a living giant-cuttlefish. "What's that, boys?" cried the Irishman, pointing to the object which was floating in the water not far ahead of them. "Seaweed," growled Blazer. Blazer always growled. His voice was naturally low and harsh--so was his spirit. Sometimes a grunt supplanted the growl, suggesting that he was porcine in nature--as not a few men are. But it was not seaweed. The thing showed signs of life as the boat drew near. "Starboard! starboard hard!" shouted Little Stubbs, starting up. But the warning came too late. Next moment the boat ran with a thud into a monster cuttlefish. Grummidge seized a boat-hook, shouted, "Stern all!" and hit the creature with all his might, while Stubbs made a wild grasp at a hatchet which lay under one of the thwarts. Instantly the horny parrot-like beak, the size of a man's fist, reared itself from among the folds of the body and struck the boat a violent blow, while a pair of saucer-like eyes, fully four inches in diameter, opened and glared ferociously. This was terrifying enough, but when, a moment later, two tremendous arms shot out from the body near the eyes, flung themselves around the boat and held on tight, a yell of fear escaped from several of the men, and with good reason, for if the innumerable suckers on those slimy arms once fairly attached themselves to the boat there seemed to be no chance of escape from the deadly embrace. In that moment of danger Little Stubbs proved himself equal to the occasion. With the hatchet he deftly severed the two limbs as they lay over the gunwale of the boat, and the monster, without cry or sign of pain, fell back into the sea, and moved off, ejecting such a quantity of inky fluid, as it went, that the water was darkened for two or three hundred yards around. "Well done, Little Stubbs!" cried Grummidge, as he watched the creature disappearing. "You've often worried our lives in time past, but this time you've saved 'em. Coil away the limbs, boys. We'll measure 'em and enter 'em in the log when we go ashore." It may interest the reader to know that the measurements were as follows:-- The longer and thinner arm was nineteen feet in length; about three and a half inches in circumference; of a pale pinkish colour, and exceedingly strong and tough. As all the men agreed that more than ten feet of the arm were left attached to the monster's body, the total length must have been little short of thirty feet. Towards the extremity it broadened out like an oar, and then tapered to a fine tongue-like point. This part was covered with about two hundred suckers, having horny-toothed edges, the largest of the suckers being more than an inch in diameter, the smallest about the size of a pea. The short arm was eleven feet long, and ten inches in circumference. It was covered on the under side throughout its entire length with a double row of suckers. Grummidge, who was prone to observe closely, counted them that night with minute care, and came to the conclusion that the creature must have possessed about eleven hundred suckers altogether. There was also a tail to the fish--which Squill called a "divil-fish"-- shaped like a fin. It was two feet in width. Lest any reader should imagine that we are romancing here, we turn aside to refer him to a volume entitled _Newfoundland, the oldest British Colony_, written by Joseph Hatton and the Reverend M. Harvey, in which (pages 238 to 242) he will find an account of a giant-cuttlefish, devil-fish, or squid, very similar to that which we have now described, and in which it is also stated that Mr Harvey, in 1873, obtained possession of one cuttlefish arm nineteen feet long, which he measured and photographed, and described in various newspapers and periodicals, and, finally, sent to the Geological Museum in St. John's, where it now lies. The same gentleman afterwards obtained an uninjured specimen of the fish, and it is well known that complete specimens, as well as fragments, of the giant cephalopod now exist in several other museums. Can any one wonder that marvellous tales of the sea were told that night round the fires at supper-time? that Little Stubbs became eloquently fabulous, and that Squill, drawing on his imagination, described with graphic power a monster before whose bristling horrors the great sea-serpent himself would hide his diminished head, and went into particulars so minute and complex that his comrades set him down as "one o' the biggest liars" that ever lived, until he explained that the monster in question had only appeared to him "wance in wan of his owld grandmother's dreams!" In fishing, and hunting with bows and arrows made by themselves, as well as with ingenious traps and weirs and snares of their own invention, the crew spent their time pleasantly, and the summer passed rapidly away. During this period the rude tents of spars and sailcloth were supplanted by ruder huts of round logs, caulked with hay and plastered with mud. Holes in the walls thereof did service as windows during the day, and bits of old sails or bundles of hay stuffed into them formed shutters at night. Sheds were also put up to guard provisions and stores from the weather, and stages were erected on which to dry the cod-fish after being split and cleaned; so that our shipwrecked crew, in their new home, which they named Wagtail Bay, had thus unwittingly begun that great industry for which Newfoundland has since become celebrated all the world over. It is not to be supposed that among such men in such circumstances everything went harmoniously. At first, indeed, what with having plenty to do in fishing, hunting, building, splitting and drying fish, etcetera, all day, and being pretty well tired out at nights, the peace was kept pretty easily; all the more that Big Swinton had been quelled and apparently quite subdued. But as the stores became full of food and the days shortened, while the nights proportionately lengthened, time began to hang heavy on their hands, and gradually the camp became resolved into the two classes which are to be found everywhere--the energetically industrious and the lazily idle. Perhaps we should say that those two extreme phases of human nature began to show themselves, for between them there existed all shades and degrees, so that it was difficult to tell, in some cases, to which class the men belonged. The proverbial mischief, of course, was soon found, for the latter class to do, and Grummidge began to discover that the ruling of his subjects, which sat lightly enough on his shoulders during the summer, became a matter of some trouble and anxiety in autumn. He also found, somewhat to his surprise, that legislation was by no means the easy--we might say free-and-easy--business which he had supposed it to be. In short, the camp presented the interesting spectacle of a human society undergoing the process of mushroom growth from a condition of chaotic irresponsibility to that of civilised order. The chaotic condition had been growing worse and worse for some time before Grummidge was forced to take action, for Grummidge was a man of long-suffering patience. One night, however, he lost all patience, and, like most patient people when forced out of their natural groove, he exploded with surprising violence and vigour. It happened thus:-- The crew had built for themselves a hut of specially large dimensions, in which they nightly assembled all together round the fires, of which there were two--one at either end. Some of the men told stories, some sang songs, others played at draughts of amateur construction, and a good many played the easy but essential part of audience. The noise, of course, was tremendous, but they were used to that, and minded it not. When, however, two of the men began to quarrel over their game, with so much anger as to interrupt all the others, and draw general attention to themselves, the thing became unbearable, and when one called the other "a liar," and the other shouted with an oath, "You're another," the matter reached a climax. "Come, come, Dick Swan and Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, in a stern voice; "you stop that. Two liars are too much in this here ship. One is one too many. If you can't keep civil tongues in your heads, we'll pitch you overboard." "You mind your own business," gruffly replied Dick Swan, who was an irascible man and the aggressor. "That's just what I'll do," returned Grummidge, striding up to Swan, seizing him by the collar, and hurling him to the other end of the room, where he lay still, under the impression, apparently, that he had had enough. "My business," said Grummidge, "is to keep order, and I mean to attend to it. Isn't that so, boys?" "No--yes--no," replied several voices. "Who said `No'?" demanded Grummidge. Every one expected to see Big Swinton step forward, but he did not. His revenge was not to be gratified by mere insubordination. The man who did at last step forward was an insignificant fellow, who had been nicknamed Spitfire, and whose chief characteristics were self-will and ill-nature. He did not lack courage, however, for he boldly faced the angry ruler and defied him. Every one expected to see Spitfire follow Dick Swan, and in similar fashion, but they were mistaken. They did not yet understand Grummidge. "Well, Spitfire, what's your objection to my keeping order?" he said, in a voice so gentle that the other took heart. "My objection," he said, "is that when you was appinted capting there was no vote taken. You was stuck up by your own friends, an' that ain't fair, an' I, for one, refuse to knuckle under to 'ee. You may knock me down if you like, for I ain't your match by a long way, but you'll not prove wrong to be right by doin' that." "Well spoken, Master Spitfire!" exclaimed a voice from the midst of the crowd that encircled the speakers. "Well spoken, indeed," echoed Grummidge, "and I thank _you_, Master Spitfire, for bringin' this here matter to a head. Now, lads," he added, turning to the crowd, "you have bin wrong an' informal, so to speak, in your proceedin's when you appinted me governor o' this here colony. There's a right and a wrong in everything, an' I do believe, from the bottom of my soul, that it's--that it's--that--well, I ain't much of a dab at preaching as _you_ know, but what I would say is this-- it's right to do right, an' it ain't right for to do wrong, so we'll krect this little mistake at once, for I have no wish to rule, bless you! Now then, all what's in favour o' my bein' gov'nor, walk to the end o' the room on my right hand, an' all who wants somebody else to be--Spitfire, for instance--walk over to where Dick Swan is a-sittin' enjo'in' of hisself." Immediately three-fourths of the crew stepped with alacrity to the right. The remainder went rather slowly to the left. "The Grummidges has won!" cried Squill, amid hearty laughter. The ruler himself made no remark whatever, but, seating himself in a corner of the hut, resumed the game which had been interrupted, quite assured that the game of insubordination was finally finished. The day following that on which the reign of King Grummidge was established, a new member of considerable interest was added to the colony. Blaze, Stubbs, and Squill chanced to be out that day along the shore. Squill, being in a meditative mood, had fallen behind his comrades. They had travelled further than usual, when the attention of the two in front was attracted by what seemed to them the melancholy howling of a wolf. Getting their bows ready, they advanced with caution, and soon came upon a sad sight--the dead body of a native, beside which crouched a large black dog. At first they thought the dog had killed the man, and were about to shoot it, when Stubbs exclaimed, "Hold on! don't you see he must have tumbled over the cliff?" A brief examination satisfied them that the Indian, in passing along the top of the cliffs, had fallen over, and that the accident must have been recent, for the body was still fresh. The dog, which appeared to be starving, showed all its formidable teeth when they attempted to go near its dead master. Presently Squill came up. "Ah, boys," he said, "ye don't onderstand the natur' o' the baste--see here." Taking a piece of dried fish from his pocket, he went boldly forward and presented it. The dog snapped it greedily and gulped it down. Squill gave him another and another piece; as the fourth offering was presented he patted the animal quietly on its head. The victory was gained. The dog suffered them to bury its master, but for four days it refused to leave his grave. During that time Squill fed it regularly. Then he coaxed it to follow him, and at last it became, under the name of Blackboy, a general favourite, and a loving member of the community. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. HAS REFERENCE TO FOOD AND A GREAT FIGHT. There is always a certain amount of pleasure to be derived from the tracing of any subject of interest back to its origin. We have already seen how--like a noble river, which has its fountain-head in some mountain lakelet that would scarcely serve as a washing-basin for a Cyclops--the grand cod-fishing industry, which has enriched the world, and found employment for thousands of men for centuries, had its commencement in the crew of the _Water Wagtail_! we shall now show that another great industry, namely, the Newfoundland seal-fishery, had its origin in the same insignificant source. King Grummidge was walking one morning along the shore of Wagtail Bay, with hands in pockets, hat on back of head, and that easy roll of gait so characteristic of nautical men and royalty. He was evidently troubled in mind, for a frown rested on his brow, and his lips were compressed. It might have been supposed that the cares of state were beginning to tell upon him, but such was not the case: food was the cause of his trouble. "Fish, fish, fish," he growled, to Little Stubbs, who was his companion in the walk. "I'm sick tired o' fish. It's my opinion that if we go on eatin' fish like we've bin doin' since we was cast away here, we will turn into fish, or mermaids, if not somethin' worse. What are ye laughin' at?" "At the notion o' you turnin' into a _maid_ of any sort," replied Stubbs. "That's got nothin' to do wi' the argiment," returned Grummidge sternly, for his anxieties were too serious to permit of his indulging in levity at the time. "What we've got to do is to find meat, for them auks are nigh as dry as the fish. _Meat_, lad, meat, wi' plenty o' fat, that's the question o' the hour." "Yes, it's _our_ question, no doubt," rejoined Stubbs. He might as well have bestowed his bad pun on a rabbit, for Grummidge was essentially dense and sober-minded. "But we've had a few rabbits of late, an' ducks an' partridges," he added. "Rabbits! ducks! partridges!" repeated his companion, with contempt. "How many of them delicacies have we had? That's what I wants to know." "Not many, I admit for there's none of us got much to boast of as shots." "Shots!" echoed Grummidge. "You're right, Stubbs. Of all the blind bats and helpless boys with the bow, there's not I believe, in the whole world such a lot as the popilation of Wagtail Bay. Why, there's not two of ye who could hit the big shed at sixty paces, an' all the fresh meat as you've brought in yet has bin the result o' chance. Now look 'ee here, Stubbs, a notion has entered my head, an' when a notion does that, I usually grab that notion an' hold 'im a fast prisoner until I've made somethin' useful an' ship-shape of 'im. If it works properly we'll soon have somethin' better to eat than fish, an' more substantial than rabbits, ducks, partridges, or auks." We may remark in passing that the animals which those wrecked sailors called rabbits were in reality hares. Moreover, the men took an easy, perhaps unscientific, method of classifying feathered game. Nearly everything with wings that dwelt chiefly on lake, river, or sea they called ducks, and all the feathered creatures of the forest they styled partridges. From this simple classification, however, were excepted swans, geese, eagles, and hawks. "Well, Grummidge, what may be your notion?" asked Stubbs. "My notion is--seals! For all our hard rowin' and wastin' of arrows we've failed to catch or kill a single seal, though there's such swarms of 'em all about. Now this is a great misfortin', for it's well known that seals make first-rate beef--leastwise to them as ain't partic'lar-- so we'll set about catchin' of 'em at once." "But how?" asked Stubbs, becoming interested under the influence of his comrade's earnest enthusiasm. "This is how. Look there, d'ye see that small island lyin' close to the shore with several seals' heads appearin' in the channel between?" "Yes--what then?" "Well, then, what I mean to do is to have nets made with big meshes, an' set 'em between that island an' the shore, and see what comes of it." "But where's the twine to come from?" objected Stubbs. "Twine! Ain't there no end o' cordage swashin' about the _Water Wagtail_ ever since she went ashore? An' haven't we got fingers? Can't we undo the strands an' make small cord? Surely some of ye have picked oakum enough to understand what that means!" Stubbs was convinced. Moreover, the rest of the men were so convinced that the plan promised well, when it was explained to them, that they set to work with alacrity, and, in a brief space of time, made a strong net several fathoms in length, and with meshes large enough to permit of a seal's head squeezing through. No sooner was it ready than the whole community went down to see it set. Then, with difficulty, they were prevented from waiting on the shore to watch the result. In the afternoon, when Grummidge gave permission, they ran down again with all the eagerness of children, and were rewarded by finding six fat seals entangled in the net and inflated almost to bursting with the water that had drowned them. Thus they were supplied with "beef," and, what was of almost equal importance, with oil, which enabled them to fry the leanest food, besides affording them the means of making a steadier and stronger light than that of the log fires to which they had hitherto been accustomed. It may be here remarked by captious readers, if such there be, that this cannot appropriately be styled the beginning of that grand sealing, or, as it is now styled, "swile huntin'," industry, which calls into action every year hundreds of steam and other vessels, and thousands of men, who slaughter hundreds of thousands of seals; which produces mints of money, and in the prosecutions of which men dare the terrible dangers of ice-drift and pack, in order that they may bludgeon the young seals upon the floes. As well might it be objected that a tiny rivulet on the mountain-top is not the fountain-head of a mighty river, because its course is not marked by broad expanses and thundering cataracts. Grummidge's net was undoubtedly the beginning, the tiny rill, of the Newfoundland seal-fishery, and even the bludgeoning was initiated by one of his party. It happened thus:-- Big Swinton went out one morning to try his fortune with the bow and arrow in the neighbourhood of a range of cliffs that extended far away to the northward. Swinton usually chose to hunt in solitude. Having few sympathies with the crew he shut up his feelings within his own breast and brooded in silence on the revenge he was still resolved to take when a safe opportunity offered, for the man's nature was singularly resolute and, at the same time, unforgiving. Now it chanced that Grummidge, in utter ignorance of where his foe had gone, took the same direction that morning, but started some time later, intending to explore the neighbourhood of the cliffs in search of sea-fowls' eggs. On reaching the locality, Swinton found that a large ice-floe had come down from the Arctic regions, and stranded on the shore of the island. On the ice lay a black object which he rightly judged to be a seal. At first, he supposed it to be a dead one, but just as he was about to advance to examine it the animal raised its head and moved its tail. Love of the chase was powerful in Swinton's breast. He instantly crouched behind a boulder, and waited patiently till the seal again laid its head on the ice as if to continue its nap. While the seaman crouched there, perfectly motionless, his brain was active. Arrows, he feared, would be of little use, even if he were capable of shooting well, which he was not. Other weapon he had none, with the exception of a clasp-knife. What was he to do? The only answer to that question was--try a club. But how was he to get at the seal with a club? While pondering this question he observed that there was another seal on the same mass of ice, apparently sleeping, behind a hummock. He also noticed that both seals were separated from the water by a considerable breadth of ice--especially the one behind the hummock, and that there was a tongue of ice extending from the floe to the shore by which it seemed possible to reach the floe by patient stalking without disturbing the game. Instantly Swinton decided on a plan, and commenced by crawling into the bushes. There, with his clasp-knife, he carefully cut and peeled a club which even Hercules might have deigned to wield. With this weapon he crawled on hands and knees slowly out to the floe, and soon discovered that the seals were much larger than he had at first supposed, and were probably a male and a female. Being ignorant of the nature of seals, and only acquainted with the fact that the tender nose of the animal is its most vulnerable part, he crept like a cat after a mouse towards the smaller seal, which he judged to be the female, until near enough to make a rush and cut off its retreat to the sea. He then closed with it, brought his great club down upon its snout, and laid it dead upon the ice. Turning quickly round, he observed, to his surprise, that the male seal instead of making for the water, as he had expected, was making towards himself in floundering and violent bounds! It may be necessary here to state that there are several kinds of seals in the northern seas, and that the "hood seal"--or, as hunters call it the "dog-hood"--is among the largest and fiercest of them all. The male of this species is distinguished from the female by a singular hood, or fleshy bag, on his nose, which he has the power to inflate with air, so that it covers his eyes and face--thus forming a powerful protection to his sensitive nose, for, besides being elastic, the hood is uncommonly tough. It is said that this guard will even resist shot and that the only sure way of killing the dog-hood seal is to hit him on the neck at the base of the skull. Besides possessing this safeguard, or natural buffer, the dog-hood is full of courage, which becomes absolute ferocity when he is defending the female. This is now so well known that hunters always try to kill the male first, if possible, when the female becomes an easy victim. Swinton saw at a single glance that he had to deal with a gigantic and furious foe, for the creature had inflated its hood and dilated its nostrils into two huge bladders, as with glaring eyes it bounced rather than rushed at him in terrific rage. Feeling that his arrows would be useless, the man flung them and the bow down, resolving to depend entirely on his mighty club. Being possessed of a good share of brute courage, and feeling confident in his great physical strength, Swinton did not await the attack, but ran to meet his foe, swung his ponderous weapon on high, and brought it down with tremendous force on the seal's head, but the hood received it and caused it to rebound--as if from indiarubber--with such violence that it swung the man to one side. So far this was well, as it saved him from a blow of the dog-hood's flipper that would probably have stunned him. As it was, it grazed his shoulder, tore a great hole in his strong canvas jacket and wounded his arm. Experience usually teaches caution. When the seal turned with increased fury to renew the assault Swinton stood on the defensive, and as soon as it came within reach brought his club down a second time on its head with, if possible, greater force than before; but again the blow was broken by the hood, though not again was the man struck by the flipper, for he was agile as a panther and evaded the expected blow. His foot slipped on the ice, however, and he fell so close to the seal that it tumbled over him and almost crushed him with its weight. At the same time the club flew from his hand. Though much shaken by the fall, the seaman scrambled to his feet in time to escape another onslaught, but, do what he would, he could make no impression on the creature's head, because of that marvellous hood, and body blows were, of course, useless. Still Big Swinton was not the man to give in easily to a seal! Although he slipped on the ice and fell several times, he returned again and again to the encounter until he began to feel his strength going. As muscular power was his sole dependence, a sensation of fear now tended to make matters worse; at last he tripped over a piece of ice, and the seal fell upon him. It was at this critical point that Grummidge came in sight of the combatants, and ran at full speed to the rescue. But he was still at a considerable distance, and had to cross the tongue of ice before he could reach the floe. Meanwhile the seal opened its well-armed jaws to seize its victim by the throat. Swinton felt that death stared him in the face. Desperation sharpened his ingenuity. He thrust his left hand as far as possible down the throat of his adversary, and, seizing it with the other arm round the neck, held on in a tight though not loving embrace! The struggle that ensued was brief. The seal shook off the man as if he had been but a child, and was on the point of renewing the attack when it caught sight of Grummidge, and reared itself to meet this new enemy. Grummidge possessed a fair-sized clasp-knife. Armed with this, he rushed boldly in and made a powerful stab at the creature's heart. Alas! for the poor man, even though his stabbing powers had been good instead of bad, for he would only have imbedded the short weapon in a mass of fat without touching the heart. But Grummidge was a bad stabber. He missed his aim so badly as to plunge his weapon into the hood! Nothing could have been more fortunate. The air escaped and the hood collapsed. At the same moment Grummidge received an ugly scratch on the cheek which sent him sprawling. As he rose quickly he observed Swinton's club, which he grasped and brought vigorously down on the seal's now unprotected nose, and felled it. Another effective blow terminated its career for ever, and then the victor turned to find that Big Swinton lay on the ice, quite conscious of what was going on though utterly unable to move hand or foot. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. TELLS OF DEATH AND DISASTER. To bind up Swinton's wounds, some of which were ugly ones, was the first business of Grummidge, after he had hastily staunched the blood which was flowing copiously from his own cheek. The stout seaman was well able to play the part of amateur surgeon, being a handy fellow, and he usually carried about with him two or three odd pieces of spun-yarn for emergencies--also a lump of cotton-waste as a handkerchief, while the tail of his shirt served at all times as a convenient rag. Having finished the job he looked earnestly at the pale face and closed eyes of his old enemy, and said--"You've bin pretty much banged about old chap--eh?" As the wounded man made no reply, Grummidge rose quickly, intending to run to the settlement for help, knowing that no time should be lost. He was hastening away when Swinton stopped him. "Hallo! hold on!" he shouted. Grummidge turned back. "You--you're not goin' to leave me, are you?" demanded his enemy, somewhat sternly, "I--I shall die if you leave me here on the cold ice." An involuntary shudder here bore testimony to the probability of his fear being well grounded. "Swinton," replied Grummidge, going down on one knee, the more conveniently to grasp the unwounded hand of his foe, "you mistake my c'rackter entirely. Though I'm not much to boast on as a man, I ain't quite a devil. I was only goin' to run to Wagtail Bay to start some o' the boys with a stretcher to fetch ye--an' it's my belief that there's no time to be lost." "Right you are, Grummidge," replied the poor man in a faint voice, "so little time that if you leave me here the boys will only find some human beef to carry back, an' that won't be worth the trouble." "Don't say that, old chap," returned the other, in a low, gruff voice which was the result of tender feeling. "Keep up heart--bless you, I'll be back in no time." "All right," said Swinton, with a resigned look, "go an' fetch the boys. But I say, Grummidge, shake hands before you go, I don't want to carry a grudge agin you into the next world if I can help it. Goodbye." "No, no, mate, if that's to be the way of it I'll stick to 'ee. D'ye think you could manage to git on my back?" "I'll try." With much heaving, and many half-suppressed groans from the one, and "heave-ho's" from the other, Big Swinton was at last mounted on his comrade's broad shoulders, and the two started for home. It was a long and weary journey, for Grummidge found the road rough and the load heavy, but before night he deposited his old enemy in a bunk in the large room of the settlement and then himself sank fainting on the floor--not, we need scarcely add, from the effect of sentimental feeling, but because of prolonged severe exertion, coupled with loss of blood. Two days later Grummidge sat by the side of Swinton's bunk. It was early forenoon, and they were alone--all the other men being out on various avocations. Blackboy, the large dog, lay asleep on the floor beside them. Suddenly the dog jumped up, ran to the door, and began to whine restlessly. "Wolves about, I suppose," said Grummidge, rising and opening the door. Blackboy bounded away in wild haste. "H'm! he seems in a hurry. Perhaps it's a bear this time. Well, mate, how d'ye feel now?" he added, closing the door and returning to his seat. "Grummidge," said the sick man, in a low voice, "I'll never git over this. That seal have done for me. There's injury somewheres inside o' me, I feel sure on it. But that's not what I was going to speak about. I want to make a clean breast of it afore I goes. I've been a bad man, Grummidge, there's no question about that in my own mind, whatever may be in the mind of others. I had even gone the length of making up my mind to murder _you_, the first safe chance I got, for which, and all else I've done and thought agin ye, I ax your pardon." "You have it" said his friend earnestly. "Thank 'ee. That's just what I expected, Grummidge. Now what I want to know is, d'ye think God will forgive _me_?" The seaman was perplexed. Such a question had never been put to him before, and he knew not what to answer. After a few moments' consideration, he replied-- "What you say is true, Swinton. You've bin a bad lot ever since I've know'd ye. I won't go for to deny that. As to what the Almighty will do or won't do, how can I tell? I wish I knew more about such things myself, for I'd like to help you, but I can't." Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind and he continued:-- "But it do seem to me, Swinton, that if a poor sinner like me is willin' to forgive ye, ain't the Almighty likely to be _much more_ willin'?" "There's somethin' in _that_, Grummidge--somethin' in that," said the sick man eagerly. Then the hopeful look disappeared as he added slowly, "but I fear, Grummidge, that what you say don't quite fit my case, for I've got a notion that the Almighty must have been willin' all my life to save me from myself, and that all my life I've bin refusin' to listen to Him." "How d'ye make that out, boy?" "This way. There's bin somethin' or other inside o' me, as far back as I can remember, that somehow didn't seem to be me, that has been always sayin' `Don't' to me, whenever I was a-goin' to do a mean thing. Now, I can't help thinkin' that it must have bin God that spoke, for a man would never say `Don't' to himself, an' then go right off an' do it, would he?" "That's more than I can tell," answered Grummidge. "I remember hearin' Master Burns a-talkin' on that point wi' the cappen, an' he thought it was conscience or the voice of God." "Well, conscience or no conscience, I've resisted it all my life," returned the sick man, "an' it do seem a mean, sneakin' sort o' thing to come to the Almighty at the very last moment, when I can't help myself, an' say, `I'm sorry.'" "It would be meaner to say `I'm _not_ sorry,' wouldn't it?" returned Grummidge. "But, now I think of it, Master Burns did read one or two things out o' that writin' that he's so fond of, which he says is the Word of God. If it's true what he says, he may well be fond of it, but I wonder how he has found that out. Anyway, I remember that one o' the things he read out of it was that the Lamb of God takes away the sins of the world; an' he explained that Jesus is the Lamb of God, an' that he stands in our place--takes our punishment instead of us, an' fulfils the law instead of us." The sick man listened attentively, even eagerly, but shook his head. "How can any _man_ stand in my place, or take my punishments?" he said, in a tone savouring almost of contempt. "As far as I can see, every man will have enough to do to answer for himself." "That's just what come into my mind too, when I heard Master Burns speak," returned the other; "but he cleared that up by explainin' that Jesus is God as well as man--`God with us,' he said." "That do seem strange," rejoined the sick man, "and if true," he added thoughtfully, "there's somethin' in it, Grummidge, somethin' in it to give a man comfort." "Well, mate, I'm of your mind about that, for if God himself be for us, surely nobody can be agin us," said the seaman, unconsciously paraphrasing the word of Scripture itself. "Blow high or blow low, that seems to me an anchor that you an' me's safe to hang on to." The conversation was interrupted at this point by the sudden entrance of Jim Heron with an arrow sticking in the fleshy part of his back. "Attacked by savages!" he gasped. "Here, Grummidge, lend a hand to haul out this--I can't well reach it. They came on us behind the big store, t'other side o' the settlement, and, after lettin' fly at us took to their heels. The lads are after them. I got separated from the boys, and was shot, as you see, so I came--hah! pull gently, Grummidge--came back here that you might haul it out, for it's hard to run an' fight with an arrow in your back." "Stay here, Jim," said Grummidge, after hastily extracting the shaft. "You couldn't do much with a wound like that. I'll take your place and follow up the men, and you'll take mine here, as nurse to Swinton. We mustn't leave him alone, you know." Eager though Jim Heron was at first for the fray, the loss of blood had reduced his ardour and made him willing to fall in with this proposal. "Good-bye, Grummidge," cried Swinton, as the former, having snatched up his knife and bow, was hastening to the door. "Good-bye--good-bye, mate," he responded, turning back and grasping the proffered hand. "You'll be all right soon, old chap--and Jim's a better nurse than I am." "I like what you said about that anchor, mate, I'll not forget it" said Swinton, sinking back on his pillow as Grummidge sallied forth to join in the pursuit of the savages. The stout seaman's movements were watched by some hundreds of glittering black eyes, the owners of which were concealed amid the brushwood of the adjoining forest. Meanwhile, at the other end of the settlement, the greater number of the shipwrecked mariners were engaged in hot pursuit of the party of Indians who had attacked them. They were very indignant, several of their mates having been wounded, and a considerable quantity of their stores carried off. It quickly became apparent, however, that the seamen were no match for savage, at a race through the woods, therefore Grummidge, who soon overtook his comrades, called a halt, and gathered as many of his men as possible around him. "Now, lads," he said, "it's plain that some of you can't run much further. You ain't used to this sort o' work. Besides, we have left our settlement undefended. Most of you must therefore return, an' a few of the smartest among you will follow me, for we must give these rascals a fright by followin' 'em till we catch 'em--if we can--or by drivin' 'em back to their own place, wherever that may be." Many of the men were more than willing to agree to this arrangement, while others were quite ready to follow their leader. The party, therefore, that finally continued in pursuit of the Indians was composed of Grummidge, George Blazer, Fred Taylor, Little Stubbs, Garnet Squill, and several others. Armed with bows, arrows, short spears, and clubs, these set off without delay into the forest, trusting to the sun and stars for guidance. The remainder of the men returned to the settlement, where they discovered that they had been the victims of a ruse on the part of the savages. The assault at the further end of the settlement proved to be a mere feint, made by a comparatively small party, for the purpose of drawing the seamen away, and leaving the main part of the settlement undefended, and open to pillage. While the small detachment of Indians, therefore, was doing its part, the main body descended swiftly but quietly on Wagtail Bay, and possessed themselves of all that was valuable there, and carried it off. Of course, Swinton and Jim Heron were found there. Both had been beheaded, and their bodies stripped and left on the floor. Heron seemed to have offered a stout resistance, until overpowered by numbers and slain. Poor Swinton, who could not have had much more life remaining than enabled him to understand what was occurring, had been stabbed to death where he lay. Fortunately, it was not possible for the Indians to carry off all the dried fish and other provisions, so that the men were not reduced to absolute starvation. All ignorant of what was going on at the settlement, the avengers were pushing their way through the woods in pursuit of the smaller body of savages. Nothing could have been more satisfactory to these latter. From every eminence and knoll unseen eyes watched the movements of the white men, who remained under the delusion that they were striking terror into the hearts of a flying foe. "Sure, we'll have to take a rest soon," said Squill, as they halted on the top of a mound, about sunset to breathe and wipe their heated brows. "True, a short sleep we _must_ have, but we'll have to take our rest without kindling a fire," said Grummidge. "Ay, an' go supperless to bed, too," remarked Little Stubbs; "for we've brought nothing to eat with us." This fact had not struck any of the party till that moment. They had been so eager in pursuit of the foe that all prudential considerations had been thrown to the winds. They now lay down, therefore, to the very brief rest that was absolutely needful, not only without supper, but with the prospect of starting again without breakfast. However, each man felt bound in honour not to damp his fellows by complaining. "Now, boys," said Grummidge, "you lie down, an' I'll mount guard. Sleep as fast as you can, for I'll route ye out in an hour or so." But Grummidge did not fulfil his promise. Seating himself with his back to a tree, his bows and arrows ready to hand, and actuated by a firm resolve to watch with intense care, he fell fast asleep, and the whole party snored in concert. About fifty Indians, who had joined the original attacking party, had waited patiently for this state of affairs. When quite certain that the seamen were all sleeping soundly, they crept silently forward, and pounced upon them. The struggle was sharp, but short. Courage and strength are futile when opposed to overwhelming numbers. A few minutes later, and the white men were led, with hands bound behind them, into the depth of the unknown wilderness. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A NEW FRIEND WITH STARTLING NEWS. Turn we now to the island in the great lake where Hendrick, the hunter, had set up his romantic home. The premature touch of winter, which had put so sudden a stop to the work of our explorers, gave way to a burst of warmth and sunshine almost as sudden. It was that brief period of calm repose in which nature indulges in some parts of the world as if to brace herself for the rough work of approaching winter. There was a softness in the air which induced one to court its embrace. Absolute stillness characterised the inanimate world. Clouds floated in the heavenly blue in rotund masses, which seemed, to the careless glance, as unchangeable as the hills, and the glassy water reflected them with perfect fidelity. It also reflected gulls, ducks, plover, and other wildfowl, as they sailed, whirred, or waded about, absorbed in the activities of their domestic economy, or in the hilarious enjoyment of the sweet influences around them. Colours most resplendent dyed the forest trees; gentle sounds from bird and beast told of joyous life everywhere, and the blessed sun threw a golden haze over wood and lake and hill. It was as though Paradise had been restored to man, and our loving Creator had swept away every trace of evil and misery from the beautiful earth. But although the day is surely coming when, through Jesus Christ, "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," Paradise had certainly not returned to earth at the date we write of. Doubtless, however, something which seemed marvellously like it had reappeared round the hunter's home, for, while all nature was peaceful as well as beautiful, love was the grand motive power which actuated the hearts of those who dwelt there, and that love had been greatly intensified, as well as purified, since the advent of Paul Burns with the manuscript Gospel of John in his bosom, and the Spirit of God in his heart. Besides being naturally sympathetic, Paul and Hendrick were thus drawn still more strongly together, as they communed with each other-- sometimes while walking through the forest engaged in the chase; often beside the camp-fire after supper while others slept; and, not unfrequently, while paddling in their canoe over the sleeping lake. One evening they were in the latter position--returning from a successful day's hunt in the canoe--when Hendrick became more communicative than usual about the Indian tribe to which his wife belonged, and in regard to which subject he had hitherto been reticent. The sun was setting; the island home was not far distant. The total absence of wind and consequent stillness of the lake rendered it unnecessary to do more than make an occasional dip of the paddles, with which the light craft was propelled--Paul using his in the bow, while Hendrick sat in the stern and steered. No one was with them--indeed the canoe was too small to carry more than two when loaded with the proceeds of the chase. "I have often thought" said the hunter, dipping his paddle lazily, "that you must wonder why one whose position in the world warranted his looking forward to a bright and prosperous career should inflict on himself voluntary banishment, and wed an Indian woman." "Hendrick," returned Paul, "I wonder at few things in this life, for I know something of the working of the human mind and heart and have ceased to judge other men's feelings by my own. Besides, I criticise not the actions of my friend. The motives of his acts are known only to himself and his God. The Gospel tells me to `judge not according to the appearance.' Moreover, the longer I live with you, the more have I learned to know that there are qualities in Trueheart which would do honour to dames of the highest station." A gleam of satisfaction lightened the hunter's face for a moment as he exclaimed, with unwonted energy, "You do her no more than justice, my friend. I have lived to learn that love, truth, and every virtue are to be found in every station--alike with the high-born and the lowly; also that the lack of these qualities is common to both, and, to say truth, I had rather mate with a gentle savage than with a civilised female tiger!" "But Trueheart is not a gentle savage," returned Paul, scarcely able to repress a smile at the tone in which his friend uttered his sentiments; "she is a gentle _woman_." "Of course, I know that" rejoined Hendrick; "moreover she is a half-caste! I only used the word to designate the class of humanity to which she belongs, and to contrast her with that other class which deems itself at the top of the civilised tree." "But it seems to me, Master Hendrick, that you are inclined to be too severe on the high-born. There are those among them whose lives conform to the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus." "Do I not know it?" replied the hunter abruptly. "Have I not told you that my murdered wife was high-born and endowed with every grace?" "True, but what of this civilised female tiger whom you would scorn to wed. Did not Christ die for _her_? May she not be saved by the same Power that drags the tiger of the lower ranks--both male and female-- from the pit?" "I doubt it not," answered Hendrick thoughtfully, as he relapsed into his usual quiet manner, "and I am glad you appreciate Trueheart, for she is worthy of your regard. Her name was bestowed on her by her Indian relations. My children I have named after some of my kindred in the old country. The tribe to which my wife belongs are called Bethucks. They are well-disposed and kindly in disposition, and do not quarrel among themselves more than other human beings--indeed not so much as men in our own land; probably because they have not so much to quarrel about and have more elbow-room. They are good kinsmen, as I know; good hunters also, and inclined for peace, but the natives of Labrador render peace impossible, for they make frequent raids on our island, and of course we have to drive them away. If white men now come to Newfoundland, I fear that the poor Bethucks will be exterminated." [The Bethucks are now extinct.] "I trust not," said Paul. "So do I," returned Hendrick, "and if the Gospel you have brought here only takes good root in our own land all will be well, for if men acted on the command `let us love one another,' war and robbery, murder and strife, would be at an end." "Can we expect all men to act upon that precept?" asked Paul. "Apparently not; but we might at least expect Christians to do so; those who accept the Gospel as their book of law. I had expected to escape from war and bloodshed when I left civilised lands and settled here, but I have been disappointed. The necessity for fighting still exists!" "And will exist until the reign of Jesus extends to every human heart," returned Paul. "It seems to me that what we have some right and ground to expect is, not the stoppage of _all_ war, but the abolition of war between nations calling themselves Christian." It is a curious circumstance that, only a few days after the above conversation, an incident occurred which induced both Paul and Hendrick to buckle on their armour, and sally forth with a clear perception that it was their bounden duty to engage in war! That incident was the arrival of an Indian hunter who was slightly known to Hendrick's wife. He came in a canoe just as the family on the Island were about to sit down to supper. It was dark when his tall figure was seen to stalk out of the surrounding gloom into the circle of firelight. Trueheart recognised him at once, and a word from her sufficed to inform her husband that the stranger was a friend. He was welcomed of course cordially, and made to sit down in the place of honour. Every attention he accepted with the grave solemnity of an owl, and without any other recognition than a mild grunt, which was by no means meant as a surly return of thanks, but as a quiet mode of intimating that the attention was agreeable to his feelings. It may, perhaps, be not unknown to the reader that grave reticence is one of the characteristics of the Red men of the west. They are never in a hurry to communicate their news, whether important or otherwise, but usually, on arriving at any hospitable abode, sit down with calm dignity and smoke a pipe, or make slight reference to unimportant matters before coming to the main point of their visit--if it have a main point at all. As it is with the Red men now, so was it with the Bethucks at the time we write of. True, the pernicious practice of smoking tobacco had not yet been introduced among them, so that the social pipe was neither offered, desired, nor missed! but the Indian accepted a birch-bark basket of soup with placid satisfaction, and consumed it with slow felicity. Then, being offered a formidable venison steak, he looked calmly at his host, blinked his thanks--or whatever he felt--and devoured it. "Has he got nothing to say for himself?" asked Captain Trench, surprised at the man's silence. "Plenty to say, I doubt not," answered Hendrick, who then explained to the Captain the Indian characteristic just referred to. "What a power of suction he has got" said Olly, referring not to the Indian, but to the family baby which he had got on his knee, and was feeding with a dangerously large lump of bear's fat. "What does he say?" asked Paul, referring to their visitor, who, having come to a temporary pause, with a sigh of contentment had said something in his native tongue to Hendrick. "He asked me if the singing-birds will gladden his ears and cause his heart to thrill." "What means he by that?" "He only refers to a fact well known among the Indians," replied the hunter, with a quiet smile, "that Trueheart and Goodred have such sweet voices that they are known everywhere by the name of the singing-birds. Happening to have some knowledge of music, I have trained them to sing in parts one or two hymns taught to me by my mother, and composed, I believe, by a good monk of the olden time. Some things in the hymns puzzled me, I confess, until I had the good fortune to meet with you. I understand them better now. You shall hear one of them." So saying, he turned and nodded to Trueheart who of course understood the conversation. With a slight inclination of the head denoting acquiescence she began to sing. At the same moment Goodred parted her pretty lips and joined her. The result was to fill the air with harmony so sweet that the captain and his comrade were struck dumb with delight and surprise, the Indian's jaw was arrested with an unchewed morsel in the mouth, and the family baby gazing upward in wonder, ceased the effort to choke itself on bear's fat. It need scarcely be said that the grunt of the Indian was very emphatic when the sounds died away like fairy-music, and that the hunter's white guests entreated for more. Trueheart and her daughter were quite willing, and, for a considerable time, kept their audience enthralled. At last, having washed down his meal with a final basketful of soup, the Indian began to unbosom himself of his news--a few words at a time. It was soon found, however, that he had no news of importance to tell. He was a hunter; he had been out with a party of his tribe, but having differed with them as to the best district to be visited, he had left them and continued the hunt alone. Being not far distant from the home of the white hunter who had mated with the Bethuck singing-bird, he had turned aside for no other purpose than to have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled! "We are happy," said Hendrick, "that our Bethuck brother should have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled, and we trust that the spirit of the wolf within him is subdued, now that his stomach is also filled." A polite grunt was the reply. "Will our Bethuck brother tell us more news?" "There is no more," he answered, "Strongbow is now an empty vessel." "Considering that Strongbow has just filled himself with venison, he can hardly call himself an empty vessel," responded the hunter, with intense gravity. Strongbow turned his head quickly and gazed at the speaker. His solemnity deepened. Could his white brother be jesting? The white brother's gravity forbade the idea. In order to convey more strongly the fact that he had no news to give the Indian touched his forehead--"Strongbow is empty _here_." "That may well be," remarked Hendrick quietly. Again the Indian glared. Solemnity is but a feeble word after all! He said nothing, but was evidently puzzled. "Has our Bethuck brother seen no enemies from the setting sun? Is all quiet and peaceful among his friends?" asked the hunter. "All is peaceful--all is quiet. But we have news of a war party that left us many days past. They had gone, about the time that the deer begin to move, to punish some white men who were cast on shore by the sea where the sun rises." "What say you?" cried Hendrick, starting. "Have the Red warriors been successful?" "They have. Some of the white men have been killed, others caught and taken to our wigwams to be made slaves or to die." The consternation of Paul and his friends, on this being translated to them, may be imagined. Past injuries were forgotten, and instant preparations were made to set off to the rescue at the earliest dawn of the following day. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE RESCUE PARTY--A RENCONTRE AND BAD NEWS. Hot haste now marked the proceedings of the rescue party, for Paul and his friends felt that they had no time to lose. Fortunately the weather favoured them. That very night a sharp frost set in, hardening the moist and swampy grounds over which they had to pass. Strongbow, on being made acquainted with the state of matters, willingly agreed to lead the party to the place to which he thought it likely the captives had been taken, or where, at least, information about them might be obtained from members of his own tribe. Little Oscar, at his own urgent request, was allowed to accompany them, and Trueheart, Goodred, and the family baby and nurse, were left in charge of an old Indian whose life had once been saved by Hendrick, and who, although too old to go on the war-path, was still well able to keep the family in provisions. Although the party was small--numbering only six, two of whom were boys--it was nevertheless formidable, each man being more than usually powerful, as well as valiant, whilst the boys, although comparatively small, possessed so much of the unconquerable spirit of their sires as to render them quite equal to average men. The frost, which seemed to have fairly set in, kept them cool during the day while walking, and rendered their bivouac-fires agreeable at nights. Little time, however, was allowed for rest or food. They pressed on each day with unflagging energy, and felt little disposition to waste time in conversation during the brief halts for needed rest and food. Occasionally, however, some of the party felt less disposed than usual for sleep, and sought to drive away anxiety regarding their old shipmates by talking of things and scenes around them. "Does Strongbow think that the frost will hold?" asked Hendrick, one evening after supper, as he reclined in front of the fire on a pile of brushwood. "Strongbow cannot tell," returned the Indian. "It looks like thaw, but the Great Spirit sometimes changes his mind, and sends what we do not expect." Having uttered this cautious reply with sententious gravity he continued his supper in silence. "The Great Spirit never changes his mind," said Paul. "Perfection cannot change, because it need not." "Waugh!" replied the Indian. It was evident that he did not agree with Paul, but was too polite to say so. "I like this sort o' thing," remarked Captain Trench, looking up from the rib on which he was engaged, and gazing round at the magnificent sweep of hill and dale of which they had a bird's-eye view from their camp. "So do I, daddy; with lots to eat an' a roarin' fire a fellow feels as happy as a king," said Oliver. "Happier than most kings, I doubt not," returned Hendrick. "But, Olly, you have mentioned only two of the things that go to produce felicity," said Paul. "Food and fire are certainly important elements, but these would be of little avail if we had not health, strength, and appetite." "To say nothin' of the fresh air o' the mountains, and the excitement o' the wilderness, and the enthusiasm of youth," added the captain. "Are _you_ not as happy as _me_, daddy?" asked the boy, with a sudden glance of intelligence. "Happier a great deal, I should say," replied the father, "for I'm not so much of a goose." "Why then, daddy, if you are happier than we, what you call the enthusiasm of youth can have nothing to do with it, you know!" "You young rascal, the enthusiasm of middle age is much more powerful than that of youth! You let your tongue wag too freely." "D'ye hear that, Osky?" said Oliver to his little companion in an audible whisper. "There's comfort for you an' me. We'll be more enthusiastic and far happier when we come to middle age! What d'ye think o' that?" Oscar--who, although much inclined to fun and humour, did not always understand the curious phases of them presented to him by his civilised friend--looked innocently in his face and said, "Me no tink about it at all!" Whereupon Olly burst into a short laugh, and expressed his belief that, on the whole, that state of mind was about the happiest he could come to. "How long, think you, will it take us to reach the wigwams of your kindred from this point?" asked Hendrick of their guide, as he prepared to lie down for the night. "Two days," answered the Indian. "God grant that we may be in time," murmured Paul, "I fear a thaw, for it would delay us greatly." That which was feared came upon them the next day. They were yet asleep when those balmy influences, which alone have power to disrupt and destroy the ice-king's reign, began to work, and when the travellers awoke, the surface of the land was moist. It was not soft, however, for time is required to draw frost out of the earth, so that progress was not much impeded. Still, the effect of the thaw depressed their spirits a good deal, for they were well aware that a continuance of it would render the low grounds, into which they had frequently to descend, almost impassable. It was, therefore, with anxious forebodings that they lay down to rest that night, and Paul's prayer for strength and guidance was more fervent than usual. About this period of the year changes of temperature are sometimes very abrupt, and their consequences curious. During the night frost had again set in with great intensity. Fatigue had compelled the party to sleep longer than usual, despite their anxiety to press forward, and when they awoke the rays of the rising sun were sweeping over the whole landscape, and revealing, as well as helping to create, a scene of beauty which is seldom, if ever, witnessed elsewhere. When rain falls with a low thermometer near the earth it becomes frozen the moment it reaches the ground, and thus a regular deposit of pure glassy ice takes place on every branch and twig of the leafless shrubs and trees. The layer of ice goes on increasing, sometimes, till it attains the thickness of half an inch or more. Thus, in a few hours, a magical transformation is brought about. The trees seem to be hung with glittering jewels; the larger limbs are edged with dazzling ice-ropes; the minutest twigs with threads of gleaming crystal, and all this, with the sun shooting on and through it, presents a scene of splendour before which even our most vivid conceptions of fairy-land must sink into comparative insignificance. Such, then, was the vision presented to the gaze of the rescue party on awaking that morning. To some of them it was a new revelation of the wonderful works of God. To Hendrick and the Indian it was familiar enough. The Newfoundlanders of modern times know it well by the name of a "silver thaw." After the first gaze of surprise and admiration, our travellers made hasty preparation to resume the journey, and the frost told beneficially on them in more ways than one, for, while it hardened the ground, it rendered the atmosphere clear and exhilarating, thus raising their spirits and their hopes, which tended greatly to increase their power of action and endurance. That night they encamped again on a commanding height, and prepared supper with the hopeful feelings of men who expect to gain the end of their journey on the morrow. As if to cheer them still more, the aurora borealis played in the heavens that night with unwonted magnificence. It is said that the northern lights are grander in Newfoundland even than in the Arctic regions. At all events they were finer than anything of the kind that had ever before been seen by Paul Burns or Captain Trench and his son, insomuch that the sight filled them with feelings of awe. The entire heavens seemed to be ablaze from horizon to zenith, not as with the lurid fires of a great conflagration, which might suggest only the idea of universal devastation, but with the tender sheen of varied half-tints, playfully shooting athwart and intermingling with brighter curtains of light of every conceivable hue. The repose of the party was somewhat interfered with by the wonders that surrounded them that night, and more than once they were startled from slumber by the loud report of great limbs of trees, which, strong though they seemed to be, were torn off by the load of ice that had accumulated on them. Daybreak found the party again passing swiftly over the land. It really seemed as if even the boys had received special strength for the occasion, for they neither lagged behind nor murmured, but kept well up during the whole forced march. No doubt that youthful enthusiasm to which Captain Trench had referred kept Olly up to the mark, while Osky-- as his friend called him--had been inured to hard labour of every kind from infancy. At last, about noon that day, their leader came to a sudden halt, and pointed to something on the ground before him. "What does he see?" asked Paul, in a low voice. "Footprints," said Hendrick. "What of--deer?" asked the captain, in a hoarse whisper. "No--natives. Perhaps his friends." While they were whispering, the Indian was on his knees examining the footprints in question. Rising after a few minutes' survey, with a grave look he said-- "Strongbow is not sure. The prints look like those of his tribe, but-- he is not sure!" "At all events we can follow them," said Hendrick. "The land is open; we cannot easily be surprised, and we have our weapons handy." As he spoke he drew an arrow from his quiver, and, affixing the notch to the bow-string, carried the weapon in his left hand. The others followed his example. Oliver felt his belt behind, to make sure that the axe was there, and glanced at the mighty club that hung from his shoulder. Oscar, regarding with a slight degree of wonder the warlike arrangements of his friend, also fitted an arrow to his little bow, and then, with cautious steps and inquiring glances, the party continued to advance. But Hendrick was wrong in supposing that a surprise was not probable, for suddenly from behind a frowning rock or cliff there appeared a band of armed men who confronted them, and instantly raised their bows to shoot. Quick as lightning the white men did the same. Evidently both parties were taken by surprise, for if the Indians had been a party in ambush they would have shot at the others without showing themselves. This or some such idea seemed to flash into the minds of both parties, for there was a slight hesitation on the part of each. Just at that moment a large black dog which accompanied the Indians, and had displayed all its formidable teeth and gums on seeing the strangers, was observed to cover its teeth and wag its tail interrogatively. Hendrick gave a low whistle. Instantly the dog bounded towards him, and began to fawn and leap upon and around him with every demonstration of excessive joy, at sight of which both parties lowered their weapons. "The dog is an old friend," explained Hendrick to Paul. "Good dog," he added, addressing the animal in the Indian tongue, "you are a faithful friend--faithful in time of need." Then, dropping his bow and advancing unarmed to the Indians, he said-- "This dog belongs to the Bethucks of Grand Lake. Did you obtain him from them?" "No, we did not," replied one of the Indians, who seemed from his bearing to be a chief, "but we are kinsmen of the men of Grand Lake. One of their braves, Little Beaver, took one of our girls, Rising Sun, for his wife. We come from yonder (pointing northward). Some moons have passed since Little Beaver, who came to revisit us with his wife, left us to return to his wigwam on Grand Lake." "I know Little Beaver well," said Hendrick, as the chief paused at this point; "the dog belongs to him." Without noticing the remark the chief continued-- "When Little Beaver and Rising Sun left us they went on alone by the shores of the great salt lake. We never saw our brave in life again. Some time after, a party of our warriors came upon a grave. They examined it, and found the dead body of Little Beaver. It was bruised, and many bones were broken. A party of white men had built lodges near to the place. It was they who had murdered Little Beaver, we knew, for there was no sign of others near, and his dog was with them. So our braves went to the kinsmen of Rising Sun, and we returned and attacked the palefaces." "Did you slay all the palefaces?" asked Hendrick anxiously. "No, some we slew, others we took prisoners." Hendrick thought it best to reserve in the meantime his communication of all this to Paul and his friends. "I am your kinsman also," he said to the chief, "for Trueheart is my wife. I have much to say to you, but our business is pressing. Will you walk with me while we talk?" The chief bowed his head, and ordered his party to fall to the rear and follow, while he walked in advance with the pale-faced hunter. Hendrick then explained to the Indian as much about the wreck of the _Water Wagtail_ and the dismissal of Captain Trench and his comrades as he thought necessary, and then said that although his three friends were indignant at the treatment they had received from their comrades, they would be grieved to hear that any of them were to be killed, and he greatly wished to prevent that. "Would the chief guide him to the place where the prisoners were?" "I will guide you," said the chief, "but you will find it hard to save them. Palefaces have slain Little Beaver and stolen Rising Sun, and palefaces must die." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. OLD FRIENDS IN A SAD PLIGHT. Anxious though Paul Burns naturally was for the fate of the crew of the _Water Wagtail_, he could not help being interested in, and impressed by, the fine country which he was thus unexpectedly obliged to traverse. His mind being of a practical and utilitarian cast, as well as religious, he not only admired the grand and richly diversified land as being part of the works of God, but as being eminently suitable for the use and enjoyment of man. "Look there," he said to Captain Trench, as they plodded steadily along, at the same time pointing to a break in a neighbouring cliff which revealed the geological features of the land. "Do you see yonder beds of rock of almost every colour in the rainbow? These are marble-beds, and from the look of the parts that crop out I should say they are extensive." "But not of much use," returned the captain, "so long as men are content to house themselves in huts of bark and skins." "So might some short-sighted mortal among our own savage forefathers have said long ago if the mineral wealth of Britain had been pointed out to him," returned Paul. "Yet we have lived to see the Abbey of Westminster and many other notable edifices arise in our land." "Then you look forward to such-like rising in this land?" said the captain, with something of a cynical smile. "Well, not exactly, Master Trench; but our grandchildren may see them, if men will only colonise the land and strive to develop its resources on Christian principles." "Such as--?" asked Trench. "Such as the doing to others as one would have others do to one's-self, and the enacting of equal laws for rich and poor." "Then will Newfoundland _never_ be developed," said the captain emphatically; "for history tells us that the bulk of men have never been guided by such principles since the days of Adam." "Since when were you enrolled among the prophets, Master Trench?" "Since you uttered the previous sentence, Master Paul. I appeal to your own knowledge of history." "Nay, I question not your historical views, but your prophetical statements, as to the fate of this island. Have you not heard of this writing--that `the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth as the waters cover the sea?' Does not that signify completeness in the spread of knowledge? And when that comes to pass, will it bear no good fruit? If not, why is it recorded as a blessed state of things to which we may look forward, and towards which we may strive? I admit that the wickedness of man may delay the desired end. Unjust laws, interference with freedom of action, hatred of truth, may check progress here as it has done elsewhere; but who can tell how soon the truth, as it is in Jesus, may begin to operate, or how rapidly it may culminate?" "You may be right, Master Paul; I know not. Anyhow I withdraw my claim to be numbered with the prophets--all the more that I see Strongbow making signals which I don't rightly understand." The Indian guide, who had been walking somewhat in advance of the party, was seen standing on the summit of a knoll making signals, not to his friends behind him, but apparently to some one in front. Hastening forward they soon found that he had discovered friends,--a body of Indians, who were hurrying to meet him; while down in the valley beyond, which suddenly burst upon their view, stood an extensive Indian village. It was of that evanescent and movable kind, which consists of cone-like tents made of skins and bark spread upon poles. "They are friends," said Strongbow, when Hendrick and the others reached him; "kinsmen of the murdered Little Beaver." "Friends of Hendrick also, I see," said the captain to Paul, as the hunter hastened forward to meet the Indians and salute them. He was right, and a few minutes' conversation with his friends sufficed to put the guide in possession of all he wished to know. Returning to his companions, he at once relieved their minds, to some extent at least, by telling them that it was indeed the tribe into whose hands their old shipmates had fallen, and that the sailors were still alive and well, though prisoners, and lying under sentence of death. "Come, that at all events is good news," said Paul. "I thank God we are not too late, and I make no doubt that we will persuade the Indians to delay execution of the sentence till we find out whether or not they have been guilty of this murder. Some of our old shipmates I know are capable of it, but others are certainly innocent." Hendrick did not at once reply. It was evident from his looks that he had not much hope in the merciful disposition of the Indians. "I know some men of this tribe," he said, "but not all of them--though they all know me by report. You may at least depend on my influence being used to the utmost in behalf of your friends. Come, we will descend." A few minutes' walk brought them to the foot of the hill where the Indian tents were pitched. Here they found a multitude of men, women, and children watching them as they descended the hill, and, from the looks of many of the former, it seemed not at all improbable that a rough reception awaited them. "You see," said Paul, in a low voice to the captain, "they probably class us with the murderers, because of our white skins. Our only hope, under God, rests in Hendrick." That Paul's hope was not ill-founded became apparent the moment the hunter made himself known. For the scowling brows cleared at once, and one or two men, who had formerly met with the white hunter, came forward and saluted him in the European manner which he had already taught to many of the red men, namely, with a shake of the hand. A great palaver followed in the wigwam of the chief, Bearpaw, in the course of which many things were talked about; but we confine our record to that part of the talk which bears specially on our tale. "The men must die," said Bearpaw sternly. "What you tell me about their harsh treatment of their chief and his son and friend only proves them to be the more deserving of death. My two young braves who visited them on the island were treated like dogs by some of them, and Little Beaver they have slain. It is just that they should die." "But my three friends here," returned Hendrick, "treated your braves well, and they had no knowledge or part in the killing of Little Beaver. Perhaps the palefaces did _not_ kill him. Do they admit that they did?" "How can we tell what they admit? We know not their language, nor they ours. But there is no need to palaver. Did not Strongbow and his braves find the dead body of Little Beaver bruised and broken? Did they not see his black dog in the paleface camp, and has not Rising Sun disappeared like the early frost before the sun? Doubtless she is now in the camp with those palefaces who have escaped us, but whom we will yet hunt down and kill." "Bearpaw is right," said Hendrick, "murderers deserve to die. But Bearpaw is also just; he will let the men of the sea speak in their own defence now that I am here to interpret?" "Bearpaw is just," returned the chief. "He will hear what the palefaces have got to say. One of the young men will take you to their prison." He signed as he spoke to a young Indian, who instantly left the tent, followed by Hendrick and his friends. Passing right through the village the party reached a precipice, on the face of which was what appeared to be the entrance to a cavern. Two Indians stood in front of it on guard. A voice was heard within, which struck familiarly, yet strangely, on Paul and the captain's ears. And little wonder, for it was the voice of Grummidge engaged in the unaccustomed act of prayer! The young Indian paused, and, with a solemn look, pointed upwards, as if to intimate that he understood the situation, and would not interrupt. Those whom he led also paused and listened--as did the sentinels, though they understood no word of what was said. Poor Grummidge had evidently been brought very low, for his once manly voice was weak and his tones were desponding. Never before, perhaps, was prayer offered in a more familiar or less perfunctory manner. "O Lord," he said, "_do_ get us out o' this here scrape somehow! We don't deserve it, though we _are_ awful sinners, for we've done nothin' as I knows on to hurt them savages. We can't speak to them an' they can't speak to us, an' there's nobody to help us. Won't _you_ do it, Lord?" "Sure it's no manner o' use goin' on like that, Grummidge," said another voice. "You've done it more than wance a'ready, an' there's no answer. Very likely we've bin too wicked intirely to deserve an answer at all." "Speak for yourself Squill," growled a voice that was evidently that of Little Stubbs. "I don't think I've been as wicked as you would make out, nor half as wicked as yourself! Anyhow, I'm goin' to die game, if it comes to that. We can only die once, an' it'll soon be over." "Ochone!" groaned Squill, "av it wasn't for the short allowance they've putt us on, an' the bad walkin' every day, an' all day, I wouldn't mind so much, but I've scarce got strength enough left to sneeze, an' as to my legs, och! quills they are instid of Squill's." "For shame, man," remonstrated Grummidge, "to be makin' your bad jokes at a time like this." The tone of the conversation now led the young Indian to infer that interruption might not be inappropriate, so he turned round the corner of rock that hid the interior from view, and led his party in front of the captives. They were seated on the ground with their backs against the wall, and their arms tied behind them. The aspect of the unfortunate prisoners was indeed forlorn. It would have been ludicrous had it not been intensely pitiful. So woe-begone and worn were their faces that their friends might have been excused had they failed to recognise them, but, even in the depths of his misery and state of semi-starvation, it was impossible to mistake the expressive visage of poor Squill, whose legs were indeed reduced to something not unsuggestive of "quills," to say nothing of the rest of his body. But all the other prisoners, Grummidge, Stubbs, Blazer, Taylor, and Garnet, were equally reduced and miserable, for the harsh treatment and prolonged journeying through forest and swamp, over hill and dale, on insufficient food, had not only brought them to the verge of the grave, but had killed outright one or two others of the crew who had started with them. The visitors, owing to their position with their backs to the light of the cave's mouth, could not be recognised by the prisoners, who regarded them with listless apathy, until Captain Trench spoke, swallowing with difficulty a lump of some sort that nearly choked him. "Hallo! shipmates! how goes it? Glad to have found ye, lads." "Och!" exclaimed Squill, starting up, as did all his companions; but no other sound was uttered for a few seconds. Then a deep "thank God" escaped from Grummidge, and Little Stubbs tried to cheer, but with small success; while one or two, sitting down again, laid their thin faces in their hands and wept. Reader, it were vain to attempt a description of the scene that followed, for the prisoners were not only overwhelmed with joy at a meeting so unexpected, but were raised suddenly from the depths of despair to the heights of confident hope, for they did not doubt that the appearance of their mates as friends of the Indians was equivalent to their deliverance. Even when told that their deliverance was by no means a certainty, their joy was only moderated, and their hope but slightly reduced. "But tell me," said Paul, as they all sat down together in the cave, while the Indians stood by and looked silently on, "what is the truth about this Indian who was murdered, and the dog and the woman?" "The Indian was never murdered," said Grummidge stoutly. "He had evidently fallen over the precipice. We found him dead and we buried him. His dog came to us at last and made friends with us, though it ran away the day the settlement was attacked. As to the woman, we never saw or heard of any woman at all till this hour!" When Bearpaw was told how the matter actually stood, he frowned and said sternly-- "The palefaces lie. If they never saw Rising Sun, why did she not come back to us and tell what had happened? She was not a little child. She was strong and active, like the young deer. She could spear fish and snare rabbits as well as our young men. Why did she not return? Where is she? Either she is dead and the palefaces have killed her, or they have her still among them. Not only shall the palefaces answer for her with their lives, but the Bethucks will go on the war-path to the coast and sweep the paleface settlement into the sea!" It was of no avail that Hendrick pleaded the cause of the prisoners earnestly, and set forth eloquently all that could be said in their favour, especially urging that some of them had been kind to the two Indians who first visited the white men. Rising Sun had been a favourite with the chief; she was dead--and so the palefaces must die! CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. TELLS OF TERRIBLE SUSPENSE--VIOLENT INTENTIONS AND RELIGIOUS DISCUSSION. "Now I tell you what it is, Master Hendrick," said Captain Trench, the day after their arrival at the Indian camp. "I see this is goin' to be an ugly business, an' I give you fair warning that I'm goin' to git surly. I won't stand by quietly and see Grummidge and my men slaughtered before my eyes without movin' a finger. I'll keep quiet as long as there's any chance of all your palaverin' resulting in anything, but if the worst comes to the worst I'll show fight, even if I should have to stand alone with all the red devils in Newfoundland arrayed against me." "I honour your feelings, Captain Trench, but doubt your judgment. How do you propose to proceed?" "Will you join me? Answer me that question first." "I will join you in any scheme that is reasonable," returned Hendrick, after a pause, "but not in a useless attempt to fight against a whole colony of Indians." "Then I'll keep my plans of procedure in my own noddle," said the captain, turning away with an indignant fling, and taking the path that led to the cave or prison-house of his shipmates, for as yet they were allowed free intercourse with their friends. "Grummidge," said he, in a stern voice, as he squatted down on the floor beside the unfortunate seaman, "things look bad, there's no doubt about that, an' it would be unkind deception to say otherwise, for that villain Bearpaw seems to git harder and harder the more they try to soften him. Now what I want to know is, are you an' the others prepared to join me, if I manage to cut your cords an' give you weapons, an'--" "Shush! clap a stopper on your mouth, cappen," said Grummidge in an undertone, "the redskins are listening." "An' what then? They know no more about English than I know about Timbuctoosh," returned the captain irascibly. "Let 'em listen! What I was a-goin' to say is, are you an' the other lads ready to follow me into the woods an' bolt if we can, or fight to the death if we can't?" "Sure an' _I'm_ ready to fight," interposed Squill, "or to follow ye to the end o' the world, an' further; but if I do I'll have to leave my legs behind me, for they're fit for nothin'. True it is, I feel a little stronger since your friend Hendrick got the bastes to increase our allowance o' grub, but I'm not up to much yet. Howsiver, I'm strong enough p'r'aps to die fightin'. Anyhow, I'll try." "So will I," said Little Stubbs. "I feel twice the man I was since you found us." "Putt me down on the list too, cap'n," said Fred Taylor, who was perhaps the least reduced in strength of any of the prisoners. "I'm game for anything short o' murder." Similar sentiments having been expressed by his other friends, the captain's spirit was somewhat calmed. Leaving them he went into the woods to ponder and work out his plans. There he met Paul and Hendrick. "We are going to visit the prisoners," said the former. "You'll find 'em in a more hopeful frame of mind," observed the captain. "I wish they had better ground for their hopes," returned his friend, "but Bearpaw is inexorable. We are to have a final meeting with him to-morrow. I go now to have a talk with our poor friends. It may be that something in their favour shall be suggested." Nothing, however, was suggested during the interview that followed, which gave the remotest hope that anything they could say or do would influence the savage chief in favour of his prisoners. Indeed, even if he had been mercifully disposed, the anger of his people against the seamen--especially the relatives of Little Beaver and those who had been wounded during the attack on Wagtail settlement--would have constrained him to follow out what he believed to be the course of justice. When the final meeting between the visitors and the chief took place, the latter was surrounded by his principal warriors. "Hendrick," he said, in reply to a proposal that execution should be at least delayed, "the name of the white hunter who has mated with the Bethuck girl is respected everywhere, and his wishes alone would move Bearpaw to pardon his paleface foes, but blood has been shed, and the price of blood must be paid. Hendrick knows our laws--they cannot be changed. The relations of Little Beaver cry aloud for it. Tell your paleface friends that Bearpaw has spoken." When this was interpreted to Paul Burns a sudden thought flashed into his mind, and standing forth with flushed countenance and raised arm, he said-- "Hendrick, tell the chief of the Bethucks that when the Great Spirit formed man He made him without sin and gave him a just and holy law to obey; but man broke the law, and the Great Spirit had said that the price of the broken law is death. So there seemed no hope for man, because he could not undo the past, and the Great Spirit would not change His law. But he found a way of deliverance. The Great Spirit himself came down to earth, and, as the man Jesus Christ, paid the price of the broken law with His own blood, so that guilty, but forgiven, man might go free. Now, if the Great Spirit could pardon the guilty and set them free, would it be wrong in Bearpaw to follow His example?" This was such a new idea to the Indian that he did not at first reply. He stood, with folded arms and knitted brow, pondering the question. At last he spoke slowly-- "Bearpaw knows not the thing about which his paleface brother speaks. It may be true. It seems very strange. He will inquire into the matter hereafter. But the laws that guide the Great Spirit are not the laws that guide men. What may be fit in Him, may not be fit in them." "My dark-skinned brother is wrong," said Hendrick. "The law that guides the Great Spirit, and that _should_ guide all His creatures, is one and the same. It is the law of love." "Was it love that induced the palefaces to kill Little Beaver and steal Rising Sun?" demanded the chief fiercely. "It was not," replied Hendrick; "it was sin; and Bearpaw has now an opportunity to act like the Great Spirit by forgiving those who, he thinks, have sinned against him." "Never!" returned the chief vehemently. "The palefaces shall die; but they shall live one day longer while this matter is considered in council, for it is only children who act in haste. Go! Bearpaw has spoken." To have secured even the delay of a single day was almost more than the prisoners' friends had hoped for, and they resolved to make the most of it. "Now, Hendrick," said Paul, when they were in the tent that had been set aside for their use, "we must be prepared, you and I, to give the chief a full account of our religion; for, depend on it, his mind has been awakened, and he won't rest satisfied with merely discussing the subject with his men of war." "True, Paul; what do you propose to do?" "The first thing I shall do is to pray for guidance. After that I will talk with you." "For my part," said Captain Trench, as Paul rose and left the tent, "I see no chance of moving that savage by religion or anything else, so I'll go an' make arrangements for the carryin' out o' _my_ plans. Come along to the woods with me, Olly, I shall want your help." "Father," said the boy, in a serious tone, as they entered the forest, "surely you don't mean to carry out in earnest the plan you spoke of to Grummidge and the others yesterday?" "Why not, my son?" "Because we are sure to be all killed if you do. As well might we try to stop the rising tide as to subdue a whole tribe of savages." "And would you, Olly," said the seaman, stopping and looking sternly at the boy, "would you advise me to be so mean as to look on at the slaughter of my shipmates without making one effort to save them?" "I would never advise you to do anything mean, father; an' if I did so advise you, you wouldn't do it; but the effort you think of makin' would not save the men. It would only end in all of us bein' killed." "Well, and what o' that? Would it be the first time that men have been killed in a good cause?" "But a cause can't be a good one unless some good comes of it! If there was a chance at all, I would say go at 'em, daddy, an' bowl 'em down like skittles, but you know there's no chance in your plan. Boltin' into the woods an' gittin' lost would be little use in the face o' savages that can track a deer by invisible footprints. An' fighting them would be like fighting moskitoes--one thousand down, another thousand come on! Besides, when you an' I are killed--which we're sure to be--what would come o' mother, sittin' there all alone, day after day, wonderin' why we never come back, though we promised to do so? Think how anxious it'll make her for years to come, an' how broken-hearted at last; an' think how careful she always was of you. Don't you remember in that blessed letter she sent me, just before we sailed, how she tells me to look well after you, an' sew the frogs on your sea-coat when they git loose, for she knows you'll never do it yourself, but will be fixin' it up with a wooden skewer or a bit o' rope-yarn. An' how I was to see an' make you keep your feet dry by changin' your hose for you when you were asleep, for you'd never change them yourself till all your toes an' heels came through 'em. Ah! daddy, it will be a bad job for mother if they kill you and me!" "But what can I do, Olly?" said the mariner, in a somewhat husky voice, when this pathetic picture was presented to his view. "Your mother would be the last to advise me to stand by and look on without moving a finger to save 'em. What can I do, Olly? What can I do?" This question was more easily put than answered. Poor Oliver looked as perplexed as his sire. "Pr'aps," he said, "we might do as Paul said he'd do, an' pray about it." "Well, we might do worse, my son. If I only could believe that the Almighty listens to us an' troubles Himself about our small affairs, I--" "Don't you think it likely, father," interrupted the boy, "that if the Almighty took the trouble to make us, He will take the trouble to think about and look after us?" "There's somethin' in that, Olly. Common sense points out that there's somethin' in that." Whether or not the captain acted on his son's suggestion, there is no record to tell. All we can say is that he spent the remainder of that day in a very disturbed, almost distracted, state of mind, now paying short visits to the prisoners, anon making sudden rushes towards the chief's tent with a view to plead their cause, and checking himself on remembering that he knew no word of the Indian tongue; now and then arguing hotly with Paul and Hendrick, that all had not been done which might or ought to have been done, and sometimes hurrying into the woods alone. Meanwhile, as had been anticipated, the chief sent for Hendrick and Paul to demand an explanation of the strange words which they had used about forgiveness and the broken law of the Great Spirit and Jesus Christ. It would be out of place here to enter into the details of all that was said on both sides, but it may not be uninteresting to state that, during the discussion, both the palefaces and the red men became so intensely absorbed in contemplation of the vast region of comparatively new thought into which they were insensibly led, that they forgot for the time being the main object of the meeting, namely, the ultimate fate of the captives. That the chief and his warriors were deeply impressed with the Gospel message was evident, but it was equally evident that the former was not to be moved from his decision, and in this the warriors sympathised with him. His strong convictions in regard to retributive justice were not to be shaken. "No," he said, at the end of the palaver, "the blood of a Bethuck has been shed; the blood of the palefaces must flow." "But tell him that that is not just even according to his own views," said Paul. "The blood of one paleface ought to suffice for the blood of one Bethuck." This was received in silence. Evidently it had some weight with the chief. "The paleface is right," he said, after a minute's thought. "Only one shall die. Let the prisoners decide among themselves who shall be killed. Go, Bearpaw has spoken--waugh!" A few minutes later, and the prisoners, with their friends, were assembled in the cave discussing this new phase of their case. "It's horrible!" said Grummidge. "D'ye think the chief is really in earnest?" "There can be no doubt of it," said Hendrick. "Then, my lads, I'll soon bid ye all farewell, for as I was your leader when the so-called murder was done, I'm bound in honour to take the consequences." "Not at all," cried Squill, whose susceptible heart was touched with this readiness to self-sacrifice. "You can't be spared yet, Grummidge; if any man shud die it's the Irishman. Shure it's used we are to bein' kilt, anyhow!" "There'll be none o' you killed at all," cried Captain Trench, starting up with looks of indignation. "I'll go and carry out _my_ plans--ah! you needn't look like that, Olly, wi' your poor mother's reproachful eyes, for I'm determined to do it, right or wrong!" CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. DELIVERANCE. Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland. Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which commanded a wide prospect of plain and morass, sat an Indian woman. She might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she was yet in her youthful years. She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes were fixed on the clouds above the horizon. Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into space. Then she began to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor creature's reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone. Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did so. Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her little feet. Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it. Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise, that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed her with the soft wary tread of a panther. At first the girl's step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid. A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently the excitement seemed to have passed, for she fell again into the listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low wailing song. At this point, taking advantage of a neighbouring thicket, the young Indian drew as near to the girl as possible, and, in a low voice, uttered the Indian word for--"Rising Sun!" Starting violently, the girl turned round, stretched out both arms, and, with intense hope expressed in every feature, took a step forward. In an instant the expression vanished. Another terrible scream resounded in the air, and, turning quickly away, she fled like a hunted deer. The young man pursued, but he evidently did not try to overtake her-- only to keep her in sight. The maniac did not choose her course, but ran straight before her, leaping over fallen trees and obstructions with a degree of agility and power that seemed marvellous. Sometimes she shrieked as she ran, sometimes she laughed fiercely, but she never looked back. At last she came to a small lake--about a quarter of a mile wide. She did not attempt to skirt it, but went straight in with a wild rush, and, being well able to swim, struck out for the opposite shore. The young man followed without hesitation, but could not overtake her, and when he landed she had disappeared in the woods beyond. Skilled to follow a trail, however, the youth soon recovered sight of her, but still did not try to overtake her--only to keep her in view. At length the fire which had sustained the poor creature seemed to have burned itself out. In attempting to leap over a low bush Rising Sun stumbled, fell, and lay as if dead. The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong. She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and, an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days past she had been making--straight as the arrow flies from the bow. He carried her at once to the chief's tent and laid his burden softly down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her. Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and raised the girl's head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply Rising Sun with some warm food. It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of his braves. When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly detained by one of the braves. "Oh, let me go--let me go!--to his mother!" she wailed piteously, for she felt herself to be helpless in the youth's strong grasp. "Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?" said the chief tenderly, as he stood before her. "Yes--yes--no. I have not forgotten," she said, passing her hand over her brow; "but, oh! let me go to her before I die!" "Rising Sun shall not die. She is among friends now. The pale-faced enemies who killed Little Beaver can do her no harm." "Killed him--enemies!" murmured the poor girl, as if perplexed; then, quickly, "Yes--yes--he is dead. Does not Rising Sun know it? Did she not see it with her own eyes? He was killed--killed!" The poor girl's voice rose as she spoke until it was almost a shriek. "Rising Sun," said the chief, in a tone which the girl could not choose but obey, "tell us who killed him?" "Killed him? No one killed him!" she answered, with a return of the perplexed look. "He missed his footing and fell over the cliff, and the Great Spirit took him." "Then the palefaces had nothing to do with it?" asked the chief eagerly. "Oh! yes; the palefaces had to do with it. They were there, and Rising Sun saw all that they did; but they did not see her, for when she saw them coming she hid herself, being in great fear. And she knew that Little Beaver was dead. No man could fall from such a cliff and live. Dead--dead! Yes, he is dead. Oh! let me go." "Not yet, Rising Sun. What did the palefaces do? Did they take his scalp?" "No; oh! no. The palefaces were kind. They lifted him tenderly. They dug his grave. They seemed as if they loved him like myself. Then they went away, and then--Rising Sun forgets! She remembers running and bounding like the deer. She cannot--she forgets!" The poor girl stopped speaking, and put her hand to her brow as if to restrain the tumult of her thoughts. Then, suddenly, she looked up with a wild yet intelligent smile. "Yes, she remembers now. Her heart was broken, and she longed to lay it on the breast of Little Beaver's mother--who loved him so well. She knew where the wigwams of Bearpaw stood, and she ran for them as the bee flies when laden with honey to its home. She forgets much. Her mind is confused. She slept, she fell, she swam, she was cold--cold and hungry--but--but now she has come home. Oh, let me go!" "Let her go," said the chief, in a low voice. The young brave loosed his hold, and Rising Sun bounded from the tent. It was dark by that time, but several camp-fires threw a lurid glare over the village, so that she had no difficulty in finding the hut of her dead husband's mother, for, during the interchange of several visits between members of the two tribes, she had become very familiar with the camp. All ignorant of the poor maniac's arrival, for the news had not yet spread, the mother of Little Beaver sat embroidering a moccasin with dyed quill-work. The traces of profound grief were on her worn face, and her meek eyes were dim as she raised them to see who lifted the curtain of the tent so violently. Only one word was uttered by Rising Sun as she sprang in and fell on her knees before the old woman:--"Mother!" No cry was uttered, not even an expression of surprise moved the old woman's face; but her ready arms were extended, and the girl laid her head, with a long-drawn sigh, upon the old bosom. Long did she lie there that night, while a tender hand smoothed her coal-black hair, and pressed the thin cheek to a warm throbbing heart, which feared to move lest the girl's rest should be disturbed; but there was no need to fear that. Even the loving old heart could no longer warm the cheek that was slowly but surely growing cold. When the face was at last turned anxiously towards the firelight it was seen that a rest which could not be disturbed had been found at last--for Rising Sun was dead. While this solemn scene was enacting in the old mother's tent, a very different one was taking place in the cave prison, where the captives still sat, bound hand and foot leaning against the wall. Captain Trench and his son sat in front of them. A small fire burned in the cave, the smoke of which found an exit among the crevices of the high roof. It cast a lurid light on the faces of the men and on projections of the wall, but left the roof in profound darkness. The captain was still much excited, for the moment for his desperate venture was rapidly approaching. "Now, Grummidge," he said, in a low but earnest voice, "it's of no use your objectin' any more, for I've made up my mind to do it." "Which means," returned the seaman, "that for the sake of savin' my life, you're a-goin' to risk your own and the lives of all consarned. Now it's my opinion that as the sayin' goes, of two evils a man should choose the least. It's better that I should die quietly than that the whole of us should die fightin', and, maybe, killin' savages as well, which would be of no manner of use, d'ye see. I can only die once, you know, so I advise ye to give it up, an' leave the whole matter in the hands of Providence." "Not at all," said Squill stoutly. "It's my opinion that when they've kilt you, Grummidge, they'll be like tigers when they've tasted blood: they'll want to kill the rest of us. No; I've made up me mind to bolt, and, if need be, fight, an' so has all the rest on us--so heave ahead, cappen, an' tell us what we've got to do." "Well, boys, here it is," said the captain. "You see this weapon." He took up the heavy bludgeon that Oliver had made for himself on commencing his travels in Newfoundland. "Well, I've brought this here every time I've come just to get the two sentries accustomed to see me with it. This is your last night on earth, Grummidge, so I'm goin' to pay you an extra visit about midnight, by way of sayin' farewell. As I pass the sentries--who are quite used to me now--I'll fetch the first one I come to such a crack with this here that he will give no alarm. Before the other has time to wink I'll treat him to the same. It's a mean sort o' thing to do, but necessity has no law, so I've made up my mind to go through with it." "It'll be a bad look-out if you do," said Grummidge. "It'll be a worse look-out if I don't," replied the captain. "Then, when that's done," he continued, "I'll cut your lashin's, an' we'll crowd all sail for the woods, where I have already concealed some arms an' dried deer's-meat, an' if we can't get fair off and make for the east coast, we'll get on the top o' some mound or rock an' show these Redskins what English seamen can do when they're hard pressed." "Not to mintion Irish wans!" said Squill. "An' have Master Paul an' Hendrick agreed to fall in wi' this mad plan?" asked Grummidge. "No, I can't say they have. To say truth, considerin' that Hendrick's a relation o' the Redskins an' that Master Paul is his friend, I thought it best to say nothing to them about it. So I'll--" He was interrupted here by the sudden entrance of Hendrick and Paul themselves, accompanied by Bearpaw and the sentries. To one of the latter the chief gave an order, and the man, drawing his knife, advanced to Grummidge. The seaman instinctively shrank from him, but was agreeably surprised on having his bonds cut. The others having also been liberated, the chief said:-- "My pale-faced brothers are free." "Yes, lads," said Paul, heartily grasping Grummidge by the hand. "God has sent deliverance at the eleventh hour--you are all free." CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. THE LAST. The joy with which the news was received by our seamen and their friends was somewhat marred by the death of the poor girl who had unconsciously been the means of their deliverance. During several days there was profound grief in the Indian village, for Rising Sun had been a favourite with every one. About this time one or two scattered bands of the party, which had gone to attack the paleface settlement, returned to the village, and when they found what had occurred in their absence, their enmity was turned into friendship, and general goodwill prevailed among all. From the men just arrived Paul and his friends heard of the fate of poor Swinton and Jim Heron, but at the same time were relieved to find that none of the other seamen had been slain. A grand council and palaver was held in front of Bearpaw's tent not long afterwards. It was a very grave and orderly council--one which would contrast favourably with many of our nineteenth century councils, for those savages had not at that time acquired the civilised capacity for open offhand misrepresentation, calumny, and personal abuse which is so conspicuous in these days, and which must be so gratifying to those who maintain that civilisation is the grand panacea for all the moral ills that flesh is heir to. Whether the Bethucks ever improved in this matter is not known, for history is silent on the point; but it is, perhaps, of little consequence, the Bethuck race having become extinct. "It is now a matter for our consideration, my friends and warriors," said Bearpaw, in opening the palaver, "whether the palefaces are to spend the winter here and hunt with us, or to return to the Crooked Lake to stay with our kinsman, the white hunter, and his wife, the sweet singer. Of course, my warriors know well that we could keep the palefaces by force just as easily as we could take their scalps, if we were so disposed; but Bearpaw is not a tyrant. He will not inflict kindness on his friends. His heart is great. It swells within him. Something inside of him whispers, `Let them do as they please.' That must be right, for if circumstances were reversed, it would be right to let Bearpaw do as he pleases." The chief paused and looked sternly round, as if to say, "Contradict that if you dare!" Possibly he felt that the "something inside of him" might have stated the golden rule more simply. Returning to the point, he continued-- "Bearpaw is glad that Rising Sun came home before he killed the palefaces, for her words have saved their lives. He is also glad that the friends of the palefaces came, for they have taught him wisdom. They have shown him that he was going to act in haste; they have told him that the Great Spirit orders all events here, and the Great Spirit himself has proved the truth of what they said; for, when Bearpaw refused to believe the palefaces, He sent Rising Sun to confirm their words, and to convince Bearpaw that he was wrong." Again the chief paused, and looked round upon his men, some of whom appeared to dissent from what he said in condemnation of himself by slightly shaking their heads. "Bethuck warriors," continued the chief, "have often told Bearpaw that he is wise. Bearpaw now tells his warriors that they are fools--fools for telling their chief that he is wise! If he had been wise he would not have come so near to shedding the blood of innocent men; but the Great Spirit prevented him. If the Great Spirit had not prevented him, still that would have been right, for the Great Spirit cannot do wrong, and He is not bound to give explanations to his creatures; though, doubtless, we will do it in the end. The heart of Bearpaw is grateful to his paleface brothers, and he would be glad if they will stay to hunt over his lands and palaver in his wigwam during the winter; but if they prefer to go, they may do as they please. Waugh! Bearpaw has spoken." The chief sat down with emphasis, as if he felt that he had done his duty, and his men uttered a decided "Ho!" of approval. Then Hendrick rose, and, looking round the circle with that grave dignity of countenance and manner which was not less natural to himself than characteristic of his Indian friends, delivered himself as follows:-- "I and my friends are glad that Bearpaw recognises the hand of the Great Spirit in all that has occurred, for we rejoice to believe that He is the great First Cause of all things, and that men are only second causes, gifted, however, with the mysterious power to do evil. "In thanking my Bethuck brother and his warriors for their kind invitation--I speak for all my party--we are all grateful, and we would greatly like to spend the winter here, and enjoy the hospitality of our red brothers. Especially would my friend Paul Burns rejoice to read more to you from his wonderful writing, and explain it; but we cannot stay. My paleface brothers wish to return with me to Crooked Lake, where the sweet singer and her little ones await the return of the hands that feed and protect them." Hendrick, pausing, looked round and received some nods of approval at this point. "The winter is long, however," he continued, "and when the snow is deep over all the land we can put on our snow-shoes and revisit Bearpaw; or, better still, Bearpaw and his warriors may come to Crooked Lake, when the sweet singer and her daughter will give them hearty welcome, supply them with more food than they can consume, and cause their ears and hearts to thrill with music." Hendrick paused again, and decided marks of approval greeted his last words. "But, my friends and kinsmen," he resumed, "when winter draws to a close, the palefaces will go to the coast to see how it fares with their comrades, and to try whether it is not possible for them to make a big canoe in which to cross the great Salt Lake, for some of them have wives and mothers, sisters, fathers, and other relations whom they love, in the mighty land that lies far away where the sun rises--the land of my own fathers, about which I have often talked to you. If they cannot make a big enough canoe, they will wait and hope till another great canoe, like the one they lost, comes to this island--as come it surely will, bringing many palefaces to settle in the land." "When they come they shall be welcome," said Bearpaw, as Hendrick sat down, "and we will hunt for them till they learn to hunt for themselves; we will teach them how to capture the big fish with the red flesh, and show them how to track the deer through the wilderness--waugh! But will our guests not stay with us till the hard frosts set in?" "No; we must leave before the deep snow falls," said Hendrick. "Much of that which fell lately has melted away; so we will start for Crooked Lake without further delay." The Indian chief bowed his head in acquiescence with this decision, and the very next day Paul and the captain and Oliver, with their rescued comrades and Strongbow, set out for Hendrick's home, which they reached not long after, to find that all was well, that the old Indian servant had kept the family fully supplied with fish, flesh, and fowl; that no one had visited the islet since they left, that the sweet singers were in good voice; and that the family baby was as bright as ever, as great an anxiety to its mother, and as terrible a torment to its idolising nurse! Among others who took up their abode at that time on the hunter's islet was the large dog Blackboy. That faithful creature, having always had a liking for Hendrick, and finding that the old master and mistress never came back, had attached itself to the party of palefaces, and quietly accepted the English name of Blackboy. Now, it is impossible, with the space at our command, to recount all the sayings and doings of this section of the _Water Wagtail's_ crew during that winter: how they built a hut for themselves close to that of their host; how they learned to walk on snowshoes when the deep snow came; how, when the lake set fast and the thick ice formed a highway to the shore, little Oscar taught Oliver Trench how to cut holes through to the water and fish under the ice; how hunting, sledging, football, and firewood-cutting became the order of the day; supping, story-telling, singing, and reading the manuscript Gospel according to John, the order of the evening, and sleeping like tops, with occasional snoring, the order of the night, when the waters were thus arrested by the power of frost, and the land was smothered in snow. All this and a great deal more must be left untold, for, as we have said, or hinted, or implied before, matters of greater moment claim our attention. One night, towards the close of that winter, Paul Burns suggested that it was about time to go down to the coast and visit their comrades there. "So say I," remarked Grummidge, who at the time was feeding the baby, to the grave satisfaction of Blackboy. "Sure, an' I'm agreeable," said Squills, who was too busy feeding himself to say more. As Little Stubbs, George Blazer, Fred Taylor, and David Garnet were of the same opinion, and Hendrick had no objection, except that Trueheart, Goodred, and Oscar would be very sorry to part with them, and the family baby would be inconsolable, it was decided that a start should be made without delay. They set out accordingly, Hendrick and Strongbow alternately leading, and, as it is styled, beating the track, while the rest followed in single file. It was a long, hard journey, but our travellers were by that time inured to roughing it in the cold. Every night they made their camp by digging a hole in the snow under the canopy of a tree, and kindling a huge fire at one end thereof. Every morning at dawn they resumed the march over the snow-clad wilderness, and continued till sun-down. Thus, day by day they advanced, living on the dried meat they carried on their backs, and the fresh meat and ptarmigan they procured with bolt and arrow. At last they reached the coast. It was a clear, sharp, starry night when they arrived at Wagtail Bay, with an unusually splendid aurora lighting them on their way. Anxious forebodings filled the breasts of most of the party, lest they should find that their comrades had perished; but on coming in sight of the principal hut, Oliver exclaimed, "There's a light in the window, and smoke coming from--hurr--!" He would have cheered, but Grummidge checked him. "Shut up your hatchway, lad! Let us see what they are about before goin' in." They all advanced noiselessly, Grummidge leading, Strongbow bringing up the rear. The hut had two windows of parchment, which glowed with the light inside, but through which they could not see, except by means of one or two very small holes, to which eager eyes were instantly applied. A most comfortable scene was presented, and jovial sounds smote the ears of those who listened. As far as they could make out every man of the crew was there, except, of course, Big Swinton and Jim Heron. Some were playing draughts, some were mending nets or fashioning bows, and others were telling stories or discussing the events of the past day. But a great change for the better was perceptible both in words and manners, for some of the seed which Paul Burns had let fall by the wayside, had, all unexpectedly, found good ground in several hearts, and was already bearing fruit. Dick Swan and Spitfire no longer quarrelled as they played together, and Bob Crow no longer swore. "Heigho!" exclaimed the latter at the end of a game, as he stretched his arms above his head, "I wonder if we'll ever play draughts in Old England or see our friends again!" "You'll see some of 'em to-night, anyhow, God bless ye, Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, as he flung open the door and sprang in, while his snow-sprinkled comrades came tramp, tramp, in a line behind him! Who can describe that meeting as they shook hands, gasped, exclaimed, laughed--almost cried; while Blackboy leaped around wildly joyful at the sight of so many old friends? We will not attempt it; but, leaving them there, we will conduct the reader down to a small creek hard by, where a curious sight may be seen--a small ship on the stocks nearly finished, which will clearly be ready to launch on the first open water. From the wreck of the old ship, tools, and timber, and cordage had been recovered. The forests of Newfoundland had supplied what was lacking. Ingenuity and perseverance did the rest. Need we add that the work went on merrily now that the wanderers had returned? Hendrick stayed with them till the little ship was launched. With a pleased yet sorrowful expression he watched as the eager men tested her stability and her sailing powers, and rejoiced with them on finding that she worked well and answered to her helm smartly. "Good-bye, friends, and God watch over you and me till that day after which there shall be no more partings," he said, as they all shook hands for the last time. He was left standing beside his Indian friend on the rocks when the _Morning Star_ finally set sail. The tall forms of the two men were still visible when the little vessel rounded the neighbouring headland and turned its prow towards England. They stood there sadly watching the lessening sails till the ship became a mere speck on the horizon and finally disappeared. Then Hendrick slowly re-entered the forest, and, followed by Strongbow, returned to his own home in the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland. THE END. 
20242	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 20242-h.htm or 20242-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/4/20242/20242-h/20242-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/2/4/20242/20242-h.zip) +------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and unusual spelling and | | punctuation in the original document have been preserved. | | | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list, and further notes, please see | | the end of this document. | | | +------------------------------------------------------------+ LEFT ON LABRADOR Or The Cruise of the Schooner-Yacht "Curlew" as Recorded by "Wash" by C.A. STEPHENS Author of "Lynx-Hunting," "Fox-Hunting," "Camping Out," "Off to the Geysers," "On the Amazons," Etc. Illustrated [Illustration] New York Hurst & Company Publishers CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Sequel to the "Graphite Lode."--The Fifteen Thousand Dollars, and how it was invested.--About the Yacht.-- The Schooner "Curlew."--Capt. Mazard.--Guard.--The Gloucester Boys.--"Palmleaf, Sar."--Getting Ready for the Voyage.--Ship-Stores.--The Howitzer.--The Big Rifle.--A Good Round Bill at the Outset 9 CHAPTER II. Up Anchor, and away.--What the Old Folks thought of it.--The Narrator's Preface.--"Squeamish."--A North-easter.--Foggy.--The Schooner "Catfish."-- Catching Cod-Fish on the Grand Bank.--The First Ice.--The Polar Current.--The Lengthening Day.--Cape Farewell.--We bear away for Cape Resolution.--Hudson's Straits.--Its Ice and Tides 28 CHAPTER III. Cape Resolution.--The Entrance into Hudson's Straits.-- The Sun in the North-east.--The Resolution Cliffs-- Sweating among Icebergs.--A Shower and a Fog--An Anxious Night.--A Strange Rumbling.--Singular Noises and Explosions--Running into an Iceberg.--In Tow.--A Big Hailstone drops on Deck.--Boarding an Iceberg.--Solution of the Explosions.--A Lucky Escape 45 CHAPTER IV. The Fog lifts.--A Whale in Sight.--Craggy Black Mountains capped with Snow.--A Novel Carriage for the Big Rifle.--Mounting the Howitzer.--A Doubtful Shot.--The Lower Savage Isles.--A Deep Inlet.-- "Mazard's Bay."--A Desolate Island.--An Ice-Jam.--A Strange Blood-red Light.--Solution of the Mystery.-- Going Ashore.--Barren Ledges.--Beds of Moss.--A Bald Peak.--An Alarm.--The Schooner in Jeopardy.--The Crash and Thunder of the Ice.--Tremendous Tides 69 CHAPTER V. A Dead Narwhal.--Snowy Owls.--Two Bears in Sight.-- Firing on them with the Howitzer.--A Bear-Hunt among the Ice.--An Ice "Jungle."--An Exciting Chase.--The Bear turns.--Palmleaf makes "a Sure Shot."--"Run, you Black Son!" 93 CHAPTER VI. The Middle Savage Isles.--Glimpse of an Esquimau Canoe.--Firing at a Bear with the Cannon-Rifle.--A Strange Sound.--The Esquimaux.--Their Kayaks.--They come on board.--An Unintelligible Tongue.--"Chymo." 106 CHAPTER VII. The Husky Belles.--_We-we_ and _Caubvick_.--"_Abb_," she said.--All Promenade.--Candy at a Discount.-- "_Pillitay, pillitay!_"--Old Trull and the Husky Matron.--Gorgeous Gifts.--Adieu to the Arctic Beauties 125 CHAPTER VIII. The Husky Chief.--Palmleaf Indignant.--A Gun.--Sudden Apparition of the Company's Ship.--We hold a Hasty Council.--In the Jaws of the British Lion.--An Armed Boat.--Repel Boarders!--Red-Face waxes wrathful.-- Fired on, but no Bones Broken 140 CHAPTER IX. A Barren Shore, and a Strange Animal, which is captured by blowing up its Den.--Palmleaf falls in with the Esquimaux, and is chased by them.--"_Twau-ve!_"--"A Close Shave."--An Attack threatened.--The Savages dispersed with the Howitzer 162 CHAPTER X. The Dip of the Needle.--The North Magnetic Pole.--A _Kayak_ Bottom up, with its Owner Head down.-- Ice-Patches.--Anchoring to an Ice-Floe.--A Bear-hunt in the Fog.--Bruin charges his Enemies.--Soundings.-- The Depth of the Straits 186 CHAPTER XI. "Isle Aktok."--A Sea-Horse and a Sea-Horse Hunt.--In High Spirits.--Sudden Interruption of the Hunt.--A Heavy Gun.--The Race to the Ledge-Tops.--Too Late.--A Disheartening Spectacle.--Surprised by the Company's Ship.--The Schooner in Peril.--Capt. Mazard bravely waits.--The Flight of "The Curlew" amid a Shower of Balls.--The Chase.--Left on the Islet.--A Gloomy Prospect.--"What shall we have for Grub to _ate_?"-- Wild-Geese.--Egging.--"Boom!"--A Sea-Horse Fire 200 CHAPTER XII. The "Spider."--Fried Eggs.--The "Plates."--"Awful Fresh!"--No Salt.--Plans for getting Salt from Sea-Water.--Ice-Water.--Fried Goose.--Plans to escape.--A Gloomy Night.--Fight with a Walrus.-- Another "_Wood-Pile._"--Wade Sick.--A Peevish Patient and a Fractious Doctor.--The Manufacture of Salt 226 CHAPTER XIII. More Salt.--Some Big Hailstones.--A Bright Aurora.--The Lookout.--An _Oomiak_ heaves in Sight.--The Huskies land on a Neighboring Island.--Shall we join them?--A Bold, Singular, not to say Infamous, Proposition from Kit.--Some Sharp Talk.--Kit's Project carried by Vote 250 CHAPTER XIV. We set up a Military Despotism on "Isle Aktok."--"No Better than Filibusters!"--The Seizure of the Oomiak.--The Seal Tax--A Case of Discipline.-- _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_.--The Inside of a Husky Hut.--"Eigh, Eigh!"--An Esquimau Ball.--A Funeral.-- Wutchee and Wunchee's Cookery.--The Esquimau Whip 267 CHAPTER XV. Winter at Hand.--We hold a Serious Council.--"Cold! oh, how Cold!"--A Midnight Gun.--The Return of "The Curlew."--"A J'yful 'Casion."--A Grand Distribution of Presents.--Good-by to the Husky Girls.--A Singular Savage Song.--We All get Sentimental.--Adieu to "Isle Aktok."--Homeward Bound.--We engage "The Curlew" and her Captain for Another Year 291 INTRODUCTION. Those of our readers who may have read "Camping Out," the first volume of the "Camping-Out Series," will probably recall the circumstance of the graphite lode, and the manner in which it was left to Raed to dispose of. As the reason was too far advanced at the time of his negotiations with the unknown gentlemen to permit of a trip to Katahdin that fall, the whole affair was postponed till the following spring. On the 27th of April, Raed set out for Bangor. At Portland, Me., he was joined by the gentlemen (their names we are not at liberty to give); and at Bangor Kit met the party. Thence they went up to the mountain, where they had no difficulty in rediscovering the lode. That the examination was satisfactory will be seen from the first chapter of young Burleigh's narrative, which we subjoin. It is an account of their first yacht-cruise north. The schooner "Curlew," with the party, sailed from "Squam" (Gloucester, north village) on the 10th of June. On the 7th of July they made Cape Resolution on the north side of the entrance of Hudson Straits. Thenceforward, till their escape from that icy passage in August, their voyage was one continued series of startling adventures amid some of the grandest and most terrible scenery the earth affords. Of the plan of self-education adopted and acted upon by these young gentlemen we may remark, that it is singularly bold and original in its conception. If persevered in, we have no doubt that the result will fully justify their expectations. Unless we are much mistaken, it will be, as they modestly hope, a pioneer movement, looking to a much-needed revolution in the present sedentary programme of collegiate study. LEFT ON LABRADOR. CHAPTER I. Sequel to the "Graphite Lode."--The Fifteen Thousand Dollars, and how it was invested.--About the Yacht.--The Schooner "Curlew."--Capt. Mazard.--Guard.--The Gloucester Boys.--"Palmleaf, Sar."--Getting Ready for the Voyage.--Ship-Stores.--The Howitzer.--The Big Rifle.--A Good Round Bill at the Outset. Raed got home from Katahdin on the night of the 15th of May. Kit came with him; and together they called on Wade and the writer of the following narrative early on the morning of the 16th. Brown enough both boys looked, exposed as they had been to the _tanning_ winds for more than a fortnight. "Jubilate!" shouted Raed, as I opened the door. "Latest news from Mount Katahdin,--graphite stock clean up to the moon!" Wade came _looking_ down stairs, nothing on but his gown and slippers. At sight of his tousled head both our callers gave a whoop of recognition, and set upon him,--shook him out of his slippers, and pulled him down the steps on to the sidewalk barefoot; thereby scandalizing a whole houseful of prim damsels across the street, who indignantly pulled down their curtains. Such a hand-shaking and back-patting as ensued! All the hardships and discouragement we had endured on our last season's expedition seemed to bear an exultant harvest in this our final success. "But you haven't been to breakfast!" exclaimed Kit. "So they haven't!" cried Raed. "Well, can't do business till they have their breakfast. We'll leave 'em to guzzle their coffee in peace. But hurry up! We must hold a council this morning,--have a grand pow-wow! Come round at nine sharp." They were off. We ate breakfast, and went down to Raed's, where we got into the back parlor, shut the doors, and proceeded to pow-wow. Wade was chosen president of the meeting; Kit, secretary. "First," said Raed, "allow me to give an account of my stewardship. No need of going into details. We went up to Katahdin; found the lode. Messrs. _Hammer and Tongs_ were well satisfied. The fifteen thousand dollars was paid without so much as winking. Might have had twenty thousand dollars just as well; but I didn't know it when I made the offer. Hope you won't be dissatisfied with me. Here's the money; two checks,--one on the First National Bank for nine thousand dollars, the other on the Maverick National Bank for six thousand dollars." "I move we accept the gentleman's statement, and tender our sincere thanks for his eminently successful services," said _a voice_. The motion was seconded by Kit, and carried. "Question now arises," Raed resumed, "What shall we do with this money? Of course we must plant it somewhere, have it growing, what we don't want to use immediately." "Might speculate a little with it," suggested Wade, "so as to double it up along." "And risk losing the whole of it," put in Kit. "'Nothing risked, nothing gained,'" quoted Wade. "What say, Raed? Why not buy gold?" "Better put it into bonds," said Kit; "safer, a good deal." "Don't know about that," remarked Wade. "Your abolition government may turn a somersault some fine morning." "Well, it won't strike on its head if it does,--like a certain government we've all heard of," retorted Kit. "Call the president and secretary to order, somebody!" cried Raed. "Now about buying gold," he continued. "There's nothing to be made in gold just now, especially with fifteen thousand dollars: if we had a million, it might be worth talking of. I really don't just know where to put our little fifteen thousand dollars to make it pull the hardest. Suppose we run down and have a talk with our legal friend, Mr. H----" (the same who had advised us relative to the "lode"). "All right." We went down. Our gentleman had just come in. Raed stated our case. H---- heard it. "So you want to speculate a little," said he pleasantly. "Good boys. That's right. Won't work yourselves; won't even let your money work honestly: want to set it to cheating somebody. Well, you must remember that the biter sometimes gets bitten." "Oh! we don't want anything hazardous," explained Raed. "Yes, I see," remarked Mr. H----; "something not too sharp, sort of over and above board, and tolerably safe." "That's about our style," remarked Wade. "Well, I'm doing a little something by way of Back-Bay land speculation. That would be near home for you; and you can go in your whole pile, or only a thousand, just as you choose." "Back-bay land," said Kit. "Where is this Back-bay land?" "Well, there you've got me," replied Mr. H----, laughing. "It would be rather hard telling where the _land_ is. In fact, the _land_ is most all _water_. The land part has yet to be made. There's room to make it, however. I mean out in the Back Bay, north-west of the city here, along the Charles River. City is growing rapidly out that way. We have got up a sort of company of share-owners of the space out on the tidal marsh. These shares can be bought and sold. As I said, the city is growing in that direction. There's a steady rise in value per square foot. Value may double in a year. Put in ten thousand now, and it may be worth twenty by next year at this time." "But is there really any bottom to it?" asked Wade. "Oh, yes! geologists think there's bottom out there somewhere. But we shareholders don't trouble ourselves about the bottom." "I mean bottom to the _company_," interrupted Raed. "Yes, yes. Well, that's another matter. But then you will be dealt honestly with, if that's what you mean by _bottom_. Of course, you must take the risk with the rest of us. You put in ten thousand: and, if you want me to do so, I will be on the lookout for your interests; tell you when to sell, you know; and, in case there should be like to come a crash, I'll tip you a wink when to stand from under." "Then you advise us to invest in this?" queried Raed. "Well, I should say that it was as well as you can do." "What say, fellows?" Raed inquired, turning to us. "Perhaps we could not do better," said Kit. "I suppose this property comes under the head of real estate; and real estate is generally considered safe property. You call it real estate, don't you, Mr. H----?" "Yes, yes; as near real estate as anything. It's kind of amphibious; half real estate certainly,--more'n half when the tide is out." So we purchased that afternoon, through Mr. H----, ten thousand dollars' worth of Back-bay _land_. Of our remaining five thousand dollars, we put three thousand dollars into 5-20 bonds, and deposited the remaining two thousand dollars ready for immediate use. That was about all we did that day. In the evening we went to hear Parepa, who was then in town; and the next morning met at nine, at Raed's again, to pow-wow further concerning the yacht. "It is too late," said Kit after we were again snug in the back parlor, "to get a yacht built and launched so as to make a voyage this summer. Such a vessel as we want can't be built and got off the stocks in much, if any, less than a year. What are we to do meanwhile?--wait for it?" "No," said Wade. "No," said Raed. "What then?" asked Kit. "Hire a vessel," I suggested. "Can we do that?" asked Wade. It seemed likely that we could. "Has it ever occurred to any of you that we none of us know anything about sailing a vessel?--anything to speak of, I mean?" Kit inquired. We had all been vaguely aware of such a state of things; but not till now had we been brought face to face with it. "It would be the worst kind of folly for us to go out of port alone," I couldn't help saying. "Of course it would," replied Kit. "I'm well aware of that," said Raed. "We shall have to learn seamanship somehow." "Besides," remarked Wade, "sailing a vessel wouldn't be very light nor very pleasant work for us, I'm thinking. If we could afford to hire a good skipper, it would be better." "We shall have to hire one till we learn how to manage a vessel ourselves," replied Raed. "And not only a skipper, but sailors as well," said Kit. "What shall _we_ be able to do the first week out, especially if it be rough weather?" "Do you suppose we shall be much seasick?" Wade asked suddenly. "Very likely we shall be sick, when it's rough, for a while," said Raed. "We must expect it, and get over it the best way we can." "Now, suppose we are able to hire a schooner such as we want, with a skipper, and a crew of five or six," he continued: "where shall we make our first cruise?" "Along the coast of Maine," I suggested. "From Casco Bay to Eastport. Several yachts were down there last summer. Found good fishing. Had a fine time. There are harbors all along, so that they could go in every night." "Just the place for our first voyage!" exclaimed Wade. "It seems to me," replied Raed, "that if we hire a good stanch schooner and skipper, with a crew, we might do something more than just cruise along the coast of Maine, fish a little, and then come back." "So it does to me," said Kit. "We should never get on our polar voyage at that rate. If we are going into all this expense, let's go up as far as the 'Banks' of Newfoundland, anyway." "And why not a little farther," said Raed, "if the weather was good, and we met with no accident? If everything went well, why not sail on up to the entrance of Hudson Straits, and get a peep at the Esquimaux?" "Raed never'll be satisfied till he gets into Hudson Bay," laughed Wade. "What is there so attractive about Hudson Bay? I can't imagine." "Because," said Raed, "it's an almost unknown sea. Ever since it was first discovered by the noble navigator, who perished somewhere along its shores, it has been shut up from the world in the hands of a few selfish individuals, who got the charter of the Hudson-bay Company from the King of England. They own it and all the country about it and run it for their own profit only. About that great bay there is a coast-line of more than two thousand miles, with Indian tribes on its shores as wild and savage as when Columbus first came to America. Just think of the adventure and wild scenery one might witness on a voyage round there! It's a shame we Americans can't go in there if we want to. The idea of letting half a dozen little red-faced men in London rule, hold, and keep everybody else out of that great region! It's a disgrace to us. Their old charter ought to have been taken away from them long ago. I don't know that I shall go there this year, nor next: but I mean to go into that bay sometime, and sail round there, and trade and talk with the savages as much as I choose; and, if the company undertakes to hinder me, I'll fight for it; for they've no moral right nor business to keep us out." "Good on your head!" cried Kit, patting him encouragingly. "A war with England seems to be imminent!" exclaimed Wade. "Methinks I hear the boom of cannon!" Raed looked dubious a moment, but immediately began to laugh. He is rather apt to fly off on such tangents. We have to sprinkle him with ridicule a little: that always brings him out of it all right again. "Well," said he, "waiving that subject, what say for going as far north as Hudson Straits, if everything should work favorably?" We had none of us anything to urge against this. "But we must not forget that we have not yet hired a vessel," added Kit. "No," said Raed; "and the sooner we find out what we can do, the better." That afternoon Wade and I went down to the wharves to make inquiries. Raed and Kit went out to Gloucester, it being quite probable that some sort of a craft might be found out of employ there. Wade and I were unable to see or hear of anything at all to our minds in our harbor, and came up home at about seven, P.M. Kit and Raed had not got back; nor did they come in the morning, nor during the next day. A few minutes before eight in the evening, however, we received a despatch from Portland, Me., saying, "Come down and see it." We went down on the morning train. The boys were at the dépôt. "Couldn't find a thing at Gloucester nor Newburyport nor Portsmouth," said Raed. "But I think we've struck something here, if we can stand the expense." "Eight out here at the wharf," said Kit. We walked across. "There she is!" pointed Raed. A pretty schooner of a hundred and seventy tons lay alongside. "One year old," Raed explained. "Clean and sweet as a nut. Here from Bangor with pine-lumber. Captain's a youngish man, but a good sailor. We inquired about him. Appears like a good fellow too. Has been on a cod-fisher up to the Banks; also on a sealer off Labrador. He's our man, I think." "And the best of it all is," said Kit, "he owns the schooner; can go if he's a mind to. So we sha'n't be bothered with any old musty-fusty owners." "Well, what does he say?" asked Wade. "He says he will put us up there this summer if we will give him a hundred dollars per month, pay full insurance fees on the vessel, hire him six good seamen, and give three hundred dollars for the use of schooner; we, of course, to furnish ship-stores and provide a cook." "Gracious! that's going to cost us something," said I. "Yes; but it's about the best and only thing we can do," said Kit. "Why does he want a new crew?" Wade asked. "Why does he not keep these he has?" "Says that these are all inexperienced,--green hands," replied Raed. "If we are going up there among the ice on a dangerous coast, he wants Gloucester boys,--Gloucester or Nantucket; prefers Gloucester. Thinks six Gloucester lads will be about the right thing." "Where is he?" asked Wade. "Up at the Preble House." We went up; when Wade and I were formally introduced to Capt. George Mazard of the schooner "Curlew." Had dinner with him. Liked him. He appeared then, as we have since proved him, a thoroughly good-hearted, clear-headed sailor. As Raed had hinted, he was quite a young man,--not more than twenty-seven or eight; middle height, but strong; face brown and frank; features good; manner a little serious; and attentive to business when on duty. On the whole, the man was rather grave for one of his years. Occasionally, however, when anything particularly pleased him, he developed a vein of strong, rich mirth, which would endure for several hours. He impressed us at once as a reliable man,--one to be depended on under any ordinary circumstances. We decided (very wisely as I now think) to accept his offer; and, after dinner, went down to the Marine Insurance Office to take out a policy on the vessel. On learning that we were intending to enter Hudson Straits, the agent refused to underwrite us: it was too ugly a risk. He either couldn't or didn't want to understand the object of our voyage. Here was a _stick_. Capt. Mazard declined to sail uninsured unless we would take the risk. We did not much like to do that. Finally Raed offered on our side to assume one-half the risk. After some hesitation, this was agreed to; and a paper to that effect was drawn up and signed. We then went down to the wharf where "The Curlew" lay. A fine, shaggy Newfoundland dog, black as a crow, came growling up the companion-way as we jumped down on deck, but, perceiving the captain, began to race and tear about with great barks of canine delight. "That's a jolly big dog!" Kit remarked. "Keeps watch here while you are off?" "Yes, sir. Don't want a better hand. Never leaves the schooner without I bid him. Wants his dinner too, I guess. I haven't been here since last night." "What's his name?" said Wade. "Guard." "He's a noble fellow," observed Raed. "Hope you will take him along with you." "I should be loath to go off without him." Some changes below deck seemed necessary; and we arranged for having the hold floored over, and a sort of rough saloon made, running nearly the whole length of the vessel. Off the forward end of this saloon was to be parted a cook's galley, with another section for the seamen's berths. Also arranged for a skylight in the deck; in short, for having the schooner made as convenient as possible for our purpose, at our expense. Leaving Capt. Mazard to superintend these changes, we went back to Gloucester in the morning, and during the day managed to hire six sailors, young fellows of eighteen and twenty, save one, an old sea-dog of fifty or thereabouts, at forty dollars per month. They looked a little rough, but turned out to be very good sailors; which was the most we wanted. Their names, as they gave them to us, were Richard Donovan, Henry Corliss, Jerry Hobbs, Thomas Bonney, and George Weymouth. The elder salt called himself John Somers; though it leaked out shortly after that he had formerly flourished under the less euphonious patronymic of Solomon Trull. Went home that evening, and the next day advertised for a cook. It was answered by three colored "gemmen," two of whom modestly withdrew their application when they found where we were going, not caring to brave the chill of polar latitudes. The other, who was not a little tattered in his wardrobe, and correspondingly reckless, was quite willing to set his face toward the pole. Although but recently from "Sou' Car'liny, sar," and black as a crow, he assured us he could stand the cold "jes' like a fly, sar." "What name?" Raed asked. "Charles Sumner Harris, sar. Been cook on oyster-schooner, sar." "Charles Sumner Harris!" exclaimed Wade, who was coming in. "You never wore that name in South Carolina." "No, sar; lately 'dopted it, sar." "What was your old name?" demanded Wade, looking at him as if he was about to give him five hundred lashes. The man hesitated. "When you were a slave, I mean. Yes, you were: don't deny it." "They called me Palmleaf den, sar." "Very well: that's what I shall call you. None of your Charles Sumner Harrises!" "Oh! don't bully him," Kit said. "Give him a chance for himself." "We shall see enough of his airs," Wade muttered. He was a rather hard-looking citizen. We engaged him, however, at thirty dollars a month; and it is but simple justice to him and his race to add, that, like the traditionary singed cat, he did better than his general appearance would have guaranteed at that time. The next morning we wrote to Capt. Mazard with directions to take "The Curlew" into Gloucester as soon as the carpenter-work was finished. He would need two or three hands temporarily. These were to be hired, and their car-fare back to Portland paid, at our expense. Another matter now came up. It was quite possible that we might encounter ice at the entrance of Davis Straits, as well as in Hudson Straits, if we should venture in there: indeed, we might be caught in the ice. "The Curlew," though a stanch schooner, was only strengthened in the ordinary way. "Will it not be best and safest," Raed argued, "to have her strengthened with cross-beams and braces? A few strong beams of this sort might save the vessel from being crushed." As we were held to pay half the cost of the schooner in case of such an accident, to say nothing of our personal peril, we judged it prudent to neglect no means to render the voyage as safe as possible. Accordingly, we went out to Gloucester, and arranged for having it done; also for getting in water and fuel. In short, there seemed no end to the _items_ to be seen to. If ever four fellows were kept busy, we were the four from the 20th of May to the 6th of June. Our ship-stores we bought in Boston, and had them sent to Gloucester by rail. It seemed desirable for us landsmen to have our food as nearly like that we had been in the habit of having as possible. We accordingly purchased five barrels of flour (not a little of it spoiled) at eight dollars per barrel; three of salt pork at sixteen dollars per barrel; two of beef at twelve dollars; six of potatoes at two dollars and fifty cents; two fifty-pound tubs of butter at thirty-five cents per pound; coffee, tea, sugar, and "preserves" to the tune of sixty dollars; and two hundred pounds corn-meal, four dollars.... Then there were a score of other little necessaries, amounting to near fifty dollars; in all, a bill of two hundred and seventy-four dollars. These stores were bought at our own suggestion. It would have been better to have taken the advice of some experienced shipmaster: it might have cost us less, and we should afterwards have fared better, to have done so. I remember that we took along a lot of confectioneries, both for our own delectation and also to "treat" the Esquimaux on! That was a wild shot. As well offer an Esquimau cold boiled parsnip as a stick of candy. We also had two boxes of lemons! Which of us was responsible for the proposition for lemonade in Hudson Straits has never been satisfactory settled. We none of us _can remember_ how the lemons came on board. Wade says they were bought as an antidote for sea-sickness. A far more sensible article of traffic was twenty dollars' worth of iron in small bars; four dozen large jack-knives; twenty butcher-knives, and the same number of hatchets. We had also a web of red flannel at twenty dollars; in all, ninety dollars. For mattresses, blankets, "comforters," and buffalo-skins, there was expended the sum of a hundred and twenty-three dollars. Ten Springfield rifles at ten dollars each (bought at an auction-sale), with a quantity of cartridges, one hundred and twelve dollars. For an old six-pound howitzer, purchased by Capt. Mazard from a schooner supposed to have been engaged in the slave-trade, nineteen dollars; and for ammunition (powder, iron shot, and a lot of small bullets), thirty-seven dollars. For firing at seals or bears from the deck of the schooner, we had made, at Messrs, R. & Co.'s machine-shop, a large rifle of about an inch bore, and set like a miniature cannon in a wrought-iron frame, arranged with a swivel for turning it, and a screw for elevating or depressing the muzzle. This novel weapon was, as I must needs own, one of my projection, and was always a subject for raillery from my comrades. Its cost, including the mounting, was ninety-seven dollars. In all, three hundred and eighty-eight dollars. Then there were other bills, including the cost of several nautical telescopes, also ice-anchors, ice-chisels, sounding-line, hawsers, &c., to the sum of a hundred and three dollars. The lumber and carpenter work on "The Curlew" at Portland made a bill of a hundred and nine dollars; seamen's wages to Gloucester, with car-fare back, nineteen dollars; bracing and strengthening the schooner, sixty-seven dollars; cost of getting in fuel and water, thirty-three dollars; and other bills to the amount of forty-nine dollars: in all, two hundred and seventy-seven dollars. We had thus to pay out at the start over eleven hundred dollars. Capt. Mazard, too, was kept as busy as ourselves superintending the work, putting the vessel in ballast, &c. Indeed, it's no small job to get ready for such a cruise. We had no idea of it when we began. CHAPTER II. Up Anchor, and away.--What the Old Folks thought of it--The Narrator's Preface.--"Squeamish."--A North-easter.--Foggy.--The Schooner "Catfish."--Catching Cod-Fish on the Grand Bank.--The First Ice.--The Polar Current.--The Lengthening Day.--Cape Farewell.--We bear away for Cape Resolution.--Hudson's Straits.--Its Ice and Tides. [In Wash's manuscript, the voyage as far as Cape Resolution occupies four chapters. We have been obliged to condense it into one, as indicated by periods.--ED.] On the afternoon of the 9th of June, Capt. Mazard telegraphed, "Can sail to-morrow morning if the wind serves." We had been ready several days, waiting for the last job,--strengthening the schooner. Good-by was said; and, going out to Gloucester, we went on board to pass the night. As some of our readers may perhaps feel inclined to ask what our "folks" said to this somewhat adventurous departure, it may as well be stated that we were obliged to go considerably in opposition to their wishes, advice, counsel; in short, everything that could be said save a down-right veto. It was unavoidable on our part. They could not be brought to look upon our (or rather Raed's) project of self-education as we did; they saw only the danger of the sea. Had we done as they advised, we should have stayed at home. I shall not take it upon me to say what we _ought_ to have done. As a matter of fact, we went, or this narrative would never have been written. Nor can I say conscientiously, by way of moral, that we were ever, for any great length of time, sorry that we went: on the contrary, I now believe it far the best way we could have spent our money; though the experience was a rough one. It may also be added, that we did not publicly state our intention of going so far north as Labrador; one reason for this being, that we were in no wise certain we should go farther than St. John's, Newfoundland. Our "saloon" was arranged with a sort of _divan_, or wide seat, along the starboard-side, at about chair-height. On this we laid our mattresses and blankets. Each had his bunk, this _divan_ serving in the place of berths. The captain had his toward the forward end of the apartment. Guard bunked directly under him on an old jacket and pants. Along the port-side there was made fast a strong broad shelf, at table-height, running the entire length: this was for our books and instruments. The captain had the forward end of it, the part fronting his bunk, for his charts and papers. Before this table there was a long bench, fixed conveniently for sitting to read or write. This bench, together with three strong barroom-chairs and four camp-stools, made up our sitting-accommodations. From pegs over the divan and table there hung a miscellaneous collection of powder-horns, rifles, fishing-tackle, tarpauling-hats, rubber coats, and "sou'-westers;" nor had I failed to bring along the old Sharpe's rifle which had done such good service among the moose-stags of Katahdin. ... We had brought "Palmleaf" with us, and now installed him in the galley. As a specimen of his art, we had him make muffins and tea that evening. Very fair they were, with butter and canned peaches. The men came down during the evening, having been previously notified, and were assigned to their berths. We boys turned in at about eleven, and were only aroused next morning by the rattle of blocks, clank of the windlass, and trampling of feet, on deck. "We're off!" exclaimed Raed, starting up. "Turn out, and say farewell to 'our native countree.'" We stumbled up on deck; for it was still quite dark: only a pale-bright belt along the ocean to the eastward showed the far-off coming of the day. The shore and the village looked black as night. We were already several hundred yards from the wharf. A smart, cold breeze gushed out of the north-west. The huge, dim-white sails were filling: "The Curlew" gathered way, and stood out to sea. The chilling breeze, the motion, the ink-black waves, and their sharp cracking on the beach, were altogether a little disheartening at first, coming so suddenly from sleep. We felt not a little inclined to shrink back to our warm blankets; but, mastering this feeling, braced our courage, and drew breath for our long cruise. The captain came aft. "Ah! good-morning!" he cried, seeing us huddled about the companion-way. "I meant to get off without waking you. We made too much noise. I suppose. Smart breeze this. Make ten knots on it, easy. Could put you to the _north pole_ in fifteen days with such a capful,--if there were no ice in the way," he added. "We might soon be at Hudson Straits were this to hold," laughed Kit. "Yes, sir," replied the captain. "Eight days would do it. But of course this is mere fine talk. You are not to look for any thing of the sort." "We don't," said Raed. "But how long do you suppose it _will_ take to work up there with ordinary weather?" "Oh! well, for a guess, eighteen days,--anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five. Oughtn't to be over twenty-five with this schooner. Will sail thirteen knots on a wind." ... We were now fairly clear of the shore. The wind freshened. "The Curlew" dashed forward, rising and falling with the swells. The whole east was reddening. The dark spar of the bow-sprit rose and fell through it. It seemed a good omen to be going toward the light. Ere the sun met us on the sea, we were twelve miles out of Gloucester.... Kit had often complained that he had been unable to write up the account of our Katahdin expedition so well as he could have done had he known beforehand that it would have fallen to Jim to do. At his suggestion, Raed, Wade, and myself, this morning, drew lots to sea who would be the historian of the present cruise. The reader, doubtless, has already inferred which of us got the short lot. Well, it was fun for the others, though any thing but fun for me. Nothing but a strong sense of restraining shame, added to the rather inconvenient distance from land, prevented me from deserting. Nature never designed me for a writer. Of that I am convinced; and doubtless my readers will not long differ with me. This is my first literary effort. If I know myself, it will also be my last. Under these circumstances, I beg that such of my young fellow-citizens as may happen to come upon this narrative (and I am not ambitions to have the number large) will kindly forbear to criticise it; for it will not bear criticism. Such of the facts and incidents of our voyage as I have thought would be of interest I have tried to write out. Strictly nautical terms and phrases I have sought to avoid: first, because I believed them of no great interest to the general reader; second, because, with this my first sea-trip, I have not become adept enough in their use to "swing" them with the fluent grace of your true-going, irresistible old salt; and from any other source they are, to my mind, unendurable. In the plan of education we have marked out for ourselves, it has not been our intention to become sailors. We would merely use the sea and its ships as a means of conveyance in our scheme of travel. ... Breakfast at six o'clock; two messes,--one of the crew, the other comprising our party and the captain. The men had boiled potatoes, fried pork, corn-bread, and biscuit. At our table we had roast potatoes and butter with corn-bread, then biscuit and butter with canned tomatoes. After breakfast, we went on deck a while; but the motion was far too great for comfort. The breeze held. The coast of Massachusetts was low in the west. To the north, the mountains of Maine showed blue on the horizon. We went below to read. Raed had bought, borrowed, and secured every work he could hear of on northern voyages and exploration, particularly those into Hudson Bay. It was our intention to thoroughly read up the subject during our voyage: in a word, to get as good an idea of the northern coast as possible from books, and confirm this idea from actual observation. This was the substance of Raed's plan of study. ... By eleven o'clock we had grown a little sea-sick,--just the slightest feeling of nausea. Kit shuts his book, rests his arm on the table, and leans his head on it. "You sick?" demands Raed. "Oh, no! not much; just a little squeamish." Presently Wade lies down on his mattress, and I immediately ask,-- "Much sick, Wade?" To which he promptly replies,-- "Oh, no! squeamish a little; that's all." By and by the skipper looks down to inquire, "Sick here, anybody?" To which we all answer at once,-- "Oh, no! only a bit squeamish."' _Squeamish_ was the word for it till near night, when we seemed suddenly to rally from it, though the motion continued the same; but the wind had veered to the south, and almost wholly lulled. We slept pretty well that night; but the next forenoon the nausea returned, and stuck by us all day. Every one who has been to sea knows how such a day passes. We had expected it, however, and bore it as lightly as possible. ... On the third morning out we found it raining, with the wind north-east. The schooner was kept as near it as possible, making about three knots an hour. The wind increased during the forenoon. By eleven o'clock there was a smart gale on. The rain drove fiercely. We grew sick enough. "This is worse than the 'poison spring' at Katahdin!" groaned Kit. The skipper came down. "Is it a big gale?" Raed managed to ask. "Just an ordinary north-easter." "Well, then, I never wish to meet an extraordinary one!" gasped Wade. The captain mixed us some brandy and water from his own private supply, which we took (as a medicine). But it wouldn't stay _down_: nothing would stay down. Our stomachs refused to bear the weight of any thing. Night came on: a wretched night it was for us. "The Curlew" floundered on. The view on deck was doubtless grand; but we had neither the legs nor the disposition to get up.... Some time about midnight, a dozen of our six-pound shots, which had been sewed up in a coarse sack and thrown under the table-shelf, by their continued motion worked a gap in the stitches; and three or four of them rolled out, and began a series of races from one end of the cabin to the other, smashing recklessly into the rick of chairs and camp-stools stowed in the forward end. Yet I do not believe one of us would have got up to secure those shot, even if we had known they would go through the side: I am pretty certain I should not. They went back and forth at will, till the captain, hearing the noise, came down, and after a great amount of dodging and grabbing, which might have been amusing at any other time, succeeded in capturing the truants and locking them up. The next day it was no better: wind and rain continued. We were not quite so sick, but even less disposed to get up, talk, or do anything, save to lie flat on our backs. We heard the sailors laughing at and abusing Palmleaf, who was dreadfully sick, and couldn't cook for them. Yet we felt not the least spark of sympathy for him: I do not think we should have interfered had they thrown him overboard. Wade called the poor wretch in, and ordered him, so sick he could scarcely stand, to make a bowl of gruel; and, when he undertook to explain how bad he felt, we all reviled him, and bade him go about his business. "Nothin' like dis on de oyster schoonah," we heard him muttering as he staggered out. ... The storm had blown us off our course to the south-east considerably; and the next morning we tacked to the northward, and continued due north all that day and the next. It may have been fancy; but we all dated our recovery from this change of course. It had stopped raining, and the wind gradually went down. Now that the nausea had passed off we were hungry as wolves, and kept Palmleaf, who was now quite recovered, busy cooking all day long.... The weather continued cloudy. The view from the damp deck was dull to the last degree. Capt. Mazard was in considerable doubt as to our latitude. Not a glimpse of the sun had he been able to catch for five days; and during this time we had been sailing sometimes very fast, then scarcely making way in the teeth of the strong north-easter. To the north and north-east the fog banks hung low on the sea. So light was the wind, that the sails scarcely filled. The schooner seemed merely to drift.... Toward night we entered among the fog-banks. The whole face of the sea steamed like a boiling kettle. The mist rose thin and gauze-like. We could scarcely see the length of the deck. It was blind work sailing in such obscurity,--possibly dangerous. "Have you any idea where we are, captain?" Raed asked. We stood peering ahead from the bow. "Somewhere off Newfoundland. On the Grand Bank, I think. Fog indicates that. Always foggy here this time o' year." "It is here that the gulf stream meets the cold currents and ice from Baffin's Bay," said Kit. "The warm current meeting the cold one causes the fog: so they say." "I have seen the statement," remarked Raed, "that these great banks are all raised from the ocean-bottom by the _débris_ brought along by the gulf stream and the current from Davis Straits." "But I have read that they are raised by the melting of icebergs," said Wade. "The iceberg has lots of sand and stones frozen into it: when it melts, this matter sinks; and, in the course of ages, the 'banks' here have been formed." "Perhaps both causes have had a hand in it," said Kit. "That looks most probable," remarked Capt. Mazard. "These scientific men are very apt to differ on such subjects. One will observe phenomena, and ascribe it wholly to one cause, when perhaps a half-dozen causes have been at work. Another man will ascribe it wholly to another of these causes. And thus they seem to contradict each other, when they are both, in part, right. I've noticed that very frequently since I began to read the scientific books on oceanic matters. They draw their conclusions too hastily, and are too positive on doubtful subjects." I have often thought of this remark of Capt. Mazard since, when reading some of the "strong points" of our worthy scientists. "How deep is it here, for a guess?" asked Wade. "Oh! for a guess, a hundred fathoms; about that." "Too deep for cod-fishing here?" Raed inquired. "Rather deep. We'll try them, however, in the morning." Suddenly, as we were talking, a horn--a genuine old-fashioned dinner-horn--pealed out, seemingly not a hundred yards ahead. "Port your helm there!" shouted the skipper to Bonney, who was at the wheel. The old sea-dog, Trull, caught up a tin bucket setting near, and began drumming furiously; while the skipper, diving down the companion way, brought up a loaded musket, which he hastily discharged over his head. "Shout, halloo, scream!" he sang out to us. "Make all the noise you can, to let them know where we are!" The schooner sheered off, minding her helm; and, at the same moment, we saw the dim outline of a small vessel almost under the bows. "What ship is that?" demanded Capt. Mazard. "Schooner 'Catfish' of Gloucester," replied a boyish voice. "Where bound?" "Home." "Can you give us the latitude?" "Can't do it, skippy. Haven't seen the sun for a week. Not far from forty-five degrees, I reckon." "Are we in any danger of Cape Race?" "Not a bit. We're more than a hundred miles east of it, I think." The little schooner, of not more than sixty tons, drifted slowly past. There were seven hands on deck; all boys of sixteen and eighteen, save one. This is the training which makes the Gloucester sailors so prized for our navy. ... During the evening, we heard at a distance the deep, grum whistle of the Inman steamer going down to Halifax,--whistling at intervals to warn the fishermen. It continued foggy all night, but looked _thinner_ by nine next morning. The captain brought up an armful of out-riggers (a short spar three or four feet long to set in the side-rail, with a small pulley-block in the upper end to run a line through.) "Now, boys," said he, setting the out-riggers, "we will try the cod.--Palmleaf! Palmleaf! Here, you sunburnt son! A big chunk of pork!" "They won't bite it," said old Trull. "I've sometimes caught 'em with it," replied the captain. "It's pork or nothing. We've no clams nor manhaden (a small fish of the shad family) to lure them." The stout cod-hooks, with their strong linen lines, were reeved through the blocks, baited, and let down into the green water. For some time we fished in silence. No bites. We kept patiently fishing for fifteen minutes. It began to look as if old Trull was right. Presently Kit jerked hastily. "Got one?" we all demanded. "Got something; heavy too." "Haul him up!" cried the skipper. Kit hauled. It made the block creak and the out-rigger bend. Yard after yard of the wet line was pulled in; and by and by the head of a tremendous fellow parted the water, and came up, one, two, three feet, writhing and bobbing about. "Twenty pounds, if an ounce!" shouted young Donovan. "Heave away!" cried the captain. "Now swing him over the rail!" They were swinging him in, had almost got their hands on him, when the big fish gave a sudden squirm. The hook, which was but slightly caught in the side of its mouth, tore out. Down he went,--_chud!_ Such a yell of despair as arose! such mutual abuse as broke out all round! till, just at that moment, Wade cried, "I have one!" when all attention was turned to him. Slowly he draws it up. We were all watching. But 'twas a smaller one. "About a seven-pounder," pronounces the captain, safely landing him on deck, where he was unhooked, and left to wriggle and jump out his agonies. A minute later, Raed had out a "ten-pounder;" and, having once begun to bite, they kept at it, until the deck grew lively with their frantic leaping. "Got all we want!" cried the skipper, after about an hour of this sort of thing. "There's a good two hundred weight of them.--Here, Palmleaf, pick 'em up, dress 'em, and put 'em in pickle: save what we want for dinner.--Now, you Donovan and Hobbs, bear a hand with those buckets. Rinse off the bulwarks, and wash up the deck." "This is the kind of sport they have on a cod-fisher every day, I suppose," said Raed. "Yes; but it gets mighty stale when you have to follow it for a month," replied Donovan. "I know what cod-fishing is." ... Toward noon the sun began to show its broad disk, dimly outlined in the white mists. The captain ran for his sextant; and an observation was caught, which, being worked up, gave our latitude at 45° 35'. We had probably made in the neighborhood of thirty miles during the night: so that the _boys_ on "The Catfish" had given a very shrewd guess, to say the least. In the afternoon we had a fair breeze from the south-east. All sail was made, and we bowled along at a grand rate. Early the next morning we saw the first ice,--three or four low, irregular masses, showing white on the sea, and bearing down toward us from the north-west with the polar current. This current, coming along the coast of Labrador, is always laden with ice at this season. To avoid it, we now bore away to the north-east, keeping for several days on a direct course for Iceland; then gradually--describing the arc of a circle--came round west into the latitude of Cape Farewell, the southern point of Greenland. ... Each day, as we got farther north, the sun set later, and rose earlier; till, on the 28th of June, its bright red disk was scarcely twenty minutes below the northern horizon. ... On the 3d of July we discerned Cape Farewell,--a mountainous headland, crowned with snow, at a distance of fifteen or twenty leagues. From this point, Cape Resolution, on the north side of the entrance into Hudson Straits, bears west ten degrees north, and is distant not far from seven hundred miles. The wind serving, we bore away for it. ... During June and July, Hudson Straits are full of ice driving out into the Atlantic. This ice forms in the winter in vast quantities in the myriads of inlets and bays on both sides of the straits. The spring breaks it up, and the high tides beat it in pieces. It is rare that a vessel can enter the straits during June for the out-coming ice; but by July it has become sufficiently broken up and dispersed to allow of an entrance by keeping close up to the northern side, which has always been found to be freest from ice in July and August; while, on coming out in September, it is best to hug the southern main (land) as closely as possible. On our voyage up we had taken great pains to read and compare every account we could find regarding both the ice and the general character of the straits. Our plan was to make Cape Resolution, wait for a fair wind, and slip into the straits early in the day, so as to get as far up as possible ere night came on. A person who has never been there can form no idea of the tremendous force with which the tide sets into the straits, the velocity of the currents, and the amazing smash they made among the ice.... CHAPTER III. Cape Resolution.--The Entrance into Hudson's Straits.--The Sun in the North-east.--The Resolution Cliffs.--Sweating among Icebergs.--A Shower and a Fog.--An Anxious Night.--A Strange Rumbling.--Singular Noises and Explosions.--Running into an Iceberg.--In Tow.--A Big Hailstone drops on Deck.--Boarding an Iceberg.--Solution of the Explosions.--A Lucky Escape. "Land and ice, land and ice, ho!" sang out our old sea-dog from his lookout in the bow. 'Twas the morning of the 7th of July. We had expected to make Cape Resolution the evening before. Kit and I had been on deck till one o'clock, watching in the gleaming twilight. Never shall I forget those twilights. The sun was not out of sight more than three hours and a half, and the whole northern semicircle glowed continuously. It shone on the sails; it shone on the sea. The great glassy faces of the swells cast it back in phosphorescent flashes. The patches of ice showed white as chalk. The ocean took a pale French gray tint. Overhead the clouds drifted in ghostly troops, and far up in the sky an unnatural sort of glare eclipsed the sparkle of stars. Properly speaking, there was no night. One could read easily at one o'clock. Twilight and dawn joined hands. The sun rose far up in the north-east. Queer nights these! Until we got used to it, or rather until fatigue conquered us, we had no little difficulty in going to sleep. We were not accustomed to naps in the daytime. As a sort of compromise, I recollect that we used to spread an old sail over the skylight, and hang up blankets over the bull's-eyes in the stern, to keep out this everlasting daylight. We needed night. Born far down toward the equinoxes, we sighed for our intervals of darkness and shadows. But we got used to it after a fortnight of gaping. One gets used to any thing, every thing. "Use is second nature," says an old proverb. It is more than that: it is _Nature_ herself. Land and ice, ho! "Tumble out!" shouted Raed. It was half-past three. We went on deck. The sun was shining brightly. Scarcely any wind; sea like glass in the sunlight; ice in small patches all about. "Where's your land?" asked Wade. "Off there," replied young Hobbs, pointing to the north-west. Ah, yes! there it was,--a line of dark gray cliffs, low in the water. Between us and them a dozen white icebergs glittered in the sun. "Is that the cape, captain?" queried Kit. "Must be," was the reply. "Same latitude. Can't be any thing else. Answers to the chart exactly." "Oh! that's Cape Resolution fast enough," said Raed. "Those cliffs correspond with the descriptions, I should say." "How far off?" asked Wade. "Well, seven or eight leagues," replied the captain. "The Button Islands, on the south side of the entrance, ought to be in sight, to the south-west," remarked Raed, looking off in that direction; "but I don't see them," he added. The captain got his glass, and climbed up to the gaff of the foresail. "Yes, there 'tis!" he shouted. "Low down; low land. No cliffs." "Why are they called 'Button Isles' on the chart?" he asked, sliding down the shrouds. "Is it because they resemble buttons?" "No," said Raed. "They were named for Capt. Button, who sailed through here more than a century ago. He was one of those navigators who tried so hard to find the 'north-west passage' by sailing through Hudson's Straits. During the first half of the eighteenth century, the London merchants sent out expeditions nearly every year in the hope of finding a passage through here to China and India. This Button was one of their captains." "Then this low land to the south-west of us is Cape Chidleigh, is it not?" said Wade. "No," said Raed. "Cape Chidleigh is the main land of Labrador down to the south-east of the Button Isles. You couldn't see that, could you, captain?" "Saw some high peaks to the south, far down on the horizon. Those are on Labrador, I presume. Couldn't say whether they are the cape proper or not. They are in about the direction of the cape as indicated on the chart." As the sun rose higher a breeze sprang up, and the sails filled. The schooner was headed W.N.W. to run under the cape; Bonney being set to watch sharp for the floating ice. "Coffee, sar!" cried Palmleaf from the companion-way. We went down to breakfast and talk over matters with the captain. It was decided to work up under the cape, and so, hugging the land on the north side as closely as possible, get into the strait as far as we could that day. We all felt anxious; for though the sea was now smooth, sky clear, and the wind fair, yet we knew that it was rather the exception than the average. The idea of being caught here among these cliffs and icebergs in a three-days' fog or a north-east gale, with the whole fury of the Atlantic at our backs, was anything but encouraging. The advice of the elder navigators, "to seize a favorable day and get as far up the straits as possible," kept recurring to our minds. The words had an ominous sound. They were the utterances of many a sad experience. "There never could be a better day nor a fairer wind," remarked the captain. "Now's our chance; I'm convinced of it," said Kit. The mainsail, which had been taken in the previous evening, and the topsail, were both set; and, the breeze freshening, "The Curlew" rapidly gathered way. Considerable care had to be used, however, to avoid the broad cakes of ice which were floating out all around us. Small bits, and pieces as large as a hogshead, we paid no attention to; let the cut-water knock them aside. But there were plenty of large, angular, ugly-looking masses, which, if struck would have endangered the schooner's side. These were sheered off from: so that our course was made up of a series of curves and windings in and out. It seemed odd to see so much ice, and feel the deadly chill of the water, with so hot a sun on deck that the pitch started on the deal planks. In our companion-way the thermometer rose to eighty-seven degrees, with icebergs glittering at every point of the compass. By eight o'clock, A.M., we were abreast the cliffs of Resolution Island, at a distance of a couple of miles. With our glasses we examined them attentively. Hoary, gray, and bare, they were, as when first split out of the earth's flinty crust, and thrust above the waves. The sun poured a flood of warm light over them; but no green thing could be discerned. Either there was no soil, or else the bleak frost-winds effectually checked the outcrop of life. To the south the Button Islands showed like brown patches on the shimmering waves. The width of the straits at this point is given on the chart at twelve leagues,--thirty-six miles. We could see the land on either side. By eleven, A.M., we were twenty miles inside the outer cape. The cliffs continued on the north side, and the schooner was headed up within a mile of them. There were no signs of reefs or sunken ledges, however; and, on heaving the lead, a hundred fathoms of line were run out without touching bottom. The cliffs seem thus to form the side of an immense chasm partially filled by the ocean. Raed estimated their height above the sea to be near four hundred feet. At the distance of a mile they appeared to tower and almost impend over us. Toward noon the wind flawed for half an hour, then dropped altogether. The current, which was setting out to sea, began to drag us back with it slowly. There wasn't a breath of air stirring. Blazes! how the sun poured down! Guard got round in the thin shadow of the mainsail, and actually lolled among icebergs. There we were stuck. That is one of the disadvantages of a sailing-vessel: you have to depend on the wind,--the most capricious thing in the universe. I suppose the air-current had veered about from north-east to north, so that the lofty cliffs intercepted them completely. Dinner was eaten. One o'clock,--two o'clock. We were glad to take refuge with Guard in the shade of the sails. All around us was a stillness which passes words, broken loudly by our steps on the hot deck, and the occasional graze of ice-cakes against the sides. We felt uneasy enough. This calm was ominous. "There's mischief brewing!" muttered Kit; "and here we are in the very jaws of the straits!" Since the wind dropped, the ice had seemed to thicken ahead. To the southward, farther out from the shore, where the outward current was stronger, we could see it driving along in a glittering procession of white bergs. The wisdom of keeping on the north side of the strait was apparent from this; though it seemed likely to cost us dear in the consequent loss of the wind. On many of the larger cakes we could see dark objects, which the glass disclosed to be seals, sunning. Presently a dense mass of blue-black clouds loomed suddenly over the brow of the cliffs. "A shower!" cried Raed. "A squall!" exclaimed old Trull. "All hands take in sail!" shouted the captain. Our Gloucester lads needed no further awakening. We all bore a hand, and had the mainsail down on the boom, short order; and, while Wade and I tried our hand at lashing it with the gaskets, the rest got down the foresail and the topsail. The jib was not furled, but got ready to "let go" in case of fierce gusts. Low, heavy peals of thunder began to rumble behind the cliffs. The dark cloud-mass heaved up, till a misty line of foamy, driving rain and hail showed over the flinty crags. Bright flashes gleamed out, followed shortly by heavy, hollow peals. The naked ledges added vastly, no doubt, to the tone of the reverberations. The rain-drift broke over the cliffs; but the shower passed mainly to the north-west. Only some scattered drops, with a few big straggling pellets of hail, hit on the deck. An eddy of cool air followed the gust. The jib puffed out on a sudden. "Up with the foresail!" was the order. It was at once set; and "The Curlew" started on in the wake of the shower. The cloud passed across the straits diagonally to the south-west. We could see it raining heavily on the ice-flecked water a few miles farther up; and immediately the whole surface began to steam. We watched it with considerable anxiety. "It will be a fog, I'm afraid," groaned Raed. "It's sure to be," said young Hobbs. "I never seed a scud on the 'Banks' but 'ut it was allus follered by a fog." White-gray, cold-looking clouds began to drift along the sun from the seaward. A sudden change in the air was felt. Cool, damp gusts swept down from the crags. The thermometer was falling rapidly. It had stood at ninety-four degrees just previous to the shower. Kit now reported it at seventy-three degrees; and, in less than an hour, it had fallen twenty degrees more. This sudden change was probably due to the veering of the wind from east round to north. The cold blasts from "Greenland's icy mountains" speedily dissipated our miniature summer. There was a general rush for great-coats and thick jackets. Thin lines of vapor streamed up from the water as the cold gusts swept across it. The hot sunbeams falling on the sea had doubtless raised the temperature considerably, despite the ice; and this sudden change in the air could but raise a great mist. Yet I doubt whether Nature's wonderful and legitimate processes were ever regarded with greater disfavor and apprehension. "The barometer's falling a good deal too," remarked the captain, coming hastily up the companion-stairs. "Either a rain-storm, or a smart gale from the north'ard: both, perhaps. We're in a tight place." "What's to be done?" Raed asked. "Hadn't we better try to beat out of the straits into the open sea again, clear of the land and ice?" said Kit. "Can't do it. It would take all night to do that, if there were no ice to hinder. The gale will come before morning, if it comes at all; and the entrance of the straits would be the worst possible place to weather it." "But, captain, what can we do?" Wade demanded, looking a little pale. "Well, not much. We must keep on,--get as far up the straits as we can; and then trust to good luck to escape being smashed or jammed. The farther we get up the channel, the less we shall feel the violence of a gale from the seaward." It was a rather gloomy prospect. The sky was thickening, and darkening rapidly. The mist kept streaming up from the water. What wind there was continued fitfully. We kept the foresail and the jib set, and jogged on, doubling amid the ice. Meanwhile the fog grew so dense, that every thing was very dim at fifty yards. But for the mist, and the danger of striking against large fragments of ice, we should have set the mainsail and the topsail to make the most of our wind ere it blew too hard; for it was plainly rising. Now and then a gust would sigh past the sheets. Supper was eaten in squads of two and three. The thermometer fell constantly. It grew so chilly, that we were glad to slip down into the galley occasionally to warm our fingers at Palmleaf's stove. Guard had already taken up his quarters there. "Dis am berry suddin change," the darky would remark gravely to each of us as we successively made our appearance. "Berry suddin. The gerometum fallin' fast. Srink 'im all up, ser cold. Now, dis forenoon it am quite comf'ble; warm 'nuf ter take a nap in the sun: but now--oo-oo-ooo! awful cold!" And Palmleaf would move his sable cheek up close to the hot stove-pipe, Guard all the time regarding him soberly from the other side. Bidding the negro keep coffee hot and ready for us, we would hurry on deck again, and resume our places in the bow; for it required vigilant eyes to look out for all the ugly ice-cakes among which the schooner was driving. The weather grew thicker, and the sky darker. By half-past ten, P.M., although the sun must have been still high above the horizon, it was dark as one often sees it on a stormy night when there is a moon in the heavens. In fact, it grew too dark to make out the ice-patches; for, despite our watchfulness, at about five minutes to eleven we struck against a large mass with a shock which made things rattle down stairs. Guard barked, and Palmleaf showed a very scared face in the companion-way. "Where are your eyes there, forward?" shouted the captain. "Couldn't you see that?" Just then we grazed pretty heavily against another cake. "It is really getting too dark for us, captain," said Raed. "Take in the foresail, then." The sail was at once furled. The jib was kept on, however, to hold us steady. We were now merely breasting the current, and driving on a little with the gusts. Soon it began to rain,--rain and snow together. The dreariness and uncertainty of our situation can hardly be imagined. We did not even know how near we were to the foot of the cliffs, and could merely keep the schooner headed as she had been during the afternoon. "The main thing for us now is to keep her as nearly stationary as we can," said the captain. "Between wind and water, I hope not to move half a knot all night." It was now nearly twelve. "We may as well go below," said Kit. "No use standing here in the rain when we can do no good." We had been up nearly twenty-one hours since our last nap. Sleep will have its tribute, even in the face of danger. Hastily flinging off our wet coats, we lay down. The wind and rain wailed among the rigging above. _Chuck-chock, chock-chuck_, went the waves under the stern; while every few minutes a heavy jarring _bump_, followed by a long raspy _grind_ along the side, told of the icy processions floating past. Those were our lullabies that night. Truly it required a sharp summoning of our fortitude not to feel a little home-sick. But we went to sleep; at least I did, and slept a number of hours. Voices roused me. The captain was standing beside our mattresses. "Wake up!" he was saying. "Get up, and come on deck!" At the same moment I heard, indistinctly, a strange, rumbling sound. "What is it? what's the matter?" cried Kit, starting up. "Oh! don't be scared; we've been hearing it for some time," replied the captain. "Put on your rubber coats." We did so, and followed him up the stairway. The rain and snow still came fast and thick. The deck was soppy. Hobbs was at the wheel. Donovan and Weymouth were forward. I could just make them out, standing wrapped up against the bulwarks. "Now hark!" said the captain. We all listened. A heavy noise, like that of some huge flouring-mill in full operation, could be plainly heard above the swash of the waves and the drive and patter of the storm. "Thunder?--no, it isn't thunder," muttered Raed. "Breakers!" exclaimed Kit. "It's the sea on the rocks,--those cliffs,--isn't it?" "Trull," said the captain to that old worthy, who was just poking his head up out of the forecastle,--"Trull, is that noise the surf?" The veteran turned an experienced ear aport, listened a moment, and then replied,-- "No, sir," promptly. "Well, what in the world is it, then?" The old salt listened again attentively. The steady rumble continued without intermission. "Don't know, sir," replied Trull, shaking his head. "Never heard any thing like it." "Are you sure it's not breakers?" demanded Kit. "I'm afraid we're drifting on the rocks. It's dead ahead too!" But neither the captain nor Trull nor Donovan could believe it was the surf. "We began to hear it over an hour ago," remarked the captain. "It sounded low then; we could just hear it: but it grows louder. It's either coming towards us, or else we are going towards it. I presume the storm drives us with it considerably." "I tell you that it is some dangerous reef!" exclaimed Kit; "some hole or cavern which the water is playing through." "It may be," muttered the captain. "Starboard the helm, Hobbs!" At this instant a heavy, near explosion boomed out, followed momentarily by another and another. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Raed. "Cannon!" shouted Wade: "it's a vessel in distress!" "Impossible!" cried the captain. "No ship would fire cannon here, even if wrecked. There wouldn't be one chance in ten thousand of its being heard by another vessel." _Boom!_ "Hark! did you not hear that splashing noise that followed the explosion?" demanded Kit. We had all heard it; for, by this time, the sailors who were below had come on deck. The heavy rumbling noise began afresh, and sounded louder than before. We were completely mystified, and stood peering off from the bulwarks into the stormy obscurity of the night. "Are there volcanoes on these straits, suppose?" Wade asked. No one had ever heard of any. "There were none in my geography," said Raed. "But there may be one _forming_." Indeed, we were so much in doubt, that even this improbable suggestion was caught at for the moment. "But where's the fire and smoke?" replied Kit. "Methinks it ought to be visible." We could feel, rather than see, that the schooner was veering slowly to the left, in obedience to her helm,--a fact which left no doubt that we were, as the captain had surmised, drifting with the storm against the current; or perhaps, before this, the tide coming in had made a counter-current up the straits. The roaring noise was growing more distinct every minute; till all at once Bonney, who was looking attentively out from the bow, exclaimed,-- "What's that ahead, captain? Isn't there something?" We all strained our eyes. Dim amid the fog and rain something which seemed like a great pale shadow loomed before the schooner. For a moment we gazed, uncertain whether it were real, or an illusion of darkness; then Donovan shouted,-- "Ice!--it's an iceberg!" "Hard a-starboard!" yelled Capt. Mazard. It was not a hundred feet distant. Old Trull and Bonney caught up the pike-poles to fend off with. "The Curlew" drove on. The vast shadowy shape seemed to approach. A chill came with it. A few seconds more, and the bowsprit punched heavily against the ice-mountain. The shock sent the schooner staggering back like a pugilist with a "blimmer" between the eyes. Had we been sailing at our usual rate, it would have stove in the whole bow. The storm immediately forced us forward again; and the bowsprit, again striking, slid along the ice with a dull, crunching sound as the schooner fell off sidewise. "Stand by those pike-poles!" shouted the captain; for so near was the iceberg, that we could easily reach it with a ten-foot pole from the bulwarks. Striking the iron spikes into the ice, the men held the schooner off while she drifted past. The rumbling noise, louder than before, seemed now to come from out the solid berg. "Let's get away from this before it splits or explodes again!" exclaimed Raed. "Heavens! it sounds like a big grist-mill in full blast!" said Kit. "More like a powder-mill, I should judge from the blasts we heard a few minutes ago," remarked Wade. More poles were brought up, and we all lent a hand to push off from our dangerous neighbor. After fending along its massy side for several hundred yards, we got off clear from an angle. "Farewell, old thunder-mill!" laughed Kit. But we had not got clear of it so easily: for the vast lofty mass so broke off the wind and storm, that, immediately on passing it to the leeward, we hadn't a "breath of air;" and, as a consequence, the berg soon drifted down upon us. Again we pushed off from it, and set the fore-sail. The sail merely flapped occasionally, and hung idly; and again the iceberg came grinding against us. There were no means of getting off, save to let down the boat, and tow the schooner out into the wind,--rather a ticklish job among ice, and in so dim a light. "The Curlew" lay broadside against the berg, but did not seem to chafe or batter much: on the contrary, we were borne along by the ice with far less motion than if out in open water. "Well, why not let her go so?" said Kit after we had lain thus a few minutes. "There doesn't seem to be any great danger in it. This side of the iceberg, so far as I can make it out, doesn't look very dangerous." "Not a very seamanlike way of doing business," remarked the captain, looking dubiously around. "Catching a ride on an iceberg," laughed Weymouth. "That sort of thing used to be strictly forbidden at school." "But only listen to that fearful rumble and roar!" said Raed. "It seems to come from deep down in the berg. What is it?" "Must be the sea rushing through some crack, or possibly the rain-water and the water from the melted ice on top streaming down through some hole into the sea," said the captain. "But those explosions!--how would you account for those?" asked Wade. "Well, I can't pretend to explain that. I have an idea, however, that they resulted from the splitting off of large fragments of ice." On the whole, it was deemed most prudent to let the schooner lay where she was,--till daylight at least. Planks were got up from below, and thrust down between the side and the ice to keep her from chafing against the sharp angles. By this time it was near six o'clock, morning, and had begun to grow tolerably light. The rain still continued, however, as did also the bellowings inside the iceberg. Old Trull and Weymouth were set to watch the ice, and the rest of us went down to breakfast. The schooner lay so still, that it seemed like being on shore again. We had got as far as our second cup of coffee, I recollect, when we were startled by another of the same heavy explosions we had heard a few hours previous. It was followed instantly by a second. Then we heard old Trull sing out,-- "Avast from under!" And, a moment later, there was a tremendous crash on deck, accompanied by a hollow, rattling sound. Dropping our knives and forks, we sprang up the companionway. "What was that, Trull?" demanded Capt. Mazard. "A chunk of ice, sir, as big as my old sea-chest!" "How came that aboard?" "Rained down, sir. Went up from the top o' the barg, sir, at that thunder-clap, and came plumb down on deck." The deck-planks were shattered and split where it had struck, and pieces of ice the size of a quart measure lay all about. "Did you see it fly up from the top of the berg, Weymouth?" Raed asked. "Yes, sir. It didn't go up till the second pop. I was looking then. It went up like as if it had been shot from a gun; went up thirty or forty feet, then turned in the air, and came down on us. Thought 'twould sink us, sir, sure. There were streams of water in the air at the same time; and water by the hogshead came sloshing over the side of the ice." "I don't understand that at all," said the captain. "We must investigate it," said Raed, "if we can. But let's make sure of our breakfast first. I suppose there will be no great danger in letting down the boat as soon as it gets fairly light, will there, captain? This iceberg seems to be a rather mysterious chap. I propose that we circumnavigate it in the boat. Perhaps we may find a chance to climb on to it." It was already light; and, by the time breakfast was over, the rain had subsided to a drizzly mist: but the fog was still too thick to see far in any direction. The sea continued comparatively calm. A few minutes after seven, the boat was lowered. Raed and the rest of us boys, with the captain and Weymouth, got in, and pulled round to the windward of the berg. It was a vast, majestic mass, rising from forty to fifty feet above the water, and covering three or four acres. On the south, south-east, and east sides it rose almost perpendicularly from the sea. No chance to scale it here; and, even if there had been, the water was much too rough to the windward to bring the boat up to it. We continued around it, however, and, near the north-west corner, espied a large crevice leading up toward the top, and filled with broken ice. "Might clamber up there," suggested the captain. It looked a little pokerish. "Let's try it," said Kit. The boat was brought up within a yard or so of the ice. Watching his chance, Capt. Mazard leaped into the crack. "Jump, and I'll catch you if you miss," said he. Raed jumped, and got on all right; but Kit slipped. The captain caught him by the arm, and pulled him up, with no greater damage than a couple of wet trousers-legs. Wade and I followed dry-shod. "Shove off a few yards, Weymouth, and be ready in case we slip down," directed the captain. But we had no difficulty in climbing up. The top of the berg was irregular and rough, with pinnacles and "knolls," between which were many deep puddles of water,--fresh water: we drank from one. For some time we saw nothing which tended to explain the explosions; though the dull, roaring noise still continued, seeming directly under our feet: but on crossing over to the south-west side, beneath which the schooner lay, Wade discovered a large, jagged hole something like a well. It was five or six feet across, and situated twenty or twenty-five yards from the side of the berg. Standing around this "well," the rumbling noises were more distinct than we had yet heard them, and were accompanied by a great splashing, and also by a hissing sound, as of escaping air or steam; and, on peering cautiously down into the hole, we could discern the water in motion. The iceberg heaved slightly with the swell: the gurgling and hissing appeared to follow the heaving motion. "I think there must be great cavities down in the ice, which serve as chambers for compressed air," remarked Raed; "and somehow the heaving of the berg acts as an air-pump,--something like an hydraulic ram, you know." As none of us could suggest any better explanation, we accepted this theory, though it was not very clear. We were going back toward the crevice, when a loud gurgling roar, followed by a report like the discharge of a twenty-four-pounder, made the berg tremble; and, turning, we saw the water streaming from the well. Another gurgle and another report succeeded, almost in the same instant. Jets of water, and bits of ice, were spouted high into the air, and came down splashing and glancing about. We made off as expeditiously as we could. Fortunately none of the pieces of ice struck us; though Wade and Raed, who were a little behind, were well bespattered. We hurried down to the boat, greatly to the relief of Weymouth, who expected we had "got blown up." [Raed begs me to add that he hopes the reader will be able to suggest a better explanation of this singular phenomenon than the one that has occurred to him.] Jumping to the boat, we pulled round to "The Curlew." The sailors were watching for us, with a touch of anxiety on their rough, honest faces. "Throw us a line!" shouted Capt. Mazard; "and bear a hand at those pike-poles to shove her off. We'll get clear of this iceberg as quick as we can. Something the matter with its insides: liable to bust, I'm afraid." Catching the line, we bent to the oars, and, with the help of the men with the poles tugged the schooner off, and gradually towed her to a distance of three or four hundred yards from the berg. The boat was then taken in, sail made, and we were again _bumping_ on up the straits. CHAPTER IV. The Fog lifts.--A Whale in Sight.--Craggy Black Mountains capped with Snow.--A Novel Carriage for the Big Rifle.--Mounting the Howitzer.--A Doubtful Shot.--The Lower Savage Isles.--A Deep Inlet.--"Mazard's Bay."--A Desolate Island.--An Ice-Jam.--A Strange Blood-red Light.--Solution of the Mystery.--Going Ashore.--Barren Ledges. Beds of Moss.--A Bald Peak.--An Alarm.--The Schooner in Jeopardy.--The Crash and Thunder of the Ice.--Tremendous Tides. The rain had now pretty much ceased. Some sudden change took place in the air's density; for the fog, which had all along lain flat on the sea, now rapidly rose up like a curtain, twenty, thirty, fifty feet, leaving all clear below. We looked around us. The dark water was besprinkled with white patches, among which the seals were leaping and frisking about. Half a mile to the left we espied a lazy water-jet playing up at intervals. "There she blows!" laughed Bonney. "Seems like old times, I declare!" "What's that, sir?" asked Capt. Mazard, who had been below for the last ten minutes. "A sperm-whale on the port quarter, sir!" Two or three miles ahead, another large iceberg was driving grandly down. We could also see our late _consort_ a mile astern,--see and hear it too. Higher and higher rose the fog. The sky brightened through transient rifts in the clouds. Glad enough were we to see it clearing up. Either the land had fallen off to the north; or else, in our fear of running on the cliffs, we had declined a good deal from our course. The northern shore was now three or four leagues distant. Fog and darkness hung over it. The bases of the mountains were black; but their tops glistened with snow, the snow-line showing distinct two or three hundred feet above the shore. The sails were trimmed, and the helm put round to bear up nearer. "What a country!" exclaimed Raed, sweeping it with his glass. "Is it possible that people live there? What can be the inducements?" "Seals, probably," said Kit,--"seals and whales. That's the Esquimaux bill of fare, I've heard, varied with an occasional white bear or a sea-horse." "A true 'Husky' (Esquimau) won't eat a mouthful of cooked victuals," said Capt. Mazard; "takes every thing raw." "Should think so much raw meat would make them fierce and savage," remarked Wade: "makes dogs savage to give them raw meat." "But the Esquimaux are a rather good-natured set, I've heard," replied Kit. "Not always," said the captain. "The whalers have trouble with them very often; though these whalemen are doubtless anything but angels," he added. "In dealing with them, it is well to have a good show of muskets, or a big gun or two showing its muzzle: makes 'em more civil. Cases have been where they've boarded a scantily-manned vessel; to get the plunder, you see. Hungry for anything of the axe or iron kind." "It would not be a bad plan to get up our howitzer, and rig a carriage for it," said Wade. "Let's do it." "And Wash's cannon-rifle," said Kit. "We ought to get that up. I think it's about time to test that rather remarkable _arm_." "The problem with me is how to mount it," said I. "I was thinking of that the other day," remarked the captain. "I've got a big chest below,--an old thing I don't use now: we might make the gun fast to the top of it; then put some trucks on the bottom just high enough to point it out over the bulwarks. Here, Hobbs: come below, and help me fetch it on deck." While they were getting up the chest, Raed and I brought up the cannon-rifle. It was about as much as we could get up the stairs with easily. It was, as the reader will probably remember, set in a light framework of wrought-iron, adjusted to a swivel, and arranged with a screw for raising or lowering the breech at will. The bed-pieces of the framework had been pierced for screws. It was, therefore, but a few minutes' work to bore holes in the top of the chest and drive the screws. Meanwhile the captain, who enjoyed the scheme as well as any of us, split open a couple of old tackle-blocks, and, getting out the trucks, proceeded to set them on the ends of two stout axles cut from an old ice-pole. These axles were then nailed fast to the bottom of the chest. The gun-carriage was then complete, and could be rolled anywhere on deck with ease. "Decidedly neat!" exclaimed Capt. Mazard, surveying it with a grin of self-approbation. "What say to that, Trull?" cried Raed. The old man-of-war's-man had been watching the progress of the invention with an occasional tug at his waistband. "Yes; how's that in your eye?" exclaimed the captain. "You're a military character. Give us an opinion on that." "Wal, sur," cocking his eye at it, "I'm free to confass I naver saw anything like it;" and that was all we could get out of him. "Bring some ammunition, and let's give it a trial," said Kit. I brought up the powder-flask, caps, and a couple of bullets. The bullets we had run for it were of lead, about an inch in diameter, and weighed not far from six ounces apiece. The breech was depressed. Raed poured in half a gill of the fine powder by measurement; a wad of paper was rammed down; then a bullet was driven home. There only remained to prime and cap it. "Fire at one of these seals," suggested Wade, pointing to where a group of three or four lay basking on an ice-cake at a distance of eight or ten hundred yards. "Who'll take the first shot?" said Kit. Nobody seemed inclined to seize the honor. "Come, now, that seal's getting impatient!" cried the captain. Still no one volunteered to shoot off the big rifle. "I think Wash had better fire the first shot," remarked Raed. "The honor clearly belongs to him." Seeing they were a little disposed to rally me on it, I stepped up and cocked it. At that everybody hastily stood back. I took as good aim as the motion of the schooner would permit; though I think I should have done better had not Palmleaf just at that moment sang out, "Dinner, sar!" from behind. I pulled the trigger, however. There was a stunning crack; and so smart a recoil, that I was pushed half round sidewise with amazing spitefulness. The old chest rolled back, whirled round, and upset against the bulwarks on the other side. The reader can imagine what a rattle and racket it made. "Golly!" exclaimed Palmleaf. "Am crazy!" "Did it hit the seal?" recovering my equilibrium. Wade was the only one who had watched the seal. "I saw him flop off into the water," said he. "Then of course it hit him," said I. Nobody disputed it; though I detected an odious wink between the captain and Kit. The prostrate gun was got up on its legs again; old Trull remarking that we had better trig it behind before we fired, in future: that duty attended to, he thought it might work very well. We then went to dinner. How to mount the howitzer was the next question. "We need a regular four-wheeled gun-carriage for that," said Raed. "I think we can make one out of those planks," remarked Kit. "The worst trouble will come with the wheels," said Wade. But Capt. Mazard thought he could saw them out of sections of fifteen-inch plank with the wood-saw. "I'll undertake that for my part," he added, and, as soon as dinner was over, went about it. "Now we'll get old man Trull to help us on the _body_," said Kit. The planks, with axe, adz, auger, and hammer, were carried on deck. Our old man-of-war's man readily lent a hand; and with his advice, particularly in regard to the cheeks for the trunnions, we succeeded during the afternoon in getting up a rough imitation of the old-fashioned gun-carriage in use on our wooden war-vessels. The captain made the wheels and axles. The body was then spiked to them, and the howitzer lifted up and set on the carriage. By way of testing it, we then charged the piece with half a pint of powder, and fired it. The sharp, brassy report was reverberated from the dark mountains on the starboard side in a wonderfully distinct echo. Hundreds of seals dropped off the ice-cakes into the sea all about,--a fact I observed with some mortification. As the guns would have to remain on deck, exposed to fog and rain, we stopped the muzzles with plugs, and covered them with two of our rubber blankets. They were then lashed fast, and left for time of need. During the day, we had gradually come up with what we at first had taken for a cape or a promontory from the mainland, but which, by five o'clock, P.M., was discovered to be a group of mountainous islands, the same known on the chart as the "Lower Savage Isles." The course was changed five points, to pass them to the southward. By seven o'clock we were off abreast one of the largest of them. It was our intention to stand on this course during the night. The day had at no time, however, been exactly fair. Foggy clouds had hung about the sun; and now a mist began to rise from the water, much as it had done the previous evening. "If I thought there might be any tolerable safe anchorage among those islands," muttered the captain, with his glass to his eye, "I should rather beat in there than take the risk of running on to another iceberg in the fog." This sentiment was unanimous. "There seems to be a clear channel between this nearest island and the next," remarked Raed, who had been looking attentively for some moments. "We could but bear up there, and see what it looks like." The helm was set a-port, and the sails swung round to take the wind, which, for the last hour, had been shifting to the south-east. In half an hour we were up in the mouth of the channel. It was a rather narrow opening, not more than thirty-five or forty rods in width, with considerable ice floating about. We were in some doubt as to its safety. The schooner was hove to, and the lead thrown. "Forty-seven fathoms!" "All right! Bring her round!" The wind was light, or we should hardly have made into an unknown passage with so much sail on: as it was, we did but drift lazily in. On each side, the islands presented black, bare, flinty crags, distant scarcely a pistol shot from the deck. A quarter of a mile in, we sounded a second time, and had forty-three fathoms. "Never saw a deeper gut for its width!" exclaimed Capt. Mazard. "What a chasm there would be here were the sea out of it!" Half a mile farther up, a third and smaller island lay at the head of the channel, which was thus divided by it into two narrow arms,--one leading out to the north-east, the other to the north-west. This latter arm was clear of ice, showing a dark line of water crooking off among numerous small islets; but the arm opening up to the north-east was jammed with ice. "The Curlew" went in leisurely to three hundred yards of the foot of the island, where we found thirty-three fathoms, and hove to within a hundred yards of the ledges of the island on the east side. The anchor was now let go, and the sails furled. "We're snug enough here from anything from the north-east or north," remarked Capt. Mazard; "and even a sou'-wester would hardly affect us much a mile up this narrow inlet." It seemed a tolerably secure berth. The schooner lay as still as if at her wharf at far-distant Portland. There was no perceptible swell in the channel. Despite the vast mass of ice "packed" into the arm above us, it was not disagreeably chilly. The thermometer stood at fifty-nine degrees in our cabin. Indeed, were it not for the great bodies of ice, these extreme northern summers, where the sun hardly sets for months, would get insufferably hot,--too hot to be endured by man. The mist steamed silently up, up. Gradually the islands, the crags, and even objects at the schooner's length, grew indistinct, and dimmed out entirely by half-past ten. We heard the "_honk, honk_," of numerous wild-geese from the islands; and, high overhead, the melancholy screams of "boatswains." Otherwise all was quiet. The watch was arranged among the sailors, and we went to bed. For the last sixty hours we had had not over seven hours of sleep. Now was a good time to make up. Profound breathing soon resounded along the whole line of mattresses. We had been asleep two or three hours, when a shake aroused me. A strange, reddish glare filled the cabin. Donovan was standing at my head. "What's up?" I asked. "Fire? It isn't fire, is it?" jumping up. "No, it's not fire," replied Donovan. "Oh! morning, then," I said, greatly relieved. "No; can't be. It's only one o'clock." "Then what is it, for pity sake?" I demanded in fresh wonder. "Don't know, sir. Thought I'd just speak to you. Perhaps you'll know what it is. Won't you go up. It's a queer sight on deck." "Of course I will. Go ahead. No matter about waking the others just yet, though." The cold mist struck in my face on emerging from the companion-way. It was still very foggy and damp. Such a scene! The sky was of a deep rose-color. The thick fog seemed like a sea of magenta. The deck, the bulwarks, the masts, and even Donovan, standing beside me, looked as if baptized in blood. It was as light as, even lighter than, when we had gone below. The cliffs on the island, drear and black by daylight, showed like mountains of red beef through the crimson fog. "It was my watch," said Donovan. "I was all alone here. Thought I would just speak to you. Come on quite sudden. I didn't know just what to make of it." "No wonder you didn't." "I knew it couldn't be morning," he went on. "There must be a great fire somewhere round: don't you think so, sir?" I was trying to think. Queer sensations came over me. I looked at my watch. It was four minutes past one. Donovan was right: it couldn't be morning. A sudden thought struck me. "It's the northern lights, Donovan!" I exclaimed. "So red as this?" "Yes: it's the fog." "Do you really think so?" with a relieved breath. "There's no doubt of it." "But it makes a funny noise." "Noise?" "Yes: I heard it several times before I called you. Hark! There!" A soft, rushing sound, which was neither the wind (for there was none), nor the waves, nor the touch of ice, could be heard at brief intervals. It seemed far aloft. I am at a loss how to describe it best. It was not unlike the faint rustle of silk, and still more like the flapping of a large flag in a moderate gale of wind. Occasionally there would be a soft snap, which was much like the snapping of a flag. I take the more pains to state this fact explicitly, because I am aware that the statement that the auroral phenomena are accompanied by audible sounds has been disputed by many writers. I have only to add, that, if they could not have heard the "rustlings" from the deck of "The Curlew" that night, they must have been lamentably deaf. The light wavered visibly, brightening and waning with marvellous swiftness. "Shall we call the other young gentlemen?" Donovan asked. "Yes; but don't tell them what it is. See what they will think of it." In a few moments Kit and Wade and Raed were coming out of the companion-way, rubbing their eyes in great bewilderment. They were followed by the captain. "Heavens!" he exclaimed. "Is the ship on fire?" "Fire!" cried Wade excitedly, catching at the last word: "did you say _fire_?" "No, no!" exclaimed Kit. "It's _nothing_--nothing--but daybreak!" "It's only one o'clock," said Donovan, willing to keep them in doubt. Capt. Mazard was rushing about, looking over the bulwarks. "There's no fire," said he, "unless it's up in the sky. But, by Jove! if you aren't a red-looking set!--redder than lobsters!" "Not redder than yerself, cap'n," laughed Donovan, who greatly enjoyed their mystification. "The sea is like blood!" exclaimed Wade. "You don't suppose the day of judgment has come and caught us away up here in Hudson's Straits, do you?" "Not quite so bad as that, I guess," said Raed. "I have it: it's the aurora borealis; nothing worse, nor more dangerous." I had expected Raed would come to it as soon as he had got his eyes open. "A red aurora!" said the captain. "Is that the way you explain it?" "Not a red aurora exactly," returned Raed, "but an aurora shining down through the thick fog. The aurora itself is miles above the fog, up in the sky and probably of the same bright yellow as usual; but the dense mist gives it this red hue." "I've heard that the northern lights were caused by electricity," said Weymouth. "Is that so?" "It is thought to be electricity passing through the air high up from the earth," replied Raed. "That's what the scientific men tell us." "They can tell us that, and we shall be just as wise as we were before," said Kit. "They can't tell us what electricity is." "Why!" exclaimed the captain, "I thought electricity was"-- "Well, what?" said Kit, laughing. "Why, the--the stuff they telegraph with," finished the captain a little confusedly. "Well, what's that?" persisted Kit. "What _is it_?" repeated the captain confidently. "Why, it is--well--Hang it! I don't know!" We all burst out laughing: the captain himself laughed,--his case was so very nearly like everybody's who undertakes to talk about the wondrous, subtle element. By the by, his definition of it--viz., that it is "the stuff we telegraph with"--strikes me as being about the best one I ever heard. Kit and Raed, however, have got a theory,--which they expound very gravely,--to the effect that electricity and the luminiferous ether--that thin medium through which light is propagated from the sun, and which pervades all matter--are one and the same thing; which, of course, is all very fine as a theory, and will be finer when they can give the proof of it. After watching the aurora for some minutes longer, during which it kept waxing and waning with alternate pale-crimson and blood-red flushes, we went back to our bunks; whence we were only aroused by Palmleaf calling us to breakfast. If there was any wind that morning it must have been from the east, when the crags of the island under which we lay would have interrupted it. Not a breath reached the deck of "The Curlew;" and we were thus obliged to remain at our anchorage, which, in compliment to the captain, and after the custom of navigators, we named _Mazard's Bay_. As the inlet bore no name, and was not even indicated on the charts we had with us, we felt at liberty to thus designate it, leaving to future explorers the privilege of rechristening it at their pleasure. "We shall have a lazy morning of it," Kit remarked, as we stood loitering about the deck. "I propose that we let down the boat, and go ashore on the island," said Wade. "'Twould seem good to set foot on something firm once more." "Well, those ledges look firm enough," replied Raed. "See here, captain: here's a chap begging to get ashore. Is it safe to trust him off the ship?" "Hardly," laughed Capt. Mazard. "He might desert." "Then I move we all go with him," said Kit. "Let's take some of those muskets along too. May get a shot at those wild-geese we heard last evening." The boat was lowered. We boys and the captain, with Donovan and Hobbs to row us, got over the rail, and paddled to where a broad jetting ledge formed a natural quay, on which we leaped. The rock was worn smooth by the waves of centuries. To let the sailors go ashore with us, we drew up the boat on the rock several feet, and made it fast with a line knotted into a crevice between two fragments of flinty sienite rock at the foot of the crags. We then, with considerable difficulty and mutual "boosting," clambered up to the top of the cliffs, thirty or forty feet above the boat, and thence made our way up to the summit of a bald peak half a mile from the shore, which promised a good prospect of the surrounding islands. It is hardly possible to give an idea of the desolate aspect of these ledgy islets. There was absolutely no soil, no earth, on them. More than half the surface was bare as black sienite could be. Huge leathery lichens hung to the rocks in patches; and so tough were they, that one might pull on them with his whole strength without tearing them. In the crevices and tiny ravines between the ledges, there were vast beds of damp moss. In crossing these we went knee-deep, and once waist-deep, into it. The only plant I saw was a trailing shrublet, sometimes seen on high mountains in New England, and known to botanists as Andromeda of the heathworts. It had pretty blue-purple flowers, and was growing quite plentifully in sheltered nooks. Not a bird nor an animal was to be seen. Half an hour's climbing took us to the brown, weather-beaten summit of the peak. From this point eleven small islands were in sight, none of them more than a few miles in extent; and, at a distance of seven or eight leagues, the high mountains of the northern main, their tops white with snow, with glittering glaciers extending down the valleys,--the source of icebergs. There was a strong current of air across the crest of the peak. Sweeping down from the wintry mountains, it made us shiver. The sea was shimmering in the sun, and lay in silvery threads amid the brown isles. Below us, and almost at our feet, was the schooner,--our sole connecting link with the world of men,--her cheery pine-colored deck just visible over the shore cliffs. Suddenly, as we gazed, she swung off, showing her bow; and we saw the sailors jumping about the windlass. "What does that mean?" exclaimed Capt. Mazard. "Possible they've got such a breeze as that down there? Why, it doesn't blow enough _here_ to swing the vessel round like that!" "But only look down the inlet!" said Donovan. "How wild it seems! See those lines of foam! Hark!" A rushing noise as of some great river foaming among bowlders began to be heard. "It's the tide coming in!" shouted the captain, starting to run down the rocks. The schooner had swung back and round the other way. What we had read of the high and violent tides in these straits flashed into my mind. The captain was making a bee-line for the vessel: the rest of us followed as fast as we could run. Just what good we any of us expected to be able to do was not very clear. But "The Curlew" was our all: we couldn't see it endangered without rushing to the rescue. Panting, we arrived on the ledges overlooking the boat and the schooner. The tide had already risen ten or a dozen feet. The boat had floated up from the rock, and broken loose from the line. We could see it tossing and whirling half way out to the schooner. The whole inlet boiled like a pot, and roared like a mill-race. Huge eddies as large as a ten-pail kettle came whirling in under the cliffs. The whole bay was filling up. The waters crept rapidly up the rocks. But our eyes were riveted on the schooner. She rocked; she wriggled like a weather-cock; then swung clean round her anchor. "If it will only hold her!" groaned Capt. Mazard. "But, if it drags, she'll strike!" Old Trull, Weymouth, and Bonney were at the windlass, easing out the cable as the vessel rose on the tide. Corliss was at the wheel, tugging and turning,--to what purpose was not very evident. But they were doing their level best to save the vessel: that was plain. Capt. Mazard stood with clinched hands watching them, every muscle and nerve tense as wire. I was hoping the most dangerous crisis had passed, when a tremendous noise, like a thunder-peal low down to the earth, burst from the ice-jammed arm of the inlet to the north-east. We turned instantly in that direction. The whole pack of ice, filling the arm for near a half-mile, was in motion, grating and grinding together. From where we stood, the noise more resembled heavy, near thunder than anything else I can compare it with. "It's the tide bursting round from the north-east side!" exclaimed Kit. "Took it a little longer to come in among the islands on the north side," said Raed, gazing intently at the fearful spectacle. The noise nearly deafened us. The whole vast mass of ice--millions of tons--was heaving and sliding, cake over cake. It had lain piled fifteen or twenty feet above the water; but the tide surging under it and through it caused it to mix and churn together. We could see the water gushing up through crevices, sometimes in fountains of forty or fifty feet, hurling up large fragments of ice. The phenomenon was gigantic in all its aspects. To us, who expected every moment to see it borne forward and crush the schooner, it was appalling. But the sea filling in on the south, added to the narrowness of the arm, prevented the jam from rushing through; though a great deal of ice did float out, and, caught in the swirling currents, bumped pretty hard against the vessel's sides. The schooner swayed about heavily; but the anchor held miraculously, as we thought. Once we fancied it had given way, and held our breath till the cable tightened sharply again. The grating and thundering of the jam gradually dulled, muffled by the water. Our thoughts reverted to our own situation. The sea had risen within five feet of the place where we were standing. To get up here in the morning we had been obliged to scale a precipice. "It must have risen fully thirty feet," said Kit. "What a mighty tide!" "Why should it rush in here with so much greater violence than it does down on the coast of Massachusetts or at Long Branch?" questioned Wade. "How do you explain it, captain?" "It is because the coasts, both above and below the mouth of the straits, converge after the manner of a tunnel. The tidal wave from the Atlantic is thus accumulated, and pours into the straits with much more than ordinary violence. The same thing occurs in the Bay of Fundy, where they have very high tides. But I had no idea of such violence," he added, "or I shouldn't have risked the schooner so near the rocks. Why, that inlet ran like Niagara rapids!" "What an evidence this gives one of the strength of the moon's attraction!" said Raed. "All this great mass of water--thirty feet high--is drawn in here by the moon. What enormous force!" "And this vast power is exerted over a distance of two hundred and thirty-eight thousand miles," remarked Kit. "I can't understand this attraction of gravitation,--how it is exerted," said Wade. "No more can anyone," replied Raed. "It is said that this attraction of the moon, or at least the friction of the tides on the ocean-bed which it causes, is exerted in opposition to the revolution of the earth on its axis, and that it will thus at some future time stop that motion altogether," Kit remarked. "That's what Prof. Tyndall thinks." "Then there would be an end of day and night," said I; "or rather it would be all day on one side of the earth, and all night on the other." "That would be unpleasant," laughed Wade; "worse than they have it up at the north pole." "It is some consolation," said Raed, "to know that such a state of things is not likely to come in our time. According to a careful calculation, the length of the day is not thus increased more than a second in a hundred and sixty-eight thousand years." "But how are we to go aboard, sir?" inquired Hobbs, to whom our present fix was of more interest than the long days of far-distant posterity. The boat had been tossed about here and there, and was now some twenty or thirty yards astern of the schooner. "Have to swim for it," said Donovan. "Not in this icy water, I hope," said Kit. "Can't we devise a plan to capture it?" "They might tie a belaying-pin to the end of a line, and throw it into the boat," said the captain. "Or, better still, one of those long cod-lines with the heavy sinker and hook on it," suggested Hobbs. "Just the thing!" exclaimed Capt. Mazard. "Sing out to them!" "Unless I'm mistaken, that is just what old Trull is up to now," said Wade. "He's throwing something! see that!" As Wade said, old man Trull was throwing a line, with what turned out to be one of our small grapnels attached. The first throw fell short, and the line was drawn in; the second and third went aside; but the fourth landed the grapnel in the boat. It was hauled in. Weymouth and Corliss then got aboard, and came off to us. "Well, boys, what sort of a dry storm have you been having here?" said the captain as they came up under where we stood. "Never saw such a hole!" exclaimed Weymouth. "You don't know how we were slat about! We went _right up on it_! Had to pay out six fathoms of extra cable, anyway. D'ye mind what a thundering noise that ice made?" We went off to the schooner. Trull stood awaiting us, grinning grimly. "I don't gen'ly give advice to my betters," he began, with a hitch at his trousers; "but"-- "You'd be getting out of this?" finished Raed. "I wud, sur." There was a general laugh all round. But the wind had set dead in the south-east again. There was no room for tacking in the narrow inlet. To get out we should have to tow the schooner a mile against the wind,--among ice too. Clearly we must lay here till the wind favored. We concluded, however, to change our position for one a little lower down, and nearer the middle of the cove. The anchor was heaved up preparatory to towing the vessel along. The men had considerable difficulty in starting it off the bottom; and, on getting it up, one of the flukes was found to be chipped off,--bits as large as one's fist, probably from catching among jagged rocks at the bottom. We thought that this might also account for the tenacity with which the anchor held against the tide. Doubtless there were crevices and cracks, with great bowlders, scattered about on the bottom of the cove. Towing "The Curlew" back not far from a hundred yards from our first berth, the anchor was again let go in thirty-seven fathoms; and, for additional security, a second cable was bent to our extra anchor, which we dropped out of the stern. This matter, with arrangements for heaving the anchor up with tackle and fall (for we had no windlass in the stern), took up the time till considerably past noon. CHAPTER V. A Dead Narwhal.--Snowy Owls.--Two Bears in Sight.--Firing on them with the Howitzer.--A Bear-Hunt among the Ice.--An Ice "Jungle."--An Exciting Chase.--The Bear turns.--Palmleaf makes "a Sure Shot."--"Run, you Black Son!" About two o'clock a dead narwhal came floating out with the ice from the north-east arm, and passed quite near the schooner,--so near, that we could judge pretty accurately as to its length, which we estimated to be twenty or twenty-two feet; and its horn, or tusk, which was partly under water, could not have been less than five feet. "Killed among the ice there, I reckon," said Capt. Mazard. "Crushed up. I should not wonder if there were a great many large fish killed so." It seemed not improbable; for we had seen several snowy owls hovering over the ice-packs; and, about an hour afterwards, as we were reading in the cabin, Weymouth came down to say that a couple of bears were in sight up there among the ice. We went up immediately. None of us had ever seen a white bear, save at menageries, where they had to keep the poor brutes dripping with ice-water, they were so near roasting with our climate. To see a white bear prowling in his native ice-fastnesses was, therefore, a novel spectacle for us. They were distant from the schooner, at a rough guess, five hundred yards, and seemed to have a good deal of business about a hole, or chasm, among the loose ice at some distance up the arm. "Seal or a dead finner in there, I'll be bound," said the captain. "Now, boys, there's a chance for a bear-hunt!" "Suppose we give 'em a shot from my cannon-rifle," I suggested. "Better take the howitzer," said Raed. "Load it with a grist of those bullets." "That'll be the most likely to fetch 'em," laughed the captain. Wade ran down after the powder and balls. The rest of us unlashed the gun, got off the rubber-cloth, and trundled it along to point it over the starboard rail. Raed then swabbed it out; Kit poured in the powder; while Wade and I rammed down a wad of old newspaper. "Now, put in a good dose of these blue-pills," advised the captain, scooping up both hands full from the bag in which we kept them. "Ef you war ter jest tie 'em up, or wrop 'em in a bit of canvas, they'd go straighter, and wouldn't scatter round so bad," remarked old Trull, who was not an uninterested spectator of the proceedings. "Make them up sort of grape or canister shot fashion, you mean," said Raed. "Yes; that's what I mean,--ter keep 'em frum scatterin'." "Not a bad idea," said Capt. Mazard. "Weymouth, bring a piece of old canvas and a bit of manila-yarn." About a quart of the ounce balls were hastily wrapped in the canvas, and lashed up with the hempen twine. The bag was then rammed down upon the powder, and the howitzer pointed. "Let old Trull do the shooting," whispered Kit. "He will be as likely to hit as any of us." "Mr. Trull," Capt. Mazard began, "we must look to you to shoot those bears for us. Pepper 'em good, now!" At that we all stood away from the gun. The old fellow grinned, hesitated a moment, then stepped forward, evidently not a little flattered by the confidence reposed in him. First he sighted the piece very methodically. The schooner lay perfectly still. A better chance for a shot could hardly have been asked for. Palmleaf now came up with a bit of tarred rope lighted at the stove, and smoking after the manner of a slow match, with a red coal at the end. Trull took the rope, and, watching his chance till both the bears were in sight and near each other, touched the priming,--_Tizz-z-z_-WHANG! The carriage recoiled almost as smartly as my big rifle had done. Why is it that a person standing near a gun--especially a heavy gun--can never see what execution is done during the first second or two? He may have his eye on the mark at the discharge, but somehow the report always throws his ocular apparatus out of gear. In a moment I espied one of the bears scrambling over an ice-cake. The other had already disappeared; or else was killed, and had fallen down some fissure. "Man the boat!" exclaimed Raed. "I'm anxious to see the result of that shot! Bring up those muskets, Wade!" "Who goes on the bear-hunt, and who stays?" cried the captain. "I'll stand by the vassel," said old Trull. "Guard and I will look out for things on board." "Den I'll take his place, sar!" exclaimed Palmleaf, catching the enthusiasm of the thing. Wade appeared with the muskets. Five of them were already loaded. Cartridges were soon clapped into six more. Wade handed us each one, including Palmleaf. "See that you don't shoot any of us with it, you lubber!" he said. "Neber fear, sar," replied the negro with a grin. "I'se called a berry good shot at Petersburg, sar. Fit there, sar,--on the Linkum side." "You did?" "Yes, sar. Called a berry sure shot, sar." Kit and Raed began to laugh. "Come, tumble in, boys!" shouted the captain, who didn't see the point quite so clearly as we did. We got into the boat,--eleven of us; about as many as could find room. Hobbs and Bonney lay back at the oars. Kit steered us up to the low ledges of the small island on the west side of the ice-packed arm, where the bears had been seen. We landed, and pulled the boat up after us. No danger from the tide at this time of day. The captain and Raed led off, climbing over the rocks, and following along the jam of ice, which was piled considerably higher than the shore of the arm. Palmleaf, jolly as a darky need be, kept close behind them. The rest followed as best they might, clambering from ledge to ledge. Wade and I brought up the rear. "Only look at that nigger!" muttered my kinsman of Southern blood. "Impudent dog! I would like to crack his head with the butt of this musket! Hear how he wagged his tongue to me?" "Well, you called him a lubber." "What of that?" "What of that? Why, you must expect him to talk back: that's all. He's a free man, now, you know." "The more's the pity!" "I don't see it." "I'd like to have the handling of that nigger a while!" "No doubt. But you might just as well get over those longings first as last," I said; for I was beginning to get sick of his foolish spirit. "You had better forget the war, bury your old-time prejudices, and start new in the world, resolved to live and let live; to be a good fellow, and treat everybody alike and well. That's the way we do in the North,--or ought to." Wade said not a word. I rather pity the fellow. He has got some mighty hard, painful lessons to learn before he will be able to start right in life. Raed and the captain had stopped. "They were right opposite here, over among the ice," Raed was saying. "I marked the spot by that high cake sticking up above the rest." "We need scaling-ladders to get up among it," laughed Kit. "Talk of impenetrable jungles! here is a jungle of ice!" Imagine, reader, a thousand ice-cakes from six to thirty feet square, and of every grade of thickness, piled sidewise, edgewise, slantwise, cross-wise, and flatwise on top of that, and you may, perhaps, gain some idea of the vast jam which filled the arm and lay heaped up twenty and thirty feet above us. For a moment we were at a loss how to surmount it; then all began looking along for some available cranny or rift which might offer a foothold. "Here's a breach!" Weymouth shouted. He had gone along a dozen rods farther. We followed to see him mounting by the jagged edge of a vast cake five or six feet thick which projected out over the ledges. Kit followed; and they stood at the top, stretching down helping hands. In five minutes we were all up, standing, clinging, and balancing on the glassy edges of ice, and hopping and leaping from cake to cake. Cracks, crevices, and jagged holes opened ten, fifteen, and twenty feet sheer down all about us. A single misstep would send us head-foremost into them. "I say," exclaimed Capt. Mazard, barely saving himself from a tumble, "this is a devil of a funny place for a bear-hunt! No chance for rapid retreats! It will be fight bear, or die!" The place where the bears had stood when old Trull had fired was back fifteen or twenty rods to the right. We worked off in that direction, getting occasional glimpses of the water down in the deep holes, and stopping once to pull Corliss out of a wedge-shaped crevice into which he had slipped. Arriving on a big broad cake,--which, for a wonder, lay flat side up,--we paused to reconnoitre. "Don't see any thing of 'em," said the captain. "Gone, I'll bet my musket!" said Kit disappointedly. "More'n a league away by this time, I'll warrant you." "Doubt if the old man touched 'em!" said Hobbs. "Guess he suspected as much!" laughed the captain. "Perhaps that was why he wouldn't come." "But we haven't half searched yet!" exclaimed Wade, pushing out along the edge of a tilted-up fragment, and jumping across to another. As he jumped the ticklish cake tipped, slid back, and toppled over into a great chasm to the right with a tremendous crash and spattering,--for there was water at the bottom,--Wade barely saving himself. Almost at the same instant, I thought I heard a low growl not far off. "Hark!" exclaimed Kit. "Wasn't that the bear?" "Sounded like one!" muttered the captain. "Down among the ice!" "May be wounded down there," said Kit. "Crawled in under the ice." "Spread out round here, boys," cried the captain, "and peep sharp into the holes!" I knew we were near where the bullets from the howitzer had hit; for I saw several of them lying down in the cracks, flattened by striking against the ice: and, a few rods farther on, Weymouth and I came to a large irregular hole sixteen or seventeen feet deep, along the bottom of which we saw the bones of some fish. "This is the very place where they were when we first saw them," said Weymouth. "Ten to one they've crawled into some of those big cracks." We pitched down a loose junk of ice, and again heard a growl: though just where it issued from was hard telling; for the broad faces of the cakes, set at all angles, echoed the sound in a most bewildering manner. Kit and the captain came along; and we rolled down another fragment. Another growl. "He's in behind this great cake that sets upright against the side of the hole!" exclaimed Weymouth. "Think so?" said Kit. "Then let's tip this large piece off on to it. May scare him out." We managed to turn it over the edge; when it fell down _smash_ upon the cake below, splitting it in two. Instantly the bear, a great shaggy, white fellow, sprang out, and ran round at the bottom of the hole, growling, and trying to scratch up the sides. He had several bloody streaks on him. Kit took a rapid aim, and fired a bullet into his fore-shoulder; which only made him growl the louder, however. Then the captain gave him a shot in the head; at which the creature tumbled down, and kicked his last very quietly. But meanwhile we had heard a great uproar and shouting off to the left. "They've started the other, I guess!" exclaimed Kit. "Come on!" Just then a shot was fired, followed by a noise of falling ice-cakes. We could see a head bob up occasionally, and made for the _mêlée_ as fast as we could hop. The jam in this direction was not so high. The ice-cakes lay flatter, and were less heaped one above the other. Cries of "There he is! there he goes!" burst out on a sudden; then another musket-shot. Leaping on, we soon caught sight of the chase. The bear was jumping from cake to cake. Raed, Corliss, and Hobbs were following after him at a reckless pace; Bonney was trying to cut him off on the right; while Wade and Donovan, with Palmleaf a few rods behind them, were heading him on the left. Such a shouting and hallooing! They were all mad with excitement. We, who had killed our bear, kept after them as fast as we could run, but couldn't begin to catch up. Bang! Somebody tired at him then. 'Twas Hobbs. "Cut him off!" "Head him!" was the cry. "He's hit!" "Head him off there!" Wade and Donovan were actually outstripping the bear, and getting ahead; seeing which, the frightened, maddened beast tacked sharp to the left to escape behind them on that side,--going straight for Palmleaf, who was now considerably behind Wade and Don. Instantly a yell arose from all hands. "Look out, Palmleaf!" "Shoot him, Palmleaf!" "Let him have it!" "Aim low!" "Now's your time!" The negro, who had been running hard, stopped short, and, seeing the bear bounding toward him, made a feint to raise his musket, when it went off, either from accident or terror, in the air. We heard the bullet _zip_ fifty feet overhead. The bear gave a vicious growl, and made directly at him. "He'll have the darky!" "He'll have you, Palmleaf!" "Run, fool!" "Run, you black son!" Palmleaf turned to run; but, seeing a high rand of ice sticking up a few yards to his left, he leaped for it, and, jumping up, caught his hands at the top, and tried to draw himself up on to it. The bear was within six feet of him, snarling like a fury. _Bang!_ _Bang!_ _Bang!_ Raed and Corliss and Bonney had fired within twenty yards. But the bear reared, and struck with his forepaws at the darky's legs, stripping his trousers clean off the first pull. Such a howl as came from his terrified throat! _Crack!_ That was a better shot. The bear turned, or set out to, but fell down in a heap, then scrambled up, but immediately tumbled over again, and lay kicking. By this time we had all got near. The negro, scared nearly into fits, still hung on to the edge of the ice, looking as if "spread-eagled" to it. "Come, sir," said Wade. "Better get down and put on your trousers,--what there is left of them." The darky turned an agonized, appealing visage over his shoulder, but, seeing only friends instead of bears, let go his hold, and dropped to his feet. "That's what you call a 'sure shot,' is it," sneered Wade,--"that one you fired at the bear? Guess you didn't hurt _us_ much at Petersburg." "He need to be pretty thankful that somebody fired a _sure shot_ about the time the bear was paying his compliments to him," laughed the captain. "Yes: who fired that last shot?" I asked of Donovan, who stood near. "Wade did." We had to send back to the schooner for the butcher-knives, and also for a line to hoist the bear we had first killed out of the hole. The bears were skinned: we wanted to save their hides for trophies. As nearly as we could make out, they had been both wounded by the bullets from the howitzer, one of them--the one killed first--pretty severely. They did not, however, appear to me, in this our first encounter with them, to be nearly so fierce nor so formidable as I had expected, from accounts I had read. Hobbs cut out a piece of the haunch for steaks. Palmleaf afterwards cooked it: but we didn't much relish it, save Guard; and he ate the most of it. CHAPTER VI. The Middle Savage Isles.--Glimpse of an Esquimau Canoe.--Firing at a Bear with the Cannon-Rifle.--A Strange Sound.--The Esquimaux.--Their Kayaks.--They come on board.--An Unintelligible Tongue.--"Chymo." During the night following our bear-hunt a storm came on,--wind, rain, and snow, as before,--and continued all the next day. The tremendous tides, however, effectually prevented any thing like dullness from "creeping over our spirits;" since we were sure of a sensation at least twice in twenty-four hours. But during the next night it cleared up, with the wind north; and, quite early on the morning of the 11th of July, we dropped out of "Mazard's Bay," and stood away up the straits. At one o'clock we sighted another group of mountainous isles,--the same figured on the chart as the "Middle Savage Isles;" and by five o'clock we were passing the easternmost a couple of miles to the southward. Between it and the next island, which lay a little back to the north, there was a sort of bay filled with floating ice. Raed was leaning on the bulwarks with his glass, scanning the islands as we bowled along under a full spread of canvas. Suddenly he turned, and called to Kit. "Get your glass," he said. "Or never mind: take mine. Now look right up there between those islands. What do you see?" "Seals," replied Kit slowly, with the glass to his eye. "Any quantity of seals on the ice there; and--there's something larger scooting along. That's a narwhal: no, 'tain't, either. By jolly! see the seals flop off into the water as it shoots along! afraid of it. There! something flashed then in the sun! Raed, I believe that's a _kayak_,--an Esquimau canoe! An Esquimau catching seals!" "That's what I thought." "Wash!" "Wade!" "Get your glasses, and come here quick!" "What's that about Esquimau?" demanded Capt. Mazard, coming along from the binnacle. "An Esquimau _kayak_!" said Raed. "That so?" running after his glass. In a few moments we were all--all who had glasses--looking off at the wonderful object, to see which had been one of the pleasant hopes of our voyage; and yet I am bound to say, that, in and of itself, it was no great of a sight, especially at a distance of two miles. But, considered as an invention perfected through centuries by one of the most singular peoples of the Man family, it is, in connection with all their implements of use, well worth a study. Indeed, there is, to me at least, something so inexpressibly quaint and _bizarre_ about this race, as to render them an object well deserving of a visit. More strikingly even than the Hottentot or the Digger Indian of the Western sage deserts do they exhibit the iron sway of climate and food over habits and character, as well as physical growth and development. The _kayak_ moved about from point to point for some minutes; then shot up into the passage between the islets, and was lost from view. "Suppose he saw us,--saw the schooner?" said Wade. "Should have thought he might," replied the captain. "Must be a pretty conspicuous object out here in the sun, with all sail set." "He may have gone to give news of our arrival," said Raed; "for I presume there are others--whole families--not far away. These people always live in small communities or villages, I understand." "This may be as good a chance to see them as we shall get," said Kit. "What say for shortening sail, or standing up nearer the islands, and laying to for the night?" "Just as you say, gentlemen," replied the captain. It was agreed to stand up within half a mile, and so cruise along leisurely; thus giving them a chance to communicate with us if they desired. The helm was accordingly put round, and "The Curlew" headed for the second island. Half an hour took us up within a thousand yards of the ledges: the schooner was then hove to for an hour. "A few discharges from the howitzer might stir them up," suggested Wade. "We _could_ do that!" exclaimed Raed. Powder was brought up, and the gun charged and fired. A thunderous echo came back from the rocky sides of the islands. A second and a third shot were given at intervals of five minutes: but we saw nothing more of the _kayak_; and, after waiting nearly an hour more, the schooner was headed around, and continued on her course at about the same distance from the islands. A gun was fired every hour till midnight. We then turned in for a nap. From this time till four o'clock the next morning we passed three islands: so the sailors reported. The high mainland was distinctly visible four or five miles to the northward. At five o'clock we were off a small, low islet,--scarcely more than a broad ledge, rising at no point more than ten feet above the sea. It was several miles from the island next above it, however, and girdled by a glittering ice-field, the remains of last winter's frost, not yet broken up. Altogether the islet and the ice-field about it was perhaps two or two miles and a half in diameter. On the west it was separated from the island below it--a high, black dome of sienite--by a narrow channel of a hundred and fifty yards. Hundreds of seals lay basking in the sun along the edges of the ice-field; and, as we were watching them, we saw a bear swim across the channel and climb on to the ice-field. Landing, he gave his shaggy sides a shake; then, making a short run, seized upon a seal, off which he was soon breakfasting. "We'll spoil his fun!" exclaimed Kit. "Bring up one of those solid shots, Wade. We've got two bear-skins; but we shall want one apiece. I propose to have an overcoat next winter out of that fellow's hide." The howitzer was loaded with the six-pound iron ball. Kit undertook to do the shooting this time. The distance was, we judged, somewhere from three-fourths of a mile to a mile. The rest of us got our glasses, and went back toward the stern to watch the effect of the shot. Of course it is hap-hazard work, firing at so small an object at so great a distance, with a cannon, from the deck of a vessel in motion. Nevertheless Kit made quite a show of elevating the gun and getting the range. Presently he touched off. The first we saw of the shot was its striking on the ice-field at a long distance short of the bear. The bits of ice flew up smartly, and the ball must have ricochetted; for we saw the ice fly up again quite near the bear, and then at another point beyond him. It probably went over him at no great height. The creature paused from his bloody feast, looked round, and then ran off a few rods, and stood sniffing for some moments, but soon came back to the seal. Whether it was the report, or the noise of the ball whirring over, which had startled him, was not very evident. "Not an overcoat!" laughed Raed. "It's my turn now," said I, uncovering my _smaller_ cannon. "I'll make the next bid for that overcoat." I put in a little less than half a gill of powder this time, and wrapped a thin patch round the ball to make it fit tightly. It was all we could do to drive it down. The gun was then capped and cocked. I moved the screw to elevate it about an inch, and, watching my chance as the schooner heaved, let drive. But the bear kept on eating. There was a general laugh. "Didn't even notice you!" cried Kit. "I can overbid that!"--taking up the powder to reload the howitzer. "Not before I bid again," said I. And at it we went to see who would get loaded first to get the next shot. But, my gun being so much the smaller and more easily handled, I had my ball down before Kit had his powder-wad rammed. The rest stood clapping and cheering us. Hastily priming the tube, I whipped on a cap, then beckoned to old Trull. "Here," said I, "shoot that bear for me!" The old salt chuckled, and had his eye to the piece immediately. I snatched up my glass. Kit paused to see the result. The old man pulled the trigger. There was a moment's hush, then a great "Hurrah!" The bear had jumped up, and, whirling partly round, ran off across the ice-field roaring, _we fancied_; for he had his mouth open, and snapping round to his flanks. He had been grazed, if nothing more. With the glass we could detect blood on his white coat. "He's hit!" said I. "Let's bear up into the channel: that'll stop him from getting back to the high islands. We can then hunt him at leisure on the ice-field. He won't care to swim clean up to the"-- "Hark!" exclaimed Raed suddenly. "What's that noise?" We all listened. It was a noise not greatly unlike the faint, distant cawing and hawing of a vast flock of crows as they sometimes congregate in autumn. "It's some sort of water-fowl _clanging_ out there about the high islands," said I. Again it rose, borne on the wind,--"_Ta-yar-r-r! ta-yar-r-r! ta-yar-r-r!_" Had we been at home, I should have taken it for a distant mass-meeting cheering the result of the presidential election, or perhaps the presidential nomination at the convention. It had a peculiarly barbarous, reckless sound, which was not wholly unfamiliar. But up here in Hudson Straits we were at a loss how to account for it. "I believe it's the Huskies," said the captain. "Take a good look all around with your glasses." We ran our eyes over the islands. They looked bare of any thing like an Esquimau convention. Presently Kit uttered an exclamation. "Why, just turn your glass off to the main, beyond the islands; right over the ice-field; on that lofty brown headland that juts out from the main! There they are!" There they were, sure enough,--a grimy, bare-headed crowd, swinging their arms, and gesticulating wildly. It could not have been less than five miles; but the faint "_Ta-yar-r-r!_" still came to our ears. "Suppose they are calling to us?" cried Raed. "Yes; looks like that," replied the captain. "Heard the guns, you see," said Kit; "those we fired at the bear." "Port the helm!" ordered the captain. "We'll beat up through this channel to the north side of the ice-field." "Perhaps we had best not go up too near them at first," remarked Raed, "till we find out what sort of _folks_ they are." "No: two miles will be near enough. They will come off to us,--as many of them as we shall want on board at one time, I dare say." The schooner bore up through the channel, and wore along the ice-field on the north side at a distance of a few hundred yards from it. We saw the bear running off round to the south-east side to keep away from us; though, as may readily be supposed, our attention was mainly directed to the strange people on the headland, whose discordant cries and shouts could now be plainly heard. We could see them running down to the shore; and immediately a score of canoes shot out, and came paddling towards us. "You don't doubt that their coming off is from friendly motives, captain?" Kit asked. "Oh, no!" "Still forty or fifty stout fellows might give us our hands full, if they were ill-disposed," remarked Wade. "That's a fact," admitted the captain; "though I don't believe they would attempt any thing of the sort." "Well, there is no harm in being well armed," said Raed. "Kit, you and Wash get up half a dozen of the muskets, and load them. Fix the bayonets on them too. Wade and I will load the howitzer and the mighty rifle. And, captain, I don't believe we had better have more than a dozen of them on board at one time till we know them better." "That may be as well," replied Capt. Mazard. "It will be unpleasant having too many of them aboard at once, anyway. And, in order to have the deck under our thumb a little more, I am going to station two of the sailors with muskets, as a guard, near the man at the wheel, another amidships, and two more forward." Meanwhile the _kayaks_ were approaching, a whole school of them, shouting and racing with each other. Such a barbaric din! The crowd on the shore added their distant shouts. "There's another thing we must look out for," remarked the captain. "These folks are said to be a little thievish. It will be well enough to put loose small articles out of sight." Hastily perfecting our arrangements, we provided ourselves each with a musket, and were ready for our strange visitors. They came paddling up, one to a canoe. Their paddles had blades at each end, and were used on either side alternately, with a queer windmill sort of movement. "Twenty-seven of them," said Kit. "Bareheaded, every mother's son of them!" exclaimed Weymouth. "Only look at the long-haired mokes!" laughed Donovan. "Why, they're black as Palmleaf!" cried Hobbs. "Oh, no! not nearly so black," said Bonney. "Just a good square dirt-color." This last comparison was not far from correct. The Esquimaux are, as a matter of fact, considerably darker than the red Indians of the United States. They are not reddish: they are brown, to which grease and dinginess add not a little. On they came till within fifty yards; when all drew up on a sudden, and sat regarding us in something like silence. Perhaps our bayonets, with the sunlight flashing on them, may have filled them with a momentary suspicion of danger. Seeing this, we waved our arms to them, beckoning them to approach. While examining the relics of a past age,--the stone axes, arrow-heads, and maces,--I have often pictured in fancy the barbarous habits, the wild visages, and harsh accents, of prehistoric races,--races living away back at the time when men were just rising above the brute. In the wild semi-brutish shouts and gesticulations which followed our own gesture of friendliness I seemed to hear and see these wild fancies verified,--verified in a manner I had not supposed it possible to be observed in this age. And yet here were primitive savages apparently, not fifteen hundred miles in a direct course from our own enlightened city of Boston, where, as we honestly believe, we have the cream (some of it, at least) of the world's civilization. Reflect on this fact, ye who think the whole earth almost ready for the reign of scientific righteousness! Such an unblessed discord! such a cry of pristine savagery! They came darting up alongside, their great fat, flat, greasy faces, with their little sharp black eyes, looking up to us full of confidence and twinkling with expectation of good bargains. During our voyage we had got out of our books quite a number of Esquimaux words with their English meanings; but these fellows gabbled so fast, so shockingly indistinct, and ran every thing together so, that we could not gain the slightest idea of what they were saying, further than by the word "_chymo_," which, as we had previously learned, meant _trade_, or _barter_. But they had nothing with them to trade off to us, save their _kayaks_, paddles, and harpoons. "But let's get a lot of them up here where we can see them," said Wade. We now made signs for them to climb on deck; and immediately half a dozen of them stood up, and, with a spring, caught hold of the rail, and came clambering up, leaving their canoes to float about at random. Five--seven--eleven--thirteen--came scratching over. "There, that'll do for one dose," said Raed. Kit and Wade stepped along, and thrust out their muskets to stop the stream. One little fellow, however, had got half up: so they let him nig in, making fourteen in all. Three or four more had tried to get up near the stern; but Weymouth and Don, who were on duty there, rapped their knuckles gently, as a reminder to let go and drop back into their _kayaks_, which they did without grumbling. Indeed, they seemed singularly inoffensive; and, come to get them on deck, they were "little fellows,"--not so tall as we boys even by a whole head. They were pretty thick and stout, however, and had remarkably large heads and faces. I do not think the tallest of them was much, if any, over five feet. Donovan, who was about six feet, looked like a giant beside them. They stood huddled together, looking just a little wistful at being cut off from their fellows, and casting fearful glances at Guard, who stood barking excitedly at them from the companion-way. Though used to dogs, they had very likely never seen a jet-black Newfoundland before. Possibly they mistook him for some different animal. "What are we thinking of," exclaimed Raed, "with our guns and bayonets! Why, these little chaps look the very embodiment of good nature! Here they trust themselves among us without so much as a stick in their hands; while we've got out all our deadly weapons! Let's let the rest of them come up if they want to." Kit and Wade stood back, and beckoned to the others: whereat they all came climbing up, save one, who stayed, apparently, to look out for the empty _kayaks_, which were floating about. They brought rather strong odors of smoke and greasy manginess; but more good-natured faces I never saw. "My eye! but aren't they flabby fat!" exclaimed Hobbs. "That comes of drinking seal and whale oil," said Bonney. "Guess they don't sport combs much," said Donovan. "Look at those tousled heads! Bet you, they're lousy as hens!" "Talk to 'em, Raed," said Kit. "Say something. Ask 'em if they want to _chymo_." At the sound of this last word they turned their little sharp eyes brightly on Kit. "_Chymo?_" said Raed interrogatively. Instantly they began to crowd round him, a dozen jabbering all at once. Faster even than before they ran on, amid which we could now and then distinguish words which sounded like _oomiaksook_, _hennelay_, _cob-loo-nak_, _yemeck_. These words, as we had read, meant _big ship_, _woman_, _Englishman_, _water_, respectively. But it was utterly impossible to make out in what connection they were used. Despite our vocabulary, we were as much at a loss as ever. "Confound it!" Kit exclaimed. "Let's make signs. No use trying to _talk_ with them." "We shall want one of those _kayaks_ to carry home," remarked Raed. "Captain, will you please bring up a couple of those long bars of iron and three or four yards of red flannel? We will see what can be done in the _chymo_ line." Capt. Mazard soon appeared with the iron and the flannel; at sight of which the exclamation of "_Chymo!_" and "_Tyma!_" ("Good!") were redoubled. Raed then took the articles, and, going to the side, pointed down to one of the canoes, then to the iron bars, and said _chymo_. At that some of them said "_Tyma_," and others "_Negga-mai_," with a shake of their heads; but when Raed pointed to both the iron and the flannel, undoubling it as he did so, they all cried "_Tyma!_" and one of them (the owner of the _kayak_, as it proved) came forward to take the things. Raed gave them to him. A line with a slip-noose was then dropped over the nose of the _kayak_, and it was pulled on board. In plan it was much like our cedar "shells" used at regattas,--a narrow skiff about twenty-three feet in length by eighteen inches in width. At the centre there was a small round hole just large enough for one to sit with his legs under the seal-skin deck, which was bound tightly to a hoop encircling the hole. Indeed, the whole outside of this singular craft was of seal-skins, sewed together and drawn tight as a drum-head over a frame composed mainly of the rib-bones of the walrus. The double-bladed paddle was tied to the _kayak_ with a long thong; as was also a harpoon, made of bones laid together, and wound over with a long thong of green seal-skin. The lance-blade at the point was of very white, fine ivory; probably that of the walrus. Attached to the harpoon was a very long coil of line, made also of braided seal-skin, and wound about a short, upright peg behind the hoop. We supposed that the paddle and the harpoon went with the _kayak_. But the owner did not see it in that light. As soon as it had been hauled on deck, he proceeded to untie the thongs, much to the amusement of the captain. As we wished these articles to go together, nothing remained but to drive a new bargain for them. Raed, therefore, took one of our large jack-knives from his pocket, and, opening it, pointed to the paddle, and again said _chymo_. They all _negga-mai-ed_, giving us to understand that it wouldn't be a fair trade; in other words, that they couldn't afford it: and the owner of the paddle kept repeating the work _karrack_ deprecatingly. "What in the world does _karrack_ mean?" Raed asked, turning to us. Nobody knew. "_Karrack?_" queried he. "_Karrack, karrack!_" was the reply. "_Karrack, karrack, karrack!_" they all cried, pointing to the paddle and also to the bulwarks. "They mean _wood!_" exclaimed the captain. "Corliss, bring up two or three of those four-foot sticks such as we are using for firewood." It was brought, and thrown down on deck. "_Karrack, karrack!_" they all exclaimed, and fell to laughing in a most extraordinary way, making a noise which seemed to come from low down in their stomachs, and resembled the syllables _heh-heh_, or _yeh-yeh_, over and over and over. Raed pointed to the three sticks of wood, and then to the paddle, with another "_chymo_." That was _tyma_; for they all nodded and _heh-hehed_ again. "A trade," said the captain. "Now for the harpoon and line." These we got for a bar of iron and another stick of wood. It at first seemed rather singular that they should prize a stick of ordinary split wood so highly; but it was easily accounted for when we came to reflect that this vast region is destitute of trees of any size. Wood was almost as eagerly sought for as iron. I have no doubt that a very profitable trade might be made with a cargo of wood along these straits, exchanged for walrus-ivory, bear-skins, and seal-skins. They wore a sort of jacket, or round frock, of bear-skin, with a cap, or hood, fastened to the collar like the hood of a water-proof. It was tied with thongs in front, and came down to the thigh. Kit bought one of these for a jack-knife,--for a curiosity, of course. Wade also purchased a pair of seal-skin moccasons, with legs to the knee, for a butcher-knife; which gave us a chance to observe that the owner wore socks of dog-skin, with the hair in. A pair of these were _chymoed_ from another man for a stick of wood. Beneath their bear-skin frocks they wore a shirt of some thin skin, which the captain pronounced to be bladder-skin,--of bears, perhaps. I got one of these shirts for a jack-knife. Wishing to have an entire outfit, we bought a pair of breeches of the man of whom we had already purchased the boots, for a dozen spike-nails. These were of fox-skin, apparently, with the hair worn next the skin. I noticed that one man wore a small white bone or ivory trinket, seemingly carved to represent a child. Pointing to it, I held out a butcher-knife,--a good bargain, I fancied. Somewhat to my surprise, he _negga-mai-ed_ with a very grave shake of his head. Two or three others who saw it shook their heads too. Wishing to test him, I brought up a bar of iron, and made another tender of both knife and iron. But he shook his head still more decidedly, and turned away as if to put a stop to further bantering on the subject. We were at a loss to know whether it was a souvenir,--the image of some dead child, or an object of religious reverence. Finally the captain pointed across the ice-field, where the bear was sitting crouched on the margin of it, and said, "_Nen-ook_." At that they all looked, and, espying him, gave vent to a series of cries and shouts. Six of them immediately dropped into their _kayaks_ and set off after him. Reaching the ice, they landed, and pulled the canoes on to it. Then, taking their harpoons, they divided into three parties of two each. One of these went straight across toward the bear; the second followed round the edge of the field to the right, the third to the left. The bear must have been pretty severely wounded by our six-ounce bullet, I think; for he paid no attention to their approach till they were within four or five rods, when he made a feeble attempt to get past them. They rushed up to him without the slightest hesitation, and despatched him in a twinkling. CHAPTER VII. The Husky Belles.--_We-we_ and _Caubvick.--"Abb_," she said.--All Promenade.--Candy at a Discount.--"_Pillitay, pillitay!_"--Old Trull and the Husky Matron.--Gorgeous Gifts.--Adieu to the Arctic Beauties. None of their women had come off with them; and, while the party that had gone after the bear were busy skinning it, Raed brought up a roll of flannel, with half a dozen knives, and, holding them up, pointed off to the mainland and said, "_Henne-lay_." Whereupon they fell to _heh-hehing_ afresh with cries of "_Igloo, igloo!_" Kit pointed to our boat, hanging from the davits at the stern, and then off to the shore, to inquire whether we should send it for them; but they shook their heads, and cried, "_Oomiak, oomiak!_" "Do they mean for us to take the schooner up there?" asked the captain. Raed pointed to the deck, and then off to the shore, inquiringly. No, that was not it; though they still cried "_Oomiak!_" pointing off to the shore. "_Oomiak_ is a boat of their own, I guess," said Kit; "different from the _kayak_. They called 'The Curlew' _oomiak-sook_, you know." "Tell them to bring some of their children along too," said Wade. "Well, what's the word for child?" Raed inquired. We none of us knew. "Try pappoose," suggested the captain. "_Pappoose_," said Raed, pronouncing it distinctly, and pointing off as before. "_Henne-lay_--_pappoose_." But they only looked blank. _Pappoose_ was evidently a new word for them. We then resorted to various expedients, such as holding our hands knee-high and hip-high; but the requisite gleam of intelligence could not be inspired. So, with another repetition of the word _henne-lay_, we started off a delegation of eight or nine after the female portion of the settlement. While they were gone, the six who had gone to slaughter the bear came back, bringing the hide and a considerable quantity of the meat. Bits were distributed among the crowd, and eaten raw and reeking as if a delicacy. We _chymoed_ the bear-skin from them for a bar of iron. In about an hour a great _ta-yar-r-r-ing_ from the shoreward bespoke the embarkation of the _ladies_; and, with our glasses, we could make out a large boat coming off, surrounded by _kayaks_. "That's the _oomiak_," said Kit. "Looks like quite a barge." "Don't lose your hearts now," laughed the captain. "Should hate to have an elopement from my ship here." "I think Wade is in the most danger," said Raed. "He's very susceptible to Northern beauties. We must have an eye to him." "Beware, Wade!" cried Kit. "Don't be led astray! Steel your heart against the seductive charms of these Husky belles! Remember how the hopes of your family are centred! What would your mother say? Your father would be sure to disinherit you! How would your sisters bear it?" "Hold on, fellows!" exclaimed Wade. "This isn't quite fair, nor honorable,--making fun of ladies behind their backs." "Right, sir!" cried Raed. "Spoken like a true son of the South! Ah! you did always outrank us in gallantry. No discount on it. Had your heads been as true as your hearts, the result might have been different. But here come the ladies. We must do our prettiest to please 'em, or we are no true knights. By the by, we resemble the wandering knight-errants not a little, I fear." "Only their object was adventure, while ours is science," added Kit. "Scientific knights!" laughed Wade. "Well, the world moves!" The _oomiak_ was now within fifty yards. "Let's give 'em a salute!" exclaimed Kit. "Roll the ball out of the howitzer!" "Oh! I wouldn't; it may scare 'em," said Raed. "No, it won't. Where's a match?" _Bang_ went old brassy out of the stern. It did startle them, I fancy. Something very much like a feminine screech rose in the _oomiak_. It was quickly hushed up, though, with no fainting, but any quantity of _heh-heh-ing_ and _yeh-yeh-ing_ from the fat beauties. "Now give 'em two more from the muskets--two at a time--when they come under the side!" shouted Kit. "Hobbs, you and Don first! Ready!--fire!" Crack, crack! "Now Weymouth and Corliss!" Crack, crack! "There! I now consider their arrival properly celebrated. And here they are under the bows! Pipe the side for the ladies, captain!" "Bless me!" exclaimed Raed; "how are we to get 'em aboard? Can't climb a line, I don't expect." "Wouldn't do to give 'em the ratlines!" exclaimed Kit; "might entangle their pretty feet. What's to be done, captain?" "I--give--it--up!" groaned Capt. Mazard. "Hold! I have it: the old companion-stairs,--the ones we had taken out. They are stowed away down in the hold." "Just the thing!" cried Raed; "the very essence of gallantry!" "Corliss, Bonney, and Hobbs," shouted the captain, "bear a hand at those old stairs,--quick! Don't keep ladies waiting!" The old stairs were hurried up, and let down from the side. The captain stood ready with a stout line, which he whipped around the top rung, and then made fast to the bulwarks. "That'll hold 'em," said he. The _oomiak_ was then brought up close, and the foot of the stairs set inside the gunwale. The _oomiak_ was about twenty-seven feet in length by six in width. Like the _kayaks_, it was covered with seal-skin; or perhaps it might have been the hide of the walrus. The framework was composed of both bone and wood tied and lashed together. This was the women's boat, and was rowed by them. The only man in it was a hideous, wrinkled old savage, who sat in the stern to steer. "Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, and an odd one," counted Raed. "Invite 'em up, captain." Capt. Mazard got up on the bulwarks with a line in his hand, and, holding it down over the stairs, began to bow and make signs to them to come up. Perhaps they had not intended to actually come on board; or perhaps, like their fairer sisters in other lands, they wanted to be coaxed a little. At first they discreetly hesitated, glancing alternately up at us, then round to their swarthy countrymen in the _kayaks_. The most of them were seemingly young. There was but one really ugly face; while four or five were evidently under fifteen. The women were not quite so swarthy and dark as the men, and wore their hair longer. Several of them had it pugged up behind. The captain and Raed now redoubled their gestures of invitation. The Esquimau men on board also began to jabber to them; at which, first two, then another, and another, stood up, and with broad smiles essayed to mount the stairs. Kit was standing close to me. "Now, which are the prettiest ones?" he whispered. "Which are the belles? Let's you and I secure the _belles_ away from Raed and Wade. Those two back in the stern next to old ghoul-face--how do those strike you? Aren't those the beauties? They've got on the prettiest fur, anyway. Only look at those white gloves!" The two Kit had pointed out were, as well as we could judge, the fairest of the bevy. "I believe Wade's got his eye on one of them!" muttered Kit. "We'll oust him, though. Crowd along sharp when those two come up. Elbow Wade out of the way. I'll push against you, and we'll squeeze him up against the rail." The others followed the first two, coming up the steps, taking the captain's hand, and jumping off the rail to the deck. Our two came last. "Now's our time!" exclaimed Kit; and, making a bold push, we got in ahead of the unsuspecting Wade, who immediately saw the sell, and turned away in great disgust. "I'll pay you for that!" muttered he. But, having got face to face with the fur-clad damsels, we were not a little perplexed how to make their acquaintance; for they were staring at us with their small black eyes very round and wondering. "Try a great long smile," said Kit. We smiled very hard and persistently for some seconds. It seemed to mollify their wonder somewhat. "Keep it up," Kit advised: "that'll bring 'em." We kept it up, smiling and bowing and nodding as gayly as we could; and were presently rewarded by seeing faint reflections of our grins on their dusky faces, which rapidly deepened into as broad a smile as I ever beheld. They had very tolerably wide mouths, with large white teeth. Having got up a smile, we next essayed to shake hands with them according to good old New-England custom. Their white gloves were of some sort of bird-skin, I think, and fitted--well, I've seen kid gloves worn that didn't fit a whit better. How to commence a conversation was not so easy; since we knew not more than a dozen words of their language, and could not frame these into sentences. So we began by making them each a present of a jack-knife. These were accepted with a great deal of broad smiling. Kit then showed them how to open the knives. At that one of the girls reached down to her boot; and, thrusting her hand into the leg of it (for their boots had remarkably large legs, coming up to the knee, and even higher), she fished out a little bone implement about four inches long, and resembling a harpoon. Near the centre of it was a tiny hole, in which there was knotted a bit of fine leathern string. It was plain that she meant to give it to one or the other of us. Kit held out his hand for it with a bow. "_Kina?_" he asked, taking it. ("What is it?") "_Tar-suk_," said the girl. "_Tar-suk-apak-pee-o-mee-wanga_;" which was plain, to be sure. Meanwhile the other was industriously fumbling in her boot, and pretty quick drew out a bone image representing a fox, as I have always supposed. This was for me. "_Kina?_" I asked. "_Bossuit_," was the reply. This was also pierced with a hole through the neck; and, on my hooking it to my watch-guard, the other girl fell to laughing at her companion, who also laughed a little confusedly, and with a look, which, in a less dusky maiden, might have been a blush. Just what importance they attach to these trinkets and to the wearing of them we could merely guess at. "I wonder what their names are," said Kit. "How can we find out? Would they understand by our using the word _kina_, do you suppose?" "Try it." Kit then pointed to the one who was talking with me, and said "_kina_" to the other. She did not seem to understand at first: but, on a repetition of the question, replied, "_We-we_;" at which her companion looked suddenly around. Then they talked with each other a moment. _We-we_, as I afterwards learned, meant _white goose_. I then put the same question to _We-we_, pointing to the other. "_Caubvick_," she replied. Just then Wade passed us; and, lo! he had a white-gloved damsel on his arm, promenading along the deck as big as life. "What's her name?" cried Kit. "_Ikewna_," he replied over his shoulder. How he had found out he would never tell us; perhaps in the same manner we had done. "I declare, Wade's outdoing us!" exclaimed Kit. "But we can promenade too." I then pointed to Wade and _Ikewna_, and then to _We-we_ and myself, offering my arm. "_Abb_," she said; and we started off. Kit and _Caubvick_ followed. After all, walking with an Esquimau belle is not so very different from walking with a Yankee girl: only I fancy it must have looked a little odd; for, as I have already stated, they wore long-legged boots with very broad tops coming above the knee, silver-furred seal-skin breeches, and a jacket of white hare-skin (the polar hare) edged with the down of the eider-duck. These jackets had at least one very peculiar feature: that was nothing less than a tail about four inches broad, and reaching within a foot of the ground. I have no doubt they were in _style_: still they did look a little singular, to say the least. Meanwhile the others were not idle spectators, judging from the loud talking, _yeh-yeh-ing_, and unintelligible lingo, that resounded all about. We saw Raed paying the most polite attentions to a very chubby, fat girl with a black fur jacket and yellow gloves. "What name?" demanded Kit as we promenaded past. "_Pussay_," replied Raed, trying to look very sober. The word _pussay_ means a seal; and in this case the name was not much misplaced. _We-we_ (white goose) was, to my eye, decidedly the prettiest of the lot; _Caubvick_ came next; and, as we promenaded past Wade, we kept boasting of their superior charms as compared with _Ikewna_. Our two both wore white jackets; while Wade's wore a yellow one, of fox-skin. "How about refreshments!" cried Wade at length. "We ought to treat them, hadn't we?" "That's so," said Raed. "Captain, have the goodness to call Palmleaf, and bid him bring up a box of that candy." The captain came along. "Didn't you see the rumpus?" he asked. "Rumpus?" "Yes; when Palmleaf came on deck just after the women came on board. They were afraid of him. He came poking his black head up out of the forecastle, and rolling his eyes about. If he had been the Devil himself, they couldn't have acted more scared. I had to send him below out of sight, or there would have been a general stampede. The men are afraid of him. I don't understand exactly why they should be." None of us did at the time; but we learned subsequently that the Esquimaux attribute all their ill-luck to a certain fiend, or demon, in the form of a huge black man. We have, therefore, accounted for their strange fear and aversion to the negro on that ground. They thought he was the Devil,--their devil. So Hobbs brought up the candy. Raed passed it round, giving each of our visitors two sticks apiece. This was plainly a new sort of treat. They stood, each holding the candy in their hands, as if uncertain to what use it was to be put. Raed then set them an example by biting off a chunk. At that they each took a bite. We expected they would be delighted. It was therefore with no little chagrin that we beheld our guests making up the worst possible faces, and spitting it out anywhere, everywhere,--on deck, against the bulwarks, overboard, just as it happened. The most of them immediately threw away the candy; though _We-we_ and _Caubvick_, out of consideration for our feelings perhaps, quietly tucked theirs into their boot-legs. There was an awkward pause in the hospitalities. Clearly, candy wouldn't pass for a delicacy with them. "Try 'em with cold boiled beef!" exclaimed the captain. Luckily, as it occurred, Palmleaf had lately boiled up quite a quantity. It was cut up in small pieces, and distributed among them; and, at the captain's suggestion, raw fat pork was given the men. This latter, however, was much too salt for them: so that, on the whole, our refreshments were a failure. It is doubtful if they liked the cooked meat half so well as they did the raw, reeking flesh of the bear. By way of making up for the candy failure, we gave them each two common tenpenny nails, and two sticks of hardwood the size we burned in the stove. With these presents they seemed very well pleased, particularly with the wood. But, on finding we were disposed to give, the most of them were not at all modest about asking for more. A general cry of "_Pillitay_" ("Give me something") arose. We gave them another stick of wood all round; at which their cries were redoubled. In short, they treated us very much as some earnest Christians do the Lord,--asked for everything they could think of. Old Trull was especially pestered by one woman, who stuck to him with a continuous whine of "_Pillitay, pillitay!_" He had already given her his jack-knife, and now borrowed it to cut off several of the brass buttons on his jacket. But so far was she from being satisfied with this sacrifice, that she instantly began _pillitaying_ for the rest of them. The old man thought that this was carrying the thing a little too far. "Ye old jade!" he exclaimed, out of all patience. "Ye'd beg me stark naked, I du believe!" But still the woman with outstretched hand cried "_Pillitay!_" Finally the old chap in pure desperation caught out his tobacco to take a chew. Eying her a moment, he bit it off, and put the rest in her hand with a grim smile. The woman, following his example, forthwith bit off a piece, and chewed at it for a few seconds, swallowing the saliva; then turned away sick and vomiting. She didn't _pillitay_ him any more. To the honor of maidenhood, I may add that _We-we_, _Caubvick_, _Ikewna_, and _Pussay_ were exceptions to the general rule of beggary. They asked us for nothing. Something seemed to restrain them: perhaps the attentions we had shown them. Be that as it may, they fared the better for it. Wade led off by giving _Ikewna_ a broad, highly-colored worsted scarf, which he wrapped in folds about her fox-jacket, covering it entirely, and giving her a very _distingué_ look. Not to be behind, Kit and I gave to _We-we_ and _Caubvick_ three yards of bright-red flannel apiece; also a red-and-black silk handkerchief each to wear over their shoulders, and two massive (pinchbeck) breast-pins. These latter articles did make their little piercing black eyes sparkle amazingly. How long they would have stayed on board, Heaven only knows,--all summer, perhaps,--had not the captain given orders to have the schooner brought round. The moment the vessel began to move, they were seized with a panic, lest they should be carried off from home. The men were over into their _kayaks_ instantly. Having got rid of them, "The Curlew" was again hove to, while the _oomiak_ was brought under the stairs. We bade a hasty farewell to the Husky belles, and handed them into their barge. On the whole, we were not much sorry to be rid of them; for though they were human beings, and some of the young girls not without their attractions, yet it was humanity in a very crude, raw state. In a word, they were savages, destitute to a lamentable extent of all those finer feelings and sentiments which characterize a civilized race. The roughest of our Gloucester lads were immeasurably in advance of them; and Palmleaf, but recently a lash-fearing slave, seemed of a higher order of beings. They were gone; but they had left an odor behind. We had to keep Palmleaf burning coffee on a shovel all the rest of the evening; and, for more than a month after, we could smell it at times,--a "sweet _souvenir_ of our Husky beauties," as Wade used to put it. There is something at once hopeless and pitiful about this people. There is no possibility of permanently bettering their condition. Born and living under a climate, which, from the gradual shifting of the pole, must every year grow more and more severe, they can but sink lower and lower as the struggle for existence grows sharper. There is no hope for them. Their absurd love of home precludes the possibility of their emigrating to a warmer latitude. Pitiful! because, where-ever the human life-spark is enkindled, his must be a hard heart that can see it suffering, dying, without pity. CHAPTER VIII. The Husky Chief.--Palmleaf Indignant.--A Gun.--Sudden Apparition of the Company's Ship.--We hold a Hasty Council.--In the Jaws of the British Lion.--An Armed Boat.--Repel Boarders!--Red-Face waxes wrathful.--Fired on, but no Bones Broken. By the time we had fairly parted from our Esquimau friends it was near eleven o'clock, P.M.,--after sunset. Instead of standing out into the straits, we beat up for about a mile along the ice-field, and anchored in thirteen fathoms, at about a cable's length from the island, to the east of the ice-island. The weather had held fine. The roadstead between the island and the main was not at present much choked with ice. It was safe, to all appearance. We wanted rest. Turning out at three and half-past three in the morning, and not getting to bunk till eleven and twelve, made an unconscionable long day. Once asleep, I don't think one of us boys waked or turned over till the captain stirred us up to breakfast. "Six o'clock, boys!" cried he. "Sun's been up these four hours!" "Don't talk about the sun in this latitude," yawned Raed. "I can sit up with him at Boston; but he's too much for me here." While we were at breakfast, Weymouth came down to report a _kayak_ coming off. "Shall we let him come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes!" said the captain. "Let's have him down to breakfast with us for the nonce!" cried Kit. "Here, Palmleaf, set an extra plate, and bring another cup of coffee." "And see that you keep out of sight," laughed the captain: "the Huskies don't much like the looks of you." "I tink I'se look as well as dey do, sar!" exclaimed the indignant cook. "So do I, Palmleaf," said Raed; "but then opinions differ, you know. These Esquimaux are nothing but savages." "Dey're berry ill-mannered fellars, sar, to make de best of dem. I wouldn't hev 'em roun', sar, stinkin' up de ship." "I don't see that they smell much worse than a pack of niggers," remarked Wade provokingly; at which the darky went back to the galley muttering. "Wade, some of these big negroes will pop you over one of these days," said Kit. "Well, I expect it; and who'll be to blame for that? We had them under good control: you marched your hired Canadians down among us, and set them 'free,' as you say; which means that you've turned loose a class of beings in no way fit to be free. The idea of letting those ignorant niggers vote!--why, they are no more fit to have a voice in the making of the laws than so many hogs! You have done us a great wrong in setting them free: you've turned loose among us a horde of the most indolent, insolent, lustful _beasts_ that ever made a hell of earth. You can't look for social harmony at the South! Why, we are obliged to go armed to protect our lives! No lady is safe to walk half a mile unattended. I state a fact when I say that my mother and my sisters do not dare to walk about our plantation even, for fear of those brutish negroes." "I think you take a rather one-sided view, Wade," said Raed. "It's the only side I can see." "Perhaps; but there is another side, nevertheless." Here a tramping on the stairs was heard, and Weymouth came down, followed by a large Esquimau. "He's been trying to make out to us that he's the chief, boss, sachem, or whatever they call it, of the crowd that was aboard yesterday," said Weymouth. "What does he want?" the captain asked. "Wants to _chymo_." Raed made signs for him to sit down in the chair at the table and eat with us; which, after some hesitation, he did rather awkwardly, and with a great knocking of his feet against the chairs. He had on a gorgeous bearskin jacket, with the hood drawn over his head. His face was large; his nose small, and nearly lost between the fat billows of his cheeks; his eyes were much drawn up at the corners, and very far apart; and his mouth, a very wide one, was fringed about with stiff, straggling black bristles. The cast of his countenance was decidedly repulsive. Kit made signs for him to drink his coffee; but he merely eyed it suspiciously. I then helped him to a heavy spoonful of mashed potatoes. He looked at it a while; then, seeing us eating of it, plunged in his fingers, and, taking up a wad, thrust it into his mouth, but immediately spat it out, with a broad laugh, all over his plate and over the other dishes, and kept spitting at random. "De nasty dog!" ejaculated Palmleaf, rushing forward from the galley: "spit all ober de clean plates!" The savage turned his eye upon the black, and, with a horrible shout, sprang up from his chair, nearly upsetting the table-shelf, and made a bolt for the stairway. We called to him, and followed as quickly as we could: but, before we were fairly on deck, he was over into his _kayak_, plying his paddle as if for dear life; and the more we called, the faster he _dug to it_. Suddenly, as we were looking after him and laughing, the heavy report of cannon sounded from the southward. Looking around, we saw a large ship coming to below the islands, at a distance of about three miles. A thrill of apprehension stole over us. Without a word, we went for our glasses. It was a large, staunch-looking ship, well manned, from the appearance of her deck. As we were looking, the English flag went up. We had expected as much. "It's one of the Hudson-bay Company's ships," remarked Raed. "Of course," said Kit. "Not likely to be anything else," said the captain. "I suppose you're aware that those fellows may take a notion to have us accompany them to London," remarked Raed. "If they can catch us," Kit added. "Persons caught trading with the natives within the limits of the Hudson-bay Company's chartered territory are liable to be seized, and carried to London for trial," continued Raed. "It's best to keep that point well in view. Nobody would suppose that, in this age, the old beef-heads would have the cheek to try to enforce such a _right_ against Americans, citizens of the United States, who ought to have the inside track of everything on this continent. Still they may." "It will depend somewhat on the captain of the vessel--what sort of a man he is," said Kit. "He may be one of the high and mighty sort, full of overgrown notions of the company's authority." Another jet of white smoke puffed out from the side of the ship, followed in a few seconds by another dull _bang_. "We'll stand by our colors in any case," remarked Capt. Mazard, attaching our flag to the signal halliards. Raed and Kit ran to hoist it. Up it went to the peak of the bright-yellow mast,--the bonny bright stars and stripes. "All hands weigh anchor!" ordered Capt. Mazard. "Load the howitzer!" cried Kit. "Let's answer their gun in coin!" While we were loading, the schooner was brought round. Wade must have got in a pretty heavy charge; for the report was a stunner. "Load again," said Kit; "and put in a ball this time. Let's load the rifle too." The captain turned and regarded us doubtfully, then looked off toward the ship. "The Curlew" was driving lazily forward, and, crossing the channel between the island under which we had been lying and the ice-field, passed slowly along the latter at a distance of a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards. We thus had the ice-island between us and the possibly hostile ship. With our glasses we now watched her movements attentively. A number of officers were on the quarter-deck. "You don't call that a ship-of-war?" Wade said at length. "Oh, no!" replied the captain; "though it is probably an armed ship. All the company's ships go armed, I've heard." "There!" exclaimed Kit. "They're letting down a boat!" "That's so!" cried Wade. "They're going to pay us a visit sure!" "They probably don't want to trust their heavy-laden ship up here among the islands," said the captain. "It's their long-boat, I think," said Kit. "One, two, three, four, five!--why, there are not less than fifteen or twenty men in it! And _see there!_--weapons!" As the boat pulled away from the side, the sun flashed brightly from a dozen gleaming blades. "Cutlasses!" exclaimed Raed, turning a little pale. I am ready to confess, that, for a moment, I felt as weak as a rag. The vengeful gleam of the light on hostile steel is apt, I think, to give one such a feeling the first time he sees it. The captain stood leaning on the rail, with the glass to his eye, evidently at his wits' end, and in no little trepidation. Very likely at that moment he wished our expedition had gone to Jericho before he had undertaken it. Raed, I think, was the first to rally his courage. I presume he had thought more on the subject previously than the rest of us had done. The sudden appearance of the ship had therefore taken him less by surprise than it did us. "It looks as if they were going to board us--if we let them," he said quietly. "That's the way it looks; isn't it, captain?" "I should say that it did, decidedly," Capt. Mazard replied. "Boys!" exclaimed Raed, looking round to us, and to the sailors, who had gathered about us in some anxiety,--"boys! if we let those fellows yonder board us, in an hour we shall all be close prisoners, in irons perhaps, and down in the hold of that ship. We shall be carried out to Fort York, kept there a month in a dungeon likely as any way, then sent to England to be tried--for daring to sail into Hudson Bay and trade with the Esquimaux! What say, boys?--shall we let them come aboard and take us?" "No, sir!" cried Kit. "Not much!" exclaimed Donovan. "We'll fight first!" "Capt. Mazard," continued Raed, "I'm really sorry to have been the means of placing you in such a predicament. 'The Curlew' will undoubtedly be condemned if seized. They would clap a prize-crew into her the first thing, and start her for England. But there's no need of giving her up to them. That's not a ship-of-war. We've got arms, and can fight as well as they. We can beat off that boat, I'll be bound to say: and as for their ship, I don't believe they'll care to take her up here between the islands; and if they do,--why, we can sail away from them. But, for my own part, I had rather fight, and take an even chance of being killed, than be taken prisoner, and spend five months below decks." "Fight it is, then!" exclaimed the captain doggedly. By this time the boat was pulling up the channel to the north of the ice-field, within a mile of us. "We might crowd sail, and stand away to the north of the islands here," I argued. "Yes; but we don't know how this roadstead ends farther on," replied Raed. "It may be choked up with ice or small islets," said Kit. "In that case we should run into a trap, where they would only have to follow us to be sure of us. We might abandon the schooner, and get ashore; but that would be nearly as bad as being taken prisoner--on this coast." "Here's clear sailing round this ice-field," remarked the captain. "My plan is to keep their ship on the opposite of it from us. If they give chase, we'll sail round it." "But how about their boat?" demanded Wade. "We must beat it off!" exclaimed the captain determinedly. "Then we've not a moment to lose!" cried Raed.--"Here, Donovan! help me move the howitzer to the stern.--Kit, you and Wash and Wade get up the muskets and load them. Bring up the cartridges, and get caps and everything ready." The howitzer went rattling into the stern, and was pointed out over the taffrail. The big rifle followed it. To the approaching boat their muzzles must have looked a trifle grim, I fancy. Matches and splints were got ready, as well as wads and balls. The muskets were charged, and the bayonets fixed. The schooner was kept moving gradually along at about the same distance from the ice. Bonney was stationed at the wheel, and Corliss at the sheets. Old Trull stood by the howitzer. The rest of us took each a musket, and formed in line along the after-bulwarks. Palmleaf, who in the midst of these martial preparations had been enjoying a pleasant after-breakfast snooze, was now called, and bade to stand by Corliss at the sheets. His astonishment at the sight which the deck presented to his lately-awakened optics was very great; the greater, that no one would take the trouble to answer his anxious questions. The boat had now come up to within a quarter of a mile. With cutlasses flashing, and oars dipping all together, they came closing in with a long, even stroke. "We don't want them much within a hundred yards of us," said Capt. Mazard in a low tone. "I'll hail them," replied Raed, taking the speaking-trumpet, which the captain had brought along. The crisis was close at hand. We clutched the stocks of our rifles, and stood ready. There was, I am sure, no blenching nor flinching from the encounter which seemed imminent. We could see the faces of the men in the boat, the red face of the officer in the stern. The men were armed with carbines and broad sabers. They had come within easy hail. "Present arms!" commanded Capt. Mazard in clear tones. Eight of us, with our rifles, stood fast. "Repel _boarders_!" Instantly we dropped on one knee, and brought our pieces to bear over the rail, the bayonets flashing as brightly as their own. "Boat ahoy!" shouted Raed through the trumpet. "Ahoy yourself!" roared the red-faced man in the stern. "What ship is that, anyway?" This was rather insulting talk: nevertheless, Raed answered civilly and promptly,-- "The schooner-yacht 'Curlew' of Portland." "Where bound? What are you doing here?" "Bound on a cruise into Hudson Bay!" responded Raed coolly; "for scientific purposes," he added. "Scientific devils!" blustered the officer. "You can't fool us so! You're in here on a trading-voyage. We saw a _kayak_ go off from you not an hour ago." Not caring to bandy words, Raed made no reply; and we knelt there, with our muskets covering them, in silence. They had stopped rowing. and were falling behind a little; for "The Curlew" plowed leisurely on. "Why don't you heave to?" shouted the irate commander of the boat. "I must look at your papers! Heave to while I come alongside!" "You can't bring that armed boat alongside of this schooner!" replied Raed. "No objections to your examining our papers; but we're not green enough to let you bring an armed crew aboard of us." "Then we shall come without _letting_! Give way there!" But his men hesitated. The sight of our muskets, and old Trull holding a blazing splinter over the howitzer, was a little too much even for the sturdy pluck of English sailors. "Bring that boat another length nearer," shouted Raed, slow and distinctly, "and we shall open fire on you!" "The devil you will!" "Yes, we will!" At that we all cocked our muskets. The sharp clicking was, no doubt, distinctly audible in the boat. The officer thundered out a torrent of oaths and abuse; to all of which Raed made no reply. They did not advance, however. We meant business; and I guess they thought so. Our stubborn silence was not misconstrued. "How do I know that you're not a set of pirates?" roared the Englishman. "You look like it! But wait till I get back to 'The Rosamond.' and I'll knock some of the impudence out of you, you young filibusters!" And with a parting malediction, which showed wonderful ingenuity in blasphemy, he growled out an order to back water; when the boat was turned, and headed for the ship. "Give 'em three cheers!" said Kit. Whereupon we jumped up, gave _three_ and a big groan; at which the red face in the stern turned, and stared long and evilly at us. "No wonder he's mad!" exclaimed Raed. "Had to row clean round this ice-field, and now has got to row back for his pains! Thought he was going to scare us just about into fits. Got rather disagreeably disappointed." "He was pretty well _set up_, I take it," remarked the captain. "Had probably taken a drop before coming off. His men knew it. When he gave the order to 'give way,' they hung back: didn't care about it." "They knew better," said Donovan. "We could have knocked every one of them on the head before they could have got up the side. It ain't as if 'The Curlew' was loaded down, and lay low in the water. It's about as much as a man can do to get from a boat up over the bulwarks. They might have hit some of us with their carbines; but they couldn't have boarded us, and they knew it." "You noticed what he said about knocking the impudence out of us?" said Wade. "That means that we shall hear a noise and have cannon-shot whistling about our ears, I suppose." "Shouldn't wonder," said Kit. "Have to work to hurt us much, I reckon," remarked the captain. "The distance across the ice-island here can't be much under two miles and a half." "Still, if they've got a rifled Whitworth or an Armstrong, they may send some shots pretty near us," said Wade. "The English used to kindly send you Southern fellows a few Armstrongs occasionally, I have heard," said Raed. "Yes, they did,--just by way of testing Lincoln's blockade. Very good guns they were too. We ought to have had more of them. I tell you, if they have a good twenty-four-pound Armstrong rifle, and a gunner that knows anything, they may give us a job of carpenterwork--to stop the holes." "We might increase the distance another quarter of a mile," remarked Kit, "by standing off from the ice and making the circle a little larger." "We'll do so," said the captain. "Port the helm, Bonney!" During the next half-hour the schooner veered off two or three cables' lengths. We watched the boat pulling back to the ship. It was nearly an hour getting around the ice-island. Finally it ran in alongside, and was taken up. With our glasses we could see that there was a good deal of running and hurrying about the deck. "Some tall swearing going on there!" laughed Kit. "Now look out for your heads!" said Raed. "They are pointing a gun! I can see the muzzle of it! It has an ugly look!" Some five minutes more passed, when _puff_ came a little cloud of smoke. We held our breaths. It gives a fellow a queer sensation to know that a deadly projectile is coming for him. It might have been four seconds, though it seemed longer, when we saw the ice fly up rapidly in three or four places half a mile from the schooner as the ball came skipping along, and, bounding off the edge of the ice-field, plunged into the sea with a sullen _sudge_, throwing up a white fountain ten or a dozen feet high, which fell splashing back. We all felt immensely relieved. "That didn't come within three hundred yards of us," said Kit. "They'll give her more elevation next time," said Wade. "I don't believe that was an Armstrong slug, though: it acted too sort of lazy." "Look out, now!" exclaimed Raed. "They are going to give us another!" _Puff_--one--two--three--four! The ball struck near the edge of the ice-field, rose with a mighty bound twenty or thirty feet, and, describing a fine curve, struck spat upon the water; and again, rose, to plunge heavily down into the ocean two hundred feet off the port quarter. "That was better," said Raed. "They are creeping up to us! The next one may come aboard!" "But that's nothing more than an ordinary old twenty-four-pounder," said Wade. "Bet they haven't got a rifled gun. Lucky for us!" "I wish we had a good Dahlgren fifty-pound rifle!" exclaimed Kit: "we would just make them get out of that quick! Wouldn't it be fun to chase them off through the straits here, with our big gun barking at their heels!" "There they go again!" shouted the captain. "Look out!" We caught a momentary glimpse of the shot high in air, and held our breaths again as it came whirling down with a quick _thud_ into the sea a few hundred feet astern, and a little beyond us. "Gracious!" cried Kit. "If that had struck on the deck, it would have gone down, clean down through, I do believe!" "Not so bad as that, I guess," said the captain. "That heap of sand-ballast in the hold would stop it, I reckon." "Think so?" "Oh, yes!" There was real comfort in that thought. It was therefore with diminished apprehension that we saw a fourth shot come roaring down a cable's length forward, and beyond the bows, and, a few seconds after, heard the dull boom following the shot. The report was always two or three seconds behind the ball. They fired three more of the "high ones," as Kit called them. None of these came any nearer than the fourth had done. Then they tried another at a less elevation, which struck on the ice-field, and came skipping along as the first had done; but it fell short. "Old Red-face will have to give it up, I guess."' said Kit. "He wants to hit us awfully, though! If he hadn't a loaded ship, bet you, we should see him coming up the channel between the islands there, swearing like a piper." "In that case we would just 'bout ship, and lead him on a chase round this ice-island till he got sick of it," remarked the captain. "'The Curlew' can give him points, and outsail that great hulk anywhere." "He's euchred, and may as well go about his business," laughed Weymouth. "And that's just what he's concluding to do, I guess," said Donovan, who had borrowed my glass for a moment. "The ship's going round to the wind." "Yes, there she goes!" exclaimed Wade. "Possibly they may bear up through the channel to the west of the ice-island," said Raed. "Hope he will, if he wants to," remarked Capt. Mazard. "Nothing would suit me better than to race with him." In fifteen or twenty minutes the ship was off the entrance of the channel; but she held on her course, and had soon passed it. "Now that old fellow feels bad!" laughed Kit. "How savage he will be for the next twenty-four hours! I pity the sailors! He will have two or three of them 'spread-eagled' by sunset to pay for this, the old wretch! He looked just like that sort of a man." "I wonder what our Husky friends thought of this little bombardment!" exclaimed Wade, looking off toward the mainland. "Don't see anything of them." "Presume we sha'n't get that old 'sachem' that saw Palmleaf to visit us again in a hurry," said Kit. We watched the ship going off to the south-west for several hours, till she gradually sank from view. "Well, captain," said Raed, "you are not going to let this adventure frighten you, I hope." "Oh, no! I guess we can take care of ourselves. Only, in future, I think we had better keep a sharper lookout, not to let another ship come up within three miles without our knowing it." It was now after four o'clock, P.M. Not caring to follow too closely after the company's ship, we beat back to our anchorage of the previous evening, and anchored for the night. Saw nothing more of the Esquimaux; and, early the next morning, sailed out into the straits, and continued on during the whole day, keeping the mountains of the mainland to the northward well in sight at a distance of eight or ten miles, and occasionally sighting high islands to the south of the straits. By five o'clock, afternoon, we were off a third group of islands on the north side, known as the "Upper Savage Isles." During the evening and night we passed them a few miles to the south,--a score of black, craggy islets. Even the bright light of the waning sun could not enliven their utter desolation. Drear, oh, how drear! with their thunder-battered peaks rising abruptly from the ocean, casting long black shadows to the eastward. Many of them were mere tide-washed ledges, environed by ice-fields. About nine o'clock, evening, the ice-patches began to thicken ahead. By ten we were battering heavily among it, with considerable danger of staving in the bows. The foresail was accordingly taken in, and double reefs put in the mainsail. The weather had changed, with heavy lowering clouds and a rapidly-falling thermometer. Nevertheless we boys turned in, and went to sleep. Experience was beginning to teach us to sleep when we could. The heavy rumble of thunder roused us. Bright, sudden flashes gleamed through the bull's-eyes. The motion of the schooner had changed. "What's up, I wonder?" asked Kit, sitting up on the side of his mattress. Another heavy thunder-peal burst, rattling overhead. Hastily putting on our coats and caps, we went on deck, where a scene of such wild and terrible grandeur presented itself, that I speak of it, even at this lapse of time, with a shudder; knowing, too, that I can give no adequate idea of it in words. I will not say that I am not glad to have witnessed it; but I should not want to see it again. To the lovers of the awfully sublime, it would have been worth a journey around the earth. It seemed as if all the vast antagonistic forces of Nature had been suddenly confronted with each other. The schooner had been hove to in the lee of an ice-field engirdling one of the smaller islets, with all sail taken in save the jib. Weymouth was at the wheel; the captain stood near him; Hobbs and Donovan were in the bow; Bonney stood by the jib-halliards. On the port side the ice-field showed like a pavement of alabaster on a sea of ink, contrasting wildly with the black, rolling clouds, which, like the folds of a huge shroud, draped the heavens in darkness. On the starboard, the heaving waters, black as night, were covered with pure white ice-cakes, striking and battering together with heavy grindings. The lightnings played against the inky clouds, forked, zigzag, and dazzling to the eye. The thunder-echoes, unmuffled by vegetation, were reverberated from bare granitic mountains and naked ice-fields with a hollow rattle that deafened and appalled us; and, in the intervals of thunder, the hoarse bark of bears, and their affrighted growlings, were borne to our ears with savage distinctness. Mingled with these noises came the screams and cries of scores of sea-birds, wheeling and darting about. It was half-past two, morning. "What a fearfully grand scene!" exclaimed Wade. And I recollect that we all laughed in his face, the words seemed so utterly inadequate to express what, by common consent, was accorded unutterable. An hour later, the blackness of the heavens had rolled away to the westward, a fog began to rise, and morning light effaced the awful panorama of night. By six o'clock the fog was so dense that nothing could be seen a half cable's length, and continued thus till afternoon, during which time we lay hove to under the lee of the ice. But by two o'clock a smart breeze from the north lifted it. The schooner was put about, and, under close-reefed sails, went bumping through the interminable ice-patches which seem ever to choke these straits. The mountains to the northward showed white after the squalls of last night; and the seals were leaping as briskly amid the ice-cakes as if the terrific scenery of the previous evening had but given zest to their unwieldy antics. CHAPTER IX. A Barren Shore, and a Strange Animal, which is captured by blowing up its Den.--Palmleaf falls in with the Esquimaux, and is chased by them.--"_Twau-ve!_"--"A Close Shave."--An Attack threatened.--The Savages dispersed with the Howitzer. To avoid the thick patches of heavy ice which were this afternoon driving out toward the Atlantic, we bore up quite near the mainland on the north side, and continued beating on, with the wind north all night, at the rate of--at a guess--two knots per hour. It was dull work. We turned in at twelve, and slept soundly till five, when the noisy rattling of the cable through the hawse aroused us. The wind had died out, and they had dropped the anchor in forty-three fathoms. It was a cloudy morning: every thing had a leaden, dead look. We were about half a mile from the shore; and after breakfast, having nothing better to do, fell to examining it with our glasses. Shelving ledges rose up, terrace on terrace, into dark mountains, back two and three miles from the sea. The whole landscape seemed made up of water, granite, and ice. The black, leathern lichens added to the gloomy aspect of the shore-rocks, on which the waves were beating--forever beating--with sullen plashings. Terrible must be the aspect of this coast in winter. Now the hundreds of water-fowl wheeling over it, and enlivening the crags with their cries, softened its grimness. Farther along the shore-ledges Kit presently espied a black animal of some kind, and called our attention to it. "He seems to be eating something there," said he. We looked at it. "It's not an Esquimau dog, is it?" Wade asked. "Oh, no! head don't look like a dog's," observed Kit. "Besides, their dogs are not so dark-colored as that." "This seems from here to be almost or quite black," Raed remarked; "as black as Guard. Not quite so large, though." Wade thought it was fully as large. "If we were in Maine, I should say it was a small black bear," said Kit; "but I have never heard of a black bear being seen north of Hudson Straits." The head seemed to me to be too small for a bear. "Captain, what do you think of that animal?" Kit asked, handing him his glass. Capt. Mazard looked. "If it hadn't such short legs, I should pronounce it a black wolf," he replied. "It's too large for a _fisher_, isn't it? I don't know that _fishers_ are found so far north, either. How is that?" "Hearne, in his 'Northern Journey,' speaks of the fisher being met with, farther west, in latitude as far north as this," said I. "But that's too big for a fisher," said Raed; "too thick and heavy. A fisher is slimmer." "Who knows but it may be a new species!" exclaimed Kit, laughing. "Now's a chance to distinguish ourselves as naturalists. If we can discover a new animal of that size in this age of natural history, and prove that we are the discoverers, it will be monument enough for us: we can then afford to retire on our laurels. Call it a long Latin name, and tack our own names, with the ending _ii_ or _us_ on them, to that, and you're all right for distant posterity. That's what some of our enterprising young naturalists, who swarm out from Yale and Cambridge, seem to think. Only a few weeks ago, I was reading of a new sort of minute infusorial insect or mollusk, I don't pretend to understand which, bearing the name of '_Mussa Braziliensis Hartii Verrill_.' Now, I like that. There's a noble aspiration for fame as well as euphony. Only it's a little heavy on the poor mollusk to make him draw these aspiring young gentlemen up the steep heights of ambition. But if they can afford to risk two names on a tiny bit of jelly as big as the head of a pin, say, I think we should be justified in putting all four of ours on to this big beast over here. And, since the captain thinks it's like a wolf, suppose we call it '_Lupus rabidus Additonii Burleighii Raedwayvius_'"-- "There, that'll do!" cried Raed. "You've spelt! Go up head!" "There's another creature coming along the rocks!" exclaimed Wade. "That's a bear! He's coming out where the black one is!" "There," said Raed, "you can see now that the bear is much the larger." "Yes; but a white bear is considerably larger than a black bear," replied Kit. "Look quick!" cried Wade. "There's going to be a brush! See the black one bristle up!" "He's got something there he don't want to give up," said the captain. "Bear says, 'I'll take your place at that,'" laughed Kit. "He walks up to him. By George! did you see the black one jump at him? Bear sent him spinning with his paw. He won't go off. Stands there _growling_, I'll bet." "I should really like to know what sort of a beast that is," said Raed. "Captain, have the boat let down, if you please. I would like to go over there." "Good chance to get another bear-skin," observed Kit. "We need one more." The boat was lowered; and we four, with Guard, and Weymouth and Don to row, got into it, and paddled across toward where the bear was feeding, and the black creature, sitting up like a dog, watching him. We worked up quietly to within about half a cable's length (three hundred and sixty feet) without disturbing them. It was a pretty large bear: but the black animal did not seem more than two-thirds as large as Guard; and, the nearer we came to it, the more in doubt we were as to its species. "I never saw any thing at all like it," remarked Raed. "Wouldn't it be jolly if it should prove to be a new, undiscovered animal!" exclaimed Wade. "That's rather too good to be true," replied Kit; "but we'll see." Just then Guard got his eye on them, and barked gruffly. The bear looked round: so did the black creature. "Kit, you and Wade take the bear," advised Raed. "Wash and I will fire at the black one. Get good aim, now." We took as good aim as the rocking of the boat would permit, and fired nearly together. The bear growled out savagely: the black beast snarled. "There they go!" exclaimed Weymouth. The bear was running off along the shore, galloping like a hog. The black animal was going straight back over the ledges. "Pull in quick!" shouted Raed. The boat was rowed up to the shore. Jumping out, we pulled it up on the rocks. "Here, Guard!" cried Kit, running forward to where the ledges gave a better view. "There he goes! take him now!" for we had got a momentary glimpse of the black animal crossing the crest of a ledge several hundred yards away. "Come on, Weymouth!" exclaimed Wade; "and you, Donovan! Let's we three go after the bear. They'll take care of the _new species_: we'll go for the _old_." Kit had run on after Guard. Raed and I followed as fast as we could. The Newfoundland, chasing partly by sight and partly by scent, was already a good way ahead; and we soon lost sight of him among the ledgy hillocks and ridges. We could hear him barking; but the rocks echoed the sound so confusedly, that it was hard telling where he was. Hundreds of kittiwakes were starting up all about us too, with such a chorus of cries that it was not very clear which was dog. Presently we lost _sound_ of Guard altogether, and wandered on at random for ten or fifteen minutes, but finally met him coming back. As soon as he saw us, he turned and led off again; and, following him for thirty or forty rods, we came to a fissure between two large rocky fragments, partially overlaid by a third. Guard ran up, and by a bark seemed to say, "In here!" Kit thrust in his musket, and we heard a growl. "Holed him!" cried Raed. "Pretty strong _posish_, though," said Kit, looking about. "If we only had a big _pry_ here, we might heave up this top rock, and so get at him." "I don't suppose there's a tree big enough to use as a lever within a hundred miles of here," remarked Raed, looking around. We ran in our muskets, but could not touch the creature. He seemed to have crept round an angle of one of the bottom rocks, so as to be well out of reach and out of range. The hole was scarcely large enough to admit Guard, and the dog did not seem greatly disposed to go in. We fired our muskets, one at a time, holding the muzzles inside the opening, hoping to frighten the animal out; but he didn't see fit to leave his stronghold. "If we had only a pound or two of powder here," observed Raed, examining the crevices about the rocks, "I think we might mine this top rock, and blow it up." "That will be the only way to get at him," said Kit. "Well, we can go back to the schooner for some," I suggested. "Yes," said Kit. "Raed, you and Guard stay here and watch him. Wash and I will go for the powder." We started off, and, on getting back to the beach, found Wade, with Weymouth and Donovan, standing near the boat. "Where's your bear?" Kit demanded. "You say," laughed Weymouth, "you were one of the two that shot at him." "He showed too much speed for us," said Donovan. "But where's your _new species_?" Wade inquired. "Oh! he's all right,--up here in a hole." "That so? Here's what he was eating when the bear drove him away," pointing down among the rocks, where a lot of large bones lay partly in the water. "What kind of an animal was that?" Kit asked. "A finback, I think," replied Weymouth. "Died or got killed among the ice, and the waves washed the carcass up here. Been dead a good while." "I should say so, by the smell. Putrid, isn't it? Why, that beast must have had a strong stomach!" Weymouth and Donovan went off to the schooner after the powder in our places, and came back in about twenty minutes. Palmleaf was with them. "You haven't come on another bear-hunt, I hope!" cried Wade. "No, sar. Don't tink much of dem bars, sar. Got a voice jest like ole massa down Souf. 'Spression very much like his when he used ter take at us cullered folks with his bowie-knife." "Pity he hadn't overtaken you with it!" Wade exclaimed, to hector him. "He would have saved the hangman a job--not far distant." "Dere's a difference ob 'pinions as to where de noose ought ter come," muttered the affronted darky. "Some tinks it's in one place, some in anoder." Securing the boat by the painter to a rock, we went up over the ledges to where Raed was doing sentinel duty before the fissure. "Has he made any demonstrations?" Kit asked. "Growls a little occasionally," said Raed. "I've been looking at the cracks under this top rock. This on the right is the one to mine, I think. I've cleared it out: it's all ready for the powder. What have you got for a slow match?" Donovan had brought a bit of rope, which he picked to pieces, while Kit and Raed sifted in the powder. The _tow_ was then laid in a long trail, running back some two feet from the crack. "Now be ready to shoot when the blast goes off," advised Raed. "He may jump out and run. Palmleaf, you keep Guard back." The rest of us took our stand off thirty or forty yards, and, cocking our guns, stood ready to shoot. Raed then lighted a match, touched the tow, and retired with alacrity. It flamed up, and ran along the train; then suddenly went nearly out, but blazed again, and crept slowly up to the powder; when _whank!_ and the rock hopped out from between the others, and rolled spitefully along the ground. We stood with our guns to our shoulders, and our fingers on the triggers. But the beast didn't show himself. "Possibly it killed him," said Kit. Raed picked up some rough pebbles, and pitched one over between the rocks. Instantly there was a scramble, and our black-furred friend leaped out and ran. _Crack-k-k-k!_--a running fire. Guard rushed after him. The creature fell at the reports, but scrambled up as the dog charged upon him, and tried to defend himself. But the bullets had riddled him. In an instant, Guard had him by the throat: he was dead. There were five shot-holes in the carcass: one of them, at least, must have been received when we fired at him from the boat. It was a very strong, muscular creature, with short stout legs and broad feet, with claws not so sharp and retractile as a lynx's; seemingly intermediate between a cat's claws and a dog's nails. The tail was quite long and bushy: indeed, the creature was rather shaggy, than otherwise. The head and mouth were not large for the body. The teeth seemed to me much like those of a lynx. I have no doubt that it was a glutton (_Gulo luscus_), or wolverine, as they are indifferently called; though none of us had at that time previously seen one of these creatures. Donovan and Weymouth undertook to skin it; and, while they were thus employed, the rest of us, with Palmleaf and Guard, went off to shoot a dozen kittiwakes. We had gone nearly half a mile, I presume, and secured five birds, when Wade called out to us to see a large eagle, or hawk, which was wheeling slowly about a high crag off to the left. "It's a white-headed eagle, isn't it?" said he. Kit thought it might be. But Raed and I both thought not. It seemed scarcely so large; and, so far as we could see, the head was not white. It occurred to me that it might be the famous gerfalcon, or Icelandic eagle; and, on mentioning this supposition, Raed and Kit both agreed with me that it seemed likely. Wishing, if possible, to secure it, I crept along under the crag, and, watching my chance as it came circling over, fired. 'Twas a very long shot. I had little expectation of hitting: yet my bullet must have struck it; for it flapped over, and came toppling down till within a hundred feet of the top of the crag, when it recovered itself, mounted a little, but gradually settled in the air till lost from sight behind the crag. Thinking it barely possible that it might fall to the ground, I sent Palmleaf with Guard round where the acclivity was not so great, to look for it. The negro had seen the bird fall, and started off. I let him take my musket, and, with the rest of the boys, went down to the water, which was distant from where we then were not more than a hundred rods. Donovan and Weymouth had already finished skinning the glutton, and gone down to the boat. Knowing we had followed off to the left, they embarked, and came paddling along to pick us up. They came up; and we got in with our kittiwakes, and then stood off a few yards to wait for the negro. I had not expected he would be gone so long. We were looking for him every moment; when suddenly we heard the report of his musket, apparently a long way behind the crag. "Confound the darky!" muttered Raed. "What could possess him to go so far?" "Perhaps the eagle kept flying on," suggested Kit. We waited fifteen or twenty minutes. No signs of him. "You don't suppose the rascal's got lost, do you?" Wade said. "No need of that, I should imagine," replied Raed. We waited ten or fifteen minutes longer. "We might as well go after him," Kit was saying; when, at a distance, a great shouting and uproar arose, accompanied by the barking of dogs and all the other accompaniments of a general row and rumpus. "What the dickens is up now?" exclaimed Kit. "It's the Huskies!" cried Weymouth. "You don't suppose they are after Palmleaf, do you?" Raed demanded. We listened eagerly. The hubbub was increasing; and, a moment later, we espied the negro bursting over the ledges off to the left at a headlong run, with a whole crowd of Esquimaux only a few rods behind, brandishing their harpoons and darts. There were dogs, too. Guard was running with Palmleaf, facing about every few leaps, and barking savagely. All the dogs were barking; all the Huskies were _ta-yar-r-r-ing_ and chasing on. "They'll have him!" shouted Kit. "To the rescue!" A smart pull of the oars sent the boat up to the rocks. Raed and Kit and Wade sprang out, cocking their muskets; Donovan followed with one of the oars; and I seized the boat-hook, and started after them. Palmleaf was tearing down toward the water, running for his life. He had lost the musket. Seeing us, he set up a piteous howl of terror. He had distanced his pursuers a little. The savages were now six or eight rods behind; but the dogs were at his heels, and were only kept off him by the sudden facings and savage growls of Guard, who valiantly stemmed the canine avalanche. We met him about fifty yards from the boat, and raised a loud hurrah. "Into the boat with you!" Raed sang out to him. The dogs howled and snarled viciously at us. Donovan cut at them with his oar right and left; while Raed, Kit, and Wade levelled their muskets at the horde of rushing, breathless savages, who seemed not to have seen us at all till that moment, so intent had they been after the negro. Discovering us, the front ones tried to pull up; and, those behind running up, they were all crowded together, shouting and screaming, and punching each other with their harpoons. "Avast there!" shouted Donovan, flourishing his oar. "Halt!" ordered Wade. While Kit, remembering a word of Esquimaux, bade them "_Twau-ve_" ("Begone") at the top of his voice. I must say that they were a wicked-looking lot,--the front ones, at least,--comprising some of the largest Esquimaux we had yet seen. There must have been thirty or forty in the front groups; and others were momentarily rushing in from behind. The dogs, too, fifty or sixty at least calculation,--great, gaunt, wolfish, yellow curs,--looked almost as dangerous as their masters. "We must get out of this!" exclaimed Raed; for they were beginning to brandish their harpoons menacingly, and shout and howl still louder. "If we turn, they'll set upon us before we can get into the boat!" muttered Kit. "Fire over their heads, to gain time!" shouted Wade. "Ready!" The three muskets cracked. A great _ta-yar-r-r_ and screeching followed the reports; under cover of which and the smoke we legged it for the boat, and, tumbling in, were shoved hastily off by Weymouth. Before we had got twenty yards, however, the savages were on the bank, yelling, and throwing stones, several of which fell in among us; but we were soon out of their reach. "That's what I call a pretty close shave!" exclaimed Donovan, panting. "We couldn't have stood against them much longer," said Kit. "I didn't suppose they had so much ferocity about them. Those we saw down at the middle islands were kittenish enough." "These may belong to a different tribe," replied Raed. Palmleaf, completely exhausted, lay all in a heap in the bow. We pulled off to the schooner. The savages and their dogs kept up a confused medley of howls and shouts: it was hard distinguishing the human cries from the canine. Capt. Mazard and the men were leaning over the rail, waiting. They had been watching the fracas, and understood it as little as we did. "What's the row?" demanded the captain as we came under the stern. "What's all that beastly noise about?" "Ask Palmleaf," said Wade. "I saw you fire," continued the captain. "You didn't kill any of them, did you?" "Oh, no!" said Raed. "We fired high to frighten them." "I'm glad you didn't kill any of the poor wretches." "Tell us how it happened, Palmleaf," said Kit. "Did you come upon them? or did they come upon you?" I asked. "Why, I was gwine arter dat hawk, you know," said the African, still sober from his terror and his race. "Yes." "He was fell down ober behind de crag, as you said he'd be; but he flew up 'fore I'd gut near 'im, an' kep' flyin' up." "And you kept following him," added Raed. "Well, what next? How far did you go?" "Oh! I went a long ways. I meant ter fotch 'im." "Half a mile?" "Yes, sar; should tink so." "Did you fire at the eagle?" Kit asked. "Yes, sar: seed him settin' on a ledge, an' fired. He flew, and I chased arter him agin." "But how did you come to meet the Huskies?" demanded the captain. "Well, sar, I'se runnin' along, payin' all my 'tention to de hawk, when all ter once I come plump onto two ob dere wimin folks wid a lot ob twine tings in dere han's." "Snaring birds," said Raed. "Go on!" "Dey seed me, an' stud lookin', wid dere hair all ober dere faces." "That stopped you, I suppose?" said Wade. "I jest halted up a bit, an' cast my eye t'wurds dem." "You paid the most of your ''tention' to them, then?" continued Wade maliciously. "Jest stopped a minit." "To say a word to them on your own account, I'll warrant." "Thought I'd jest speak an' tell dem dey needn't be ser 'fraid on me." "Shut up, Wade!" interposed Kit. "Let him tell his story. What did the women do?" "Dey turned an' haked it, an' hollered as loud as dey cud squawk." Wade and the captain began to laugh. "A black man with a black dog was too much for them!" exclaimed Raed. "Well, what next, Palmleaf?" "Dey run'd; an' twan't a minit 'fore a whole gang ob de men cum runnin' up, wid dere picked bone tings in dere han's." "That'll do," said Kit. "We know the rest." "What became of my musket?" I asked. "I dunno. I tink I mus' ha' dropped it." "It does look like that," Kit remarked. "See here, you 'Fifteenth Amendment'!" exclaimed the captain, turning to him: "you had better stay aboard in future." "I tink so too, sar," said Palmleaf. The crowd on the shore had grown larger. There could not have been much less than two hundred of them, we thought. The women and children had come. A pack of wolves could hardly have made a greater or more discordant din. We went to dinner, and, after that, lay down to rest a while; but when we went on deck again at three, P.M., the crowd was still there, in greater numbers than before. "I wonder what they can be waiting for so long," said Wade. There was little or no wind, or we should have weighed anchor and made off. After watching them a while longer, we went down to read. But, about four, the captain called us. We went up. "That was what they were waiting for," said he, pointing off the starboard quarter. About a mile below the place where the Esquimaux were collected, a whole fleet of _kayaks_ were coming along the shore. "Waiting for their boats," remarked the captain. "They're coming off to us!" "Do you suppose they really have hostile intentions?" Raed asked. "From their movements on shore, and their shouts and howls, I should say that it was not impossible. No knowing what notions they've got into their heads about the 'black man.'" "Likely as not their priests, if they've got any, have told them they ought to attack us," said Wade. "There are fifty-seven of those _kayaks_ and three _oomiaks_ coming along the shore!" said Kit, who had been watching them with a glass. "Hark! The crowd on shore have caught sight of them! What a yelling!" "I do really believe they mean to attack us," Raed observed. "This must be some nasty superstition on their part; some of their religious nonsense." "Well, we shall have to defend ourselves," said Kit. "Of course, we sha'n't let them board us," replied Wade. "Poor fools!" continued Raed. "It would be too bad if we have to kill any of them." "Can't we frighten them out of it in some way?" I inquired. "Might fire on them with the howitzer," Kit suggested, "with nothing but powder." "That would only make them bolder, when they saw that nothing came out of it," said Capt. Mazard. "Put in a ball, then," said Kit. "That would be as bad as shooting them here alongside." "It might be fired so as not to be very likely to hit them," said Raed. "Couldn't it, Wade?" "Yes: might put in a small charge, and skip the ball, ricochet it along the water." "Let's try it," said Kit. The howitzer was pushed across to the starboard side. "Remember that there's a pretty heavy charge in there now," said Wade. "Better send that over their heads!" The gun was accordingly elevated to near thirty degrees. Raed then touched it off. The Esquimaux, of course, heard the report; but I doubt if they saw or heard any thing of the ball. It doubtless went a thousand feet over their heads; and just then, too, the _kayaks_ and _oomiaks_ came up where they were standing, and a great hubbub was occasioned by their arrival. "Try 'em again!" exclaimed Donovan. "Give them a skipping shot this time," said Wade. A light charge of powder was then put in, with a ball, as before. The gun was not elevated this time; indeed, I believe Raed depressed it a few degrees. We watched with a great deal of curiosity, if nothing more, while Kit lighted a splint and touched the priming. A sharp, light report; and, a second later, the ball struck on the water off four or five hundred yards, and ricochetted,--skip--skip--skip--skip--_spat_ into the loose shingle on the beach, making the small stones and gravel fly in all directions. The Huskies jumped away lively. Very likely the pebbles flew with some considerable violence. But in a moment they were swarming about the _kayaks_ again, uttering loud cries. With the reenforcement they had just received, they numbered full a hundred or a hundred and fifty men. Should they make a determined effort to board us, we might have our hands full, or at least have to shoot a score or two of the poor ignorant wretches; which seemed a pitiable alternative. "Load again!" cried Wade. "Let me try a shot!" About the same quantity of powder was used as before. Wade did not depress the muzzle, if I recollect aright, at all. Consequently, on firing, the ball did not touch the water till near the shore, when it skipped once, and bounded to the beach, going among a whole pack of the howling dogs. A dreadful "_Ti-yi_" came wafted to our ears. One, at least, had been hit. With a glass we could see him writhing and jumping about. At this some of the crowd ran off up the ledges for several rods, and stood gazing anxiously off toward the schooner. "Give 'em another!" exclaimed the captain. But, while we were loading, twenty or thirty got into their _kayaks_; and, one of the _oomiaks_ had eight or ten in it ere Wade was ready to give them a third shot. He depressed it three degrees this time. The ball hit the water about half way to the shore, and, skipping on, struck under the stem of a _kayak_, throwing it into the air, and, glancing against the side of the skin-clad _oomiak_, dashed it over and over. The crew were pitched headlong into the water. Pieces of the bone framework flew up. The skin itself seemed to have been turned wrong side out. "Knocked it into a cocked hat!" exclaimed Kit. "I hope none of them were killed," said Raed. "I can't see that any of them were," remarked the captain. "They've all scrambled out, I believe. But it has scared them properly. Lord! just see them _hake_ it, as Palmleaf says, up those rocks! Give 'em another before they get over this scare. Knock their old _kayaks_ to pieces: that frightens them worst of any thing. Let me have a shot." Reloading, the captain fired, smashing one end of another _oomiak_. Men, women, and dogs had taken to their heels, and were scampering off among the hillocks. Kit then fired a ball at an elevation of twenty degrees, which went roaring over their heads: we saw them all looking up, then _haking_ it for dear life. "Routed!" exclaimed Raed. "No blood shed either, except that dog's." "Poor puppy!" said Wade. "I can see him lying there. Wonder it hadn't hit some of them." "Well, it's the best thing we could do," said Kit. "Even if some of them had been hit, it would be better than fighting them out here." "Still, I am very glad not to have slaughtered any of the poor creatures," remarked Raed. "Don't say too much; they may come back," Capt. Mazard observed. But, though there was not sufficient wind to enable us to get away till three o'clock the next day, we saw nothing more of them. CHAPTER X. The Dip of the Needle.--The North Magnetic Pole.--A _Kayak_ Bottom up, with its Owner Head down.--Ice-Patches.--Anchoring to an Ice-floe.--A Bear-hunt in the Fog.--Bruin charges his Enemies.--Soundings.--The Depth of the Straits. Before we were up next morning "The Curlew" was on her way. A great number of small islands, not even indicated on our chart, compelled us to veer to the southward during the forenoon. For several days the needle of our compass had been giving us some trouble by its strong inclination to _dip_. Three times, since starting, we had been obliged to move the sliding weight out a little on the bar. The farther north we got, the stronger was the tendency of the north pole, or end of the needle, to point downward, and the south pole to rise up correspondingly. By running the sliding weight out a little toward the south pole, its leverage was increased, and the parallel position restored. This was what Capt. Mazard was doing when we went on deck that morning. "How do you account for this _dipping_ of the needle?" he asked Raed. "By the present theory of magnetism, the earth itself is considered to be a magnet with two poles," replied Raed. "These poles attract and repel the corresponding poles of a magnetic needle, just as another large needle would. The nearer we get up to the north magnetic pole of the earth, the more the pole of our needle is pulled down toward it. We're not such a great distance from it now. What's our latitude this morning?" "63° 27'." "Capt. Ross, in the expedition of 1829, made out the earth's north magnetic pole to be in 70° north latitude, farther west, in the upper part of Hudson Bay. At that place he reports that a magnetic needle, suspended so that it turned easily, pointed directly downward." "We've got a needle hung in a graduated scale downstairs," remarked Kit. We had nearly forgotten it, however. "Bring it up," said Raed. Wade went after it. It was set on the deck, and, after vibrating a few seconds, came to rest at a _dip_ of about 83°. "If we were up at the point Capt. Ross reached, it would point directly down, or at 90°, I suppose," said Kit. "That's what he reported," said Raed. "There's no reason to doubt it." "But where is the south pole?" Wade asked. "That has never been exactly reached," said Raed. "It is supposed to be in 75°, south latitude, south of New Holland, in the Southern Ocean. A point has been reached where the _dip_ is 88-2/3°, however." "Of course this magnetic pole that Ross found in 70° is not the _bona fide_ north pole of the earth," Wade observed. "Oh, no!" said the captain. "The _genuine_ north pole is not so easily reached." "It's curious what this magnetic attraction is," said Kit reflectively. "It is now considered to be the same thing as electricity, is it not?" I asked. "Yes," replied Kit; "but whether they are a _fluid_ or a _force_ is not so clear. Tyndall and Faraday think they are a sort of _force_." "It is found that this _dip_ of the needle, or, in other words, the position of the magnetic poles, varies with the amount of heat which the earth receives from the sun," remarked Raed. "We know that heat can be changed into electricity, and, consequently, into magnetism. So, at those seasons of the year when the earth receives least sun-heat, there is least electric and magnetic force." "That only confirms me in my belief that the luminiferous ether through which light and heat come from the sun is really the electric and magnetic element itself," remarked Kit; "that strange fluid which runs through the earth as water does through a sponge, making currents, the direction of which are indicated by these magnetic poles. The same silent fluid which makes this needle point down to the deck makes the telegraphic instrument click, makes the northern lights, and makes the lightning." "I agree with you exactly," said Raed. It's no use talking with these two fellows: they've made a regular hobby of this thing, and ride it every chance they get. Prince Henry's Foreland, on the south side of the straits, was in sight at noon, distant, we presumed,--from our estimate of the width of the passage at this place,--about eleven leagues. It is a high, bold promontory of the south main of Labrador. At this distance it rises prominently from the sea. The glass shows it to be bare, and destitute of vegetation. By two o'clock, P.M., we had passed the scattered islets, and bore up toward the north main again to avoid the floating ice. At five we were running close under a single high island of perhaps an acre in extent, and rising full a hundred feet above the sea, when old Trull, who was in the bows, called sharply to the man at the wheel to put the helm a-starboard. "What's that for?" shouted the captain, who was standing near the binnacle. "Come and take a look at this, sur," replied the old man. Kit and I were just coming up the companion-stairs, and ran forward with the captain. A long, leather-colored _fish_, as we thought at first, was floating just under the starboard bow. "Thought it was a low ledge," said the old man. "I see 'twan't a moment after. I take that to be a sea-sarpent, sur." As the object was certainly twenty feet long, and not more than a foot and a half in diameter, Trull's supposition had the benefit of outside resemblance. The captain seized one of the pike-poles, and made a jab at it; but the schooner, under full headway, had passed it too far. "Get a musket!" shouted Kit. We all made a rush down stairs for the gun-rack. Only three were loaded. Catching up one of these, I ran up. "Off astern there!" cried Weymouth. We were already fifty yards away; but, getting a glimpse of it, I fired. There was no movement. "Missed him!" exclaimed Wade. "I'll bore him!" He fired. Still there was no apparent motion. "Miss number two," said I. Kit then took a careful aim, and banged away. The creature didn't stir. "Number three," laughed Wade. "That fish must either bear a charmed life, or else it's ball-proof!" Kit exclaimed. Meanwhile "The Curlew" was being brought round. The captain was getting interested. Raed brought up one of our long cod-lines with the grapnel on it,--the same contrivance with which old Trull had drawn in the boat some days before; and, on getting back within twenty yards, he threw it off. It struck into the water beyond, and, on being drawn in, played over the back of the leathern object till one of the hooks caught fast. Still there was no movement. "There can't be any life in it," said Wade. Raed pulled in slowly, the captain assisting him, till they had drawn it up under the bows. It certainly looked as much like a sea-serpent as any thing yet. A strong line, with another grapple, was then let down, and hooked into it with a jerk. Donovan and Hobbs tugged away at it; one foot--two feet--three feet. "Humph!" exclaimed the captain. "One of those Husky _kayaks_!" Four feet--five feet--six feet. Something rose with it, dripping underneath. "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Raed, turning away. "There's an Esquimaux in it, hanging head down!" cried Kit. The sailors crowded round. It was a ghastly sight. The legs of the corpse were still fast inside the little hoop around the hole in the deck in which the man had sat. His arms hung down limp and dripping. His long black hair streamed with water. He might have been floating there head down for a week. "Wal, I shouldn't s'pose the darn'd fool need to have expected any thing else!" exclaimed Corliss. "To go to sea with his feet fast in such a little skite of a craft as that! Might ha' known the darned thing 'ud 'a' capsized an' drownded him." "What shall we do with _it_?" I asked. "We might sink it with three or four of those six-pound shot, I suppose." "No, no!" exclaimed Wade. "We can't afford six-pound shots to bury the heathen: it's as much as we can do to get enough to kill them with." "Oh, don't, Wade!" said Raed. "It's a sad sight at best." "Of course it is. But then we've only got seventeen balls left, and no knowing how many battles to fight." This last argument was a clincher. "Let go!" ordered the captain. Don and Hobbs shook the line violently, but couldn't tear out the grapple from the tough seal-skin. "Well, let go line and all, then!" cried the captain. With a dull plash the _kayak_ fell back into the sea; and we all turned away. At midnight the ice-patches were thickening rapidly; and by two o'clock all sail had to be taken in, the bumps had grown so frequent and heavy. On the port side lay a large ice-floe of many acres extent. The schooner gradually drifted up to it. Raed and Kit had gone on deck. "I think we may as well make fast to it," I heard the captain say; and, a moment later, the order was given to get out the ice-anchors. Wade and I then went up. "The Curlew" lay broadside against the floe. The wind, with a current caused perhaps by the tide, held us up to it so forcibly, that the vessel careened slightly. Weymouth and Hobbs were getting down on to the ice with the ice-chisels in their hands, and, going off twenty or thirty yards, began to cut holes. The ice-anchors were then thrown over on to the floe. To each of them was bent one of our two-and-a-half-inch hawsers. The anchors themselves were, as will probably be remembered, simply large, strong grapnels. Dragging them along to the holes, they were hooked into the ice, and the hawsers drawn in tight from deck. Planks, secured to the rail by lines, were then run down to bear the chafe. This was our process of anchoring to ice. Sometimes three or four grapnels were used when the tendency to swing off was greater. To-night there was so much floating ice all about, that the swell was almost entirely broken, and the schooner lay as quiet as if in a country lake. A watch was set, and we turned in again. Breakfast at six. Fog thick and flat on the ice. The breeze in the night, blowing against the schooner, had turned the ice-field completely round. Occasionally a cake of ice would bump up against us. We could hear them grinding together all about; yet the wind was light, otherwise we might have had heavier thumps. About seven o'clock we heard a splashing out along the floe. "Seals!" remarked the captain. "Bet you, I'll have one of those fellows!" exclaimed Donovan, catching up a pike-pole, and dropping over the rail. "Can he get near enough to kill them with a pole, suppose?" Wade queried. "That's the way the sealers kill them," replied the captain. "Send the men out on the ice with nothing but clubs and knives. The seals can't move very fast: nothing but their flippers to help themselves with. The men run along the edges of the ice, and get between them and the water. The seals make for the water; and the men knock them on the heads with clubs, and then butcher them." "It's a horribly bloody business, I should think," said Raed. "Well, not so bad as a Brighton slaughter-pen, quite," rejoined the captain. "But I never much admired it, I must confess." Just then Donovan came racing out of the fog, and, jumping for the rail, drew his legs up as if he believed them in great peril. "What ails you?" Kit cried out. "What are you running from?" "Oh! nothing--much," replied Donovan, panting. "Met--a--bear out here: that's all." "Met a bear!" exclaimed Raed. "Yes. I was going along, trying to get by some of the seals. All at once I was face to face with a mighty great chap, on the same business with myself, I suppose. Thought I wouldn't wait. He looked pretty big. I'd nothing but the pole, you know." "We must have him!" exclaimed Wade. "Best way will be to let down the boat, and work round the floe to prevent his taking to the water," advised the captain. "They will swim like ducks three or four miles at a time." While the boat was being let down, Kit and I ran to load the muskets. "I'm going to put the bayonets on our two," said Kit. "They'll be handy if we should come to close quarters with him." Raed and Wade, with the captain, were getting ready to go out on the ice. Weymouth and Hobbs were already in the boat. Kit and I followed. "Now be very careful about firing in this fog," the captain called after us. "We are going off to the right, round the edge of the floe on that side. You keep off on the left to see that he don't escape that way. Head him up toward the schooner if you can; but look out how you shoot." Old Trull and Corliss, each with a gun, had been stationed at the rail to shoot the bear from the deck if he should come out in sight. Thus arranged, we pulled away, veering in and out among the ice-patches, and keeping about twenty yards from the floe. We could just see the edge of it rising a few feet from the water. "Guess the bear run from Don after all his fright," said Weymouth when we had gone a hundred yards or more. He was not on our side, we felt pretty sure; and, a few minutes later, Guard barked, and we heard the captain shouting from across the field. "Here he is over here!" And a moment after, "Gone over towards your side! Look out for him!" We _looked out_ as sharply as we could for fog: nevertheless, the first notice we got of his arrival in our vicinity was a splash into the water several rods farther on. "Give way sharp," shouted Kit, "or we shall lose him!" The boat leaped under the strong stroke; and, a moment after, we saw the bear climbing out on to a cake, which tipped up as he got on to it. "Give him your shot, Wash!" Kit exclaimed. We were not more than fifty feet away. I aimed for his head, and let go. The bullet clipped one of his ears merely, and he turned round with a dreadfully savage growl. Of course it was a bad shot; but some allowance must be made for the rocking of the boat. As he turned to us, the ice-cake tipped and rolled under him, nearly throwing him off; at which he growled and _barked out_ all the louder. Kit hesitated to fire. "He might make a break, and get his paws on to the boat before we could back off, if you shouldn't kill him," said Hobbs. "Load as quick as you can, Wash," Kit said. "I'll wait till we have a reserve shot." Meanwhile we heard voices coming out on the floe. Guard began to bark again, and came jumping from cake to cake out within a few rods of the bear, and rather between us and him. "Be ready, now," said Kit; when some one of the party on the floe fired on a sudden. Instantly the bear jumped for the dog; and the dog, turning, leaped for a little cake between him and the boat. The bear splashed through, and gained the cake Guard had stood on. Crack--crack! from the floe. The bear growled frightfully as he felt the bullets, and plunged after the dog. We both fired as he went down into the water. Guard's paws were already on the gunwale, when the bear rose, head and paws, and swept the dog down with him, _souse_! A howl and a growl mingled. The water was streaked red with the bear's blood. The captain and Wade and Donovan came leaping out from one fragment to another. Up popped the dog's black head. Something bumped the bottom of the boat simultaneously. The bear had come up under us, and floated out on the port side, a great mass of dripping, struggling white hair. Everybody was shouting now. Wade fired. Bits of blazing cartridge-paper flew into our faces. Kit and I thrust wildly with our bayonets; but the poor beast had already ceased all offensive warfare. He was dead enough. But who had killed him it was hard saying. No less than seven bullets had been fired into him from "a standard weapon," as Wade calls our muskets. We towed the carcass up to the edge of the floe, and pulled it up. The captain estimated its gross weight to be from four hundred and fifty to five hundred pounds. This was the largest one we had killed. Donovan and Weymouth and Hobbs were occupied the rest of the forenoon skinning it. It being a favorable opportunity, we improved it to make soundings. From where we lay moored to the floe, the nearest island was about three leagues to the east, and the northern main from ten to twelve miles. For sounding we had a twenty-four-pound iron weight, with a staple leaded into it for the line. Dropping it out of the stern, we ran out a hundred and seventy-three fathoms before it slacked. The depth of the strait at that place was given at ten hundred and thirty-eight feet. I should add, that this was considerably deeper than we had found it below that point. CHAPTER XI. "Isle Aktok."--A Sea-Horse and a Sea-Horse Hunt.--In High Spirits.--Sudden Interruption of the Hunt.--A Heavy Gun.--The Race to the Ledge-Tops.--Too Late.--A Disheartening Spectacle.--Surprised by the Company's Ship.--The Schooner in Peril.--Capt. Hazard bravely waits.--The Flight of "The Curlew" amid a Shower of Balls.--The Chase.--Left on the Islet.--A Gloomy Prospect.--"What shall we have for Grub to _ate_?"--Wild-Geese.--Egging.--"_Boom!_"--A Sea-Horse Fire. Toward night the wind changed to north, and thinned out the patch-ice, driving it southward, so that by ten o'clock, evening, we were able to get in our ice-anchors and make sail, continuing our voyage, and making about four knots an hour till nine o'clock next morning, when we were off a small island, the first of a straggling group on the south side of the strait. South-east of this islet was another large island, which we at first mistook for the south main, but, after comparing the chart, concluded that it was "Isle Aktok." To the north the mainland, with its fringe of ledgy isles, was in sight, distant not far from thirteen leagues. We had been bearing southward considerably all night, falling off from the wind, which was north-west. We were now, as nearly as we could reckon it up, a hundred and nineteen leagues inside the entrance of the straits at Cape Resolution. Raed and I were below making a sort of map of the straits, looking over the charts, etc., when Kit came running down. "There's a sea-horse off here on the island!" said he. "A sea-horse!" exclaimed Raed. "A walrus!" I cried; for we had not, thus far, got sight of one of these creatures, though we had expected to find them in numbers throughout the straits. But, so far as our observation goes, they are very rare there. Taking our glasses, we ran hastily up. Wade was looking off. "Out there where the ice is jammed in against this lower end of the island," directed Kit. The distance was about a mile. "Don't you see that great black _bunch_ lying among the ice there?" continued he. "See his white tusks!" Bringing our keen little telescopes to bear, we soon had him _up under our noses_,--a great, dark-hided, clumsy beast, with a hideous countenance and white tusks; not so big as an elephant's, to be sure, but big enough to give their possessor a very formidable appearance. "Seems to be taking his ease there," said Wade. "Same creature that the old writers call a _morse_, isn't it?" "I believe so," replied Raed. "Wonder if our proper name, _Morse_, is from that?" said I. "Shouldn't wonder," said Kit. "Many of our best family names are from a humbler origin than that. But we must improve this chance to hunt that old chap: may not get another. And it won't do, nohow, to come clean up here to Hudson Bay and not go sea-horse-hunting once." "Right, my boy!" cried Raed. "Captain, we want to go on a walrus-hunt. Can the schooner be brought round, and the boat manned for that purpose?" "Certainly, sir. 'The Curlew' is at your service, as also her boat." "Then let me invite you to participate in the exercise," said Raed, laughing. "Nothing would suit me better. But as the wind is fresh, and the schooner liable to drift, I doubt if it will be prudent for me to leave her so long. You have my best wishes for your success, however. I shall watch the chase with interest through my glass; and, better still, I will see that Palmleaf has dinner ready at your return.--Here, Weymouth and Donovan, let down the boat, and row these youthful huntsmen to yonder ice-bound shore!" Ah! if we had foreseen the results of that hunt, we should scarcely have been so jocose, I fancy. Well, coming events are wisely hidden from us, they say; but, by jolly! a fellow could afford to pay well for a glimpse at the future once in a while. Each of us boys took a musket and eight or ten cartridges. I'm not likely to forget what we took with us, in a hurry. "We'll put the bayonets on, I guess," Kit remarked. "It's a big lump of a beast. These are just the things for giving long-range stabs with." "Don't forget the caps!" cried Raed, already half way up the companion-way. The wind was rather raw that morning: we put on our thick pea-jackets. Weymouth and Don were already down in the boat, which they had brought alongside. "Here, Don, stick that in your waistband!" exclaimed Kit, who had come up last, tossing him one of our new butcher-knives. "All right, sir!" "Wish you would give me a musket," said Weymouth. "You shall have one!" cried Wade, running back for it. "Come, Guard!" shouted Kit. "Here, sir!" and the shaggy Newfoundland came bouncing down into the boat. We got in and pulled off. "Make for that little cove up above the ice where the sea-horse lies," directed Raed. "We'll land there, and then creep over the rocks toward him." Kit caught up the extra paddle, and began to scull. We shot over the waves; we joked and laughed. Somehow, we were all as merry as grigs that morning. Running into the cove, the boat was pulled up from the water, and securely fastened. Up at this end of the straits the tide did not rise nearly so high,--not more than eight or ten feet during the springs. "Now whisht!" said Raed, taking up his musket. "Back, Guard! Still, or we shall frighten the old gentleman!" "He was lying there all sedate when we slid into the cove," said Kit. "Asleep, I guess." "We'll wake him shortly," said Wade. "But you say they are a large species of seal. Won't he take to the water, and stay under any length of time?" "That's it, exactly," replied Kit. "We mustn't let him take to the water--before we riddle him." "But they're said to have a precious tough hide," said I. "Perhaps we can't riddle so easy." "Should like to see anything in the shape of hide that one of these rifle slugs won't go through," replied Kit. "Sh-h-h!" from Raed, holding back a warning hand: he was a little ahead of us. "Creep up still! Peep by me! See him! By Jove! he's wiggling off the ice! Jump up and shoot him!" We sprang up, cocking our muskets, just in time to get a glimpse and hear the great seal splash heavily into the sea. Wade and Kit fired as the waters buried him; Guard rushed past, and Donovan bounded down the rocks, butcher-knife in hand. "Too late!" exclaimed Raed. We ran down to the spot. The water went off deep from the ice on which it had lain. It was nowhere in sight. Dirt and gravel had been scattered out on to the ice, and its ordure lay about. Evidently this was one of its permanent sunning-places. "Get back among the rocks, and watch for him!" exclaimed Kit. "Only thing we can do now." "I suppose so," said Raed. We secreted ourselves a little back from the water behind different rocks and in little hollows, and, with guns rested ready to fire, waited for the re-appearance of the big seal. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed; but he didn't re-appear much. "I say," Wade whispered: "this is getting a little played!" We were all beginning to think so, when a horrible noise--a sound as much like the sudden bellow of a mad bull as anything I can compare it with--resounded from the other side of the island. "What, for Heaven's sake, is that?" Kit exclaimed. "Must be another of these sea-horses calling to the one over here," said Raed, after listening a moment. "Let's work round there, then," I said. The noise seemed to have been four or five hundred yards off. Keeping the dog behind us, we hurried round by the east shore to avoid climbing the higher ledges, which rose sixty or seventy feet along the middle of the islet. These bare, flinty ledges, when not encumbered by bowlders, are grand things to run on. One can get over them at an astonishing pace. Once, as we ran on, we heard the bellow repeated, and, on coming within twenty or thirty rods of where it had seemed to be, stopped to reconnoitre. "Bet you, he's right under that high ledge that juts out over the water there," said Kit. "Wait a moment," whispered Wade: "we may hear him again." And, in fact, before his words were well out, the same deep, harsh sound grumbled up from the shore. "Under that ledge, as I guessed!" exclaimed Kit. "Sounds like an enormous bull-frog intensified," Raed muttered. We crept down toward the brink of the ledge, Kit and Wade a little ahead. Arriving at the crest, they peered over cautiously, and with muskets cocked. "Here he is!" Kit whispered back of his hand. We stole up. There, on a little bunch of ice not yet thawed off the shore, lay the unsuspecting monster,--a great brown-black, unwieldy body. There is no living creature to which I can easily compare it. I should judge it would have weighed a ton,--more perhaps; for it was immensely thick and broad: though the head struck me as very small for its bulk otherwise. "Now, all together!" whispered Raed. "Aim at its body above and back of its forward flippers. Ready! Fire!" We let drive. The great creature gave a hoarse grunt, and, raising itself on its finlike legs, floundered over into the sea. "Round the ledge!" shouted Kit. "He won't get far, I don't believe!" Guard was tearing down, barking loudly; and we had started to run, when, above the shouting and barking, the sudden boom of a cannon was heard. "Hark!" cried Weymouth. "Hold on, hold on, fellows!" Raed exclaimed. "Wasn't that our howitzer?" Donovan asked. "Sounded like it." "It's the cap'n firing, for a joke, to let us know he heard us," Weymouth suggested. "Oh! he wouldn't do that," replied Raed. "Of course he wouldn't!" exclaimed Donovan. "He ain't that sort of a man!" "That's a summons!" said Wade, coming hurriedly back up the rocks; for he and Kit were a little ahead. "Put for the top of the ledges up here! We can see from there!" We had got twenty yards, perhaps, when a second loud report made the rocks rattle to it. "There's trouble!" exclaimed Wade at my heels, as we climbed up the steep side. An undefinable fear had blanched all our faces. Scarcely had the echoes of the gun died out among the crags when another heavier report made the islet jar under our feet. "Oh, there!" exclaimed Raed despairingly. Donovan was a step ahead; but Kit and I sprang past him now. Another shelving incline of forty or fifty yards, and the blue sea burst into view over the rocks. My eyes burned in their sockets from the violent exertion. At first I saw only "The Curlew" with her great white sails both broadside to us, and our bright gay flag streaming out. A glance showed that she had been brought round, and that the sails were flapping wildly. A jet of flame streamed out from her side; and, like a warning-call, the sharp report crashed on our ears, infinitely louder now we had gained the top. All this in a second. "Why! what is it?" I exclaimed. Turning, I saw them all staring off to the west. Heavens! there, under full sail, was a large ship not two miles off! How like the shadow of doom she loomed up! and how suddenly white the faces of Kit and Wade just beyond me looked! We had thought we were on the lookout for this very thing; and yet it seemed to us now a complete surprise. We were stunned. _Bang!_ A heavy cannon; and the water flew up in a long white streak far past "The Curlew" as the big shot went driving by. The ship was within a mile and a half of her, and we here on the islet three-fourths of a mile away! Yet there stood "The Curlew" motionless on the waves; and there stood Capt. Mazard, waving his hat for us, his glass glittering in his other hand. "To the boat!" yelled Weymouth, leaping down the rocks. "He wouldn't go without us!" "Stop!" shouted Raed. "It's no use! Don't you see how the ship's closing in?" Then, catching off his cap, he waved it slowly toward the east. We saw the captain's glass go up to his eye. Again Raed motioned him to go. _Bang!_ A higher shot. It strikes a quarter of a mile ahead of the schooner, and goes skipping on. But the captain is still looking off to us, as if loath to desert us. A third time Raed waves his cap. He turns. Round go the booms. "The Curlew" starts off with a bound. The flag streams out wildly in the strong north-west wind. _Bang!_ That ball hits the sea a long way ahead of its mark. Even in these brief seconds the great shadowy ship has come perceptibly nearer. How she bowls along! We can see the white mass of foam at the bows as she rides up the swells. A queer, lost feeling had come over me. In an instant it all seemed to have gone on at a far-past date. Looking back to that time now, I see, as in a picture, our forlorn little party standing there on the black, weathered ledges, gazing off,--Weymouth half a dozen rods down the rocks, where he had stopped when Raed called to him; Donovan a few rods to the right, shading his eyes with his hand; Raed with his arms folded tightly; Kit staring hard at the ship; Wade dancing about, swearing a little, with the tears coming into his eyes; myself leaning weakly on a musket, limp as a shoe-string; and poor old Guard whining dismally, with an occasional howl,--all gazing off at the rapidly-moving vessels. "It was no use," Raed said, his voice seeming to break the spell. "We couldn't have got off to the schooner. See how swiftly the ship comes on! If the captain had waited for us to pull off, or even started up and let us go off diagonally, the ship would have come so near, that there would have been no escaping her guns. I don't know as there is now. If any of those shot should strike the masts, or tear through the sails, there would be no getting away. "I want you to look at it just as I do," Raed continued; for we none of us had said a word. "If we had tried to get on board, 'The Curlew' would certainly have been captured, and we with her. Now she stands a chance of getting off." _Bang!_ What a tremendous gun! The large ship was getting off opposite. The report made the ledge tremble under us. "Hadn't we better get out of sight?" Donovan said. "They may see us, and send a boat over here." "No danger of that, I think," replied Raed. "They want to run the schooner down, and wouldn't care to leave their boat so far behind. This strong north-west wind favors them. Still I don't think they are gaining much. They're not going over ten or eleven knots. 'The Curlew' will beat that, I hope,--if none of those big shots hit her," taking out his glass. "How beautiful she looks!" "But, Raed," remarked Kit soberly, "they will chase her clean out the straits into the Atlantic, even if they do not capture her." "They may." "And she'll be rather short-handed for men," observed Donovan. "That's too true." "Then what are the chances of her getting back here for us?" cried Wade. _Bang!_ from the great white mass of bulging canvas now fairly opposite us. The smoke drifted out of her bows. We could hear the rattle of her blocks, the swash of the sea, and the roar of sails; and, quite distinct on the fresh breeze, the gruff commands to reload. "Capt. Mazard won't leave us here if he lives and has his liberty," said Raed. "Oh, he'll come back if he can!" exclaimed Donovan. "He's true blue!" "But what if he can't," Kit observed quietly. "What a situation for us! Here we are a thousand miles from a civilized town or a civilized people, and in a worse than trackless wilderness! The season, too, is passing. The straits will soon be closed with ice." "Only think of it!" Wade cried out,--"here on this frozen coast, with winter coming on! In a month it will be severe weather here. We've nothing but our cloth clothing!" Wade turned away; and for many minutes we were all silent. _Bang!_ "Come, fellows!" Raed exclaimed at length. "This won't do! Wade has got the gloomiest side out! Come, rally from this! See, they're not gaining on the schooner! Look how she's bowling away! They haven't hit her yet. Kit! Wash! I say, fellows, it looks a little bad, I own. But never say die; or, if you must die,--why, die game. That's the doctrine you are always preaching, Kit. Isn't it, now? Tell me!" "But to be frozen or starved to death among these desolate ledges!" muttered Kit. "Is not a cheery prospect, I'll admit," Raed finished for him. "Rather trying to a fellow's philosophy, isn't it?" _Bang!_ "She isn't hit yet," remarked Donovan, who had taken Raed's glass. "She slides on gay as a cricket. I can see the cap'n throwing water with the skeet against the sails to make 'em draw better." "How, for Heaven's sake, did that ship come to get up so near before they saw her?" Kit exclaimed suddenly. We looked off to the west. The dozen straggling islets beyond us extended off in irregular order toward the north-west. "I think," said Raed, "that the ship must have come up a little to the south of those outer islands. Our folks could not have seen her, then, till she came past." "I don't call that the same ship that fired on us a week ago," Weymouth remarked. "Oh, no!" said Kit. "That ship, 'The Rosamond,' can't more than have reached the nearest of the Company's trading-posts by this time." "She probably spoke this ship coming out, and told them to be on the lookout for us," said Raed. "Old Red-face doubtless charged them to give us particular fits," Kit replied. "And they've got us in a tight place, no mistake," Wade remarked gloomily. "We're rusticated up here among the icebergs; sequestered in a cool spot." _Bang!_ "Gracious! I believe that one hit 'The Curlew'!" Donovan exclaimed. "The captain and old Trull--I believe it's Trull--ran aft, and are looking over the taffrail!" Kit pulled out his glass and looked. I had not taken mine, nor had Wade. The schooner was now three or four miles down the straits, and the ship was a good way past us. "No great harm done, I guess," Kit said at length. "The captain ran down into the cabin, but came up a few moments after; and they are standing about the deck as before." "As long as they miss the standing rigging, and don't hit the sails, there's no danger," Raed observed. "That ship is a mighty fast sailer," Weymouth said. "Ought to be, I should think," Donovan replied. "Look at the sail she's got on! They've been getting out studding-sails too. This strong gale drives her along like thunder!" "I don't see that she gains," Raed remarked. "We shall see 'The Curlew' back here for us yet." "Not very soon, I'm afraid," Wade said. "Well, not to-night, I dare say," replied Raed. "How long do you set it?" Kit asked, taking down his glass. "Suppose the captain is lucky enough to get away from them: how long do you think it will be before he will get back here for us?" "That, of course, depends on how far they chase him," said Raed. "They'll chase him just as far as they can," replied Kit. "Why not? It's right on their way home. They'll chase the schooner clean out the straits." "The captain may turn down into Ungava Bay, on the south side of the straits," Raed replied. "No, he won't do that," Kit contended. "That bay is full of islands, and choked with ice; and our charts ar'n't worth the paper they're made out on." "Well, if he has to run out into the Atlantic, he may not be back for ten days." "Ten days!" exclaimed Wade. "If we see him in a month, we need to think we're lucky." _Bang!_ "That's a pleasant sound for us, isn't it, now?" Kit demanded,--"expecting every shot will lose us the schooner, and leave us two thousand miles from home on a more than barren coast!" "I shall look for 'The Curlew' in ten days," Raed remarked. "And I don't think we had better leave here, to go off any great distance, till we feel sure she's not coming back for us. If she's not back in two weeks, I shall think we have got to shirk for ourselves." "But how in the world are we to live two weeks here!" Wade exclaimed. "Live by our wits," Kit observed. "Looks as if we should have to give up coffee," Raed said, trying to get a laugh going. "Why, I'm hungry now!" Wade cried out; "but I don't see anything to eat but ice and rocks!" "It's half-past eleven," Kit announced, looking at his watch. "Seriously, what do you expect we can get hold of for grub, Raed?" "Well, seals." "Seals!" exclaimed Wade; "the oily, nasty trash!" "Hunger may bring you to sing a different tune," Kit muttered. "I'm not sure that a seal's flipper might not be acceptable by to-morrow morning." "There are plenty of kittiwakes and lumne and eiderducks about these islets," I suggested. "We can shoot some of them." "And we can fish!" Weymouth exclaimed. "Where's your hooks?" said Kit. That question floored the fishing project. "Well, we've got our muskets," replied Weymouth. "How many cartridges in all?" Raed asked. "Let's take account of them. They are like to be precious property." "I've got eight," said Kit, counting them. "I have seven," Wade announced. "Six," said I. "I took nine," Raed observed. "You gave me five," reported Weymouth. "I have used one. Here's the other four." "Thirty-four in all," said Raed. "Now, boys, these are worth their weight in gold to us. Not one must be wasted." "My butcher-knife is like to come into good use." Donovan remarked, feeling the edge of it. "Yes; and we've got our jack-knives too," said Kit. "How about a fire?" Wade asked. At that there were blank looks for a moment; till, with a queer grin, Donovan began to fumble in his waistcoat-pocket, and drew out, in close company with a rounded plug of tobacco, seven or eight grimy matches. "Hurrah!" shouted Kit. "You've allus been dippin' into me pretty strong about smokin'," said Don, looking around to Raed; "but you can't say that smokin' don't have its advantages sometimes." "That's an argument for the weed that we can all appreciate at present, no mistake," Raed replied. "Don, keep hold of those matches, and see that they all strike fire, and I'll never preach to you again, so sure as my name is Warren Raedway." _Bang!_ A distant _boom_ from the hated ship, now low down on the sea. "The schooner is almost out of sight," said Kit. "She's a long way off. Perhaps it's the last time we shall ever set eyes on her pretty figure!" "Oh, not so bad as that, I hope!" cried Raed. "Don't go to getting poetical, Kit. How about dinner? That's of more consequence just now than poetry. Time enough to make verses on this rather awkward episode when we're safe in Boston. Make a proposal for dinner, somebody. Wade's starving." "What say for the sea-horse!" exclaimed Donovan. "Yes; how about that walrus?" Kit demanded. "That sea-horse has got us into a fine scrape," muttered Wade. "It would have been better if we had left him undisturbed on his island." "That's neither this nor there, now," said Kit. "Question arises, Can we eat him? Is it fit to eat? Did ever anybody hear of their being eaten?" "The Huskies eat them, I believe," said Raed. "The Huskies! Well, I mean civilized folks; ship's crews?" Nobody knew. "The best way will be to try it for ourselves," remarked Donovan. "But we don't know that we killed him yet. We didn't stop to find out, you know." "Then that is clearly the next thing to do," said Raed. "Let's go down to the boat, and take that round to the place where we fired at the second one." "But how about the birds, the eider-ducks and kittiwakes?" said I. "We should find them more palatable than sea-horse--to begin with." "Very well: you and Weymouth might go round the island to the left. It can't be more than a mile and a half or two miles. But do be prudent of your cartridges." _Boom!_ Raed and Kit, with Wade and Donovan, then got into the boat, and pulled off round the islet to the right; while Weymouth and I, reloading our muskets, set off on our bird-hunt. The west end of the island was considerably higher than the eastern portion. As we went on, we espied scores of little auks sitting upon the low cliffs. "No use to waste powder on them," said Weymouth. "But see there!" suddenly halting. "If those ain't geese, I'm mistaken,--out there on that gravel-flat, waddling along. Ain't those geese?" Wild-geese they were, or, as some call them, Canada geese; nearly as large as our domestic geese, and of a gray slate-color. They did not seem to fear our approach much. We walked quietly up to fifty yards. "I'll take that big gander," I said. "All right," quoth Weymouth. "I'll take a goose." We fired at them with a careful aim. Over went the gander and a goose. The rest flew with loud squallings, save one with a broken wing, which Weymouth rushed after, and pelted to death with stones. "A pretty good haul!" he exclaimed, holding them up. "Weigh eight or ten pounds apiece. But I didn't expect to see wild-geese up here," he added. We saw several flocks of them after that. Half a mile farther round, we came upon a flock of razor-bills perched on the cliffs overhanging the water. They rose, and went croaking off toward the next islet, distant about three hundred yards, too quick for us to fire with caution. "The sealers often get their eggs," Weymouth observed. "They're good fried, they say." It then occurred to me that these eggs might be a very good and cheaply--as regarded ammunition--obtained article of food for us. Laying down our guns, we climbed up among the rocks, and spent nearly an hour searching for their nests. At length Weymouth found one with three eggs; and, a few moments after, two more. I had some doubt about the eggs being good so late in the season. There were plenty of empty nests about, looking as if there had been a brood raised already. These were doubtless second nests of pairs that had lost their first nests from the depredations of falcons, ravens, or perhaps foxes. To settle the point, we broke an egg: it looked sound. Weymouth then filled his cap with them. _Boom!_ While climbing down to our muskets, I startled a canvas-backed duck sitting on a nest of eleven eggs. These I appropriated; and, before getting round to where we had fired on the sea-horse, Weymouth espied an eider-duck sitting on a shelf of the shore crags. From her we got five eggs of a beautiful pale-green color. "No need of starving here, I should say," Weymouth remarked as we made our way along the ledges, pretty well laden with muskets, geese, and our caps full of eggs. "There won't be much bread, to be sure; but then a fellow can live on eggs and birds, can't he?" "I hope so, Weymouth. Hard case for us if we can't." "That's so. But don't you be down in the mouth about this scrape. I don't believe they'll catch 'The Curlew,' sir. Capt. Mazard will be back here, I think." "I hope so." Truly, I thought to myself, if this young sailor doesn't complain, and even tries to offer consolation to us who have got him in this predicament, it isn't for me to look glum about it; though I am bound to own that some of the most cheerless moments of my life were passed during the twenty-four hours succeeding the ominous appearance of the "_Honorable Company's_" ship. A great shouting and heave-ho-ing told us of our near approach to where the rest of our party were; and, turning a bend of the crags, we discovered them all four tugging at a line. "What are they dragging, I wonder?" Weymouth said to me. "Oh! I see. It's the sea-horse." They were trying to pull the walrus up out of the water, where they had found him floundering about, fatally wounded with the slugs we had fired through his back. The sea about the rocks was discolored with his blood, and turbid with the dirt he had torn up. Donovan had slaughtered him with the butcher-knife; and, with the boat's painter noosed over the head of the carcass, they were now trying to draw it up on the ledge. Weymouth and I at once bore a hand; and it took all six of us, tugging hard, to get it up. "What a mass of fat and flesh!" Kit exclaimed, puffing. "I don't believe I could ever stomach it!" Wade groaned. "We can offer you something better!" exclaimed Weymouth, holding up the geese. "What think of those fellows? Wild-geese! And look at these!" holding up his cap. "Nice fresh eggs!--to be had by the dozen! and nothing to pay, either!" "Why, fellows, this is a sort of northern paradise!" cried Raed. "But what sticks me is how to cook those eggs and geese. I never could suck eggs." "Just build a fire, and I'll show you how to cook 'em," Weymouth said. "But what shall we have for fuel?" Kit demanded. That was a staggerer. _Boom!_ It seemed as if those far-borne echoes would never die with the distance. A low, dismal, sullen sound! They gave us queer sensations. As each came rolling on the sea, our hearts would bound. Up to that moment, "The Curlew" had not been taken; but perhaps that shot had struck down her sails. It was now half-past two. The vessels could hardly be less than twenty or twenty-five miles off. But there is nothing to absorb or deaden sound along those straits. "Yes; where's your fuel?" demanded Wade. We looked around: plenty of rocks, ice, and water, with a little coarse dirt, or gravel. "Might burn the boat," Kit suggested. "That seems too bad," said Raed. "Besides, how are we to get off the island here, supposing 'The Curlew' should not come back? or even suppose she should? She has no other boat." "And we may want to go off to the other islands," I said. "Well, if anybody can suggest anything better, I should like to hear it," replied Kit. "I don't want to burn the boat, I'm sure; but I can't see anything else that looks inflammable." Neither could any of us, though we looked all around us very earnestly; till Donovan suddenly cried out,-- "Why not burn the old sea-horse?" "Why, that's our victuals!" laughed Kit. "I know it; but fire comes before victuals, unless you eat 'em raw like the Huskies." "Will it burn?" Raed asked. "Burn? yes. Why, on a sealer, they do all their trying-out the oil with a fire of seal-refuse. Why shouldn't it burn as well as a candle?" "There's our wood-pile, then!" cried Raed, giving the carcass a kick. "Let's have a fire forthwith. Don, you slash out a hundred-weight or so." "Don't cut the hide to pieces," Kit interposed: "we may want that to make a tent of." Donovan whipped out his butcher-knife, and, stripping back the tough skin, cut out a pile of huge slices. Kit, meanwhile, got a piece of old thwart from the boat, and whittled up a heap of pine slivers. Two of the fat slices were then slit up into thin strips, and laid on the slivers. With great caution, Donovan struck a match on his jacket-sleeve. We all hovered around to keep off the wicked puffings of the wind. The slivers were lighted; they kindled: the fat meat began to sizzle; then caught fire from the pine; and soon a ruddy, spluttering flame was blazing with marvellous fierceness. "Hurrah!" Kit shouted. "The first fire these grim old ledges have seen since they cooled their glowing, molten billows into flinty granite!" CHAPTER XII. The "Spider."--Fried Eggs.--The "Plates."--"Awful Fresh!"--No Salt.--Plans for getting Salt from Sea-Water.--Ice-Water.--Fried Goose.--Plans to escape.--A Gloomy Night.--Fight with a Walrus.--Another "_Wood-Pile._"--Wade Sick.--A Peevish Patient and a Fractious Doctor.--The Manufacture of Salt. We stood and warmed our hands. It felt comfortable,--decidedly so; for though the sun was high and bright, yet the north-west wind drove smartly across the rocks above us. Currents of air fresh from the lair of icebergs can't be very warm ever. There was plenty of ice all about. "Ready to cook those eggs, Weymouth?" Raed exclaimed. "You were going to furnish spider, kettle, or something of that sort, you know." "Yes, sir; and all I'll ask is that some of you will be dressing a couple of those geese while I am gone. I've a mind to dine off goose to-day." "Well, that's reasonable," said Donovan. "Go ahead, matey! Bring on your spider! We'll have the geese ready for it!" "If you will go with me," Weymouth said, nodding over to where I was enjoying the fire. "Two may perhaps find what I want sooner than one." I followed him. "My idea is," said he, turning when we were off a few rods, "to get a flat, _hollowing_ stone,--'bout as big over as a milk-pan, say; kind of hollowed out on the top side, just so grease won't run off it. We can set that up on small rocks, and let the fire run under. It'll soon get hot: then grease it, and break the eggs into it just as they do into a spider. You see?" I saw it,--a very reasonable project. The only difficulty was to find such a stone. To do that we separated. Weymouth followed out along the shore, while I climbed up among the crags. There were plenty of flat rocks; but to find one sufficiently spider-shaped for our purpose was not so easy. At length I came upon one--a flake of felspar of a dull cream-color--hollowed enough on one side to hold a pint or upwards. But it was heavy: must have weighed fully a hundred pounds. I called to Weymouth: he was out of hearing. Nothing to do but carry it. So, after some mustering of my spare muscle, I picked it up, and, going along to a favorable spot, succeeded in getting down to the beach with it, whence I toiled along to our camp-fire. Weymouth had got there a little ahead of me with a flat stone worn smooth by the waves. It was not so thick as mine, nor so heavy: it was a sort of dark slate-stone. Forthwith a discussion arose as to the merits of the two _spiders_; which was finally decided in favor of the one I had found, from its being the whitest and cleanest-looking. Meanwhile Donovan had been feeding the fire so profusely, that all hands had been obliged to get back from it. Animal fat, like this of the walrus, makes an exceedingly hot flame. Three flat stones were set up edgewise, and the spider set on them. The flaming meat was then thrust under it so as to heat the spider. From its thickness, it took some minutes for it to become heated through; but, in the course of a quarter of an hour, Kit pronounced it ready. Weymouth cut out a chunk of walrus-blubber, with which he basted it, the melted fat collecting in a little puddle at the bottom. "Now for the eggs!" he exclaimed. Raed handed them to him, one by one; while he broke them on the edge of the butcher-knife, and dropped a half-dozen into the novel frying-pan. "Better be getting your plates ready!" he shouted, turning them over with the knife to the tune of a mighty frizzling. We all took the hint, and scattered to find flat stones for platters. 'Twas a singular assortment of kitchenware that we re-appeared with a few minutes later. Taking up the fried eggs with his knife, Weymouth tossed us each one, which we caught on our _plates_. Another batch was then broke into the spider, fried, and distributed like the first. "Now then!" cried Kit. "Draw jack-knives, and dine!" Several mouthfuls were eaten in silence. "What think of 'em?" Weymouth asked, casting a sly glance around. "How do they go?" "Rather oily!" grumbled Wade. "Awful fresh!" Kit complained. "Not a dust of salt in this camp!" Raed exclaimed. "We never can live without any salt," said I. "Nothing will relish so fresh as these eggs." "But where's your salt coming from?" Kit demanded. "Plenty of it in the sea," said Donovan. "Might boil down some of the salt water." "If we only had a kettle to boil it in," Raed added. "Well, there's the old tin dipper in the boat that we used to bail out the rain-water with," replied Don. "We could keep that boiling. Might boil away six or seven quarts by morning. That would give quite a pinch of salt." "That's the idea!" said Kit. "Let's get it going as soon as we can. Wash it out, and dip it up two-thirds full of water, Don. I'll fix a way to set it over the fire." Meanwhile Weymouth was frying another dozen of eggs. "I think I can suggest a better way of evaporating the sea-water," remarked Raed as Donovan came up with the two-quart dipper of water. "You see that little hollow in the ledge just the other side of the fire: that will hold several pailfuls, probably. The fire on the rocks must make that warm: you see if it isn't, Wash." I was on that side. The ledge for several yards from the blaze was beginning to get warmed up. "We might brush that out clean," Raed continued, "and fill it with water. It will evaporate fast there, and leave its salt on the bottom of the hollow. We can move the fire along a little nearer to make the rocks hotter. I'm not sure that we could not make the water boil in there." The place was brushed, and a dozen bumperfuls turned into the hollow, where it soon began to steam. "That'll do it!" exclaimed Kit. "Never mind: we shall have salt by to-morrow!" After eating the eggs, one of the geese, which Donovan and Raed had dressed, was cut up raw, and fried on the spider. We had sharpened appetites; and, had the morsels been flavored with salt, it would not have tasted bad. Wade tried dipping his in the bumper of sea-water,--with no great satisfaction to his palate, I inferred; for he did not repeat the experiment. "How about drink?" Kit observed at length. "I don't suppose there's a spring on the island. I'm getting thirsty. What's to be done for water?" "Have to melt ice," Raed replied. "There's ice along the shore, among the rocks." Kit started off, and presently came back with a large lump. Bits of it were broken off and put in the bumper, and held over the fire. The water thus obtained and cooled with ice was not salt exactly. Still it was not, as has sometimes been affirmed, pure fresh water, by any means: it had a brackish taste. The weather, which had been clear during the day thus far, began to foul toward evening. It was now after six. The wind had veered to the south-west. Wild, straggling fogs, with black clouds higher up, were running into the north-east. Damp, cold gusts blew in from the water. "We shall have a chilly night," Wade said, shivering a little. "Rain and sleet before morning, likely as not." We set about preparing for it. A little back from the fire a wall of rough stones was hastily thrown up to the height of three feet or over, and continued for ten or twelve feet, with both ends brought round toward the fire. We then got the boat up out of the water, and, by hard lifting, raised it bottom-up, and laid it on our semicircular wall. It thus formed a kind of shed large enough to creep under. But, not satisfied with this, Donovan fell to work with his butcher-knife, and, in the course of an hour, had cleaved the skin off both sides of the walrus down to where it rested on the rock. Then, using the hafts of the oars as levers, we rolled the carcass on one side. The hide was then skinned off underneath; when, on rolling the carcass clean over, we had the hide off in one broad, immensely-heavy sheet. Raed estimated it to contain twenty square yards, reckoning the average girth of the walrus at twelve feet, and its length at fifteen feet. By means of the oars and thwarts as supports, the skin was then raised with the raw side up in tent form over the wall and boat, making shelter sufficient for us all to get under with comfort. "Now let it storm, if it wants to!" cried Weymouth: "we've got a water-proof seal-skin at least!" An arch of stones, with our spider set in the top, was then built over the fire to protect it from the weather. "How long will this walrus last for firewood, suppose?" I asked. "Oh! two or three days, for a guess," Donovan thought. "After that, what?" said Wade. "It's no use to trouble ourselves about that now," said Kit: "the Bible expressly forbids it. Besides, we've had trouble enough for one day. I'm for turning in and having a nap." "Not much fun in turning in on a bare ledge, I fancy," Wade replied. "We shall miss our mattresses." "A bare rock is a rather hard thing to bunk on, I do think," Raed remarked, peeping under the walrus-skin. "If we were in Maine, now, we should qualify that with a 'shake-down' of spruce-boughs. Didn't see any thing of the evergreen sort among the rocks, did you, Wash?" We had not. It then occurred to me that we had observed several little shrubs common to the mountains of Labrador, and known to naturalists as the Labrador tea-plant. "Any thing is better than the bare rock," Raed remarked, when I spoke of this shrub; and we all sallied out to glean an armful. While thus engaged, Wade and Kit espied a bed of moss in a hollow between the crags, a portion of which was dry enough for our purpose. After bringing an armful of the tea-plant, we made a trip to the moss-patch. What we could all bring at once piled upon the coarse shrubs made a bed by no means to be despised by--cast-aways. "I presume there's no need of mounting guard or setting a watch here," Donovan said. "How do we know that some party of Huskies or Indians has not been watching our movements all day?" Weymouth suggested. "I don't think it likely," said Raed. "We may all venture to go to sleep, I guess, and trust to Guard to keep watch for us." "I don't know about that," Kit remarked, patting the old fellow's head. "He's eaten so much of our woodpile, that he will be but a drowsy sentinel, I'm afraid." The fire was replenished with blubber; and we all lay down on our mossy beds inside our fresh-smelling tent. The sun must have been still high in the north-west; but so wild and dark were the clouds, that it had grown quite dark by nine o'clock. The damp wind-gusts sighed; the surf swashed drearily on the rocks. Despite all our efforts to bear up and seem gay, a weight of doubt and danger rested heavily on our spirits. "Where is 'The Curlew' _now_?" was the question that would keep constantly recurring, followed by a still more ominous query, "What would become of us if she should not return?" "Isn't there a town out on the Atlantic coast of Labrador, a town or a village, settled by the Moravian missionaries?" Raed asked suddenly, after we had been lying there quietly for some minutes. "Seems to me there is," Kit replied after a moment of reflection. "There's one indicated on our geography-maps, I'm pretty sure, called _Nain_, or some such scriptural name. Don't you remember it, Wash?" I did distinctly; and also another, either above or below it on the coast, called Hopedale, colonized by missionaries from South Greenland. "Those Moravians are very good folks, I've heard," Wade said. "They're a very pious, Christian people. I have read, too, that they have succeeded in Christianizing many of the coast Esquimaux." "Those Huskies must make queer Christians!" exclaimed Donovan. "How far do you suppose it is out to those towns, Nain, say, from here, for a guess?" Raed asked a few minutes after. "I was just thinking of that," said Kit. "Well, I should say four hundred miles." "Not less than six hundred," said Wade. I thought it as likely to be seven or eight hundred. "That would be a good way to travel on foot," muttered Raed reflectively. "Yes, it would," said Kit. "Still I shouldn't quite despair of doing it if there was no other way out of this." "How long would it take us, do you suppose?" Raed asked after another pause. "How many miles a day could we make, besides hunting and getting our food?" "Not more than twelve on an average," Kit thought. "Suppose it to be seven hundred miles, that would take us near sixty days," Raed remarked; "seventy, counting out Sundays." "We never could do that in the world!" Wade exclaimed. "It would take us till midwinter, in this country! We should starve! We should freeze to death!" "Couldn't very well do both," Kit observed rather dryly. "The journey would be well-nigh impossible, I expect," Raed remarked. "On getting in from the coast, we should probably meet with no sea-fowl, no seals: in fact, I hardly know what we should be able to get for game. I have heard that caribou-deer are common in Labrador; but they are, as we know from experience in the wilderness about Mount Katahdin, very difficult to kill. And then our cartridges!" "We might possibly attach ourselves to some party of Esquimaux going southward," Kit suggested. "And be murdered by them for our guns and knives," exclaimed Wade. "Oh, no! not so bad as that, I should hope. But let's go to sleep now, and discuss this to-morrow." There was something horrible to our feelings in this thought of our perfect isolation from the world. I think Wade realized it, or at least felt it, more than either of the other boys. Kit either didn't or wouldn't seem to mind it much after the first hour or two. Raed probably saw the chances of our getting away more clearly than any of us; but I doubt if he felt the wretchedness of our situation so keenly as either Wade or myself. He was always cool and collected in his plans, and not a little inclined to stoicism as regarded personal danger. These philosophical persons are apt to be so. What the most of folks feel badly about they laugh at: it is better so, perhaps. Yet pity and sympathy are good things in their way. They help hold society together; and are, I think it likely, about its strongest bonds of union. As for Weymouth and Donovan, they bore it all very lightly: indeed, they didn't seem to give the subject any great thought, farther than to exclaim occasionally that it was "rough on us," and a "tough one." Sailors always have a vein of recklessness in their mental processes. It comes from their manner of life,--its constant peril. They learn the uselessness of "borrowing trouble." Once in the night I woke,--woke from a pleasant dream of home. For several seconds I was utterly bewildered; did not know where I was. Then it burst upon me; and such a wave of desolation and trouble broke with the realization, that the tears would start in spite of all shame. It was raining on the green hide overhead with a peculiarly soft patter. The strong odor of burning fat from the fire filled our rude tent; to which were added the fresh, sick smells from the great newly-butchered carcass of the walrus. The boys were sound asleep, breathing heavily. Guard roused up at our feet to scratch himself, then snuggled down again. The wind howled dismally, throwing down gusts of rain. It dripped and pattered off the skin-covering on to the boat and on to the rocks. Now and then a faint scream from high aloft declared the passage of some lonely seabird; and the ceaseless swash and plash of the sleepless sea filled out in my mind a picture of home-sick misery. It is no time, or at least the worst of all times, to reflect on one's woes in the night when just awakened from dreams: better turn over and go to sleep again. But I had not got that lesson quite so well learned then, and so lay cultivating my wretchedness for nearly an hour, picturing our future wanderings among these northern solitudes, and our final starvation. "Perchance," I groaned to myself, "in after-years, some party of adventurers may come upon our white bones, what the gluttons leave of them." I even went farther; for I was presuming enough to imagine that our melancholy disappearance might become the subject of some future ballad. How would it begin? What would they say of _me_? What had I done in the world to deserve any thing by way of a line of praise or a tear of pity? Nothing that I could think of. At best, the ballad, if written at all (and of that I was beginning to have my doubts the more I thought it over), could but run,-- "Whilom in Boston town there dwelt a youth Who ne'er did well except in dying young." That was as far as I could get with it: in fact, that was about all there was to be said by way of eulogy. The sea seemed to get hold of those two lines somehow, and kept repeating them with its eternal _swish-swash, swash-swish_. The rain pattered it out in its heroic pentameters,-- _Pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat!_ _Pity-pat, pat-pit, pat-pit, pity-pit, pit-pat!_ All at once the regular rhythm of the sea was broken by a slight splash out of time. Instantly my morbid ear detected it, and I listened intently. Something was splashing along in the water. "Sea-fowl," I hastily assured myself. No, that was not likely, either; for it was quite dark, and the sea rather rough. "The Huskies trying to surprise us?" It might be. Something was certainly splashing the water very near. Why didn't Guard notice it? Talk about a dog's keen ears!--there lay the Newfoundland snoring loudest of anybody! Just then a scraping sound, accompanied by a dull rattling of the shingle among the rocks, startled me afresh. We were being surprised, stole upon, by something, undoubtedly. Repressing a strong inclination to yell out, I arose softly, and peeped past the drooping, flapping side of the walrus-skin. The splashings were now still more distinct; and I saw, dimly through the rain and darkness, a large, dark object near the water. What could it be? A hundred fearful fancies darted into my mind. Then there came a gruff snort; and the great dusky form heaved up higher on the rocks, upon which lay the carcass of the sea-horse. It seemed to be moving around it, making a dull, scraping noise. Suddenly a deep, horrid groan, ending in a prolonged bellow, burst on the damp air. Guard bounded up with a growl, and rushed out barking. Raed and Kit jumped up. They were all scrambling up. There was a moment of uncertain silence; then Kit cried,-- "Hollo! What was that?" "Don't be scared," I said. "It's another walrus, I guess. Keep still; but get your guns ready." "Another walrus, did you say?" muttered Raed, coming to look out. "I think it's one come up to smell round the carcass of the one we've killed." "So it is!" exclaimed Raed. "Like as not, it's this one's mate. What a hideous noise!" for the huge creature was giving vent to the most terrific snortings and snufflings. We could hear it butt its head against the carcass. "It has come round here hunting for its mate," said Kit. "That's its way of showing grief, I suppose." Guard was darting up to it, barking furiously: but the great beast did not at first seem to pay much attention to the dog; till on a sudden it turned, with another dreadful bellowing,--we thought the dog had bitten one of its tail flippers,--and came waddling after him, snorting, and gnashing its tusks. Guard fell back toward our shelter. "Shoot him!" Raed exclaimed. Kit and Donovan both fired at the monster; but, with ferocious snorts, it kept after the dog. "Run!" shouted Weymouth. "Out of this!" for the dog was backing right in upon us. We had to scurry out in a hurry to avoid being penned there. Guard, like a fool, kept backing in that direction. By the time we had got clear of the shelter, he had got himself backed into it; and, the sea-horse essaying to follow him, the oar that held up the skin in front was knocked away, and down it came, burying the dog, and partially covering the walrus. A fearful uproar of barking, howling, and snorting, followed. Presently Guard got out from under, and ran yelping off, leaving his pursuer floundering about under the hide. Kit rushed up, and thrust his bayonet into the creature's exposed side; when with a mighty squirm it turned itself, knocking down the boat, and sending our stone wall flying in all directions. The battle was now fairly begun. We all closed in round the animal, thrusting at it with our bayonets anywhere we could stab. Yet it fought ferociously, with bellowings enough to make one's blood run chill. It seemed marvellous how a creature so unwieldy could turn itself so rapidly. Pain and rage made it no mean antagonist. Once Raed's musket was sent flying out of his hands several rods; and Wade, thrusting at its head, had his bayonet wrenched off at a single twist. We afterwards found it bent up and broken. I think Weymouth gave it a mortal wound by firing a bullet into its head; though Kit and I repeatedly ran our bayonets into its sides clean up to the rings. It succumbed at last, dying hard, with many a finishing thrust. The gray morning light was beginning to outline the dreary shore. The chilly rain still poured. The reader can imagine in what a plight we were. The fire had gone out. Our skin-tent lay in a wad; and in the midst of our beds sprawled the dead sea-horse, weltering in its blood; while we ourselves, drenched with rain and bespattered with gore, stood round, steaming from our warlike exertions. "This is a pretty how-d'y'-do!" Kit exclaimed. "Look at our 'shake downs!'--all blood and mire!" "Well, we've got another _wood-pile_," said Donovan. "I wish it had selected a more fitting time to make its appearance," Raed muttered. "It has demoralized us completely." "Nothing to do but re-organize," laughed Kit. "Get the painter-line. Let's drag him off." That was a heavy job, and took us nigh half an hour. Then there were the blood-soaked moss and tea-plant shrubs to get up and throw away, the wall to rebuild, the boat to set up, and the skin to repitch on the oars. All this time it continued to rain hard, with mingled flakes of snow. A tough time, we called it. And, after the tent was pitched again, we had no fire; and could only crouch, wet and shivering, on the bare ledge. I never felt more uncomfortable: my bones all ached; my head ached: I was sick. Wade was worse off than myself even. Throwing himself flat on the rock, he buried his face in his arms, and lay so for more than an hour. Raed and Kit sat blackguarding each other to keep up their spirits. Donovan was trying to dry some pine-splinters to build a fire with by sitting on them. Weymouth was cutting out blubber from the skinned carcass for the fire, so soon as the splinters could be dried. Two matches were burned trying to kindle the pine-shavings. We thought our fire dearly purchased at such a cost. "Only four more," remarked Donovan gravely. "We must not let it go out again," Raed said. "We must sit up, some of us, in future, to tend it." Any thing like the dreary gloom of that morning I hope never to experience again. Sea, sky, and crags seemed all of one color,--lead. Seven or eight miles to southward, the mountains of the mainland (Labrador) showed their black bases under the fog-clouds. The great island to the south-east seemed to have been dipped in ink, so funereal was its hue. The rain had frustrated our attempt at salt manufacture. We had to take our breakfast of fried goose in all the _freshness_ of nature. Our clothes gradually dried on us. During the forenoon Kit sallied out on a hunting excursion, and, about noon, returned with a fine, plump, canvas-backed duck, which we ate for our dinner. Toward four o'clock it stopped raining. Donovan and Weymouth improved the chance to skin the sea-horse we had killed during the night, it was rather larger than the first one, and had prodigious stiff, wiry whiskers about its upper lip, some of which we kept for a curiosity. They were over a foot in length, and as large as a coarse darning-needle. The tusks, too, were broken out, and laid aside. During the night it faired; and the morning was sunny. Wade had become very unwell. He had taken cold from his drenching, and was shivering and feverish by turns. His courage, too, was clean down to zero. He _knew_ we should never see home again, and didn't seem to care whether he lived or not. That is about as bad a way as a fellow can get into ever. I was little better than sick myself; and, while the others went off after eggs and game, I stayed to keep the fire going and take care of Wade. No small stint I had of it too; for he was peevish and touchy as a young badger. I knew he ought to take something hot of the herb-tea sort, and so started off and gathered a dipperful of the tea-plant leaves. Then, getting a lump of ice, I melted it, and made a strong dish of the "tea." Wade was lying under the shelter, face down into his coat-sleeve. Carrying in the steaming dipper, I told him I thought he had better take some of it: it would, I hoped, help his cold, &c. No: he wouldn't touch it! I then reasoned a while. This not having any perceptible effect, I next resorted to coaxing. No: he wouldn't drink the stinking stuff! Now, no doctor, I take it, likes to have his potions called "stinking stuff." I began to remonstrate; and from that--not being in a very amiable frame of mind--I ere long got mad, and was on the point of pitching into the sufferer, when it occurred to me that for a doctor to be caught thrashing his patient would be a very unbecoming spectacle! So I contented myself with giving him a "setting-up;" calling him, according to the best of my recollections, supported by the subsequent testimony of the patient, an "ungrateful dog," "peep," "nincompoop," _et als._: after listening to which for a space, Wade got up and drank the _tea_. Peace was immediately restored with this act of obedience; and I proceeded to get him to bed. Pulling down the boat, I filled it half up with such of the shrubs and moss as had not been besmirched with the blood of the walrus. Wade then got into it. I made him a pillow of the geese-feathers by piling them into the bow under his head, and spreading over them my pocket-handkerchief. I next had him take off his boots, and set a hot rock from the fire at his feet. What to cover him up with was something of a problem. I managed it by putting on a layer of the moss, and laying the thwarts of the boat over this. Then, feeling somewhat fatigued after my labors, I crept in with him; and, ere long, we both went to sleep. The hunting-party coming back, two or three hours after, laden with eggs and brant geese, awoke me. Wade was sweating profusely beneath the boards and moss. We took care not to wake him till near eight o'clock, evening; when he got up, considerably better. The next day (July 26) was spent in the manufacture of salt; not the manufacture of it exactly, either, but the extraction of it from sea-water. We were getting perfectly frantic for salt. The fresh food sickened us. I think we should soon have been really ill from the want of it. Filling the hollow in the ledge with the sea-water, we first tried to get fire enough about it to make the water boil. This we found it impossible to do, and so had recourse to a plan suggested by Kit. It was to get eight or ten stones about the size of the tin bumper, and heat them in the fire. When red-hot, these were successively rolled into the water in the hollow, raising great clouds of steam, and soon causing it to boil furiously. Continuing this stone-heating process for three or four hours, we succeeded in boiling away fully half a dozen pailfuls of water. There was then found to be a thin stratum of salt deposited along the bottom of the hollow. How we crowded around it, wetting the ends of our fingers, and licking it up! Eggs were then fried by the dozen, and eaten with a relish that only salt can give. I should add, however, that this appeared to me to be a very poor quality of salt; or else it had other mineral matter mixed with it, giving it a slightly bitter taste. The quantity obtained at this our first boiling was so small, that we ate it all that night, and with our breakfast next morning. The next forenoon was passed boiling down a second vatful. Wade and I attended to the salt-making, while the rest of the party went off to the islet next to the west after eggs and game. In the evening we provided ourselves with fresh "shake-downs" of moss and the tea-plant. The 28th was devoted by Raed, Kit, and Donovan to a trip down to the mainland on the south. Raed wanted to see what sort of a country it was, with a view to our attempt at going down to Nain in case "The Curlew" should not come back. They did not get back till nine in the evening. They had found the hills and mountains along the coast to be mere barren ridges of lichen-clad rock, with moss-beds in the hollows. But from the summit of the high ridge, about two miles in from the shore, they had seen with the glass, to the southward, what seemed to be low thickets of stunted evergreen,--fir or spruce. From this Raed argued that fuel might be obtained by a party travelling through the country; and, from that, went on to picture these thickets to abound with deer and hares. CHAPTER XIII. More Salt.--Some Big Hailstones.--A Bright Aurora.--The Lookout.--An _Oomiak_ heaves in Sight.--The Huskies land on a Neighboring Island.--Shall we join them?--A Bold, Singular, not to say Infamous, Proposition from Kit.--Some Sharp Talk.--Kit's Project carried by Vote. During the 29th, 30th, and 31st (Sunday) of the month, we were employed much as upon the 27th; viz., boiling for salt, and egging along the cliffs. We wanted to get as much salt on hand as possible; and, by untiring industry, succeeded in getting about a quart ahead. But to do this we had been obliged to keep up a smart fire, which had consumed nearly all the walrus-blubber from both carcasses. Where to get the next supply of fuel was an open question. No more sea-horses had showed themselves. We concluded that this pair were all that had been in the vicinity. On the night of the 31st, a terrible storm of wind, thunder, and hail, swept across the straits from the north-west. Raed picked up hailstones in front of our shelter, after the cloud had passed, which were two inches and a half in diameter. They struck down upon the rocks with almost incredible violence. Any ordinary canvas-tent would have been riddled by them: but our tough walrus-skin bore the brunt, and sheltered us completely. The sea, during the hail-fall, seemed to boil with a loud peculiar roar, and was white with bubbles and foam. There was a very bright aurora the following night. The next morning was fair; but a ghastly greenish haze gave the sky an aspect of strange pallor. Somehow we felt uneasy under it. After breakfast, Kit and I went up to the top of the ledges overlooking the straits to the north, east, and west, to see if we could discover any vessels. Some of us used generally to make our way up here every four or five hours to take a long look. For an hour we sat gazing off on the heaving expanse, flecked white with ice-patch, and bounded far to the north by a low line of black mountains. The breadth of the straits here was not far from seventeen leagues. "Seven days since we were _retired_ here," Kit remarked at length. Seven days! It seemed seven ages. "Kit, what do you think of the chance of our getting off from here?" "Wash, I don't know: I don't dare to think." "Do you really believe Capt. Mazard will come back?" "Why, if he's not captured, nor wrecked in a gale, nor jammed up in the ice, he will come back." "You have no doubt he will come back if he can?" "Why, no: I know he will come if he can. He wouldn't leave us here. Besides, you know, Wash, that we owe him and all the crew for his and their services. I don't say that they would come back any quicker on that account: still they would be likely to want their pay, you know." "That's true." "But, Kit, if 'The Curlew' shouldn't make its appearance, do you believe we could get down to Nain, or any of those Esquimau coast-villages?" "I don't know, Wash: we could try." "Seven hundred miles through such a country as this! Would it be possible?" "It would be no use to stay here, you know, if we found the schooner wasn't coming back. We must, of course, make an effort to get away. It would be foolish to stay here till winter came on. I don't suppose it would be possible for us to winter here: we should freeze to death in spite of every thing we could do. The cold is awfully intense through the winter months. Not even the Esquimaux try to winter on the straits here. Besides, it's about time for the sea-fowl to fly southward. We can't live after they're gone." "But only think of a sixty-days' tramp over these barren mountains! Our boots wouldn't last a hundred miles! Our socks are worn through now!" "Have to make moccasons." "We never should get through alive. I don't believe Wade would stand it to go a quarter of the distance. He's sick now, and, worse still, has no courage. He acts strangely." "Wade will rally when worst comes to worst, and be the head man in extremities." "Do you think so?" "I do. Wade is kind of hot-blooded, you know. Being left here so sudden struck him all in a heap. But he will show blood yet, if it comes to a real hand-to-hand struggle to save our lives. A boy that took his musket, and went right into a fair, stand-up battle of his own accord, as they say Wade did, won't give in here without showing us another side to his character. One thing, he feels the cold here worse than we do: it pinches him all up. But he will come out of his dumps yet. Don't badger him: he won't leave his bones here. Seriously, I have more fear for Weymouth and Donovan than for Wade. That is most always the way where there's hardship and suffering. Your great, strong, thoughtless fellow is the first to give out and fail up. You mark my words, now. If we have to undertake this journey, Weymouth and Donovan will be the first to sicken and fall behind. I don't believe they would ever get through it. But, after the first three days, Wade would lead us all. He will sort of rally and rise as the peril and hardship increase. He is kind of discouraged now, because he sees what's before us, and has to muster his energies to meet it; but he is getting a reserve of will-force in store. There's a good deal in that, I tell you! A strong will has carried many a fellow through hardships that would have killed men of twice the muscle without the will; and that's the way it will be with our two sailors, I'm afraid." "But I am not in favor of making this trip overland," Kit added after we had sat musing a few minutes. "What do you propose?" "I think it best to work out of the straits in our boat, if we can." I had thought of that plan. "We could make a sail out of this walrus-hide, and watch our chance with a favorable breeze to scud us along from islet to islet on the south side here. We could run down into Ungava Bay, clean to the foot of it; and then, leaving the boat, go across to Nain. It couldn't be more than a hundred and fifty miles from the foot of the bay. We could start off, and, with a strong spurt, do it in a week from that place, I think. We should, at least, be sure of getting seals for food. But Raed don't think it best." "Why not?" "Well, he says, that, by the time we get into Ungava Bay, it will begin to freeze ice nights, enough to stop us. He thinks, too, that we should suffer a good deal more from cold on the water than on the land. Then we should have to wait for favorable winds, and be laid up through storms, besides the danger of getting capsized in gusts, and caught in the ice-patches. But he has agreed to leave it to the party to decide. I know the two sailors will vote to go by boat; but I'm not sure Raed is not right, after all. He's a better judge than any of the rest of us, I do suppose. I have a horror of starting off inland, though." A very reasonable horror, I considered it. Any thing but toiling over sterile mountains, for me. We sat there for a long time looking off, pondering the situation. Suddenly my eye caught on a tiny brown speck far to the northward. I watched it a moment, then spoke to Kit. He took out his glass and looked. "That's some sort of a boat," he said at length. "Brown sail! That's a Husky boat, I reckon,--an _oomiak_." I took the glass. The craft was heading southward; coming, it seemed, either for the islet we were on, or else the large island to the south-east. I could see black heads under the large irregular sail. "Coming down to the Labrador side," Kit remarked. "I've heard that they spend the summer on the north side of the straits; go up in the spring, and come back here to Labrador in the latter part of the season." "There are _kayaks_ with it," he said, with the glass to his eye,--"one on each side; and there are one or two, perhaps more, behind." In the course of an hour it had come down within three miles, bearing off toward the large island. "We had best get out of sight, I guess," Kit observed. "Don't care to attract them or frighten them." We went back a little behind the rocks; and Kit ran down to tell the rest of the party. They came back with them,--all but Weymouth, who was not very well, and had lain down for a nap. "That's a big _oomiak_!" exclaimed Raed, taking a long look at it. "One--two--three--five--seven _kayaks_." "How many do you make out in the big boat?" Kit asked. "Nineteen--twenty; and I don't know how many behind the sail," Raed replied. "Those are the women and children, I suppose," Wade said. "Wade's thinking of the Husky belles," Kit remarked with a wink to me; "of the one he gave the scarf to. Let's see: what was her name?" "_Ikewna_," I suggested. "I've noticed Wade has been a little _distrait_ for some time," Raed observed. "Possibly he sighs for the beauteous _Ikewna_!" Wade laughed. "Somebody else was a little sweet on a certain yellow-gloved damsel: rather stout she was, if I recollect aright. Mind who that was, Raed?" "Ah! you refer to _Pussay_," Raed replied. "Well, she was a trifle adipose. But that's a merit in this country, I should judge. Lean folks never could stand these winters." "And where now is the beautiful '_White Goose_,' I wonder!" Kit exclaimed. "And black-eyed _Caubvick_!" said I. "Answer, Echo!" "This crew may be a part of the same lot," Donovan suggested. "It isn't likely," said Raed. "We are now a hundred and fifty miles farther west than the Middle Savage Isles. It is hardly possible. But I dare say they are as much like them as peas in a pod." The _oomiak_ passed us about a mile to the eastward, and, approaching the shore of the large island, was luffed up to the wind handsomely. More than a dozen dogs leaped out, and went splashing to the shore. The men landed from the _kayaks_, and, wading out into the water, laid hold of the _oomiak_, and, guiding it in on the swell, carried it up high and dry. Several of the children had jumped out with the dogs. The women, old folks, and younger children, now followed. The shore fairly swarmed. We could hear them shouting, screaming, and jabbering, and the dogs barking. Guard looked off and growled slightly, turning his great dark eyes inquiringly to our faces. "He don't like the looks of them," said Donovan: "remembers the fuss he had with them when they chased Palmleaf and him." "They seem to be preparing to stop there, I should say," Kit remarked. "They've pulled up the _oomiak_ some way from the water, out of reach of the tide, and are unloading it. There are quantities of skins, tents, harpoons, &c. There! they are all starting up from the water, loaded down with trumpery,--going off from the shore toward the middle of the island." They had not seen us; and, after watching them disappear among the barren hillocks, we went back to our camp for dinner. Unless they came along to the extreme western end of the large island, they would not discover our camp. At first, we decided to have nothing to do with them. We had nothing in the "_chymo_" line except Wade's broken bayonet. They would only be a nuisance with us. "But, if we could contrive to make them catch seals for us for fuel, it might be worth while to cultivate their acquaintance a little," Kit suggested. "If we could get a seal a day from them for our fire, it might be a good plan enough," Wade thought. "But we've nothing to pay them with; unless we paid them in promises of iron and knives when our _ship comes back_," I said. "I don't suppose our greenbacks would be a legal tender with them." "But, in case 'The Curlew' should _not_ come back, we might not be able to redeem our promises," Raed remarked. "In that case," said Kit, "we might as well marry all their daughters, and take up our abode here. As their sons-in-law, we could perhaps excuse it to them." "Possibly the daughters might object to this arrangement," said Wade. "Why, you don't doubt your ability to win the affections of a Husky belle, do you?" demanded Kit, laughing. "I doubt if our accomplishments would be rated very high among the fair Esquimaux," said Raed. "Not to be able to catch seals is deemed a great disgrace with them. Our going to them to beg seal-blubber would be a very black mark. We should be looked upon much in the light of paupers. No young Husky thinks of proposing to his lady-love till he has become an expert seal-catcher." "It seems hard not to be thought eligible even by a Husky family," Kit observed. "But let's go over there and see what we can do. If we can't trade with them, we might lay them under contribution by force of arms. What say to beginning our career as conquerors by subjugating that island of Esquimaux, and levying a seal-tax? That's the way our Saxon ancestors first entered England. Has the sanction of history, you see,--as far down even as the ex-emperor Napoleon III." "You can't be in earnest," said Raed, suddenly looking round to him. "I am," said Kit. "Decidedly the easiest way (for us) to deal with them. If we were to go over there with a show of authority, they wouldn't make much resistance, I'm very sure. We would take possession of their _oomiak_. That would hold them to the island. They couldn't get off without that,--at least, the women and children couldn't; and the men would not desert their families." "Now, there's a scheme of rapine worthy of Cæsar!" sneered Raed. "Kit, I am ashamed of you!" "I don't care. We're in a tight place. I don't mean them any harm. But, if we are going to be dependent on them for our supplies, it will be much better for us to have them under our authority. They're a mere set of ignorant heathens. We know more than they do; and it is but fair that the wisest should govern." "That's the very argument the old piratical sea-kings of Norway used to use!" Raed exclaimed. "It's about a thousand years behind civilized times!" "Not so far behind the times as that, I guess," Kit replied. "But I don't care: this is a force-put with us. We don't want to place ourselves in the power of those savages. Yet we need their assistance,--assistance for which we will repay them well when 'The Curlew' comes,--if it comes. Now, I say it is best for us, and will be better for them, to have them do as we want them to while we are on their island." "In a word, you propose to make slaves of them," remarked Raed. "You mean to deprive them of their liberty." "Yes, to a certain extent, I do." "I am sorry to hear you talk in this way. I hoped no citizen of a free State would use language like that." "Sorry to shock your sincere convictions," replied Kit; "but when it comes to making slaves of others, or being a slave myself, I should choose the former alternative always." "But there's no such alternative in this case," Raed argued. "Not exactly. Still I shall hold to my first opinion. If we are going to take supplies from them,--as it seems necessary that we should,--I think it will be better to have them under our control as long as we are here. You mistake me: I don't justify it from principle; but, as a temporary measure, I think it expedient." "So was it expedient for the old Romans to attack and capture Corinth and Carthage, and just as fair and right." "That merely shows how history repeats itself," laughed Kit. "Don't laugh, sir!" cried Raed. "The principle is the same, as if, with a hundred thousand men at your back, you should land in England, and undertake to subdue that island instead of this." "You have a very forcible way of putting things, I'll allow; but there's danger, Raed, of carrying general principles too far." "For example," interrupted Wade. "Raed, with a number of other abolitionists, believed that all men ought to be free: so they kept to work stirring up bad feeling between the North and South till the war broke out, when they fell upon us with their armies and fleets, and committed the most wholesale piece of robbery that ever disgraced history,--robbed us of several billion dollars' worth of property, all at one swoop." "To what sort of property do you refer?" Raed asked. "Slaves." "I thought so!" "Then you are not disappointed in my 'principles,' as you choose to term them?" "Not in the least!" "I, at least, have never tried to conceal them." "I should expect you to favor Kit's proposition; but I'm sadly surprised to hear Kit make it." "Understand me!" exclaimed Kit. "I advocate it merely as a temporary measure, only justified by our necessity. I mean to pay them for all we have. But we haven't the pay here. They wouldn't trust us for what we want. Under these circumstances, I mean to assume the control of their affairs for a few days or weeks, as the case may be, and get what we must have by force of authority--till we can pay." "It's nothing more nor less than robbery, Kit!" cried Raed; "a mere subterfuge, in open violation of the free principles of the noble land we hail from!" "Too bad, I know," said Kit; "but 'needs must where a _certain person_ drives.'" "Kit, you shock me! Do you not believe in an allwise Providence?" "Generally speaking, yes." "A Power that takes care of us?" "Yes, again; but it's after a sort not very flattering to the personal vanity of us poor mortals." "One would naturally suppose, that, situated as we are at present, where the prospect of our getting through the next six months is so poor, you would hesitate at provoking that Power by such an act as this you propose." "Raed, that's all bosh! If you mean to ask me if I believe that there is a Power that will interfere miraculously to rescue us from freezing or starving here, I answer promptly, I do not. God doesn't work so. Persons have to take the consequences of their own acts in this world, now-a-days. And as regards tempting Providence by doing any thing of the sort I proposed,--tempting it to some act of vengeance on us,--bosh again! God doesn't work that way at all. Besides, to come back to the subject in hand, I've no conscientious scruples about it; for I believe it to be the best thing we can do." "I protest!" Raed exclaimed. "It is neither just nor right!" "Well, how's this matter to be settled?" Wade demanded. "I suppose so rigid a republican as Raed will be willing to have it decided by vote?" "Yes," said Raed, "though I lament the issue. Call our names, Kit. Those in favor of Kit's proposition will vote 'Yea:' those who believe it wrong will vote 'Nay.'" Kit's voice trembled a little as he began. "Raed?" "Nay." "Wash?" "Nay." "Wade?" "Yea." "Donovan?" "Yea." "Weymouth?" "Yea." "Not to include my own vote with the affirmative, there is a majority in favor of the measure we have just discussed," said Kit gravely. "Please put it in words," said Raed. "Why, we all know what I mean," replied Kit. "But I want to hear it stated," insisted Raed. "Well, then, there is a majority in favor of the temporary occupation and control of yonder island,--a measure justified by our necessity." "You have put it very mildly," remarked Raed. "I should give it in very different terms. Kit, I am disgusted with this movement. I can't give it any sympathy whatever." "You are not going to _secede_, I hope," sneered Wade. "I am not," said Raed, turning in a passion. "I am, I hope, too good a patriot to be a secessionist, much less a _rebel_." For a moment they looked straight at each other. Wade's eyes snapped, and his hands clinched. "Here, here!--come, none of that!" exclaimed Kit, "or I'll thrash both of you. Wade, you are to blame. You said the first unkind thing. You ought to ask his pardon." "He needn't do that," said Raed. "I was to blame as well as he." "Well, that's magnanimous!" exclaimed Wade, suddenly relenting. "Beg'e' pardon, old fellow! I _was_ to blame." And we all laughed, in spite of the qualms sticking in our throats. CHAPTER XIV. We set up a Military Despotism on "Isle Aktok."--"No Better than Filibusters!"--The Seizure of the Oomiak.--The Seal-Tax.--A Case of Discipline.--_Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_.--The Inside of a Husky Hut.--"Eigh, Eigh!"--An Esquimau Ball.--A Funeral.--Wutchee and Wunchee's Cookery.--The Esquimau Whip. "Raed, will you act as leader, or captain?" Kit asked. "I decline," was the reply. "It is hardly fair to ask me, I think. That honor--if you look upon it as such--is clearly yours." "Very well, then. All hands launch the boat!" It was done. "Load in the walrus-hides." They were rolled up and thrown in. "Ship the _spider_ too." I carried it aboard. "Now each man spend fifteen minutes attending to his musket! Get off all rust! See that the locks move easily! Load them, and fix the bayonets!" This done, we called Guard, and embarked; not forgetting to take our dipper of salt, the walrus-tusks, and Wade's broken bayonet. "Give 'way!" was the order. Weymouth and Donovan dipped the oars; and we darted out from the little cove beneath the ledges where for seven days we had kept our camp-fire blazing. Kit took up a paddle, and from the stern directed our course toward the larger island. "I can't see what better we are than any gang of desperadoes or filibusters," Raed remarked. "Circumstances alter cases, Raed," replied Kit. "Now, for God's sake, don't shed the blood of any of the poor wretches!" Raed said. "Never fear: we will manage it without killing any of them, I guess." On coming up within a quarter of a mile of the shore, we surveyed it carefully. There were none of the Esquimaux in sight, however, to oppose our landing; and the boat was rowed along to within four or five hundred yards of the place where the _oomiak_ and _kayaks_ had been drawn up on the shore. Landing, we drew up our boat between two large rocks, and went along to where the _oomiak_ lay. "What a great scow of a craft it is!" exclaimed Weymouth. "Not less than thirty-five or forty feet long," Raed remarked. "Seven feet wide, certain," said Wade. "That's walrus-hide that it is covered with, I think," said Kit; "four or five hides sewed together. We might have our two sewed together for a tent." "We'll have them do it for us after we've got our _dynasty_ established," said Wade. "Forward, now!" cried Kit. We followed their trail up from their canoes; and, after crossing several ledgy ridges, at length espied their encampment, distant about half a mile from the water. It was in a hollow, surrounded by crags and rocks. The place had probably been chosen on account of its sheltered situation. It was doubtless an old haunt of theirs. "Now form in line, boys," Kit requested, "and move on steadily!" We did so, Guard walking soberly behind us. There were five tents of seal-skin clustered together near what we discovered to be a spring, or run, of water. Half a dozen Huskies were in sight, moving about the camp; and, the moment our approach was discovered, they came pouring out to the number of thirty or forty. As we came up, a few scattered, and ran off among the crags; but the greater part stood huddled together. "Now keep cool, boys!" Kit advised. "Don't fire in any case, unless I give the word,--except Wade. He may fire his musket in the air when we come close to them, by way of giving them a foretaste of what we can do." When we had come up facing them to within three or four yards, Kit gave the order to halt. Wade fired his musket. The swarthy, long-haired crowd stared hard at us in perfect silence. Kit then advanced a little, and pointing to us, and then to himself, exclaimed in a loud voice,-- "_Cob-loo-nak!_" ("Englishmen!") And, by way of giving emphasis to the announcement, he repeated it several times. Then, pointing off to the east and north, he said,-- "_Oomiak-sook!_" ("Big ship!") And, when this had been duly repeated, he cried out,-- "_Chymo--aunay!_" ("The trade is far off!") "Now the next thing is to seize the _oomiak_," said he. "We will make them help as bring it up here. I'll detail a party for that purpose." He now pointed off to the shore with the word _oomiak_, and, stepping up to one of the men, laid his hand on his shoulder, and made signs for him to go with us. The man, a stout, short fellow, seemed partly to comprehend his meaning, and rather reluctantly moved out from his fellows. "We shall want as many as seven or eight of them," remarked Wade. "Form a ring around this one, then, while I get out another," said Kit. But the second one backed off as Kit approached him, gesticulating, and shouting, "_Na-mick, na-mick!_" and, on Kit's laying his hand on his shoulder, he let out a "straight left" with considerable _vim_. "Donovan," said Kit, "take hold of him!" Don made a rush, and, clutching one hand into his hair, shook him about, tripped him up, and held the point of the butcher-knife at his throat. The savage howled and begged. With a single effort Donovan set him on his feet, and thrust him into the ring. The third, fourth, and fifth man came out at a mere tap on the shoulder. But the sixth--a little dark fellow--jumped back when Kit stepped up to him, and struck with a rough dagger-shaped weapon made of a walrus-tusk. Indeed, it was a wonder he had not stabbed him; for the movement was remarkably quick and cat-like. Donovan sprang forward; but Kit caught his arm, and dealt him a blow with his fist that sent him reeling to the ground. Don seized him by the collar of his bear-skin smock, and, with a twitch and a kick, sent him spinning into the ring. Several of the remaining men had run to their tents, and now re-appeared with harpoons in their hands. Kit took his musket, and, walking up to one of them, struck the dart out of his hand with a tweak of the bayonet, and then walked him along to the ring. "I guess seven will be enough," said Wade. "Well, keep round them," replied Kit. "Don't let 'em get away from us. Ready! Forward, march!" We turned to go down to the _oomiak_, and had proceeded a few steps, when some of the savages about the huts suddenly shouted "_Ka-ka, ka-ka!_" In an instant their dogs, which had been growling and prowling about all the time, rushed after us, barking madly. Guard was a little behind us. They set upon him like hungry wolves. Such a barking and snarling! Kit and Wade, who formed the rear-guard, ran to the rescue. Wade laid on them with the butt of his musket; while Kit, with his bayonet, gave several of the gaunt, wolfish curs thrusts which speedily changed their growls to yelps of agony. The savages cried out dismally. Exclamations of "_Mickee!_" "_Arkut mickee!_" "_Parut mickee!_" besought us not to kill them. They had set them on to us, nevertheless. The dog riot suppressed, we moved on down to the shore. The _oomiak_ was then turned bottom up, and the mast which had supported their sails thrust under it transversely about ten feet back of the bows. This mast was a stick of yellow pine, from Labrador probably, about fifteen feet long. It projected four or five feet on each side,--far enough for them to take hold to carry the _oomiak_ on it. Wade ran out to our boat and brought one of the oars, which was thrust under, near the stern, in the same way. Kit then stationed six of the Huskies at the mast-pole forward, three on each side: the other he placed at the stern end of the scow. Weymouth took hold of one end of the paddle, and Donovan the other. Kit then made signs to the Huskies to lift at their pole. They raised it; and the sailors lifting the stern at the same time, and walking on, we had it fairly started. It was pretty heavy, however. The Esquimaux soon began to pant; seeing which, we had them set it down and rest every thirty or forty rods. We were near an hour getting back to their huts. They had worked well. Their part of the load must have been somewhat over a hundred pounds per man, we thought. "Better than niggers; a great deal better," Wade pronounced them. "I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a good plan to import them into the United States to work on our railroads." "For slaves, I suppose," said Raed. "No; not for slaves. Now that slavery is fairly abolished, I am not much in favor of its re-establishment. Take them down to work for fair wages. Should as lief have them as to have the Chinese, and risk it." "That makes me think," Kit remarked, "that I have read that some ethnologists think the Esquimaux are a branch of the Chinese nation." "You would send vessels like the cooly ships up here to kidnap them, I suppose," Raed observed. "You could only carry them away by main force. They are too much attached to their bleak home to leave it voluntarily." "Well, what of that," said Wade. "Don't be so dreadfully afraid to have a little force used! If it would permanently better their condition, why not bring the whole nation of them farther south by force. A horde of ignorant savages like these don't always know what's best for them, by a long sight. If all these polar tribes could be brought down into a milder climate, it would be vastly better for them. So of the ignorant, brutish negroes of Africa: if they could be got out of their barbarous haunts, and brought up into the latitude of New York and Paris, it would be vastly better for them; and they might be made to do something useful in the world. Millions of hands are lying idle in Africa, which, under proper direction, might be turned to some account, and made to contribute both to the world's progress and their own happiness. But, of course, such savage tribes will never move of their own accord: it remains for more enlightened nations to move them." "That's an argument for the re-opening of the slave-trade, I presume," Raed remarked. "Oh, no! You judge me too severely. I meant just what I said; nothing more." "If what Wade proposes could be done without violent usage, suffering, and injustice, I think it would be a great and good work," said Kit. "Well, in that I agree with you fully," replied Raed; "but the trouble would be to find a nation or a company that would deal justly and humanely with such savages." We let them rest an hour after bringing up the _oomiak_; then started them back to bring up our own boat, with our _spider_ and walrus-skins. This took till nearly six o'clock, evening. The walrus-skins were then unrolled, and spread out on the ground. "Now we want these sewed together," said Kit: "then we can pitch them on their _oomiak_-mast for a tent-pole." Wade spread out the two skins so that the edges touched each other: then, beckoning to one of the men, he pointed first to the edges, next to the seams where the hide had been sewed on the _oomiak_, then off to the huts, pronouncing the word "_hennelay_" ("woman"). The savage understood him in a moment, and went off into the hut. Presently two chubby faces appeared at the doorway, but shrank back the moment we espied them. We could hear a great talking and urging going on inside. After a while, when we had gone to move the _oomiak_ round so as to form one side of a sort of fort, they stole out, and came reluctantly along, the man following them, apparently to keep them from escaping. Seeing them approaching, Kit and Wade went to meet them, smiling and bowing, and pointing to the walrus-skins. They knew what was wanted, and fell to work to sew the two hides together, occasionally casting shy eyes toward us. What amused us was, that each was the exact counterpart of the other. They were just of a size, and of the same height. Face, features, and expression were identical. The man, who might possibly have been their father, but more probably their elder brother, saw our amazed looks, and said "_Bi-coit-suk_:" at least, it sounded like that. The meaning of the word we could only guess at. But, if _bi-coit-suk_ does not mean twins, I am greatly mistaken. On questioning the man, using the word _kina_, and pointing to each, we learned, after he understood us, that one was named _Wutchee_, and the other _Wunchee_. The meanings of these words I have no need to translate: they were decidedly significant, and amused us a good deal. For sewing the hides together they used an awl of bone. The thread, which was of the sinew of some animal, was thrust through the awl-holes like a shoemaker's waxed-end, and drawn tight. When they had finished, Kit gave _Wutchee_ (or _Wunchee_, for the life of me I couldn't tell which) a half-dozen pins from a round pin-ball he cherished, and three or four bright nickel five-cent bits. Wade then gave _Wunchee_ (?) his pen-knife, and an old cuff-button he happened to have in his pocket. They accepted these presents as modest as you please; but it did seem a little droll to see them immediately fall to licking them all over with their tongues. They did not seem to act as if they considered the gifts fairly their own till they had _licked_ them. We had not observed this practice among those who boarded us at the Middle Savage Isles; but with these the custom seemed a universal one among the women. Even if the gift were a rusty nail, they would lick it all the same. It is said that the mothers lick their young children over like she-bears. Wade also gave the man who had accompanied them the point of his broken bayonet. The fellow looked it over, and then, getting his harpoon, unlashed the bone blade, and substituted the bayonet-point in its place. "He seems to understand its use," Kit remarked. "Hope he won't experiment with it on us unawares." The walrus-skins were then raised on the _oomiak_ mast, the edges resting on the bottoms of our boat and the _oomiak_, placed on both sides. Stones laid along the edges held them in place. Not to be too near our _subjects_ (for they were rather noisy, and smelled pretty strong of rancid fat), we had placed our tent about two hundred feet away from their huts. While the rest had been pitching the tent, Wade and Weymouth had constructed a rough arch of stones, and set our spider in the top of it as we had previously arranged it. "Ready for the seal!" said Wade. "They've got seal-blubber about their huts; I saw some of the young ones eating chunks of it," Donovan remarked. Several of the men had come round where we were at work, and among them the little dark chap who had tried to stab Kit. Wade went along to him, and pointing to his own mouth, and then toward the mouths of the rest of us, said, "_Pussay_" ("Seal"). But the fellow was still sullen, and stared defiantly. "Have to discipline him a little, I reckon," Kit muttered. Again Wade pronounced the word _pussay_, pointing off toward their huts. "_Na-mick!_" exclaimed the Esquimau fractiously. "_Na-mick! Ik pee-o nar-kut bok!_" swinging his arms. "_Ik pee-o askut ammee pussay!_" "Any idea what he said?" Wade asked, turning to Kit. "No: but it was a refusal; I know by his actions.--Donovan, there's another job for you!" Don went off a little to one side, and, working up toward him, made a sudden lunge, and had him by the hair in a twinkling. Such a shaking as the poor wretch got! Then, with a quick trip, Donovan laid him flat on his back, and, jerking out his big knife, began strapping it ominously on his boot-leg. Oh, how the terrified savage howled! Raed turned away in disgust. After frightening him nearly into fits with the knife, the stalwart sailor with a twitch threw him across his knee, and applied the flat of the butcher-knife to the seat of his seal-skin trousers with _reports_ that must have been distinctly audible for a quarter of a mile. All the Huskies came rushing up, screaming and gesticulating. The dogs barked. There was a general uproar. After three or four dozen of these emphatic reminders of arbitrary power, Donovan set the shrieking wretch on his feet, and, still holding on to his hair, shouted in his face the word _pussay_ a dozen times in a tone that might have been heard on the neighboring islands. Kit and Wade and Weymouth all fell to shouting the same word; catching the meaning of which, more than a dozen of the Huskies, men and women, ran to their huts, and brought pieces of seal-blubber to the amount of several hundred-weight. The little dark chap disappeared, and we saw no more of him for two days. "Now we want some eggs," said Kit. "What's the word for egg?" "_Wau-ve_," Raed replied. Wade then called _wau-ve_ several times to the crowd. They ran off again, and in a few minutes returned with fifteen or twenty of the razor-bill's eggs; and a party immediately set off toward the cliffs for more. "I admire their promptness," Kit observed, laughing. "They are beginning to respect us," said Wade. "But would it not have been far better to have come over here and asked them kindly for what we wanted?" Raed demanded. "No," said Kit; "for we should not have got it." "I don't know about that," replied Raed. "I know we shouldn't," said Wade. "We should have got a square _na-mick_ to start with; and I am inclined to believe they would have attacked us with their daggers and harpoons. Then we should have been obliged to kill a lot of them in self-defence. As it is, we haven't hurt anybody yet. A dose of spanks won't injure any of them, I'll warrant." "But this whole business is revolting,--to me, at least," Raed continued. "Oh, I guess you will stand it!" laughed Kit. "But, Raed, if I were you, I wouldn't show quite so much of my righteous indignation. You want your supper as well as the rest of us." "No doubt." "Well, honestly, old fellow, I could not see any better way to get it for you." "Well, I hoped never to eat a supper procured by slave-labor." "You won't notice any great difference in the taste, I dare say," replied Wade. Donovan was preparing splints from the old thwart, and covering them with the blubber in the arch. Ten or a dozen of the Esquimaux were looking on. When he struck a match on his sleeve, exclamations of wonder broke out. Matches were a novelty with them. From their strange looks, and glances toward each other, we concluded that they took us to be either great saints, or devils; most likely the latter, from the way we had previously deported ourselves. The eggs were fried, and eaten with a sprinkling of salt. A fire of seal-blubber was probably a very extravagant luxury in the eyes of our Husky subjects. They had no fire while we were with them, save their flickering stone lamps. Yet the use of cooked food seemed not to be wholly unknown among them. On several occasions we saw them boiling, or at least parboiling, a duck in a stone kettle over five or six of their lamps set together. They often gave food cooked in this way to their young children, and in cases where any of their number are sick. If wood were plenty, they would doubtless soon come to relish it best; since it is undoubtedly the scarcity of wood which has driven them to raw food. Whatever we did,--in our cooking, eating, and in all our movements,--we were sure of a curious and admiring crowd. There were, in all, thirty-seven of the Esquimaux on the island,--nine men and eleven women, adults: the remaining seventeen ranged from one to eighteen years apparently. So far as we could learn, they kept little or no record of their ages. One man, whom they called _Shug-la-wina_, seemed to exercise a sort of authority over the rest; but whether it was from any hereditary claim to power, or simply from the fact that he was rather larger in stature than the others, was not very clear. Another, the little dark chap whom Donovan had punished for his snappishness, was almost continually slapping and cuffing the rest about. His name was _Twee-gock_. Besides _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_, there were, of the girls, one named _Coonee_,--a very laughing little creature,--and another called _Iglooee_ ("hut-keeper" or "house-keeper"). Neither of these was so large nor so handsome as _Wutchee_ or _Wunchee_. The last two were Kit and Wade's favorites. They were quaint little creatures, just about four feet and a half in height; chubby, and rather fleshy; and would have weighed rising a hundred pounds, probably. Their faces were rather larger in proportion than our American girls, rounder and flatter; noses inclined to the pug order; eyes black, and pretty well drawn up at the inner corners; cheek-bones rather high, though their flesh prevented them from appearing disagreeably prominent; mouths large, showing large white teeth; ears big enough to hear well; hair black, straight, and occasionally pugged up behind; complexion swarthy, though, in their case, tolerably clear; feet very small; and hands sizable. Add to this description an ever-genial, pleased expression of countenance, with considerable sprightliness of manner dashed with something like _naïveté_; then picture them in trousers and jackets, with their hoods, and those irresistibly comical "tails,"--and you have _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_, the belles of our island kingdom. After our supper of eggs, of which they soon brought as many as seven or eight dozen, Raed proposed that we should take a look at the interior of some of their huts. So, leaving the two sailors with Guard on sentinel duty, we went along to the hut belonging to _Shug-la-wina_, and by signs expressed our desire to go in. He pulled aside the flap in front, and we stepped under. The tent-frame was of small sticks of the yellow pine, with a straight ridge-pole. Over the frame was thrown a covering of cured seal-skin or walrus-skin. A stone lamp, suspended by seal-skin thongs, hung at the farther end. It was burning feebly. The wick seemed to be of long fibers of moss. The lamp itself was simply an open bowl hollowed out of a stone, about the size of a two-quart measure. The oil was the fat of seals or walruses. On one side there was a quantity of fox-skins and bear-skins thrown down promiscuously. Upon these reclined _Shug-la-wina's_ wife _Took-la-pok_ and his daughter _Iglooee_. Kit made them a present of three pins each. On the other side of the hut there was stowed a sledge, with runners of bone firmly lashed together with thongs. On it was a stone pot, hollowed, like the lamp, out of a large stone. Several harpoons stood in the farther corner. A coil of thong lay on the sledge; also two whips with short handles of bone, but exceedingly long lashes,--not less than fifteen or twenty feet in length. There were lying about half a dozen tusks of the walrus, and, on a low stone shelf, a hundred-weight or more of seal-pork. We were turning to go out, when Wade pointed to the end of a bow and the heads of two arrows protruding from under the furs. Kit took them up; but _Shug-la-wina_ very gravely took them from his hands, and returned them to their hiding-place. The bow was of some dark bone, I thought,--possibly whalebone; the bow-string of sinew; and the arrows of wood, but provided with rough iron heads. The sight of these iron heads surprised us a little, as well as the discovery in another hut of an English case-knife. That knife, doubtless, had a history. On going out, Wade took up one of the bear-skins, and pointed off to our tent. "_Abb_," replied the Esquimau, nodding. We took it along with us. The other huts were much the same as _Shug-la-wina's_. We got a bear-skin from each. Wutchee and Wunchee gave us two. These skins, spread over a "shake-down" of moss, made us a very comfortable bed. By this time it was past ten o'clock; and, after arranging for regular sentinel duty,--two hours in each watch,--we turned in on our bear-skins, save Weymouth, who had the first watch. But we were horribly disturbed by the incessant barking, growling, and fighting of their dogs. Such a set of vicious, snarling curs do not exist in any other quarter of the world, I hope. They were decidedly the most troublesome of our new subjects. Guard could not stir out away from us without being assaulted tooth and nail. Fights of from two to half a dozen combatants were in progress all night; and not only that night, but each succeeding night. Several times some one or other of the Huskies would rush out from their huts, and lay about them with their long whips, shouting "_Eigh, eigh, eigh!_" We could hear the whips snap, followed by piteous yelps and long-drawn howls. Then there would be silence for perhaps ten minutes: by that time another fight would be in full blast. "What, for thunder sake, do they keep so many dogs for?" growled Donovan. "To draw their sledges in winter," I heard Raed explaining to him.... [Seventeen pages, containing, as appears from the chapter-head, an account of an Esquimau ball, a funeral, also of _Wutchee's_ and _Wunchee's_ cookery, are here missing from the manuscript. The young author is now absent with the party in Brazil.--ED.] Strange how these people can live without salt! They make no use of it with their food; eat fresh seal-blubber, mainly, all their lives. No wonder they look flabby! And yet they are a happy set; always laughing, joking, and badgering each other. Very likely their joys are not of a very high order: but I doubt whether civilization would make them much happier; though, according to the theory of us civilized folks, it ought to. They lead an easy life,--easy, in a savage way; though breaking up dog-fights does keep them pretty tolerably busy. To-day (Aug. 7) we had a perfect dog-war. Three or four of the ravening, howling curs assaulted Guard under the very flap of our tent. Donovan caught up a musket, and, running out, pinned one of them down with the bayonet, and held him for some seconds. On letting him up, the dog ran off howling, with the blood streaming out of him. Instantly all the rest set after him, barking like furies. Round and round the huts they went, all snarling and snapping at the wounded one. Presently out rushed old _Shug-la-wina_ and _Twee-gock_ with their whips, shouting "_Eigh, eigh!_" and laying about them. The ends of the thongs cracked like pistol-shots. The hair and hide flew up from the dogs' backs. As fast as one got a _crack_, he would leap up and run off, licking at the spot. How the boys laughed! "That's a savage weapon!" exclaimed Wade. "I should about as lief take a shot from a revolver as one of those 'cracks' on my bare skin. Moses, how it would sting!" "I don't believe it would hurt through anybody's thick coat," Donovan remarked. "Humph! it would cut right through to a fellow's hide!" exclaimed Kit. "Nonsense!" "Bet you don't dare to let one of them crack at you!" "I wouldn't let one of them snap at my back, for fear he would hit my ears or hands instead; but I had just as lief let him crack at my leg below my knee, under my boot-leg, as not." "Agreed!" Kit ran to get old _Shug-la-wina_ with his whip. "Bet my musket against yours that you can't stand three cracks on your boot-leg!" laughed Wade. "I take it!" cried Donovan. In a few minutes Kit came back with the old Esquimau and his whip. Signs were made; and Donovan raised his foot on a rock, exposing his boot-leg. The veteran Husky began to _yeh-yeh!_ He understood. Standing off about twenty-five feet, he gathered the lash up; then, swinging the handle around his head, let the long thong go circling around him like a black snake. Faster and faster revolved the black gyres,--twenty times, I have no doubt. Presently he fetched a snap. The black thong shot out like lightning. _Thut!_ A bit of the leather flew up, spinning in the air. Donovan caught away his leg with a profane exclamation. We crowded round. There was a hole in the boot-leg! "Gracious!" exclaimed Weymouth. Don jerked off his boot. On the calf of his leg there was a mark about half an inch wide, and an inch or more in length, red as blood, and rapidly puffing up. "Have another?" demanded Wade. "Not much! One will do for me!" We naturally picked up a good many words of their language; though of its structure--if it have any--we learned little. Other anxieties occupied our minds so fully, that we were not very attentive scholars. Like the Indians of our Territories, the Esquimaux seemed much addicted to running a whole sentence into a single word, or what sounded like it, of immense length. These sentence-words we could make very little of. But of their detached words, standing for familiar things, I add a vocabulary from such as I can now call to mind:-- Pillitay, Give. Give me something. Igloo, A hut. Igloo-ee, A hut-keeper. Wau-ve, An egg. Mickee, A dog. Tuk-tuk, A reindeer. Muck-tu, A caribou. Tuck-tu, Seal-blubber. Nenook, A bear. Chymo, Trade; barter. Eigh! Stop! Hold up! Get out! Karrack, Wood. Tyma, Good. Mai, Good. Negga-mai, Not good. Na-mick, No. Abb, Yes. Singipok, Sleep. Kayak, A canoe. Coonee, A kiss. Cobloo-nak, An Englishman. Pee-o mee-wanga, I want. Aunay, Far off. Ye-meck, Water. Hennelay, A woman. We-we, A white goose. Muck-mhameek, A knife. Kolipsut, A lamp. Pussay, A seal. Awak, A walrus. Ka-ka! Go 'long! St-'boy! Oomiak, A large boat. Oomiak-sook, A ship. Kannau-weet-ameg, A dart. Kina? What is it? What's that? Twau-ve! Begone! Leave! CHAPTER XV. Winter at Hand.--We hold a Serious Council.--"Cold! oh, how Cold!"--A Midnight Gun.--The Return of "The Curlew."--"A J'yful 'Casion."--A Grand Distribution of Presents.--Good-by to the Husky Girls.--A Singular Savage Song.--We All get Sentimental.--Adieu to "Isle Aktok."--Homeward Bound.--We engage "The Curlew" and her Captain for Another Year. Aug. 11.--Water froze last night nearly half an inch of ice. It seemed like December in our home latitude. All day the sky was hazy and cold, with driving mists. The wind blew from the north and north-west almost continually. A fortnight had made a great change in the weather. Summer seemed to be fast merging into winter. During the afternoon and evening we held a serious "council of war;" for all hope of the return of "The Curlew" was now well-nigh abandoned. After some discussion, it was voted to stay here on the island during the winter, rather than attempt either to get out of the straits in our boat, or reach Nain overland. During the morning _Shug-la-wina_ had come to our tent, and pointed to the _oomiak_ then off to the southward. We knew that it was to urge us to allow them to depart southward into Labrador. The question now arose with us, Should we allow them to go according to their habit? Raed thought we ought to let them go, and not subject them to the peril of a winter passed here on the island; but Kit and Wade opposed this proposition _in toto_. "Once on the mainland," said Kit, "and our control over them will cease. They would either desert us, or else be joined by numbers whom we should find it impossible to govern. Not an inch shall they budge from here while I stay." And in this view he was supported by Wade and the sailors. Indeed, I voted to keep them with us myself. To let them go seemed suicidal. "But they may all starve here before spring," Raed urged. "That would be terrible!" "Well, we must take measures to see that they don't starve," replied Kit. "Now's our chance to show them the advantages of our administration. To-morrow we must begin a regular autumnal hunt. Every seal and every bear, and such of the sea-fowl as have not already flown, we must capture for winter-store. We must keep them at it sharp. There's no need of starving, if we manage rightly. To-morrow we will begin a regular hunt,--send out hunting-parties every day. Whatever is brought in we will take charge of, and deal out as they need." "In case they were like to starve, a lot of these worthless dogs could be killed for them to eat," said Donovan. "It wouldn't hurt my feelings to slaughter the whole pack of them." "It no need to come to that, if we manage rightly," replied Kit. Thus it was left. The only cause for immediate alarm was the ghastly fact, that we had only eleven cartridges remaining. Toward evening it came on to snow. A dreary night settled down upon the island. But we lighted our Husky lamp [it would appear that they had procured a stone lamp from the Esquimaux], and made things as cheery as we could. For the past week we had given up sentinel-duty, save what Guard could do. There seemed no call for it. About ten we all lay down on our bear-skins, and, covering them over us, were soon comfortable. But, somehow, that night my head was full of dreams. I dreamed everything a fellow could well imagine, and a good many things no one ever could imagine awake. I went all over the stern experiences of the past two months. Again we were hunting bears in "Mazard's Bay." Again we were tossing amid the ice. At that stage of my fancies, the dogs probably got to fighting; for suddenly I was back on our desolate isle. It was mid-winter; cold! oh, how cold! The island was a mass of ice. _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_ had frozen: we were all freezing. Suddenly one of the Company's ships hove in sight, sailing over the ice-fields, and began a bombardment of our island. They had found us at last, and now were about to shell us out, together with our miserable subjects. How their heavy guns roared! Their shells came dropping down with ruinous explosions. Then one came roaring into our tent. There was a moment of horrible suspense. The fuse tizzed. _Bang!_ We were blown to atoms! I started. It had waked me,--something had. The lamp gave a sickly light. Kit was getting up too; so was Wade. I was already on my feet, near where we had stacked our guns. "Did you fire a musket?" Kit demanded. "What did you fire at?" exclaimed Wade. Raed was rousing up; so were the sailors. I hastily disavowed any shooting on my part. "Well, what was _that_, then?" "Certainly heard something," said Wade. "I thought some of you fired," Raed observed. They were all a little suspicious of me. "He fired one of those muskets in his sleep!" I heard Wade whisper to Kit as we pulled aside the flap of the tent to look out. It was still snowing stormily. A cold, fine gust blew in our faces. A bleak, dim light rested on the whitened earth. It was half-past two, morning. Kit had turned back to the stack of muskets, to see if any of them had been discharged doubtless, when like a thunder-peal came the quick report of a cannon. It made us jump. Then in a moment we saw _it in each other's suddenly-brightening faces_. "The Curlew!" shouted Donovan. Catching up our hats, and seizing each a musket, we rushed out into the storm. A dozen of the Esquimaux had come to the doors of their huts, jabbering. Without stopping to enlighten them, however, we pulled up our jacket-collars, and ran off toward the shore, stumbling over stones and blundering into holes in our headlong haste; Guard racing ahead, barking loudly. In less than five minutes we had passed over the intervening half mile, and were coming out on the shore, where the snowy rocks stood dim-white and ghostly against the wild, black ocean, tumbling in with heavy swash and roar. So thick was the storm, and so dark was the air, that we could scarcely see a hundred yards in any direction. Bringing up among a lot of Husky _kayaks_ lying amid the snow, we paused to listen. Momentarily a blaze of fire reddened the sea and the white flakes for a second, and the sharp report of our old howitzer shook the stormy air. "Hurrah!" yelled Kit. "Hurrah, hurrah!" Crack, crack, crack, went the muskets! "_Hurrah!_" came faintly from out the storm, a quarter of a mile off. We danced, we capered, at the risk of our necks, among the slippery _kayaks_. We fairly hooted for joy. "Have you got the boat there?" hailed Capt. Mazard with the trumpet. "Will you come off now?" "Boat laid up!" shouted Kit. "Wait till light!" "All right!" was the reply. Nothing more could be done then. We went back to our tent. "I suppose we ought to help the Huskies get their _oomiak_ back to the water," Kit remarked. "Yes; it would be a rather hard job for them alone," said Wade. _Shug-la-wina_ came peeping into the tent with an inquiring look. "_Oomiak-sook!_" Kit said, pointing off to the sea. He _yeh-yehed_, and went away. "We must make it up to these poor people all we can," said Kit. "We'll make them such a present as they never saw before!" Raed exclaimed. It was already growing light. We pulled down our tent to get out the _oomiak_-mast; and mustering the men, all of them, got the _oomiak_ on the mast-pole and the oars, as before, and carried it back to the shore. There was no resistance now. They were all _yeh-yeh-ing_ and _heh-heh-ing_. This took about an hour. We then carried our own boat down in the same way. The whole population followed us. By this time it was broad daylight. The storm had slackened to a few straggling flakes. There lay "The Curlew," stern to the shore, headed to the wind, off five or six hundred yards. We could not resist the temptation of jumping into the boat and pulling out to her instantly. How beautiful she looked to us! Why, I do believe we could have imitated poor little _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_, standing back there on the snowy ledges, and licked the schooner all over! We came up under the side. Such a cheer! Capt. Mazard's honest, brave face glowing with pleasure, and all the rest of the crew hearty with rough affection! 'Twas a sight to do a fellow's eyes good. "Boys, this is hunky!" "Well, ain't it, captain?" "You're all there, aren't ye? Well, how do you do?" helping us over the rail. "You don't look as if you had starved." "Starved?--no! Catch us starving! We've got a whole tribe to back us. But Bonney, old boy, what's the matter with your arm?" exclaimed Kit. "Oh! nothing very bad," replied Bonney, laughing and looking to the captain. "Splinter hit him," said Capt. Mazard significantly. "You don't say!" Kit exclaimed. "Did they come so near you as that?" "So near's that!" blustered old Trull. "Guess you'd 'a' said so! Why, look at the after-bulwarks! and look at the windlass!" The taffrail was gone, sure enough, and the stern bulwarks broken and patched up down to the deck. The windlass was torn up too. "Whew!" from all of us. "Only one shot hit us," explained the captain. "Glanced up from the water through the stern, knocked up the taffrail, and then went forward: just missed the mast, but hit the windlass. Haven't been able to anchor since." "Well, I'll be blamed!" exclaimed Wade. "Hurt you much, Bonney?" "Broke his arm!" said the captain. "You don't say so!" "Yes, sir. But we've set it; and it's doing well, I think." "Well, you must have been short-handed here!" cried Donovan. "Bet you, we have been! Had to have Palmleaf on deck half the time. We've made quite a sailor of him." We all praised the darky. Even Wade cried, "Well done, old snowball! How's that under your wool?" "I tinks," said the negro, grinning all over, "dat dis am a bery j'yful 'casion!" "So 'tis!" "But how far did they chase you?" Raed inquired. "Clean out into the Atlantic," replied Capt. Mazard. "I should have given them a circular race about that ice-island where we were when 'The Rosamond' fired into us; but the tide has broken up the ice there now. We've come back just as quick as we could. But how have you fared? Why, I've had dismal fears of finding only one or two of you alive, devouring the bodies of the rest." We thereupon gave the captain a brief account of our sojourn on the island, and how we had managed the Huskies. "That only demonstrates that you are natural-born sovereign Yankees," remarked the captain, laughing heartily. "But you must come ashore and see our _subjects_!" exclaimed Kit. "I'll do it!" "But not before you've ben ter brackfus', sar?" said Palmleaf. "Coffee all hot, sar." "Bully for you, Palmleaf!" shouted Weymouth. "Don't care if I do!" "It seems an age since I last tasted coffee," said Raed. That we did justice to Palmleaf's coffee and buttered muffins I have no need to assure the reader. Breakfast over, we went back to our island, taking the captain along, and Hobbs in the place of Weymouth. The savages were gathered on the shore, watching the _oomiak-sook_ rather disconsolately; for, roughly as we had used them, I think they had somehow gotten up a regard for us. Seeing us coming toward the shore again, they began to shout and hop about in a most extravagant manner. Landing, we sent the boat back after the iron, knives, flannel, etc. We then took the captain with us to see their huts and our walrus-skin tent. We had thoughts of taking the hides away with us; but as they were very heavy, and withal emitted a rather disagreeable odor, we finally gave them to _Shug-la-wina_. Our _spider_, off which we had eaten so many fried eggs and broiled ducks, we left set in our arch. The captain was formally presented to _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_, and bowed very low. Their little black eyes sparkled; but, at a nod from Kit, they bowed in turn,--lower than the captain even: so that, on the whole, the ceremony was a rather grotesque one. "But, my stars!" exclaimed Capt. Mazard, turning to us. "Which is which? Twins, to a dead certainty!" "_Bi-coit-suk_," replied Wade. Shortly after, we went back to the beach, making signs for them all to follow, which they did; our fair twins smiling on the arms of two of our party, whose names we forbear to give. The boat had come. A general distribution of presents was the next thing in order. To each of the men we gave a long bar of iron. Their exclamations of surprise and delight were only surpassed by those of the women when we gave them each two yards of red flannel. We next gave to each one of them a jack-knife; then to each one of the women a butcher-knife, for cutting up their seals. They were in ecstasies. Kit then gave a hatchet to each man and each boy. Raed gave to _Shug-la-wina_ an extra knife for one of his dog-whips, which he wished to keep for a curiosity; and Kit gave to little _Twee-gock_ an extra knife and hatchet for the walrus-tusk dagger with which he had tried to stab him. The little dark chap was too much astonished at that to do anything but stare. The boat was then sent back after a load of four-foot wood, and returned, bringing each one a stick. Nothing else seemed wanting to make the poor creatures regard us as objects worthy of worship. Meanwhile the pretty twins, and also _Igloo-ee_ and _Coo-nee_, were not forgotten by any means. Kit and Wade had brought off for each of them a green pea-jacket; which, considering the fact that they wore jackets, were not incongruous gifts. Then there were scarfs, scarf-pins, and big darning-needles; in short, a most munificent variety of presents: for though we must needs pronounce Kit and Wade a trifle unscrupulous in their way of getting possession of the island, yet they were now princely in their generosity. The captain now got into the boat: Raed and I followed him. Wade turned to the girls, pointing to himself, then off to the schooner, and, shaking his head, said, "_Annay, annay!_" Kit did the same. They then both shook hands with them, shaking their heads all the time very mournfully, and still repeating the sad "_Annay!_" It is no poetic fiction to add, that the little black eyes of the pretty savages were glistening with tears. Kit and Wade then got into the boat, and we shoved off amid sorrowful cries from the entire group. "Hold on a bit!" said Raed. "I like to observe them now their feelings are wrought upon." The sailors stopped rowing, and the boat was allowed to lie at about twenty yards from the beach, while Wade sang "Dixie" in his rich, clear voice. We then waved our hands to them slowly and sorrowfully. Immediately little _Coo-nee_, with _Wutchee_ and _Wunchee_ and _Igloo-ee_, took their white bird-skin gloves from their boots, and drew them on. Then, coming down where the waves touched their feet, they raised their hands slowly, and began a low, clear chant. At the end of what appeared to be a stanza, the group on the shore behind them joined in a sort of chorus resembling the words _Amna-ah-ya, amna-amna-ah-ya_. The girls then began another stanza, extending their hands downward toward the sea, waving them slowly to and fro together. The chorus was then repeated. Their hands and faces were next directed, during a third stanza, to the west; then toward the far east. Finally they raised them to the sky, and, chanting clear and earnestly, seemed to be imploring the blessing of Heaven on us now departing from them over the wild seas. Kit took off his cap; and we all followed his example, as if impelled to it. It was really an affecting incident. Our hardy captain is not a soft-hearted man; but I saw him wipe a tear from his eye as the chant ceased. I have not sought to color the picture. There was a wonderful pathos about it. We had not heard the song before; and I am inclined to believe it _extempore_,--one of those musical efforts which persons in what we term the savage state will sometimes make when their feelings are touched by new and strange influences. Even after the song had ceased, the girls, as if under its spell, stood holding out their white hands to us. I can hardly express how much we were moved by it all. Farewell is, as we all know, a hard word to say. But we were leaving them forever; and the dark storm-clouds, the icy sea, and snowy ledges, seemed a pitiless fate for those whose voices had such power to touch our feelings. What if they were savage Huskies: they had human hearts, with all the beautiful possibilities of souls that might be made undying. "Give 'way!" ordered the captain. We went off with them gazing sadly after us in silence. Kit and Wade were in the bow, talking. "Why need we leave them here?" I overheard Wade ask. "Oh, nonsense, Wade!" said Kit. "But to leave them to the cruel elements!" Wade whispered. "Yes--I know--but they're happier here than they would be--in--in some great cotton-factory at home." "Too true," Wade sighed, and fell to softly whistling "Dixie." "I suppose," said the captain as we got aboard, "that it will be too late to get into Hudson Bay farther this season." "Yes," replied Raed: "we are all a little home-sick, I expect. Let's go home." The boat was taken up, and the schooner brought round. The sails swelled out in the stormy wind. "The Curlew" stood away, down the straits. "Adieu to Isle Aktok!" cried Kit, looking off toward the snowy island. "Our reign ends here; but no one can say that we have not been kings in our day." We were five days going out to the Atlantic. During most of that time, the wind blew hard and cold. We were glad to keep snug as we could in the cabin. The ice collected along the water-line of the schooner to the depth of several inches. With the exception of a heavy gale of seventeen hours' duration while off Halifax, our voyage home to Boston was, though tedious, quite uneventful,--the mere monotony of the ocean, which has been so often and so well described. Arrived in Boston harbor on the forenoon of the 9th of September. Raed went up to the bank where we had deposited our bonds, and, effecting an exchange of $1,600 worth, came back to pay off our men; viz.:-- Capt. Mazard, three months and a half, $350 The six sailors, three months each, 720 Palmleaf, three months, 90 Schooner, 300 Damage done by shot, 100 ------ In all, $1,560 Then the expense of outfit, 1,100 ------ Giving a total, for the voyage, of $2,660 The remaining $40 from the $1,600 we gave to Bonney in consideration of the wound received in our service. "Wish that splinter had hit me!" laughed Donovan. "Go with us next summer, and we will give you a chance for _one_," replied Kit. "Do you really think of going up there another season?" said Capt. Mazard. "Not into Hudson Straits, perhaps," replied Raed. "But we are going north again next spring. And, captain, I wish we might again be able to secure your services as well as those of the crew. 'The Curlew' just suits us. We have got her fitted up for our purpose. We intended to have built a schooner-yacht; but, if you will put a price on 'The Curlew,' we will consider it with a view to buying her." Capt. Mazard was unwilling, however, to sell his vessel. "But I will make you this proposition," said he: "I will place 'The Curlew,' with my own services as captain, at your disposal,--you to pay all expenses,--for the sum of fifteen hundred dollars per annum." We went below to consult. "I don't believe we could do better," remarked Kit. "It will relieve us of all the cares of building and ownership." We were unanimous in that opinion, and immediately closed with the captain's offer. Our big rifle, howitzer, in short, all our property, has been left on board. The services of Palmleaf, as cook, have been retained; and during the fall, thus far (Nov. 16), we have been making the schooner our floating home, off and on. We have got a good anchorage off from the wharves. Occasionally we make a short trip down the bay, and go on board to have dinner, chat, read, and write, at pleasure. Indeed, this humble narrative has been recorded mostly on board, sitting at the table-shelf in our "saloon." We all like the arrangement, and cheerfully recommend it to young gentlemen of similar tastes. * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 56: conpanion-way replaced with companion-way | | Page 106: dulness replaced with dullness | | | | The term Esquimau is the singular form of Esquimaux, | | though the author is sometimes inconsistent with its' | | usage. | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ 
29696	----	THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT BY NORMAN DUNCAN AUTHOR OF "Doctor Luke of the Labrador", "The Way of the Sea" NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS MCMVII Copyright, 1907, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. Published April, 1907. TO MY ELDER BROTHER ROBERT KENNEDY DUNCAN THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. NICHOLAS TOP 1 II. AT THE SIGN OF THE ANCHOR AND CHAIN 10 III. THE CATECHISM AT TWIST TICKLE 27 IV. ON SINISTER BUSINESS 38 V. TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT 45 VI. THE FEET OF CHILDREN 54 VII. TWIN ISLANDS 69 VIII. A MAID O' WHISPER COVE 75 IX. AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART 89 X. IMPORTED DIRECT 104 XI. THE GRAY STRANGER 120 XII. NEED O' HASTE 138 XIII. JUDITH ABANDONED 154 XIV. THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 169 XV. A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION 174 XVI. GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE 188 XVII. RUM AND RUIN 203 XVIII. A LEGACY OF LOVE 219 XIX. A WORD OF WARNING 230 XX. NO APOLOGY 243 XXI. FOOL'S FORTUNE 247 XXII. GATHERING WINDS 264 XXIII. THE TIDE-RIP 276 XXIV. JOHN CATHER'S FATE 290 XXV. TO SEA 305 XXVI. THE DEVIL'S TEETH 323 THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT THE CRUISE OF THE SHINING LIGHT I NICHOLAS TOP My uncle, Nicholas Top, of Twist Tickle, was of a cut so grotesque that folk forgot their manners when he stumped abroad. Bowling through the streets of St. John's, which twice a year he tapped with staff and wooden leg, myself in leading--bowling cheerily, with his last rag spread, as he said, and be damned to the chart--he left a swirling wake of amazement: craning necks, open mouths, round eyes, grins so frank, the beholders being taken unaware, that 'twas simple to distinguish hearts of pity from savage ones. Small wonder they stared; my uncle was a broad, long-bodied, scowling, grim-lipped runt, with the arms and chest of an ape, a leg lacking, three fingers of the left hand gone at the knuckles, an ankle botched in the mending (the surgery his own), a jaw out of place, a round head set low between gigantic shoulders upon a thick neck: the whole forever clad in a fantastic miscellany of water-side slops, wrinkled above, where he was large, flapping below, where he was lean, and chosen with a nautical contempt for fit and fashion, but with a mysteriously perverse regard for the value of a penny. "An' how much, lad," says he, in the water-side slop-shops, "is a penny saved?" 'Twas strange that of all men he should teach me this old-fashioned maxim as though 'twere meant for my own practice. 'Twas well enough for him, it seemed; but 'twas an incumbrance of wisdom in the singular case of the lad that was I. "A penny made, sir," says I. "Co'--rect!" says he, with satisfaction. There was more to be wondered at: beginning at my uncle's left ear, which was itself sadly puckered and patched, a wide, rough scar, of changing color, as his temper went, cut a great swath in his wiry hair, curving clear over the crown of his head. A second scar, of lesser dimension and ghastly look, lay upon his forehead, over the right eyebrow, to which though by nature drooping to a glower, it gave a sharp upward twist, so that in a way to surprise the stranger he was in good humor or bad, cynical or sullen, according to the point of approach. There were two rolls of flabby flesh under his chin, and a puff of fat under each of his quick little eyes; and from the puffs to the lower chin, which was half submerged in the folds of a black cravat, the broad, mottled expanse was grown wild with short gray beard, save where, on the left cheek, a ragged scar (the third) kept it bare and livid. 'Twas plain the man had blundered into some quarrel of wind and sea, whence he had been indifferently ejected, in the way of the sea, to live or die, as might chance: whereof--doubtless to account for his possession of me--he would tell that my father had been lost in the adventure. "Swep' away by the third big sea," says he, his face wan with the terror of that time, his body shrunk in the chair and so uneasy that I was moved against my will to doubt the tale. "May God A'mighty forgive un the deed he done!" "Was it a sore, wicked thing my father did?" "God forgive un--an' me!" "Is you sure, Uncle Nick?" "God forgive un!" "You're not likin' my poor father," I complained, "for the sinful thing he done." "'Tis a sinful wicked world us dwells in," says he. "An' I 'low, b'y," says he, in anxious warning, "that afore you goes t' bed the night.... Pass the bottle. Thank 'e, lad ... that afore you goes t' bed the night you'd best get a new grip on that there little anchor I've give ye t' hang to." "An' what's that?" says I. "The twenty-third psa'm," says he, his bottle tipped, "for safety!" My uncle would have (as he said) no dealings with a glass. There was none in the places familiar to his eyes; and when by chance, in the tap-rooms of the city, he came face to face with himself, he would start away with a fervent malediction upon the rogue in the mirror, consigning him to perdition without hope of passage into some easier state. 'Twas anathema most feeling and complete. "Hist!" cries I. "You're never so bad as _that_, Uncle Nick!" "None worse," says he, "than that there ol' lost rascal!" I did not believe it. "I isn't took a steady look at my ol' figger-'ead," he was used to saying, with his little eyes widened to excite wonder, "this five year! In p'int o' looks," says he, smirking, vain as you please, "I'm t' windward o' most o' the bullies when I trims my beard. Ah, lad, they's a raft o' bar-maids an' water-side widows would wed ol' Nicholas Top. An' why? 'Tain't money, God knows! for Nicholas Top haves none. Nar a dollar that a lone water-side widow could nose out! An' if 'tisn't money," says he, "why, Lord love us! 'tis _looks_. It can't be nothin' else. 'Tis looks or money with the widows; they cares not which. Come, now, lad," says he, "would you 'low it _could_ be otherwise than looks?" I must wag my head. "Lord love us, Dannie!" says he, so vain--so innocently vain of the face he would not see--that my lips twitch with laughter to think of it. "You an' them water-side widows is got a wonderful judgment for looks!" By this I was flattered. "Now, look you!" says he, being now in his cups and darkly confidential with me, "I'm havin', as I says, no dealin' with a glass. An' why? Accordin' t' the water-side widows 'tis not ill-favor o' face. Then why? I'm tellin' you: 'Tis just because," says he, tapping the table with his forefinger, "Nick Top isn't able t' look hisself in the eye.... Pass the bottle. Thank 'e, lad.... There you haves it!" says he, with a pitiful little catch of the breath. "Nicholas Top haves a wonderful bad eye!" I must nod my assent and commiseration. "In p'int o' beauty," says my uncle, "Nicholas Top is perfeckly content with the judgment o' water-side widows, which can't be beat; but for these five year, Lord help un! he've had no love for the eye in his very own head." 'Twas said in such chagrin and depth of sadness that I was moved to melancholy. "His own eye, lad," he would repeat, "in his very own head!" My uncle, I confess, had indeed a hint too much of the cunning and furtive about both gait and glance to escape remark in strange places. 'Twas a pity--and a mystery. That he should hang his head who might have held it high! At Twist Tickle, to be sure, he would hop hither and yon in a fashion surprisingly light (and right cheerful); but abroad 'twas either swagger or slink. Upon occasions 'twas manifest to all the world that following evil he walked in shame and terror. These times were periodic, as shall be told: wherein, because of his simplicity, which was unspoiled--whatever the rascality he was in the way of practising--he would betray the features of hang-dog villany, conceiving all the while that he had cleverly masked himself with virtue. "Child," says he, in that high gentleness by which he was distinguished, "take the old man's hand. Never fear t' clasp it, lad! Ye're abroad in respectable company." I would clasp it in childish faith. "Abroad," says he, defiantly, "in highly respectable company!" Ah, well! whether rogue or gentleman, upon whom rascality was writ, the years were to tell. These, at any rate, were the sinister aspects of Nicholas Top, of Twist Tickle, whose foster-child I was, growing in such mystery as never was before, I fancy, and thriving in love not of the blood but rich and anxious as love may be: and who shall say that the love which is of the blood--a dull thing, foreordained--is more discerning, more solicitous, more deep and abiding than that which chances, however strangely, in the turmoil and changes of the life we live? To restore confidence, the old dog was furnished with an ample, genial belly; and albeit at times he drank to excess, and despite the five years' suspicion of the eye in his very own head, his eyes were blue and clear and clean-edged, with little lights of fun and tenderness and truth twinkling in their depths. I would have you know that as a child I loved the scarred and broken old ape: this with a child's devotion, the beauty of which (for 'tis the way of the heart) is not to be matched in later years, whatever may be told. Nor in these days, when I am full-grown and understand, will I have a word spoken in his dishonor. Not I, by Heaven! * * * * * I came to Twist Tickle, as I am informed, on the wings of a southeasterly gale: which winds are of mean spirit and sullenly tenacious--a great rush of ill weather, overflowing the world, blowing gray and high and cold. At sea 'twas breaking in a geyser of white water on the Resurrection Rock; and ashore, in the meagre shelter of Meeting House Hill, the church-bell clanged fearsomely in a swirl of descending wind: the gloaming of a wild day, indeed! The _Shining Light_ came lurching through the frothy sea with the wind astern: a flash of white in the mist, vanishing among the careering waves, doughtily reappearing--growing the while into the stature of a small craft of parts, making harbor under a black, tumultuous sky. Beyond the Toads, where there is a turmoil of breaking water, she made a sad mess of it, so that the folk of the Tickle, watching the strange appearance from the heads, made sure she had gone down; but she struggled out of the spray and tumble, in the end, and came to harbor unscathed in the place where Nicholas Top, himself the skipper and crew, was born and fished as a lad. They boarded him, and (as they tell) he was brisk and grim and dripping upon the deck--with the lights dancing in his eyes: those which are lit by the mastery of a ship at sea. "Ay, mates," says he, "I'm come back. An'," says he, "I'd thank ye t' tread lightly, for I've a wee passenger below, which I've no wish t' have woke. He's by way o' bein' a bit of a gentleman," says he, "an' I'd not have ye take a liberty." This made them stare. "An' I'd not," my uncle repeated, steadily, glancing from eye to eye, "have ye take a liberty." They wondered the more. "A bit of a gentleman!" says my uncle, in savage challenge. "A bit of a gentleman!" He would tell them no more, nor ever did; but in imperturbable serenity and certainty of purpose builded a tight little house in a nook of Old Wives' Cove, within the harbor, where the _Shining Light_ might lie snug; and there he dwelt with the child he had, placidly fishing the grounds with hook and line, save at such times as he set out upon some ill-seeming business to the city, whence he returned at ease, it seemed, with himself and his errand, but something grayer, they say, than before. The child he reared was in the beginning conscious of no incongruity, but clothed the old man with every grace and goodly quality, in faith and understanding, as children will: for these knowing ones, with clearer sight than we, perceive neither guile nor weakness nor any lack of beauty in those who foster them--God be thanked!--whatever the nature and outward show may be. There is a beauty common to us all, neither greater nor less in any of us, which these childish hearts discover. Looking upon us, they are blind or of transcendent vision, as you will: the same in issue--so what matter?--since they find no ugliness anywhere. 'Tis the way, it may be, that God looks upon His world: either in the blindness of love forgiving us or in His greater wisdom knowing that the sins of men do serve His purpose and are like virtue in His plan. But this is a mystery.... II AT THE SIGN OF THE ANCHOR AND CHAIN The Anchor and Chain is a warm, pleasantly noisy place by the water-side at St. John's, with a not ungrateful reek of rum and tobacco for such outport folk as we; forever filled, too, with big, twinkling, trumpeting men, of our simple kind, which is the sort the sea rears. There for many a mellow hour of the night was I perched upon a chair at my uncle's side, delighting in the cheer which enclosed me--in the pop of the cork, the inspiriting passage of the black bottle, the boisterous talk and salty tales, the free laughter--but in which I might not yet, being then but seven years old, actively partake. When in the first of it my uncle called for his dram, he would never fail to catch the bar-maid's hand, squeeze it under the table, with his left eyelid falling and his displaced jaw solemnly ajar, informing her the while, behind his thumb and forefinger, the rest of that hand being gone, that I was a devil of a teetotaler: by which (as I thought, and, I'll be bound, he knew well I would think) my years were excused and I was admitted to the company of whiskered skippers upon a footing of equality. 'Tis every man's privilege, to be sure, to drink rum or not, as he will, without loss of dignity. If his mates would have me drink a glass with them my uncle would not hinder. "A nip o' ginger-ale," says I, brash as a sealing-captain. 'Twas the despair of my uncle. "Lord love us!" says he, looking with horror upon the bottle. "T' you, sir," says I, with my glass aloft, "an' t' the whole bally crew o' ye!" "Belly-wash!" groans my uncle. And so, brave and jolly as the rest of them, forgetting the doses of jalap in store for me when I was got back to the Tickle, I would now have my ninny (as they called it). Had the bar-maids left off kissing me--but they would not; no, they would kiss me upon every coming, and if I had nothing to order 'twas a kiss for my virtue, and if I drank 'twas a smack for my engaging manliness; and my only satisfaction was to damn them heartily--under my breath, mark you! lest I be soundly thrashed on the spot for this profanity, my uncle, though you may now misconceive his character, being in those days quick to punish me. But such are women: in a childless place, being themselves childless, they cannot resist a child, but would kiss queer lips, and be glad o' the chance, because a child is lovely to women, intruding where no children are. As a child of seven I hated the bar-maids of the Anchor and Chain, because they would kiss me against my will when the whiskered skippers went untouched. But that was long ago.... * * * * * I must tell that at the Anchor and Chain my uncle blundered in with Tom Bull, of the _Green Billow_, the owner and skipper thereof, trading the ports of the West Coast, then coast-wise, but (I fancy) not averse to a smuggling opportunity, both ways, with the French Islands to the south of us; at any rate, 'twas plain, before the talk was over, that he needed no lights to make the harbor of St.-Pierre, Miquelon, of a dark time. 'Twas a red-whiskered, flaring, bulbous-nosed giant, with infantile eyes, containing more of wonder and patience than men need. He was clad in yellow oil-skins, a-drip, glistening in the light of the lamps, for he was newly come in from the rain: a bitter night, the wind in the northeast, with a black fog abroad (I remember it well)--a wet, black night, the rain driving past the red-curtained windows of the Anchor and Chain, the streets swept clean of men, ourselves light-hearted and warm, indifferent, being ashore from the wind, the cloudy night, the vicious, crested waves of the open, where men must never laugh nor touch a glass. They must have a dram together in a stall removed from the congregation of steaming men at the long bar. And when the maid had fetched the bottle, Tom Bull raised it, regarded it doubtfully, cocked his head, looked my shamefaced uncle in the eye. "An' what might this be?" says he. "'Tis knowed hereabouts, in the langwitch o' waterside widows," replies my uncle, mildly, "as a bottle o' Cheap an' Nasty." Tom Bull put the bottle aside. "_Tis_ cheap, I'll be bound," says my uncle; "but 'tis not so wonderful nasty, Tom," he grieved, "when 'tis the best t' be had." "Skipper Nicholas," says Tom, in wonder, "wasn't you give aforetime t' the use o' Long Tom?" My uncle nodded. "Dear man!" Tom Bull sighed. My uncle looked away. Tom Bull seemed now first to observe his impoverished appearance, and attacked it with frankly curious eyes, which roamed without shame over my uncle's shrinking person; and my uncle winced under this inquisition. "Pour your liquor," growls he, "an' be content!" Tom Bull grasped the bottle, unafraid of the contents, unabashed by the rebuke. "An' Skipper Nicholas," asks he, "where did you manage t' pick up the young feller?" My uncle would not attend. "Eh?" Tom Bull persisted. "Where did you come across o' he?" "This," says my uncle, with a gentle tug at my ear, "is Dannie." "Ay; but whose young one?" "Tom Callaway's son." "Tom Callaway's son!" cries Tom Bull. There was that about me to stir surprise; with those generous days so long gone by, I will not gainsay it. Nor will I hold Tom Bull in fault for doubting, though he stared me, up and down, until I blushed and turned uneasy while his astonished eyes were upon me. "Tom Callaway's son!" cries he again. That I was. "The same," says my uncle. Forthwith was I once more inspected, without reserve--for a child has no complaint to make in such cases--and with rising wonder, which, in the end, caused Tom Bull to gape and gasp; but I was now less concerned with the scrutiny, being, after all, long used to the impertinence of the curious, than with the phenomena it occasioned. My uncle's friend had tipped the bottle, and was now become so deeply engaged with my appearance that the yellow whiskey tumbled into his glass by fits and starts, until the allowance was far beyond that which, upon information supplied me by my uncle, I deemed proper (or polite) for any man to have at one time. The measurement of drams was in those bibulous days important to me--of much more agreeable interest, indeed, than the impression I was designed to make upon the 'longshore world. "No such nonsense!" exclaims Tom Bull. "Tom Callaway died 'ithout a copper t' bury un." "Tom Callaway," says my uncle, evasively, "didn't have no _call_ t' be buried; he was drown-ded." My uncle's old shipmate sipped his whiskey with absent, but grateful, relish, his eyes continuing to wander over so much of me as grew above the table, which was little enough. Presently my uncle was subjected to the same severe appraisement, and wriggled under it in guilty way--an appraisement of the waterside slops: the limp and shabby cast-off apparel which scantily enveloped his great chest, insufficient for the bitter rain then sweeping the streets. Thence the glance of this Tom Bull went blankly over the foggy room, pausing nowhere upon the faces of the folk at the bar, but coming to rest, at last, upon the fly-blown rafters (where was no interest), whence, suddenly, it dropped to my hand, which lay idle and sparkling upon the sticky table. "Tom Callaway's son!" he mused. My hand was taken, spread down upon the calloused palm of Tom Bull, in disregard of my frown, and for a long time the man stared in puzzled silence at what there he saw. 'Twas very still, indeed, in the little stall where we three sat; the boisterous laughter, the shuffling and tramp of heavy boots, the clink of glasses, the beating of the rain upon the windows seemed far away. "I'd not be s'prised," says Tom Bull, in the low, hoarse voice of awe, "if them there was di'monds!" "They is," says my uncle, with satisfaction. "Di'monds!" sighs Tom Bull. "My God!" 'Twas boredom--the intimate inspection, the question, the start of surprise. 'Twas all inevitable, so familiar--so distastefully intrusive, too. 'Twas a boredom hard to suffer, and never would have been borne had not the occasion of it been my uncle's delight. 'Twas always the same: Diamonds? ay, diamonds! and then the gasped "My God!" They would pry into this, by the Lord! and never be stopped by my scowl and the shrinking of my flesh. It may be that the parade my misguided guardian made of me invited the intimacy, and, if so, I have no cry to raise against the memory of it; but, whatever, they made free with the child that was I, and boldly, though 'twas most boresome and ungrateful to me. As a child my hand was fingered and eyed by every 'longshore jack, coast-wise skipper, and foreign captain from the Turkey Cock to the sign of The King George. And wherever I went upon the streets of St. John's in those days there was no escape: the glitter of me stopped folk in their tracks--to turn and stare and wonder and pass muttering on. "Three in that one, Tom," adds my uncle. 'Twas a moment before Tom Bull had mastered his amazement. "Well, well!" cries he. "Di'monds! Three in that one! Lord, Lord, think o' that! This wee feller with all them di'monds! An' Skipper Nicholas," says he, drawing closer to my beaming uncle, "this here red stone," says he, touching the ring on my third finger, "would be a jool? A ruby, like as not?" "'Tis that," says my uncle. "An' this here?" Tom Bull continues, selecting my little finger. "Well, now, Tom," says my uncle, with gusto, for he delighted in these discussions, "I 'low I better tell you 'bout that. Ye see, lad," says he, "that's a seal-ring, Tom. I'm told that gentlemen wears un t' stamp the wax o' their corr-ee-spondence. 'Twas Sir Harry that give me the trick o' that. It haves a D for Daniel, an' a C for Callaway; an' it haves a T in the middle, Tom, for Top. I 'lowed I'd get the Top in somewheres, so I put it in atween the D an' the C t' have it lie snug: for I'm not wantin' this here little Dannie t' forget that Top was t' the wheel in his younger days." He turned to me, and in a voice quite broken with affection, and sadly hopeless, somehow, as I recall, "Dannie, lad," says he, "ye'll never forget, will ye, that Top was t' the wheel? God bless ye, child! Well, Tom," turning now to his shipmate, "ye're a man much sailed t' foreign parts, an' ye wouldn't think it ungenteel, would ye, for a lad like Dannie t' wear a seal-ring? No? I'm wonderful glad o' that. For, Tom," says he, most earnestly, "I'm wantin' Dannie t' be a gentleman. He's just _got_ t' be a gentleman!" "A gentleman, Nick?" "He've _got_ t' be a gentleman!" "You'll never manage that, Nick Top," says Tom Bull. "Not manage it!" my uncle indignantly complained. "Why, look, Tom Bull--jus' _look_--at them there jools! An' _that's_ on'y a poor beginnin'!" Tom Bull laid my hand very gingerly upon the table, as though 'twere a thing not lightly to be handled lest it fall to pieces in his grasp. He drew my left hand from my pocket and got it under the light. "Two pearls," says my uncle, "'longside a emerald. Aft o' that you'll be like t' find two more di'monds. Them's first-water Brazil, Tom." Tom Bull inquiringly touched my watch-guard. "Eighteen karat," says my uncle. Tom Bull drew the watch from its pocket and let it lie glittering in his hand; the jewels, set shyly in the midst of the chasing, glowed in the twilight of the stall. "Solid," says my uncle. Tom Bull touched my velvet jacket with the tip of his finger. "Imported direck," says my uncle, "from Lon'on. Direck, Tom--is you hearin' me?--direck from Lon'on. Not," says he, with quick consideration, "that we've no respeck for home talent. My, my, no! Dannie haves a matter o' thirteen outfits done right here in St. John's. You beat about Water Street for a week, Tom, an' you'll _sight_ un. Fill your glass, Tom! We're well met this night. Leave me talk t' you, lad. Leave me talk t' ye about Dannie. Fill up, an' may the Lord prosper your smugglin'! 'Tis a wild night without. I'm glad enough t' be in harbor. 'Tis a dirty night; but 'tis not blowin' _here_, Tom--an' that's the bottle; pour your dram, lad, an' take it like a man! God save us! but a bottle's the b'y t' make a fair wind of a head wind. Tom," says he, laying a hand on my head--which was the ultimate expression of his affection--"you jus' ought t' clap eyes on this here little ol' Dannie when he've donned his Highland kilts. He's a little divil of a dandy then, I'm tellin' you. Never a lad o' the city can match un, by the Lord! Not match my little Dannie! Clap eyes," says he, "on good ol' little Dannie! Lord save ye, but of all the young fellers you've knowed he's the finest figger of a lad--" "Uncle Nick!" I cried, in pain--in pain to be excused (as shall be told). "Hush, lad!" croons he. "Never mind!" I could not help it. "An' talkin' about outfits, Tom," says my uncle, "this here damn little ol' Dannie, bein' a gentleman, haves his _best_--from Lon'on. Ye can't blame un, Tom; they _all_ doos it." 'Twas all hands t' the pumps for poor Tom Bull. "Dear man!" he gasped, his confusion quite accomplished. "An' _paid_ for," says my uncle. Tom Bull looked up. "'Tis all," says my uncle, solemnly jerking thumb down towards the bowels of the earth, "paid for!" Tom Bull gulped the dregs of his whiskey. * * * * * By-and-by, having had his glass--and still with the puzzle of myself to mystify his poor wits--Tom Bull departed. My uncle and I still kept to the stall, for there was an inch of spirits in my uncle's glass, and always, though the night was late and stormy, a large possibility for new company. 'Twas grown exceeding noisy in a far corner of the place, where a foreign captain, in from the north (Fogo, I take it), loaded with fish for Italian ports, was yielding to his liquor; and I was intent upon this proceeding, wondering whether or not they would soon take to quarrelling, as often happened in that tap-room, when Tom Bull softly came again, having gone but a step beyond the threshold of the place. He stepped, as though aimlessly, to our place, like a man watched, fearing the hand of the law; and for a time he sat musing, toying with the glass he had left. "Skipper Nicholas," says he, presently, "I 'low Dannie Callaway haves a friend t' buy un all them jools?" "This here little ol' Dannie," says my uncle, with another little reassuring tug at my ear, "haves no friend in all the world but me." 'Twas true. "Not one?" "Nar a friend in all the world but ol' Nick Top o' Twist Tickle." "An' _you_ give un them jools?" "I did." There was a pause. Tom Bull was distraught, my uncle quivering; and I was interested in the rain on the panes and in the foreign captain who was yielding to his liquor like a fool or a half-grown boy. I conceived a contempt for that shaven, scrawny skipper--I remember it well. That he should drink himself drunk like a boy unused to liquor! Faugh! 'Twas a sickening sight. He would involve himself in some drunken brawl, I made sure, when even I, a child, knew better than to misuse the black bottle in this unkind way. 'Twas the passage from Spain--and the rocks of this and the rocks of that--and 'twas the virtues of a fore-and-after and the vices of an English square rig for the foremast. He'd stand by the square rig; and there were Newfoundlanders at his table to dispute the opinion. The good Lord only knew what would come of it! And the rain was on the panes, and the night was black, and the wind was playing devil-tricks on the great sea, where square-rigged foremasts and fore-and-afters were fighting for their lives. A dirty night at sea--a dirty night, God help us! "Skipper Nicholas," says Tom Bull, in an anxious whisper, "I'm tied up t' Judby's wharf, bound out at dawn, if the wind holds. I 'low you is in trouble, lad, along o' them jools. An' if you wants t' cut an' run--" In the pause my uncle scowled. --"The little _Good Omen_," says Tom Bull, under his breath, "is your'n t' command!" 'Twas kind of intention, no doubt, but done in folly--in stupid (if not befuddled) misconception of the old man's mettle. My uncle sat quite still, frowning into his glass; the purple color crept into the long, crescent scar of his scalp, his unkempt beard bristled like a boar's back, the flesh of his cheeks, in composure of a ruddy hue, turned a spotty crimson and white, with the web of veins swelling ominously. All the storm signals I had, with the acumen of the child who suffers unerring discipline, mastered to that hour were at the mast-head, prognosticating a rare explosion of rage. But there was no stirring on my uncle's part; he continued to stare into his glass, with his hairy brows drawn quite over his eyes. The blundering fellow leaned close to my uncle's ear. "If 'tis turn-tail or chokee for you, along o' them jools," says he, "I'll put you across--" My uncle's eyes shifted to his staff. --"T' the Frenchmen--" My uncle's great right hand was softly approaching his staff. --"Well," says the blundering Tom Bull, "give the old girl a wind with some slap to it, I'll put you across in--" My uncle fetched him a smart crack on the pate, so that the man leaped away, in indignation, and vigorously rubbed his head, but durst not swear (for he was a Methodist), and, being thus desperately situated, could say nothing at all, but could only petulantly whimper and stamp his foot, which I thought a mean thing for a man to do in such circumstances. "A poor way," says he, at last, "t' treat an old shipmate!" I thought it marvellously weak; my uncle would have had some real and searching thing to say--some slashing words (and, may be, a blow). "An you isn't a thief," cries Tom Bull, in anger, "you _looks_ it, anyhow. An' the rig o' that lad bears me out. Where'd you come by them jools? Eh?" he demanded. "Where'd you come by them di'monds and pearls? Where'd you come by them rubies an' watches? _You_--Nick Top: Twist Tickle hook-an'-line man! Buyin' di'monds for a pauper," he snorted, "an' drinkin' Cheap an' Nasty! Them things don't mix, Nick Top. Go be hanged! The police 'll cotch ye yet." "No," says my uncle, gently; "not yet." Tom Bull stamped out in a rage. "No," my uncle repeated, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Tom Bull forgotten; the police 'll not cotch me. Oh no, Dannie!" he sighed. "They'll not cotch me--not yet!" * * * * * Then out of the black night came late company like a squall o' wind: Cap'n Jack Large, no less! newly in from Cadiz, in salt, with a spanking passage to make water-side folk stare at him (the _Last Hope_ was the scandal of her owners). He turned the tap-room into an uproar; and no man would believe his tale. 'Twas beyond belief, with Longway's trim, new, two-hundred-ton _Flying Fish_, of the same sailing, not yet reported! And sighting Nicholas Top and me, Cap'n Jack Large cast off the cronies he had gathered in the tap-room progress of the night, and came to our stall, as I expected when he bore in from the rain, and sent my uncle's bottle of Cheap and Nasty off with contempt, and called for a bottle of Long Tom (the best, as I knew, the Anchor and Chain afforded), which must be broached under his eye, and said he would drink with us until we were turned out or dawn came. Lord, how I loved that man, as a child, in those days: his jollity and bigness and courage and sea-clear eyes! 'Twas grand to feel, aside from the comfort of him, that he had put grown folk away to fondle the child on his knee--a mystery, to be sure, but yet a grateful thing. Indeed, 'twas marvellously comfortable to sit close to him. But I never saw him again: for the _Last Hope_ went down, with a cargo of mean fish, in the fall of the next year, in the sea between St. John's and the West Indies. But that night-- "Cap'n Jack," says I, "you quit that basket." He laughed. "You quit her," I pleaded. "But ecod, man!" says I, "please quit her. An you don't I'll never see you more." "An' you'll never care," cries he. "Not _you_, Master Callaway!" "Do you quit her, man!" "I isn't able," says he, drawing me to his knee; "for, Dannie," says he, his blue eyes alight, "they isn't ar another man in Newf'un'land would take that basket t' sea!" I sighed. "Come, Dannie," says he, "what'll ye take t' drink?" "A nip o' ginger-ale," says I, dolefully. Cap'n Jack put his arm around the bar-maid. "Fetch Dannie," says he, "the brand that comes from over-seas." Off she went. "Lord love us!" groans my uncle; "that's two." "'Twill do un no harm, Nick," says Cap'n Jack. "You just dose un well when you gets un back t' the Tickle." "I will," says my uncle. He did.... * * * * * And we made a jovial night of it. Cap'n Jack would not let me off his knee. Not he! He held me close and kindly; and while he yarned of the passage to my uncle, and interjected strange wishes for a wife, he whispered many things in my ear to delight me, and promised me, upon his word, a sailing from St. John's to Spanish ports, when I was grown old enough, if only I would come in that basket of a _Lost Hope_, which I maintained I never would do. 'Twas what my uncle was used to calling a lovely time; and, as for me, I wish I were a child again, and Cap'n Jack were come in from the rain, and my uncle tipping the bottle of Long Tom (though 'twere a scandal). Ay, indeed I do! That I were a child again, used to tap-room bottles, and that big Cap'n Jack had come in from the gale to tell me I was a brave lad in whom he found a comfort neither of the solid land nor of water-side companionship. But I did not think of Cap'n Jack that night, when my uncle had stowed me away in my bed at the hotel; but, rather, in the long, wakeful hours, through which I lay alone, I thought of Tom Bull's question, "Where'd ye get them jools?" I had never before been troubled--not once; always I had worn the glittering stones without question. "Where'd ye get them jools?" I could not fall asleep: I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching; but still I could not fall asleep.... III THE CATECHISM AT TWIST TICKLE Of an evening at Twist Tickle Nicholas Top would sit unstrung and wistful in his great chair by the west window, with the curtains drawn wide, there waiting, in deepening gloom and fear, for the last light to leave the world. With his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown fixed and tragical with far-off gazing, he would look out upon the appalling sweep of sea and rock and sky, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working more terribly than with thunder: clouds in embers, cliffs and mist and tumbling water turning to shadows, vanishing, as though they were not. In the place of a shining world, spread familiar and open, from its paths to the golden haze of its uttermost parts, there would come the cloud and mystery and straying noises of the night, wherein lurk and peer and restlessly move whatsoever may see in the dark. Thus would he sit oppressed while night covered the world he knew by day. And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of a man, so that the soul speaks in its own way, each soul lifting its peculiar message. For me 'twas sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear the sea's melodious whispering; but to him (it seemed) the sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. In the silence and failing light of the hour, looking upon the stupendous works of the Lord, he would repeat the words of the prophet of the Lord: "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire._" And again, with his hand upon his forehead and his brows fallen hopelessly, "_With his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire._" Still repeating the awful words, his voice broken to a terrified whisper, "_His rebuke with the flames of fire!_" And in particular moods, when the prophets, however sonorous, were inadequate to his need, my uncle would have recourse to his own pithy vocabulary for terms with which to anathematize himself; but these, of course, may not be written in a book. * * * * * When the dusk was come my uncle would turn blithely from this melancholy contemplation and call for a lamp and his bottle. While I was about this business (our maid-servant would not handle the bottle lest she be damned for it), my uncle would stump the floor, making gallant efforts to whistle and trill: by this exhorting himself to a cheerful mood, so that when I had moved his great chair to the table, with the lamp near and turned high, and had placed a stool for his wooden leg, and had set his bottle and glass and little brown jug of cold water conveniently at hand, his face would be pleasantly rippling and his eyes all a-twinkle. "Up with un, Dannie!" says he. 'Twas his fancy that he had gout in the tip of his wooden leg. I must lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with caution. "Ouch!" groans he. "Easy, lad!" 'Twas now in place. "All ship-shape an' cheerful," says he. "Pass the bottle." He would then stand me up for catechism; and to this task I would come with alacrity, and my heels would come together, and my shoulders square, and my hands go behind my back, as in the line at school. 'Twas a solemn game, whatever the form it took, whether dealing with my possessions, hopes, deportment, or what-not; and however grotesque an appearance the thing may wear, 'twas done in earnest by us both and with some real pains (when I was stupid or sleepy) to me. 'Twas the way he had, too, of teaching me that which he would have me conceive him to be--of fashioning in my heart and mind the character he would there wear. A clumsy, forecastle method, and most pathetically engaging, to be sure! but in effect unapproached: for to this day, when I know him as he was, the man he would appear to be sticks in my heart and will not be supplanted. Nor would I willingly yield the wistful old dog's place to a gentleman of more brilliant parts. "Dannie, lad," he would begin, in the manner of a visiting trustee, but yet with a little twitch and flush of embarrassment, which must be wiped away with his great bandanna handkerchief--"Dannie, lad," he would begin, "is ol' Nicholas Top a well-knowed figger in Newf'un'land?" "He's knowed," was the response I had been taught, "from Cape Race t' Chidley." "What for?" "Standin' by." So far so good; my uncle would beam upon me, as though the compliment were of my own devising, until 'twas necessary once more to wipe the smile and blush from his great wet countenance. "Is it righteous," says he, "t' stand by?" "'Tis that." He would now lean close with his poser: "Does it say so in the Bible? Ah ha, lad! Does it say so _there_?" "'Twas left out," says I, having to this been scandalously taught, "by mistake!" 'Twas my uncle's sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its place, growling: "Them ol' prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left out more'n they put in. Why, Dannie," in vast disgust, "you don't find the mention of barratry from jib-boom t' taffrail! An' you mean t' set there an' tell me them prophets didn't make no mistake? No, sir! I 'low they was well rope's-ended for neglect o' dooty when the Skipper cotched un in the other Harbor." But if by chance, in his impatient haste, he stumbled upon some confirmation of his own philosophy, he would crow: "There you got it, Dannie! Right under the thumb o' me! Them ol' bullies was wise as owls." 'Twas largely a matter of words, no doubt (my uncle being self-taught in all things); and 'tis possible that the virtue of standing by, indirectly commended, to be sure, is not specifically and in terms enjoined upon the righteous. However-- "Come, now!" says my uncle; "would you say that ol' Nicholas Top was _famous_ for standin' by?" 'Twas hard to remember the long response. "Well," I must begin, in a doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had been taught, "I wouldn't go _quite_ t' the length o' that. Ol' Nicholas Top wouldn't claim it hisself. Ol' Nicholas Top on'y claims that he's _good_ at standin' by. His cronies do 'low that he can't be beat at it by ar a man in Newf'un'land; but Nicholas wouldn't go t' the length o' _sayin'_ so hisself. 'Ol' Nick,' says they, 'would stand by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind t' the tickle t' hell. Whatever Nick says he'll _do_,' says they, 'is all the same as _did_; an' if he says he'll stand by, he'll stick, blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. "Be jiggered t' port an' weather!" says he.'[1] But sure," I must conclude, "ol' Nicholas wouldn't say so hisself. An' so I wouldn't go t' the length o' holdin' that he was famous for standin' by. Take it by an' all, if I was wantin' sea room, I'd stick t' _well knowed_ an' be done with it." "Co'-rect!" says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. "You got that long one right, Dannie. An' now, lad," says he, his voice turning soft and genuine in feeling, "what's the ol' sailorman tryin' t' make out o' _you_?" "A gentleman." "An' why?" Then this disquieting response: "'Tis none o' my business." 'Twould have been logical had he asked me: "An', Dannie, lad, what's a gentleman?" But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those exclusive tap-rooms where "the big bugs t' St. John's" (as he called them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom Bull's suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me immediately after the Commissioner of This had remarked to the Commissioner of That, within my uncle's hearing--this at the Gold Bullet over a bottle of Long Tom--that a watch of modest proportions was the watch for a gentleman to wear (my other watches had been chosen with an opposite idea). And my uncle, too (of which anon), held in high regard that somewhat questionable light of morality and deportment whom he was used to calling ol' Skipper Chesterfield. But "What is a gentleman?" was omitted from my catechism. "An' is this ol' Nicholas Top a liar?" says my uncle. "No, sir." "Is he a thief?" "No, sir." "Smuggler?" "No, sir." "Have he ever been mixed up in burglary, murder, arson, barratry, piracy, fish stealin', or speckalation?" "No, sir." To indicate his utter detachment from personal interest in the question to follow, my uncle would wave his dilapidated hand, as though leaving me free to answer as I would, which by no means was I. "An' of how much," says he, "would he rob his neighbor that he might prosper?" 'Twas now time for me to turn loud and indignant, as I had been taught. Thus: my head must shoot out in truculent fashion, my brows bend, my lips curl away from my teeth like a snarling dog's, my eyes glare; and I must let my small body shake with explosive rage, in imitation of my uncle, while I brought the table a thwack with all my force, shouting: "Not a damn copper!" "Good!" says my uncle, placidly. "You done that very well, Dannie, for a lad. You fetched out the damn quite noisy an' agreeable. Now," says he, "is Nicholas Top a rascal?" 'Twas here we had trouble; in the beginning, when this learning was undertaken, I must be whipped to answer as he would have me. Ay, and many a night have I gone sore to bed for my perversity, for in respect to obedience his severity was unmitigated, as with all seafaring men. But I might stand obstinate for a moment--a moment of grace. And upon the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship, a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured, accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle they provided the only distraction at hand. "Come, Daniel!" says he, in a little flare of wrath; "is he a rascal?" "Well," says I, defiantly, "I've heard un lied about." "Wrong!" roars my uncle. "Try again, sir! Is ol' Nicholas Top a rascal?" There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp. "A damned rascal, sir!" says I. "Co'-_rect_!" cries my uncle, delighted.[2] And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, "Well, Dannie, lad, you might 's well measure out the other," and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee--not often--most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. "The wind's high the night," says he, with an anxious frown; "an' Dannie," says he, laying a hand upon my head, "you might 's well overhaul that there "'_Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night,_' afore you turns in. 'Twill do you good, an' 'twon't manage t' do me no harm." And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now--under the lamp--a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh--as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed. "Good-night, sir!" There was no response; but he would look in upon me on the way to bed--into the little room where I lay luxuriously, in the midst of those extravagant comforts which so strangely came to me. And more often than not he would haul this way and that upon the covers until, as though by some unhappy accident, I was awakened. "God bless you, Dannie," says he. "Good-night, sir." 'Twas all he wanted--a good wish spoken in the night. To his own bare room he would then be off, a bit uncertain (I recall) in the management of his wooden leg. * * * * * Under my window, at the foot of a short cliff which fell roughly into the open cove, as shall be told, the sea broke. While sleep waited 'twas my habit to listen to the waves upon the rocks: in that brief and mystical interval when many truths take shape, definite and lovely, as in a mist, but are forgot before dawn stirs us, nor can be remembered. Of still moonlit nights; of windless dusks, with the swell of past storms sullenly remaining; in clammy, breathless weather; with fresh winds blowing our craft to and fro on their way in search of the fish; in blackest gales, when the men of Twist Tickle kept watch for wrecks upon the heads--forever I listened to the voice of the sea before I fell asleep. But the sea has no voice, but may only play upon the souls of men, which speak from the uttermost depths, each soul in its own way: so that the sea has a thousand voices, and listening men are tranquil or not, as may chance within them, without mystery. Never since those far-off days, when the sea took my unspoiled soul as a harp in its hands, have I been secure in the knowledge of truth, untroubled by bewilderment and anxious questions. Untroubled by love, by the fear of hell, 'twas good to be alive in a world where the sea spoke tenderly below the window of the room where sleep came bearing dreams. And my uncle? God knows! The harp was warped, and the strings of the harp were broken and out of tune.... [1] 'Twas really "damned t' port an' weather" my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man's dealings with a child, which I would not have them do. [2] Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: 'tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: 'tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But 'tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative. IV ON SINISTER BUSINESS Our pilgrimages to St. John's, occurring twice a year, were of a singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen. "The bottle!" cries he. "Ecod! the dog'll never scare ol' Nick Top. Dannie, the bottle!" While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I guessed (but might be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity to play a part. "Ol' Nick Top," says he, "is as saucy a dog as you'll find in the pack!" 'Twas said with a snap. "A saucy ol' dog!" snarls he. "An' Lord love ye! but he's able t'--t'--t' _bite_!" "Uncle Nick," says I, "you're all wore out along o' walkin' them hills." "Wore out!" cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. "_Me_ wore out?... Pass the bottle.... Ye'd never think it, lad, an ye could see me t' St. John's," says he, "at the--" The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle. "Where's that?" says I. "'Tis a wee water-side place, lad," says he, with a grave wink, "where ol' Nick Top's the sauciest dog in the pack!" I would pass the water for his liquor. "An' here," cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, "is wishin' all water-side rascals in"--'twas now a long pull at the glass--"jail!" says he. "'Twould go agin my conscience t' wish un worse. I really isn't able!" By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings. 'Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise--surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though 'twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed. * * * * * Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected, scrupulously packed--this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again, for dinner--tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief, inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me in the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent) of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too largely adorning me. "Ye'll be wearin' the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?" says he. I would not. "Lon'on _Haberdasher_ come out strong," says he, at a coax, "on Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds." 'Twas not persuasive. "Wonderful pop'lar across the water." "But," I would protest, "I'm not likin' the queer red cap." "Ah, Dannie," says he, "I fears ye'll never be much of a gentleman if ye're careless o' the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o' the world! What have ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int? Eh, lad? What have the bully ol' skipper t' say--underlined by Sir Harry? A list o' the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. 'T' be extremely clean in your person,' says he, 'an' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what it will.' There you haves it, lad, underlined by Sir Harry! _'Be that what it will.'_ But ye're not likin' the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I 'low, then, ye'll be havin' t' don the kilt." This I would hear with relief. "But I 'low," growls he, "that Sir Harry an' Skipper Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they're both strong on manners--if weak on morals." Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of the state-room. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable circumstances of my life--feeling, it may be, some fear for me and doubt of his own wisdom--he would regard me anxiously. To this day he lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff, half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor, fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation, but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy. "Dannie, lad," he would prescribe, "you better overhaul the twenty-third psa'm afore turnin' in." To this I would promise. "'The Lard is my shepherd,'" says he. "'I shall not want.' Say it twice," says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, "an' you'll feel better in the mornin'." To this a doleful assent. "An' ye'll make good use o' your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?" says he. "Keep watch on 'em, lad, an' ye'll l'arn a wonderful lot about manners. 'List o' the necessary ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye want,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24. 'A distinguished politeness o' manners an' address, which common-sense, observation, good company, an' imitation will give ye if ye will accept it.' There you haves it, Dannie--underlined by Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an' here's the company. Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o' Lands is aboard with his lady! No less! An' I've heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin' these parts. They'll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside, Dannie--an' imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol' Skipper Chesterfield cracks up imitation an' practice most wonderful high!" The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The mail was aboard: the ship bound out. "An' Dannie," says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), "I'm not able t' _think_ o' you bein' lonely. I'm for'ard in the steerage, lad--just call that t' mind. An' if ye find no cure in that, why, lad"--in a squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite vanished--"sink me an' that damn ol' Chesterfield overside, an' overhaul the twenty-third psa'm!" "Ay, sir." "You is safe enough, lad; for, Dannie--" 'Twas in the imperative tone, and I must instantly and sharply attend. --"I'm for'ard, standin' by!" He would then take himself off to the steerage for good; and 'twas desperately lonely for me, aboard the big ship, tossing by night and day through the rough waters of our coast. V TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT My uncle would not have speech with me again, lest his rough look and ways endanger the social advantages he conceived me to enjoy in the cabin, but from the lower deck would keep sly watch upon me, and, unobserved of others, would with the red bandanna handkerchief flash me messages of affection and encouragement, to which I must not for the life of me respond. Soon, however, 'twas my turn to peer and wish; for, perceiving at last that I was not ill (the weather being fair), and that I had engaged the companionship of gentlefolk--they were quick enough, indeed, these St. John's folk and spying wanderers, to attach themselves to the mystery of old Nick Top's child--my uncle would devote himself to his own concerns with unhappy result. The manner of his days of preparation upon the hills of Twin Islands would return: the ill temper and cunning and evil secretiveness, joined now with the hang-dog air he habitually wore in the city. And these distressful appearances would by day and night increase, as we passed the Funks, came to Bonavist' Bay, left the Bacalieu light behind and rounded the Brandy Rocks, until, instead of a rotund, twinkling old sea-dog, with a gargoylish countenance, with which the spirit had nothing to do, there landed on the wharf at the city a swaggering, wrathy pirate, of devilish cast and temper, quick to flush and bluster, mighty in profanity, far gone in drink. Thence to the hotel, in this wise: my uncle, being clever with his staff and wooden leg and vastly strong, would shoulder my box, make way through the gang-plank idlers and porters with great words, put me grandly in the lead, come gasping at a respectful distance behind, modelling his behavior (as he thought) after that of some flunky of nobility he had once clapped eyes on; and as we thus proceeded up the hill--a dandy in tartan kilt and velvet and a gray ape in slops--he would have a quick word of wrath for any passenger that might chance to jostle me. 'Twas a conspicuous progress, craftily designed, as, long afterwards, I learned; we were not long landed, you may be sure, before the town was aware that the mystery of Twist Tickle was once more come in by the _Lake_: old Skipper Nicholas Top and the lad with the rings, as they called me! * * * * * Having come now to the hotel (this by night), where would be a cheerful fire awaiting us in my comfortable quarters, my uncle would unstrap my box and dispose its contents in clean and handy places, urging me the while, like a mother, to make good use of my opportunity to observe the ways of gentlefolk, especially as practised in the dining-room of the hotel, that I might expeditiously master polite manners, which was a thing Skipper Chesterfield held most seriously in high opinion. I must thus conduct myself (he said), rather than idly brood, wishing for his company: for a silk purse was never yet made of a sow's ear but with pain to all concerned. "An' Dannie," says he, jovially, when he had clapped the last drawer shut and put my nightclothes to warm at the fire, "if you was t' tweak that there bell-pull--" I would gladly tweak it. "Thank 'e, Dannie," says my uncle, gently. "It'll be the best Jamaica--a nip afore I goes." In response to this would come old Elihu Wall, whom in private I loved, exaggerating every obsequious trick known to his kind to humor my uncle. I must then act my part, as I had been taught, thus: must stride to the fire, turn, spread my legs, scowl, meditatively ply a tooth-pick (alas! my groping uncle), become aware of old Elihu Wall, become haughtily conscious of my uncle, now in respectful attitude upon his foot and wooden leg; and I must scowl again, in a heavier way, as though angered by this interruption, and rub my small quarters, now heated near beyond endurance, and stare at the ceiling, and, dropping my eyes sharply upon Elihu Wall, say with a haughty sniff, a haughty curl of the lip: "Elihu"--with a superior jerk towards my uncle--"fetch this man a dram o' your best Jamaica!" 'Twas not hard to do--not hard to learn: for my uncle was unceasing in solicitous and patient instruction, diligent in observation, as he cruised in those exclusive places to which (somehow) he gained admittance for my sake and a jolly welcome for his own. And 'twas a grateful task, too, to which I heartily gave my interest, for I loved my uncle. 'Twas his way of teaching me not only the gentlemanly art of dealing with menials, as he had observed it, but, on his part, as he stood stiff and grave, the proper attitude of a servant towards his master. In these days, long distant from the first strange years of my life, I am glad that I was not wilful with him--glad that I did not obstinately resist the folly and boredom of the thing, as I was inclined to do. But, indeed, it must not be counted to me for virtue; for my uncle had a ready hand, though three fingers were missing, and to this day I remember the odd red mark it left (the thumb, forefinger, and palm), when, upon occasion, it fell upon me. "Elihu," says I, "fetch this man a dram o' your best Jamaica!" Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume intimate relations. "You done well, Dannie!" cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. "I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it better." We were both mightily proud. "Dannie," says he, presently, with gleeful interest, "give un a good one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t' show un what you can do." Enter Elihu Wall. "What the devil d'ye mean?" says I, in wrath. "Eh? What the devil d'ye mean?" "Yes, sir," says Elihu Wall. "Sorry, sir. _Very_, sir." "Devil take your sorrow!" says I. I would then slip the old fellow a bit of silver, as I was bidden, and he would obsequiously depart.[3] "You done well, Dannie!" cries my uncle again, in delight. "Lord! but 'twas grand! You done wonderful well! I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it better. I wisht ol' Chesterfield was here t' see. Ecod!" he chuckles, with a rub at his nose, gazing upon me with affectionate admiration, in which was no small dash of awe, "you done it well, my lad! I've heard Sir Harry say _more_, mark you! but I've never knowed un t' do it better. _More_, Dannie, but t' less purpose. Ah, Dannie," says he, fondly, "they's the makin's of a gentleman in _you_!" I was pleased--to be sure! "An' I 'low, by an' all," my uncle would boast, scratching his head in high gratification, "that I'm a-fetchin' ye up very well!" 'Twas hard on old Elihu Wall--this unearned abuse. But Elihu and I were fast friends, nevertheless: he sped many a wearisome hour for me when my uncle was upon his grim, mysterious business in the city; and I had long ago told him that he must not grieve, whatever I said--however caustic and unkind the words--because my uncle's whims must be humored, which was the end to be served by us both. With this assurance of good feeling, old Elihu Wall was content. He took my insolence in good part, playing the game cheerfully: knowing that the hard words were uttered without intention to wound, but only in imitation of gentlemen, from whom Elihu Wall suffered enough, Heaven knows! (as he confided to me) not to mind what I might say. * * * * * I must tell that, once, taken with pain, having overeaten myself, left alone in the hotel at St. John's, I got out of bed and sought my uncle's lodgings, which I was never permitted to see. 'Twas a rough search for a sick child to follow through in the night, ending by the water-side--a dismal stair, leading brokenly to a wretched room, situate over a tap-room too low for frequency by us, where women quarrelled with men. Here my uncle sat with his bottle, not yet turned in. He was amazed when I entered, but scolded me not at all; and he gave me brandy to drink, until my head swam, and took me to sleep with him, for the only time in all my life. When I awoke 'twas to disgust with the bed and room in which I lay--with the smell and dirt of the place--the poverty and sordidness, to which I was not used. I complained of the housing my uncle had. "Dannie, lad," says my uncle, sighing unhappily, "the old man's poor, an' isn't able t' help it." Still I complained. "Don't, Dannie!" says he. "I isn't able t' bear it. An' I'm wishin' you'd never found out. The old man's poor--wonderful poor. He's on'y a hook-an'-line man. For God's sake ask un no questions!" I asked him no questions.... * * * * * Every morning while at St. John's, my uncle and I must walk the lower streets: my hand in his, when I was a child, and, presently, when I was grown into a lad, myself at his heels. Upon these occasions I must be clad and conduct myself thus and so, with utmost particularity: must be combed and brushed, and carry my head bravely, and square my shoulders, and turn out my toes, and cap my crown so that my unspeakably wilful hair, which was never clipped short, as I would have it, would appear in disarray. Never once did I pass the anxious inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and there, a touch of my uncle's thick finger, which seemed, somehow, infinitely tender at that moment. "I'm wantin' ye, Dannie," says he, "t' look like a gentleman the day. They'll be a thing come t' pass, come a day." There invariably came a thing to pass--a singular thing, which I conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle's staff would strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that 'twas no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again turn placid and slow. "There you haves it, Dannie!" he would chuckle. "There you haves it!" 'Twas all a mystery. * * * * * My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John's--this for a day and a night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of terror--and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But 'twas all plain sailing afterwards--a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John's markets afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance of whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow himself. Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the _Lake_ got beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead! [3] My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath (or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary occasions. VI THE FEET OF CHILDREN Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven) my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure that I was snug in my sleep. 'Twas fall weather without, the first chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming. "Dannie," he whispered, "is you awake?" I made no answer. "Ah, Dannie, isn't you?" Still I would not heed him. "I wisht you was," he sighed, "for I'm wonderful lonely the night, lad, an' wantin' t' talk a spell." 'Twas like a child's beseeching. I was awake at once--wide awake for him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his need. "An' is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin' there in your own little bed?" "Ay, sir." "An' happy?" "Grand, sir!" said I. He crept softly to my bed. "You don't mind?" he whispered. I drew my feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with the tenderness of a woman. "You don't mind?" he ventured again, in diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance of loving protection from the ills of the world. "No?" said he. "I'm glad o' that: for I'm so wonderful old an' lonely, an' you're sort o' all I got, Dannie, t' fondle. 'Tis pleasant t' touch a thing that's young an' not yet smirched by sin an' trouble. 'Tis some sort o' cure for the souls o' broken folk, I'm thinkin'. An' you don't mind? I'm glad o' that. You're gettin' so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an' a man the morrow! You're near growed up. 'Leven year old!" with a wry smile, in which was no pride, but only poignant regret. "You're near growed up." Presently he withdrew a little. "Ay," said he, gently; "you is housed an' clad an' fed. So much I've managed well enough." He paused--distraught, his brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly over the scars and gray stubble of his head. "You're happy, Dannie?" he asked, looking up. "Come, now, is you sure? You'd not be makin' game o' the old man, would you, Dannie? You'd not tell un you _was_ when you _wasn't_, would you? Is you sure you're happy? An' you're glad, is you, t' be livin' all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol' feller like Nick Top?" "Wonderful happy, sir," I answered, used to the question, free and prompt in response; "happy, sir--with you." "An' you is sure?" I was sure. "I'm glad o' that," he continued, but with no relief of the anxious gloom upon his face. "I'm glad you is comfortable an' happy. I 'low," said he, "that poor Tom Callaway would like t' get word of it. Poor Tom! Poor ol' Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an' he loved you well--all too well. I 'low he'd be wonderful _glad_ just t' know that you was comfortable an' happy--an' good. You is good, isn't you? Oh, I knows you is! An' I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht he could: for I 'low 'twould perk un up a bit, in the place he's to, t' get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol' Nick Top. He've a good deal t' bear, I'm thinkin', where he's to; an' 'twould give un something t' distract his mind if he knowed you was doin' well. But, Dannie, lad," he pursued, with a lively little flash of interest, "they's a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! 'tis easy enough t' send messages Aloft; but when it comes t' gettin' a line or two o' comfort t' the poor damned folk Below, they's no mortal way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer," says he, "wings aloft, far beyond the stars, t' the ear o' God Hisself; an' I wisht--oh, I wisht--they was the same sort o' telegraph wire t' hell! For," said he, sadly, "I've got some news that I'd kind o' like t' send." I could not help him. "I'm _tired_!" he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. "I'm all wore out; an' I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway." I, too, sighed. "But I 'low," was my uncle's woe-begone conclusion, "that that there poor ol' Tom Callaway 'll just have t' wait till I sees un." 'Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my father's soul. * * * * * We were but newly come from St. John's: a long sojourn in the water-side tap-rooms--a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. 'Twas all plain now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and I wished, I recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars, that I might give of myself--of the ease and placid outlook he preserved for me--some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was a child: no more than a child--unwise, unhelpful, in a lad's way vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant, fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could have him think 'twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I fell asleep; and this I gladly did. * * * * * My uncle looked up. "Dannie," said he, "you don't mind me sittin' here for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?" 'Twas woful supplication: the voice a child's voice; the eyes--dimly visible in the starlight--a child's beseeching eyes. "Jus' for a little spell?" he pleaded. I said that I was glad to have him. "An' you isn't so wonderful sleepy, is you?" "No, sir," I yawned. He sighed. "I'm glad," said he. "An' I'm grateful t' you, lad, for bein' kind t' ol' Nick Top. He ain't worth it, Dannie--_he's_ no good; he's jus' a ol' fool. But I'm lonely the night--most wonderful lonely. I been thinkin' I was sort o' makin' a mess o' things. You _is_ happy, isn't you, Dannie?" he asked, in a flash of anxious mistrust. "An' comfortable--an' good? Ah, well! maybe: I'm glad you're thinkin' so. But I 'low I isn't much on fetchin' you up. I'm a _wonderful_ poor hand at that. I 'low you're gettin' a bit beyond me. I been feelin' sort o' helpless an' scared; an' I was wishin' they was somebody t' lend a hand with the job. I overhauled ol' Chesterfield, Dannie, for comfort; but somehow I wasn't able t' put my finger on a wonderful lot o' passages t' tie to. He've wonderful good ideas on the subjeck o' manners, an' a raft of un, too; but the ideas he've got on souls, Dannie, is poor an' sort o' damned scarce. So when I sot down there with the bottle, I 'lowed that if I come up an' you give me leave t' sit on the side o' your little bed for a spell, maybe you wouldn't mind recitin' that there little piece you've fell into the habit o' usin' afore you goes t' bed. That wee thing about the Shepherd. You wouldn't mind, would you, just sort o' givin' it a light overhaulin' for me? I'd thank you, Dannie, an you would be so kind; an' I'll be as quiet as a mouse while you does it." "The tender Shepherd?" "Ay," said he; "the Shepherd o' the lambs." "'_Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless thy little lamb to-night; Through the darkness be Thou near me; Keep me safe till morning light._ "'_All this day Thy hand has led me, And I thank Thee for Thy care; Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me: Listen to my evening prayer._ "'_Let my sins be all forgiven; Bless the friends I love so well; Take us all at last to heaven, Happy there with Thee to dwell._'" And now the lower stars were paling in a far-off flush of light. I had been disquieted, but was by this waxing glow made glad that the sea and rock of the world were to lie uncovered of their shadows while yet I was awake. 'Twas a childish prayer--too simple in terms and petition (as some may think) for the lad that was I to utter, grown tall and broad and lusty for my years; but how sufficient (I recall) to still the fears of night! They who are grown lads, like the lad that was I, got somewhat beyond the years of tenderness, cling within their hearts to all the lost privileges of love they must by tradition affect to despise. My prayer for the little lamb that was I presented no aspect of incongruity to my uncle; it left him silent and solemnly abstracted: the man being cast into a heavy muse upon its content, his head fallen over his breast, as was his habit, and his great gray brows drawn down. How still the night--how cold and clear: how unfeeling in this frosty calm and silence, save, afar, where the little stars winked their kindly cognizance of the wakeful dwellers of the earth! I sat up in my bed, peering through the window, to catch the first glint of the moon and to watch her rise dripping, as I used to fancy, from the depths of the sea. "But they stray!" my uncle complained. 'Twas an utterance most strange. "Uncle Nick," I asked, "what is it that strays?" "The feet o' children," he answered. By this I was troubled. "They stray," he repeated. "Ay; 'tis as though the Shepherd minded not at all." "Will my feet stray?" He would not answer: and then all at once I was appalled--who had not feared before. "Tell me!" I demanded. He reached out and touched my hand--a fleeting, diffident touch--and gently answered, "Ay, lad; your feet will stray." "No, no!" I cried. "The feet of all children," said he. "'Tis the way o' the world. They isn't mothers' prayers enough in all the world t' change the Shepherd's will. He's wise--the Shepherd o' the lambs." "'Tis sad, then," I expostulated, "that the Shepherd haves it so." "Sad?" "Ay--wondrous sad." "I'm not able t' think 'tis sad," said he. "'Tis wise, Dannie, I'm thinkin', t' have the lads wander in strange paths. I'd not have un suffer fear an' sorrow, God knows! not one poor lad of all the lads that ever was. I'd suffer for their sins meself an' leave un go scot free. Not one but I'd be glad t' do it for. But still 'tis wise, I'm thinkin', that they should wander an' learn for theirselves the trouble o' false ways. I wisht," he added, simply, "that they was another plan--some plan t' save un sorrow while yet it made un men. But I can't think o' none." "But an they're lost?" He scratched his head in a rush of anxious bewilderment. "Why, Dannie," cries he, "it cannot be! Lost? Some poor wee lads lost? _You_ lost, Dannie? My God! _You_, Dannie--you that lies there tender an' kind an' clean o' soul in your little bed? You that said the little prayer t' the tender Shepherd? _You_ lost! God! it _could_ not be. What's this you're tellin' me? I'm not able t' blaspheme the Lord God A'mighty in a way that's vile as that. Not you, lad--not you! Am I t' curse the God that would have it so?" cries he, in wrath. "Am I t' touch your young body here in the solemn night, am I t' look into your unspoiled eyes by day, an' feel that you fare into the dark alone, a child, an' without hope? _Me_ think that? Ol' Nick Top? Not I! Sin? Ay; _you'll_ sin. God knows so well as I you'll sin. He made you, lad, an' knows full well. You'll be sore hurt, child. For all he learns o' righteousness, Dannie, a man suffers; an' for all he learns o' sin he pays in kind: 'tis all the same--he learns o' good an' evil an' pays in the same coin o' sorrow. I'm not wishin' you sorrow: I'm wishin' you manhood. You'll wander, like all lads, as God knows, who made un an' the world they walks in; but the Shepherd will surely follow an' fetch home all them that stray away upon hurtful roads accordin' t' the will He works upon the sons o' men. They's no bog o' sin in all the world He knows not of. He'll seek the poor lads out, in patience an' love; an' He'll cure all the wounds the world has dealt un in dark places, however old an' bleared an' foul they've growed t' be, an' He'll make un clean again, rememberin' they was little lads, once--jus' like you. _Why, by God! Dannie,_" cried he, "_I'd do as much meself!_" "Ay," quoth I; "but the parsons says they're lost for good an' all." "Does they?" he asked, his eyes blank. "Deed so--an' often!" "Ah, well, Dannie!" said he, "bein' cut off from the discussion o' parsons by misdeeds, I'm not able t' say. But bein' on'y a lost soul I'm 'lowed t' think; an' I've thunk a idea." I wondered concerning it. "Which is, speakin' free an' easy," said he, "that they lie!" "'Twill be hard," I argued, "'t save un all." "'Twould be a mean poor God," he replied, "that couldn't manage a little thing like that." My uncle's soul, as I had been taught (and but a moment gone informed), was damned. "Uncle Nick," I inquired, "will the Shepherd find you?" "Me?" cries he. "Ay," I persisted; "will he not seek till he finds you, too?" "Hist!" he whispered. "I'm damned, Dannie, for good an' all." "You?" "Good Lord, yes!" said he, under his breath. "Hist! Certain sure, I is--damned t' hell for what I'm doin'." At this distant day I know that what he did was all for me, but not on that moonlit night of my childhood. "What's that?" said I. "I'm damned for it, anyhow," he answered. "Say no more, Dannie." I marvelled, but could make nothing of it at all. 'Tis strange (I have since thought) that we damn ourselves without hesitation: not one worthy man in all the world counting himself deserving of escape from those dreadful tortures preached for us by such apostles of injustice as find themselves, by the laws they have framed, interpreting without reverence or fear of blunder, free from the common judgment. Ay, we damn ourselves; but no man among us damns his friend, who is as evil as himself. And who damns his own child? 'Tis no doubt foolish to be vexed by any philosophy comprehending what is vulgarly called hell; but still (as I have thought) this is a reasonable view: there is no hell in the philosophy of a mother for her own child; and as by beneficent decree every man is the son of his mother, consequently there is no hell; else 'twould make such unhappiness in heaven. Ah, well! I looked out of the window where were the great works of the Lord: His rock and sea and sky. The moon was there to surprise me--half risen: the sea shot with a glistening pathway to the glory of the night. And in that vast uncertain and inimical place, far out from shore, there rode a schooner of twenty tons, dawdling unafraid, her small sails spread for a breeze, in hope. Whither bound? Northward: an evil coast for sailing-craft--cruel waters: rock and fog and ice and tempestuous winds. Thither bound, undaunted, with wings wide, abroad in the teeth of many perils, come wreck or not. At least (I thought) she had ventured from snug harbor. "Dannie," said my uncle, "you're all alone in the world." Alone? Not I! "Why, sir," said I, "I've _you!_" He looked away. "Isn't I?" I demanded. "No, lad," he answered; "you isn't." 'Twas the first step he had led me from dependence upon him. 'Twas as though he had loosened my hand a little from its confident clasp of his own. I was alarmed. "Many's the lad," said he, "that thinks he've his mother; an' many's the mother that thinks she've her lad. But yet they is both alone--all alone. 'Tis the queerest thing in the world." "But, Uncle Nick, I _haves_ you!" "No," he persisted; "you is all alone. Why, Lord! Dannie, you is 'leven. What does I know about _you_?" Not enough. "An' what does _you_ know about _me_?" I wondered. "All children is alone," said he. "Their mothers doesn't think so; but they is. They're alone--all alone. They got t' walk alone. How am I t' help you, Dannie? What can I _do_ for you? Of all the wisdom I've gathered I'd give you all an' go beggared, but you cannot take one jot. You must walk alone; 'tis the way o' the world. An', Dannie, could I say t' the evil that is abroad, 'Stand back! Make way! Leave this child o' mine t' walk in holiness!' I would not speak the word. 'Twould be hard t' stand helpless while you was sore beset. I'm not knowin' how I'd bear it. 'Twould hurt me, Dannie, God knows! But still I'd have you walk where sin walks. 'Tis a man's path, an' I'd have you take it, lad, like a man. I'd not have you come a milk-sop t' the Gate. I'd have you come scathless, an that might be with honor; but I'd have you come a man, scarred with a man's scars, an need be. You walk alone, Dannie, God help you! in the world God made: I've no knowledge o' your goings. You'll wander far on they small feet. God grant you may walk manfully wherever they stray. I've no more t' hope for than just only that." "I'll try, sir," said I. My uncle touched me again--moving nearer, now, that his hand might lie upon me. "Dannie," he whispered, "if you must sin the sins of us--" "Ay, sir?" "They'll be some poor folk t' suffer. An' Dannie--" I was very grave in the pause. "You'll not forget t' be kind, will you," he pleaded, "t' them that suffer for your sins?" "I will not sin," I protested, "t' the hurt of any others." He seemed not to hear. "An' you'll bear your own pain," he continued, "like a man, will you not?" I would bear it like a man. "That's good," said he. "That's very good!" The moon was now risen from the sea: the room full of white light. "They is a Shepherd," said my uncle. "God be thanked for that. _He'll_ fetch you home." "An' you?" said I. "Me? Oh no!" "He'll remember," said I, confidently, "that you was once a little lad--jus' like me." "God knows!" said he. I was then bade go to sleep.... * * * * * Presently I fell asleep, but awoke, deep in the night, to find my uncle brooding in a chair by my bed. The moon was high in the unclouded heaven. There was no sound or stirring in all the world--a low, unresting, melancholy swish and sighing upon the rocks below my window, where the uneasy sea plainted of some woe long forgot by all save it, which was like a deeper stillness and silence. The Lost Soul was lifted old and solemn and gray in the cold light and shadow of the night. I was troubled: for my uncle sat in the white beam, striking in at my window, his eyes staring from cavernous shadows, his face strangely fixed and woful--drawn, tragical, set in no incertitude of sorrow and grievous pain and expectation. I was afraid--'twas his eyes: they shook me with fear of the place and distance from which it seemed he gazed at me. 'Twas as though a gulf lay between, a place of ghostly depths, of echoes and jagged rock, dark with wind-blown shadows. He had brought me far (it seemed) upon a journey, leading me; and having now set my feet in other paths and turned my face to a City of Light, lifted in glory upon a hill, was by some unworthiness turned back to his own place, but stayed a moment upon the cloudy cliff at the edge of darkness, with the night big and thick beyond, to watch me on my way. "Uncle Nick," said I, "'tis wonderful late in the night." "Ay, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm wantin' sore t' sit by you here a spell." "I'll not be able," I objected, "t' go t' sleep." "'Twill do no hurt, lad," said he "if I'm wonderful quiet. An' I'll be quiet--wonderful quiet." "But I'm _wantin'_ t' go t' sleep!" "Ah, well," said he, "I'll not trouble you, then. I would not have you lie awake. I'll go. Good-night. God bless you, lad!" I wish I had not driven him away.... VII TWIN ISLANDS In all this time I have said little enough of Twist Tickle, never a word (I think) of Twin Islands, between whose ragged shores the sheltering tickle winds; and by your favor I come now gratefully to the task. 'Tis a fishing outport: a place of rock and sea and windy sky--no more than that--but much loved by the twelvescore simple souls of us, who asked for share of all the earth but salt-water and a harbor (with the winds blowing) to thrive sufficient to ourselves and to the world beyond. Had my uncle sought a secret place to foster the child that was I--which yet might yield fair wage for toil--his quest fortuitously ended when the _Shining Light_ ran dripping out of the gale and came to anchor in the quiet water of the tickle. But more like 'twas something finer that moved him: in that upheaval of his life, it may be, 'twas a wistful turning of the heart to the paths and familiar waters of the shore where he lived as a lad. Had the _Shining Light_ sailed near or far and passed the harbor by, the changed fortunes of--but there was no sailing by, nor could have been, for the great wind upon whose wings she came was passionate, too, and fateful. If 'tis a delight to love, whatever may come of it (as some hold), I found delight upon the grim hills of Twin Islands.... * * * * * They lie hard by the coast, but are yet remote: Ship's Run divides them from the long blue line of main-land which lifts its barren hills in misty distance from our kinder place. 'Tis a lusty stretch of gray water, sullen, melancholy, easily troubled by the winds, which delight, it seems, sweeping from the drear seas of the north, to stir its rage. In evil weather 'tis wide as space; when a nor'easter lifts the white dust of the sea, clouding Blow-me-down-Billy of the main-land in a swirl of mist and spume, there is no departure; nor is there any crossing (mark you) when in the spring of the year a southerly gale urges the ice to sea. We of Twin Islands were cut off by Ship's Run from all the stirring and inquisitive world. According to Tumm, the clerk of the _Quick as Wink_, which traded our harbor, Twin Islands are t' the west'ard o' the Scarf o' Fog, a bit below the Blue Gravestones, where the _Soldier o' the Cross_ was picked up by Satan's Tail in the nor'easter o' the Year o' the Big Shore Catch. "Oh, I knows un!" says he. "You opens the Tickle when you rounds Cocked Hat o' the Hen-an'-Chickens an' lays a course for Gentleman Cove, t'other side o' the bay. Good harbor in dirty weather," says he: "an', ecod! my lads, a hearty folk." This is forbidding enough, God knows! as to situation; but though the ancient islands, scoured by wind and rain, are set in a misty isolation and show gray, grimly wrinkled faces to the unkind sea, betraying no tenderness, they are green and genial in the places within: there are valleys; and the sun is no idler, and the lean earth of those parts is not to be discouraged. "God-forsaken place, Nick!" quoth Tom Bull, at the Anchor and Chain. "How was you knowin' that, Tom?" says my uncle. "You isn't never _been_ there." "_Sounds_ God-forsaken." "So does hell." "Well, hell _is_." "There you goes again, Tom Bull!" cries my uncle, with a sniff and wrathful twitch of the lip. "There you goes again, you dunderhead--jumpin' t' conclusions!" Tom Bull was shocked. "Hell God-forsaken!" growls my uncle. "They's more hard labor for the good Lord t' do in hell, Tom Bull, than any place I knows on; an' I 'low He's right there, kep' double watches on the jump, a-doin' of it!" Twist Tickle pursues an attenuated way between the Twins, broadening into the harbor basin beyond the Pillar o' Cloud, narrowing at the Finger and Thumb, widening, once more, into the lower harbor, and escaping to the sea, at last, between Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul, which are great bare heads. You get a glimpse of the Tickle from the deck of the mail-boat: this when she rounds the Cocked Hat and wallows off towards Gentleman Cove. 'Tis but a niggardly glimpse at best, and vastly unfair to the graces of the place: a white house, wee and listlessly tilted, gripping a rock, as with expiring interest; a reach of placid water, deep and shadowy, from which rise the hills, gray, rugged, splashed with green; heights beyond, scarfed with clinging wisps of mist. The white houses are builded in a fashion the most disorderly at the edge of the tickle, strung clear from the narrows to the Lost Soul and straying somewhat upon the slopes, with the scrawny-legged flakes clinging to the bare declivities and the stages squatted at the water-side; but some houses, whose tenants are solitary folk made morose by company, congregate in the remoter coves--where the shore is the shore of the open sea and there is no crowd to trouble--whence paths scramble over the hills to the Tickle settlement. My uncle's cottage sat respectably, even with some superiority, upon a narrow neck of rock by the Lost Soul, outlooking, westerly, to sea, but in the opposite direction dwelling in a way more intimate and fond upon the unruffled water of Old Wives' Cove, within the harbor, where rode the _Shining Light_. "An' there she'll lie," he was used to saying, with a grave and mysteriously significant wink, "until I've sore need o' she." "Ay," said they, "or till she rots, plank an' strand." "An she rots," says my uncle, "she may rot: for she'll sail these here waters, sound or rotten, by the Lord! an I just put her to it." Unhappy, then, perhaps, Twin Islands, in situation and prospect; but the folk of that harbor, who deal barehanded with wind and sea to catch fish, have this wisdom: that a barren, a waste of selfish water, a low, soggy sky have nothing to do with the hearts of men, which are independent, in love and hope and present content, of these unfeeling things. We were seafaring men, every jack of the place, with no knowledge of a world apart from green water, which forever confronted us, fashioning our lives; but we played the old comedy as heartily, with feeling as true and deep, the same fine art, as you, my gentlefolk! and made a spectacle as grateful to the gods for whom the stage (it seems) is set. * * * * * And there is a road from the Tickle to the sea--to an outer cove, high-cliffed, frothy, sombre, with many melancholy echoes of wind and breakers and listless human voices, where is a cluster of hopeless, impoverished homes. 'Tis a wilful-minded path, lingering indolently among the hills, artful, intimate, wise with age, and most indulgently secretive of its soft discoveries. It is used to the lagging feet of lovers. There are valleys in its length, and winding, wooded stretches, kindly places; and there are arching alders along the way to provide a seclusion yet more tender. In the moonlight 'tis a path of enchantment--a way (as I know) of pain and high delight: of a wandering hope that tantalizes but must in faith, as we are men, be followed to its catastrophe. I have suffered much of ecstasy and despair upon that path. 'Tis the road to Whisper Cove. Judith dwelt at Whisper Cove.... VIII A MAID O' WHISPER COVE Fourteen, then, and something more: a footloose lad of Twist Tickle--free to sail and wander, to do and dream, to read the riddles of my years, blithe and unalarmed. 'Tis beyond the will and wish of me to forget the day I lay upon the Knob o' Lookout, from afar keeping watch on the path to Whisper Cove--the taste of it, salty and cool, the touch of it upon my cheek and in my hair, the sunlight and scampering wind: the simple haps and accidents, the perception, awakening within me, and the portent. 'Twas blowing high and merrily from the west--a yellow wind from the warm west and from the golden mist and low blue line of coast at the other side of the bay. It rippled the azure floor between, and flung the spray of the breakers into the sunshine, and heartily clapped the gray cliff, and pulled the ears of the spruce, and went swinging on, in joyous mood, to the gray spaces of the great sea beyond Twin Islands. I shall not forget: for faith! the fates were met in conspiracy with the day to plot the mischief of my life. There was no warning, no question to ease the issue in my case: 'twas all ordained in secret; and the lever of destiny was touched, and the labor of the unfeeling loom went forward to weave the pattern of my days. * * * * * Judith (as I know) washed her mother's face and hands with conscientious care: 'twas her way. Doubtless, in the way she had, she chattered, the while, a torrent of affectionate reproof and direction, which gave no moment for promise or complaint, and at last, with a raised finger and a masterful little flash of the eye, bade the flighty woman keep out of mischief for the time. What then, 'tis easy to guess: she exhausted the resources of soap and water in her own adornment (for she smelled of suds in the cabin of the _Shining Light_), and set out by the path from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle, with never a glance behind, but a prim, sharp outlook, from shyly downcast eyes, upon all the world ahead. A staid, slim little maid, with softly fashioned shoulders, carried sedately, her small head drooping with shy grace, like a flower upon its slender stalk, seeming as she went her dainty way to perceive neither scene nor incident of the passage, but yet observing all in swift, sly little flashes. "An' a-ha!" thinks I, "she's bound for the _Shining Light_!" It was blowing: on the edge of the cliff, where the path was lifted high above the sea, winding through sunlit space, the shameless old wind, turned skyward by the gray cliff, made bold, in the way the wind knows and will practise, wherever it blows. The wind cared nothing for the tragic possibility of a lad on the path: Judith was but a fluttering rag in the gust. At once--'twas a miracle of activity--her face reappeared in a cloud of calico and tawny hair. She looked fearfully to the path and yellow hills; and her eyes (it must be) were wide with the distress of this adventure, and there were blushes (I know) upon her cheeks, and a flash of white between her moist red lips. Without hint of the thing (in her way)--as though recklessly yielding to delight despite her fears--she lifted her hands and abandoned the pinafore to the will of the wind with a frightened little chuckle. 'Twas her way: thus in a flash to pass from nay to yea without mistrust or lingering. Presently, tired of the space and breeze, she dawdled on in the sunshine, idling with the berries and scrawny flowers by the way, and with the gulls, winging above the sea, until, as with settled intention, she vanished over the cliff by the goat-path to Old Wives' Cove, where rode the _Shining Light_, sound asleep under a blanket of sunshine in the lee of the Lost Soul. I followed. * * * * * In the cabin of the _Shining Light_, cross-legged on the table, in the midst of the order she had accomplished, her hands neatly folded in her lap, Judith sat serene. She had heard my clatter on the gang-plank, my shuffle and heavy tread on the deck. 'Twas I, she knew: there was no mistaking, God help me! the fall of my feet on road or deck. It may be that her heart for a moment fluttered to know that the lad that was I came at last. She has not told me: I do not know. But faith! my own was troublesome enough with a new and irritating uneasiness, for which was no accounting. I feigned astonishment. "Hello!" quoth I; "what you doin' here?" She turned away--the eager expectation all fled from her face: I saw it vanish. "Eh?" says I. She sniffed: 'twas a frank sniff of contempt--pain, like a half-heard sob, mixed with the scorn of it. "What you doin' here?" I stood reproached; she had achieved it in a glance--a little shaft of light, darting upon me, departing, having dealt its wound. "Well, maid," cries I, the smart of her glance and silence enraging me, "is you got no tongue?" She puckered her brows, pursed her lips; she sighed--and concerned herself with her hair-ribbon, quite placid once more. 'Twas a trick well known to me. 'Twas a trick aggravating to the temper. 'Twas a maid's trick--an ensnaring, deadly trick. 'Twas a trick ominous of my imminent confusion. "Eh?" I demanded. "Dannie, child," she admonished, gently, "God hates a liar!" I might have known. "T' make believe," cries she, "that I'd not be here! How could you!" "'Tis not a lie." "'Tis a white lie, child," she chided. "You've come, Dannie, poor lad! t' be a white liar. 'Tis a woful state--an' a parlous thing. For, child, if you keeps on--" She had paused. 'Twas a trick to fetch the question. I asked it. "You'll be a blue one," says she. "An' then--" "What then?" "Blue-black, child. An' then--" I waited. "Oh, Dannie, lad!" cries she, her little hands clasped, a pitiful quaver in her voice, so that I felt consigned to woe, indeed, for this misdoing, "you'll be a liar as black as--" There was no more of it. "You dare not say it!" I taunted. I did not wish that she should: not I! but still, being a lad, would have her come close enough to sauce the devil. But I would not have her say that word. Indeed, I need not have troubled. 'Twas not in her mind to be so unmaidenly, with a lad at hand to serve her purpose. "No," says she, "I dare not; but you, Dannie, bein' a lad--" Her voice trailed off expectantly. "Black as hell?" She nodded. "Come, maid," says I, "you've called me a liar." "I wasn't wantin' to." "No odds," says I. "An' if I'm a liar," says I, "I 'low I'm a fool for it?" "You is." "Then, my maid," cries I, in triumph, "you'll be keepin' me company in hell! You've called me a fool. 'An' whoso calleth his brother a fool--'" "Oh no," says she, quite undisturbed. "'Tis not so." "Not so?" "Why, no, child! Didn't you know?" "But it _says_ so!" "Dannie, child," says she, with unruffled superiority, "I come down from heaven one year an' five months after God sent you. An' God _told_ me, Dannie, just afore I left Un at the Gate, that He'd changed His mind about that." The particular color of this stupendous prevarication I am still unable to determine.... * * * * * Here in the cabin of the _Shining Light_ was my workshop. On the bench, stout-hulled and bravely masted, was a bark to be rigged. My fingers itched to be dealing with the delicate labor. 'Twas no time now, thought I, all at once, to dally with the child. The maid was a sweet maid, an amiably irritating maid, well enough, in her way, to idle with; but the building of the ship was a substantial delight, subject to the mastery of a man with hands and a will, the end a sure achievement--no vague, elusive thing, sought in madness, vanishing in the grasp. I would be about this man's-work. Never was such a ship as this ship should be! And to the work went Judith and I. But presently, as never happened before, I was in some strange way conscious of Judith's nearness. 'Twas a soft, companionable presence, indeed! I bungled the knots, and could no longer work my will upon the perverse spars, but had rather dwell upon her slender hands, swiftly, capably busy, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her eyes. I remembered the sunlight and freshening breeze upon the hills, the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and far-off, tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray high into the yellow sunshine. 'Twas no time now, thought I, to be busied with craft in the gloomy cabin of the _Shining Light_, which was all well enough in its way; 'twas a time to be abroad in the sunlit wind. And I sighed: not knowing what ailed me, but yet uneasy and most melancholy. The world was an ill place for a lad to be (thinks I), and all the labor of it a vanity.... * * * * * Now the afternoon was near spent. My hands were idle--my eyes and heart far astray from the labor of the time. It was very still and dreamful in the cabin. The chinks were red with the outer glow, and a stream of mote-laden sunlight, aslant, came in at the companionway. It fell upon Judith. "Judy," I whispered, bending close, "I 'low I might as well--might as well have--" She looked up in affright. "Have a kiss," said I. "Oh no!" she gasped. "Why not? Sure I'm able for it!" "Ay," she answered, in her wisdom yielding this; "but, Dannie, child, 'tisn't _'lowed_." "Why not?" Her eyes turned round with religious awe. "God," said she, with a solemn wag, "wouldn't like it." "I'd never stop for that." "May be," she chided; "but I 'low, lad, we ought t' 'blige Un once in a while. 'Tis no more than kind. An' what's a kiss t' lack? Pooh!" I was huffed. "Ah, well, then!" said she, "an your heart's set on it, Dannie, I've no mind t' stop you. But--" I moved forward, abashed, but determined. "But," she continued, with an emphasis that brought me to a stop, "I 'low I better ask God, t' make sure." 'Twas the way she had in emergencies. "Do," said I, dolefully. The God of the lad that was I--the God of his childish vision, when, in the darkness of night, he lifted his eyes in prayer, seeking the leading of a Shepherd--was a forbidding God: white, gigantic, in the shape of an old, old man, the Ancient of Days, in a flowing robe, seated scowling upon a throne, aloft on a rolling cloud, with an awful mist of darkness all roundabout. But Judith, as I knew, visualized in a more felicitous way. The God to whom she appealed was a rotund, florid old gentleman, with the briefest, most wiry of sandy whiskers upon his chops, a jolly double chin, a sunburned nose, kindly blue eyes forever opened in mild wonder (and a bit bleared by the wind), the fat figure clad in broadly checked tweed knickerbockers and a rakish cap to match, like the mad tourists who sometimes strayed our way. 'Twas this complacent, benevolent Deity that she made haste to interrogate in my behalf, unabashed by the spats and binocular, the corpulent plaid stockings and cigar, which completed his attire. She spread her feet, in the way she had at such times; and she shut her eyes, and she set her teeth, and she clinched her hands, and thus silently began to wrestle for the answer, her face all screwed, as by a taste of lemon.[4] Presently my patience was worn. "What news?" I inquired. "Hist!" she whispered. "He's lookin' at me through His glasses." I waited an interval. "What now, Judy?" "Hist!" says she. "He's wonderful busy makin' up His mind. Leave Un be, Dannie!" 'Twas trying, indeed! I craved the kiss. Nor by watching the child's puckered face could I win a hint to ease the suspense that rode me. Upon the will of Judith's Lord God Almighty in tweed knickerbockers surely depended the disposition of the maid. I wished He would make haste to answer. "Judy, maid," I implored, "will He never have done?" "You'll be makin' Un mad, Dannie," she warned. "I can wait no longer." "He's scowlin'." I wished I had not interrupted. "I 'low," she reported, "He'll shake His head in a minute." 'Twas a tender way to break ill news. "Ay," she sighed, opening her eyes. "He've gone an' done it. I knowed it. He've said I hadn't better not. I'm wonderful sorry you've t' lack the kiss, Dannie. I'm wonderful sorry, Dannie," she repeated, in a little quiver of pity, "for _you_!" She was pitiful: there's no forgetting that compassion, its tearful concern and wistfulness. I was bewildered. More wishful beseeching must surely have softened a Deity with a sunburned nose and a double chin! Indeed, I was bewildered by this fantasy of weeping and nonsense. For the little break in her voice and the veil of tears upon her eyes I cannot account. 'Twas the way she had as a maid: and concerning this I have found it folly to speculate. Of the boundaries of sincerity and pretence within her heart I have no knowledge. There was no pretence (I think); 'twas all reality--the feigning and the feeling--for Judith walked in a confusion of the truths of life with visions. There came a time--a moment in our lives--when there was no feigning. 'Twas a kiss besought; and 'twas kiss or not, as between a man and a maid, with no Almighty in tweed knickerbockers conveniently at hand to shoulder the blame. Ah, well, Judith! the golden, mote-laden shaft which transfigured your childish loveliness into angelic glory, the encompassing shadows, the stirring of the day without, the winds of blue weather blowing upon the hills, are beauties faded long ago, the young denial a pain almost forgot. The path we trod thereafter, Judith, is a memory, too: the days and nights of all the years since in the streaming sunlight of that afternoon the lad that was I looked upon you to find the shadowy chambers of your eyes all misty with compassion. * * * * * "Dannie," she ventured, softly, "you're able t' take it." "Ay--but will not." "You're wonderful strong, Dannie, an' I'm but a maid." "I'll wrest no kisses," said I, with a twitch of scorn, "from maids." She smiled. 'Twas a passing burst of rapture, which, vanishing, left her wan and aged beyond her years. "No," she whispered, but not to me, "he'd _not_ do that. He'd not--do that! An' I'd care little enough for the Dannie Callaway that would." "You cares little enough as 'tis," said I. "You cares nothing at all. You cares not a jot." She smiled again: but now as a wilful, flirting maid. "As for carin' for _you_, Dannie," she mused, dissembling candor, "I _do_--an' I don't." The unholy spell that a maid may weave! The shameless trickery of this! "I'll tell you," she added, "the morrow." And she would keep me in torture! "There'll be no to-morrow for we," I flashed, in a passion. "You cares nothing for Dannie Callaway. 'Tis my foot," I cried, stamping in rage and resentment. "'Tis my twisted foot. I'm nothin' but a cripple!" She cried out at this. "A limpin' cripple," I groaned, "t' be laughed at by all the maids o' Twist Tickle!" She began now softly to weep. I moved towards the ladder--with the will to abandon her. "Dannie," she called, "take the kiss." I would not. "Take two," she begged. "Maid," said I, severely, "what about your God?" "Ah, _but_--" she began. "No, no!" cries I. "None o' that, now!" "You'll not listen!" she pouted. "'Twill never do, maid!" "An you'd but hear me, child," she complained, "I'd 'splain--" "_What about your God?_" She turned demure--all in a flash. "I'll ask Un," said she, most piously. "You--you--you'll not run off, Dannie," she asked, faintly, "when I--I--shuts my eyes?" "I'll bide here," says I. "Then," says she, "I'll ask Un." The which she did, in her peculiar way. 'Twas a ceremony scandalously brief and hurried. Once I caught (I thought) a slit in her eye--a peep-hole through which she spied upon me. Presently she looked up with a shy little grin. "God says, Dannie," she reported, speaking with slow precision, the grin now giving place to an expression of solemnity and highest rapture, "that He 'lows He didn't know what a fuss you'd make about a little thing like a kiss. He've been wonderful bothered o' late by overwork, Dannie, an' He's sorry for what He done, an' 'lows you might overlook it this time. 'You tell Dannie, Judy,' says He, 'that he've simply no idea what a God like me haves t' put up with. They's a woman t' Thunder Arm,' says He, 'that's been worryin' me night an' day t' keep her baby from dyin', an' I simply can't make up my mind. She'll make me mad an she doesn't look out,' says He, 'an' then I'll kill it. An' I've the heathen, Judy--all them heathen--on my mind. 'Tis enough t' drive any God mad. An' jus' now,' says He, 'I've got a wonderful big gale blowin' on the Labrador, an' I'm near drove deaf,' says He, 'by the noise them fishermen is makin'. What with the Labradormen an' the woman t' Thunder Arm an' the heathen 'tis fair awful. An' now comes Dannie,' says He, 't' make me sick o' my berth! You tell Dannie,' says he, 't' take the kiss an' be done with it. Tell un t' go ahead,' says He, 'an' not be afeared o' me. I isn't in favor o' kissin' as a usual thing,' says He, 'for I've always 'lowed 'twas sort o' silly; but if _you_ don't mind, Judy,' says He, 'why, _I_ can turn my head.'" 'Twas not persuasive. "'Tis a white kiss," said she, seeking, in her way, to deck the thing with attractions. I would not turn. "'Tis all silk." It budged me not, though I craved the kiss with a mounting sense of need, a vision of despair. It budged me not: I would not be beguiled. "An' oh, Dannie!" she besought, with her hands appealing, "'tis _awful_ expensive!" I returned. "Take it," she sobbed. I pecked her lips. "Volume II., page 26!" roared my uncle, his broad red face appearing at that moment in the companionway. "You done well, Dannie! 'Tis quite t' the taste o' Skipper Chesterfield. You're sailin' twelve knots by the log, lad, on the course you're steerin'!" So I did not have another; but the one, you may believe! had done the mischief. [4] I am informed that there are strange folk who do not visualize after the manner of Judith and me. 'Tis a wonder how they conceive, at all! IX AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART My uncle's errand, speedily made known, for Judith's restoration, was this: to require my presence betimes at tea that evening, since (as he said) there was one coming by the mail-boat whom he would have me favorably impress with my appearance and state of gentility--a thing I was by no means loath to do, having now grown used to the small delights of display. But I was belated, as it chanced, after all: for having walked with Judith, by my uncle's hint, to the cairn at the crest of Tom Tulk's Head, upon the return I fell in with Moses Shoos, the fool of Twist Tickle, who would have me bear him company to Eli Flack's cottage, in a nook beyond the Finger, and lend him comfort thereafter, in good or evil fortune, as might befall. To this I gave a glad assent, surmising from the significant conjunction of smartened attire and doleful countenance that an affair of the heart was forward. And 'twas true; 'twas safely to be predicted, indeed, in season and out, of the fool of our harbor: for what with his own witless conjectures and the reports of his mates, made in unkind banter, his leisure was forever employed in the unhappy business: so that never a strange maid came near but he would go shyly forth upon his quest, persuaded of a grateful issue. 'Twas heroic, I thought, and by this, no less than by his attachment, he was endeared to me. * * * * * I sniffed a change of wind as we fell in together. 'Twould presently switch to the south (I fancied); and 'twould blow high from the sou'east before the night was done. The shadows were already long; and in the west--above the hills which shut the sea from sight--the blue of mellow weather and of the day was fading. And by the lengthened shadows I was reminded that 'twas an untimely errand the fool was upon. "'Tis a queer time," said I, "t' be goin' t' Eli's. Sure, Moses, they'll be at the board!" "Dear man! but I'm wonderful crafty, Dannie," he explained, with a sly twitch of the eye. "An they're at table, lad, with fish an' brewis sot out, I'm sure t' cotch the maid within." "The maid?" I inquired. "Ay, lad; 'tis a maid. I'm told they's a new baggage come t' Skipper Eli's for a bit of a cruise." I caught a bashful flush mounting to his ears and the rumble of a chuckle in his throat. "She've come from Tall Pine Harbor," said he, "with a cask o' liver; an' I'm told she've her heart dead sot on matrimony." "Larry Hull's maid?" "No, lad; 'tis not she. She've declined. Las' fall, Dannie, bein' wind-bound in a easterly gale, I cotched she at Skipper Jonathan Stark's. No; she've declined." "'Tis Maria Long, then," said I. "No, lad; she've declined, too." "Elizabeth Wutt?" "She've declined." "'Tis not the Widow Tootle!" "No; _she've_ declined," he answered, dismally. "But," he added, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, "she come wonderful _near_ it. 'Twas a close call for she! She 'lowed, Dannie, that an my beard had been red she might ha' went an' done it, takin' chances with my wits. She might, says she, put up with a lack o' wit; but a beard o' proper color she must have for peace o' mind. You sees, Dannie, Sam Tootle had a red beard, an' the widow 'lowed she'd feel strange with a yellow one, bein' accustomed t' the other for twenty year. She've declined, 'tis true; but she come wonderful _near_ t' sayin the word. 'Twas quite encouragin'," he added, then sighed. "You keep on, Moses," said I, to hearten him, "an' you'll manage it yet." "Mother," he sighed, "used t' 'low so." We were now come to a rise in the road, whence, looking back, I found the sky fast clouding up. 'Twas a wide view, falling between the black, jagged masses of Pretty Willie and the Lost Soul, cast in shadow--a reach of blood-red sea, with mounting clouds at the edge of the world, into which the swollen sun had dropped, to set the wind-blown tatters in a flare of red and gold. 'Twas all a sullen black below, tinged with purple and inky blue; but high above the flame and glow of the rags of cloud there hung a mottled sky, each fleecy puff a touch of warmer color upon the pale green beyond. The last of our folk were bound in from the grounds, with the brown sails spread to a rising breeze, the fleet of tiny craft converging upon the lower-harbor tickle; presently the men would be out of the roughening sea, pulling up the harbor to the stage-heads, there to land and split the catch. Ay, a change of wind, a switch to the sou'east, with the threat of a gale with rain; 'twould blow before dark, no doubt, and 'twas now all dusky in the east, where the sky was cold and gray. Soon the lamps would be alight in the kitchens of our harbor, where the men folk, cleansed of the sweat of the sea, would sit warm and dry with their wives and rosy lads and maids, caring not a whit for the wind and rain without, since they had what they had within. "I'm knowin' no other maid at Tall Pine Harbor," said I, "that's fit t' wed." "'Tis a maid o' the name o' Pearl," he confided; "an' I'm told she's fair on looks." "Pearl what, Moses?" "I disremember, Dannie," he answered, a bit put out. "The lads told me, out there on the grounds the day, when I got wind of her bein' here, but I've clean forgot. It won't matter, anyhow, will it, lad? for, sure, I'm able t' _ask_." "An' you've hopes?" He trudged on, staring straight ahead, now silent and downcast. "Well, no, Dannie," he answered, at last, "not what you might call _hopes_. So many, Dannie, haves declined, that I'd be s'prised t' cotch one that wouldn't slip the hook. But not havin' cast for this one, lad, I've not give up. I'm told they's no wonderful demand for the maid on accounts of temper and cross-eyes; an' so I was sort of allowin' she _might_ have a mind t' try a fool, him bein' the on'y skipper t' hand. Mother used t' say if I kep' on she 'lowed I'd haul one out in the end: an' I 'low mother knowed. She never 'lowed I'd cotch a perfeck specimen, in p'int o' looks, for them, says she, mates accordin' t' folly; but she did say, Dannie, that the maid I wed would come t' know me jus' the way mother knowed me, an t' love me jus' the way mother loved me, for my goodness. 'Twas kind o' mother t' think it: nobody else, Dannie, was ever so kind t' me. I wonder why _she_ was! Would you say, Dannie," he asked, turning anxiously, "that a cross-eyed maid _could_ be fair on looks? Not," he added, quickly, "that I'd care a wonderful sight: for mother used t' say that looks wiped off in the first washin', anyhow." I did not answer. "You wouldn't say, would you, lad," he went on, "that _I_ was fair on looks?" An ungainly little man, this Moses Shoos: stout enough about the chest, where a man's strength needs lie, big-shouldered, long-armed, but scrawny and crooked in the legs and of an inconfident, stumbling gait, prone to halt, musing vacantly as he went. He was bravely clad upon his courtship: a suit of homespun from the _Quick as Wink_, given in fair dealing, as to quality, by Tumm, the clerk, but with reservations as to fit--everywhere (it seemed) unequal to its task, in particular at the wrists and lean shanks. His visage was in the main of a gravely philosophical cast, full at the forehead, pensive about the eyes, restless-lipped, covered upon cheeks and chin with a close, curly growth of yellow beard of a color with his hair: 'twas as though, indeed, he carried a weight of thought--of concern and helpless sympathy for the woes of folk. 'Twas set with a child's eyes: of the unfaded blue, inquiring, unafraid, innocent, pathetic, reflecting the emotion of the moment; quick, too, but in no way to shame him, to fill with tears. He spoke in a colorless drawl, with small variation of pitch: a soft, low voice, of clear timbre, with a note of melancholy insistently sounding, whatever his mood. I watched him stumble on; and I wondered concerning the love his mother had for him, who got no other love, but did not wonder that he kept her close within his heart, for here was no mystery. "Eh, Dannie?" he reminded me, with a timid little smile, in which was yet some glint of vanity. "Oh, ay!" I answered; "you're fair on looks." "Ay," said he, in fine simplicity; "mother used t' say so, too. She 'lowed," he continued, "that I was a sight stronger on looks 'n any fool she ever knowed. It might have been on'y mother, but maybe not. The lads, Dannie, out there on the grounds, is wonderful fond o' jokin', an' _they_ says I've a power o' looks; but mother," he concluded, his voice grown caressive and reverent, "wouldn't lie." It gave me a familiar pang--ay, it _hurt_ me sore--to feel this loving confidence vibrate upon the strings within me, and to know that the echo in my heart was but an echo, after all, distant and blurred, of the reality of love which was this fool's possession. "An' she said that?" I asked, in poignant envy. "Oh, ay!" he answered. "Afore she knowed I was a fool, lad, she 'lowed she had the best kid t' Twist Tickle." "An' after?" I demanded. "It didn't seem t' make no difference, Dannie, not a jot." I wisht I had a mother. "I wisht, Dannie," said he, in a break of feeling for me, "that _you_ had a mother." "I wisht I had," said I. "I wisht," said he, in the way of all men with mothers, as God knows why, "that you had one--just like mine." We were come to the turn in the road, where the path descended at haphazard, over the rocks and past the pigpen, to the cottage of Eli Flack, builded snugly in a lee from the easterly gales. For a moment, in the pause, the fool of Twist Tickle let his hand rest upon my shoulder, which never before had happened in all our intercourse, but withdrew it, as though awakened from this pitying affection to a sense of his presumption, which never, God witness! did I teach him. "Tis a grand sunset," said he. "Look, Dannie; 'tis a sunset with gates!" 'Twas so: great black gates of cloud, edged with glowing color, with the quiet and light of harbor beyond. "With gates!" he whispered. 'Twas the fancy of a fool; nay, 'twas the fancy (as chanced his need) of some strange wisdom. "Dannie," said he, "they's times when I sees mother's face peerin' at me from them clouds--her own dear face as 'twas afore she died. She's keepin' watch from the windows o' heaven--keepin' watch, jus' like she used t' do. You'll never tell, will you, lad? You'll not shame me, will you? They'd laugh, out there on the grounds, an you told: for they're so wonderful fond o' laughter--out there on the grounds. I lives, somehow," said he, brushing his hand in bewilderment over his eyes, "in the midst o' laughter, but have no call t' laugh. I wonder why, for mother didn't laugh; an' I wonder why _they_ laughs so much. They'd laugh, Dannie, an you told un she was keepin' watch; an' so you will not: for I've growed, somehow, wonderful tired o' laughter--since mother died. But 'tis so: I knows 'tis so! I sees her face in the light o' sunsets--just as it used t' be. She comes t' the gate, when the black clouds arise t' hide the mystery we've no call t' know, an' the dear Lord cares not what we fathom; an' I sees her, Dannie, from my punt, still keepin' watch upon me, just like she done from the window, afore she went an' died. She was a wonderful hand, somehow, at keepin' watch at the window. She'd watch me go an' watch me come. I've often wondered why she done it. I've wondered, Dannie, an' wondered, but never could tell why. Why, Dannie, I've knowed her t' run out, by times, an' say: 'Come, dear, 'tis time you was within. Hush, lad, never care. They'll never hurt you, dear,' says she, 'when you're within--with me.' An', Dannie, t' this day I'm feared t' look into the sky, at evening, when I've been bad, lest I sees her saddened by my deeds; but when I'm good, I'm glad t' see her face, for she smiles, lad, just like she used t' do from the window--afore they buried her." "Ay," said I; "I've no doubt, Moses--nar a doubt at all." The wind had risen; 'twas blowing from south by sou'east in meaning gusts: gusts intent upon riot, without compassion, loosed and conscious of release to work the will they had. The wind cares nothing for the needs of men; it has no other feeling than to vent its strength upon the strength of us--the lust (it seems to me) for a trial of passion, not knowing the enlistment of our hearts. 'Tis by the heart alone that we outlive the sea's angry, crafty hate, for which there is no cause, since we would live at peace with it: for the heart remembers the kitchens of our land, and, defiant or not, evades the trial, repressed by love, as the sea knows no repression. 'Twas blowing smartly, with the promise of greater strength--'twas a time for reefs; 'twas a time for cautious folk, who loved their young, to walk warily upon the waters lest they be undone. The wind is a taunter; and the sea perversely incites in some folk--though 'tis hardly credible to such as follow her by day and night--strange desire to flaunt abroad, despite the bitter regard in which she holds the sons of men. I was glad that the folk of our harbor were within the tickle: for the sea of Ship's Run, now turned black, was baring its white teeth. 'Twas an unkind place to be caught in a gale of wind; but our folk were wise--knowing in the wiles of the sea--and were not to be trapped in the danger fools despise. "I'm on'y a fool," said Moses Shoos; "but, Dannie, mother 'lowed, afore she died, that I was wonderful good t' she. 'Moses, lad,' says mother, on that day, 'fool or no fool, looks or not, you been wonderful good t' me. I could never love you more; an' I wouldn't trade you, lad, for the brightest man o' Twist Tickle. Does you hear me, dear?' says she. 'I wants you t' remember. I loves you,' says she; 'an' fool or no fool, I'd never trade you off, you've been so good t' me.'" "T' be sure not!" cries I. "Not mother," said he; "not--_my_ mother!" I reminded him that 'twas time to be about his courtship, for the light was fading now, and 'twould soon be dark. "Ay," said he; "mother 'lowed 'twasn't good for man t' be alone. An' I 'low she knowed." I watched him down the hill.... I was but a motherless lad--not yet grown wise, but old enough, indeed, to want a mother--in some dim way (which even yet is not clear to my heart's ignorance, nor ever will be, since I am born as I am) sensitive to feel the fathomless, boundless lack, poignantly conscious that my poor vision, at its clearest, was but a flash of insight. I used to try, I know, as a child, lying alone in the dark, when my uncle was gone to bed, to conjure from the shadows some yearning face, to feel a soft hand come gratefully from the hidden places of my room to smooth the couch and touch me with a healing touch, in cure of my uneasy tossing, to hear a voice crooning to my woe and restlessness; but never, ache and wish as I would, did there come from the dark a face, a hand, a voice which was my mother's; nay, I must lie alone, a child forsaken in the night, wanting that brooding presence, in pain for which there was no ease at all in all the world. I watched the fool of Twist Tickle go gravely in at the kitchen door, upon his business, led by the memory of a wisdom greater than his own, beneficent, continuing, but not known to me, who was no fool; and I envied him--spite of his burden of folly--his legacy of love. 'Twas fallen into dusk: the hills were turning shapeless in the night, the glow all fled from the sky, the sea gone black. But still I waited--apart from the rock and shadows and great waters of the world God made--a child yearning for the face and hand and tender guidance of the woman who was his own, but yet had wandered away into the shades from which no need could summon her. It seemed to me, then, that the mothers who died, leaving sons, were unhappy in their death, nor ever could be content in their new state. I wanted mine--I wanted her!--wanted her as only a child can crave, but could not have her--not though I sorely wanted her.... * * * * * He came at last--and came in habitual dignity--punctiliously closing the door behind him and continuing on with grave steps. "You here, Dannie?" he asked. "Ay, Moses; still waitin'." "'Tis kind, lad." "I 'lowed I'd wait, Moses," I ventured, "t' find out." "'Tis grown thick," said he. "'Twill blow from the east with fog an' rain. You're bound home, Dannie?" "Ay," said I; "'tis far past tea-time." We got under way. "'Twill blow an uncivil sort o' gale from the east," he remarked, in a casual way. "We'll have Sunk Rock breakin' the morrow. 'Twill not be fit for fishin' on the Off-an'-On grounds. But I 'low I'll go out, anyhow. Nothin' like a spurt o' labor," said he, "t' distract the mind. Mother always said so; an' she knowed." "The maid would not have you, Moses?" "Mother always 'lowed," he answered, "that 'twas wise t' distract the mind in case o' disappointment. I 'low I'll overhaul the splittin'-table when I gets t' home. She needs a scrubbin'." We came to the rise in the road. "Mother," said he, "'lowed that if ever I come in from Whisper Cove t' build at Twist Tickle, she'd have the house sot here. I 'low I'll put one up, some time, t' have it ready ag'in' the time I'm married. Mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing t' be forehanded with they little things." The note of melancholy, always present, but often subdued, so that it sounded below the music of his voice, was now obtrusive: a monotonous repetition, compelling attention, insistent, an unvarying note of sadness. "Ay," he continued; "mother 'lowed 'twas a good thing t' have a view. She'd have it sot here, says she, facin' the west, if ever I got enough ahead with the fish t' think o' buildin'. She'd have it sot, says she, so she could watch the sunset an' keep a eye on the tickle t' see my punt come in. She was wonderful on sunsets, was mother; an' she was sort o' sot, somehow, on keepin' watch on me. Wonderful good o' she, wasn't it, Dannie, t' want t' keep watch--on me?" Again the note of melancholy, throbbing above the drawl--rising, indeed, into a wail. "So," said he, "I 'low I'll just put up a house, by-an'-by, for the wife I'm t' have; an' I'll have it here, I'm thinkin', for mother 'lowed my wife would want it with a view o' the tickle, t' watch my punt come in. Think she will, Dannie? Think she will?" The mail-boat blew in the narrows. "I must haste!" said I. "An you must haste, Dannie," said he, "run on. I'll not make haste, for I'm 'lowin' that a little spell o' thinkin' about mother will sort o' do me good." * * * * * I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast). 'Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone--I saw her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops; overhead 'twas all black--roundabout a world of looming shadows, having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily, regretting my uncle's disappointment, in that the expected guest would already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle's punt. And, indeed, the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle's command, I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce older, it seemed, than myself. "This here young man, Dannie," says my uncle, with a flourish, "is your tutor." I bowed. "Imported direck," adds my uncle, "from Lon'on." My tooter? It sounded musical: I wondered what the young man blew--but shook hands, in the Chesterfieldian manner (as best I had mastered it), and expressed myself (in such Chesterfieldian language as I could recall in that emergency) as being delighted to form an acquaintance so distinguished. "Well done!" cries my uncle, past containing his pride in the Chesterfieldian achievement. "Sir Harry hisself couldn't beat it!" The young man laughed pleasantly. X IMPORTED DIRECT I laughed, too, unable to help it, and my uncle guffawed, in his large way; and then we all laughed like tried friends together: so that 'twas plain, being thus at once set upon agreeable terms, with no shyness or threat of antipathy to give ill ease, that we three strange folk were well-met in the wide world. 'Twas cosey in the best room: a lively blaze in the fireplace, the room bright with lamplight, warm with the color of carpet and tapestried mahogany, spotless and grand, as I thought, in every part; ay, cosey enough, with good company well-met within, the risen wind clamoring through the night, the rain lashing the black panes, the sea rumbling upon the rocks below, and, withal, a savory smell abroad in goodly promise. My uncle, grown fat as a gnome in these days, grotesquely fashioned, miscellaneously clothed as ever, stood with legs wide upon the black wolf's-skin, his back to the fire, his great hands clasped over his paunch, lying as upon a shelf; regarding the direct importation and myself, the rise of my admiration, the room, the whole world, indeed, visible and invisible, with delight so boyish that 'twas good to watch the play of satisfaction upon his fantastic countenance, which now rippled and twinkled from his black cravat to his topmost scars and bristles. Well-met were we three folk; ay, no doubt: I was in a glow of content with this new fortune. 'Tis strange how the affections fall.... * * * * * My tutor, John Cather, as his name turned out to be, was older than I, after all--my elder by five years, I fancied, with age-wise ways and a proud glance to overawe my youth, were need of it to come: a slight, dark-skinned man, clean-featured, lean-cheeked, full-lipped, with restless dark eyes, thin, olive-tinted hands, black hair, worn overlong, parted in the manner of a maid and falling upon his brow in glossy waves, which he would ruffle into disorder, with the air of knowing what he was about. He was clad all in black, for the reason, he said, that he aspired to holy orders: well-kept black, edged with linen of the whitest, and not ill cut, according to my uncle's fashion-plates, but sadly worn at the seams and everywhere brushed near threadbare. Now sprawled, hands pocketed, in a great-chair under the lamp, indolent with accomplished grace (it seemed), one long leg thrown languidly over the other, the slender foot never at rest, he was postured with that perfection of ease and gentility into which my uncle, watchful observer of the manners of the world he walked in, had many a time endeavored to command me, but with the most indifferent success. I listened to my tutor's airy, rambling chit-chat of the day's adventures, captivated by the readiness and wit and genial outlook; the manner of it being new to my experience, the accompaniment of easy laughter a grateful enlightenment in a land where folk went soberly. And then and there--I remember, as 'twere an hour gone, the gale and the lamplight and the laughter of that time--I conceived for him an enduring admiration. Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle's ear, having him bend his monstrous head close for secrecy. "Eh?" says he. I repeated the question. "Steerage, lad," he answered. "Tut!" he growled, "none o' that, now! 'Twill be steerage." It grieved me to know it. "An' now, Dannie, lad," quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing of the hands and a grin to match, "fetch the bottle. The bottle, b'y! 'Tis time for growed men t' pledge the v'y'ge. A bit nippy, parson man? The bottle, Dannie!" "Bottle?" cries my tutor. "Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas, I--" "Is you much give t' the use o' fo'c's'les, parson?" my uncle interrupted. My tutor was not. "Then," says my uncle, grimly, "you'll be wantin' a drap." 'Twas true enough, by my uncle's mysterious perversity: a drop would be wanted, indeed. "Dannie, lad," he commanded, "fetch that there bottle!" Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned to my uncle's idiosyncrasy--divining the importance of it--gave me a quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle's invitation and his sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle's dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive draught, no doubt--to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize for the belated meat. "T' you, parson!" says my uncle. I touched the tutor's elbow. "Water?" says he, in doubt. "Is it the custom?" "Leave un be, Dannie." "Whatever the custom," my tutor began, "of course--" "'Tis wise," I ventured; minded to this by the man's awkward handling of the glass. "For shame, Dannie!" cries my uncle. "Leave the parson take his liquor as he will. 'Tis easy t' see he likes it neat." Cather was amused. "T' you, parson!" says my uncle. The tutor laughed as he raised the glass of clear rum. I watched him with misgiving, alive to all the signs of raw procedure--the crook of his elbow, the tilt of the glass, the lift of his head. "To you, sir!" said he: and resolutely downed it. 'Twas impressive then, I recall, to observe his face--the spasm of shock and surprise, the touch of incredulity, of reproachful complaint, as that hard liquor coursed into his belly. 'Twas over in a moment--the wry mouth of it, the shudder--'twas all over in a flash. My tutor commanded his features, as rarely a man may, into stoical disregard of his internal sensations, and stood rigid, but calm, gripping the back of his chair, his teeth set, his lips congealed in an unmeaning grin, his eyes, which ran water against his will, fixed in mild reproach upon my beaming uncle, turning but once, I recall, to my solicitous self. With no unseemly outbreak--with but an inconsequent ahem and a flirt of his handkerchief over his lips--he returned to his composure. He would never again drink rum with my uncle, nor any other liquor, through all the years of our intimate connection; but this mattered not at all, since he had in the beginning pledged the old man's health with honor to himself. I was glad, however, that on the windy night of our meeting he was no more put out; for I wished him safe within my uncle's regard, and knew, as I knew my uncle and the standards of our land, that he had by this gallant conduct achieved the exalted station. 'Twas a test of adaptability (as my uncle held), and of manhood, too, of which, as a tenet, taught me by that primitive philosopher, I am not able, bred as I am, to rid myself to this very day. "Parson," said my uncle, solemnly, advancing upon the tutor, "ye _done_ it, and ye done it _well_! Shake, shipmate--shake!" The bell tinkled. "Is that dinner?" cries my tutor. "Jove! but I _am_ on edge." We moved into the dining-room, myself pitying the man in a heartfelt way for his stomach's sake. 'Twas unkind in my uncle to sharpen his appetite with red rum. * * * * * My uncle stumped ahead, his wooden leg as blithe as the sound one, and was waiting in his humble quarters, with a gnome-like leer of expectation, when we entered. Neither my watch, set with its shy jewels, nor my sparkling fingers, nor the cut and quality and fit of my London-made clothes, which came close to perfection, nor anything concerning me, had caused my tutor even so much as to lift an eyebrow of surprise; but the appearance of the table, laid in the usual way, gave him an indubitable fit of amazement: for, as was our custom on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, at the one end, where sat the luxurious Dannie Callaway, by no will of his own, was the glitter of silver, the flash and glow of delicate china, a flower or more from our garden, exquisite napery, the bounties of the kindly earth, whatever the cost; but at the other (the napery abruptly ceasing at the centre of the table because of the wear and tear that might chance) was set out, upon coarse ware, even to tin, fare of common description, forecastle fare, fisherman fare, unrelieved by any grace of flower or linen or glitter of glass, by any grace at all, save the grace of a black bottle, which, according to my experience, was sufficient to my uncle and such rough folk as dined with him. 'Twas no cause for surprise to me, to whom the enigma had been familiar from the beginning; but my tutor, come suddenly against the puzzle, was nonplussed, small blame to him. "Parson," says my uncle, "_you_--goes steerage!" My tutor started, regarded my uncle with a little jerk of astonishment; and his eyebrows went high--but still conveyed no more than polite inquiry. "I beg your pardon?" he apologized. "Steerage, parson!" my uncle repeated. "Steerage passage, sir, the night!" "Really!" "'Tis the same as sayin'," I made haste to explain, "that you dines along o' Uncle Nick at _his_ end." The tutor was faintly amused. "Steerage the night, parson; cabin the morrow," said my uncle. "Ye'll live high, lad, when ye're put in the cabin. Lord love ye, parson! but the feedin' there is fair scandalous. 'Twould never do t' have the news of it go abroad. An' as for the liquor! why, parson," he proceeded, tapping my tutor on the breast, to impress the amazing disclosure, while we stood awkwardly, "Dannie haves a locker o' wine as old as your grandmother, in this here very room, waitin' for un t' grow up; an' he'll broach it, parson, like a gentleman--he'll broach it for you, when you're moved aft. But bein' shipped from the morrow, accordin' t' articles, signed, sealed, an' delivered," he added, gravely, "'twouldn't be just quite right, accordin' t' the lay o' fac's you're not in the way o' knowin', t' have ye feed along o' Dannie the night. 'Twouldn't be right, 'twouldn't be honest, as I sees it in the light o' them fac's; _not_," he repeated, in a whisper, ghostly with the awe and mystery of it, so that the tutor stared alarmed, "accordin' t' them damned remarkable fac's, as I _sees_ un! But I've took ye in, parson--_I've_ took ye in!" he cried, with a beaming welcome, to which my tutor instantly responded. "Ye'll find it snug an' plenty in the steerage, an' no questions asked. No questions," he repeated, with a wink of obscure meaning, "asked. They's junk an' cabbage, lad, with plum-duff t' top off with, for a bit of a treat, an' rum--why parson! as for the rum, 'tis as free as water! Sit ye," says he, "an' fall to!" his face all broken into smiles. "Fall to, parson, an' spare nothin'. Better the salt-junk o' toil," he improvised, in bold imitation of the Scripture, to my tutor's further astonishment, "than the ice-cream o' crime!" My tutor helplessly nodded. "Ol' Nick Top," says my uncle, "is on'y a hook-an'-line man, an' fares hard, as fishermen must; but little ol' Dannie Callaway, sittin' there in that little cabin o' his, is a damn little gentleman, sir, an' feeds off the best, as them big-bugs will." We fell to. "Wild night," my tutor remarked. 'Twas blowing wildly, indeed: the wind come to the east--sweeping in from the vast gray sea, with black rain to fling at the world. The windows rattled as the gusts went crying past the cottage. But a warm glow, falling from the lamp above the table, and the fire, crackling and snorting in the grate, put the power of the gale to shame. 'Twas cosey where we sat: warm, light, dry, with hunger driven off--a cosey place on a bitter night: a peace and comfort to thank the good God for, with many a schooner off our coast, from Chidley to the Baccalieu light, riding out the gale, in a smother of broken water, with a rocky shore and a flash of breakers to leeward. Born as I am--Newfoundlander to the marrow of my body and the innermost parts of my soul--my heart puts to sea, unfailingly, whatever the ease and security of my place, when the wind blows high in the night and the great sea rages. 'Tis a fine heritage we have, we outport Newfoundlanders--this feeling for the toss and tumult and dripping cold of the sea: this sympathy, born of self-same experience. I'd not exchange it, with the riches of cities to boot, for the thin-lipped, gray, cold-eyed astuteness, the pomp and splendid masks, of the marts and avenues I have seen in my time. I'd be a Newfoundlander, outport born, outport bred, of outport strength and tenderness of heart, of outport sincerity, had I my birth to choose.... * * * * * "Dannie," says my uncle, peering inquisitively into the cabin, "how d'ye like that there fresh beef?" 'Twas good. "He likes it!" cries my uncle, delighted. "Parson, he likes it. Hear un? He likes it. An' 'tis paid for, parson--paid for! Dannie," says he, again leaning forward, eyes bent upon my plates, "how d'ye like them there fresh greens? Eh, lad?" They were very good. "An' paid for, parson--all paid for!" My tutor, poor man! stared agape, his knife and fork laid by; for my uncle, become now excited and most indiscreet, was in a manner the most perplexing--and in some mysterious indication--pointing, thumb down, towards the oil-cloth that floored the room, or to the rocks beneath, which the wind ran over, the house being set on spiles, or to the bowels of the earth, as you may choose. 'Twas a familiar thing to me--the mystery of the turned thumb and spasmodic indication, the appearance, too, at such times, of my uncle's eyes: round, protruding, alight with wicked admiration, starting from the scars and bristles and disfigurements of his face, but yet reflecting awe, as of some unholy daring, to be mightily suffered for in due time. But 'twas not familiar to my tutor, nor, doubtless, had ever occurred to his imagination, sophisticated as he may have thought it; he could do nothing but withstand the amazement as best he might, and that in a mean, poor way, as he gazed alternately upon my uncle's flushed and deeply stirred countenance and upon my own saddened, aged face, speaking its ancient bewilderment. I pitied his disquietude, rather: for he was come from abroad to our coast--and could not understand. "Dannie, lad," my uncle anxiously inquired, "_can_ it be that you likes them there fresh carrots?" It could easily be. "An' paid for!" my uncle ejaculated, with no abatement of delight. "Parson," he proceeded, proudly, "good feed that there young gentleman has in the cabin, eh?" My tutor agreed. "None better in the world, eh?" the old man went on. "_You_ couldn't do no better, could you?" My tutor said that no man could. "An' paid for," says my uncle, thumbing down. "Paid for, every bite!" He turned to me. "Dannie," says he, "how d'ye like them there new potatoes?" They were more than palatable. "Hear that, parson!" cries my uncle. "He likes un! Imported direck, sir, from Bermuda," says he, with all the vanity of riches. "Ever feed so high yourself, parson? Consignment arrived," says he, "per S.S. _Silvia_. You'll see it in the _Herald_ an you looks." "Really!" my tutor exclaimed, for lack of something better. "Fac'," says my uncle; "an' paid for--skin an' eye!" My tutor gave it up--permitted himself no longer to be troublesomely mystified; but after a quick glance from steerage to cabin, flashed with amused comprehension of the contrast, threw back his head with a little laugh quite detached from our concerns, and presently, innured to the grotesquery, busied himself with relish upon his salt-junk. Thereafter, the rum buzzing in his head, he ran on in a vivacious way upon all things under the sun, save himself, so that the windy night seemed very far away, indeed, and the lamplight and fire to lend an inspiration to his nimble tongue, until, in a lull of the engaging discourse, he caught my uncle peering greedily into the cabin, all but licking his lips, his nostrils distended to the savor, his flooded eyes fixed upon the fresh beef and vegetables in manifest longing, every wrinkle and muscle of his broad face off guard. My tutor--somewhat affected, I fancy, by this display--turned to me with a little frown of curiosity, an intrusive regard, it seemed to me, which I might in all courtesy fend off for the future. 'Twas now time, thinks I, to enlighten him with the knowledge I had: a task I had no liking for, since in its accomplishment I must stir my uncle unduly. "Uncle Nick," says I, "'tis like Mr. Cather will be havin' a cut off my roast." "The parson?" my uncle demanded. "Ay," says I, disregarding his scowl; "a bit o' roast beef." "Not he!" snaps my uncle. "Not a bite!" I nerved myself--with a view wholly to Cather's information. "Uncle Nick," I proceeded, my heart thumping, such was the temerity of the thing, "'tis a dirty night without, an' here's Mr. Cather just joined the ship, an' I 'low, now, the night, Uncle Nick, that maybe you--" "Me?" roars my uncle, in a flare of rage and horror. "_Me_ touch it? ME!" The vehemence of this amazed my tutor, who could supply no cause for the outburst; but 'twas no more than I had expected in the beginning. "Me!" my uncle gasped. There was a knock at the door.... * * * * * Ay, a knock at the door! 'Twas a thing most unexpected. That there should come a knock at the door! 'Twas past believing. 'Twas no timid tapping; 'twas a clamor--without humility or politeness. Who should knock? There had been no outcry; 'twas then no wreck or sudden peril of our people. Again it rang loud and authoritative--as though one came by right of law or in vindictive anger. My uncle, shocked all at once out of a wide-eyed daze of astonishment, pushed back from the board, in a terrified flurry, his face purpled and swollen, and blundered about for his staff; but before he had got to his feet, our maid-servant, on a fluttering run from the kitchen, was come to the door. The gale broke in--rushing noises and a swirl of wet wind. We listened; there was a voice, not the maid-servant's--thin, high-tempered, lifted in irascible demand--but never a word to be distinguished in that obscurity of wind and rain. 'Twas cold, and the lamp was flaring: I closed the door against this inrush of weather. My wretched uncle beckoned the tutor close, a finger lifted in caution; but still kept looking at me--and all the while stared at me with eyes of frightened width--in a way that saw me not at all. "Parson," he whispered, "they wasn't ar another man landed by the mail-boat the day, was they?" The tutor nodded. "Ye wouldn't say, would ye," my uncle diffidently inquired, "that he'd be from St. John's by the cut of um?" "A gray little man from St. John's." "I 'low then," says my uncle, "that he talked a wonderful spell about a lad, didn't um?" My tutor shook his head. "Nar a word--about _any_ lad?" "I'm sure not." My uncle tapped the tip of his nose. "A red mole," said my tutor. And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. 'Twas a cataract of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare--not in his most abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. 'Twas beyond him to down it at a gulp; 'twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath between--and then pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust. Presently--when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch the color to his pallid face--he got his staff in his fist and stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more--never a sound of growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little man from St. John's. 'Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he came again--the stranger having gone--he drew up to the board with all his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn, that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to its dreadful climax. "A ol' shipmate, Dannie," my uncle genially explained. 'Twas hard to believe. "Sailed along o' that there ol' bully t' Brazilian ports," says he, "thirty year ago." I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in haste to the best room. "Still storming," the tutor ventured. "Blowin' high," I remarked. "I 'low I'll stay ashore, the morrow," says my uncle, "an' have a spurt o' yarnin' along o' that there ol' bully." But the gray little man from St. John's--the gray little red-moled man--was no old shipmate (I knew), nor any friend at all, else my uncle would have had him hospitably housed for the night under our roof. XI THE GRAY STRANGER We sat late by the fire in the best room: into which I must fairly lug my perverse old uncle by the ears--for (says he) the wear an' tear of a wooden leg was a harsh thing for a carpet to abide, an' parlor chairs (says he) was never made for the hulks o' sea-farin' folk. 'Twas late, indeed, when he sent young Cather off to bed, with a warning to be up betimes, or go hungry, and bade me into the dining-room, as was our custom, to set out his bottle and glass. I turned the lamp high, and threw birch on the fire, and lifted his gouty wooden leg to the stool, and got his bottle and little brown jug, wondering, all the while, that my uncle was downcast neither by the wind nor the singular intrusion of the gray stranger. 'Twas a new thing in my life--a grateful change, for heretofore, in black gales, blowing in the night, with the thunder of waters under the window, it had been my duty to stand by, giving the comfort of my presence to the old man's melancholy and terror. 'Twas the company of the tutor, thinks I, and I was glad that the congenial fellow was come from a far place, escape cut off. "Wonderful late," says my uncle. "No," said I; "not late for windy nights." "Too late for lads," says he, uneasily. I poured his glass of rum. "Think you, Dannie," my uncle inquired, "that he've the makin's of a fair rascal?" "An' who?" says I, the stranger in mind. "The tutor." "I'm hopin' _not_!" I cried. "Ay," says my uncle, an eye half closed; "but think you he _would_ make a rascal--with clever management?" "'Twould never come t' pass, sir." My uncle sipped his rum in a muse. "Uncle Nick," I complained, "leave un be." "'Tis a hard world, Dannie," he replied. "Do you leave un be!" I expostulated. My uncle ignored me. "He've a eye, Dannie," says he, immersed in villanous calculation; "he've a dark eye. I 'low it _might_ be managed." 'Twas an uncomfortable suspicion thus implanted; and 'twas an unhappy outlook disclosed--were my uncle to work his will upon the helpless fellow. "Uncle Nick, you'll not mislead un?" "Bein' under oath," my uncle answered, with the accent and glance of tenderest affection, "I'll keep on, Dannie, t' the end." I poured the second dram of rum and pushed it towards him. 'Twas all hopeless to protest or seek an understanding. I loved the old man, and forgave the paradox of his rascality and loyal affection. The young man from London must take his chance, as must we all, in the fashioning hands of circumstance. 'Twas not to be conceived that his ruin was here to be wrought. My uncle's face had lost all appearance of repulsion: scar and color and swollen vein--the last mark of sin and the sea--had seemed to vanish from it; 'twas as though the finger of God had in passing touched it into such beauty as the love of children may create of the meanest features of our kind. His glass was in his marred, toil-distorted hand; but his eyes, grown clear and sparkling and crystal-pure--as high of purpose as the eyes of such as delight in sacrifice--were bent upon the lad he had fostered to my age. I dared not--not the lad that was I--I dared not accuse him! Let the young man from London, come for the wage he got, resist, if need were to resist. I could not credit his danger--not on that night. But I see better now than then I saw. "I 'low he'll do," said my uncle, presently, as he set down his glass. "Ay, lad; he'll do, if I knows a eye from a eye." "Do what?" "Yield," he answered. "T' what?" "Temptation." "Uncle Nick," I besought, "leave the man be!" "What odds?" he answered, the shadow of gloom come upon his face. "I'm cleared for hell, anyhow." 'Twas a thing beyond me, as many a word and wicked deed had been before. I was used to the wretched puzzle--calloused and uncaring, since through all my life I still loved the man who fostered me, and held him in esteem. We fell silent together, as often happened when my uncle tippled himself drunk at night; and my mind coursed in free flight past the seeming peril in which my tutor slept, past the roar of wind and the clamor of the sea, beyond the woes of the fool who would be married, to the cabin of the _Shining Light_, where Judith sat serene in the midst of the order she had accomplished. I remembered the sunlight and the freshening breeze upon the hills, the chirp and gentle stirring of the day, the azure sea and the far-off, tender mist, the playful breakers, flinging spray into the yellow sunshine. I remembered the companionable presence of the maid, her slender hands, her tawny hair, her sun-browned cheeks and the creamy curve of her brow, the blue and flash and fathomless depths of her eyes. I remembered the sweet, moist touch of her lips: I remembered--in that period of musing, when my uncle, fallen disconsolate in his chair, sipped his rum--the kiss that she gave me in the cabin of the _Shining Light_. "Dannie," says my uncle, "what you thinkin' about?" I would not tell. "'Tis some good thing," says he. "I'd like wonderful well t' know." I could but sigh. "Dannie," says he, in his wisdom, "you've growed wonderful fond o' Judy, isn't you?" "I'm t' wed Judy," I answered. 'Twas with no unkindness--but with a sly twinkle of understanding--that he looked upon me. "When I grows up," I added, for his comfort. "No, no!" says he. "You'll never wed Judith. A gentleman? 'Twould scandalize Chesterfield." "I will," said I. "You'll _not_!" cries he, in earnest. "But I will!" The defiance still left him smiling. "Not accordin' t' Chesterfield," says he. "You'll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an' you'll not be wantin' t' wed Judy." "Not _wantin'_ to?" "No, no; you'll not be wantin' to." "Still," says I, "will I wed Judy." "An' why?" "Because," said I, "I've kissed her!" * * * * * My uncle would have his last glass alone (he said); and I must be off to bed and to sleep; 'twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I never be t' bed in season? Off with me--an' t' sleep with me! 'Twould be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned in. The thing had an odd look--an odd look, to be sure--for never before had the old man's conscience pricked him to such fatherly consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering coals, set his night-lamp at hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night, with a hearty "Thank 'e, sir, for that there tutor!" He bawled after me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught ear of him on the move. 'Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting. "Hist, ye fool!" says my uncle. "Ye'll wake the lad." "Damn the lad!" was the prompt response. "I wish he were dead." My uncle laughed. "Dead!" the stranger repeated. "Dead, Top! And you, too--you hound!" 'Twas an anathema spoken in wrath and hatred. "I'm thinkin'," says my uncle, "that ye're an unkind man." The stranger growled. "Save your temper, man," my uncle admonished. "Ye'll need the last rag of it afore the night's by." The man cried out against the threat. "I'm tellin' ye," says my uncle--and I heard his broad hand come with a meaning clap on the stranger's shoulder--"that ye'll be wakin' the lad." "The lad! the lad!" the stranger whined. "Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?" I heard it! I heard the words! My door was ajar--my room at the head of the stair--my ears wide and anxious. I heard the words! There was no mistaking what this intruder said. "The club-footed young whelp!" says he. "Is there nothing in the world for you, Top, but that club-footed young whelp?" He said it--I remember that he said it--and to this day, when I am grown beyond the years of childish sensitiveness, I resent the jibe. "Nothing," my uncle answered. "Nothing in the world, sir," he repeated, lovingly, as I thought, "but only that poor club-footed child!" Sir? 'Twas a queer way to address, thinks I, this man of doubtful quality. Sir? I could not make it out. "You sentimental fool!" "Nay, sir," my uncle rejoined, with spirit. "An they's a fool in the company, 'tis yourself. I've that from the lad, sir, that you goes lacking--ay, an' will go, t' the grave!" "And what, Top," the stranger sneered, "may this thing be?" "Ye'll laugh, sir," my uncle replied, "when I tells you 'tis his love." The man did laugh. "For shame!" cried my uncle. He was taking off his wraps--this stranger. They were so many that I wondered. He was a man of quality, after all, it might be. "I tell you, Top," said he, "that the boy may be damned for all I care. I said damned. I _mean_ damned. There isn't another form of words, with which I am acquainted, sufficient to express my lack of interest in this child's welfare. Do you understand me, Top? And do you realize--you obstinate noddy!--that my heart's in the word? You and I, Top, have business together. It's a dirty business. It was in the beginning; it is now--a dirty business for us both. I admit it. But can't we do it reasonably? Can't we do it alone? Why introduce this ill-born whelp? He's making trouble, Top; and he'll make more with every year he lives. Let him shift for himself, man! I care nothing about him. What was his father to me? What was his mother? Make him a cook on a trader. Make him a hand on a Labradorman. Put him before the mast on a foreign craft. What do I care? Let him go! Give him a hook and line. A paddle-punt is patrimony enough for the like of him. Will you never listen to reason? What's the lad to you? Damn him, say I! Let him--" "For that," my uncle interrupted, in a passion, "I'll hurt ye! Come soon, come late, I'll hurt ye! Hear me?" he continued, savagely. "I'll hurt ye for them evil wishes!" I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in this cruel way without protest. "Top," says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, "when _you_ hurt _me_--I'll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John's water-side has turned fool!" "When I hurts ye, man," my uncle answered, "I'll hurt ye sore!" Again the man laughed. "Ah, man!" my uncle growled, "but ye'll squirm for that when the time comes!" "Come, come, Top!" says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing. "Come, come, Top!" he whined. "You'll do nothing rash, will you? Not _rash_, Top--not rash!" "I'll make ye squirm, sir," says my uncle, "for damnin' Dannie." "But you'll do nothing rash, man, will you?" My uncle would not heed him. "I'm a reasonable man, Top," the stranger protested. "You know I'm not a hard man." They moved, now, into the dining-room, whence no word of what they said came to my ears. I listened, lying wide-eared in the dark, but heard only a rumble of voices. "And you, too--you hound!" the man had said; and 'twas spoken in the hate that forebodes murder. My uncle? what had that childlike, tenderhearted old rascal accomplished against this man to make the penalty of ungodly wrath a thing meet to the offence? "And you, too--you hound!" I lay in grave trouble and bewilderment, fearing that this strange guest might work his hate upon my uncle, in some explosion of resentment, before my arm could aid against the deed. There was no sound of laughter from below--no hint of conviviality in the intercourse. Voices and the clink of bottle and glass: nothing mellow in the voices, nothing genial in the clink of glass--nothing friendly or hospitable. 'Twas an uneasy occupation that engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle of rum. 'Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its complaint of obstruction; 'twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale, falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly rising to threat and angry counter-threat. It ended in a cry and a crash of glass.... * * * * * I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my uncle's help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within the room; 'twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my uncle's back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the stench of rum, which rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall, of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John's, leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle's hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes on the man from St. John's; but his face was in shadow--I saw dimly. 'Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew, the man was a man of some distinction--a gentleman. 'Twas a definite impression I had. There was that about him--clothes and carriage and shaven face and lean white hands--that fixed it in my memory. I was not observed. "Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle impassively began, "when I laid hold--" "But," the stranger protested, "I have nothing to do with that!" "Out there on the Devil's Teeth, that night," my uncle repeated, "when the seas was breakin' over, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold o' that there Book--" "Hear me, Top! Will you _not_ hear me?" "Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle patiently reiterated, "when the crew was drownin' t' le'ward, an' 'twas every man for his own life, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold o' that there--" The stranger struck the table with his palm. "Hear me!" he implored. "I have nothing--nothing--to do with the Devil's Teeth!" "Out there on the Devil's Teeth, when I took the oath--" "You stupid fool!" "When I took the oath," my uncle resumed, "I knowed 'twould be hard t' stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I'll never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A'mighty, sir, for the words I spoke that night. I've stood by, as best I could; an' I'll keep on standin' by, sir, t' the end, as best I'm able. God help me, sir!" he groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. "Ye think ye're in hard case, yourself, sir, don't ye? Do ye never give a thought t' _me?_ Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an' me! Ay; dirty business for Nick Top. But he'll stand by; he'll stand by, sir, come what may--t' the end! I'm not complainin', mark ye! not complainin' at all. The lad's a good lad. I'm not complainin'. He've the makin's of a better man than you. Oh no! I'm not complainin'. Out there on the Devil's Teeth, that night, when the souls o' them men was goin' Aloft an' Below, accordin' t' their deserts, does ye think I was a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t' hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an' swore that I'd stand by. An' I _will_ stand by--stand by the lad, sir, t' the end! He's a good lad--he'll make a better man than you--an' I've no word o' complaint t' say." "The lad, the lad! Do _I_ care for the lad?" "No, God forgive ye!" my uncle cried, "not you that ought." "That ought, you fool?" "Ay; that ought." The man laughed. "I'll not have ye laugh," said my uncle, "at Dannie. Ye've tried my patience enough with scorn o' that child." He tapped the table imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had learned to take warning from. "No more o' that!" says he. "Ye've no call t' laugh at the lad." The laughter ceased--failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle's mastery of the situation. The man might bluster, but was in a moment reduced. "Top," said the stranger, leaning forward a little, "I have asked you a simple question: _Will_ you or _won't_ you?" "I will not!" In exasperation the man struck my uncle on the cheek. "I'll not hurt ye for that!" said my uncle, gently. "I'll not hurt ye, man, for that!" He was struck again. "There will come an extremity," the stranger calmly added, "when I shall find it expedient to have you assassinated." "I'll not hurt ye for the threat," said my uncle. "But man," he cried, in savage anger, "an you keeps me from workin' my will with the lad--" "The lad, the lad!" "An you keeps me from workin' my will with that good lad--" "I say to you frankly: Damn the lad!" My uncle struck the stranger. "Ye'll mend your manners!" cried he. "Ye've forgot your obligations, but ye'll mend your manners!" I marvelled that these men should strike each other with impunity. The like was never known before. That each should patiently bear the insult of the other! I could not make it out. 'Twas strange beyond experience. A blow--and the other cheek turned! Well enough for Christians--but my vicious uncle and this evil stranger! That night, while I watched and listened unperceived from the hall, I could not understand; but now I know that a fellowship of wickedness was signified. "I'll not hurt you, Top," the stranger mocked, "for the blow." My uncle laughed. "Are you laughing, Top?" the stranger sneered. "You are, aren't you? Well," says he, "who laughs last laughs best. And I tell you, Top, though you may seem to have the best laugh now, I'll have the last. And you won't like it, Top--you won't be happy when you hear me." My uncle laughed again. I wish he had not laughed--not in that unkind way. "Anyhow," said the stranger, "take that with my compliments!" 'Twas a brutal blow with the closed fist. I cried out. My uncle, with the sting and humiliation of the thing to forbear, was deaf to the cry; but the gray little man from St. John's, who knew well enough he would have no buffet in return, turned, startled, and saw me. My uncle's glance instantly followed; whereupon a singular thing happened. The old man--I recall the horror with which he discovered me--swept the lamp from the table with a swing of his hand. It hurtled like a star, crashed against the wall, fell shattered and extinguished. We were in darkness--and in silence. For a long interval no word was spoken; the gale was free to noise itself upon our ears--the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, the fretful breaking; of the sea. "Dannie, lad," says my uncle, at last, "is that you?" "Ay, sir." "Then," says he, tenderly, "I 'low you'd best be t' bed. I'm feared you'll be cotchin' cold, there in the draught, in your night-gown. Ye're so wonderful quick, lad, t' cotch cold." "I've come, sir," says I, "t' your aid." The stranger tittered. "T' your aid, sir!" I shouted, defiantly. "I'm not needin' ye, Dannie. Ye're best in bed. 'Tis so wonderful late. I 'low ye'll be havin' the croup again, lad, an you don't watch out. An' ye mustn't have the croup; ye really mustn't! Remember the last time, Dannie, an' beware. Ah, now! ye'll never have the croup an ye can help it. Think," he pleaded, "o' the hot-water cloths, an' the fear ye put me to. An' Dannie," he added, accusingly, "ye know the ipecac is all runned out!" "I'll stand by, sir," says I. "'Tis kind o' you!" my uncle exclaimed, with infinite graciousness and affection. "'Tis wonderful kind! An' I'm glad ye're kind t' me now--with my ol' shipmate here. But you isn't needed, lad; so do you go t' bed like the good b'y that you is. Go t' bed, Dannie, God bless ye!--go t' bed, an' go t' sleep." "Ay," I complained; "but I'm not wantin' t' leave ye with this man." "True, an' I'm proud of it," says he; "but I've no means o' curin' the croup. An' Dannie," says he, "I'm more feared o' the croup than o' the devil. Do you go t' bed." "I'll go," I answered, "an you wills it." 'Twas very dark in the dining-room; there was no sight of the geometrical gentlemen on that geometrically tempestuous sea to stay a lad in his defiance. "Good lad!" said my uncle. "God bless ye!" On the landing above I encountered my tutor, half-dressed, a candle in hand. 'Twas a queer figure he cut, thinks I--an odd, inconsequent figure in a mysterious broil of the men of our kind. What was this cockney--this wretched alien--when the passions of our coast were stirring? He would be better in bed. An eye he had--age-wise ways and a glance to overawe my youth--but what was he, after all, in such a case as this? I was his master, however unlearned I might be; his elder and master, to be sure, in a broil of our folk. Though to this day I respect the man for his manifold virtues, forgetting in magnanimity his failings, I cannot forgive his appearance on that night: the candle, the touselled hair, the disarray, the lean legs of him! "What's all this?" he demanded. "I can't sleep. What's all this about? Is it a burglar?" It made me impatient--and no wonder! "What's this, you know?" he repeated. "Eh? What's all this row?" "Do you go t' bed!" I commanded, with a stamp, quite out of temper. "Ye're but a child! Ye've no hand in this!" He was dutiful.... * * * * * By-and-by my uncle came to my room. He would not enter, but stood at the door, in much embarrassment, all the while looking at the flame of his candle. "Dannie, lad," he inquired, at last, "is you comfortable?" "Ay, sir," says I. "An' happy?" "Ay, sir." "An' is you content," says he, "all alone with ol' Nick Top at Twist Tickle?" I was content. "You isn't upsot, is you, by the capers o' my ol' shipmate?" I answered as he wished. "No, sir," said I. "Oh no," says he; "no need o' bein' upsot by _that_ ol' bully. He've wonderful queer ways, I'll not deny, but ye're not in the way o' knowin', Dannie, that he've not a good heart. I 'low ye'll maybe take to un, lad--when you comes t' know un better. I hopes ye will. I hopes ye'll find it easy t' deal with un. They's no need _now_ o' bein' upsot; oh my, no! But, Dannie, an I was you," says he, a bit hopelessly, "times bein' what they is, an' life uncertain--an I was you, lad--afore I went t' sleep I--I--I 'low I'd overhaul that there twenty-third psa'm!" He went away then.... XII NEED O' HASTE When I awoke 'twas to a gray morning. The wind had fallen to half a gale for stout craft--continuing in the east, the rain gone out of it. Fog had come upon the islands at dawn; 'twas now everywhere settled thick--the hills lost to sight, the harbor water black and illimitable, the world all soggy and muffled. There was a great noise of breakers upon the seaward rocks. A high sea running without (they said); but yet my uncle had manned a trap-skiff at dawn (said they) to put a stranger across to Topmast Point. A gentleman 'twas (said they)--a gray little man with a red mole at the tip of his nose, who had lain the night patiently enough at Skipper Eli Flack's, but must be off at break o' day, come what might, to board the outside boat for St. John's at Topmast Harbor. He had gone in high good-humor; crackin' off along o' Skipper Nick (said Eli) like he'd knowed un all his life. An' Nick? why, ecod! Nick was crackin' off, too. Never _knowed_ such crackin' off atween strangers. You could hear the crew laughin' clear t' the narrows. 'Twould be a lovely cruise! Rough passage, t' be sure; but Nick could take a skiff through _that_! An' Nick would _drive_ her, ecod! you'd see ol' Nick wing it back through the narrows afore the night was down if the wind held easterly. _He'd_ be the b'y t' put she to it! I scanned the sky and sea. "Ay," quoth Eli, of the gale; "she haven't spit out all she've got. She quit in a temper, at dawn," says he, "an' she'll be back afore night t' ease her mind." 'Twas a dismal prospect for my uncle. "But 'twould be a clever gale at flirtin'," Eli added, for my comfort, "that could delude an' overcome ol' Nick!" My tutor would go walking upon the roads and heads of our harbor (said he) to learn of this new world into which he had come in the dark. 'Twas gray and windy and dripping on the hills; but I led him (though his flimsy protection against the weather liked me not) over the Whisper Cove road to the cliffs of Tom Tulk's Head, diligently exercising, as we went, for my profit and his befitting entertainment, all the Chesterfieldian phrases 'twas in me to recall. 'Twas easy to perceive his delight in this manner of speech: 'twas a thing so manifest, indeed, such was the exuberance of his laughter and so often did he clap me on the back, that I was fairly abashed by the triumph, and could not for the life of me continue, but must descend, for lack of spirit, to the common tongue of our folk, which did him well enough, after all, it seemed. It pleased him mightily to be set on the crest and brink of that great cliff, high in the mist, the gray wind blowing by, the black sea careering from an ambush of fog to break in wrathful assault upon the grim rocks below. 'Twas amazing: the slender figure drawn in glee to breast the gale, the long arms opened to the wind, the rapt, dark face, the flashing eyes, the deep, eager breaths like sighs of rapture. A rhapsody: the rush and growl and frown of the world (said he)--the sombre colors, the veil of mist, the everlasting hills, rising in serenity above the turmoil and evanescent rage. To this I listened in wonder. I had not for myself discovered these beauties; but thereafter, because of this teaching, I kept watch. Came, then, out of the mist, Judith, upon accustomed business. "Dannie, lad," she asked me, not shy of the stranger, because of woful anxiety, "you've not seed my mother hereabouts, is you?" I grieved that I had not. "She've been gone," said Judith, with a helpless glance, sweeping the sombre, veiled hills, "since afore dawn. I waked at dawn, Dannie, an' she were gone from the bed--an' I isn't been able t' find she, somehow. She've wandered off--she've wandered off again--in her way." I would help, said I. "You're kind, Dannie," said she. "Ay, God's sake, lad! you're wondrous kind--t' me." My tutor tipped the sad little face, as though by right and propriety admitted long ago, and for a moment looked unabashed into Judith's eyes--an engaging glance, it seemed, for Judith was left unresisting and untroubled by it. They were eyes, now, speaking anxious fear and weariness and motherly concern, the brows drawn, the tragic little shadows, lying below, very wide and blue. "You are a pretty child," said my tutor, presently; "you have very beautiful eyes, have you not? But you knew it long ago, of course," he added, smiling in a way most captivating, "didn't you?" "No, sir." I remember the day--the mist and wind and clamoring sea and solemn hills, the dour, ill-tempered world wherein we were, our days as grass (saith the psalmist). Ay, an' 'tis so. I remember the day: the wet moss underfoot; the cold wind, blowing as it listed; the petulant sea, wreaking an ancient enmity, old and to continue beyond our span of feeling; the great hills of Twin Islands hid in mist, but yet watching us; the clammy fog embracing us, three young, unknowing souls. I shall not forget--cannot forget--the moment of that first meeting of the maid Judith with John Cather. 'Twas a sombre day, as he had said--ay, a troubled sea, a gray, cold, sodden earth! "And has nobody told you that you were pretty?" my tutor ran on, in pleasant banter. She would not answer; but shyly, in sweet self-consciousness, looked down. "No?" he insisted. She was too shy of him to say. "Not even one?" he persisted, tipping up the blushing little face. "Not even one?" I thought it very bold. "Come, now," says he. "There is a boy. You are so very pretty, you know. You are so very, very pretty. There must be a boy--a sweetheart. Surely there is at least one lad of taste at Twist Tickle. There is a sweetheart; there must be a sweetheart. I spell it with a D!" cries he, triumphantly, detecting the horrified glance that passed between Judy and me. And he clapped me on the back, and stroked Judith's tawny hair, his hand bold, winning; and he laughed most heartily. "His name," says he, "is Daniel!" "Yes, sir," said Judith, quite frankly. My tutor laughed again; and I was glad that he did--in that kind way. I was glad--'twas a flush of warm feeling--that my tutor and Judith were at once upon terms of understanding. I was glad that Judith smiled, glad that she looked again, with favor, in interested speculation, into the dark eyes which smiled back at her again. I would have them friends--'twas according to my plan.... * * * * * At mid-day the wrath of the sea began to fail. The racing lop, the eager, fuming crests--a black-and-white confusion beneath the quiet, gray fog--subsided into reasonableness. 'Twas wild enough, wind and sea, beyond the tickle rocks; but still 'twas fishing weather and water for the courageous. The fool of Twist Tickle came to our gate. "Mother always 'lowed," says he, "that when a man _could_ he _ought_ t'; an' mother knowed." "You're never bound out, Moses!" "Well," he drawled, "mother always 'lowed that when a man _could_ pick up a scattered fish an' _wouldn't_, he were a mean sort o' coward." "An' you'll be takin' _me_?" "I was 'lowin'," he answered, "that us _might_ get out an' back an us tried." 'Twas a brave prospect. Beyond the tickle in a gale o wind! 'Twas irresistible--to be accomplished with the fool of Twist Tickle and his clever punt. I left the pottering Cather to put ship-shape his cabin (as he now called it) for himself--a rainy-day occupation for aliens. In high delight I put out with Moses Shoos to the Off-and-On grounds. Man's work, this! 'Twas hard sailing for a hook-and-line punt--the reel and rush and splash of it--but an employment the most engaging. 'Twas worse fishing in the toss and smother of the grounds; but 'twas a thrilling reward when the catch came flopping overside--the spoil of a doughty foray. We fished a clean half-quintal; then, late in the day, a rising wind caught us napping in Hell Alley. It came on to blow from the east with fury. There was no beating up to the tickle in the teeth of it; 'twas a task beyond the little punt, drive her to it as we would. When dusk came--dusk fast turning the fog black--the fool turned tail and wisely ran for Whisper Cove. 'Twas dark when we moored the punt to the stage-head: a black night come again, blowing wildly with rain--great gusts of wind threshing the trees above, screaming from cliff to cliff. There were lights at Judith's: 'twas straightway in our minds to ask a cup of tea in her kitchen; but when we came near the door 'twas to the discovery of company moving in and out. There were women in the kitchen. "'Tis Judith's mother, Dannie," Aunt Esther All whispered. "'Tis on'y she. 'Tis on'y Elizabeth." We had found her on the hills that morning. "She've come t' die all of a suddent. 'Tis another of her spells. Oh, Lord! she've come t' die." There was no solemnity in this outer room. "She've woful need o' salvation," Aunt Esther pattered. "She's doomed, lad, an she doesn't repent. Parson Stump ought t' be fetched t' work on she." There was grief--somewhere there was grief. I heard a sob; it came from a child's breast. And there followed, then, some strange, rambling words of comfort in Elizabeth's voice--a plea, it was, to never mind. Again a sob--Judith's grief. "'Tis Judith," Aunt Esther sighed. "She've gone an' give way." The child's heart would break! "Mother always 'lowed, Dannie," Moses whispered, "that they ought t' be a parson handy--when It come." 'Twas beyond the power of the fool to manage: who was now a fool, indeed--white and shivering in this Presence. I would fetch the parson, said I--and moved right willingly and in haste upon the errand. Aunt Esther followed me beyond the threshold. She caught my arm with such a grasp that I was brought up in surprise. We stood in the wind and rain. The light from the kitchen fell through the doorway into the black night. Aunt Esther's lean, brown face, as the lamp betrayed, was working with eager and shameless curiosity. They had wondered, these women of Whisper Cove, overlong and without patience, to know what they wished to know but could not discover. "She've been wantin' Skipper Nicholas," says she. "She've been callin' for Skipper Nicholas. She've been singin' out, Dannie, like a wretch in tarture. Tell un t' come. She've been wantin' un sore. She've a thing on her mind. Tell un not t' fail. 'Tis something she've t' tell un. 'I wants Skipper Nicholas!' says she. 'Fetch Nicholas! I wants a word with he afore I die.' Hist!" Aunt Esther added, as though imparting some delight, "I 'low 'tis the secret." I asked her concerning this secret. "It haves t' do," says she, "with Judith." "An' what's that?" She whispered. "For shame!" I cried. "Ay, but," says she, "you isn't a woman!" "'Tis gossips' employment, woman!" "'Tis a woman's wish t' know," she answered. The thing concerned Judith: I was angered.... * * * * * And now the door was shut in my face. 'Twas opened--closed again. The fool fled past me to his own place--scared off by the footsteps of Death, in the way of all fools. I was in haste--all at once--upon the road from Whisper Cove to Twist Tickle in a screaming gale of wind and rain. I was in Judith's service: I made haste. 'Twas a rough road, as I have said--a road scrambling among forsaken hills, a path made by chance, narrow and crooked, wind-swept or walled by reaching alders and spruce limbs, which were wet and cold and heavy with the drip of the gale. Ah, but was I not whipped on that night by the dark and the sweeping rain and the wind on the black hills and the approach of death? I was whipped on, indeed! The road was perverse to hurrying feet: 'twas ill going for a crooked foot; but I ran--splashing through the puddles, stumbling over protruding rock, crawling over the hills--an unpitying course. Why did the woman cry out for my uncle? What would she confide? Was it, indeed, but the name of the man? Was it not more vital to Judith's welfare, imperatively demanding disclosure? I hastened. Was my uncle at home? For Elizabeth's peace at this dread pass I hoped he had won through the gale. In rising anxiety I ran faster. I tripped upon a root and went tumbling down Lovers' Hill, coming to in a muddy torrent from Tom Tulk's Head. Thereafter--a hundred paces--I caught sight of the lights of the Twist Tickle meeting-house. They glowed warm and bright in the scowling night that encompassed me.... * * * * * 'Twas district-meeting time at Twist Tickle. The parsons of our Bay were gathered to devise many kindnesses for our folk--the salvation of souls and the nourishment of bodies and the praise of the God of us all. 'Twas in sincerity they came--there's no disputing it--and in loving-kindness, however ingenuously, they sought our welfare. When I came from the unkind night into the light and warmth of that plain temple, Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, whom I knew and loved, was seeking to persuade the shepherds of our souls that the spread of saving grace might surely be accomplished, from Toad Point to the Scarlet Woman's Head, by means of unmitigated doctrine and more artful discourse. He was a youngish man, threadbare and puckered of garment--a quivering little aggregation of bones and blood-vessels, with a lean, lipless, high-cheeked face, its pale surface splashed with freckles; green eyes, red-rimmed, the lashes sparse and white; wide, restless nostrils. "Brethren," said he, with a snap of the teeth, his bony hand clinched and shaking above his gigantic head, "con-_vict_ 'em! Anyhow. In any way. By any means. _Save_ 'em! That's what we want in the church. Beloved," he proceeded, his voice dropping to a hissing whisper, "save 'em. _Con_-vict 'em!" His head shot forward; 'twas a red, bristly head, with the hair growing low on the brow, like the spruce of an overhanging cliff. "It's the only _way_," he concluded, "to save 'em!" He sat down. "I'm hungry for souls!" he shouted from his seat, as an afterthought; and 'twas plain he would have said more had not a spasmodic cough put an end to his ecstasy. "Praise God!" they said. "'Low I got a cold," Parson Lute gasped, his voice changed now by the weakness of an ailing man. I feared to interrupt; but still must boldly knock. "One moment, brethren!" Parson Stump apologized. "Ah, Daniel!" he cried; "is that you? What's amiss, boy? You've no trouble, have you? And your uncle--eh? you've no trouble, boy, have you?" The brethren waited in silence while he tripped lightly over the worn cocoanut matting to the rear--perturbed, a little frown of impatience and bewilderment gathering between his eyes. The tails of his shiny black coat brushed the varnished pine pews, whereto, every Sunday, the simple folk of our harbor repaired in faith. Presently he tripped back again. The frown of bewilderment was deeper now--the perturbation turned anxious. For a moment he paused before the brethren. "Very awkward," said he, at last. "Really, I'm very sorry." He scratched his head, fore and aft--bit his lip. "I'm called to Whisper Cove," he explained, pulling at his nose. "I'm sorry to interrupt the business of the meeting, just at this time, but I do not see how it can be got around. I s'pose we'd better adjourn until such a time as I--" The chairman would hear of no adjournment. "But," Parson Stump complained, "I'm the secretary!" "We'll go right on, brother." "I can't very well _stay_, brethren," said Parson Stump, chagrined. "It's a case of--of--of spiritual consolation." "Ah!" ejaculated Parson Lute. "And I--" "Now, Brother Wile," the chairman interrupted, "we're ready to hear _you_." "One moment," said Parson Lute, rising. He struggled to suppress his cough. "Excuse me," he gasped. And, "I don't quite see, brethren," he proceeded, "how this meeting can get along without the services of Brother Stump. It seems to me that this meeting _needs_ Brother Stump. I am of opinion that Brother Stump owes it to the cause in general, and to the clergy of this district in particular, to report this discussion to the conference. It is my conviction, brethren, that Brother Stump--by his indefatigable industry, by his thorough acquaintance with the matters under discussion, by his spiritual insight into problems of this character, by his talent for expression--ought to be present through the whole of this discussion, in its entirety, and ought to present the views of this body to the conference _in person_." And, "Look here, Brother Stump," he concluded, turning, "why can't _I_ make this call for you?" "Well, of course, you _could_, Brother Lute," Parson Stump admitted, his face beginning to clear, "but really I--" "Oh, come now, brother!" "Brother Lute," said Parson Stump, with sincere affection, "I don't like to think of you on the road to Whisper Cove to-night. I tell you, it--it--goes against the grain. You're not well, brother. You're not well at all. And it's a long way--and there's a gale of wind and rain outside--" "Come, come, now!" "A _dirty_ night," Parson Stump mused. "But it's the Lord's business!" "Of course," Parson Stump yielded, "if you _would_ be so kind, I--" Parson Lute's face brightened. "Very well," said he. "It's all settled. Now, may I have a word with you? I'll need some pointers." To the five brethren: "One moment, brethren!" They moved towards the rear, and came to rest, heads close, within my hearing. Parson Lute put his arm over Parson Stump's shoulder. "Now," said he, briskly, rubbing his hands in a business-like way, "pointers, brother--pointers!" "Yes, yes, brother!" Parson Stump agreed. "Well, you'll find my oil-skins hanging in the hall. Mrs. Stump will give you the lantern--" "No, no! I don't mean that. Who is this person? Man or woman?" "Maid," said Parson Stump. "Ah!" Parson Stump whispered in Parson Lute's ear. Parson Lute raised his eyebrows. He was made sad--and sighed. He was kind, was this parson, and sweetly wishful for the goodness and welfare of all the erring sons and daughters of men. "Has the woman repented?" he asked. "I fear not. In fact--no; she has not." At once the battle-light began to shine in Parson Lute's green eyes. "I see," he snapped. "Rather difficult case, I fear," said Parson Stump, despondently. "She--well, she--she isn't quite right. Poor creature! Do you understand? A simple person. Not idiotic, you know. Not born that way, of course. Oh no! born with all her senses _quite_ intact. She was beautiful as a maid--sweet-natured, lovely in person, very modest and pious--very merry, too, and clever. But before the child came she--she--she began to wait. Do you understand? To wait--to wait for the return of--of some one. She said--I remember that she said--that he would come. She was really quite sure of it. And she waited--and waited. A promise, no doubt; and she had faith in it. For a long time she had faith in it. Rather pitiful, I think. I used to see her about a good deal. She was always waiting. I would meet her on the heads, in all weathers, keeping watch for schooners. The clerk of a trading-schooner, no doubt; but nobody knows. Waiting--waiting--always waiting! Poor creature! The man didn't come back, of course; and then she got--well--flighty. Got flighty--quite flighty. The man didn't come back, of course, you know; and she had waited--and waited--so long, so very long. Really, a very difficult case, brother! Something snapped and broken--something missing--something gone, you know. Poor creature! She--she--well, she waited too long. Couldn't _stand_ it, you see. It seems she loved the man--and trusted him--and, well, just loved him, you know, in the way women will. And now she's flighty--_quite_ flighty. A difficult case, I fear, and--" "I see," Parson Lute interrupted. "An interesting case. Very sad, too. And you've not been able to convict her of her sin?" Parson Stump shook his head. "No impression whatever?" "No, brother." "How," Parson Lute demanded, with a start, "does she--ah--subsist?" "She fishes, brother, in quiet weather, and she is helped, though it is not generally known, by a picturesque old character of the place--a man not of the faith, a drunkard, I fear, but kind-hearted and generous to the needy." "The woman ever converted before?" "Twice, brother," Parson Stump answered; "but not now in a state of grace. She is quite obstinate," he added, "and she has, I fear, peculiar views--_very_ peculiar, I fear--on repentance. In fact, she loves the child, you see; and she fears that a confession of her sin--a confession of repentance, you know--might give the world to think that her love had failed--that she wished the child--well--unborn. She would not appear disloyal to Judith, I fear, even to save her soul. A peculiar case, is it not? A difficult case, I fear." "I see," said Parson Lute, tapping his nose reflectively. "The child is the obstacle. A valuable hint in that. Well, I may be able to do something, with God's help." "God bless you, brother!" They shook hands.... * * * * * My uncle was returned from Topmast Harbor. I paused but to bid him urgently to the bedside of Elizabeth, then ran on to rejoin the parson at the turn of the road. By night, in a gale of wind and rain from the east, was no time for Parson Lute, of Yellow Tail Tickle, to be upon the long road to Whisper Cove. But the rough road, and the sweep of the wind, and the steep ascents, and the dripping limbs, and the forsaken places lying hid in the dark, and the mud and torrents, and the knee-deep, miry puddles seemed not to be perceived by him as he stumbled after me. He was praying aloud--importunately, as it is written. He would save the soul of Elizabeth, that man; the faith, the determination were within him. 'Twas fair pitiful the way he besought the Lord. And he made haste; he would pause only at the crests of the hills--to cough and to catch his breath. I was hard driven that night--straight into the wind, with the breathless parson forever at my heels. I shall never forget the exhibition of zeal. 'Twas divinely unselfish--'twas heroic as men have seldom shown heroism. Remembering what occurred thereafter, I number the misguided man with the holy martyrs. At the Cock's Crest, whence the road tumbled down the cliff to Whisper Cove, the wind tore the breath out of Parson Lute, and the noise of the breakers, and the white of the sea beyond, without mercy, contemptuous, confused him utterly. He fell. "Tis near at hand, sir!" I pleaded with him. He was up in a moment. "Let us press on, Daniel," said he, "to the salvation of that soul. Let us press on!" We began the descent.... XIII JUDITH ABANDONED I left the parson in the kitchen to win back his breath. He was near fordone, poor man! but still entreatingly prayed, in sentences broken by consumptive spasms, for wisdom and faith and the fire of the Holy Ghost in this dire emergency. When I entered the room where Elizabeth lay, 'twas to the grateful discovery that she had rallied: her breath came without wheeze or gasp; the labored, spasmodic beating of her heart no longer shook the bed. 'Twas now as though, I thought, they had troubled her with questions concerning her soul or her sin; for she was turned sullen--lying rigid and scowling, with her eyes fixed upon the whitewashed rafters, straying only in search of Judith, who sat near, grieving in dry sobs, affrighted. And 'twas said that this Elizabeth had within the span of my short life been a maid most lovely! There were no traces of that beauty and sprightliness remaining. I wondered, being a lad, that unkindness should work a change so sad in any one. 'Twas a mystery.... The room was cold. 'Twas ghostly, too--with Death hovering there invisible. Youth is mystified and appalled by the gaunt Thing. I shivered. Within, the gale sighed and moaned and sadly whispered; 'twas blowing in a melancholy way--foreboding some inevitable catastrophe. Set on a low ledge of the cliff, the cottage sagged towards the edge, as if to peer at the breakers; and clammy little draughts stole through the cracks of the floor and walls, crying as they came, and crept about, searching out the uttermost corners, with sighs and cold fingers. 'Twas a mean, poor place for a woman to lie in extremity.... And she had once been lovely--with warm, live youth, with twinkling eyes and modesty, with sympathy and merry ways to win the love o' folk! Ay; but 'twas wondrous hard to believe.... 'Twas a mean station of departure, indeed--a bare, disjointed box of a room, low-ceiled, shadowy, barren of comfort, but yet white and neat, kept by Judith's clever, conscientious, loving hands. There was one small window, outlooking to sea, black-paned in the wild night, whipped with rain and spray. From without--from the vastness of sea and night--came a confused and distant wail, as of the lamentation of a multitude. Was this my fancy? I do not know; but yet it seemed to me--a lad who listened and watched--that a wise, pitying, unnumbered throng lamented. I could not rid my ears of this wailing.... * * * * * Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure. "If," Aunt Esther qualified, "she's let _be_." "Like she done las' time," William Buttle's wife whispered. "I 'low our watchin's wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows." "_If_," Aunt Esther repeated, "she's let be." We waited for the parson. "Have Skipper Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "No, maid; 'tis not he, maid." They would still taunt her! They would still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; 'twas "Maid! Maid!" until the heart of a man of honor--of a man of any sort--was fair sickened of virtue and women. "'Tis the parson," said they. Elizabeth sighed. "I wants a word along o' Skipper Nicholas," said she, faintly, "when he've come." Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not unkind--they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons. He laid a kind hand on Judith's head, shook hands with the women, and upon each bestowed a whispered blessing, being absently said; and the wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered, no doubt, what he would accomplish--salvation or not: Parson Stump had failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical attitude of his audience--made anxious for his reputation: a purely professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider his reputation. But yet he must _do_--when another had failed. The Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given him to lose or to save--neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to excuse. "Daughter," he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth. Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh--a coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head. "You isn't Parson Stump," Elizabeth tittered. "Turn your face this way," said Parson Lute. She laughed. "This way," said Parson Lute. "Go 'way!" Elizabeth laughed. "Go on with you!" She hid her flaming face. "You didn't ought t' see me in bed!" she gasped. "Go 'way!" "My child," said Parson Lute, patiently, "turn your face this way." She would not. "Go 'way!" said she. "This way!" Parson Lute repeated. It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson--not this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged glances--exchanged nudges. Elizabeth's laughter ceased. All the women of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion was all outside--wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle's wife, who would not heed her. "'Tis not good for her," Aunt Esther whispered. "You leave me be!" Elizabeth complained. Parson Lute took her hand. "You quit that!" said Elizabeth. "Hush, daughter," the parson pleaded. Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded. "Have Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "Haven't he come yet?" Aunt Esther shook her head. "I wants un," said Elizabeth, "when he've come." The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he dropped it--and frowned. "Woman," he cried, in distress, "don't you know that you are dying?" Elizabeth's glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; 'twas an apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils. "How is it with your soul?" he asked. 'Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls; but yet Elizabeth's glance moved swiftly to the parson's eyes, in a rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained, fascinated. "Are you trusting in your Saviour's love?" I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy question; but yet, why not? for 'twas asked in purest anxiety, in the way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved. "Are you clinging," says he, "to the Cross?" Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters. "Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?" The child Judith--whose grief was my same agony--sobbed heart-brokenly. "Judith!" Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. "Poor little Judith!" "No, my daughter," the parson gently protested. "This is not the time," said he. "Turn your heart away from these earthly affections," he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. "Oh, daughter, fix your eyes upon the Cross!" Elizabeth was sullen. "I wants Judith," she complained. "You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human ties." "I _wants_ Judith!" "Mere earthly affection, daughter! 'And if a man'--" "An' Judith," the woman persisted, "wants _me_!" "Nay," the parson softly chided. He was kind--patient with her infirmity. 'Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, "Oh," he implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature and awful responsibility of his mission, "can you not think of your soul?" "Judith, dear!" The child arose. "No!" said the parson, quietly. "No, child!" The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest of a breaker against the panes. "I wants t' _tell_ she, parson!" Elizabeth wailed. "An I wants she--jus' _wants_ she--anyhow--jus' for love!" "Presently, daughter; not now." "She--she's my _child_!" "Presently, daughter." Judith wept again. "Sir!" Elizabeth gasped--bewildered, terrified. "Not now, daughter." All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth's eyes; they were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the mystery of this refusal. Then 'twas as though some delusion--some terror of her benighted state--seized upon her: alarm changed to despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell back. "He better stop it!" Aunt Esther All muttered. The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her. "He's savin' her soul," said William Buttle's wife. They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented disturbance. "Well," Aunt Esther retorted, "I 'low, anyhow, he don't know much about heart-trouble." Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed. The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. "Do you know the portion of the wicked?" he asked, in loving-kindness, without harshness whatsoever. "Yes, sir." "What is it?" It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile and answer. "Hell, sir," she answered. "Are you prepared for the change?" 'Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth's conversion had been diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled into new attention. "Yes, sir," she said. It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by Parson Stump. The woman was _not_ in a state of grace. "You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?" he asked. "No, sir." "Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?" There was no answer. "You have made your peace with an offended God?" "No, sir." "But you say that you are prepared?" "Yes, sir." "You have repented of your sin?" "No, sir." Parson Lute turned impatient. "And yet," he demanded, "you expect to go to heaven?" "No, sir." "_What_!" cried Parson Lute. "No, sir," she said. Parson Lute was incredulous. "To hell?" he asked. "Eh?" "To _hell_?" Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she hesitated--frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle. "Yes, sir," said she. "Most men goes there." "But you," said he, in amaze, "are not a man!" "Judith's father were," she answered; "an' I'm wantin'--oh, I'm wantin'--t' see un once again!" The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped.... * * * * * The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind--the noise and wet and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; 'twas a crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference--a mocking of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered--his broad face grave and anxious and grieved--but instantly fled, though I beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored to propriety of view and of feeling. 'Twas a heartfelt prayer offered in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man--a confession of ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning, to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose--achieved its utmost pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black barriers, was churned white; and beyond--concealed by the night--the sea ran tumultuously. 'Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves, rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove. Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us all.... * * * * * When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently touched his elbow. "Nicholas have come, sir," said she. "Nicholas?" "Ay; the man she've sent for." Elizabeth caught the news. "I wants un," she wheezed. "Go 'way, parson! I wants a word along o' Nicholas all alone." "She've a secret, sir," Aunt Esther whispered. Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and she stood doubtfully. "Mister Top! Mister Top!" Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself, to whom no heed was given. In the fury of the gale--the rush past of wind and rain--the failing voice was lost. "I 'low," Aunt Esther warned, "'twould be wise, sir--" "Have the man wait in the kitchen." Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering. "But, sir," Aunt Esther protested, "she've--" "Have the man wait in the kitchen," the parson impatiently repeated. "There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!" said he. "There is no time. The woman _must_ be convicted!" He was changed: despondency had vanished--humility gone with it. In the eye of the man--the gesture--the risen voice--appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us--not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle--the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. "The woman must be saved," said he. "She must be saved!" he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. "The Lord is mighty and merciful--a forgiving God." 'Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); 'twas a returning appeal--a little failure of faith, I think. "The Lord has heard me," he declared, doggedly. "He has not turned away. The woman must--she _shall_--be saved!" "Ay, but," Aunt Esther expostulated; "she've been sort o' wantin' t' tell--" The parson's green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails--daring no further protest. "Judith, my child," said the parson, "do you go to the kitchen." "No, no!" Judith wailed. "I'm wantin' t' stay." Elizabeth stretched out her arms. "It distracts your mother's attention, you see," said the parson, kindly. "Do you go, my dear." "I _will_ not go!" "Judith!" Elizabeth called. The parson caught the child's arm. "You leave me be!" Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare. "Do you go," said the parson, coldly, "to the kitchen." "He'd better mind what he's about!" Aunt Esther complained. Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to beat. "Don't send she away, parson!" she pleaded. "She's wantin' her mother. Leave she be!" The parson led Judith away. "For God's sake, parson," Elizabeth gasped, "leave she come! What you goin' t' do with she?" She made as though to throw off the coverlet and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. "Judith!" she called. "Judith!" The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been removed. "Don't hurt she, parson," Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be possessed of a delusion concerning the parson's purpose. "She've done no harm, sir. She've been a good child all her life." "Elizabeth," said the parson, firmly, "repent!" "What you done with my Judith?" "Repent!" Elizabeth's heart began to work beyond its strength. "For God's sake, parson!" she gasped; "you'll not hurt she, will you?" "Repent, I say!" "I'll repent, parson. What you goin' t' do with Judy? Don't hurt she, parson. I'll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I'll repent. For God's sake, parson!" It may be that despair gave her cunning--I do not know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted twice--she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said--praying, all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. "I believe!" she cried, watching him closely for some sign of relenting. "Help thou my unbelief." The parson's face softened. "Save me!" she whispered, exhausted. "Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!" She seemed now to summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the child. "Praise God!" she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to persuade him of her salvation. "I repent! I'm saved! I'm saved!" "Praise God!" Parson Lute shouted. Elizabeth swayed--threw up her hands--fell back dead. "I tol' you so," said Aunt Esther, grimly. XIV THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM Faith, but 'twas a bitter night! Men were drowning on our coast--going to death in the wreck of schooners. The sea broke in unmasked assault upon the great rocks of Whisper Cove; the gale worried the cottage on the cliff. But 'twas warm in the kitchen: the women had kept the fire for the cup o' tea to follow the event; 'twas warm, and the lamp made light and shadow, and the kettle bubbled and puffed, the wood crackled, the fire snored and glowed, all serenely, in disregard of death, as though no mystery had come to appal the souls of us. My uncle had Judith on his knee. "I'm not able," she sobbed. "An' ye'll not try?" he besought. "Ye'll not even try?" We were alone: the women were employed in the other room; the parson paced the floor, unheeding, his yellow teeth fretting his finger-nails, his lean lips moving in some thankful communication with the God he served. "Ah, but!" says my uncle, "ye'll _surely_ come t' live along o' me!" "No, no! I'll be livin' where I've always lived--with mother." "Ye cannot live alone." "Ay; but I'm able t' live alone--an' fish alone--like mother done." "'Twas not her wish, child," says my uncle. "She'd have ye live along o' me. 'Why, Judy,' she'd have ye know, 'do ye live along o' he. Do ye trust, little maid,' she'd have ye t' know, 'that there ol' Nick Top. He've a powerful bad look t' the eye in his head,' she'd say, 'an' he've the name o' the devil; but Lord love ye!' she'd say, 'he've a heart with room t' contain ye, an' a warm welcome t' dwell within. He've took good care o' little ol' Dannie,' she'd say, 'an' he'll take good care o' _you_. He'll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so long as he lives. Not,' she'd say, 'that there damned ol' rascal!' An' if ye come, Judy, dear," my uncle entreated, "I won't see ye wronged--I won't!" My uncle's little eyes were overrunning now--the little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor, still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort; but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. "Ye'll come, Judy, will ye not?" he begged. "Along o' ol' Nick Top, who would not see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!" he implored--and then her head fell against him--"ye'll surely never doubt Nick Top. An' ye'll come t' he, an' ye'll sort o' look after un, will ye not?--that poor ol' feller!" Judith was sobbing on his breast. "That poor, poor ol' feller!" She wept the more bitterly. "Poor little girl!" he crooned, patting her shoulder. "Ah, the poor little girl!" "I'll go!" cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. "I'll go--an' trust an' love an' care for you!" My uncle clasped her close. "'_The Lard is my shepherd,_'" says he, looking up, God knows to what! his eyes streaming, "'_I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters._'" By the wind, by the breaking of the troubled sea, the old man's voice was obscured. "'_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._'" Judith still sobbed, uncomforted; my uncle stroked her hair--and again she broke into passionate weeping. "'_Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over._'" Returned, again, in a lull of the gale, my fancy that I caught the lamentation of a multitude. "'_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever._'" "Bless God!" cried the parson. "Bless God, brother!" "Ay," said my uncle, feelingly, "bless God!" The parson wrung my uncle's hand. "That there psa'm don't seem true, parson, b'y," says my uncle, "on a night like this here dirty night, with schooners in trouble at sea. Ever been t' sea in a gale o' wind, parson? Ah, well! it don't seem true--not in a gale o' wind, with this here poor, lonely little maid's mother lyin' there dead in the nex' room. It jus' don't seem true!" Parson Lute, poor man! started--stared, pained, anxious; in doubt, it may be, of the Christian congeniality of this man. "It don't seem true," says my uncle, "in the face of a easterly gale an' the death o' mothers. An', look you, parson," he declared, "I'll be--well, parson, I'll jus' be _jiggered_--if it do! There you haves it!" "Brother," the parson answered, accusingly, "it is in the Bible; it must be true." "'Tis _where_?" my uncle demanded, confounded. "In the Bible, sir." "An' it--it--must be--" "True, sir." My uncle sighed; and--for I know his loving-kindness--'twas a sigh that spoke a pain at heart. "It must be true," reiterated the wretched parson, now, it seemed, beset by doubt. "It _must_ be true!" "Why, by the dear God ye serve, parson!" roared my uncle, with healthy spirit, superior in faith, "I _knows_ 'tis true, Bible or St. John's noospaper!" Aunt Esther put her gray head in at the door. "Is the kettle b'ilin'?" says she. The kettle was boiling. "Ah!" says she--and disappeared. "'_Though I walk,_'" the parson repeated, his thin, freckled hands clasped, "'_through the valley of the shadow of death!_'" There was no doctor at Twist Tickle: so the parson lay dead--poor man!--of the exposure of that night, within three days, in the house of Parson Stump.... XV A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION With the threats of the gray stranger in mind, my uncle now began without delay to refit the _Shining Light_: this for all the world as though 'twere a timely and reasonable thing to do. But 'twas neither timely, for the fish were running beyond expectation off Twist Tickle, nor reasonable, for the _Shining Light_ had been left to rot and foul in the water of Old Wives' Cove since my infancy. Whatever the pretence he made, the labor was planned and undertaken in anxious haste: there was, indeed, too much pretence--too suave an explanation, a hand too aimless and unsteady, an eye too blank, too large a flow of liquor--for a man who suffered no secret perturbation. "In case o' accident, Dannie," he explained, as though 'twere a thing of no importance. "Jus' in case o' accident. I wouldn't be upset," says he, "an I was you." "Never you fear," says I. "No," says he; "you'll stand by, Dannie!" "That I will," I boasted. "Ye can't delude _me_," says he. "I knows _you_. I bet ye _you'll_ stand by, whatever comes of it." 'Tis quite beyond me to express my gratification. 'Twas a mysterious business altogether--this whim to make the _Shining Light_ ready for sea. I could make nothing of it at all. And why, thinks I, should the old craft all at once be troubled by all this pother of block and tackle and hammer and saw? 'Twas beyond me to fathom; but I was glad to discover, whatever the puzzle, that my uncle's faith in the lad he had nourished was got real and large. 'Twas not for that he bred me; but 'twas the only reward--and that a mean, poor one--he might have. And he was now come near, it seemed, to dependence upon me; there was that in his voice to show it--a little trembling, a little hopelessness, a little wistfulness: a little weakening of its quality of wrathful courage. "_You'll_ stand by," he had said; and, ay, but it fair saddened me to feel the appeal of his aging spirit to my growing years! There comes a time, no doubt, in the relationship of old and young, when the guardian is all at once changed into the cherished one. 'Tis a tragical thing--a thing to be resolved, to be made merciful and benign, only by the acquiescence of the failing spirit. There is then no interruption--no ripple upon the flowing river of our lives. As for my uncle, I fancy that he kept watch upon me, in those days, to read his future, to discover his achievement, in my disposition. Stand by? Ay, that I would! And being young I sought a deed to do: I wished the accident might befall to prove me. "Accident?" cries I. "Never you fear!" "I'll not fear," says he, "that ye'll not stand by." "Ay," I complained; "but never you fear at all!" "I'll not fear," he repeated, with a little twinkle of amusement, "that ye'll not stand by, as best ye're able." I felt now my strength--the greatness of my body and the soaring courage of my soul. This in the innocent way of a lad; and by grace of your recollection I shall not be blamed for it. Fourteen and something more? 'Twas a mighty age! What did it lack, thinks I, of power and wisdom? To be sure I strutted the present most haughtily and eyed the future with as saucy a flash as lads may give. The thing delighted my uncle; he would chuckle and clap me on the back and cry, "That's very good!" until I was wrought into a mood of defiance quite ridiculous. But still 'tis rather grateful to recall: for what's a lad's boasting but the honest courage of a man? I would serve my uncle; but 'twas not all: I would serve Judith. She was now come into our care: I would serve her. "They won't nothin' hurt _she_!" thinks I. I am glad to recall that this boyish love took a turn so chivalrous.... * * * * * When 'twas noised abroad that my uncle was to refit the _Shining Light_, Twist Tickle grew hilarious. "Laugh an you will, lads," says my uncle, then about the business of distributing genial invitations to the hauling-down. "'Tis a gift o' the good Lord t' be able t' do it. The ol' girl out there haven't a wonderful lot to admire, an' she's nowhere near t' windward o' forty; but I'll show ye, afore I'm through, that she'll stand by in a dirty blow, an I jus' asks she t' try. Ye'll find, lads," says he, "when ye're so old as me, an' sailed t' foreign parts, that they's more to a old maid or a water-side widow than t' many a lass o' eighteen. The ol' girl out there haves a mean allowance o' beauty, but she've a character that isn't talked about after dark; an' when I buys her a pair o' shoes an' a new gown, why, ecod! lads, ye'll think she's a lady. 'Tis one way," says he, "that ladies is _made_." This occurred at Eli Flack's stage of an evening when a mean, small catch was split and the men-folk were gathered for gossip. 'Twas after sunset, with fog drifting in on a lazy wind: a glow of red in the west. Our folk were waiting for the bait-skiff, which had long been gone for caplin, skippered, this time, by the fool of Twist Tickle. "Whatever," says my uncle, "they'll be a darn o' rum for ye, saved and unsaved, when she've been hauled down an' scraped. An' will ye come t' the haulin'-down?" That they would! "I knowed ye would," says my uncle, as he stumped away, "saved an' unsaved." The bait-skiff conch-horn sounded. The boat had entered the narrows. 'Twas coming slowly through the quiet evening--laden with bait for the fishing of to-morrow. Again the horn--echoing sweetly, faintly, among the hills of Twin Islands. 'Twas Moses Shoos that blew; there was no mistaking the long-drawn blast. * * * * * Ah, well! she needed the grooming, this _Shining Light_, whatever the occasion. 'Twas scandalous to observe her decay in idleness. She needed the grooming--this neglected, listless, slatternly old maid of a craft. A craft of parts, to be sure, as I had been told; but a craft left to slow wreck, at anchor in quiet water. Year by year, since I could remember the days of my life, in summer and winter weather she had swung with the tides or rested silent in the arms of the ice. I had come to Twist Tickle aboard, as the tale of my infancy ran, on the wings of a nor'east gale of some pretensions; and she had with heroic courage weathered a dirty blow to land me upon the eternal rocks of Twin Islands. For this--though but an ancient story, told by old folk to engage my presence in the punts and stages of our harbor--I loved her, as a man, Newfoundland born and bred, may with propriety love a ship. There are maids to be loved, no doubt, and 'tis very nice to love them, because they are maids, fashioned in a form most lovely by the good Lord, given a heart most childlike and true and loving and tenderly dependent, so that, in all the world, as I know, there is nothing so to be cherished with a man's last breath as a maid. I have loved a maid and speak with authority. But there is also a love of ships, though, being inland-born, you may not know it. 'Tis a surpassing faith and affection, inspired neither by beauty nor virtue, but wilful and mysterious, like the love of a maid. 'Tis much the same, I'm thinking: forgiving to the uttermost, prejudiced beyond the perception of any fault, savagely loyal. 'Twas in this way, at any rate, that my uncle regarded the _Shining Light_; and 'twas in this way, too, with some gentler shades of admiration, proceeding from an apt imagination, that I held the old craft in esteem. "Dannie," says my uncle, presently, as we walked homeward, "ye'll 'blige me, lad, by keepin' a eye on the mail-boat." I wondered why. "You keep a eye," he whispered, winking in a way most grave and troubled, "on that there little mail-boat when she lands her passengers." "For what?" I asked. "Brass buttons," says he. 'Twas now that the cat came out of the bag. Brass buttons? 'Twas the same as saying constables. This extraordinary undertaking was then a precaution against the accident of arrest. 'Twas inspired, no doubt, by the temper of that gray visitor with whom my uncle had dealt over the table in a fashion so surprising. I wondered again concerning that amazing broil, but to no purpose; 'twas 'beyond my wisdom and ingenuity to involve these opposite natures in a crime that might make each tolerable to the other and advantage them both. 'Twas plain, at any rate, that my uncle stood in jeopardy, and that of no trivial sort: else never would he have employed his scant savings upon the hull of the _Shining Light_. It grieved me to know it. 'Twas most sad and most perplexing. 'Twas most aggravating, too: for I must put no questions, but accept, in cheerful serenity, the revelations he would indulge me with, and be content with that. "An' if ye sees so much as a single brass button comin' ashore," says he, "ye'll give me a hail, will ye not, whereever I is?" This I would do. "Ye never can tell," he added, sadly, "what's in the wind." "I'm never allowed t' know," said I. He was quick to catch the complaint. "Ye're growin' up, Dannie," he observed; "isn't you, lad?" I fancied I was already grown. "Ah, well!" says he; "they'll come a time, lad, God help ye! when ye'll know." "I wisht 'twould hasten," said I. "I wisht 'twould never come at all," said he. 'Twas disquieting.... * * * * * Work on the _Shining Light_ went forward apace and with right good effect. 'Twas not long--it might be a fortnight--before her hull was as sound as rotten plank could be made with gingerly calking. 'Twas indeed a delicate task to tap the timbers of her: my uncle must sometimes pause for anxious debate upon the wisdom of venturing a stout blow. But copper-painted below the water-line, adorned above, she made a brave showing at anchor, whatever she might do at sea; and there was nothing for it, as my uncle said, but to have faith, which would do well enough: for faith, says he, could move mountains. When she had been gone over fore and aft, aloft and below, in my uncle's painstaking way--when she had been pumped and ballasted and cleared of litter and swabbed down and fitted with a new suit of sails--she so won upon our confidence that not one of us who dwelt on the neck of land by the Lost Soul would have feared to adventure anywhere aboard. The fool of Twist Tickle pulled a long face. "Hut, Moses!" I maintained; "she'll do very well. Jus' look at her!" "Mother always 'lowed," says he, "that a craft was like a woman. An' since mother died, I've come t' learn for myself, Dannie," he drawled, "that the more a woman haves in the way o' looks the less weather she'll stand. I've jus' come, now," says he, "from overhaulin' a likely maid at Chain Tickle." I looked up with interest. "Jinny Lawless," says he. "Ol' Skipper Garge's youngest by the third." My glance was still inquiring. "Ay, Dannie," he sighed; "she've declined." "You've took a look," I inquired, "at the maids o' Long Bill Hodge o' Sampson's Island?" He nodded. "An' they've--" "_All_ declined," says he. "Never you care, Moses," said I. "Looks or no looks, you'll find the _Shining Light_ stand by when _she_ puts to sea." "I'll not be aboard," says he. "You're not so sure about that!" quoth I. "I wouldn't ship," he drawled. "I'd never put t' sea on she: for mother," he added, "wouldn't like t' run the risk." "You dwell too much upon your mother," said I. "She's all I got in the way o' women," he answered. "All I got, Dannie--yet." "But when you gets a wife--" "Oh," he interrupted, "Mrs. Moses Shoos won't mind _mother_!" "Still an' all," I gravely warned him, "'tis a foolish thing t' do." "Well, Dannie," he drawled, in a way so plaintive that I found no answer to his argument, "I _is_ a fool. I'm told so every day, by men an' maids, wherever I goes; an' I jus' can't help _bein'_ foolish." "God made you," said I. "An' mother always 'lowed," said Moses, "that He knowed what He was up to. An', Dannie," says he, "she always 'lowed, anyhow, that _she_ was satisfied." 'Twas of a Sunday evening--upon the verge of twilight: with the light of day still abroad, leaving the hills of Twin Islands clear-cut against the blue sky, but falling aslant, casting long shadows. Came, then, straggling from the graveyard in the valley by Thunder Head, the folk of our harbor. 'Twas all over, it seemed; they had buried old Tom Hossie. Moses and I sat together on the hill by Old Wives' Cove, in the calm of the day and weather: there was no wind stirring--no drip of oar to be heard, no noise of hammer, no laughter of children, no cry or call of labor. They had buried old Tom Hossie, whom no peril of that coast, savagely continuing through seventy years, had overcome or daunted, but age had gently drawn away. I had watched them bear the coffin by winding paths along the Tickle shore and up the hill, stopping here to rest and there to rest, for the way was long; and now, sitting in the yellow sunshine of that kind day, with the fool of Twist Tickle for company, I watched them come again, their burden deposited in the inevitable arms. I wondered if the spirit of old Tom Hossie rejoiced in its escape. I wondered if it continued in pitiable age or had returned to youth--to strength for action and wish for love. I wondered, with the passionate curiosity of a lad, as I watched the procession of simple folk disperse, far off, to supper and to the kisses of children, if the spirit of old Tom Hossie had rather sail the seas he had sailed and love the maids of our land or dwell in the brightest glory painted for us by the prophets. I could, then, being a lad, conceive no happier world than that in which I moved, no joy aside from its people and sea and sunlight, no rest apart from the mortal love of Judith; but, now, grown older, I fancy that the spirit of old Tom Hossie, wise with age and vastly weary of the labor and troublous delights of life, hungered and thirsted for death. The church bell broke upon this morbid meditation. "Hark!" says Moses. "'Tis the first bell." 'Twas a melodious call to worship--throbbing sweetly across the placid water of our harbor, beating on, liquidly vibrant, to rouse the resting hills of Twin Islands. "You'll be off, Moses?" "Ay," says he; "for mother always 'lowed 'twas good for a man t' go t' church, an' I couldn't do nothin', Dannie, that mother wouldn't like. I seem, lad, t' hear her callin', in that bell. 'Come--dear!' says she, 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Tis like she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear,' says she; 'you'll never be hurt,' says she, 'when you're within with me.' So I 'low I'll go t' church, Dannie, where mother would have me be. 'You don't _need_ t' leave the parson scare you, Moses,' says she; 'all you got t' do, dear,' says she, 'is t' remember that your mother loves you. You're so easy to scare, poor lad!' says she; 'but never forget _that_' says she, 'an' you'll never be feared o' God. In fair weather,' says she, 'a man may need no Hand t' guide un; but in times o' trouble,' says she, 'he've jus' got t' have a God. I found that out,' says she, 'jus' afore you was born an' jus' after I knowed you was a fool. So I 'low, Moses,' says she, 'you'd best go t' church an' make friends with God, for then,' says she, 'you'll not feel mean t' call upon Him when the evil days comes. In times o' trouble,' says mother, 'a man jus' can't help singin' out for aid. An' 'tis a mean, poor man,' says she, 'that goes beggin' to a Stranger.' Hark t' the bell, Dannie! Does you not hear it? Does you not hear it call the folk t' come?" 'Twas still ringing its tender invitation. "'Tis jus' like the voice o' mother," said the fool of Twist Tickle. "Like when she used t' call me from the door. 'Come, dear!' says she. Hark, Dannie! Hear her voice? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'" God help me! but I heard no voice.... * * * * * Well, now, my uncle was in no genial humor while the work on the _Shining Light_ was under way: for from our house, at twilight, when he paced the gravelled path, he could spy the punts come in from the grounds, gunwale laden, every one. 'Twas a poor lookout, said he, for a man with thirty quintal in his stage and the season passing; and he would, by lamplight, with many sighs and much impatient fuming, overhaul his accounts, as he said. 'Tis a mystery to me to this day how he managed it. I've no inkling of the system--nor capacity to guess it out. 'Twas all done with six round tin boxes and many sorts of shot; and he would drop a shot here and drop a shot there, and empty a box and fill one, and withdraw shot from the bags to drop in the boxes, and pick shot from the boxes to stow away in the bags, all being done in noisy exasperation, which would give way, presently, to despair, whereupon he would revive, drop shot with renewed vigor, counting aloud, the while, upon his seven fingers, until, in the end, he would come out of the engagement grimly triumphant. When, however, the _Shining Light_ was ready for sea, with but an anchor to ship for flight, he cast his accounts for the last time, and returned to his accustomed composure and gentle manner with us all. I lingered with him over his liquor that night; and I marked, when I moved his lamp near, that he was older than he had been. "You're all wore out, sir," said I. "No, Dannie," he answered; "but I'm troubled." I put his glass within reach. For a long time he disregarded it: but sat disconsolate, staring vacantly at the floor, fallen into some hopeless muse. I turned away; and in a moment, when I looked again, I found his eyes bent upon me, as if in anxious appraisement of my quality. "Ye _will_ stand by," he cried, "will ye not?" "I will!" I swore, in instant response. "Whatever comes t' your knowledge?" "Whatever comes!" He held his glass aloft--laughed in delighted defiance--tossed off the liquor. "Ecod!" cries he, most heartily; "'tis you an' me, ol' shipmate, ag'in the world! Twelve year ago," says he, "since you an' me got under way on this here little cruise in the _Shining Light_. 'Twas you an' me then. 'Tis you an' me now. 'Twill be you an' me t' the end o' the v'y'ge. Here's t' fair winds or foul! Here's t' the ship an' the crew! Here's t' you an' here's t' me! Here's t' harbor for our souls!" 'Twas inspiring. I had never known the like to come from my uncle. 'Twas a thrilling toast. I wished I had a glass. "For it may be, lad," says my uncle, "that we'll have t' put t' sea!" But for many a month thereafter the _Shining Light_ lay at anchor where then she swung. No brass buttons came ashore from the mail-boat: no gray stranger intruded upon our peace. Life flowed quietly in new courses: in new courses, to be sure, with Judith and John Cather come into our house, but still serenely, as of old. The _Shining Light_ rose and fell, day by day, with the tides of that summer, kept ready for our flight. In the end, she put to sea; but 'twas not in the way my uncle had foreseen. 'Twas not in flight; 'twas in pursuit. 'Twas a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous. 'Twas a thing that meant much more than life or death. In these distant days--from my chair, here, in our old house--by the window of my room--I look out upon the water of Old Wives' Cove, whence the _Shining Light_ has for many years been missing; and I remember the time she slipped her anchor and ran to sea with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast. XVI GREEN PASTURES: AN INTERLUDE In all this time Judith dwelt with us by the Lost Soul. When my uncle fetched her from Whisper Cove, he gravely gave her into the care of our maid-servant, long ago widowed by the sea, who had gone childless all her life, and was now come to the desolate years, when she would sit alone and wistful at twilight, staring out into the empty world, where only hopelessly deepening shadows were, until 'twas long past time to light the lamp. In the child that was I she had found no ease or recompense, because of the mystery concerning me, which in its implication of wickedness revolted her, and because of my uncle's regulation of her demeanor in my presence, which tolerated no affectionate display; but when Judith came, orphaned and ill-nourished, the woman sat no longer in moods at evening, but busied herself in motherly service of the child, reawakened in the spirit. 'Twas thus to a watchful, willing guardianship, most tenderly maternal in solicitude and self-sacrifice, that Judith was brought by wise old Nick Top of Twist Tickle. My uncle would have no misunderstanding. "Uncle Nick," says I, "you'll be havin' a chair set for Judy in the cabin?" "No, lad," he answered; "not for little Judy." I expostulated most vigorously. "Dannie, lad," said he, with a gravity that left me no stomach for argument, "the maid goes steerage along o' me. This here little matter o' Judy," he added, gently, "belongs t' me. I'm not makin' a lady o' she. She haves nothin' t' do--nothin' t' do, thank God!--with what's gone afore." There was no word to say. "An ye're wantin' t' have Judy t' dinner, by times," he continued, winking a genial understanding of my love-lorn condition, "I 'low it might be managed by a clever hand." I asked him the way. "Slug-shot," says he. 'Twas the merest hint. "Remove," says he, darkly, "one slug-shot from the box with the star, an' drop it," says he, his left eye closed again, "in the box with the cross." And there I had it! * * * * * You must know that by my uncle's severe direction I must never fail to appear at table in the evening save in the perfection of cleanliness as to face and hands and nails and teeth. "For what," says he, "have Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that p'int--underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II., page 24. A list o' the ornamental accomplishments. '_T' be extremely clean in your person._' There you haves it--underlined by Sir Harry!" He would examine me keenly, every nail and tooth of me, accepting neither excuse nor apology, and would never sit with me until I had passed inspection. In the beginning, 'twas my uncle's hand, laid upon me in virtuous chastisement, that persuaded me of the propriety of this genteel conduct; but presently, when I was grown used to the thing, 'twas fair impossible for me to approach the meat, in times of peace with place and weather, confronting no peril, hardship, laborious need, or discomfort, before this particular ornamental accomplishment had been indubitably achieved with satisfaction to my uncle and to myself. My uncle had, moreover, righteously compelled, with precisely similar tactics as to the employment of his right hand, an attire in harmony with the cleanliness of my person. "For what," says he, "have bully ol' Skipper Chesterfield t' say on that there little p'int? What have that there fashionable ol' gentleman t' hold--underlined by Sir Harry? Volume II, page 24. 'A list o' the ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin' can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye wants,'" quotes he, most glibly, "'an' which only require your care an' attention t' possess.' Volume II., page 24. '_An' perfeckly well dressed, accordin' t' the fashion, be that what it will._' There you haves it," says he, "an' underlined by Sir Harry hisself!" 'Twas a boresome thing, to be sure, as a lad of eleven, to come from boyish occupations to this maidenly concern for appearances: but now, when I am grown older, 'tis a delight to escape the sweat and uniform of the day's work; and I am grateful to the broad hand that scorched my childish parts to teach me the value and pleasures of gentility. At the same time, as you may believe, I was taught a manner of entering, in the way, by the hints of Sir Harry and the philosophy of the noble Lord Chesterfield, of a gentleman. It had to do with squared shoulders, the lift of the head, a strut, a proud and contemptuous glance. Many a night, as a child, when I fair fainted of vacancy and the steam and smell of salt pork was an agony hardly to be endured, I must prance in and out, to please my fastidious uncle, while he sat critical by the fire--in the unspeakable detachment of critics from the pressing needs (for example) of a man's stomach--and indulged his artistic perceptions to their completest satisfaction. He would watch me from his easy-chair by the fire as though 'twere the most delectable occupation the mind of man might devise: leaning forward in absorption, his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, his great head cocked, like a canary-bird's, his little eyes watchful and sparkling. "Once again, Dannie," says he. "Head throwed higher, lad. An' ye might use yer chest a bit more." Into the hall and back again. "Fair," says he. "I'll not deny that ye're doin' better. But Sir Harry, lad," says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose, "uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now! An' a mite more chest." This time at a large swagger. "Very good," says he, in a qualified way. "But could ye not scowl t' more purpose?" 'Twas fair heroic to indulge him--with the room full of the smell of browned meat. But, says I, desperately, "I'll try, sir." "Jus' you think, Dannie," says he, "that that there ol' rockin'-chair with the tidy is a belted knight o' the realm. Come now! Leave me see how ye'd deal with _he_. An' a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye're able." A withering stare for the rocking-chair--superior to the point of impudence--and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of furniture. "Good!" cries my uncle. "Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t' do it better. That there belted rockin'-chair o' the realm, Dannie, would swear you was a lord! An' now, lad," says he, fondly smiling, "ye may feed."[5] This watchful cultivation, continuing through years, had flowered in a pretty swagger, as you may well believe. In all my progress to this day I have not observed a more genteelly insolent carriage than that which memory gives to the lad that was I. I have now no regret: for when I am abroad, at times, for the health and pleasure of us all, 'tis a not ungrateful thing, not unamusing, to be reminded, by the deferential service and regard this ill-suited manner wins for the outport man that I am, of those days when my fond uncle taught me to scowl and strut and cry, "What the devil d'ye mean, sir!" to impress my quality upon the saucy world. But when Judith came into our care--when first she sat with us at table, crushed, as a blossom, by the Hand that seems unkind: shy, tender-spirited, alien to our ways--'twas with a tragical shock I realized the appearance of high station my uncle's misguided effort and affection had stamped me with. She sat with my uncle in the steerage; and she was lovely, very gentle and lovely, I recall, sitting there, with exquisitely dropping grace, under the lamp--in the shower of soft, yellow light: by which her tawny hair was set aglow, and the shadows, lying below her great, blue eyes, were deepened, in sympathy with her appealing grief. Came, then, this Dannie Callaway, in his London clothes, arrived direct per S.S. _Cathian_: came this enamoured young fellow, with his educated stare, his legs (good and bad) long-trousered for the first time in his life, his fingers sparkling, his neck collared and his wrists unimpeachably cuffed, his chest "used" in such a way as never, God knows! had it swelled before. 'Twas with no desire to indulge his uncle that he had managed these adornments. Indeed not! 'Twas a wish, growing within his heart, to compass a winning and distinguished appearance in the presence of the maid he loved. By this magnificence the maid was abashed. "Hello!" says I, as I swaggered past the steerage. There was no response. "Is you happy, child," says I, catching the trick of the thing from my uncle, "along o' ol' Nick Top an' me an' John Cather?" My tutor laughed. "Eh, Judy?" says I. The maid's glance was fallen in embarrassment upon her plate. "Dannie," says my uncle, severely, "ye better get under way with your feedin'." The which, being at once hungry and obedient, I did: but presently, looking up, caught the poor maid unself-conscious. She no longer grieved--no longer sat sad and listless in her place. She was peering greedily into the cabin, as my uncle was wont to do, her slim, white neck something stretched and twisted (it seemed) to round a spreading cluster of buttercups. 'Twas a moving thing to observe. 'Twas not a shocking thing; 'twas a thing melting to the heart--'twas a thing, befalling with a maid, at once to provide a lad with chivalrous opportunity. The eyes were the great, blue eyes of Judith--grave, wide eyes, which, beneficently touching a lad, won reverent devotion, flushed the heart with zeal for righteousness. They were Judith's eyes, the same, as ever, in infinite depth of shadow, like the round sky at night, the same in light, like the stars that shine therein, the same in black-lashed mystery, like the firmament God made with His own hand. But still 'twas with a most marvellously gluttonous glance that she eyed the roast of fresh meat on the table before me. 'Twas no matter to _me_, to be sure! for a lad's love is not so easily alienated: 'tis an actual thing--not depending upon a neurotic idealization: therefore not to be disillusioned by these natural appearances. "Judy," says I, most genially, "is you ever tasted roast veal?" She was much abashed. "Is you never," I repeated, "tasted roast veal?" "No, sir," she whispered. "'_Sir_!'" cries I, astounded. "'Sir!'" I gasped. "Maid," says I, now in wrathful amazement forgetting her afflicted state, "is you lost your senses?" "N-n-no, sir," she stammered. "For shame!" I scolded. "T' call me so!" "Daniel," my uncle interjected, "volume II., page 24. '_A distinguished politeness o' manners._'" By this my tutor was vastly amused, and delightedly watched us, his twinkling glance leaping from face to face. "I'll not have it, Judy!" I warned her. "You'll vex me sore an you does it again." The maid would not look up. "Volume II., page 25," my uncle chided. "Underlined by Sir Harry. '_An' this address an' manner should be exceedin'ly respeckful._'" "Judy!" I implored. She ignored me. "An you calls me that again, maid," I threatened, in a rage, "you'll be sorry for it. I'll--" "Holy Scripture!" roared my uncle, reaching for his staff. "'_Spare the rod and spoil the child._'" I was not to be stopped by this. 'Twas an occasion too promising in disaster. She had sirred me like a house-maid. Sir? 'Twas past believing. That Judith should be so overcome by fine feathers and a roosterly strut! 'Twas shocking to discover the effect of my uncle's teaching. It seemed to me that the maid must at once be dissuaded from this attitude of inferiority or my solid hope would change into a dream. Inferiority? She must have no such fancy! Fixed within her mind 'twould inevitably involve us in some catastrophe of feeling. The torrent of my wrath and supplication went tumbling on: there was no staying it. My uncle's hand fell short of his staff; he sat stiff and agape with astonished admiration: perceiving which, my tutor laughed until my hot words were fair extinguished in the noise he made. By this my uncle was set laughing: whence the infection spread to me. And then Judith peeped at me through the cluster of buttercups with the ghost of a roguish twinkle. "I'll call you Dannie," says she, slyly--"t' save you the lickin'!" "Daniel," cries my uncle, delighted, "one slug-shot. Box with the star t' the box with the cross. Judy," says he, "move aft alongside o' that there roast veal!" 'Twas the beginning and end of this seeming difference of station.... * * * * * John Cather took us in hand to profit us. 'Twas in the learning he had--'twas in every genteel accomplishment he had himself mastered in the wise world he came from--that we were instructed. I would have Judy for school-fellow: nor would I be denied--not I! 'Twas the plan I made when first I knew John Cather's business in our house: else, thinks I, 'twould be a mean, poor match we should make of it in the end. I would have her: and there, says I, with a toss and a stamp, to my uncle's delight, was an end of it! It came about in this way that we three spent the days together in agreeable employment: three young, unknowing souls--two lads and a maid. In civil weather, 'twas in the sunlight and breeze of the hills, 'twas in shady hollows, 'twas on the warm, dry rocks, which the breakers could not reach, 'twas on the brink of the cliff, that Cather taught us, leaving off to play, by my uncle's command, when we were tired of study; and when the wind blew with rain, or fog got the world all a-drip, or the task was incongruous with sunshine and fresh air (like multiplication), 'twas within doors that the lesson proceeded--in my library, which my uncle had luxuriously outfitted for me, when still I was an infant, against this very time. "John Cather," says I, one day, "you've a wonderful tongue in your head." 'Twas on the cliff of Tom Tulk's Head. We had climbed the last slope hand in hand, with Judith between, and were now stretched out on the brink, resting in the cool blue wind from the sea. "A nimble tongue, Dannie," he replied, "I'll admit." "A wonderful tongue!" I repeated. "John Cather," I exclaimed, in envious admiration, "you've managed t' tell Judy in ten thousand ways that she's pretty." Judith blushed. "I wisht," says I, "that _I_ was so clever as that." "I know still another way," said he. "Ay; an' a hundred more!" "Another," said he, softly, turning to Judith, who would not look at him. "Shall I tell you, Judith?" She shook her head. "No?" said he. "Why not?" The answer was in a whisper--given while the maid's hot face was still turned away. "I'm not wantin' you to," she said. "Do, maid!" I besought her. "I'm not wantin' him to." "'Tis your eyes, I'll be bound!" said I. "'Twill be so clever that you'll be glad to hear." "But I'm not _wantin'_ him to," she persisted. My tutor smiled indulgently--but with a pitiful little trace of hurt remaining. 'Twas as though he must suffer the rebuff with no offended question. In the maid 'twas surely a wilful and bewildering thing to deny him. I could not make it out: but wished, in the breeze and sunlight of that day, that the wound had not been dealt. 'Twas an unkind thing in Judith, thinks I; 'twas a thing most cruel--thus to coquette with the friendship of John Cather. "Ah, Judy," I pleaded, "leave un have his way!" She picked at the moss. "Will ye not, maid?" "I'm afraid!" she whispered in my ear. "An' you'd stop for that!" I chided, not knowing what she meant: as how should a lad? It seemed she would. "'Tis an unkind thing," says I, "t' treat John Cather so. He've been good," says I, "t' _you_, Judy." "Dannie!" she wailed. "Don't, Dannie!" Cather entreated. "I'd have ye listen, Judy," said I, in earnest, kind reproach, "t' what John Cather says. I'd have ye heed his words. I'd have ye care for him." Being then a lad, unsophisticated in the wayward, mercilessly selfish passion of love, ignorant of the unmitigated savagery of the thing, I said more than that, in my folly. "I'd have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." 'Tis a curious thing to look back upon. That I should snarl the threads of our destinies! 'Tis an innocency hard to credit. But yet John Cather and I had no sensitive intuition to warn us. How should we--being men? 'Twas for Judith to perceive the inevitable catastrophe; 'twas for the maid, not misled by reason, schooled by feeling into the very perfection of wisdom, to control and direct the smouldering passion of John Cather and me in the way she would, according to the power God gives, in infinite understanding of the hearts of men, to a maid to wield. "I'd have ye love John Cather," says I, "as ye love me." It may be that a lad loves his friend more than any other. "I'd have ye t' know, Judy," says I, gently, "that John Cather's my friend. I'd have ye t' know--" "Dannie," Cather interrupted, putting an affectionate hand on my shoulder, "you don't know what you're saying." Judith turned. "I do, John Cather," says I. "I knows full well." Judith's eyes, grown all at once wide and grave, looked with wonder into mine. I was made uneasy--and cocked my head, in bewilderment and alarm. 'Twas a glance that searched me deep. What was this? And why the warning? There was more than warning. 'Twas pain I found in Judith's great, blue eyes. What had grieved her? 'Twas reproach, too--and a flash of doubt. I could not read the riddle of it. Indeed, my heart began to beat in sheer fright, for the reproach and doubt vanished, even as I stared, and I confronted a sparkling anger. But presently, as often happened with that maid, tears flushed her eyes, and the long-lashed lids fell, like a curtain, upon her grief: whereupon she turned away, troubled, to peer at the sea, breaking far below, and would not look at me again. We watched her, John Cather and I, for an anxious space, while she sat brooding disconsolate at the edge of the cliff, a sweep of cloudless sky beyond. The slender, sweetly childish figure--with the tawny hair, I recall, all aglow with sunlight--filled the little world of our thought and vision. There was a patch of moss and rock, the green and gray of our land--there was Judith--there was an infinitude of blue space. John Cather's glance was frankly warm; 'twas a glance proceeding from clear, brave, guileless eyes--springing from a limpid soul within. It caressed the maid, in a fashion, thinks I, most brotherly. My heart warmed to the man; and I wondered that Judith should be unkind to him who was our friend. 'Twas a mystery. "You will not listen, Judith?" he asked. "'Tis a very pretty thing I want to say." Judith shook her head. A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Please do!" he coaxed. "No!" "I'm quite proud of it," says he, with a laugh in his fine eyes. He leaned forward a little, and made as if to touch her, but withdrew his hand. "I did not know," says he, "that I was so clever. I have it all ready. I have every word in place. I'd like to say it--for my own pleasure, if not for yours. I think it would be a pity to let the pretty words waste themselves unsaid. I--I--hope you'll listen. I--I--really hope you will. And you will not?" "No!" she cried, sharply. "No, no!" "Why not?" "No!" she repeated; and she slipped her hand into mine, and hid them both snugly in the folds of her gown, where John Cather could not see. "God wouldn't like it, John Cather," says she, her little teeth all bare, her eyes aflash with indignation, her long fingers so closely entwined with mine that I wondered. "He wouldn't _'low_ it," says she, "an He knowed." I looked at John Cather in vague alarm. [5] This Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. 'Twas no wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar companion he was in St. John's. I never knew him, never clapped eyes on him, that I recall; he died abroad before I was grown presentable. 'Twas kind in him, I have always thought, to help my uncle in his task of transforming me, for 'twas done with no personal responsibility whatsoever in the matter, but solely of good feeling. I owed him but one grudge, and that a short-lived one, going back to the year when I was seven: 'twas by advice o' Sir Harry that I was made to tub myself, every morning, in the water of the season, be it crusted with ice or not, with my uncle listening at the door to hear the splash and gasp. XVII RUM AND RUIN In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was most blithe: for the _Shining Light_ was made all ready for sea, with but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St. John's constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t' manage, actin' accordin' t' that there fashionable ol' lord of the realm, by advice o' Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or bad, why, then, a maid o' the place, ecod! was but a pastime t' rear, an' there, says he, you had it! 'Twas at night, when he was come in from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to regard us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate--with an aspect so patriarchal--that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively shine. "Up with un, Dannie!" says he. I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly caution. "Easy, lad!" groans he. "Ouch! All ship-shape," says he. "Is you got the little brown jug o' water?" 'Twould surely be there. "Green pastures!" says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a glowing coal. "There you haves it, Dannie!" cries he. "I knowed they was some truth in that there psa'm. Green pastures! '_He maketh me t' lie down in green pastures._' Them ol' bullies was wise as owls.... Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank 'e, maid. Ye're a wonderful maid t' blush, thank God! for they's nothin' so pretty as that. I'm a old, old man, Judy; but t' this day, maid, 'tis fair painful t' keep from kissin' red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy," says he, with a wag, his hand on the bottle, "I'd rather be tempted by mermaids or angels--I cares not which--than by a mortal maid's red cheeks! 'Twould be wonderful easy," says he, "t' resist a angel.... Green pastures! Eh, Dannie, b'y? Times is changed, isn't they? Not like it used t' be, when you an' me sot here alone t' drink, an' you was on'y a wee little lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!" cries he, indignant with the paradox, "when ye _was_ a wee little lad I wisht ye was growed. An' there you haves it!" says he, dolefully. "There you haves it!... I 'low, Dannie," says he, anxiously, his bottle halted in mid-air, "that _you'd_ best pour it out. I'm a sight too happy, the night," says he, "t' be trusted with a bottle." 'Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to measure his allowance. "Ye're not so wonderful free with the liquor," he pouted, "as ye used t' be." 'Twas Judy who had put me up to it. "Ye might be a _drop_ more free!" my uncle accused. 'Twas reproachful--and hurt me sore. That I should deny my uncle who had never denied me! I blamed the woman. 'Tis marvellous how this frailty persists. That Judith, Twist Tickle born, should deliberately introduce the antagonism--should cause my uncle to suffer, me to regret! 'Twas hard to forgive the maid her indiscretion. I was hurt: for, being a lad, not a maid of subtle perceptions, I would not have my uncle go lacking that which comforted his distress and melancholy. Faith! but I had myself been looking forward with a thirsty gullet to the day--drawn near, as I thought--when I should like a man drink hard liquor with him in the glow of our fire: as, indeed, had he, by frank confession, indiscreetly made when he was grown horrified or wroth with my intemperance with ginger-ale. "God save ye, Dannie!" he would expostulate, most heartily, most piously; "but I _wisht_ ye'd overcome the bilge-water habit." I would ignore him. "'Tis on'y a matter o' _will_," says he. "'Tis nothin' more than that. An' I'm fair ashamed," he groaned, in sincere emotion, "to think ye're shackled, hand an' foot, to a bottle o' ginger-ale. For shame, lad--t' come t' such a pass." He was honest in his expostulation; 'twas no laughing matter--'twas an anxiously grave concern for my welfare. He disapproved of the beverage--having never tasted it. "_You_," cries he, with a pout and puff of scorn, "an' your bilge-water! In irons with a bottle o' ginger-ale! Could ye but see yourself, Dannie, ye'd quit quick enough. 'Tis a ridiculous picture ye make--you an' your bottle. 'Twould not be hard t' give it up, lad," he would plead. "Ye'll manage it, Dannie, an ye'd but put your mind to it. Ye'd be nervous, I've no doubt, for a spell. But what's that? Eh, what's that--ag'in your health?" I would sip my ginger-ale unheeding. "An' what about Chesterfield?" says he. "I'll have another bottle, sir," says I. "Lord love us!" he would complain, in such distress that I wish I had not troubled him with this passion. "Ye're fair bound t' ruin your constitution with drink." Pop went the cork. "An' here's _me_" says he, in disgusted chagrin, "tryin' t' make a gentleman out o' ye!" Ah, well! 'twas now a mean, poor lookout for the cosey conviviality I had all my life promised myself with my uncle. Since the years when late o' nights I occupied the arms and broad knee of Cap'n Jack Large at the Anchor and Chain--with a steaming comfort within and a rainy wind blowing outside--my uncle and I had dwelt upon the time when I might drink hard liquor with him like a man. 'Twould be grand, says my uncle, to sit o' cold nights, when I was got big, with a bottle o' Long Tom between. A man grown--a man grown able for his bottle! For him, I fancy, 'twas a vision of successful achievement and the reward of it. Lord love us! says he, but the talk o' them times would be lovely. The very thought of it, says he--the thought o' Dannie Callaway grown big and manly and helpfully companionable--fair warmed him with delight. But now, at Twist Tickle, with the strong, sly hands of Judith upon our ways, with her grave eyes watching, now commending, now reproaching, 'twas a new future that confronted us. Ay, but that maid, dwelling responsibly with us men, touched us closely with control! 'Twas a sharp eye here, a sly eye there, a word, a twitch of her red lips, a lift of the brow and dark lashes--and a new ordering of our lives. 'Tis marvellous how she did it: but that she managed us into better habits, by the magic mysteriously natural to a maid, I have neither the wish nor the will to gainsay. I grieved that she should deprive my uncle of his comfort; but being a lad, devoted, I would not add one drop to my uncle's glass, while Judith sat under the lamp, red-cheeked in the heat of the fire, her great eyes wishful to approve, her mind most captivatingly engaged, as I knew, with the will of God, which was her own, dear heart! though she did not know it. "Dannie," says she, in private, "God wouldn't 'low un more'n a quarter of a inch at a time." "'Twas in the pantry while I got the bottle." "An' how," quoth I, "is you knowin' that?" "Why, child," she answered, "God tol' me so." I writhed. 'Twas a fancy so strange the maid had: but was yet so true and reverent and usefully efficient--so high in leading to her who led us with her into pure paths--that I must smile and adore her for it. 'Twas to no purpose, as I knew, to thresh over the improbability of the communication: Judith's eyes were round and clear and unwavering--full of most exalted truth, concern, and confidence. There was no pretence anywhere to be descried in their depths: nor evil nor subterfuge of any sort. And it seems to me, now, grown as I am to sager years, that had the Guide whose hand she held upon the rough road of her life communed with His sweet companion, 'twould have been no word of reproach or direction he would whisper for her, who needed none, possessing all the wisdom of virtue, dear heart! but a warning in my uncle's behalf, as she would have it, against the bottle he served. The maid's whimsical fancy is not incomprehensible to me, neither tainted with irreverence nor untruth: 'twas a thing flowering in the eyrie garden of her days at Whisper Cove--a thing, as I cannot doubt, of highest inspiration. "But," I protested, glibly, looking away, most wishful, indeed, to save my uncle pain, "I isn't able t' measure a quarter of a inch." "_I_ could," says she. "Not with the naked eye, maid!" "Well," says she, "you might try, jus' t' please God." To be sure I might: I might pour at a guess. But, unhappily (and it may be that there is some philosophy in this for a self-indulgent world), I was not in awe of Judith's fantastic conception of divinity, whatever I thought of my own, by whom, however, I was not conjured. Moreover, I loved my uncle, who had continued to make me happy all my life, and would venture far in the service of his comfort. The twinkling, benevolent aspect of the maid's Deity could not compel a lad to righteousness: I could with perfect complacency conduct myself perversely before it. And must we then, lads and men, worship a God of wrath, quick to punish, niggardly in fatherly forgiveness, lest we stray into evil ways? I do not know. 'Tis beyond me to guess the change to be worked in the world by a new conception of the eternal attributes. "An' will you not?" says she. It chanced, now, that she held the lamp near her face, so that her beauty was illumined and transfigured. 'Twas a beauty most tender--most pure and elfin and religious. 'Tis a mean, poor justification, I know, to say that I was in some mysterious way--by the magic resident in the beauty of a maid, and virulently, wickedly active within its sphere, which is the space the vision of a lad may carry--that I was by this magic incapacitated and overcome. 'Tis an excuse made by fallen lads since treason was writ of; 'tis a mere excuse, ennobling no traitorious act: since love, to be sure, has no precedence of loyalty in hearts of truth and manful aspiration. Love? surely it walks with glorious modesty in the train of honor--or is a brazen baggage. But, as it unhappily chanced, whatever the academic conception, the maid held the lamp too close for my salvation: so close that her blue, shadowy eyes bewildered me, and her lips, red and moist, with a gleam of white teeth between, I recall, tempted me quite beyond the endurance of self-respect. I slipped, indeed, most sadly in the path, and came a shamefaced, ridiculous cropper. "An' will you not," says she, "pour but a quarter of a inch t' the glass?" "I will," I swore, "for a kiss!" 'Twas an outrageous betrayal of my uncle. "For shame!" cries she. "I will for a kiss," I repeated, my soul offered on a platter to the devil, "regardless o' the consequences." She matched my long words with a great one caught from my tutor. "God isn't inclined," says she, with a toss, "in favor o' kisses." And there you had it! * * * * * When we sat late, our maid-servant would indignantly whisk Judith off to bed--crying out upon us for our wickedness. "Cather," my uncle would drawl, Judith being gone, "ye're all wore out along o' too much study." "Not at all, Skipper Nicholas!" cries my tutor. "Study," says my uncle, in solemn commiseration, "is a bitter thing t' be cotched by. Ye're all wore out, parson, along o' the day's work." My tutor laughed. "Too much study for the brain," says my uncle, sympathetically, his eye on the bottle. "I 'low, parson, if I was you I'd turn in." Cather was unfailingly obedient. "Dannie," says my uncle, with reviving interest, "have he gone above?" "He have," says I. "Take a look," he whispered, "t' see that Judy's stowed away beyond hearin'." I would step into the hall--where was no nightgowned figure listening on the stair--to reassure him. "Dannie," says he, wickedly gleeful, "how's the bottle?" I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. "'Tis still stout, sir," says I. "'Tis a wonderful bottle." "Stout!" cries he, delighted. "Very good." "Still stout," says I; "an' the third night!" "Then," says he, pushing his glass towards me, "I 'low they's no real need o' puttin' me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b'y--be liberal when ye pours." I would be liberal. "'Tis somehow sort o' comfortable, lad," says he, eying me with honest feeling, "t' be sittin' down here with a ol' chum like you. 'Tis very good, indeed." I was glad that he thought so. And now I must tell that I loved Judith. 'Tis enough to say so--to write the bare words down. I'm not wanting to, to be sure: for it shames a man to speak boldly of sacred things like this. It shames a lad, it shames a maid, to expose the heart of either, save sacredly to each other. 'Tis all well enough, and most delightful, when the path is moonlit and secluded, when the warmth and thrill of a slender hand may be felt, when the stars wink tender encouragement from the depths of God's own firmament, when all the world is hushed to make the opportunity: 'tis then all well enough to speak of love. There is nothing, I know, to compare in ecstasy with the whisper and sigh and clinging touch of that time--to compare with the awe and mystery and solemnity of it. But 'tis sacrilegious and most desperately difficult and embarrassing, I find, at this distant day, to write of it. I had thought much upon love, at that wise age--fifteen, it was, I fancy--and it seemed to me, I recall, a thing to cherish within the heart of a man, to hide as a treasure, to dwell upon, alone, in moments of purest exaltation. 'Twas not a thing to bandy about where punts lay tossing in the lap of the sea; 'twas not a thing to tell the green, secretive old hills of Twin Islands; 'twas not a thing to which the doors of the workaday world might be opened, lest the ribaldry to which it come offend and wound it: 'twas a thing to conceal, far and deep, from the common gaze and comment, from the vulgar chances, the laugh and cynical exhaustion and bleared wit of the life we live. I loved Judith--her eyes and tawny hair and slender finger-tips, her whimsical way, her religious, loving soul. I loved her; and I would not have you think 'twas any failure of adoration to pour my uncle an honest dram of rum when she was stowed away in innocency of all the evil under the moon. 'Tis a thing that maids have nothing to do with, thinks I; 'tis a knowledge, indeed, that would defile them.... * * * * * "Dannie," says my uncle, once, when we were left alone, "he've begun t' fall." I was mystified. "The parson," he explained, in a radiant whisper; "he've begun t' yield." "T' what?" I demanded. "Temptation. He've a dark eye, lad, as I 'lowed long ago, an' he've begun t' give way t' argument." "God's sake, Uncle Nick!" I cried, "leave the poor man be. He've done no harm." He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson scar with his forefinger. "No," he mused, his puckered, weathered brow in a doubtful frown; "not so far. But," he added, looking cheerily up, "I've hopes that I'll manage un yet." "Leave un alone," I pleaded. "Ay," says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; "but I _needs_ un." I protested. "Ye don't s'pose, Dannie," he complained, in a righteous flash, "that I'm able t' live forever, does ye?" I did not, but heartily wished he might; and by this sincere expression he was immediately mollified. "Well," says he, his left eyelid drooping in a knowing way, his whole round person, from his topmost bristle to his gouty wooden toe, braced to receive the shock of my congratulation, "I've gone an' worked that there black-an'-white young parson along! Sir Harry hisself," he declared, "couldn't have done it no better. Nor ol' Skipper Chesterfield, neither," says he. 'Twas a pity. "No," he boasted, defiantly; "nor none o' them wise ol' bullies of old!" I sighed. "Dannie," says he, with the air of imparting a grateful secret, "I got that there black-an'-white young parson corrupted. I got un," he repeated, leaning forward, his fantastic countenance alight with pride and satisfaction--"I got un corrupted! I've got un t' say," says he, "that 'tis sometimes wise t' do evil that good may come. An' when a young feller says that," says he, with a grave, grave nodding, so that his disfigurements were all most curiously elongated, "he've sold his poor, mean soul t' the devil." "I wisht," I complained, "that you'd leave the poor man alone." "Why, Dannie," says my uncle, simply, "he's paid for!" "Paid for!" cries I. "Ay, lad," he chided; "t' be sure, that there young black-an'-white parson is paid for." I wondered how that might be. "Paid for!" my uncle repeated, in a quivering, indrawn breath, the man having fallen, all at once, into gloom and terror. "'Tis all paid for!" Here again was the disquieting puzzle of my childish years: my uncle, having now leaned forward to come close to me, was in a spasmodic way indicating the bowels of the earth with a turned thumb. Down, down: it seemed he pointed to infinite depths of space and woe. Down, down--continuing thus, with a slow, grevious wagging of the great, gray head the sea had in the brutal passion of some wild night maltreated. The familiar things of the room, the simple, companionable furniture of that known place, with the geometrically tempestuous ocean framed beyond, were resolved into a background of mysterious shadows as I stared; there was nothing left within the circle of my vision but a scared gargoyle, leaning into the red glow of the fire. My uncle's round little eyes protruded--started from the bristles and purpling scars and brown flesh of his broad face--as many a time before I had in sad bewilderment watched them do. Paid for--all the pride and comfort and strange advantages of my life! All paid for in the black heart of this mystery! And John Cather, too! I wondered again, with an eye upon my uncle's significantly active thumb, having no courage to meet his poignant glance, how that might be. According to my catechism, severely taught in other years, I must ask no questions, but must courteously await enlightenment at my uncle's pleasure; and 'twas most marvellously hard--this night of all the nights--to keep my soul unspotted from the sin of inquisitiveness. "Paid for," my uncle repeated, hoarse with awe, "by poor Tom Callaway!" 'Twas kind in my father, thinks I, to provide thus bounteously for my welfare. "Poor Tom!" my uncle sighed, now recovering his composure. "Poor, poor ol' Tom--in the place he's to!" "Still an' all, Uncle Nick," I blundered, "I wisht you'd leave my tutor be." "Ye're but a child!" he snapped. "Put the stopper in the bottle. 'Tis time you was in bed." 'Twas an unexpected rebuke. I was made angry with him, for the only time in all my life; and to revenge myself I held the bottle to the lamp, and deliberately measured its contents, before his astonished eyes, so that, though I left it with him, he could not drink another drop without my knowing it; and I stoppered the bottle, as tight as I was able, and left him to get his wooden toe from the stool with the least agony he could manage, and would not bank the fire or light his night-lamp. I loved my tutor, and would not have him corrupted; 'twas a hateful thought to conceive that he might come unwittingly to ruin at our hands. 'Twas a shame in my old uncle, thinks I, to fetch him to despair. John Cather's soul bargained for and bought! 'Twas indeed a shame to say it. There was no evil in him when he came clear-eyed from the great world beyond us; there should be no evil in him when he left us, whenever that might be, to renew the life he would not tell us of. I looked my uncle in the eye in a way that hurt and puzzled him. I wish I had not; but I did, as I pounded the cork home, and boldly slipped the screw into my pocket. He would go on short allowance, that night, thinks I: for his nails, broken by toil, would never pick the stopper out. And I prepared, in a rage, to fling out of the room, when-- "Dannie!" he called. I halted. "What's this?" says he, gently. "It never happened afore, little shipmate, betwixt you an' me. What's this?" he begged. "I'm troubled." I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and ill-begotten. "I'm troubled," he repeated. "What's this, lad?" I could not answer him. "Is I been unkind, Dannie?" "No," I sobbed. "'Tis that I've been wicked t' _you_!" He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. "Ah!" says he, presently, comprehending. "That's good," says he, in his slow, gentle way. "That's very good. But ye'll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An' ye've growed too old t' cry. Go t' bed, lad. Ye're all wore out. I'll manage the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t' bed." I waited. "That's good," he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals in the grate. "That's very good." I ran away--closed my door upon this wretched behavior, but could not shut its ghastly sauciness and treachery from the chambers of my memory. The habit of faith and affection was strong: I was no longer concerned for my friend John Cather, but was mightily ashamed of this failure in duty to the grotesque old hook-and-line man who had without reserve of sacrifice or strength nourished me to the lusty years of that night. As I lay in bed, I recall, downcast, self-accusing, flushed with shame, I watched the low clouds scud across the starlit sky, and I perceived, while the torn, wind-harried masses rushed restlessly on below the high, quiet firmament, that I had fallen far away from the serenity my uncle would teach me to preserve in every fortune. "I'll not fail again!" thinks I. "Not I!" 'Twas an experience profitable or unprofitable, as you shall presently judge. XVIII A LEGACY OF LOVE Moses Shoos, I recall, carried the mail that winter. 'Twas a thankless task: a matter of thirty miles to Jimmie Tick's Cove and thirty back again. Miles hard with peril and brutal effort--a way of sleet and slush, of toilsome paths, of a swirling mist of snow, of stinging, perverse winds or frosty calm, of lowering days and the haunted dark o' night--to be accomplished, once a week, afoot and alone, by way of barren and wilderness and treacherous ice. 'Twas a thankless task, indeed; but 'twas a task to which the fool of Twist Tickle addressed himself with peculiar reverence. "Mother," says he, "always 'lowed that a man ought t' serve his Queen: an' mother knowed. 'Moses,' says she, afore she died, 'a good man haves just _got_ t' serve the Queen: for an good men don't,' says she, 'the poor Lady is bound t' come t' grief along o' rascals. Poor, _poor_ Lady!' says she. 'She've a wonderful lot t' put up with along o' stupid folk an' rascals. I'm not knowin' how she bears it an' lives. 'Tis a mean, poor dunderhead, with heart an' brains in his gullet,' says she, 'that wouldn't serve the Queen. God save the Queen!' says mother. 'What's a man worth,' says she, 'that on'y serves hisself?'" Not much, thinks I! "An' mother knowed," says Moses, softly. "Ay, Dannie," he declared, with a proud little grin, "I bet you _mother_ knowed!" 'Twas this exalted ideal of public service, fashioned in the wisdom of the simple by the amazing mother who bore him, that led the fool, as by the hand, from a wilderness of snow and night and bewildered visions, wherein no aspiration of his own shaped itself, to the warm hearth of Twist Tickle and the sleep of a child by night. * * * * * Once I watched him stagger, white and bent with weather and labor, from the ice of Ship's Run, his bag on his back, to the smoking roofs of Twist Tickle, which winter had spread with a snowy blanket and tucked in with anxious hands. 'Twas a bitter day, cold, windy, aswirl with the dust of snow, blinding as a mist. I sat with Judith in the wide, deeply cushioned window-seat of my lib'ry, as my uncle called the comfortable, book-shelved room he had, by advice o' Sir Harry, provided for my youth. John Cather was not about; and I caressed, I recall, the long, slender fingers of her hand, which unfailingly and without hesitation gave themselves to my touch. She would never deny me that, this maid; 'twas only kisses she would hold me from. She would snuggle close and warmly, when John Cather was not about, but would call her God to witness that kisses were prohibited where happiness would continue. "'Tis not _'lowed_, child," says she. Her cheek was so close, so round and soft and delicately tinted, that I touched my lips to it, quite unable to resist. "I don't mind _that_," says she. 'Twas vastly encouraging. "'Twas so brotherly," she added. "Judy," I implored, "I'm in need of another o' that same kind." "No, no!" she cried. "You'd never find the spot!" 'Twas with the maid, then, I sat in the window-seat of my warm room, content with the finger-tips I might touch and kiss as I would, lifted into a mood most holy and aspiring by the weight of her small head upon my shoulder, the bewildering light and mystery of her great, blue eyes, the touch and sweet excitement of her tawny hair, which brushed my cheek, as she well knew, this perverse maid! John Cather was not about, and the maid was yielding, as always in his absence; and I was very happy. 'Twas Moses we observed, all this time, doggedly staggering, upon patriotic duty, from the white, swirling weather of that unkind day, in the Queen's service, his bag on his back. "He've his mother t' guide un," says she. "An' his father?" "'Tis said that he was lost," she answered, "in the Year o' the Big Shore Catch; but I'm knowin' nothin' about that." I remembered the secret Elizabeth would impart to my uncle Nicholas. "_My_ father," says Judith, in challenge, "was a very good man." I was not disposed to deny it. "A very good man," she repeated, eying me sharply for any sign of incredulity. 'Twas her fancy: I might indulge it. "I 'low, Dannie," says she, "that he was a wonderful handsome man, though I never seed un. God's sake!" cries she, defiantly, "he'd be hard t' beat for looks in this here harbor." She was positive; there was no uncertainty--'twas as though she had known him as fathers are known. And 'twas by no wish of mine, now, that our hands came close together, that her eyes were bent without reserve upon my own, that she snuggled up to my great, boyish body: 'twas wholly a wish of the maid. "'Twas blue eyes he had," says she, "an' yellow hair an' big shoulders. He was a parson, Dannie," she proceeded. "I 'low he must have been. He--he--_was_!" she declared; "he was a great, big parson with blue eyes." I would not be a parson, thinks I, whatever the maid might wish. "An' he 'lowed," she continued, pursuing her wilful fancy, "that he'd come back, some day, an' love my mother as she knowed he could." We watched Moses Shoos come across the harbor ice and break open the door of the postmaster's cottage. "But he was wrecked an' drowned," says Judith, "an' 'twas an end of my mother's hope. 'Twas on'y that," says she, "that she would tell Skipper Nicholas on the night she died. 'Twas just the wish that he would bring me up, as he've fetched up you, Dannie," she added: "jus' that--an' the name o' my father. I'm not sorry," says she, with her head on my shoulder, "that she never told the name." Elizabeth carried her secret into the greater mystery to which she passed; 'twas never known to us, nor to any one.... * * * * * "Moses," says I, in delight, when the news got abroad, "I hears you got the contract for the mail?" "I is," says he. "An' how in the name o' Heaven," I demanded, "did you manage so great a thing?" There had been competition, I knew: there had been consideration and consultation--there had been the philosophy of the aged concerning the carrying of mail in past years, the saucy anarchy of the young with regard to the gruelling service, the chatter of wishful women upon the spending value of the return, the speculatively saccharine brooding of children--there had been much sage prophecy and infinitely knowing advice--there had been misleading and secrecy and sly devising--there had been envy, bickering, disruption of friendship--there had been a lavish waste and disregard of character--there had been all this, as I knew, and more pitiable still, in competition for the weekly four dollars of government money. 'Twas a most marvellous achievement, thinks I, that the fool of Twist Tickle had from this still weather of reason and tempest of feeling emerged with the laurel of wisdom (as my tutor said) to crown him. 'Twas fair hard to credit! I must know the device--the clever political trick--by which the wags and wiseacres of Twist Tickle had been discomfited. 'Twas with this hungry curiosity that I demanded of the fool of Twist Tickle how he had managed so great a thing. "Eh, Moses," says I; "how _was_ it?" "Dannie," he gravely explained, "'tis very simple. My bid," says he, impressively, "was the lowest." "An' how much was that, Moses?" "Mother," he observed, "didn't hold a wonderful lot with half measures." 'Twas no answer to my question. "She always 'lowed," says he, with a mystifyingly elaborate wave and accent, "that _doin'_ was better than _gettin'_." I still must wait. "'Moses,' says she," he pursued, "'don't you mind the price o' fish; you _cotch_ un. Fish,' says she, 'is fish; but prices goes up an' down, accordin' t' the folly o' men. You _do_,' says she; 'an' you leave what you _gets_ t' take care of itself.' An' I 'low," says Moses, gently, a smile transfiguring his vacant face, "that mother knowed." 'Twas all, it seemed to me, a defensive argument. "An' mother 'lowed, afore she died," he added, looking up to a gray sky, wherein a menace of snow dwelt, "that a good man would save his Queen from rascals." "Ay," I complained; "but what was the bid that won from Eli Flack?" "The bid?" "Ay; the bid." "Not expensive," says he. "But how much, Moses?" "Well, Dannie," he answered, with a sigh and a rub of his curly, yellow beard, "I 'lowed mother wouldn't charge much for servin' the Queen: for," says he, enlivened, "'twould be too much like common labor t' carry Her Majesty's mail at a price. An' I bid," he added, eying me vaguely, "accordin' t' what I 'lowed mother would have me do in the Queen's service. _Fac' is, Dannie_," says he, in a squall of confidence, "_I 'lowed I'd carry it free!_" * * * * * 'Twas this contact with the world of Jimmie Tick's Cove that embarked the fool upon an adventurous enterprise. When, in the spring of that year, the sea being open, the _Quick as Wink_ made our harbor, the first of all the traders, Tumm, the clerk, was short-handed for a cook, having lost young Billy Rudd overboard, in a great sea, beating up in stress of weather to the impoverished settlement at Diamond Run. 'Twas Moses, the choice of necessity, he shipped in the berth of that merry, tow-headed lad of tender voice, whose songs, poor boy! would never again be lifted, o' black nights in harbor, in the forecastle of the _Quick as Wink_. "Ay, Dannie," says Moses, "you'd never think it, maybe, but I'm shipped along o' Tumm for the French shore an' the Labrador ports. I've heared tell a wonderful lot about Mother Burke, but I've never seed the ol' rock; an' I've heared tell a wonderful lot about Coachman's Cove an' Conch an' Lancy Loop an' the harbors o' the straits shores, but I've never seed un with my own eyes, an' I'm sort o' wantin' t' know how they shapes up alongside o' Twist Tickle. I 'low," says he, "you don't find many harbors in the world like Twist Tickle. Since I been travellin' t' Jimmie Tick's Cove with the mail," he continued, with a stammer and flush, like a man misled from an austere path by the flesh-pots of earth, "I've cotched a sinful hankerin' t' see the world." I wished he had not. "But mother," he added, quickly, in self-defence, "always 'lowed a man _ought_ t' see the world. So," says he, "I'm shipped along o' Tumm, for better or for worse, an' I'm bound down north in the _Quick as Wink_ with the spring supplies." 'Twas a far journey for that sensitive soul. "Dannie," he asked, in quick alarm, a fear so sudden and unexpected that I was persuaded of the propriety of my premonition, "what you thinkin' about? Eh, Dannie?" he cried. "What you lookin' that way for?" I would not tell him that I knew the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_, whose butt the fool must be. "You isn't 'lowin'," Moses began, "that mother--" "Not at all, Moses!" says I. 'Twas instant and complete relief he got from this denial. "We sails," says he, with all a traveller's importance, "at dawn o' to-morrow. I'll be gone from Twist Tickle by break o' day. I'll be gone t' new places--t' harbors I've heared tell of but never seed with my own eyes. I'm not quite knowin'," says he, doubtfully, "how I'll get along with the cookin'. Mother always 'lowed," he continued, with a greater measure of hope, "that I was more'n fair on cookin' a cup o' tea. 'Moses,' says she, 'you can brew a cup o' tea so well as any fool I ever knowed.' But that was on'y mother," he added, in modest self-deprecation. "Jus' mother." I wished again that the fool had not fallen into the mercilessly facetious company of Skipper Saucy Bill North of the schooner _Quick as Wink_. "An', Dannie," says Moses, "I'm scared I'll fail with all but the tea." 'Twas come near the evening of that mellow Sunday. On the Whisper Cove road and the greening hills of Twin Islands, where Moses and I had walked in simple companionship, the birds had been mating and nesting in the thick sunshine of the afternoon. Chirp and flutter and shrill song! 'Twas a time for the mating of birds. The haste and noise and pomposity of this busy love-making! The loud triumph and soft complaint of it! All the world of spruce and alder and sunlit spaces had been a-flutter. But the weather was now fallen gloomy, the sky overcast, the wind blowing in from the black, uneasy sea, where floes and gigantic bergs of ice drifted, like frozen ghosts, cold and dead and aimlessly driven; and the hopeful sunshine had left the hills, and the piping and chirping were stilled, and I heard no more fluttering wings or tender love-songs. The fool of Twist Tickle paused in the road to stare vacantly northward. 'Twas there dark with menacing clouds--thick, sombre clouds, tinged with a warning blue, rising implacably above the roughening black of the sea. He wondered, it may be, in his dull, weakling way, concerning the coasts beyond the grave curtain, which he must discover--new coasts, dealing with us variously, as we disclose them to our hearts. I watched him with misgiving. To be sure, the skipper of the _Quick as Wink_ was an unkind man, cynical and quick to seek selfish laughter, whatever the wound he dealt; but Tumm, our friend and the genial friend of all the world, thinks I, more hopefully, would not have the poor fool wronged. "Dannie," says Moses, turning, "I'm scared my cookin' won't quite fit the stomachs o' the crew o' the _Quick as Wink_." "Ay, Moses," says I, to hearten him; "but never a good man was that didn't fear a new task." He eyed me doubtfully. "An'," I began, "your mother, Moses--" "But," he interrupted, "mother wasn't quite t' be trusted in all things." "Not trusted!" I cried. "You'll not misunderstand me, Dannie?" he besought me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You'll not misunderstand, will you? But mother wasn't quite t' be trusted," says he, "when it come t' the discussion," says he, pausing to permit a proper appreciation of the learned word, which he had appropriated from my tutor's vocabulary, "o' my accomplishments." It had never occurred before. "For mother," he explained, "was somehow wonderful fond o' me." The church-bell called him. "Hear her voice, Dannie?" said he. "Hear her voice in that there bell? 'Come--dear!' says she. 'Come--dear! Come--dear!' Hear it ring out? 'Come--dear! Come--dear! Come--dear!'" I bade him God-speed with a heart that misgave me. "I'll answer," said he, his face lifted to the sky, "to that voice!" * * * * * The clouds in the west broke, and through the rift a shaft of sunlight shot, glad to be free, and touched our world of sea and rock with loving finger-tips, but failed, as I turned homeward, hearing no voice of my unknown mother in the wandering call of the bell; and all the world went gray and sullenly mute, as it had been.... XIX A WORD OF WARNING Presently my uncle and I made ready to set out for St. John's upon the sinister business which twice a year engaged his evil talents at the wee waterside place wherein he was the sauciest dog in the pack. There was now no wandering upon the emotionless old hills of Twin Islands to prepare him, no departure from the fishing, no unseemly turning to the bottle, to factitious rage; but he brooded more despairingly in his chair by the window when the flare of western glory left the world. At evening, when he thought me gone upon my pleasure, I watched him from the shadows of the hall, grave with youth, wishing, all the while, that he might greet the night with gratitude for the mercy of it; and I listened to his muttering--and I saw that he was grown old and weak with age: unequal, it might be, to the wickedness he would command in my service. "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire._" For me 'twas still sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear the sea's melodious whispering; but to him the sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. I wished that he would forsake the evil he followed for my sake. I would be a club-footed, paddle-punt fisherman, as the gray little man from St. John's had said, and be content with that fortune, could my uncle but look into the eyes of night without misgiving. But I must not tell him so.... * * * * * We left John Cather behind. "Uncle Nick," says I, "I 'low we'd best have un along." "An' why?" cries he. "I don't know," says I, honestly puzzled. He looked at me quizzically. "Is you sure?" he asked. His eyes twinkled. "Is you sure you doesn't know?" "I don't know," I answered, frowning. "I don't know at all." "Dannie," says he, significantly, "'tisn't time yet for John Cather t' go t' St. John's. You got t' take your chance." "What chance?" I demanded. "I don't know," says he. I scowled. "But," says he, "an I was you I wouldn't fear on no account whatever. No," he repeated, "_I_ wouldn't fear--an I was you." So John Cather was left with Judy and the watchful maid-servant who loved her, having no child of her own, when my uncle and I fared out of the tickle upon the outside boat. I was troubled in the dark and wash and heave of that night, but could not for the life of me tell why. John Cather had bade me good-bye with a heartening laugh and clap on the shoulder. 'Twas with gratitude--and sure persuasion of unworthiness--that I remembered his affection. And Judy had given me a sisterly kiss of farewell which yet lingered upon my lips so warmly that in my perplexity I was conscious of it lying there and must like a thirsty man feel the place her moist mouth had touched. 'Twas grief, thinks I, because of parting with my friend John Cather; and I puzzled no longer, but devoted myself to the accomplishment of manners, as I had been taught, and now attended with interest, having grown old and wise. 'Twas rainy weather, windy, with the sea in an ugly pother off the rocks of our hard coast. 'Twas wet, blustering weather, indeed, all the hapless time we were gone from Twist Tickle: the tap-rooms of St. John's, I recall, disagreeably steamed and reeked. My uncle put me to bed that night with a motherly injunction to recite the twenty-third psalm for safety against the perils of the sea and the machinations of wicked men, and to regard the precepts of the noble Lord Chesterfield for guidance in more difficult waters: the man being quite sober for the first time in all my life upon these occasions of departure. "Dannie, lad," says he, "you cling t' that there little anchor I'm give ye t' hold to." I asked him mechanically what that was. "The twenty-third psa'm," says he. To this I promised. "An', Dannie," says he, drawing the great bandanna handkerchief from his trousers-pocket to blow his nose, "don't ye be gettin' lonely: for Dannie--" I must sharply attend. "I'm for'ard," he declared, "standin' by!" He could not perceive, poor man! that I was no longer to be dealt with as a child. * * * * * There befell me in the city a singular encounter. 'Twas of a soggy, dismal day: there was a searching wind abroad, I recall, to chill the marrow of impoverished folk, a gray light upon all the slimy world, a dispiriting fog flowing endlessly in scowling clouds over the hills to thicken and eddy and drip upon the streets and harbor. It being now at the crisis of my uncle's intoxication, I was come from my hotel alone, wandering without aim, to speed the anxious hours. Abreast of the familiar door of the Anchor and Chain, where long ago I had gratefully drunk with Cap'n Jack Large, I paused; and I wondered, as I stared at the worn brass knob, now broken into beads of cold sweat with the weather, whether or not I might venture some persuasion upon my perverse uncle, but was all at once plucked by the tail of my coat, and turned in a rage to resent the impudence. 'Twas but a scrawny, brass-buttoned boy, however, with an errand for the lad with the rings, as they called me. I followed, to be sure, and was by this ill-nourished messenger led to the crossing of King Street with Water, where my uncle was used to tap-tapping the pavement. Thence in a moment we ascended to a group of office-rooms, on the opposite side of the street, wherein, having been ceremoniously ushered, I found the gray stranger who had called me a club-footed, ill-begotten young whelp, on that windy night at Twist Tickle, and had with meaning complacency threatened my uncle's assassination. I had not expected it. "Ha!" snaps he. "Here you are, eh?" To my amazement. "You know me?" he demanded. I did not know his quality, which seemed, however, by the state he dwelt in, by the deference he commanded from the scrawny, brass-buttoned, ill-nourished, tragically obsequious child who had fetched me, to be of distinction. "Sit down," he bade me. I would not. "Well, well!" cries he. "You've manners as brief as your memory." 'Twas a vivid recollection that had shorn my manner to the bare. My uncle had not been quick enough to sweep the lamp from the table: I remembered this man. 'Twas he who had of that windy night most cruelly damned me; 'twas he who had struck my uncle. "I've not forgot you, sir," says I. He was gray: he was indeed most incredibly gray--gray of hair and eye and brow and flesh, gray of mood and outlook upon the world, forever dwelling, as it seemed, in a gray fog of suspicion and irascibility. I was gone over, from pate to shrinking club-foot, with more intimate and intelligently curious observation than ever a 'longshore jack or coast-wise skipper had achieved in the years when I wore rings. Never before had I suffered a stare more keen and unabashed: 'twas an assurance stripped of insolence by some tragical need and right. He sat beyond a broad, littered table, leaning forward upon it, his back to the riley light, his drawn face nestled within the lean, white hands of him; and 'twas now a brooding inspection I must bear--an unself-conscious thing, remote from my feeling, proceeding from eyes as gray as winter through narrow slits that rapidly snapped shut and flashed open in spasmodic winking. He was a man of fashion, of authority, of large affairs, it seemed--a gentleman, according to my uncle's code and fashion-plates. But he was now by my presence so wretchedly detached from the great world he moved in that for a moment I was stirred to pity him. What had this masterful little man, thinks I, to fear from Dannie Callaway of Twist Tickle? Enough, as it turned out; but 'twas all an unhappy mystery to me on that drear, clammy day. "Come, sir!" says I, in anger. "You've fetched me here?" He seemed not to hear. "What you wantin' of me?" I brusquely asked. "Yes," says he, sighing; "you are here, aren't you?" He fingered the papers on his table in a way so desultory and weak that once more I was moved to pity him. Then, with blank eyes, and hopelessly hanging lip, a lean finger still continuing to rustle the forgotten documents, he looked out of the window, where 'twas all murky and dismal, harbor and rocky hill beyond obliterated by the dispiriting fog. "I wish to warn you," he continued. "You think, perhaps," he demanded, looking sharply into my eyes, "that you are kin of mine?" I had no such dreadful fear, and, being an unkind lad, frankly told him. "You dream," he pursued, "that you were born to some station?" I would not have him know. "Daniel," says he, with a faint twinkle of amusement and pity, "tell me of that wretched dream." 'Twas a romantic hope that had lingered with me despite my wish to have it begone: but I would not tell this man. I had fancied, as what lad would not? but with no actual longing, because of love for Judith, that the ultimate revelation would lift me high in the world. But now, in the presence of this gray personage, under his twinkle and pitying grin, the fancy forever vanished from me. 'Twas comforting to know, at any rate, that I might wed Judith without outrage. There would be small difficulty, then, thinks I, in winning the maid; and 'twas most gratifying to know it. "Daniel," says he, in distress, "has that rascally Top misled you to this ridiculously romantic conclusion?" "No, sir," I answered. "You are the son," he declared, with thin-lipped deliberation, by which I was persuaded and sorely chagrined, "of Tom Callaway, who was lost, with all hands but the chiefest rascal it has been my lot to encounter, in the wreck of the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_. Tom Callaway, master: he was your father. Your mother," he continued, "was a St. John's water-side maid--a sweet and lovely wife, who died when you were born. I was myself not indifferent to her most pure and tender charms. There is your pedigree," says he, his voice fallen kind. "No mystery, you see--no romance. Tom Callaway, master: he was your father. This man Top," he snapped, "this vulgar, drunken, villanous fellow, into whose hands you have unhappily fallen and by whose mad fancies you will inevitably be ruined, is the sole survivor of the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_, with which your father very properly went down. He is nothing to you--nothing--neither kith nor kin! He is an intruder upon you: he has no natural right to your affection; nor have you a natural obligation to regard him. He has most viciously corrupted you into the fantastic notion that you are of gentle and fortunate birth. With what heart, in God's name!" the gray man cried, clapping his lean hands in a passion, "he will face you when he must disclose the truth, I cannot conceive. Mad! The man is stark mad: for tell you he must, though he has in every way since your childhood fostered within you a sense of honor that will break in contempt upon him! Your attitude, I warn you, will work wretchedness to you both; you will accuse and flout him. Daniel," the man solemnly asked, "do you believe me?" I was glad to know that my mother had been both sweet and lovely. 'Twas a conception I had long cherished. 'Twas what Judith was--both sweet and lovely. "You will accuse him, I warn you!" he repeated. Still gray weather, I observed through the grimy panes: fog sweeping by with a northeast wind. For a moment I watched the dripping passengers on the opposite pavement. "Well," says the gray stranger, with a harsh little laugh, "God help Top when the tale is told!" I should never, of course, treat my uncle with unkindness. "My boy," he most earnestly besought me, "will you not heed me?" "I'll hear you, sir," I answered. "Attend, then," says he. "I have brought you here to warn you, and my warning is but half spoken. Frankly, in this I have no concern for your happiness, with which I have nothing to do: I have been moved to this ungrateful and most dangerous interview by a purely selfish regard for my own career. Do you know the word? A political career of some slight importance," he added, with a toss of the head, "which is now menaced, at a most critical moment, by that merciless, wicked old pirate whom you have shamelessly been deceived into calling your uncle Nicholas. To be frank with you, you are, and have been for several years, an obstacle. My warning, however, as you will believe, is advanced upon grounds advantageous to yourself. Put the illusions of this designing old bay-noddie away from you," says he, now accentuating his earnestness with a lean, white forefinger. "Rid yourself of these rings and unsuitable garments: they disgrace you. When the means of their possession is disclosed to you--when the wretched crime of it is made known--you will suffer such humiliation as you did not dream a man could feel. Put 'em away. Put 'em out of sight and mind. Send that young man from London back to the business he came from. A tutor! Your tutor! Tom Callaway's son with an English tutor! You are being made a ghastly fool of; and I warn you that you will pay for every moment of the illusion. Poor lad!" cries he, in genuine distress. "Poor lad!" It might be: I had long thought so. "And as for this grand tour abroad," he began, with an insolently curling lip, "why, for God's sake! don't be a--" "Sir!" I interrupted, in a rage. There had been talk of a trip abroad: it seemed I was bound upon it, by advice of Sir Harry, to further my education and to cure my foot of its twist. "Well," the gray personage laughed, "being what you are, remembering what I have with candor and exact honesty told you, if you can permit this old pirate--" I stopped him. I would have no more of it--not I, by Heaven! "This extortionate old--" "I'll not hear it!" I roared. "In this fine faith," sneers he, "I find at least the gratifying prospect of being some day privileged to observe Top broil as on a griddle in hell." 'Twas most obscure. "I refer," says he, "to the moment of grand climax when this pirate tells you where your diamonds came from. Your diamonds?" he flashed. "You may get quit of your diamonds; but the fine gentleman this low villain has fashioned of a fishing-skipper's whelp will all your days keep company at your elbow. And you won't love Top for this," says he, with malevolent satisfaction; "you won't love Top!" I walked to the window for relief from him. 'Twas all very well that he should discredit and damn my uncle in this way; 'twas all very well that he should raise spectres of unhappiness before me: but there, on the opposite pavement, abroad in the foggy wind, jostled by ill-tempered passengers, was this self-same old foster-father of mine, industriously tap-tapping the pavement with his staff, as he had periodically done, whatever the weather, since I could remember the years of my life. I listened to the angry tapping, watched the urchins and curious folk gather for the show; and I was moved to regard the mystifying spectacle with an indulgent grin. The gray stranger, however, at that instant got ear of the patter of the staff and the clamor of derision. He cried upon me sharply to stand from the window; but I misliked this harsh manner of authority, and would not budge: whereupon he sprang upon me, caught me about the middle, and violently flung me back. 'Twas too late to avert the catastrophe: my uncle had observed me, and was even then bound across the street, flying all sail, to the terrified confusion of the exalted political personage whose career he menaced. 'Twas a pitiable spectacle of fright and helpless uncertainty the man furnished, seeming at one moment bent on keeping my uncle out, whom he feared to admit, at another to wish him well in, whom he dared not exclude. "The man's stark mad!" he would repeat, in his panic of gesture and pacing. "The man's stark mad to risk this!" My uncle softly closed the door behind him. "Ah, Dannie!" says he. "You here?" He was breathless, and gone a ghastly color; there was that about his scars and eyes, too, to make me wonder whether 'twas rage or fear had mastered him: I could not tell, but mightily wished to determine, since it seemed that some encounter impended. "Ye're an unkind man," says he, in a passionless way, to the gray stranger, who was now once more seated at his desk, fingering the litter of documents. "Ye've broke your word t' me. I must punish ye for the evil ye've done this lad. I'll not ask ye what ye've told un till I haves my way with ye; but then," he declared, his voice betraying a tremor of indignation, "I'll have the talk out o' ye, word for word!" The gray stranger was agitated, but would not look up from his aimlessly wandering hand to meet my uncle's lowering, reproachful eyes. "Dannie," says my uncle, continuing in gentle speech, "pass the cushion from the big chair. Thank 'e, lad. I'm not wantin' the man t' hurt his head." He cast the cushion to the floor. "Now, sir," says he, gently, "an ye'll be good enough t' step within five-foot-ten o' that there red cushion, I'll knock ye down an' have it over with." The man looked sullenly out of the window. "Five-foot-ten, sir," my uncle repeated, with some cheerfulness. "Top," was the vicious response, "you invite assassination." My uncle put his hand on my shoulder. "'Tis not fit for ye t' see, lad," says he. "Ye'd best be off t' the fresh air. 'Tis so wonderful stuffy here that ye'll be growin' pale an ye don't look out. An' I'm not wantin' ye t' see me knock a man down," he repeated, with feeling. "I'm not wantin' ye even t' _think_ that I'd do an unkind thing like that." I moved to go. "Now, sir!" cries my uncle to the stranger. As I closed the door behind me the man was passing with snarling lips to the precise spot my uncle had indicated.... XX NO APOLOGY My uncle knocked on my door at the hotel and, without waiting to be bidden, thrust in his great, red, bristling, monstrously scarred head. 'Twas an intrusion most diffident and fearful: he was like a mischievous boy come for chastisement. "You here, Dannie?" he gently inquired. "Come in, sir," says I. 'Twas awkwardly--with a bashful grin and halting, doubtful step--that he stumped in. "Comfortable?" he asked, looking about. "No complaint t' make ag'in this here hotel?" I had no complaint. "Not troubled, is you?" I was not troubled. "Isn't bothered, is you?" he pursued, with an inviting wink. "Not bothered about nothin', lad, is you?" Nor bothered. "Come now!" cries he, dissembling great candor and heartiness, "is you got any questions t' ask ol' Nick Top?" "No, sir," I answered, quite confidently. "Dannie, lad," says my uncle, unable to contain his delight, with which, indeed, his little eyes brimmed over, "an ye'd jus' be so damned good as t' tweak that there--" I pulled the bell-cord. "A nip o' the best Jamaica," says he. Old Elihu Wall fetched the red dram. "Lad," says my uncle, his glass aloft, his eyes resting upon me in pride, his voice athrill with passionate conviction, "here's t' _you_! That's good o' you," says he. "That's very good. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Ecod!" he swore, with most reverent and gentle intention, "ye'll be a gentleman afore ye knows it!" He downed the liquor with a grin that came over his lurid countenance like a burst of low sunshine. "A gentleman," he repeated, "in spite o' Chesterfield!" When my uncle was gone, I commanded my reflections elsewhere, prohibited by honor from dwelling upon the wretched mystery in which I was enmeshed. They ran with me to the fool of Twist Tickle. The weather had turned foul: 'twas blowing up from the north in a way to make housed folk shiver for their fellows at sea. Evil sailing on the Labrador! I wondered how the gentle weakling fared as cook of the _Quick as Wink_. I wondered in what harbor he lay, in the blustering night, or off what coast he tossed. I wondered what trouble he had within his heart. I wished him home again: but yet remembered, with some rising of hope, that his amazing legacy of wisdom had in all things been sufficient to his need. Had he not in peace and usefulness walked the paths of the world where wiser folk had gone with bleeding feet? 'Twas dwelling gratefully upon this miracle of wisdom and love, a fool's inheritance, that I, who had no riches of that kind, fell asleep, without envy or perturbation, that night. * * * * * 'Twas not long I had to wait to discover the fortune of the fool upon that voyage. We were not three days returned from the city when the _Quick as Wink_ slipped into our harbor. She had been beating up all afternoon; 'twas late of a dark night when she dropped anchor. John Cather was turned in, Judith long ago whisked off to bed by our maid-servant; my uncle and I sat alone together when the rattle of the chain apprised us that the schooner was in the shelter of the Lost Soul. By-and-by Moses came. "You've been long on the road," says I. "Well, Dannie," he explained, looking at his cap, which he was awkwardly twirling, "I sort o' fell in with Parson Stump by the way, an' stopped for a bit of a gossip." I begged him to sit with us. "No," says he; "but I'm 'bliged t' you. Fac' is, Dannie," says he, gravely, "I isn't got time." My uncle was amazed. "I've quit the ship," Moses went on, "not bein' much of a hand at cookin'. I'll be t' home now," says he, "an' I'd be glad t' have you an' Skipper Nicholas drop in, some day soon, when you're passin' Whisper Cove." We watched him twirl his cap. "You'd find a wonderful warm welcome," says he, "from Mrs. Moses Shoos!" With that he was gone. XXI FOOL'S FORTUNE "Close the door, Dannie," says Tumm, in the little cabin of the _Quick as Wink_, late that night, when the goods were put to rights, and the bottle was on the counter, and the schooner was nodding sleepily in the spent waves from the open sea. "This here yarn o' the weddin' o' Moses Shoos is not good for everybody t' hear." He filled the glasses--chuckling all the time deep in his chest. "We was reachin' up t' Whoopin' Harbor," he began, being a great hand at a story, "t' give the _Quick as Wink_ a night's lodgin', it bein' a wonderful windish night; clear enough, the moon sailin' a cloudy sky, but with a bank o' fog sneakin' round Cape Muggy like a fish-thief. An' we wasn't in no haste, anyhow, t' make Sinners' Tickle, for we was the first trader down this season, an' 'twas pick an' choose for we, with a clean bill t' every harbor from Starvation Cove t' the Settin' Hen. So the skipper he says we'll hang the ol' girl up t' Whoopin' Harbor 'til dawn; an' we'll all have a watch below, says he, with a cup o' tea, says he, if the cook can bile the water 'ithout burnin' it. Now, look you! Saucy Bill North is wonderful fond of his little joke; an' 'twas this here habit o' burnin' the water he'd pitched on t' plague the poor cook with, since we put out o' Twist Tickle on the v'y'ge down. "'Cook, you dunderhead!' says the skipper, with a wink t' the crew, which I was sorry t' see, 'you been an' scarched the water agin.' "Shoos he looked like he'd give up for good on the spot--just like he _knowed_ he was a fool, an' _had_ knowed it for a long, long time--sort o' like he was sorry for we an' sick of hisself. "'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you went an' done it agin. Yes, you did! Don't you go denyin' of it. You'll kill us, cook,' says he, 'if you goes on like this. They isn't nothin' worse for the system,' says he, 'than this here burned water. The almanacs,' says he, shakin' his finger at the poor cook, ''ll tell you _that!_' "'I 'low I did burn that water, skipper,' says the cook, 'if you says so. But I isn't got all my wits,' says he; 'an' God knows I'm doin' my best!' "'I always did allow, cook,' says the skipper, 'that God knowed more'n I ever thunk.' "'An' I never _did_ burn no water,' says the cook, 'afore I shipped along o' you in this here ol' flour-sieve of a _Quick as Wink._' "'This here _what?_' snaps the skipper. "'This here ol' basket,' says the cook. "'Basket!' says the skipper. Then he hummed a bit o' 'Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' 'ithout thinkin' much about the toon. 'Cook,' says he 'I loves you. You is on'y a half-witted chance-child,' says he, 'but I loves you like a brother.' "'Does you, skipper?' says the cook, with a nice, soft little smile, like the poor fool he was. 'I isn't by no means hatin' you, skipper,' says he. 'But I can't _help_ burnin' the water,' says he, 'an' I 'low it fair hurts me t' get blame for it. I'm sorry for you an' the crew,' says he, 'an' I wisht I hadn't took the berth. But when I shipped along o' you,' says he, 'I 'lowed I _could_ cook, for mother always told me so, an' I 'lowed she knowed. I'm doin' my best, anyhow, accordin' t' how she'd have me do, an' I 'low if the water gets scarched,' says he, 'the galley fire's bewitched.' "'Basket!' says the skipper. 'Ay, ay, cook,' says he. 'I just _loves_ you.' "They wasn't a man o' the crew liked t' hear the skipper say that; for, look you! the skipper doesn't know nothin' about feelin's, an' the cook has more feelin's 'n a fool can make handy use of aboard a tradin' craft. There sits the ol' man, smoothin' his big, red beard, singin' 'I'm Fishin' for the Maid I Loves,' while he looks at poor Moses Shoos, which was washin' up the dishes, for we was through with the mug-up. An' the devil was in his eyes--the devil was fair grinnin' in them little blue eyes. Lord! it made me sad t' see it, for I knowed the cook was in for bad weather, an' he isn't no sort o' craft t' be out o' harbor in a gale o' wind like that. "'Cook,' says the skipper. "'Ay, sir?' says the cook. "'Cook,' says the skipper, 'you ought t' get married.' "'I on'y wisht I could,' says the cook. "'You ought t' try, cook,' says the skipper, 'for the sake o' the crew. We'll all die,' says he, 'afore we sights ol' Bully Dick agin,' says he, 'if you keeps on burnin' the water. You _got_ t' get married, cook, t' the first likely maid you sees on the Labrador,' says he, 't' save the crew. She'd do the cookin' for you. It'll be the loss o' all hands,' says he, 'an you don't. This here burned water,' says he, 'will be the end of us, cook, an you keeps it up.' "'I'd be wonderful glad t' 'blige you, skipper,' says the cook, 'an' I'd like t' 'blige all hands. 'Twon't be by my wish,' says he, 'that anybody'll die o' the grub they gets, for mother wouldn't like it.' "'Cook,' says the skipper, 'shake! I knows a _man,_' says he, 'when I sees one. Any man,' says he, 'that would put on the irons o' matrimony,' says he, 't' 'blige a shipmate,' says he, 'is a better man 'n me, an' I loves un like a brother.' "The cook was cheered up considerable. "'Cook,' says the skipper, 'I 'pologize. Yes, I do, cook,' says he, 'I 'pologize.' "'I isn't got no feelin' ag'in' matrimony,' says the cook. 'But I isn't able t' get took. I been tryin' every maid t' Twist Tickle,' says he, 'an' they isn't one,' says he, 'will wed a fool.' "'Not _one_ maid t' wed a fool!' says the skipper. "'Nar a one,' says the cook. "'I'm s'prised,' says the skipper. "'Nar a maid t' Twist Tickle,' says the cook, 'will wed a fool, an' I 'low they isn't one,' says he, 'on the Labrador.' "'It's been done afore, cook,' says the skipper, 'an' I 'low 'twill be done agin, if the world don't come to an end t' oncet. Cook,' says he, 'I _knows_ the maid t' do it.' "'I'd be wonderful glad t' find _she_,' says the cook. 'Mother,' says he, 'always 'lowed a man didn't ought t' live alone.' "'Ay, b'y,' says the skipper, 'I got the girl for _you_. An' she isn't a thousand miles,' says he, 'from where that ol' basket of a _Quick as Wink_ lies at anchor,' says he, 'in Whoopin' Harbor. She isn't what you'd call handsome an' tell no lie,' says he, 'but--' "'Never you mind about that, skipper,' says the cook. "'No,' says the skipper, 'she isn't handsome, as handsome goes, even in these parts, but--' "'Never you mind, skipper,' says the cook: 'for mother always 'lowed that looks come off in the first washin'.' "'I 'low that Liz Jones would take you, cook,' says the skipper. 'You ain't much on wits, but you got a good-lookin' figure-head; an' I 'low she'd be more'n willin' t' skipper a craft like you. You better go ashore, cook, when you gets cleaned up, an' see what she says. Tumm,' says he, 'is sort o' shipmates with Liz,' says he, 'an' I 'low he'll see you through the worst of it.' "'Will you, Tumm?' says the cook. "'Well,' says I, 'I'll see.' "I knowed Liz Jones from the time I fished Whoopin' Harbor with Skipper Bill Topsail in the _Love the Wind_, bein' cotched by the measles thereabouts, which she nursed me through; an' I 'lowed she _would_ wed the cook if he asked her, so, thinks I, I'll go ashore with the fool t' see that she don't. No; she isn't handsome--not Liz. I'm wonderful fond o' yarnin' o' good-lookin' maids, as you knows, Skipper Nicholas, sir; but I can't say much o' Liz: for Liz is so far t' l'eward o' beauty that many a time, lyin' sick there in the fo'c's'le o' the _Love the Wind_, I wished the poor girl would turn inside out, for, thinks I, the pattern might be a sight better on the other side. I _will_ say she is big and well-muscled; an' muscles, t' my mind, counts enough t' make up for black eyes, but not for cross-eyes, much less for fuzzy whiskers. It ain't in my heart t' make sport o' Liz; but I _will_ say she has a bad foot, for she was born in a gale, I'm told, when the _Preacher_ was hangin' on off a lee shore 'long about Cape Harrigan, an' the sea was raisin' the devil. An', well--I hates t' say it, but--well, they call her 'Walrus Liz.' No; she isn't handsome, she haven't got no good looks; but once you gets a look into whichever one o' them cross-eyes you is able to cotch, you see a deal more'n your own face; an' she _is_ well-muscled, an' I 'low I'm goin' t' tell you so, for I wants t' name her good p'ints so well as her bad. Whatever-- "'Cook,' says I, 'I'll go along o' you.' "With that Moses Shoos fell to on the dishes, an' 'twasn't long afore he was ready to clean hisself; which done, he was ready for the courtin'. But first he got out his dunny-bag, an' he fished in there 'til he pulled out a blue stockin', tied in a hard knot; an' from the toe o' that there blue stockin' he took a brass ring. 'I 'low,' says he, talkin' to hisself, in the half-witted way he has, 'it won't do no hurt t' give her mother's ring. "Moses," says mother, "you better take the ring off my finger. It isn't no weddin'-ring," says she, "for I never was what you might call wed by a real parson in the fashionable way, but on'y accordin' t' the customs o' the land," says she, "an' I got it from the Jew t' make believe I was wed in the way they does it in these days; for it didn't do nobody no hurt, an' it sort o' pleased me. You better take it, Moses, b'y," says she, "for the dirt o' the grave would only spile it," says she, "an' I'm not wantin' it no more. Don't wear it at the fishin', dear," says she, "for the fishin' is wonderful hard," says she, "an' joolery don't stand much wear an' tear." 'Oh, mother!' says the cook, 'I done what you wanted!' Then the poor fool sighed an' looked up at the skipper. 'I 'low, skipper,' says he, ''twouldn't do no hurt t' give the ring to a man's wife, would it? For mother wouldn't mind, would she?' "The skipper didn't answer that. "'Come, cook,' says I, 'leave us get under way,' for I couldn't stand it no longer. "So the cook an' me put out in the punt t' land at Whoopin' Harbor, with the crew wishin' the poor cook well with their lips, but thinkin', God knows what! in their hearts. An' he was in a wonderful state o' fright. I never _seed_ a man so took by scare afore. For, look you! poor Moses thinks she might have un. 'I never had half a chance afore,' says he. 'They've all declined in a wonderful regular way. But now,' says he, 'I 'low I'll be took. I jus' _feels_ that way; an', Tumm, I--I--I'm scared!' I cheered un up so well as I could; an' by-an'-by we was on the path t' Liz Jones's house, up on Gray Hill, where she lived alone, her mother bein' dead an' her father shipped on a bark from St. John's t' the West Indies. An' we found Liz sittin' on a rock at the turn o' the road, lookin' down from the hill at the _Quick as Wink_; all alone--sittin' there in the moonlight, all alone--thinkin' o' God knows what! "'Hello, Liz!' says I. "'Hello, Tumm!' says she. 'What vethel'th that?' "'That's the _Quick as Wink_, Liz,' says I. 'An' here's the cook o' that there craft,' says I, 'come up the hill t' speak t' you.' "'That's right,' says the cook. 'Tumm, you're right.' "'T' thpeak t' _me_!' says she. "I wisht she hadn't spoke quite that way. Lord! it wasn't nice. It makes a man feel bad t' see a woman put her hand on her heart for a little thing like that. "'Ay, Liz,' says I, 't' speak t' you. An' I'm thinkin', Liz,' says I, 'he'll say things no man ever said afore--t' you.' "'That's right, Tumm,' says the cook. 'I wants t' speak as man t' man,' says he, 't' stand by what I says,' says he, 'accordin' as mother would have me do!' "Liz got off the rock. Then she begun t' kick at the path; an' she was lookin' down, but I 'lowed she had an eye on Moses all the time. 'For,' thinks I, 'she's sensed the thing out, like all the women.' "'I'm thinkin',' says I, 'I'll go up the road a bit.' "'Oh no, you won't, Tumm,' says she. 'You thtay right here. Whath the cook wantin' o' me?' "'Well,' says the cook, 'I 'low I wants t' get married.' "'T' get married!' says she. "'T' get married,' says the cook, 'accordin' as mother would have me; an' I 'low you'll do.' "'Me?' says she. "'Liz,' says he, as solemn as church, 'I means you.' "It come to her all of a suddent--an' she begun t' breathe hard, an' pressed her hands against her breast an' shivered. But she looked away t' the moon, an' somehow that righted her. "'You better thee me in daylight,' says she. "'Don't you mind about that,' says he. 'Mother always 'lowed that sort o' thing didn't matter: an' she knowed.' "She put a finger under his chin an' tipped his face t' the light. "'You ithn't got all your thentheth, ith you?' says she. "'Well,' says he, 'bein' born on Hollow-eve,' says he, 'I _isn't_ quite got all my wits. But,' says he, 'I wisht I had. An' I can't do no more.' "'An' you wanth t' wed me?' says she. 'Ith you sure you doth?' "'I got mother's ring,' says the cook, 't' prove it.' "'Tumm,' says Liz t' me, '_you_ ithn't wantin' t' get married, ith you?' "'No, Liz,' says I. 'Not,' says I, 't' you.' "'No,' says she. 'Not--t' me.' She took me round the turn in the road. 'Tumm,' says she, 'I 'low I'll wed that man. I wanth t' get away from here,' says she, lookin' over the hills. 'I wanth t' get t' the thouthern outporth, where there'th life. They ithn't no life here. An' I'm tho wonderful tired o' all thith! Tumm,' says she, 'no man ever afore athked me t' marry un, an' I 'low I better take thith one. He'th on'y a fool,' says she, 'but not even a fool ever come courtin' me, an' I 'low nobody but a fool would. On'y a fool, Tumm!' says she. 'But _I_ ithn't got nothin' t' boatht of. God made me,' says she, 'an' I ithn't mad that He done it. I 'low He meant me t' take the firth man that come, an' be content. I 'low _I_ ithn't got no right t' thtick up my nothe at a fool. For, Tumm,' says she, 'God made that fool, too. An', Tumm,' says she, 'I wanth thomethin' elthe. Oh, I wanth thomethin' elthe! I hateth t' tell you, Tumm,' says she, 'what it ith. But all the other maidth hath un, Tumm, an' I wanth one, too. I 'low they ithn't no woman happy without one, Tumm. An' I ithn't never had no chanth afore. No chanth, Tumm, though God knowth they ithn't nothin' I wouldn't do,' says she, 't' get what I wanth! I'll wed the fool,' says she. 'It ithn't a man I wanth tho much; no, it ithn't a man. Ith--' "'What you wantin', Liz?' says I. "'It ithn't a man, Tumm,' says she. "'No?' says I. 'What is it, Liz?' "'Ith a baby,' says she. "God! I felt bad when she told me that...." * * * * * Tumm stopped, sighed, picked at a knot in the table. There was silence in the cabin. The _Quick as Wink_ was still nodding to the swell--lying safe at anchor in a cove of Twist Tickle. We heard the gusts scamper over the deck and shake the rigging; we caught, in the intervals, the deep-throated roar of breakers, far off--all the noises of the gale. And Tumm picked at the knot with his clasp-knife; and we sat watching, silent, all. And I felt bad, too, because of the maid at Whooping Harbor--a rolling waste of rock, with the moonlight lying on it, stretching from the whispering mystery of the sea to the greater desolation beyond; and an uncomely maid, alone and wistful, wishing, without hope, for that which the hearts of women must ever desire.... * * * * * "Ay," Tumm drawled, "it made me feel bad t' think o' what she'd been wantin' all them years; an' then I wished I'd been kinder t' Liz.... An', 'Tumm,' thinks I, 'you went an' come ashore t' stop this here thing; but you better let the skipper have his little joke, for 'twill on'y s'prise him, an' it won't do nobody else no hurt. Here's this fool,' thinks I, 'wantin' a wife; an' he won't never have another chance. An' here's this maid,' thinks I, 'wantin' a baby; an' _she_ won't never have another chance. 'Tis plain t' see,' thinks I, 'that God A'mighty, who made un, crossed their courses; an' I 'low, ecod!' thinks I, 'that 'twasn't a bad idea He had. If He's got to get out of it somehow,' thinks I, 'why, _I_ don't know no better way. Tumm,' thinks I, 'you sheer off. Let Nature,' thinks I, 'have course an' be glorified.' So I looks Liz in the eye--an' says nothin'. "'Tumm,' says she, 'doth you think he--' "'Don't you be scared o' nothin',' says I. 'He's a lad o' good feelin's,' says I, 'an' he'll treat you the best he knows how. Is you goin' t' take un?' "'I wathn't thinkin' o' that,' says she. 'I wathn't thinkin' o' _not_. I wath jutht,' says she, 'wonderin'.' "'They isn't no sense in that, Liz,' says I. 'You just wait an' find out.' "'What'th hith name?' says she. "'Shoos,' says I. 'Moses Shoos.' "With that she up with her pinny an' begun t' cry like a young swile. "'What you cryin' for, Liz?' says I. "I 'low I couldn't tell what 'twas all about. But she was like all the women. Lord! 'tis the little things that makes un weep when it comes t' the weddin'. "'Come, Liz,' says I, 'what you cryin' about?' "'I lithp,' says she. "'I knows you does, Liz,' says I; 'but it ain't nothin' t' cry about.' "'I can't say Joneth,' says she. "'No,' says I; 'but you'll be changin' your name,' says I, 'an' it won't matter no more.' "'An' if I can't say Joneth,' says she, 'I can't thay--' "'Can't say what?' says I. "'Can't thay Thooth!' says she. "Lord! No more she could. An' t' say Moses Shoos! An' t' say Mrs. Moses Shoos! Lord! It give me a pain in the tongue t' think of it. "'Jutht my luck,' says she; 'but I'll do my betht.' "So we went back an' told poor Moses Shoos that he didn't have t' worry no more about gettin' a wife; an' he said he was more glad than sorry, an', says he, she'd better get her bonnet, t' go aboard an' get married right away. An' she 'lowed she didn't want no bonnet, but _would_ like to change her pinny. So we said we'd as lief wait a spell, though a clean pinny wasn't _needed_. An' when she got back, the cook said he 'lowed the skipper could marry un well enough 'til we overhauled a real parson; an' she thought so, too, for, says she, 'twouldn't be longer than a fortnight, an' _any_ sort of a weddin', says she, would do 'til then. An' aboard we went, the cook an' me pullin' the punt, an' she steerin'; an' the cook he crowed an' cackled all the way, like a half-witted rooster; but the maid didn't even cluck, for she was too wonderful solemn t' do anything but look at the moon. "'Skipper,' said the cook, when we got in the fo'c's'le, 'here she is. _I_ isn't afeared,' says he, 'an' _she_ isn't afeared; an' now I 'lows we'll have you marry us.' "Up jumps the skipper; but he was too much s'prised t' say a word. "'An' I'm thinkin',' says the cook, with a nasty little wink, such as never I seed afore get into the eyes o' Moses Shoos, 'that they isn't a man in this here fo'c's'le,' says he, 'will _say_ I'm afeared.' "'Cook,' says the skipper, takin' the cook's hand, 'shake! I never knowed a man like you afore,' says he. 'T' my knowledge, you're the on'y man in the Labrador fleet would do it. I'm proud,' says he, 't' take the hand o' the man with nerve enough t' marry Walrus Liz o' Whoopin' Harbor.' "But 'twas a new Moses he had t' deal with. The devil got in the fool's eyes--a jumpin' little brimstone devil, ecod! I never knowed the man could look that way. "'Ay, lad,' says the skipper, 'I'm proud t' know the man that isn't afeared o' Walrus--' "'Don't you call her that!' says the cook. 'Don't you do it, skipper!' "I was lookin' at Liz. She was grinnin' in a holy sort o' way. Never seed nothin' like that afore--no, lads, not in all my life. "'An' why not, cook?' says the skipper. "'It ain't her name,' says the cook. "'It ain't?' says the skipper. 'But I been sailin' the Labrador for twenty year,' says he, 'an' I 'ain't never heared her called nothin' but Walrus--' "'Don't you do it, skipper!' "The devil got into the cook's hands then. I seed his fingers clawin' the air in a hungry sort o' way. An' it looked t' me like squally weather for the skipper. "'Don't you do it no more, skipper,' says the cook. 'I isn't got no wits,' says he, an' I'm feelin' wonderful queer!' "The skipper took a look ahead into the cook's eyes. 'Well, cook,' says he, 'I 'low,' says he, 'I won't.' "Liz laughed--an' got close t' the fool from Twist Tickle. An' I seed her touch his coat-tail, like as if she loved it, but didn't dast do no more. "'What you two goin' t' do?' says the skipper. "'We 'lowed you'd marry us,' says the cook, ''til we come across a parson.' "'I will,' says the skipper. 'Stand up here,' says he. 'All hands stand up!' says he. 'Tumm,' says he, 'get me the first Book you comes across.' "I got un a Book. "'Now, Liz,' says he, 'can you cook?' "'Fair t' middlin',' says she. 'I won't lie.' "'Twill do,' says he. 'An' does you want t' get married t' this here dam' fool?' "'An it pleathe you,' says she. "'Shoos,' says the skipper, 'will you let this woman do the cookin'?' "'Well, skipper,' says the cook, 'I will; for I don't want nobody t' die o' my cookin' on this here v'y'ge, an' I _knows_ that mother wouldn't mind.' "'An' will you keep out o' the galley?' "'I 'low I'll _have_ to.' "'An' look you! cook, is you sure--is you _sure_,' says the skipper, with a shudder, lookin' at the roof, 'that you wants t' marry this here--' "'Don't you do it, skipper!' says the cook. 'Don't you say that no more! By the Lord!' says he, 'I'll kill you if you does!' "'Is you sure,' says the skipper, 'that you wants t' marry this here--woman?' "'I will.' "'Well,' says the skipper, kissin' the Book, 'I 'low me an' the crew don't care; an' we can't help it, anyhow.' "'What about mother's ring?' says the cook. 'She might's well have that,' says he, 'if she's careful about the wear an' tear. For joolery,' says he t' Liz, 'don't stand it.' "'It can't do no harm,' says the skipper. "'Ith we married, thkipper?' says Liz, when she got the ring on. "'Well,' says the skipper, 'I 'low that knot'll hold 'til we puts into Twist Tickle, where Parson Stump can mend it, right under my eye. For,' says he, 'I got a rope's-end an' a belayin'-pin t' _make_ it hold,' says he, ''til we gets 'longside o' _some_ parson that knows more about matrimonial knots 'n me. We'll pick up your goods, Liz,' says he, 'on the s'uthard v'y'ge. An' I hopes, ol' girl,' says he, 'that you'll be able t' boil the water 'ithout burnin' it.' "'Ay, Liz,' says the cook, 'I been makin' a awful fist o' b'ilin' the water o' late.' "She give him one look--an' put her clean pinny to her eyes. "'What you cryin' about?' says the cook. "'I don't know,' says she; 'but I 'low 'tith becauthe now I knowth you _ith_ a fool!' "'She's right, Tumm,' says the cook. 'She's got it right! Bein' born on Hollow-eve,' says he, 'I couldn't be nothin' else. But, Liz,' says he, 'I'm glad I got you, fool or no fool.' "So she wiped her eyes, an' blowed her nose, an' give a little sniff, an' looked up an' smiled. "'I isn't good enough for you,' says the poor cook. 'But, Liz,' says he, 'if you kissed me,' says he, 'I wouldn't mind a bit. An' they isn't a man in this here fo'c's'le,' says he, lookin' round, 'that'll say I'd mind. Not one,' says he, with the little devil jumpin' in his eyes. "Then she stopped cryin' for good. "'Go ahead, Liz!' says he. 'I ain't afeared. Come on!' says he. 'Give us a kiss!' "'Motheth Thooth,' says she, 'you're the firtht man ever athked me t' give un a kith!' "She kissed un. 'Twas like a pistol-shot. An', Lord! her poor face was shinin'...." * * * * * In the cabin of the _Quick as Wink_ we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table. "He don't _need_ no sense," said Tumm, looking up, at last; "for he've _had_ a mother, an' he've _got_ a memory." 'Twas very true, I thought. XXII GATHERING WINDS 'Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. "'Tis the last leg o' the beat, lad;" he pleaded; "ye'll be a gentleman, made t' order, accordin' t' specifications, when 'tis over with; an' I'll be wonderful glad," says he, wearily, "when 'tis done, for I'll miss ye sore, lad--ecod! but I'll miss ye sore." Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. 'Twas a ghastly thing: 'twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it--a thing, of all my uncle's benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of mopping his red, sweaty, tearful countenance, exhibited, in unwitting caricature, the defiant consciousness of station he had with infinite pains sought to have me master. "Made t' order, lad," says he, at last, when he took my hand, "accordin' t' the plans an' specifications o' them that knows, an' quite regardless of expense." I patted him on the shoulder. "I wisht," says he, with a regretful wag, "that Tom Callaway could see ye now. You an' your tooter! If on'y Tom Callaway _could_! I bet ye 'twould perk un up a bit in the place he's to! 'Twould go a long way towards distractin' his mind," says he, "from the fire an' fumes they talks so much about in church." You will be good enough to believe, if you please, that there were sympathetic tears in my uncle's eyes.... * * * * * Upon this misguided mission we were gone abroad two years and a fortnight (deducting one day): and pursuing it we travelled far. And we came to magnificent cities, and beheld the places and things that are written of in books, and ate of curious foods, and observed many sorts of people and singular customs, and fell in with strange companions, and sojourned in many houses; but from the spectacle of the world I caught no delight, nor won a lesson, nor gained in anything, save, it may be, in knowledge of the book of my own heart. As we went our way in new paths, my mind dwelt continually with Judith, whom I loved; the vision of her face, wistful and most fair in the mirage of Twist Tickle, and the illusion of her voice, whispering from the vacant world, were the realities of these wanderings--the people and palaces a fantasy. Of this I said nothing to John Cather, who was himself cast down by some obscure ailment of the spirit, so that I would not add to his melancholy with my love-sickness, but rather sought by cheerful behavior to mitigate the circumstances of his sighs, which I managed not at all. And having journeyed far in this unhappy wise, we came again to the spacious sea and sky and clean air of Twist Tickle, where Judith was with my uncle on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, and the world returned to its familiar guise of coast and ocean and free winds, and the _Shining Light_, once more scraped and refitted against the contingencies of my presence, awaited the ultimate event in the placid waters of Old Wives' Cove.... * * * * * Judith was grown to womanly age and ways and perfected in every maidenly attraction. When she came shyly from the shadows of the house into the glowing sunset and spring weather of our landing, I stopped, amazed, in the gravelled walk of our garden, because of the incredible beauty of the maid, now first revealed in bloom, and because of her modesty, which was yet slyly aglint with coquetry, and because of the tender gravity of her years, disclosed in the first poignant search of the soul I had brought back from my long journeying. I thought, I recall, at the moment of our meeting, that laboring in a mood of highest exaltation God had of the common clay fashioned a glory of person unsuspected of the eager, evil world out of which I had come: I rejoiced, I know, that He had in this bleak remoteness hidden it from the eyes of the world. I fancied as she came--'twas all in a flash--that into this rare creation He had breathed a spirit harmonious with the afflatus of its conception. And being thus overcome and preoccupied, I left the maid's coy lips escape me, but kissed her long, slender-fingered hand, which she withdrew, at once, to give to John Cather, who was most warm and voluble in greeting. I was by this hurt; but John Cather was differently affected: it seemed he did not care. He must be off to the hills, says he, and he must go alone, instantly, at the peril of his composure, to dwell with his mind, says he, upon the thoughts that most elevated and gratified him. I watched him off upon the Whisper Cove road with improper satisfaction, for, thinks I, most ungenerously, I might now, without the embarrassment of his presence, which she had hitherto rejected, possess Judith's lips; but the maid was shy and perverse, and would have none of it, apprising me sweetly of her determination. By this I was again offended. "Judy," says my uncle, when we were within, "fetch the bottle. Fetch the bottle, maid!" cries he; "for 'tis surely an occasion." Judith went to the pantry. "Dannie," my uncle inquired, leaning eagerly close when she was gone from the room, "is ye been good?" 'Twas a question put in anxious doubt: I hesitated--wondering whether or not I had been good. "Isn't ye?" says he. "Ye'll tell _me_, won't ye? I'll love ye none the less for the evil ye've done." Still I could not answer. "I've been wantin' t' know," says he, his three-fingered fist softly beating the table, shaking in an intense agitation of suspense. "I've been waitin' an' waitin' for months--jus' t' hear ye say!" I was conscious of no evil accomplished. "Ye've a eye, Dannie!" says he. I exposed my soul. "That's good," says he, emphatically; "that's very good. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well." Judith came with the bottle and little brown jug: she had displaced me from this occupation. "O' course," says my uncle, in somewhat doubtful and ungenerous invitation, "ye'll be havin' a little darn ol' rum with a ol' shipmate. Ye've doubtless learned manners abroad," says he. 'Twas a delight to hear the fond fellow tempt me against his will: I smiled. "Jus' a little darn, Dannie," he repeated, but in no convivial way. "Jus' a little nip--with a ol' shipmate?" I laughed most heartily to see Judith's sisterly concern for me. "A wee drop?" my uncle insisted, more confidently. "I'm not used to it, sir," says I. "That's good," he declared; "that's very good. Give the devil his due, Dannie: I've fetched ye up very well." 'Twas with delight he challenged a disputation.... * * * * * After this ceremony I sat with Judith on the peak of the Lost Soul. My uncle paced the gravelled walk, in the gathering dusk below, whence, by an ancient courtesy, he might benignantly spy upon the love-making. We were definite against the lingering twilight: I smiled to catch the old man pausing in the path with legs spread wide and glowing face upturned. But I had no smile for the maid, poor child! nor any word to say, save only to express a tenderness it seemed she would not hear. 'Twas very still in the world: there was no wind stirring, no ripple upon the darkening water, no step on the roads, no creak of oar-withe, no call or cry or laugh of humankind, no echo anywhere; and the sunset clouds trooped up from the rim of the sea with ominous stealth, throwing off their garments of light as they came, advancing, grim and gray, upon the shadowy coast. Across the droch, lifted high above the maid and me, his slender figure black against the pale-green sky, stood John Cather on the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, with arms extended in some ecstasy to the smouldering western fire. A star twinkled serenely in the depths of space beyond, seeming, in the mystery of that time, to be set above his forehead; and I was pleased to fancy, I recall, that 'twas a symbol and omen of his nobility. Thus the maid and I: thus we four folk, who played the simple comedy--unknowing, every one, in the departing twilight of that day. I reproached the maid. "Judith," says I, "you've little enough, it seems, to say to me." "There is nothing," she murmured, "for a maid to say." "There is much," I chided, "for a man to hear." "Never a word, Dannie, lad," she repeated, "that a maid may tell." I turned away. "There is a word," says she, her voice fallen low and very sweet, soft as the evening light about us, "that a lad might speak." "And what's that, Judith?" "'Tis a riddle," she answered; "and I fear, poor child!" says she, compassionately, "that you'll find it hard to rede." 'Twas unkind, I thought, to play with me. "Ah, Dannie, child!" she sighed, a bit wounded and rebuffed, it seems to me now, for she smiled in a way more sad and tenderly reproachful than anything, as she looked away, in a muse, to the fading colors in the west. "Ah, Dannie," she repeated, her face grown grave and wistful, "you've come back the same as you went away. Ye've come back," says she, with a brief little chuckle of gratification, "jus' the same!" I thrust out my foot: she would not look at it. "The self-same Dannie," says she, her eyes steadfastly averted. "I've _not_!" I cried, indignantly. That the maid should so flout my new, proud walk! 'Twas a bitter reward: I remembered the long agony I had suffered to please her. "I've _not_ come back the same," says I. "I've come back changed. Have you not seen my foot?" I demanded. "Look, maid!" I beat the rock in a passion with that new foot of mine--straight and sound and capable for labor as the feet of other men. It had all been done for her--all borne to win the love I had thought withheld, or stopped from fullest giving, because of this miserable deformity. A maid is a maid, I had known--won as maids are won. "Look at it!" cries I. "Is it the same as it was? Is it crooked any more? Is it the foot of a man or a cripple?" She would not look: but smiled into my eyes--with a mist of tears gathering within her own. "No," I complained; "you will not look. You would not look when I walked up the path. I wanted you to look; but you would not. You would not look when I put my foot on the table before your very eyes. My uncle looked, and praised me; but you would not look." 'Twas a frenzy of indignation I had worked myself into by this time. I could not see, any more, the silent glow of sunset color, the brooding shadows, the rising masses of cloud, darkening as they came: I have, indeed, forgotten, and strangely so, the appearance of sea and sky at that moment. "You would not look," I accused the maid, "when I leaped the brook. I leaped the brook as other men may leap it; but you would not look. You would not look when I climbed the hill. Who helped you up the Lost Soul turn? Was it I? Never before did I do it. All my life I have crawled that path. Was it the club-footed young whelp who helped you?" I demanded. "Was it that crawling, staggering, limping travesty of the strength of men? But you do not care," I complained. "You do not care about my foot at all! Oh, Judith," I wailed, in uttermost agony, "you do not care!" I knew, then, looking far away into the sea and cloud of the world, that the night was near. "No," says she. "Judith!" I implored. "Judith ... Judith!" "No," says she, "I cannot care." "Just _say_ you do," I pleaded, "to save me pain." "I will not tell you otherwise." I was near enough to feel her tremble--to see her red lips draw away, in stern conviction, from her white little teeth. "You do not care?" I asked her. "I do not care." 'Twas a shock to hear the words repeated. "Not care!" I cried out. "I do not care," says she, turning, all at once, from the sullen crimson of the sky, to reproach me. "Why should I care?" she demanded. "I have never cared--never cared--about your foot!" I should have adored her for this: but did not know enough. "Come!" says she, rising; "there is no sunset now. 'Tis all over with. The clouds have lost their glory. There is nothing to see. Oh, Dannie, lad," says she--"Dannie, boy, there is nothing here to see! We must go home." I was cast down. "No glory in the world!" says she. "No light," I sighed; "no light, at all, Judith, in this gloomy place." And we went home.... * * * * * For twelve days after that, while the skirt of winter still trailed the world, the days being drear and gray, with ice at sea and cold rain falling upon the hills, John Cather kept watch on Judith and me. 'Twas a close and anxiously keen surveillance. 'Twas, indeed, unremitting and most daring, by night and day: 'twas a staring and peering and sly spying, 'twas a lurking, 'twas a shy, not unfriendly, eavesdropping, an observation without enmity or selfish purpose, ceasing not at all, however, upon either, and most poignant when the maid and I were left together, alone, as the wretched man must have known, in the field of sudden junctures of feeling. I remember his eyes--dark eyes, inquiring in a kindly way--staring from the alders of the Whisper Cove road, from the dripping hills, from the shadowy places of our house: forever in anxious question upon us. By this I was troubled, until, presently, I divined the cause: the man was disquieted, thinks I, to observe my happiness gone awry, but would not intrude even so much as a finger upon the tangle of the lives of the maid and me, because of the delicacy of his nature and breeding. 'Twas apparent, too, that he was ill: he would go white and red without cause, and did mope or overflow with a feverish jollity, and would improperly overfeed at table or starve his emaciating body. But after a time, when he had watched us narrowly to his heart's content, he recovered his health and amiability, and was the same as he had been. Judith and I were then cold and distant in behavior with each other, but unfailing in politeness: 'twas now a settled attitude, preserved by each towards the other, and betraying no feeling of any sort whatever. "John Cather," says I, "you've been ill." He laughed. "You are a dull fellow!" says he, in his light way. "'Tis the penalty of honesty, I suppose; and nature has fined you heavily. I have not been ill: I have been troubled." "By what, John Cather?" "I fancied," he answered, putting his hands on my shoulders, very gravely regarding me as he spoke, "that I must sacrifice my hope. 'Twas a hope I had long cherished, Dannie, and was become like life to me." His voice was fallen deep and vibrant and soft; and the feeling with which it trembled, and the light in the man's eyes, and the noble poise of his head, and the dramatic arrangement of his sentences, so affected me that I must look away. "Miserable necessity!" says he. "A drear prospect! And with no more than a sigh to ease the wretched fate! And yet," says he, quite heartily, "the thing had a pretty look to it. Really, a beautiful look. There was a fine reward. A good deed carries it. Always remember that, Dannie--and remember that I told you. There was a fine reward. No encouragement of applause, Dannie--just a long sigh in secret: then a grim age of self-command. By jove! but there was a splendid compensation. A compensation within myself, I mean--a recollection of at least one heroically unselfish act. There would have been pain, of course; but I should never have forgotten that I had played a man's part--better than a man's part: a hero's part, a god's part. And that might have been sufficiently comforting: I do not know--perhaps. I'll tell you about it, Dannie: the thing was to have been done," he explained, in sincere emotion, every false appearance gone from him, "for whom, do you think?" I did not know. "For a friend," says he. "But John Cather," says I, "'twas too much to require of you." His eyes twinkled. "You've no trouble now, have you?" I asked. "Not I!" cries he. "I have read a new fortune for myself. Trouble? Not I! I am very happy, Dannie." "That's good," says I; "that's very good!" XXIII THE TIDE-RIP Next day 'twas queer weather. 'Twas weather unaccountable, weather most mysteriously bent, weather that laughed at our bewilderment, as though 'twere sure of wreaking its own will against us by some trick recently devised. Never before had I known a time so subtly, viciously, confidently to withhold its omens. Queer weather, indeed! here, in early spring, with drift-ice still coming in vast floes from the north, queer weather to draw the sweat from us, while a midsummer blue loom of the main-land hung high and fantastically shaped in the thick air. Breathless, ominously colored weather! Why, the like, for stillness and beggarly expression of intention, had never been known to Twist Tickle: they talked with indignation of it on Eli Flack's stage; 'twas a day that bred wrecks, said they. Ay, and 'twas an outrage upon the poor fishermen of that coast: what was a man to do, said they--what was he to do with his salmon-gear and cod-traps--in this evil, wilful departure from traditional procedure? And what did the weather mean? would it blow wet or dry? would it come with snow? would the wind jump off shore or from the northeast? and how long, in the name o' Heaven, would the weather sulk in distance before breaking in honest wrath upon the coast? 'Twas enough, said they, to make a man quit the grounds; 'twas enough, with _this_ sort o' thing keepin' up, t' make a man turn carpenter or go t' Sydney! All this I heard in passing. "Ah, well, lads," says my uncle, "ye'll find winter skulkin' jus' over the horizon. An' he'll be down," he added, confidently, "within a day or two." I led John Cather to the brink of Tom Tulk's cliff, where, in the smoky sunshine, I might talk in secret with him. 'Twas in my mind to confide my perplexity and miserable condition of heart, without reserve of feeling or mitigation of culpable behavior, and to lean upon his wisdom and tactful arts for guidance into some happier arrangement with the maid I loved. It seemed to me, I recall, as I climbed the last slope, that I had been, all my life, an impassive lover, as concerned the welfare of the maid: that I had been ill-tempered and unkind, marvellously quick to find offence, justified in this cruel and stupid conduct by no admirable quality or grace or achievement--a lad demanding all for nothing. I paused, I recall, at the cairn, to sigh, overcome and appalled by this revelation; and thereupon I felt such a rush of strenuous intention in my own behalf--a determination to strive and scheme--that I had scarce breath to reach the edge of the cliff, and could not, for the life of me, begin to narrate my desperate state to John Cather. But John Cather was not troubled by my silence: he was sprawled on the thick moss of the cliff, his head propped in his hands, smiling, like the alien he was, upon the ice at sea and the untimely blue loom of the main-land and the vaguely threatening color of the sky. I could not begin, wishful as I might be for his wise counsel: but must lie, like a corpse, beyond all feeling, contemplating that same uneasy prospect. I wished, I recall, that I might utter my errand with him, and to this day wish that I had been able: but then could not, being overwhelmed by this new and convincing vision of all my communion with the maid. "By Jove!" John Cather ejaculated. "What is it?" cries I. "I must tell you," says he, rising to his elbow. "I can keep it no longer." I waited. "I'm in love," he declared. "Dannie," cries he, "I--I'm--_in love_!" And now a peculiar change came upon the world, of which I must tell: whatever there had been of omen or beauty or curious departure from the natural appearance of sea and sky--whatever of interest or moment upon the brooding shore or abroad on the uttermost waters beyond it--quite vanished from my cognizance. 'Twas a drear day and place I dwelt in, a very dull world, not enlivened by peril or desirable object or the difficulty of toil, not excused or in any way made tolerable by a prospect of sacrificial employment. I had been ill brought up to meet this racking emergency. What had there been, in all my life, fostered in body and happiness, expanding in the indulgent love and pitiably misdirected purpose of my uncle, to fit me for this denial of pure and confident desire? I tried, God knows I tried! summoning to my help all the poor measure of nobility the good Lord had endowed me with and my uncle had cultivated--I tried, God knows! to receive the communication with some wish for my friend's advancement in happiness. In love: 'twas with Judith--there was no other maid of Twist Tickle to be loved by this handsome, learned, brilliantly engaging John Cather. Nay, but 'twas all plain to me now: my deformity and perversity--my ridiculously assured aspiration towards the maid. I had forgot John Cather--the youth and person of him, his talents and winning accomplishments of speech and manner. "And there she comes!" cries he. 'Twas Judith on the Whisper Cove road. "You'll wish me luck, Dannie?" says he, rising. "I'll catch her on the way. I'll tell her that I love her. I can wait no longer. Wish me luck!" says he. "Wish me luck!" I took his hand. "Wish me luck!" he repeated. "I wish you luck," says I. "Thanks," says he: and was off. I lied in this way because I would not have Judith know that I grieved for her, lest she suffer, in days to come, for my disappointment.... * * * * * I was faint and very thirsty, I recall: I wished that I might drink from a brook of snow-water. 'Twas Calling Brook I visualized, which flows from the melting ice of cold, dark crevices, musically falling, beneath a canopy of springing leaves, to the waters of Sister Bight. I wished to drink from Calling Brook, and to lie down, here alone and high above the sea, and to sleep, without dreaming, for a long, long time. I lay me down on the gray moss. I did not think of Judith and John Cather. I had forgotten them: I was numb to the passion and affairs of life. I suffered no agony of any sort; 'twas as though I had newly emerged from unconsciousness--the survivor of some natural catastrophe, fallen by act of God, conveying no blame to me--a survivor upon whom there still lingered a beneficent stupor of body. Presently I discovered myself in a new world, with which, thinks I, brisking up, I must become familiar, having no unmanly regret, but a courageous heart to fare through the maze of it; and like a curious child I peered about upon this strange habitation. Near by there was a gray, weathered stone in the moss: I reached to possess it--and was amazed to find that my hand neither overshot nor fell short, but accurately performed its service. I cast the stone towards heaven: 'twas a surprise to see it fall earthward in obedience to some law I could not in my daze define--some law I had with impatient labor, long, long ago, made sure I understood and would remember. I looked away to sea, stared into the sky, surveyed the hills: 'twas the self-same world I had known, constituted of the same materials, cohering in the self-same way, obedient to the self-same laws, fashioned and adorned the same as it had been. 'Twas the self-same world of sea and sky and rock, wherein I had so long dwelt--a world familiar to my feet and eyes and heart's experience: a world of tree-clad, greening hills, of known paths, of children's shouting and the chirp and song of spring-time. But there had come a change upon its spirit: nay! thinks I, quite proud of the conceit, its spirit had departed--the thing had died to me, and was become without meaning, an inimical mystery. Then I felt the nerves of my soul tingle with awakening: then I suffered very much. And evening came.... * * * * * By-and-by, having heartened myself with courageous plans, I stepped out, with the feet of a man, upon the Whisper Cove road. I had it in mind to enjoy with Judith and John Cather the tender disclosure of their love. I would kiss Judith, by Heaven! thinks I: I would kiss her smile and blushes, whatever she thought of the deed; and I would wring John Cather's fragile right hand until his teeth uncovered and he groaned for mercy. 'Twas fearsome weather, then, so that, overwrought in the spirit as I was, I did not fail to feel the oppression of it and the instinctive alarm it aroused. 'Twas very still and heavy and sullen and uneasy, 'twas pregnant of fears, like a moment of suspense: I started when an alder branch or reaching spruce limb struck me. In this bewildering weather there were no lovers on the road; the valleys, the shadowy nooks, the secluded reaches of path, lay vacant in the melancholy dusk. 'Twas not until I came to the last hill, whence the road tumbled down to a cluster of impoverished cottages, listlessly clinging to the barren rock of Whisper Cove, that I found Judith. John Cather was not about: the maid was with Aunt Esther All, the gossip, and was now so strangely agitated that I stopped in sheer amazement. That the child should be abject and agonized before the grim, cynical tattler of Whisper Cove! That she should gesticulate in a way so passionate! That she should fling her arms wide, that she should cover her face with her hands, that she should in some grievous disturbance beat upon her heart! I could not make it out. 'Twas a queer way, thinks I, to express the rapture of her fortune; and no suspicion enlightened me, because, I think, of the paralysis of despair upon my faculties. I approached. "Go 'way!" she cried. I would not go away: 'twas Aunt Esther, the gossip, that went, and in a rout--with a frightened backward glance. "Go 'way!" Judith pleaded. "I'm not able to bear it, Dannie. Oh, go back!" 'Twas an unworthy whim, and I knew it to be so, whatever the vagaries of maids may be, however natural and to be indulged, at these crises of emotion. She had sent John Cather away, it seemed, that she might be for a space alone, in the way of maids at such times, as I had been informed; and she would now deny to me the reflection of her happiness. "'Tis unkind," I chided, "not to share this thing with me." She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with incomprehension. "I've come to tell you, Judith," says I, "that I do not care." 'Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it. "'Tis kind," she whispered. We were alone. 'Twas dusk: 'twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the weather? 'Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road--a broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass, where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. 'Twas from me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though, indeed, 'twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that 'twas a pang of isolation to which I must grow used. "Why, Judy," says I, "don't, for pity's sake, do that! Why, maid," I protested, "I don't care. I'm glad--I'm just _glad_!" "Glad!" she faltered, staring. "To be sure I'm glad," I cried. She came close to me. "I don't care," says I. "You do not care!" she muttered, looking away. "You do not care!" she repeated, in a voice that was the faintest, most drear echo of my own. "Not I!" I answered, stoutly. "Not a whit!" She began to cry. "Look up!" I besought her. "I do not care," I declared again, seeking in this way to ease her pity of me. "I do _not_ care!" 'Twas a strange thing that happened then: first she kissed the cuff of my coat, in the extravagant way of a maid, and then all at once clapped her hands over her eyes, as though to conceal some guilt from a righteous person. I perceived this: I felt the shame she wished to hide, and for a moment wondered what that shame might be, but forgot, since the eyes were mine neither to have read nor to admire, but John Cather's. And what righteousness had I? None at all that she should stand ashamed before me. But there she stood, with her blue eyes hid--a maid in shame. I put my finger under her chin and tried to raise her face, but could not; nor could I with any gentleness withdraw her hands. She was crying: I wondered why. I stooped to peer between her fingers, but could see only tears and the hot color of her flushes. I could not fathom why she cried, except in excess of happiness or in adorable pity of me. The wind rose, I recall, as I puzzled; 'twas blowing through the gloaming in a soothing breeze from the west, as though to put the fears of us to sleep. A gentle gust, descending to our sheltered place, rustled the leaves and played with the maid's tawny hair; and upon this she looked up--and stepped into the open path, where, while her tears dried and her drooping helplessness vanished, she looked about the sky, and felt of the wind, to discover its direction and promise of strength. 'Twas a thing of tragical significance, as it seems to me now, looking back from the quiet mood in which I dwell; but then, having concern only to mitigate the maid's hysteria, following upon the stress of emotion I conceived she had undergone, this anxious survey of the weather had no meaning. I watched her: I lingered upon her beauty, softened, perfected, enhanced in spiritual quality by the brush of the dusk; and I could no longer wish John Cather joy, but knew that I must persist in the knightly endeavor. "The wind's from the west," says she. "A free wind." "For Topmast Harbor," says I; "but a mean breeze for folk bound elsewhere." "A free wind for Topmast Harbor," she repeated. "No matter," says I. "'Tis a great thing," she replied, "for them that are bound to Topmast Harbor." 'Twas reproachfully spoken. "You'll be going home now, maid," I entreated. "You'll leave me walk with you, will you not?" She looked down in a troubled muse. "You'll leave me follow, then," says I, "to see that you've no fear of the dark. 'Twill be dark soon, Judith, and I'm not wanting you to be afraid." "Come!" cries she. "I _will_ walk with you--home!" She took my hand, and entwined her long fingers with mine, in the intimate, confiding way she was used to doing when we were a lad and a maid on the dark roads. Many a time, when we were lad and maid, had Judith walked forward, and I backward, to provide against surprise by the shapes of night; and many a dark time had she clutched my hand, nearing the lights of Twist Tickle, to make sure that no harm would befall her. And now, in this childish way, she held me; and she walked with me twenty paces on the path to Twist Tickle, whereupon she stopped, and led me back to that same nook of the road, and doggedly released me, and put an opposing hand on my breast. "Do you bide here," says she; "and when I call, do you go home." "An you wish it," I answered. 'Twas not more than twenty paces she walked towards the impoverished cottages of Whisper Cove: then turned, and came again to me. I wondered why she stood in this agony of indecision: but could not tell, nor can be blamed for the mystification, relentlessly as I blame myself. "Dannie," she moaned, looking up, "I can go nowhere!" "You may go home, maid," says I. "'Tis a queer thing if you may not go home." "'Tis an unkind thing." "Come!" I pleaded. "'Twill so very soon be dark on the road; and I'm not wantin' you t' wander in the dark." "I cannot," says she. "I just cannot!" "Judith," I chided, "you may. 'Tis an unseemly thing in you to say." "But I cannot bear it, Dannie!" "I would cry shame upon you, Judith," I scolded, "were _I_ not so careful of your feelings." She seemed now to command herself with a resolution of which tender maids like Judith should not be capable: 'tis too lusty and harsh a thing. I stood in awe of it. "Dannie," says she, "do you go home. I'll follow an I can. And if I do not come afore long, do you tell un to think that I spend the night with the wife of Moses Shoos. You may kiss me, Dannie, lad," says she, "an you cares t' do it." I did care: but dared not. "I'm wishin' for it," says she. "But," I protested, "is you sure 'tis right?" "'Tis quite right," she answered. "God understands." "I'd be glad," says I. "You may kiss me, then." I kissed her. 'Tis a thing I regret: 'twas a kiss so lacking in earnest protraction--so without warmth and vigor. 'Twas the merest brushing of her cheek. I wish I had kissed her, like a man, in the fulness of desire I felt; but I was bound, in the last light of that day, to John Cather, in knightly honor. "'Twas very nice," says she. "I wisht you'd do it again." I did. "Thank you, Dannie," she whispered. "Judith!" I cried. "Judith! For shame, to thank me!" "And now," says she, "you'll be off on the road. You'll make haste, will you not? And you'll think, will you not, that I spend the night with Mrs. Shoos? You'll not fret, Dannie: I'd grieve to think that you fretted. I'd not have you, for all the world, trouble about me. Not you," she repeated, her voice falling. "Not you, Dannie--dear. You'll be off, now," she urged, "for 'tis long past time for tea. And you'll tell un all, will you not, that I talked o' spendin' the night with Mrs. Moses Shoos at Whisper Cove?" "An you wish it, Judith." "Good-night!" I pressed away.... * * * * * When I came to our house on the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I turned at the threshold to survey the weather. I might have saved myself the pains and puzzle of that regard. The print of sea and sky was foreign: I could make nothing of it. 'Twas a quiet sea, breaking, in crooning lullaby, upon the rocks below my bedroom window. It portended no disturbance: I might sleep, thinks I, with the soft whispering to lull me, being willing for the magic shoes of sleep to take me far away from this agony as never man was before. The wind was blowing from the west: but not in gusts--a sailing breeze for the timid. I was glad that there was no venomous intention in the wind: 'twas a mild and dependable wind, grateful to such as fared easterly in the night. I wished that all men might fare that way, in the favoring breeze, but knew well enough that the purposes of men are contrary, the one to the other, making fair winds of foul, and foul of fair, so that there was no telling, of any event, whatever the apparent nature of it, whether sinister or benign, the preponderance of woe or happiness issuing from it. Over all a tender sky, spread with soft stretches of cloud, and set, in its uttermost depths, with stars. 'Twas dark enough now for the stars to shine, making the most of the moon's absence, which soon would rise. Star upon star: a multitude of serenely companionable lights, so twinkling and knowing, so slyly sure of the ultimate resolution of all the doubts and pains and perplexities of the sons of men! But still there was abroad an oppression: a forewarning, in untimely heat and strain, of disastrous weather. 'Twas that I felt when I turned from the contemplation of the stars to go within, that I might without improper delay inform our maid-servant of Judith's intention. Then I joined my uncle.... XXIV JOHN CATHER'S FATE 'Twas with a start that I realized the lateness of the hour. Time for liquor! 'Twas hard to believe. My uncle sat with his bottle and glass and little brown jug. The glass was empty and innocent of dregs; the stopper was still tight in the bottle, the jug brimming with clear water from our spring. He had himself fetched them from the pantry, it seemed, and was now awaiting, with genial patience, the arrival of company to give an air of conviviality to the evening's indulgence. I caught him in a smiling muse, his eye on the tip of his wooden leg; he was sailed, it seemed, to a clime of feeling far off from the stress out of which I had come. There was no question: I was not interrogated upon the lapse of the crew, as he called John Cather and Judy and me, from the politeness of attendance at dinner, which, indeed, he seemed to have forgotten in a train of agreeable recollections. He was in a humor as serene and cheerfully voluble as ever I met with in my life; and when he had bade me join him at the table to pour his first dram, he fell to on the narrative of some adventure, humorously occurring, off the Funks, long, long ago, in the days of his boyhood. I did not attend, nor did I pour the dram: being for the time deeply occupied with reflections upon the square, black bottle on the table before me--the cure of moods my uncle had ever maintained it would work. I got up resolved. "Where you goin', Dannie?" says my uncle, his voice all at once vacant of cheerfulness. "To the pantry, sir," I answered. "Ah!" says he. "Is it ginger-ale, Dannie?" "No, sir." "That's good," says he, blankly; "that's very good. For Judy," he added, "is fell into the habit o' tipplin' by day, an' the ginger-ale is all runned out." I persevered on my way to the pantry. "Dannie!" he called. I turned. "Is you quite sure, lad," he asked, with an anxious rubbing of his stubble of gray beard, "that 'tisn't ginger-ale?" "I'm wanting a glass, sir," I replied, testily. "I see but one on the table." "Ah!" he ejaculated. "A glass!" I returned with the glass. "Dannie," says my uncle, feigning a relief he dared not entertain, "you was wantin' a drop o' water, wasn't you?" He pushed the little brown jug towards me. "I _'lowed_ 'twas water," says he, hopefully, "when you up an' spoke about gettin' a glass from the pantry." He urged the jug in my direction. "Ay," he repeated, not hopefully now at all, but in a whisper more like despair, "I jus' _'lowed_ 'twas a drop o' water." The jug remained in its place. "Dannie," he entreated, with a thick forefinger still urging the jug on its course, "you is thirsty, I _knows_ you is!" I would not touch the jug. "You been havin' any trouble, shipmate?" he gently asked. "Yes, sir," I groaned. "Trouble, God knows!" "Along o' Judy?" 'Twas along o' Judy. "A drop o' water," says he, setting the glass almost within my hand, "will do you good." 'Twas so anxiously spoken that my courage failed me. I splashed water into the glass and swallowed it. "That's good," says he; "that's very good." I pushed the glass away with contempt for its virtue of comfort; and I laughed, I think, in a disagreeable way, so that the old man, unused to manifestations as harsh and irreligious as this, started in dismay. "Good," he echoed, staring, unconvinced and without hope; "that's very good." And now, a miserable determination returning, I fixed my eyes again on the square, black bottle of rum. 'Twas a thing that fairly fascinated my attention. The cure of despair was legendary, the palatable quality a thing of mere surmise: I had never experienced either; but in my childhood I had watched my uncle's fearsome moods vanish, as he downed his drams, one by one, giving way to a grateful geniality, which sent my own bogies scurrying off, and I had fancied, from the smack of his lips, and from the eager lifting of the glasses at the Anchor and Chain, the St. John's tap-room we frequented, that a drop o' rum was a thing to delight the dry tongue and gullet of every son of man. My uncle sat under the lamp: I remember his countenance, aside from the monstrous scars and disfigurements which the sea had dealt him--its anxious regard of me, its intense concern, its gathering purpose, the last of which I did not read at that moment, but now recall and understand. 'Twas quiet and orderly in the room: the geometrical gentlemen were there riding the geometrically tempestuous sea in a frame beyond my uncle's gargoylish head, and the tidied rocking-chair, which I was used to addressing as a belted knight o' the realm, austerely abode in a shadow. I was in some saving way, as often happens in our lives, conscious of these familiar things, to which we return and cling in the accidents befalling us and in the emergencies of feeling we must all survive. The room was as our maid-servant had left it, bright and warm and orderly: there was as yet no disarrangement by the conviviality we were used to. 'Tis not at all my wish to trouble you with the despair I suffered that night, with Judith gone from me: I would not utter it--'twas too deep and unusual and tragical to disturb a world with. But still I stared at that square, black bottle of rum, believing, as faith may be, in the surcease it contained. I watched that bottle. "Dannie," says my uncle, with a wish, no doubt, for a diversion, "is the moon up?" I walked to the window. "'Tis up," I reported; "but 'tis hid by clouds, an' the wind's rising." "The wind rising?" says he. "'Twill do us no harm." Of course, my uncle did not know which of us was at sea. "The wind," he repeated, "will do no harm." I sat down again: and presently got my glass before me, and reached for the square, black bottle of rum. I could stand it no longer: I could really stand it no longer--the pain of this denial of my love was too much for any man to bear. "I'll have a drop," says I, "for comfort." My uncle's hand anticipated me. "Ah!" says he. "For comfort, is it?" Unhappily, he had the bottle in his hand. 'Twas quite beyond my reach--done with any courtesy. I must wait for him to set it down again. The jug was close enough, the glass, too; but the bottle was in watchful custody. My uncle shook the bottle, and held it to the lamp; he gauged its contents: 'twas still stout--he sighed. And now he set it on the table, with his great, three-fingered hand about the neck of it, so that all hope of possession departed from me: 'twas a clutch too close and meaning to leave me room for hope. I heard the wind, rising to a blow, but had no fret on that account: there was none of us at sea, thank God! we were all ashore, with no care for what the wind might do. I observed that my uncle was wrought up to a pitch of concern to which he was not used. He had gone pale, who was used, in exaltation of feeling, to go crimson and blue in the scars of him; but he had now gone quite white and coldly sweaty, in a ghastly way, with the black bottle held up before him, his wide little eyes upon it. I had never before known him to be in fact afraid; but he was now afraid, and I was persuaded of it, by his pallor, by his trembling hand, by the white and stare of his eyes, by the drooping lines of his poor, disfigured face. He turned from the bottle to look at me; but I could not withstand the poignancy of his regard: I looked away--feeling some shame, for which I could not account to myself. And then he sighed, and clapped the black bottle on the table, with a thump that startled me; and he looked towards me with a resolution undaunted and determined. I shall never forget, indeed, the expression he wore: 'twas one of perfect knightliness--as high and pure and courageous as men might wear, even in those ancient times when honorable endeavor (by the tales of John Cather) was a reward sufficient to itself. I shall never forget: I could not forget. "Dannie," says he, listlessly, "'tis wonderful warm in here. Cast up the window, lad." 'Twas not warm. There was no fire; and the weather had changed, and the wind came in at the open door, running in cold draughts about the house. 'Twas warm with the light of the lamp, to be sure; 'twas cosey and grateful in the room: but the entering swirl of wind was cold, and the emotional situation was such in bleakness and mystery as to make me shiver. I opened the window. "That's good," he sighed. "How's the tide?" "'Tis the ebb, sir." "Could ye manage t' see Digger Rock?" he inquired. The moon, breaking out, disclosed it: 'twas a rock near by, submerged save at low-tide--I could see it. "Very good," says he. "Could ye hit it?" "I've nothing to shy, sir." "But an you had?" he insisted. My tutor entered the hall. I heard him go past the door. 'Twas in a quick, agitated step, not pausing to regard us, but continuing up the stair to his own room. I wondered why that was. "Eh, Dannie?" says my uncle. "I might, sir," I answered. "Then," says he, "try it with this bottle!" I cast the bottle. "That's good," says he. "Ye're a wonderful shot, Dannie. I heared un go t' smash. That's good; that's _very_ good!" * * * * * We sat, my uncle and I, for an hour after that, I fancy, without managing an exchange: I would address him, but he would not hear, being sunk most despondently in his great chair by the empty, black grate, with his eyes fixed in woe-begone musing upon the toes of his ailing timber; and he would from time to time insinuate an irrelevant word concerning the fishing, and, with complaint, the bewildering rise and fall of the price of fish, but the venture upon conversation was too far removed from the feeling of the moment to engage a reply. Presently, however, I commanded myself sufficiently to observe him with an understanding detached from my own bitterness; and I perceived that he sat hopeless and in fear, as in the days when I was seven, with his head fallen upon his breast and his eyes grown tragical, afraid, but now in raw kind and infinite measure, of the coming of night upon the world he sailed by day. I heard nothing from my tutor--no creak of the floor, no step, no periodical creaking of his rocking-chair. He had not, then, thinks I, cast off his clothes; he had not gone to reading for holy orders, as was, at intervals, his custom--he had thrown himself on his bed. But I neither cared nor wondered: I caught sight of my uncle's face again--half amazed, wholly despondent, but yet with a little glint of incredulous delight playing, in brief flashes, upon it--and I could think of nothing else, not even of Judith, in her agony of mysterious shame upon the Whisper Cove road, nor of her disquieting absence from the house, nor of the rising wind, nor of the drear world I must courageously face when I should awake from that night's sleep. I considered my uncle. "Do ye go t' bed, Dannie," says he, looking up at last. "Ye've trouble enough." I rose, but did not wish to leave him comfortless in the rising wind. I had rather sit with him, since he needed me now, it seemed, more than ever before. "Ye'll not trouble about me, lad?" I would not be troubled. "That's good," says he. "No need o' your troublin' about _me_. Ol' Nick Top's able t' take care o' _his_self! That's very good." I started away for bed, but turned at the door, as was my custom, to wish my uncle good-night. I said nothing, for he was in an indubitable way not to be disturbed--having forgotten me and the affection I sought at all times to give him. He was fallen dejectedly in his chair, repeating, "_For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire._" I paused at the door to watch him, and I saw that his maimed hand wandered over the table until it found his glass, and that he caught and raised the glass, and that he set it down again, and that he pushed the empty thing away. I saw all that.... * * * * * And I went to bed; but I did not go to sleep. In the first place, I could not, and, for better reason, my tutor got astir the moment my door was closed. I heard his cautious descent to the dining-room. The man had been waiting to get me out of the way; but I heard him go down, and that right easily, in the fall of his stockinged feet, and in the click of his door-latch, and in the creak of the stair. I cast my clothes off in haste, but lay wide awake in my bed--as who would not?--listening to the ominous murmur of voices from below. My tutor, it seemed, was placid and determined; my uncle was outraged. I heard the old man's voice rise in a rage, fall to a subdued complaint, patter along in beseeching. It seemed 'twas all to no purpose; my tutor was obdurate, and my uncle yielded to his demands, however unwillingly. There was the mutter of agreement, there was the click of my uncle's strong-box, there was the clink of gold coin. I listened for the pop of a new cork; but I did not hear it: I heard the jug of spring water exchange hands--no more than that. 'Twas very queer. But I was not concerned with it, after all. Let my uncle and John Cather deal with each other as they would, in any way engaging the clink of gold from my uncle's strong-box; 'twas for me, unconcerned, to look out of my window, to discover the weather. And this I did; and I found the weather threatening--very dark, with the moon hid by clouds, and blowing up in a way promising a strength of wind not to be disregarded by folk who would put to sea. The end of this was that John Cather and my uncle came above. My tutor went straightway to his room, with steps that hastened past my door; but my uncle paused, pushed the door cautiously ajar, thrust in his head. "Is you asleep, Dannie?" says he. "No, sir. I'm wonderful wide awake." "Ah, well!" he whispered, in such a way that I perceived his triumphant glee, though I could not see his face for the darkness of my room; "you might as well turn over an' go t' sleep." "An' why, sir?" I asked. "Like a babe, Dannie," says he, addressing me with fondness, as though I were a little child again--"jus' like a babe." He walked to my window and looked out to sea. "Dirty weather the morrow, sir," I ventured. "The lights o' the mail-boat!" he exclaimed. "She've left Fortune Harbor. Ecod, b'y!" He withdrew at once and in haste, and I heard him stump off to my tutor's quarters, where, for a long time after that, there occurred many and mysterious noises. I could not understand, but presently made the puzzle out: John Cather was packing up. 'Twas beyond doubt; the thump and creak, the reckless pulling of drawers, steps taken in careless hurry and confusion, the agitation of the pressing need of haste, all betrayed the business in hand. John Cather was packing up: he was rejected of Judith--he was going away! It hurt me sorely to think that the man would thus in impulsive haste depart, after these years of intimate companionship, with a regard so small for my wishes in the matter. Go to sleep like a babe? I could not go to sleep at all; I could but lie awake in trouble. John Cather was packing up; he was going away! My uncle helped him with his trunks down the stairs and to the stage-head, where, no doubt, my uncle's punt was waiting to board the belated mail-boat--the mean little trunk John Cather had come with, and the great leather one I had bought him in London. I was glad, at any rate, that my gifts--the books and clothes and what-not I had bought him abroad--were not to be left to haunt me. But that John Cather should not say good-bye! I could not forgive him that. I waited and waited, lying awake in the dark, for him to come. And come he did, when the trunks were carried away and the whistle of the mail-boat had awakened our harbor. He pushed my door open without knocking, knowing well enough that I was wide awake. 'Twas then dark in my room; he could not see me. "Where are your matches?" says he. I told him, but did not like the manner of his speech. 'Twas in a way to rouse the antagonism of any man, being most harsh and hateful. "I can't find them," he complained. "You'll find them well enough, John Cather," I chided, "an you looks with patience." He had no patience, it seemed, but continued to fumble about, and at last, with his back turned to me, got my lamp lighted. For a moment he stood staring at the wall, as though he lacked the resolution to turn. And when he wheeled I knew that I looked upon the countenance of a man who had been broken on the wheel; and I was very much afraid. John Cather was splashed and streaked with the mud of the hills. 'Twas not this evidence of passionate wandering that alarmed me; 'twas his pallor and white lips, his agonized brows, the gloomy depth to which his bloodshot eyes had withdrawn. "Now," says he, "I want to look at you." I did not want to be looked at. "Sit up!" he commanded. I sat up in bed. "Put the blanket down," says he. "I have come, I say, to look at you." I uncovered to my middle. "And _this_," says he, "is the body of you, is it?" The lamp was moved close to my face. John Cather laughed, and began, in a way I may not set down, to comment upon me. 'Twas not agreeable. I tried to stop him. 'Twas unkind to me and 'twas most injurious to himself. He did us vile injustice. I stopped my ears against his raving, but could not shut it out. "And this is the body of you! This is the body of you!" Here was not the John Cather who had come to us clear-eyed and buoyant and kindly out of the great world; here was an evil John Cather--the John Cather of a new birth at Twist Tickle. 'Twas the man our land and hearts had made him; he had here among us come to his tragedy and was cast away. I knew that the change had been worked by love--and I wondered that love could accomplish the wreck of a soul. I tried to stop his ghastly laughter, to quiet his delirium of brutality; and presently he was still, but of exhaustion, not of shame. Again he brought the lamp close to my face, and read it, line upon line, until it seemed he could bear no longer to peruse it. What he saw there I do not know--what to give him hope or still to increase the depth of his hopelessness. He betrayed no feeling; but the memory of his pale despair continues with me to this day, and will to the end of my years. Love has never appeared to me in perfect beauty and gentleness since that night; it can wear an ugly guise, achieve a sinister purpose, I know. John Cather set the lamp on the table, moving in a preoccupation from which I had been cast out. "John Cather!" I called. My uncle shouted from below. "John!" I urged. "Parson," my uncle roared, "ye'll lose your passage!" Cather blew out the light. "John," I pleaded, "you'll not go without saying good-bye?" He stopped on the threshold; but I did not hear him turn. I called him again; he wheeled, came stumbling quickly to my bed, caught my hand. "Forgive me, Dannie!" he groaned. "My heart is broken!" He ran away: I never saw him again.... * * * * * And now, indeed, was the world gone all awry! What had in the morning of that day been a prospect of joy was vanished in a drear mist of broken hopes. Here was John Cather departed in sore agony, for which was no cure that ever I heard of or could conceive. Here was John Cather gone with the wreck of a soul. A cynical, purposeless, brooding life he must live to his last day: there was no healing in all the world for his despair. Here with us--to whom, in the years of our intercourse, he gave nothing but gladness--his ruin had been wrought. 'Twas not by wish of us; but there was small comfort in the reflection, since John Cather must suffer the same. Here was John Cather gone; and here, presently, was my uncle, pacing the floor below. Up and down, up and down: I thought the pat of his wooden leg would go on forever--would forever, by night and day, express the restlessness of thirst. And here was Judy, abroad, in trouble I could not now divine--'twas a thing most strange and disturbing that she should stand in distress before me. I had accounted for it, but could not now explain--not with John Cather gone. I was mystified, not agitated by alarms. I would meet the maid on the Whisper Cove road in the morning, thinks I, and resolve the puzzle. I would discover more than that. I would discover whether or not I had blundered. But this new hope, springing confidently though it did, could not thrive in the wretchedness of John Cather's departure. I was not happy. My uncle roughly awoke me at dawn. "Sir?" I asked. "Judy," says he, "haves disappeared." He held me until he perceived that I had commanded myself.... XXV TO SEA Judith had vanished! Our maid-servant, astir in the child's behalf before dawn, in her anxious way, was returned breathless from Whisper Cove with the report. There was no Judith with the wife of Moses Shoos: nor had there been that night. 'Twas still but gray abroad--a drear dawn: promising a belated, sullen day. We awoke the harbor to search the hills, the ledges of the cliffs, the surf-washed shore. 'Twas my uncle hither, the maid-servant thither, myself beyond. Clamorous knocking, sudden lights in the cottages, lights pale in the murky daylight, and a subdued gathering of our kind men-folk: I remember it all--the winged haste, the fright of them that were aroused, the shadows and the stumbling of the farther roads, the sickly, sleepy lights in the windows, the troubled dawn. We dispersed: day broadened, broke gray and glum upon Twin Islands--but discovered no lost maid to us. 'Twas whispered about, soon, that the women had spoken evil of Judith in our harbor; and pursuing this ill-omened rumor, in a rage I could not command, I came at last upon the shameful truth: the women had spoken scandal of the maid, the which she had learned from Aunt Esther All, the Whisper Cove gossip. The misfortune of gentle Parson Stump, poor man! who had in the ear of Eli Flack's wife uttered a sweetly jocular word concerning Judith and the honorable intention of John Cather, who walked with her alone on the roads, about his love-making. But, unhappily, the parson being absent-minded, 'twas into the dame's deaf ear he spoke, and his humor became, in transmission, by pure misfortune, an evil charge. There was then no help for it, old wives being what they are: authorized by the gentle parson, depending upon the report of a dame of character, the tittle-tattle spread and settled like a mist, defiling Judith to the remotest coves of Twin Islands. And Judith was vanished! I knew then, in the gray noon of that day, why the child had cried in that leafy nook of the Whisper Cove road that she could go nowhere. I cursed myself. "Stop, Dannie!" cries my uncle. "She's still on the hills--somewheres there, waitin' t' be sought out an' comforted an' fetched home." I thought otherwise. "She've lied down there," says he, "t' cry an' wait for me an' you." I watched him pace the garden-path. "An' I'm not able, the day, for sheer want o' rum," he muttered, "t' walk the hills." I looked away to the sombre hills, where she might lie waiting for him and me; but my glance ran far beyond, to the low, gray sky and to a patch of darkening sea. And I cursed myself again--my stupidity and ease of passion and the mean conceit of myself by which I had been misled to the falsely meek conclusion of yesterday--I cursed myself, indeed, with a live wish for punishment, in that I had not succored the maid when she had so frankly plead for my strength. John Cather? what right had I to think that she had loved him? On the hills? nay, she was not there; she was not on the hills, waiting for my uncle and me--she was gone elsewhere, conserving her independence and self-respect, in the womanly way she had. My uncle fancied she was a clinging child: I knew her for a proud and impulsively wilful woman. With this gossip abroad to flout her, she would never wait on the hills for my uncle and me: 'twas the ultimate pain she could not bear in the presence of such as loved and trusted her; 'twas the event she had feared, remembering her mother, all her life long, dwelling in sensitive dread, as I knew. She would flee the shame of this accusation, without fear or lingering, unable to call upon the faith of us. 'Twas gathering in my mind that she had fled north, as the maids of our land would do, in the spring, with the Labrador fleet bound down for the fishing. 'Twas a reasonable purpose to possess her aimless feet. She would ship on a Labradorman: she might, for the wishing--she would go cook on a north-bound craft from Topmast Harbor, as many a maid of our coast was doing. And by Heaven! thinks I, she had. Her mother's punt was gone from Whisper Cove. "She've lied down there on the hills," my uncle protested, "t' cry an' wait. Ye're not searchin', Dannie, as ye ought. She've _jus'_ lied down, I tell ye," he whimpered, "t' wait." 'Twas not so, I thought. "She've her mother's shame come upon her," says he, "an' she've hid." I wished it might be so. "Jus' lied down an' hid," he repeated. "No, no!" says I. "She'd never weakly hide her head from this." He eyed me. "Not Judith!" I expostulated. "She'd never bear her mother's shame, Dannie," says he. "She'd run away an' hide. She--she--_told_ me so." I observed my uncle: he was gone with the need of rum--exhausted and unnerved: his face all pallid and splotched. 'Twas a ghastly thing to watch him stump the gravelled walk of our garden in the gray light of that day. "Uncle Nicholas, sir," says I, for the moment forgetting the woe of Judith's hapless state in this new alarm, "do you come within an' have a dram." "Ye're not knowin' _how_ t' search," he complained. "Ye're but a pack o' dunderheads!" "Come, sir!" I pleaded. "Is ye been t' Skeleton Droch?" he demanded. "She've a habit o' readin' there. No!" he growled, in a temper; "you isn't had the _sense_ t' go t' Skeleton Droch." "A dram, sir," I ventured, "t' comfort you." "An' ye bide here, ye dunderhead!" he accused. I put my hand on his shoulder: he flung it off. I took his arm: he wrenched himself free in an indignant passion. "Ye're needin' it, sir," says I. "For God's sake, child!" he cried; "do you go find the maid an' leave me be. God knows I've trouble enough without ye!" The maid was not at Skeleton Droch: neither on the hills, nor in the hiding-places of the valleys, nor lying broken on the ledges of the cliffs, nor swinging in the sea beneath--nor was she anywhere on the land of Twin Islands or in the waters that restlessly washed the boundary of gray rock. 'Twas near evening now, and a dreary, angrily windy time. Our men gathered from shore and inland barren--and there was no Judith, nor cold, wet body of Judith, anywhere to be found. 'Twas unthinkingly whispered, then, that the maid had fled with John Cather on the mail-boat: this on Tom Tulk's Head, in its beginning, and swiftly passed from tongue to tongue. Being overwrought when I caught the surmise--'twas lusty young Jack Bluff that uttered it before me--I persuaded the youth of his error, which, upon rising, he admitted, as did they all of that group, upon my request, forgiving me, too, I think, the cruel abruptness of my argument, being men of feeling, every one. The maid was not gone with John Cather, she was not on the hills of Twin Islands; she was then fled to Topmast Harbor for self-support, that larger settlement, whence many Labradormen put out at this season for the northerly fishing. And while, sheltered from the rising wind, the kind men-folk of our harbor talked with my uncle and me on Eli Flack's stage, there came into the tickle from Topmast Harbor, in quest of water, a punt and a man, being bound, I think, for Jimmie Tick's Cove. 'Twas by him reported that a maid of gentle breeding had come alone in a punt to Topmast in the night. And her hair? says I. She had hair, and a wonderful sight of it, says he. And big, blue eyes? says I. She _had_ eyes, says he; an' she had a nose, so far as he could tell, which had clapped eyes on the maid, an' she had teeth an' feet, himself being able to vouch for the feet, which clipped it over the Topmast roads quite lively, soon after dawn, in search of a schooner bound down the Labrador. I knew then into what service the _Shining Light_ should be commissioned. "Ay, lad," says my uncle. "And will you ship, sir?" "Why, Lord love us, shipmate!" he roared, indignantly, to the amazement of our folk; "is ye thinkin' I'm past my labor?" I nodded towards Whisper Cove. "The man," he agreed. It came about thus that I sought out Moses Shoos, wishing for him upon this high adventure because of his chivalry. Nay, but in Twist Tickle, whatever the strength and courage and kindliness of our folk, there was no man so to be desired in a crucial emergency. The fool of the place was beyond purchase, beyond beseeching: kept apart by his folly from every unworthy motive to action. He was a man of pure leading, following a voice, a vision: I would have him upon this sacred adventure in search of the maid I loved. 'Twas no mean errand, no service to be paid for; 'twas a high calling--a ringing summons, it seemed to me, to perilous undertakings, rewarded by opportunity for peril in service of a fond, righteous cause. Nay, but I would have this unspoiled fool: I would have for companion the man who put his faith in visions, could I but win him. I believed in visions--in the deep, limpid, mysterious springs of conduct. I believed in visions--in the unreasoning progress, an advance in the way of life not calculated, but made in unselfish faith, with eyes lifted up from the vulgar, swarming, assailing advantages of existence. My uncle and the fool and I! there was no peril upon the sea to daunt us: we would find and fetch, to her own place, in perfect honor, the maid I loved. And of all this I thought, whatever the worth of it, as I ran upon the Whisper Cove road, in the evening of that gray, blustering day. Moses was within. "Here you is," he drawled. "I 'lowed you'd come. How's the weather?" "'Twill blow big guns, Moses," I answered; "and I'll not deceive you." "Well, well!" he sighed. And would he go with us? "I been waitin' for you, Dannie," says he. "I been sittin' here in the kitchen--waitin'." 'Twas a hopeful word. "If mother was here," he continued, "she'd have 'lowed I'd better wait. 'You wait for Dannie,' mother would have 'lowed, 'until he comes.' An' so I _been_ waitin'." Well, there I was. "That was on'y mother," he added; "an', o' course, I'm married now." Walrus Liz of the Labrador came in. I rose--and was pleasantly greeted. She sat, then, and effaced herself. "Mrs. Moses Shoos," says Moses, with a fond look upon that woman of ill-favor and infinite tenderness, "haves jus' _got_ t' be consulted." I was grown hopeless--remembering Tumm's story of the babies. "In a case like this," Moses confided, "mother always 'lowed a man _ought_ to." "But your wife?" I demanded. "Oh, my goodness, Dannie!" cries he. "For shame!" "Tell me quickly, Moses." "Mrs. Moses Shoos," he answered, with gravest dignity, "_always_ 'lows, agreein' with me--that _mother_ knowed!" 'Twas in this way that Moses Shoos shipped on the _Shining Light_.... * * * * * Shortly now, by an arrangement long made and persistently continued, we had the _Shining Light_ ready for sea--provisioned, her water-casks full. I ran through the house upon a last survey; and I found my uncle at the pantry door, his bag on his back, peering into the dark interior of the little room, in a way most melancholy and desirous, upon the long row of bottles of rum. He sighed, closed the door with scowling impatience, and stumped off to board the ship: I was not heroic, but subtracted one from that long row, and stowed it away in a bag I carried. We dropped the anchor of the _Shining Light_, and beat out, through the tickle, to the wide, menacing sea, with the night coming down and a gale of wind blowing lustily up from the gray northeast. 'Twas thus not in flight the _Shining Light_ continued her cruise, 'twas in pursuit of the maid I loved: a thing infinitely more anxious and momentous--a thing that meant more than life or death to me, with the maid gone as cook on a Labrador craft. 'Twas sunset time; but there was no sunset--no fire in the western sky: no glow or effulgent glory or lurid threat. The whole world was gone a dreary gray, with the blackness of night descending: a darkening zenith, a gray horizon lined with cold, black cloud, a coast without tender mercy for the ships of men, a black sea roughening in a rage to the northeast blasts. 'Twas all hopeless and pitiless: an unfeeling sea, but troubled, it seemed to me, by depths of woe and purpose and difficulty we cannot understand. We were bound for Topmast Harbor, on a wind favorable enough for courageous hearts; and my uncle had the wheel, and the fool of Twist Tickle and I kept the deck to serve him. He did not call upon us to shorten sail, in answer to the old schooner's complaint; and I was glad that he did not, as was the fool also.... * * * * * 'Twas night when we put into Topmast Harbor; but my uncle and the fool and I awoke the place without regard for its way-harbor importance or number of houses. There was no maid there, said they; there had been a maid, come at dawn, but she was fortunately shipped, as she wished to be. What maid was that? They did not know. Was she a slender, tawny-haired, blue-eyed, most beauteous maid? They did but sleepily stare. I found a man, awakened from sound slumber, who remembered: ay, there was a maid of that description, who had shipped for cook on the _Likely Lass_. And whence the _Likely Lass_? Bonavist' Bay, says he, put in for rest: a seventy-tonner, put out on the favoring wind. And was there another woman aboard? Ecod! he did not know: 'twas a craft likely enough for any maid, other woman aboard or not. And so we set out again, in the night, dodging the rocks of that tickle, by my uncle's recollection, and presently found ourselves bound north, in search of the _Likely Lass_, towards a sea that was bitter with cold and dark and wind, aboard a schooner that was far past the labor of dealing with gusts and great waves. And in the night it came on to blow very hard from the east, with a freezing sleet, which yet grew colder, until snow mixed with it, and at last came in stifling clouds. It blew harder: we drove on, submerged in racing froth to the hatches, sheathed in ice, riding on a beam, but my uncle, at the wheel, standing a-drip, in cloth of ice, as long ago he had stood, in the first of the cruise of the _Shining Light_, would have no sail off the craft, but humored her northward in chase of the _Likely Lass_. 'Twas a reeling, plunging, smothered progress through the breaking sea, in a ghostly mist of snow swirling in the timid yellow of our lights, shrouding us as if for death in the rush and seethe of that place. There was a rain of freezing spray upon us--a whipping rain of spray: it broke from the bows and swept past, stinging as it went. 'Twas as though the very night--the passion of it--congealed upon us. There was no reducing sail--not now, in this cold rage of weather. We were frozen stiff and white: 'twas on the course, with a clever, indulgent hand to lift us through, or 'twas founder in the crested waves that reached for us. "Dannie!" my uncle shouted. I sprang aft: but in the roar of wind and swish and thud of sea could not hear him. "Put your ear close," he roared. I heard that; and I put my anxious ear close. "I'm gettin' kind o' cold," says he. "Is ye got a fire in the cabin?" I had not. "Get one," says he. I got a fire alight in the cabin. 'Twas a red, roaring fire. I called my uncle from the cabin door. The old man gave the wheel to the fool and came below in a humor the most genial: he was grinning, indeed, under the crust of ice upon his beard; and he was rubbing his stiff hands in delight. He was fair happy to be abroad in the wind and sea with the _Shining Light_ underfoot. "Ye got it warm in here," says he. "I got more than that, sir," says I. "I got a thing to please you." Whereupon I fetched the bottle of rum from my bag. "Rum!" cries he. "Well, well!" I opened the bottle of rum. "Afore ye pours," he began, "I 'low I'd best--God's sake! What's that?" 'Twas a great sea breaking over us. "Moses!" my uncle hailed. The schooner was on her course: the fool had clung to the wheel. "Ice in that sea, Dannie," says my uncle. "An' ye got a bottle o' rum! Well, well! Wonderful sight o' ice t' the nor'ard. Ye'll find, I bet ye, that the fishin' fleet is cotched fast somewheres long about the straits. An' a bottle o' rum for a cold night! Well, well! I bet ye, Dannie," says he, "that the _Likely Lass_ is gripped by this time. An' ye got a bottle o' rum!" cries he, in a beaming fidget. "Rum's a wonderful thing on a cold night, lad. Nothin' like it. I've tried it. Was a time," he confided, "when I was sort o' give t' usin' of it." I made to pour him a dram. "Leave me hold that there bottle," says he. "I wants t' smell of it." 'Twas an eager sniff. "_'Tis_ rum," says he, simply. I raised the bottle above the glass. "Come t' think of it, Dannie," says he, with a wistful little smile, "that there bottle o' rum will do more good where you had it than where I'd put it." I corked the bottle and returned it to my bag. "That's good," he sighed; "that's very good!" I made him a cup o' tea.... When I got the wheel, with Moses Shoos forward and my uncle gone asleep below, 'twas near dawn. We were under reasonable sail, running blindly through the night: there were no heroics of carrying-on--my uncle was not the man to bear them. But we were frozen stiff--every block and rope of us. And 'twas then blowing up with angrier intention; and 'twas dark and very cold, I recall--and the air was thick with the dust of snow, so that 'twas hard to breathe. Congealing drops of spray came like bullets: I recall that they hurt me. I recall, too, that I was presently frozen to the deck, and that my mitts were stuck to the wheel--that I became fixed and heavy. The old craft had lost her buoyant will: she labored through the shadowy, ghostly crested seas, in a fashion the most weary and hopeless. I fancied I knew why: I fancied, indeed, that she had come close to her last harbor. And of this I soon made sure: I felt of her, just before the break of day, discovering, but with no selfish perturbation, that she was exhausted. I felt of her tired plunges, of the stagger of her, of her failing strength and will; and I perceived--by way of the wheel in my understanding hands--that she would be glad to abandon this unequal struggle of the eternal youth of the sea against her age and mortality. And the day broke; and with the gray light came the fool of Twist Tickle over the deck. 'Twas a sinister dawn: no land in sight--but a waste of raging sea to view--and the ship laden forward with a shameful burden of ice. Moses spoke: I did not hear him in the wind, because, I fancy, of the ice in my ear. "Don't hear ye!" I shouted. "She've begun t' leak!" he screamed. I knew that she had. "No use callin' the skipper," says he. "All froze up. Leave un sleep." I nodded. "Goin' down," says he. "Knowed she would." My uncle came on deck: he was smiling--most placid, indeed. "Well, well!" he shouted. "Day, eh?" "Leakin'," says Moses. "Well, well!" "Goin' down," Moses screamed. "Knowed she would," my uncle roared. "Can't last long in this. What's that?" 'Twas floe ice. "Still water," says he. "Leave me have that there wheel, Dannie. Go t' sleep!" I would stand by him. "Go t' sleep!" he commanded. "I'll wake ye afore she goes." I went to sleep: but the fool, I recall, beat me at it; he was in a moment snoring.... * * * * * When I awoke 'twas broad day--'twas, indeed, late morning. The _Shining Light_ was still. My uncle and the fool sat softly chatting over the cabin table, with breakfast and steaming tea between. I heard the roar of the wind, observed beyond the framing door the world aswirl and white; but I felt no laboring heave, caught no thud and swish of water. The gale, at any rate, had not abated: 'twas blowing higher and colder. My uncle gently laughed, when I was not yet all awake, and the fool laughed, too; and they ate their pork and brewis and sipped their tea with relish, as if abiding in security and ease. I would fall asleep again: but got the smell of breakfast in my nose, and must get up; and having gone on deck I found in the narrow, white-walled circle of the storm a little world of ice and writhing space. The _Shining Light_ was gripped: her foremast was snapped, her sails hanging stiff and frozen; she was listed, bedraggled, incrusted with ice--drifted high with snow. 'Twas the end of the craft: I knew it. And I went below to my uncle and the fool, sad at heart because of this death, but wishing very much, indeed, for my breakfast. 'Twas very warm and peaceful in the cabin, with pork and brewis on the table, my uncle chuckling, the fire most cheerfully thriving. I could hear the wind--the rage of it--but felt no stress of weather. "Stove in, Dannie," says my uncle. "She'll sink when the ice goes abroad." I asked for my fork. "Fill up," my uncle cautioned. "Ye'll need it afore we're through." 'Twas to this I made haste. "More pork than brewis, lad," he advised. "Pork takes more grindin'." I attacked the pork. "I got your bag ready," says he. Then I had no cause to trouble.... * * * * * 'Twas deep night, the gale still blowing high with snow, when the wind changed. It ran to the north--shifted swiftly to the west. The ice-pack stirred: we felt the schooner shiver, heard the tumult of warning noises, as that gigantic, lethargic mass was aroused to unwilling motion by the lash of the west wind. The hull of the _Shining Light_ collapsed. 'Twas time to be off. I awoke the fool--who had still soundly slept. The fool would douse the cabin fire, in a seemly way, and put out the lights; but my uncle forbade him, having rather, said he, watch the old craft go down with a warm glow issuing from her. Presently she was gone, all the warmth and comfort and hope of the world expiring in her descent: there was no more a _Shining Light_; and we three folk were cast away on a broad pan of ice, in the midst of night and driving snow. Of the wood they had torn from the schooner against this time, the fool builded a fire, beside which we cowered from the wind; and soon, the snow failing and the night falling clear and starlit, points of flickering light appeared on the ice beyond us. There were three, I recall, diminishing in the distance; and I knew, then, what I should do in search of Judith when the day came. Three schooners cast away beyond us; one might be the _Likely Lass_: I would search for Judith, thinks I, when day came. 'Twas very long in coming, and 'twas most bitter cold and discouraging in its arrival: a thin, gray light, with no hopeful hue of dawn in the east--frosty, gray light, spreading reluctantly over the white field of the world to a black horizon. I wished, I recall, while I waited for broader day, that some warm color might appear to hearten us, some tint, however pale and transient, to recall the kindlier mood of earth to us; and there came, in answer to my wishing, a flush of rose in the east, which waxed and endured, spreading its message, but failed, like a lamp extinguished, leaving the world all sombre and inimical, as it had been. I must now be off alone upon my search: my wooden-legged uncle could not travel the ice--nor must the fool abandon him. "I 'lowed ye would, lad," says he, "like any other gentleman." I bade them both good-bye. "Three schooners cast away t' the nor'ard," says he. "I'm hopin' ye'll find the _Likely Lass_. Good-bye, Dannie. I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Good-bye, Dannie." I was moved away now: but halted, like a dog between two masters. "Good-bye!" he shouted. "God bless ye, Dannie--God bless ye!" I turned away. "God bless ye!" came faintly after me. That night I found Judith with the crew of the _Likely Lass_, sound asleep, her head lying, dear child! on the comfortable breast of the skipper's wife. And she was very glad, she said, that I had come.... XXVI THE DEVIL'S TEETH 'Twill not, by any one, be hard to recall that the great gale of that year, blowing unseasonably with snow, exhausted itself in three days, leaving the early birds of the Labrador fleet, whose northward flitting had been untimely, wrecked and dispersed upon the sea. In the reaction of still, blue weather we were picked up by the steamer _Fortune_, a sealing-craft commissioned by the government for rescue when surmise of the disaster grew large; but we got no word of my uncle and the fool of Twist Tickle until the fore-and-after _Every Time_ put into St. John's with her flag flying half-mast in the warm sunshine. 'Twas said that she had the bodies of men aboard: and 'twas a grewsome truth--and the corpses of women, too, and of children. She brought more than the dead to port: she brought the fool, and the living flesh and spirit of my uncle--the old man's body ill-served by the cold, indeed, but his soul, at sight of me, springing into a blaze as warm and strong and cheerful as ever I had known. 'Twas all he needed, says he, t' work a cure: the sight of a damned little grinnin' Chesterfieldian young gentleman! Whatever the actual effect of this genteel spectacle, my uncle was presently on his feet again, though continuing much broken in vigor; and when he was got somewhat stronger we set out for Twist Tickle, to which we came, three days later, returning in honor to our own place. The folk were glad that we were all come back to them.... * * * * * I loved Judith: I loved the maid with what exalted wish soul and body of me understood--conceiving her perfect in every grace and spiritual adornment: a maid lifted like a star above the hearts of the world. I considered my life, and counted it unworthy, as all lives must be before her: I considered my love, but found no spot upon it. I loved the maid: and was now grown to be a man, able, in years and strength and skill of mind and hand, to cherish her; and I would speak to her of this passion and dear hope, but must not, because of the mystery concerning me. There came, then, an evening when I sought my uncle out to question him; 'twas a hushed and compassionate hour, I recall, the sunset waxing glorious above the remotest sea, and the night creeping with gentle feet upon the world, to spread its soft blanket of shadows. I remembered the gray stranger's warning. "Here I is, lad," cries my uncle, with an effort at heartiness, which, indeed, had departed from him, and would not come again. "Here I is--havin' a little dram o' rum with Nature!" 'Twas a draught of salt air he meant. "Dannie," says he, in overwhelming uneasiness, his voice become hoarse and tremulous, "ye got a thing on your mind!" I found him very old and ill and hopeless; 'twas with a shock that the thing came home to me: the man was past all labor of the hands, got beyond all ships and winds and fishing--confronting, now, with an anxious heart, God knows! a future of dependence, for life and love, upon the lad he had nourished to the man that was I. I remembered, again, the warning of that gray personage who had said that my contempt would gather at this hour; and I thought, as then I had in boyish faith most truly believed, that I should never treat my uncle with unkindness. 'Twas very still and glowing and beneficent upon the sea; 'twas not an hour, thinks I, whatever the prophecy concerning it, for any pain to come upon us. My uncle was fallen back in a great chair, on a patch of greensward overlooking the sea, to which he had turned his face; and 'twas a kindly prospect that lay before his aged eyes--a sweep of softest ocean, walled with gentle, drifting cloud, wherein were the fool's great Gates, wide open to the glory beyond. "I'm wishing, sir," said I, "to wed Judith." "'Tis a good hope," he answered. I saw his hand wander over the low table beside him: I knew what it sought--and that by his will and for my sake it must forever seek without satisfaction. "Sir," I implored, "I've no heart to ask her!" He did not answer. "And you know why, sir," I accused him. "You know why!" "Dannie," says he, "ye've wished for this hour." "And I am ready, sir." He drew then from his pocket a small Bible, much stained and wrinkled by water, which he put on the table between us. "Dannie, lad," says he, "do ye now go t' your own little room, where ye was used t' lyin', long ago, when ye was a little lad." He lifted himself in the chair, turned upon me--his eyes frankly wet. "Do ye go there," says he, "an' kneel, like ye used t' do in the days when ye was but a little child, an' do ye say, once again, for my sake, Dannie, the twenty-third psa'm." I rose upon this holy errand. "'_The Lord is my shepherd,_'" my uncle repeated, looking away to the fool's great Gates, "'_I shall not want._'" That he should not. "'_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters._'" And so it should be. "Dannie," my uncle burst out, flashing upon me with a twinkle, as when I was a lad, "I 'low I've fetched ye up very well: for say what ye will, 'twas a wonderful little anchor I give ye t' hold to!" * * * * * I went then to the little bed where as a child I lay waiting for sleep to come bearing fairy dreams. 'Twas still and dusky in the room: the window, looking out upon the wide, untroubled waters, was a square of glory; and the sea whispered melodiously below, as it had done long, long ago, when my uncle fended my childish heart from all the fears of night and day. I looked out upon the waste of sea and sky and rock, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working, clouds in embers, cliffs and water turning to shadows; and I was comforted by this returning beauty. I repeated the twenty-third psalm, according to my teaching, reverently kneeling, as I was bid; and my heart responded, as it has never failed to do. I remembered: I remembered the windless dusks and fresh winds and black gales through which as a child I had here serenely gone to sleep because my uncle sat awake and watchful below. I remembered his concern and diffident caresses in the night when I had called to him to come: I remembered all that he had borne and done to provide the happiness and welfare he sought in loving patience to give the child he had. Once again, as when I was a child, the sea and sunset took my soul as a harp to stir with harmonious chords of faith; and I was not disquieted any more--nor in any way troubled concerning the disclosure of that black mystery in which I had thrived to this age of understanding. And 'twas in this mood--this grateful recollection of the multitudinous kindnesses of other years--that I got up from my knees to return to my uncle. "Dannie," says he, having been waiting, it seemed, to tell me this, first of all, "ye'll remember--will ye not?--for your guidance an' comfort, that 'tis not a tie o' blood betwixt you an' ol' Nick Top. He's no kin t' shame ye: he's on'y a chance acquaintance." The tale began at the waning of the evening glory.... * * * * * "Your father an' me, lad," said my uncle, "was shipmates aboard the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_ when she was cast away in a nor'east gale on the Devil's Teeth, near twenty year ago: him bein' the master an' me but a hand aboard. How old is you now, Dannie? Nineteen? Well, well! You was but six months come from above, lad, when that big wind blowed your father's soul t' hell; an' your poor mother was but six months laid away. We was bound up from the Labrador that night, with a cargo o' dry fish, picked up 'long shore in haste, t' fill out a foreign bark at Twillingate. 'Twas late in the fall o' the year, snow in the wind, the sea heapin' up in mountains, an' the night as black as a wolf's throat. Your father was crowdin' on, Dannie, in the way he had, bein' a wonderful driver, an' I 'lowed he was fetchin' too close t' the Harborless Shore for safety; but I wouldn't tell un so, lad, for I didn't know un so well as I knows you, bein' on'y a hand aboard, ye see, with a word or two t' le'ward of what ye might call a speakin' acquaintance with the skipper. I 'lowed he'd strike the Rattler; but he cleared the Rattler, by good luck, an' fetched up at dawn on the Devil's Teeth, a mean, low reef o' them parts, where the poor _Will-o'-the-Wisp_ broke her back an' went on in splinters with the sea an' wind. 'Twas over soon, Dannie; 'twas all over soon, by kindness o' Providence: the ol' craft went t' pieces an' was swep' on t' le'ward by the big black waves." In the pause my uncle's hand again searched the low table for the glass that was not there. "I'm not wantin' t' tell ye," he muttered. I would not beg him to stop. "Me an' your father, Dannie," he continued, presently, dwelling upon the quiet sunset, now flaring with the last of its fire, "somehow cotched a grip o' the rock. 'Twas a mean reef t' be cast away on, with no dry part upon it: 'twas near flush with the sea, an' flat an' broad an' jagged, slimy with sea-weed; an' 'twas washed over by the big seas, an' swam in the low roll o' the black ones. I 'low, Dannie, that I was never afore cotched in such a swirl an' noise o' waters. 'Twas wonderful--the thunder an' spume an' whiteness o' them big waves in the dawn! An' 'twas wonderful--the power o' them--the wolfish way they'd clutch an' worry an' drag! 'Twas a mean, hard thing t' keep a grip on that smoothed rock; but I got my fingers in a crack o' the reef, an' managed t' hold on, bein' stout an' able, an' sort of savage for life--in them old days. Afore long, your poor father crep' close, lad, an' got his fingers in the same crack. 'Twas all done for you, Dannie, an' ye'll be sure t' bear it in mind--will ye not?--when ye thinks o' the man hereafter. I seed the big seas rub un on the reef, an' cut his head, an' break his ribs, as he come crawlin' towards me. 'Twas a long, long time afore he reached the place. Ye'll not forget it--will ye lad?--ye'll surely not forget it when ye thinks o' the man that was your father." I looked at the sward, soft and green with summer, and roundabout upon the compassionate shadows of evening. "'Nick,' says your father," my uncle continued, "'does ye hear them men?' "They was all gone down, poor souls! I knowed. "'Nine men o' the crew,' says he, 'drownin' there t' le'ward.' "'Twas o' Mary Luff's son I thought, that poor lad! for I'd fetched un on the v'y'ge. "'I hear un callin',' says he. "'Twas but a fancy: they was no voices o' them drowned men t' le'ward. "'Nick,' says he, 'I didn't mean t' wreck her here. I was 'lowin' t' strike the Long Cliff, where they's a chance for a man's life. Does ye hear me, Nick?' says he. 'I didn't mean t' do it _here_!' "'Skipper,' says I, 'was ye meanin' t' wreck that there ship?' "'Not here,' says he. "'Was ye meanin' t' _do_ it?' says I." My uncle paused. "Go on, sir," said I. "Dannie," said he, "they come, then, three big seas, as seas will; an' I 'low"--he touched the crescent scar--"I got this here about that time." 'Twas quite enough for me. "'Skipper,' says I," my uncle continued, "'what did ye go an' do it for?' "'I got a young one t' St. John's,' says he. "''Tis no excuse,' says I. "'Ay,' says he, 'but I was 'lowin' t' make a gentleman of un. He's the on'y one I got,' says he, 'an' his mother's dead.' "''Twas no way t' go about it,' says I. "'Ye've no lad o' your own,' says he, 'an' ye don't know. They was a pot o' money in this, Top,' says he. 'I was 'lowin' t' make a gentleman o' my young one an I lived through; but I got t' go--I got t' go t' hell an' leave un. They's ice in these big seas,' says he, 'an I've broke my left arm, an' can't stand it much longer. But you'll live it out, Top; you'll live it out--I knows ye will. The wind's gone t' the nor'west, an' the sea's goin' down; an' they'll be a fleet o' Labrador craft up the morrow t' pick you up. An' I was 'lowin', Top,' says he, 'that you'd take my kid an' fetch un up as his mother would have un grow. They isn't no one else t' do it,' says he, 'an' I was 'lowin' you might try. I've broke my left arm,' says he, 'an' got my fingers froze, or I'd live t' do it myself. They's a pot o' money in this, Top,' says he. 'You tell the owner o' this here ship,' says he, 'an' he'll pay--he've got t' pay!' "I had no wish for the task, Dannie--not bein' much on nursin' in them days. "'I got t' go t' hell for this, Top,' says your father, 'an' I 'lowed ye'd ease the passage.' "'Skipper, sir,' says I, 'is ye not got a scrap o' writin'?' "He fetched out this here little Bible. "'Top,' says he, 'I 'lowed I'd have a writin' t' make sure, the owner o' this here ship bein' on'y a fish speculator; an' I got it in this Bible.' "'Then,' says I, 'I'll take that young one, Tom Callaway, if I weathers this here mess.' "'Ay,' says he, 'but I'm not wishin' t' go t' hell for _that_.' "'Twas come broad day now. "'An I'm but able, Tom Callaway,' says I, 'I'll make a gentleman of un t' ease your pains.' "'Would ye swear it?' says he. "I put my hand on the Book; an' I knowed, Dannie, when I made ready t' take that oath, out there on the Devil's Teeth, that I'd give my soul t' hell for the wickedness I must do. I done it with my eyes wide open t' the burden o' evil I must take up; an' 'twas sort o' hard t' do, for I was by times a Christian man, Dannie, in them ol' days, much sot on church an' prayer an' the like o' that. But I seed that your poor father was bent on makin' a gentleman out o' you t' please your dead mother's wishes, an' I 'lowed, havin' no young un o' my own, that I _didn't_ know much about the rights of it; an' I knowed he'd suffer forever the pains o' hell for what he done, whatever come of it, an' I 'lowed 'twould be a pity t' have the murder o' seven poor men go t' waste for want o' one brave soul t' face the devil. 'Nick,' thinks I, while your father, poor, doomed man! watched me--I can see here in the dusk the blood an' water on his white face--'Nick,' thinks I, 'an you was one o' them seven poor, murdered men, ye'd want the price o' your life paid t' that wee young one. From heaven or hell, Nick, accordin' t' which place ye harbored in,' thinks I, 'ye'd want t' watch that little life grow, an' ye'd like t' say t' yourself, when things went ill with ye,' thinks I, 'that the little feller ye died for was thrivin', anyhow, out there on earth.' An' I 'lowed, for your wee sake, Dannie, an' for the sake o' the seven poor, murdered men, whose wishes I read in the dead eyes that looked into mine, an' for the sake o' your poor, fond father, bound soon for hell, that I'd never let the comfort o' my mean soul stand in the way o' fetchin' good t' your little life out o' all this woe an' wickedness. I 'lowed, Dannie, then an' there, on the Devil's Teeth, that could I but manage to endure, I'd stand by your little body an' soul t' the end, whatever become o' me." 'Twas but a tale my uncle told: 'twas not an extenuation--not a plea. "'Tide's risin', Nick,' says your father. 'I can't stand it much longer with my broken arm an' froze fingers. Nick,' says he, 'will ye swear?' "I was afraid, Dannie, t' swear it. "'Won't ye?' says he. 'He've his mother's eyes--an' he'll be a wonderful good lad t' you.' "I couldn't, Dannie. "'For God's sake, Nick!' says he, 'swear it, an' ease my way t' hell.' "'I swear!' says I. "'Then,' says he, 'you turn the screws on the owner o' that there ship. The writin' is all you needs. You make a gentleman o' my lad, God bless un! accordin' t' the wishes of his mother. Give un the best they is in Newf'un'land. Nothin' too good in all the world for Dannie. You bear in mind, Nick,' says he, 'that I'm roastin' in hell,' says he, '_payin_' for his education!'" My uncle's hand approached the low table, but was in impatience withdrawn; and the old man looked away--northward: to the place, far distant, where the sea still washed the Devil's Teeth. "I've bore it in mind," he muttered. Ay! and much more than that: the wreck of his own great soul upon my need had clouded twenty years of life with blackest terror of the unending pains of perdition. "'Tis a lovely evening, Dannie," he sighed. "'Tis so still an' kind an' beautiful. I've often 'lowed, in weather like this, with the sea at peace an' a red sky givin' promise o' mercy for yet one day," said he, "that I'd like t' live forever--jus' live t' fish an' be an' hope." "I wisht ye might!" I cried. "An' t' watch ye grow, Dannie," said he, turning suddenly upon me, his voice fallen low and tremulous with affectionate feeling and pride. "Life," says he, so earnestly that I was made meek by the confession, "held nothin' at all for me but the Christian hope o' heaven until ye came; an' then, when I got ye, 'twas filled full o' mortal, unselfish, better aims. I've loved ye well, lad, in my own delight," says he. "I've loved ye in a wishful way," he repeated, "quite well." I was humble in this presence.... * * * * * "Your father," my uncle resumed, "couldn't stand the big seas. I cotched un by the jacket, an' held un with me, so long as I was able, though he 'lowed I might as well let un go t' hell, without drawin' out the fear o' gettin there. 'On'y a minute or two, Nick,' says he. 'Ye might as well let me get there. I'm cold, froze up, an' they's more ice comin' with this sea,' says he; 'they was a field o' small ice up along about the Sissors,' says he, 'an' I 'low it haves come down with the nor'east wind. The sea,' says he, 'will be full of it afore long. Ye better let me go,' says he. ''Tisn't by any means pleasant here, an' the on'y thing I wants, now that ye've took the oath,' says he, 'is t' get warm. Ye better let me go. I got t' go, anyhow,' says he, 'an' a hour or two don't make no difference.' An' so, with the babe that was you in mind, an' with my life t' save for your sake, I let un go t' le'ward, where the seven murdered men had gone down drowned. 'Twas awful lonesome without un, when the tide got high an' the seas was mean with chunks o' ice. Afore that," my uncle intensely declared, "I was admired o' water-side widows, on account o' looks; but," says he, touching his various disfigurements, "I was broke open here, an' I was broke open there, by bein' rubbed on the rocks an' clubbed by the ice at high-tide. When I was picked up by Tumm, o' the _Quick as Wink_ (bein' bound up in fish), I 'lowed I might as well leave the cook, which is now dead, have his way with the butcher-knife an' sail-needle; an' so I come t' St. John's as ye sees me now, not a wonderful sight for looks, with my leg an' fingers gone, but ready, God knows! t' stand by the young un I was livin' t' take an' rear. Ye had been, all through it, Dannie," he added, simply, "the thing that made me hold on; for when your father was gone t' le'ward, an' I begun t' think o' ye, a wee babe t' St. John's, I got t' love ye, lad, as I've loved ye ever since. "'Tis a lovely evening," he added; "'tis a wonderful civil and beautiful time, with all them clouds, like coals o' fire, in the west." 'Twas that: an evening without guile or menace--an hour most compassionate. "The owner o' the _Will-o'-the-Wisp_," says my uncle, "wasn't no Honorable in them days; he was but a St. John's fish speculator with a taste for low politics. But he've become a Honorable since, on the fortune he've builded from that wreck, an' he's like t' end a knight o' the realm, if he've money enough t' carry on an' marry the widow he's after. 'Twas not hard t' deal with un--leastways, 'twas not hard when I loaded with rum, which I was used t' doin', Dannie, as ye know, afore I laid 'longside of un in the wee water-side place he'd fetch the money to. No, no! 'Twas not easy: I'd not have ye think it--'twas hard, 'twas bitter hard, Dannie, t' be engaged in that dirty business. I'd not have ye black your soul with it; an' I was 'lowin, Dannie, afore the parson left us, t' teach un how t' manage the Honorable, t' tell un about the liquor an' the bluster, t' show un how t' scare the Honorable on the Water Street pavement, t' teach un t' threaten an' swear the coward's money from his pocket, for I wasn't wantin' _you_, Dannie, t' know the trial an' wickedness o' the foul deed, bein' in love with ye too much t' have ye spoiled by sin. I 'low I had that there young black-an'-white parson near corrupted: I 'low I had un worked up t' yieldin' t' temptation, lad, when he up an' left us, along o' Judy. An' there's the black-an'-white parson, gone God knows where! an' here's ol' Nick Top, sittin' on the grass at evenin', laid by the heels all along o' two days o' wind on the ice!" "And so you brought me up?" says I. "Ay, Dannie," he answered, uneasily; "by blackmail o' the Honorable. I got t' go t' hell for it, but I've no regrets on that account," says he, in a muse, "for I've loved ye well, lad; an' as I sit here now, lookin' back, I knows that God was kind t' give me you t' work an' sin for. I'll go t' hell--ay, I'll go t' hell! Ye must never think, lad, when I gets down there, that I'm sorry for what I done. I'll not be sorry--not even in hell--for I'll think o' the years when you was a wee little lad, an' I'll be content t' remember. An' do you go away, now, lad," he added, "an' think it over. Ye'll not judge me now; ye'll come back, afore long, an' then judge me." I moved to go. "Dannie!" he called. I turned. "I've gone an' tol' Judy," says he, "lest she learn t' love ye for what ye was not." 'Twas no matter to me.... * * * * * This, then, was the heart of my mystery! I had been fed and adorned and taught and reared in luxury by the murder of seven men and the merciless blackmail of an ambitious villain. What had fed me, warmed me, clothed me had been the product of this horrible rascality. And my father was the murderer, whom I had dreamed a hero, and my foster-father was the persecutor, whom I had loved for his kindly virtue. And paid for!--all paid for in my father's crime and damnation. This--all this--to make a gentleman of the ill-born, club-footed young whelp of a fishing skipper! I laughed as I walked away from this old Nick Top: laughed to recall my progress through these nineteen years--the proud, self-righteous stalking of my way. 'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, thinks I, with my rings and London clothes, in the presence of the Honorable, with whom I had dealt in pride and anger! 'Twas a pretty figure I had cut, all my life--the whelp of a ruined, prostituted skipper: the issue of a murderous barratry! What protection had the defenceless child that had been I against these machinations? What protest the boy, growing in guarded ignorance? What appeal the man in love, confronted by his origin and shameful fostering? Enraged by this, what I thought of my uncle's misguided object and care I may not here set down, because of the bitterness and injustice of the reflections; nay, but I dare not recall the mood and wicked resentment of that time. And presently I came to the shore of the sea, where I sat down on the rock, staring out upon the waters. 'Twas grown dark then, of a still, religious night, with the black sea lapping the rocks, infinitely continuing in restlessness, and a multitude of stars serenely twinkling in the uttermost depths of the great sky. 'Twas of this I thought, I recall, but cannot tell why: that the sea was forever young, unchanging in all the passions of youth, from the beginning of time to the end of it; that the mountains were lifted high, of old, passionless, inscrutable, of unfeeling snow and rock, dwelling above the wish of the world; that the sweep of prairie, knowing no resentment, was fruitful to the weakest touch; that the forests fell without complaint; that the desert, hopeless, aged, contemptuous of the aspirations of this day, was of immutable bitterness, seeking some love long lost to it nor ever to be found again; but that the sea was as it had been when God poured it forth--young and lusty and passionate--the only thing in all the fleeting world immune from age and death and desuetude. 'Twas strange enough; but I knew, thank God! when the rocking, crooning sea took my heart as a harp in its hands, that all the sins and errors of earth were of creative intention and most beautiful, as are all the works of the God of us all. Nay, but, thinks I, the sins of life are more lovely than the righteous accomplishments. Removed by the starlit sky, wherein He dwells--removed because of its tender distance and beauty and placidity, because of its compassion and returning gift of faith, removed by the vast, feeling territory of sensate waters, whereupon He walks, because they express, eternally, His wrath and loving kindness--carried far away, in the quiet night, I looked back, and I understood, as never before--nor can I ever hope to know again--that God, being artist as we cannot be, had with the life of the world woven threads of sin and error to make it a pattern of supernal beauty, that His purpose might be fulfilled, His eyes delighted. And 'twas with the healing of night and starry sky and the soft lullaby of the sea upon my spirit--'twas with this wide, clear vision of life, the gift of understanding, as concerned its exigencies--that I arose and went to my uncle.... * * * * * I met Judith on the way: the maid was hid, waiting for me, in the deep shadow of the lilacs and the perfume of them, which I shall never forget, that bordered the gravelled path of our garden. "You've come at last," says she. "He've been waiting for you--out there in the dark." "Judith!" says I. She came confidingly close to me. "I've a word to say to you, maid," says I. "An' you're a true man?" she demanded. "'Tis a word," says I, "that's between a man an' a maid. 'Tis nothing more." She held me off. "An' you're true," she demanded, "to them that have loved you?" "As may or may not appear," I answered. "Ah, Dannie," she whispered, "I cannot doubt you!" I remember the scent of the lilacs--I remember the dusk--the starlit sky. "I have a word," I repeated, "to say to you." "An' what's that?" says she. "'Tis that I wish a kiss," says I. She put up her dear red lips. "Ay," says I, "but 'tis a case of no God between us. You know what I am and have been. I ask a kiss." Her lips still invited me. "I love you, Judith," says I, "and always have." Her lips came closer. "I would be your husband," I declared. "Kiss me, Dannie," she whispered. "And there is no God," says I, "between us?" "There is no God," she answered, "against us." I kissed her. "You'll do it again, will you not?" says she. "I'll kiss your sweet tears," says I. "I'll kiss un away." "Then kiss my tears." I kissed them away. "That's good," says she; "that's very good. An' now?" "I'll speak with my uncle," says I, "as you knowed I would." I sought my uncle. "Sir," says I, "where's the writing?" "'Tis in your father's Bible," he answered. I got it from the Book and touched a flaring match to it. "'Tis the end of _that_, sir," says I. "You an' me, sir," says I, "will be shipmates to the end of the voyage." He rose. "You're not able, sir," says I. "I is!" he declared. 'Twas with difficulty he got to his feet, but he managed it; and then he turned to me, though I could see him ill enough in the dark. "Dannie, lad," says he, "I 'low I've fetched ye up very well. Ye is," says he, "a--" "Hush!" says I; "don't say it." "I will!" says he. "Don't!" I pleaded. "You _is_," he declared, "a gentleman!" The night and the abominable revelations of it were ended for my uncle and me in this way.... * * * * * And so it came about that the Honorable was troubled no more by our demands, whatever the political necessities that might assail him, whatever the sins of other days, the black youth of him, that might fairly beset and harass him. He was left in peace, to follow his career, restored to the possessions my uncle had wrested from him, in so far as we were able to make restitution. There was no more of it: we met him afterwards, in genial intercourse, but made no call upon his moneybags, as you may well believe. My uncle and I made a new partnership: that of Top & Callaway, of which you may have heard, for the honesty of our trade and the worth of the schooners we build. He is used to taking my hand, upon the little finger of which I still wear the seal-ring he was doubtful of in the days when Tom Bull inspected it. "A D for Dannie," says he, "an' a C for Callaway, an' betwixt the two," says he, "lyin' snug as you like, is a T for Top! An' that's the way I lies," says he, "ol' Top betwixt the Dannie an' the Callaway. An' as for the business in trade an' schooners that there little ol' damned Chesterfieldian young Dannie haves builded from a paddle-punt, with Judy t' help un," says he, "why don't ye be askin' me!" And the business I have builded is good, and the wife I have is good, and the children are good. I have no more to wish for than my uncle and wife and children. 'Tis a delight, when the day's work is done, to sit at table, as we used to do when I was a child, with the geometrical gentleman framed in their tempestuous sea beyond, and to watch my uncle, overcome by Judith's persuasion, in his old age, sip his dram o' hot rum. The fire glows, and the maid approves, and my uncle, with his ailing timber comfortably bestowed, beams largely upon us. "Jus' a nip," says he. "Jus' a wee nip o' the best Jamaica afore I goes t' bed." I pour the dram. "For the stomach's sake, Dannie," says he, with a gravity that twinkles against his will, "accordin' t' the Apostle." And we are glad that he has that wee nip o' rum t' comfort him.... * * * * * 'Twas blowing high to-day. Tumm, of the _Quick as Wink_, beat into harbor for shelter. 'Twas good to know that the genial fellow had come into Twist Tickle. I boarded him. 'Twas very dark and blustering and dismally cold at that time. The schooner was bound down to the French shore and the ports of the Labrador. I had watched the clouds gather and join and forewarn us of wind. 'Twas an evil time for craft to be abroad, and I was glad that Tumm was in harbor. "Ecod!" says he, "I been up t' see the fool. They've seven," says he. "Ecod! think o' that! I 'low Walrus Liz o' Whoopin' Harbor got all she wanted. Seven!" cries he. "Seven kids! Enough t' stock a harbor! An' they's talk o' one o' them," says he, "bein' trained for a parson." I think the man was proud of his instrumentality. "I've jus' come from the place," says he, "an' he've seven, all spick an' span," says he, "all shined an' polished like a cabin door-knob!" I had often thought of it, and now dwelt upon it when I left him. I remembered the beginnings of our lives, and I knew that out of the hopelessness some beauty had been wrought, in the way of the God of us all: which is the moral of my tale. "Think o' that!" cries Tumm, of the _Quick as Wink_. I did think of it. "Think o' that!" he repeated. I had left Tumm below. I was alone. The night was still black and windy; but of a sudden, as I looked up, the clouds parted, and from the deck of the _Quick as Wink_ I saw, blind of vision as I was, that high over the open sea, hung in the depth and mystery of space, there was a star.... THE END 
4019	----	THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD The Story of the Exploring Expedition Conducted by Leonidas Hubbard, Jr. by Dillon Wallace L.H. Here, b'y, is the issue of our plighted troth. Why I am the scribe and not you, God knows: and you have his secret. D.W. "There's no sense in going further--it's the edge of cultivation," So they said, and I believed it... Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" --Kipling's "The Explorer." PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION Three years have passed since Hubbard and I began that fateful journey into Labrador of which this volume is a record. A little more than a year has elapsed since the first edition of our record made its appearance from the press. Meanwhile I have looked behind the ranges. Grand Lake has again borne me upon the bosom of her broad, deep waters into the great lonely wilderness that lured Hubbard to his death. It was a day in June last year that found me again at the point where some inexplicable fate had led Hubbard and me to pass unexplored the bay that here extends northward to receive the Nascaupee River, along which lay the trail for which we were searching, and induced us to take, instead, that other course that carried us into the dreadful Susan Valley. How vividly I saw it all again--Hubbard resting on his paddle, and then rising up for a better view, as he said, "Oh, that's just a bay and it isn't worth while to take time to explore it. The river comes in up here at the end of the lake. They all said it was at the end of the lake." And we said, "Yes, it is at the end of the lake; they all said so," and went on, for that was before we knew--Hubbard never knew. A perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a paddle would have set us right. No current was noticed, no word was spoken, and the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder, where Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for us. How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then. That July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before. I believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment. I never felt his loss so keenly as then. An almost irresistible impulse seized me to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where we had left him that stormy October day and find if he were not after all still there and waiting for me to come back to him. Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside. Armed with the experience gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of the Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred miles to the storm-swept shores of Ungava Bay, and two thousand miles with dog sledge over endless reaches of ice and snow. While I struggled northward with new companions, Hubbard was always with me to inspire and urge me on. Often and often at night as I sat, disheartened and alone, by the camp-fire while the rain beat down and the wind soughed drearily through the firtops, he would come and sit by me as of old, and as of old I would hear his gentle voice and his words of encouragement. Then I would go to my blankets with new courage, resolved to fight the battle to the end. One day our camp was pitched upon the shores of Lake Michikamau, and as I looked for the first time upon the waters of the lake which Hubbard had so longed to reach, I lived over again that day when he returned from his climb to the summit of the great grey mountain which now bears his name, with the joyful news that there just behind the ridge lay Michikamau; then the weary wind-bound days that followed and the race down the trail with all its horrors; our kiss and embrace; and my final glimpse of the little white tent in which he lay. And so with the remembrance of his example as an inspiration the work was finished by me, the survivor, but to Hubbard and to his memory belong the credit and the honour, for it was only through my training with him and this inspiration received from him that I was able to carry to successful completion what he had so well planned. My publishers inform me that five editions of our story have found their way into the hearts and homes of those who cannot visit the great northern wilds, but who love to hear about them. I shall avail myself of this opportunity to thank these readers for the kindly manner in which they have received the book. This reception of it has been especially gratifying to me because of the lack of confidence I had in my ability to tell the story of Hubbard's life and glorious death as I felt it should be told. The writing of the story was a work of love. I wished not only to fulfil my last promise to my friend to write the narrative of his expedition, but I wished also to create a sort of memorial to him. I wanted the world to know Hubbard as he was, his noble character, his devotion to duty, and his faith, so strong that not even the severe hardships he endured in the desolate north, ending only with death, could make him for a moment forget the simple truths that he learned from his mother on the farm in old Michigan. I wanted the young men to know these things, for they could not fail to be the better for having learned them; and I wanted the mothers to know what men mothers can make of their sons. An unknown friend writes me, "To dare and die so divinely and leave such a record is to be transfigured on a mountain top, a master symbol to all men of cloud-robed human victory, angel-attended by reverence and peace...a gospel of nobleness and faith." And another, "How truly 'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.' Mr. Hubbard went to find Lake Michikamau; he failed, but God spelled 'Success' of 'Failure,' and you brought back a message which should be an inspiration to every soul to whom it comes. The life given up in the wilds of Labrador was not in vain." Space will not permit me to quote further from the many letters of this kind that have come to me from all over the United States and Canada, but they tell me that others have learned to know Hubbard as he was and as his friends knew him, and that our book has not failed of its purpose. The storms of two winters have held in their icy grasp the bleak land in which he yielded up his life for a principle, and the flowers of two summers have blossomed upon his grave, overlooking the Hudson. But it was only his body that we buried there. His spirit still lives, for his was a spirit too big and noble to be bound by the narrow confines of a grave. His life is an example of religious faith, strong principle, and daring bravery that will not be forgotten by the young men of our land. New York, June 1, 1906. D. W. PREFACE TO ELEVENTH EDITION As the eleventh edition of this book goes to press, the opportunity is given for a brief prefatory description of a pilgrimage to Hubbard's death-place in the Labrador Wilderness from which I have just returned. For many years it had been my wish to re-visit the scene of those tragic experiences, and to permanently and appropriately mark the spot where Hubbard so heroically gave up his life a decade ago. Judge William J. Malone, of Bristol, Connecticut, one of the many men who have received inspiration from Hubbard's noble example, was my companion, and at Northwest River we were joined by Gilbert Blake, who was a member of the party of four trappers who rescued me in 1903. We carried with us a beautiful bronze tablet, which was designed to be placed upon the boulder before which Hubbard's tent was pitched when he died. Wrapped with the tablet was a little silk flag and Hubbard's college pennant, lovingly contributed by his sister, Mrs. Arthur C. Williams, of Detroit, Michigan. These were to be draped upon the tablet when erected and left with it in the wilderness. Our plan was to ascend and explore the lower Beaver River to the point where Hubbard discovered it, and where, in 1903, we abandoned our canoe to re-cross to the Susan River Valley a few days before his death. Here it was our expectation to follow the old Hubbard portage trail to Goose Creek and thence down Goose Creek to the Susan River. Of our journey up the Beaver River suffice it to say that we met with many adventures, but proceeded without serious accident until one day our canoe was submerged in heavy rapids, the lashings gave way, and to our consternation the precious tablet, together with the flag and pennant, was lost in the flood. After two days' vain effort to recover the tablet and flags we continued on the river until at length further ascent seemed unpractical. From this point, with packs on our backs, we made a difficult foot journey of several days to the Susan River valley. I shall not attempt to describe my feelings when at last we came into the valley where Hubbard died and where we had suffered so much. Man changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world changes, but the untrod wilderness never changes. Before us lay the same rushing river I remembered so well, the same starved forest of spruce with its pungent odor, and there was the clump of spruce trees in which our last camp was pitched just as I had seen it last. Malone and Blake remained by the river bank while I approached alone what to me was sacred ground. Time fell away, and I believe that I expected, when I stepped beside the boulder before which his tent was pitched when we said our last farewell on that dismal October morning ten years ago, to hear Hubbard's voice welcome me as of old. The charred wood of his camp fire might, from all appearances, have but just grown cold. The boughs, which I had broken and arranged for his couch, and upon which he slept and died, were withered but undisturbed, and I could identify exactly the spot where he lay. There were his worn old moccasins, and one of the leather mittens, which, in his last entry in his diary he said he might eat if need be. Near the dead fire were some spoons and other small articles, as we had left them, and scattered about were remnants of our tent. Lovingly we put ourselves to our task. Judge Malone, with a brush improvised from Blake's stiff hair, and with white lead intended for canoe repairs, lettered upon the boulder this inscription: Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., Intrepid Explorer And Practical Christian Died Here Oct. 18, 1903. "Whither I go ye know, and the way ye know." John XIV.--4. Then with hammer and chisel I cut the inscription deep into the rock, and we filled the letters with white lead to counteract the effect of the elements. It was dark when the work was finished, and by candlelight, beneath the stars, I read, from the same Testament I used in 1903, the fourteenth of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians, the chapters which I read to Hubbard on the morning of our parting. Judge Malone read the Fiftieth Psalm. We sang some hymns and then knelt about the withered couch of boughs, each of us three with the feeling that Hubbard was very close to us. In early morning we shouldered our packs again, and with a final look at Hubbard's last camp, turned back to the valley of the Beaver and new adventures. DILLON WALLACE. Beacon-on-the-Hudson, November eighteenth, 1913. CONTENTS I. The Object of the Expedition II. Off at Last III. On the Edge of the Wilderness IV. The Plunge into the Wild V. Still in the Awful Valley VI. Searching for a Trail VII. On a Real River at Last VIII. "Michikamau or Bust!" IX. And There was Michikamau! X. Prisoners of the Wind XI. We Give It Up XII. The Beginning of the Retreat XIII. Hubbard's Grit XIV. Back Through the Ranges XV. George's Dream XVI. At the Last Camp XVII. The Parting XVIII. Wandering Alone XIX. The Kindness of the Breeds XX. How Hubbard Went to Sleep XXI. From Out the Wild XXII. A Strange Funeral Procession XXIII. Over the Ice XXIV. Hubbard's Message Acknowledgment is due Mr. Frank Barkley Copley, a personal and literary friend of Mr. Hubbard, for assistance rendered in the preparation of this volume. D. W. New York, January, 1905. THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD I. THE OBJECT OF THE EXPEDITION "How would you like to go to Labrador, Wallace?" It was a snowy night in late November, 1901, that my friend, Leonidas Hubbard, Jr., asked me this question. All day he and I had been tramping through the snow among the Shawangunk Mountains in southern New York, and when the shades of evening fell we had built a lean-to of boughs to shelter us from the storm. Now that we had eaten our supper of bread and bacon, washed down with tea, we lay before our roaring campfire, luxuriating in its glow and warmth. Hubbard's question was put to me so abruptly that it rather startled me. "Labrador!" I exclaimed. "Now where in the world is Labrador?" Of course I knew it was somewhere in the north-eastern part of the continent; but so many years had passed since I laid away my old school geography that its exact situation had escaped my memory, and the only other knowledge I had retained of the country was a confused sense of its being a sort of Arctic wilderness. Hubbard proceeded to enlighten me, by tracing with his pencil, on the fly-leaf of his notebook, an outline map of the peninsula. "Very interesting," I commented. "But why do you wish to go there?" "Man," he replied, "don't you realise it's about the only part of the continent that hasn't been explored? As a matter of fact, there isn't much more known of the interior of Labrador now than when Cabot discovered the coast more than four hundred years ago." He jumped up to throw more wood on the fire. "Think of it, Wallace!" he went on, "A great unknown land right near home, as wild and primitive to-day as it has always been! I want to see it. I want to get into a really wild country and have some of the experiences of the old fellows who explored and opened up the country where we are now." Resuming his place by the blazing logs, Hubbard unfolded to me his plan, then vague and in the rough, of exploring a part of the unknown eastern end of the peninsula. Of trips such as this he had been dreaming since childhood. When a mere boy on his father's farm in Michigan, he had lain for hours out under the trees in the orchard poring over a map of Canada and making imaginary journeys into the unexplored. Boone and Crockett were his heroes, and sometimes he was so affected by the tales of their adventures that he must needs himself steal away to the woods and camp out for two or three days. It was at this period that he resolved to head some day an exploring expedition of his own, and this resolution he forgot neither while a student nor while serving as a newspaper man in Detroit and New York. At length, through a connection he made with a magazine devoted to out-of-door life, he was able to make several long trips into the wild. Among other places, he visited the Hudson Bay region, and once penetrated to the winter hunting ground of the Mountaineer Indians, north of Lake St. John, in southern Labrador. These trips, however, failed to satisfy him; his ambition was to reach a region where no white man had preceded him. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he believed that his ambition was about to be realised. "It's always the way, Wallace," he said; "when a fellow starts on a long trail, he's never willing to quit. It'll be the same with you if you go with me to Labrador. You'll say each trip will be the last, but when you come home you'll hear the voice of the wilderness calling you to return, and it will lure you away again and again. I thought my Lake St. John trip was something, but while there I stood at the portals of the unknown, and it brought back stronger than ever the old longing to make discoveries, so that now the walls of the city seem to me a prison and I simply must get away." My friend's enthusiasm was contagious. It had never previously occurred to me to undertake the game of exploration; but, like most American boys, I had had youthful dreams of going into a great wild country, even as my forefathers had gone, and Hubbard's talk brought back the old juvenile love of adventure. That night before we lay down to sleep I said: "Hubbard, I'll go with you." And so the thing was settled--that was how Hubbard's expedition had its birth. More than a year passed, however, before Hubbard was able to make definite arrangements to get away. I believe it was in February, 1903, that the telephone bell in my law office rang, and Hubbard's voice at the other end of the wire conveyed to me the information that he had "bully news." "Is that so?" I said. "What's up? "The Labrador trip is all fixed for this summer," was the excited reply. "Come out to Congers to-night without fail, and we'll talk it over." In accordance with his invitation, I went out that evening to visit my friend in his suburban home. I shall never forget the exuberance of his joy. You would have thought he was a boy about to be released from school. By this time he had become the associate editor of the magazine for which he had been writing, but he had finally been able to induce his employers to consent to the project upon which he had set his heart and grant him a leave of absence. "It will be a big thing, Wallace," he said in closing; "it ought to make my reputation." Into the project of penetrating the vast solitudes of desolate Labrador, over which still brooded the fascinating twilight of the mysterious unknown, Hubbard, with characteristic zeal, threw his whole heart and soul. Systematically and thoroughly he went about planning, in the minutest detail, our outfit and entire journey. Every possible contingency received the most careful consideration. In order to make plain just what he hoped to accomplish and the conditions against which he had to provide, the reader's patience is asked for a few minutes while something is told of what was known of Labrador at the time Hubbard was making preparations for his expedition. The interior of the peninsula of Labrador is a rolling plateau, the land rising more or less abruptly from the coast to a height of two thousand or more feet above the level of the sea. Scattered over this plateau are numerous lakes and marshes. The rivers and streams discharging the waters of the lakes into the sea flow to the four points of the compass--into the Atlantic and its inlets on the east, into Ungava Bay on the north, Hudson Bay and James Bay on the west, and the Gulf of St. Lawrence on the south. Owing to the abrupt rise of the land from the coast these rivers and streams are very swift and are filled with a constant succession of falls and rapids; consequently, their navigation in canoes--the only possible way, generally speaking, to navigate them--is most difficult and dangerous. In this, to a large extent, lies the explanation as to why only a few daring white men have ever penetrated to the interior plateau; the condition of the rivers, if nothing else, makes it impossible to transport sufficient food to sustain a party for any considerable period, and it is absolutely necessary to run the risk of obtaining supplies from a country that may be plentiful with game one year and destitute of it the next, and in which the vegetation is the scantiest. The western part of the peninsula, although it, too, contains vast tracts in which no white man has set foot, is somewhat better known than the eastern, most of the rivers that flow into Hudson and James Bays having been explored and correctly mapped. Hubbard's objective was the eastern and northern part of the peninsula, and it is with this section that we shall hereafter deal. Such parts of this territory as might be called settled lie in the region of Hamilton Inlet and along the coast. Hamilton Inlet is an arm of the Atlantic extending inland about one hundred and fifty miles in a southwesterly direction. At its entrance, which is two hundred miles north of Cape Charles, the inlet is some forty miles wide. Fifty miles inland from the settlement of Indian Harbour (which is situated on one of the White Bear Islands, near the north coast of the inlet at its entrance), is the Rigolet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company--the "Old Company," as its agents love to call it--and here the inlet narrows down to a mere channel; but during the next eighty miles of its course inland it again widens, this section of it being known as Groswater Bay or Lake Melville. The extreme western end of the inlet is called Goose Bay. Into this bay flows the Grand or Hamilton River, one of the largest in Labrador. From its source among the lakes on the interior plateau, the Grand River first sweeps down in a southeasterly direction and then bends northeasterly to reach the end of Hamilton Inlet. The tributaries of the lakes forming the headwaters of the Grand River connect it indirectly with Lake Michikamau (Big Water). This, the largest lake in eastern Labrador, is between eighty and ninety miles in length, with a width varying from six to twenty-five miles. The Grand River, as well as a portion of Lake Michikamau, some years ago was explored and correctly mapped; but the other rivers that flow to the eastward have either been mapped only from hearsay or not at all. Of the several rivers flowing into Ungava Bay, the Koksoak alone has been explored. This river, which is the largest of those flowing north, rises in lakes to the westward of Lake Michikamau. Next to the Koksoak, the George is the best known of the rivers emptying into Ungava Bay, as well as the second largest; but while it has been learned that its source is among the lakes to the northward of Michikamau, it has been mapped only from hearsay. Now if the reader will turn to the accompanying map of Labrador made by Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey, he will see that the body of water known as Grand Lake is represented thereon merely as the widening out of a large river, called the Northwest, which flows from Lake Michikamau to Groswater Bay or Hamilton Inlet, after being joined about twenty miles above Grand Lake by a river called the Nascaupee. Relying upon this map, Hubbard planned to reach early in the summer the Northwest River Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, which is situated at the mouth of the Northwest River, ascend the river to Lake Michikamau, and then, from the northern end of that lake, beat across the country to the George River. The Geological Survey map is the best of Labrador extant, but its representation as to the Northwest River (made from hearsay) proved to be wholly incorrect, and the mistake it led us into cost us dear. After the rescue, I thoroughly explored Grand Lake, and, as will be seen from my map, I discovered that no less than five rivers flow into it, which are known to the natives as the Nascaupee, the Beaver, the Susan, the Crooked, and the Cape Corbeau. The Nascaupee is the largest, and as the inquiries I made among the Indians satisfied me that it is the outlet of Lake Michikamau, it is undoubtedly the river that figures on the Geological Survey map as the Northwest, while as for the river called on the map the Nascaupee, it is in all likelihood non-existent. There is a stream known to the natives as Northwest River, but it is merely the strait, one hundred yards wide and three hundred yards long, which, as shown on my map, connects Groswater Bay with what the natives call the Little Lake, this being the small body of water that lies at the lower end of Grand Lake, the waters of which it receives through a rapid. Hubbard hoped to reach the George River in season to meet the Nenenot or Nascaupee Indians, who, according to an old tradition, gather on its banks in late August or early September to attack with spears the herds of caribou that migrate at that time, passing eastward to the sea coast. It is reported that while the caribou are swimming the river the Indians each year kill great numbers of them, drying the flesh for winter provisions and using the skins to make clothing and wigwam-covering. Hubbard wished not only to get a good story of the yearly slaughter, but to spend some little time studying the habits of the Indians, who are the most primitive on the North American continent. Strange as it may seem to some, the temperature in the interior of Labrador in midsummer sometimes rises as high as 90 degrees or more, although at sunset it almost invariably drops to near the freezing point and frost is liable at any time. But the summer, of course, is very short. It may be said to begin early in July, by which time the snow and ice are all gone, and to end late in August. There is just a hint of spring and autumn. Winter glides into summer, and summer into winter, almost imperceptibly, and the winter is the bitter winter of the Arctic. If the season were not too far advanced when he finished studying the Indians, Hubbard expected to cross the country to the St. Lawrence and civilisation; otherwise to retrace his steps over his upward trail. In the event of our failure to discover the Indian encampment, and our finding ourselves on the George short of provisions, Hubbard planned to run down the swift-flowing river in our canoe to the George River Post at its mouth, and there procure passage on some fishing vessel for Newfoundland; or, if that were impossible, to outfit for winter, and when the ice formed and the snow came, return overland with dogs. Hubbard knew that by ascending the Grand River he would be taking a surer, if longer, route to Lake Michikamau; but it was a part of his project to explore the unknown country along the river mapped as the Northwest. I have called this country unknown. It is true that in the winter of 1838 John McLean, then the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Fort Chimo, a post situated on the Koksoak River about twenty miles above its mouth, passed through a portion of this country in the course of a journey he made with dogs from his post to Northwest River Post. His route was up the Koksoak and across country to the northern end of Lake Michikamau, which he followed for some little distance. After leaving the lake he again travelled eastward across country until at length he came upon the "Northwest" or Nascaupee River at a point probably not far above Grand Lake, from which it was easy travelling over the ice to the post. The record left by him of the journey, however, is very incomplete, and the exact route he took is by no means certain. Whatever route it was, he returned over it the same winter to Fort Chimo. His sufferings during this trip were extreme. He and his party had to eat their dogs to save themselves from starvation, and even then they would surely all have perished had it not been for an Indian who left the party fifty miles out of Chimo and fortunately had strength enough to reach the post and send back relief. Later McLean made several summer trips with a canoe up the George River from Ungava Bay and down the Grand River to Hamilton Inlet; but never again did he attempt to penetrate the country lying between Lake Michikamau and Hamilton Inlet to the north of Grand River. The fact was that he found his Grand River trips bad enough; the record he has left of them is a story of a continuous struggle against heartbreaking hardships and of narrow escapes from starvation. It is asserted that a priest once crossed with the Indians from Northwest River Post to Ungava Bay by the Nascaupee route; but the result of my inquiries in Labrador convinced me that the priest in question travelled by way of the Grand River, making it certain that previous to Hubbard's expedition no white man other than McLean had ever crossed the wilderness between Hamilton Inlet and Lake Michikamau by any route other than the aforesaid Grand River. As has been pointed out, McLean made but a very incomplete record of his journey that took him through the country north of the Grand River, so that Hubbard's project called for his plunge into a region where no footsteps would be found to guide him. Not only this, but the George River country, which it was his ultimate purpose to reach, was, and still remains, terra incognita; for although McLean made several trips up and down this river, he neither mapped it nor left any definite descriptions concerning it. Here, then, was an enterprise fully worthy of an ambitious and venturesome spirit like Hubbard. Here was a great, unknown wilderness into which even the half-breed native trappers who lived on its outskirts were afraid to penetrate, knowing that the wandering bands of Indians who occasionally traversed its fastnesses themselves frequently starved to death in that inhospitable, barren country. There was danger to be faced and good "copy" to be obtained. And so it was ho for the land of "bared boughs and grieving winds"! II. OFF AT LAST Labrador's uncertain game supply presented more than one vexed problem for Hubbard to solve. Naturally it would be desirable to take with us sufficient provisions to guard against all contingencies; but such were the conditions of the country for which we were bound, that if the expedition were at all heavily loaded it would be impossible for it to make any headway. Hubbard, therefore, decided to travel light. Then arose the question as to how many men to take with us. If the party were large--that is, up to a certain limit--more food might possibly be carried for each member than if the party were small; but if game proved plentiful, there would be no danger from starvation whether the party were large or small; for then short stops could be made to kill animals, dry the flesh and make caches, after the manner of the Indians, as supply bases to fall back upon should we be overtaken by an early winter. And if the game should prove scarce, a small party could kill, on a forced march, nearly, if not quite, as much as a large party; and requiring a proportionately smaller amount of food to maintain it, would consequently have a better chance of success. Taking all things into consideration, Hubbard decided that the party should be small. To guard against possible disappointment in the way of getting men, Hubbard wrote to the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Rigolet, asking whether any could be obtained for a trip into the interior either at that post or at Northwest River. The agent replied that such a thing was highly improbable, as the visits of the Indians to these posts had become infrequent and the other natives were afraid to venture far inland. Hubbard then engaged through the kind offices of Mr. S. A. King, who was in charge of the Hudson's Bay Company Post at Missanabie, Ontario, the services of a Cree Indian named Jerry, that we might have at least one man upon whom we could depend. Jerry was to have come on to New York City to meet us. At next to the last moment, however, a letter from Mr. King informed us that Jerry had backed down. The Indian was not afraid of Labrador, it appeared, but he had heard of the dangers and pitfalls of New York, and when he learned that he should have to pass through that city, his courage failed him; he positively refused to come, saying he did not "want to die so soon." We never had occasion to regret Jerry's faint-heartedness. Mr. King engaged for us another man who, he wrote, was an expert canoeman and woodsman and a good cook. The man proved to be all that he was represented to be--and more. I do not believe that in all the north country we could have found a better woodsman. But he was something more than a woodsman--he was a hero. Under the most trying circumstances he was calm, cheerful, companionable, faithful. Not only did he turn out to be a man of intelligence, quick of perception and resourceful, but he turned out to be a man of character, and I am proud to introduce him to the reader as my friend George Elson, a half-breed Cree Indian from down on James Bay. The first instance of George's resourcefulness that we noted occurred upon his arrival in New York. Hubbard and I were to have taken him in charge at the Grand Central Station, but we were detained and George found no one to meet him. Despite the fact that he had never been in a city before, and all was new to him, his quick eye discovered that the long line of cabs in front of the station were there to hire. He promptly engaged one, was driven to Hubbard's office and awaited his employer's arrival as calm and unruffled as though his surroundings were perfectly familiar. Our canoe and our entire outfit were purchased in New York, with the exception of a gill net, which, alas! we decided to defer selecting until we reached Labrador. Our preparations for the expedition were made with a view of sailing from St. Johns, Newfoundland, for Rigolet, when the steamer Virginia Lake, which regularly plies during the summer between the former port and points on the Labrador coast, should make her first trip north of the year. A letter from the Reid-Newfoundland Company, which operates the steamer, informed us that she would probably make her first trip to Labrador in the last week in June, and in order to connect with her, we made arrangements to sail from New York to St. Johns on June 20th, 1903, on the Red Cross Line steamer Silvia. On the 19th Hubbard personally superintended the placing of our outfit on board ship, that nothing might be overlooked. As the Silvia slowly got under way at ten o'clock the next morning, we waved a last farewell to the little knot of friends who had gathered on the Brooklyn pier to see us off. We were all very light-hearted and gay that morning; it was a relief to be off at last and have the worry of the preparation over. Mrs. Hubbard was a member of the party; she was to accompany her husband as far as Battle Harbour, the first point on the Labrador coast touched by the Virginia Lake. June 24th was my birthday, and early that morning, before we sailed from Halifax, at which port we lay over for a day, Hubbard came into my stateroom with a pair of camp blankets that he had been commissioned by my sisters to present to me. He had told me he had enough blankets in his outfit and to take none with me. How strangely things sometimes turn out! Those blankets which Hubbard had withheld in order that I might be agreeably surprised, were destined to fulfil an office, up there in the wilds for which we were bound, such as we little suspected. We reached St. Johns on the morning of Friday, the 26th, and promptly upon our arrival were introduced to the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company. The Virginia Lake, we were told, already had gone north to Labrador, was overdue on her return trip and might not be in for several days. Hubbard, however, set immediately to work purchasing the provisions for his expedition and supervising their packing. The following day, on the advice of the general passenger agent of the Reid-Newfoundland Company, we took the evening train on their little narrow-gauge railroad to Whitbourne, en route to Broad Cove, where we were informed we should find excellent trout fishing and could pleasantly pass the time while awaiting the steamer. The Reid-Newfoundland Company failed to carry out its agreement as to our transportation to Broad Cove, and we had considerable trouble in reaching there, but we found that no misrepresentation had been made as to the fishing; during the two days we were at Broad Cove we caught all the trout we cared for. Having received word that the Virginia Lake had returned to St. Johns, and would again sail north on Tuesday, June 30th, Hubbard and Mrs. Hubbard on the morning of that day took the train to St. Johns, to board the steamer there and see that nothing of our outfit was left behind. George and I broke camp in time to take the evening train on the branch road to Harbour Grace, where, it was agreed, we should rejoin the others, the steamer being scheduled to put in there on its way north. When I had our camp baggage transferred next morning to the wharf, and George and I had arrived there ourselves, we found also waiting for the steamer several prospectors who were going to "The Labrador," as the country is known to the Newfoundlanders, to look for gold, copper, and mica. All of them apparently were dreaming of fabulous wealth. None, I was told, was going farther than the lower coast; they did not attempt to disguise the fact that they feared to venture far into the interior. Around the wharves little boats were unloading caplin, a small fish about the size of a smelt. I was informed that these fish sold for ten cents a barrel, and were used for bait and fertiliser. My astonishment may be imagined, therefore, when I discovered that on the Virginia Lake they charged thirty-five cents for three of these little fish fried. At ten o'clock our boat came in, and a little after noon we steamed out of the harbour, Hubbard and I feeling that now we were fairly on our way to the scene of our work. Soon after rejoining Hubbard, I learned something more of the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company. The company's general passenger agent, avowing deep interest in our enterprise, had presented Hubbard with passes to Rigolet for his party. Hubbard accepted them gratefully, but upon boarding the steamer he was informed that the passes did not include meals. Now such were the prices charged for the wretchedly-cooked food served on the Virginia Lake that a moderately hungry man could scarcely have his appetite killed at a less expense than six dollars a day. So Hubbard returned the passes to the general passenger agent with thanks, and purchased tickets, which did include meals, and which reduced the cost considerably. The Virginia Lake is a steamer of some seven hundred tons burden. She is subsidised by the Newfoundland Government to carry the mails during the fishing season to points on the Labrador coast as far north as Nain. She is also one of the sealing fleet that goes to "the ice" each tenth of March. When she brings back her cargo of seals to St. Johns, she takes up her summer work of carrying mail, passengers, and freight to The Labrador--always a welcome visitor to the exiled fishermen in that lonely land, the one link that binds them to home and the outside world. She has on board a physician to set broken bones and deal out drugs to the sick, and a customs officer to see that not a dime's worth of merchandise of any kind or nature is landed until a good round percentage of duty is paid to him as the representative of the Newfoundland Government, which holds dominion over all the east coast of Labrador. This customs officer is also a magistrate, a secret service officer, a constable, and what not I do not know--pretty much the whole Labrador Government, I imagine. The accommodations on the Virginia Lake were quite inadequate for the number of passengers she carried. The stuffy little saloon was so crowded that comfort was out of the question. I had to use some rather impressive language to the steward to induce him to assign to me a stateroom. Finally, he surrendered his own room. The ventilation was poor and the atmosphere vile, but we managed to pull through. Our fellow-passengers were all either prospectors or owners of fishing schooners. There was much ice to be seen when the heavy veil of grey fog lifted sufficiently for us to see anything, and until we had crossed the Strait of Belle Isle our passage was a rough one. It was on the Fourth of July that we saw for the first time the bleak, rock-bound coast of Labrador. In all the earth there is no coast so barren, so desolate, so brutally inhospitable as the Labrador coast from Cape Charles, at the Strait of Belle Isle on the south, to Cape Chidley on the north. Along these eight hundred miles it is a constant succession of bare rocks scoured clean and smooth by the ice and storms of centuries, with not a green thing to be seen, save now and then a bunch of stunted shrubs that have found a foothold in some sheltered nook in the rocks, and perchance, on some distant hill, a glimpse of struggling spruce or fir trees. It is a fog-ridden, dangerous coast, with never a lighthouse or signal of any kind at any point in its entire length to warn or guide the mariner. The evening was well upon us when we saw the rocks off Cape Charles rising from the water, dismal, and dark, and forbidding. All day the rain had been falling, and all day the wind had been blowing a gale, lashing the sea into a fury. Our little ship was tossed about like a cork, with the seas constantly breaking over her decks. Decidedly our introduction to Labrador was not auspicious. Battle Harbour, twelve miles north of Cape Charles, was to have been our first stop; but there are treacherous hidden reefs at the entrance, and with that sea the captain did not care to trust his ship near them. So he ran on to Spear Harbour, just beyond, where we lay to for the night. The next day I made the following entry in my diary: "Early this morning we moved down to Battle Harbour, where Mrs. Hubbard left us to return home. It was a most dismal time and place for her to part from her husband, but she was very brave. It was not yet six o'clock, and we had had no breakfast, when she stepped into the small boat to go ashore. A cold, drizzling rain was falling, and the place was in appearance particularly dreary; no foliage nor green thing to be seen--nothing but rocks, cold and high and bleak, with here and there patches of snow. They pointed out to us a little house clinging to the rocks high up. There she is to stay until the steamer comes to take her home, to spend a summer of doubts and hopes and misgivings. Poor little woman! It is so hard for those we leave behind. I stood aside with a big lump in my throat as they said their farewell." Up there in the dark wilderness for which we were bound Hubbard talked with me frequently of that parting. On July 6th, the day after we left Battle Harbour, the captain informed us for the first time that the boat would not go to Rigolet on the way up, and gave us the option of getting off at Indian Harbour at the entrance to Hamilton Inlet or going on to Nain with him and getting off at Rigolet on the way back. Hubbard chose the former alternative, hearing which the customs officer came to us and hinted that nothing could be landed until we had had an interview with him. The result of the interview was that Hubbard paid duty on our entire outfit. The next morning, Tuesday, July 7th, we reached Indian Harbour. Amid a chorus of "Good-bye, boys, and good luck!" we went ashore, to set foot for the first time on Labrador soil, where we were destined to encounter a series of misadventures that should call for the exercise of all our fortitude and manhood. III. ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS The island of the White Bear group upon which is situated the settlement of Indian Harbour is rocky and barren. The settlement consists of a trader's hut and a few fishermen's huts built of frame plastered over with earth or moss, and the buildings of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, a non-sectarian institution that maintains two stations on the Labrador coast and one at St. Anthony in Newfoundland, each with a hospital attached. The work of the mission is under the general supervision of Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, who, in summer, patrols the coast from Newfoundland to Cape Chidley in the little floating hospital, the steamer Strathcona, and during the winter months, by dog team, visits the people of these inhospitable shores. The main station in Labrador is at Battle Harbour, and at this time Dr. Cluny Macpherson was the resident physician. Dr. Simpson, a young English physician and lay missionary, was in charge of the station at Indian Harbour. This station, being maintained primarily for the benefit of the summer fishermen from Newfoundland, is closed from October until July. Dr. Simpson had a little steamer, the Julia Sheridan, which carried him on his visits to his patients among the coast folk. We were told by the captain of the Virginia Lake that the Julia Sheridan would arrive at Indian Harbour on the afternoon of the day we reached there; that she would immediately steam to Rigolet and Northwest River with the mails, and that we undoubtedly could arrange for a passage on her. This was the reason that Hubbard elected to get off at Indian Harbour. The trained nurse, the cook, and the maid-of-all-work connected with the Indian Harbour hospital ("sisters," they call them, although they do not belong to any order) boarded the Virginia Lake at Battle Harbour and went ashore with me in the ship's boat, when I landed with the baggage. Hubbard and George went ashore in our canoe. A line of Newfoundlanders and "livyeres" stood ready to greet us upon our arrival. "Livyeres" is a contraction of live-heres, and is applied to the people who live permanently on the coast. The coast people who occasionally trade in a small way are known as "planters." In Hamilton Inlet, west of Rigolet, all of the trappers and fishermen are called planters. There the word livyere is never heard, it having originated with with the Newfoundland fishermen, who do not go far into the inlet. The "sisters" who landed with us had difficulty in opening their hospital, as the locks had become so rusted and corroded that the keys would not turn. We offered our assistance, and after removing the boards that had been nailed over the windows to protect them from the winter storms, we found it necessary to take out a pane of glass in order that Hubbard might unlatch a window, crawl through and take the lock off the door. The sisters then told us that Dr. Simpson might not arrive with the Julia Sheridan until the following day, and extended to us the hospitality of the station, which we thankfully accepted, taking up our temporary abode in one of the vacant wards of the hospital. Our first afternoon on Labrador soil we spent in assorting and packing our outfit, while the Newfoundlanders and livyeres stood around and admired our things, particularly the canoe, guns, and sheath-knives. Their curiosity was insatiable; they inquired the cost of every conceivable thing. The next afternoon (Wednesday) Dr. Simpson arrived on his steamer, and, to our great disappointment, we learned that the Julia would not start on the trip down the inlet until after the return of the Virginia Lake from the north, which would probably be on Friday or Saturday. The Labrador summer being woefully short, Hubbard felt that every hour was precious, and he chafed under our enforced detention. We were necessarily going into the interior wholly unprepared for winter travel, and hence must complete our work and make our way out of the wilderness before the rivers and lakes froze and canoe travel became impossible. Hubbard felt the responsibility he had assumed, and could imagine the difficulties that awaited us should his plans miscarry. Accordingly, he began to look around immediately among the fishermen and livyeres for someone with a small boat willing to take us down the fifty miles to Rigolet. Finally, after much persuasion and an offer of fifteen dollars, he induced a young livyere, Steve Newell by name, to undertake the task. Steve was a characteristic livyere, shiftless and ambitionless. He lived a few miles down the inlet with his widowed mother and his younger brothers and sisters. For a week he would work hard and conscientiously to support the family, and then take a month's rest. We had happened upon him in one of his resting periods, but as soon as Hubbard had pinned him down to an agreement he put in an immediate plea for money. "I'se huntin' grub, sir," he begged. "I has t' hunt grub all th' time, sir. Could 'un spare a dollar t' buy grub, sir?" Hubbard gave him the dollar, and he forthwith proceeded to the trader's hut to purchase flour and molasses, which, with fat salt pork, are the great staples of the Labrador natives, although the coast livyeres seldom can afford the latter dainty. While we were preparing to start, Hubbard asked Steve what he generally did for a living. "I hunts in winter an' fishes in summer, sir," was the reply. "What do you hunt? "Fur an' partridges, sir. I trades the fur for flour and molasses, sir, an' us eats th' partridges." "What kind of fur do you find here?" "Foxes is about all, sir, an' them's scarce; only a chance one, sir." "Do you catch enough fur to keep you in flour and molasses?" "Not always, sir. Sometimes us has only partridges t' eat, sir." We started at five o'clock in the evening in Steve's boat, the Mayflower, a leaky little craft that kept one man pretty busy bailing out the water. She carried one ragged sail, and Steve sculled and steered with a rough oar about eighteen feet long. An hour after we got under way a blanket of grey fog, thick and damp, enveloped us; but so long are the Labrador summer days that there still was light to guide us when at eleven o'clock Steve said: "Us better land yere, sir. I lives yere, an' 'tis a good spot t' stop for th' night, sir." I wondered what sort of an establishment Steve maintained, and drawing an inference from his personal appearance, I had misgivings as to its cleanliness. However, anything seemed better than chilling fog, and land we did--in a shallow cove where we bumped over a partly submerged rock and manoeuvred with difficulty among others, that raised their heads ominously above the water. As we approached, we made out through the fog the dim outlines, close to the shore, of a hut partially covered with sod. Our welcome was tumultuous--a combination of the barking of dogs and the shrill screams of women demanding to know who we were and what we wanted. There were two women, tall, scrawny, brown, with hair flying at random. The younger one had a baby in her arms. She was Steve's married sister. The other woman was his mother. Each was loosely clad in a dirty calico gown. Behind them clustered a group of dirty, half-clad children. Steve ushered us into the hut, which proved to have two rooms, the larger about eight by ten feet. The roof was so low that none of us could stand erect except in the centre, where it came to a peak. In the outer room were two rough wooden benches, and on a rickety table a dirty kerosene lamp without a chimney shed gloom rather than light. An old stove, the sides of which were bolstered up with rocks, filled the hut with smoke to the point of suffocation when a fire was started. The floor and everything else in the room were innocent of soap and water. George made coffee, which he passed around with hardtack to everybody. Then all but Steve and our party retired to the inner room, one of the women standing a loose door against the aperture. Steve curled up in an old quilt on one of the benches, while Hubbard, George and I spread a tarpaulin on the floor and rolled in our blankets upon it. We were up betimes the next morning after a fair night's sleep on the floor. We again served hardtack and coffee to all, and at five o'clock were once more on our way. A thick mantle of mist obscured the shore, and Hubbard offered Steve a chart and compass. "Ain't got no learnin', sir; I can't read, sir," said the young livyere. So Hubbard directed the course in the mist while Steve steered. Later in the day the wind freshened and blew the mist away, and at length developed into a gale. Finally the sea rose so high that Steve thought it well to seek the protection of a harbour, and we landed in a sheltered cove on one of the numerous islands that strew Hamilton Inlet, where we then were--Big Black Island, it is called. George had arisen that morning with a lame back, and when we reached the island he could scarcely move. The place was so barren of timber we could not find a stick long enough to act as a centre pole for our tent, and it was useless to try to pitch it. However, the moss, being thick and soft, made a comfortable bed, and after we had put a mustard plaster on George's back to relieve his lumbago, we rolled him in two of our blankets under the lee of a bush and let him sleep. Then, as evening came on, Hubbard and I started for a stroll along the shore. The sun was still high in the heavens, and the temperature mildly cool. A walk of a mile or so brought us to the cabin of one Joe Lloyd, a livyere. Lloyd proved to be an intelligent old Englishman who had gone to Labrador as a sailor lad on a fishing schooner to serve a three-years' apprenticeship. He did not go home with his ship, and year after year postponed his return, until at last he married an Eskimo and bound himself fast to the cold rocks of Labrador, where he will spend the remainder of his life, eking out a miserable existence, a lonely exile from his native England. After he had greeted us, Lloyd asked: "Is all the world at peace, sir?" He had heard of the Boer war, and was pleased when we told him that it had ended in a victory for the British arms. His hunger for news touched us deeply, and we told him all that we could recall of recent affairs of public interest. I have said that his hunger for news touched us. As a matter of fact, few things have impressed me as being more pathetic than that old man's life up there on that isolated and desolate island, where he spends most of his time wistfully longing to hear something of the great world, and painfully recalling the pleasant memories of his childhood's home and friends, and the green fields and spring blossoms he never will know again. And Lloyd's story is the story of perhaps the majority of the settlers on The Labrador. The old man had a fresh-caught salmon, and we bought it from him. We then sat for a few minutes in his cabin. This was a miserable affair, not exceeding eight by ten feet, and, like Steve's home, so low we could not stand erect in it. The floor was paved with large, flat stones, and the only vent for the smoke from the wretched fireplace was a hole in the roof. Midway between the fire and the hole hung a trout drying. In this room Lloyd and his Eskimo wife live out their life. During our visit the wife sat there without uttering a word. Her silence was characteristic; for, somewhat unlike our women, the women of Labrador talk but little. When we had bidden Lloyd farewell, we carried the salmon we had obtained from him back to camp, where Hubbard tried to plank it on a bit of wreckage picked up on the shore. It fell into the fire, and there was great excitement until, by our united efforts, we had rescued it, and had seen part of it safely reposing in the frying pan, while Steve set to work boiling the remainder in our kettle with slices of bacon. As the gale continued to blow, it was decided that we should remain in camp until early morning. Hubbard directed Steve to pull the boat around to a place where it would be near the water at low tide. He and I then threw down the tent, lay on it, pulled a blanket over us and prepared for sleep. It was about eleven o'clock, and darkness was just beginning to fall. Out in the bay a whale was blowing, and in the distance big gulls were screaming. It was our first night out in the open in Labrador, and all was new and entrancing; and as slumber gradually enwrapped us, it seemed to us that we had fallen upon pleasant times. At one o'clock (Friday morning) we awoke. By the light of the brilliant moon we made coffee, called George and Steve and ate our breakfast of cold salmon and hardtack. George's lumbago was very bad, and he was unable to do any work. The rest of us portaged the outfit two hundred yards to the boat, which, owing to Steve's miscalculations as to the tide, we found high and dry on the rocks. Working in the shallow water, with a cloud of mosquitoes around our heads, it took us until 4.30 o'clock to launch her, by which time daylight long since had returned. Once more afloat, we found that the wind had entirely died away, and Steve's sculling pushed the boat along but slowly. Grampuses raised their big backs everywhere, and seals, upon which they prey, were numerous. The water was alive with schools of caplin. At eleven o'clock we made Pompey Island, a mossy island of Laurentian rock about thirty-five miles from Indian Harbour. Here we stopped for luncheon, and after much looking around, succeeded in finding enough sticks to build a little fire. I made flapjacks, and Hubbard melted sugar for syrup. While we were eating, I discovered in the far distance the smoke of a steamer. We supposed it to be the Julia Sheridan. Rushing our things into the boat, we put off as quickly as possible to intercept her. We fired three or four shots from our rifle, but got only a salute in recognition. Then Hubbard and I scramble into the canoe, which we had in tow, and began to paddle with might and main to head her off. As we neared her, we fired again. At that she came about--it was the Virginia Lake. They took us on board, bag, baggage, and canoe, and Steve was dismissed. In an hour we were in sight of Rigolet, and I saw a Hudson's Bay Company Post for the first time in my life. As our steamer approached, a flag was run up in salute to the top of a tall staff, and when it had been caught by the breeze, the Company's initials, H. B. C., were revealed. The Company's agents say these letters have another significance, namely, "Here Before Christ," for the flag travels ahead of the missionaries. The reservation of Rigolet is situated upon a projection of land, with a little bay on one side and the channel into which Hamilton Inlet narrows at this point on the other. Long rows of whitewashed buildings, some of frame and some of log, extend along the water front, coming together at the point of the projection so as to form two sides of an irregular triangle. A little back of the row on the bay side, and upon slightly higher ground, stands the residence of the agent, or factor as he is officially called, this building being two stories high and otherwise the most pretentious of the group. It is commonly called the "Big House," and near it is the tall flagstaff. Between the rows of buildings and the shore is a broad board walk, which leads down near the apex of the triangle to a small wharf of logs. It was at this wharf that our little party landed. Hubbard presented his letter of introduction from Commissioner Chipman of the Hudson's Bay Company to Mr. James Fraser, the factor, and we received a most cordial welcome, being made at home at the Big House. We found the surroundings and people unique and interesting. There were lumbermen, trappers, and fishermen--a motley gathering of Newfoundlanders, Nova Scotians, Eskimos and "breeds," the latter being a comprehensive name for persons whose origin is a mixture in various combinations and proportions of Eskimo, Indian, and European. All were friendly and talkative, and hungry for news of the outside world. Lying around everywhere, or skulking about the reservation, were big Eskimo dogs that looked for all the world like wolves in subjection. We were warned not to attempt to play with them, as they were extremely treacherous. Only a few days before a little Eskimo boy who stumbled and fell was set upon by a pack and all but killed before the brutes were driven off. The night we arrived at Rigolet the pack killed one of their own number and ate him, only a little piece of fur remaining in the morning to tell the tale. Within an hour after we reached the post, Dr. Simpson arrived on the Julia Sheridan; but as he had neglected to bring the mail for Northwest River Post that the Virginia Lake had left at Indian Harbour, he had to return at once. Dr. Simpson not being permitted by his principles to run his boat on Sunday, unless in a case of great necessity, we were told not to expect the Julia Sheridan back from Indian Harbour until Monday noon; and so we were compelled to possess our souls in patience and enjoy the hospitality of Mr. Fraser. I must confess that while I was anxious to get on, I was at the same time not so greatly disappointed at our enforced delay; it gave me an opportunity to see something of the novel life of the post. While at Rigolet we of course tried to get all the information possible about the country to which we were going. No Indians had been to the post for months, and the white men and Eskimos knew absolutely nothing about it. At length Hubbard was referred to "Skipper" Tom Blake, a breed, who had trapped at the upper or western end of Grand Lake. From Blake he learned that Grand Lake was forty miles long, and that canoe travel on it was good to its upper end, where the Nascaupee River flowed into it. Blake believed we could paddle up the Nascaupee some eighteen or twenty miles, where we should find the Red River, a wide, shallow, rapid stream that flowed into the Nascaupee from the south. Above this point he had no personal knowledge of the country, and advised us to see his son Donald, whom he expected to arrive that day from his trapping grounds on Seal Lake. Donald, he said, had been farther inland and knew more about the country than anyone else on the coast. Donald did arrive a little later, and upon questioning him Hubbard learned that Seal Lake, which, he said, was an expansion of the Nascaupee River, had been the limit of his travels inland. Donald reiterated what his father had told us of Grand Lake and the lower waters of the Nascaupee, adding that for many miles above the point where the Nascaupee was joined by the Red we should find canoe travel impossible, as the Nascaupee "tumbled right down off the mountains." Up the Nascaupee as far as the Red River he had sailed his boat. He had heard from the Indians that the Nascaupee came from Lake Michikamau, and he believed it to be a fact. This convinced us that the Nascaupee was the river A. P. Low, of the Geological Survey, had mapped as the Northwest. The Red River Donald had crossed in winter some twenty miles above its mouth, and while it was wide, it was so shallow and swift that he was sure it would not admit of canoeing. He could not tell its source, and was sure the Indians had never travelled on it. In answer to Hubbard's inquiries as to the probability of our getting fish and game, Donald said there were bears along the Nascaupee, but few other animals. He had never fished the waters above Grand Lake, but believed plenty of fish were there. On Seal Lake there was a "chance" seal, and he had taken an occasional shot at them, but they were very wild and he had never been able to kill any. Strange as it may seem, none of the men with whom we talked mentioned that more than one river flowed into Grand Lake, although they unquestionably knew that such was the case. Their silence about this important particular was probably due to the fact, that while the Labrador people are friendly to strangers, they are somewhat shy and rarely volunteer information, contenting themselves, for the most part, with simple answers to direct questions. Furthermore, they are seldom able to adopt a point of view different from their own, and thus are unable to realise the amount of guidance a stranger in their country needs. In fact I discovered later that Skipper Blake and his son, who have spent all their lives in the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet, never dreamed anyone could miss the mouth of the Nascaupee River, as they themselves knew so well how to find it. We were sitting in the office of the post on Sunday, comfortably away from the fog that lay thick outside, when we were startled by a steamship whistle. Out we all ran, and there, in the act of dropping her anchor, was the Pelican, the company's ship from England. In the heavy fog she had stolen in and whistled before the flag was raised, which feat Captain Grey, who commands the Pelican, regarded as a great joke on the post. Once a year the Pelican arrives from England, and the day of her appearance is the Big Day for all the Labrador posts, as she brings the year's supplies together with boxes and letters from home for the agents and the clerks. From Rigolet she goes to Ungava, then returns to Rigolet for the furs there and once more steams for England. We found Captain Grey to be a jolly, cranky old seadog of the old school. He has been with the Hudson's Bay Company for thirty years, and has sailed the northern seas for fifty. He shook his head pessimistically when he heard about our expedition. "You'll never get back," he said. "But if you happen to be at Ungava when I get there, I'll bring you back." "Sandy" Calder, the owner of lumber mills on Sandwich Bay and the Grand River, who came from Cartwright Post on Sandwich Bay with Captain Grey on the Pelican, also predicted the failure of our enterprise. But Hubbard said to me that he had heard such prophecies before; that they made the work seem all the bigger, and that he could do it and would. At noon on Monday Dr. Simpson came with the Julia Sheridan, and we said good-bye to Rigolet. The voyage down the inlet to Northwest River Post was without incident, except that the good doctor was much concerned as to the outcome of our venture, saying: "Don't leave your bones up there to whiten, boys, if you can possibly help it." We reached Northwest River at two o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, and found the post to be much the same as Rigolet, except that its whitewashed buildings were all strung out in one long row. The welcome we received from Mr. Thomas Mackenzie, the agent there in charge, was most gratifying in its heartiness. Mr. Mackenzie is a bachelor, tall, lean, high-spirited, and the soul hospitality. Hubbard promptly dubbed him a "bully fellow." Probably this was partly due to the fact that he was the first man in Labrador to give us any encouragement. We had not been there an hour when he became infected with Hubbard's enthusiasm and said he would pack up that night and be ready to start with us in the morning, if he only were free to do so. To our great disappointment and chagrin, we found that Mackenzie had no fish nets to sell. We had been unable to obtain any at Rigolet, and now we were told that none was to be had anywhere in that part of Labrador. Hubbard realised fully the importance of a gill net as a part of our equipment and had originally intended to purchase one before leaving New York; but he was advised by Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey that it would be better to defer its purchase until we reached Rigolet Post or Northwest River, where he said we could get a net such as would be best adapted to the country. Hubbard had no reason to doubt the accuracy of this information, as Mr. Low had previously spent several months at these posts when engaged in the work of mapping out the peninsula. Conditions, however, had changed, unfortunately for us, since Mr. Low's visit to Labrador. Seeing the quandary we were in, Mackenzie got out an old three-inch gill net that had been lying in a corner of one of his buildings. He said he was afraid it was worn out, but if we could make any use of it, we might take it. We, too, had our doubts as to its utility; but, as it was the best obtainable, Hubbard accepted it thankfully and Mackenzie had two of his men unravel it and patch it up. During the afternoon we got our outfit in shape, ready for the start in the morning. Following is a summary of the outfit taken from an inventory made at Indian Harbour: Our canoe was 18 feet long, canvas covered, and weighed about 80 pounds. The tent was of the type known as miner's, 6 1/2 x 7 feet, made of balloon silk and waterproofed. We had three pairs of blankets and one single blanket; two tarpaulins; five duck waterproof bags; one dozen small waterproof bags of balloon silk for note books; two .45-70 Winchester rifles; two 10-inch barrel .22-calibre pistols for shooting grouse and other small game; 200 rounds of .45-70 and 1,000 rounds of .22-calibre cartridges; 3 1/4 x 4 1/4 pocket folding kodak with Turner-Reich Verastigmat lens; thirty rolls of films of one dozen exposures each, in tin cans, waterproofed with electricians' tape; a sextant and artificial horizon; two compasses and our cooking utensils and clothing. At Indian Harbour we had four 45-pound sacks of flour, but Hubbard gave one sack to the pilot of the Julia Sheridan, and out of another sack he had given the cook on the Julia sufficient flour for one baking of bread, and we had also used some of this bag on our way from Indian Harbour to Rigolet. This left two 45-pound bags and about thirty pounds in the third bag, or 120 pounds in all. There were, perhaps, 25 pounds of bacon, 13 pounds lard, 20 pounds flavoured pea meal, 9 pounds plain pea flour in tins, 10 pounds tea, 5 pounds coffee, 8 pounds hardtack, 10 pounds milk powder, 10 pounds rice, 8 pounds dried apples, 7 pounds salt, 7 or 8 pounds tobacco and 30 pounds sugar. This outfit, it will be remembered, was designed for three men. Hubbard tried to hire some of the native to accompany us a few miles into the interior and carry additional provisions that we might cache, but failed; they were all "too busy." Mackenzie treated us royally during the evening we spent at his post, and we enjoyed his hospitality to the utmost, knowing that it was to be our last night under shelter for weeks to come. Now we were on the very edge of the wilderness. To-morrow we should enter the unknown. IV. THE PLUNGE INTO THE WILD It was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, July 15, that we made the start. Our canoe, laden deep with our outfit, was drawn up with its prow resting snugly on the sandy bottom of the little strait that is locally known as the Northwest River. Mackenzie and a group of swarthy natives gathered on the shore to see us off. All but the high-spirited agent were grave and sceptical, and shook their heads at our persistency in going into a country we had been so frequently warned against. The atmosphere was crisp, pure, and exhilarating. The fir trees and shrubs gave out a delicious perfume, and their waving tops seemed to beckon us on. The sky was deep blue, with here and there a feathery cloud gliding lazily over its surface. The bright sunlight made our hearts bound and filled our bodies with vigour, and as we stood there on the edge of the unknown and silent world we had come so far to see, our hopes were high, and one and all we were eager for the battle with the wild. "I wish I were going with you; good-bye and Godspeed!" shouted Mackenzie, as we pushed the canoe into deep water and dipped our paddles into the current. In a moment he and the grave men that stood with him were lost to view. Up through the strait into the Little Lake we paddled, thence to the rapid where the waters of Grand Lake pour out. With one end of a tracking line, Hubbard sprang into the shallow water near the shore below the swift-running stream, and with the other end fastened to the bow of the canoe, pulled it through the rapid. A "planter's" family in a cabin near by watched us wonderingly. Then we were in Grand Lake. Hubbard remarked that it looked like Lake George, save that the hills were lower. For a few miles above its outlet the shores on both sides of the lake are low. Then on the south come bluffs that rise, stern and grand in their nudity, almost perpendicularly from the deep, clear water, while on the north come lower hills, the most part wooded, that retreat more gently from the rocky shore. Heading for the extreme upper of the lake, where Low's map and the natives had led us to expect we should find the Northwest or Nascaupee River, we paddled along the north shore to a point where we stopped among the rocks for a luncheon of flapjacks and syrup. We were away without waste of time, paddling diagonally across the lake to the south shore. The fleecy clouds had now thickened, and a few drops of rain had fallen. In our course across the lake we passed Cape Corbeau (Raven), but were so far out that the mouth of the river of that name, which is just east of it, escaped our attention. Cape Corbeau, it had been named by a French missionary, because the ravens build their nests on its rocky top, and, perched high up, croak at you warningly from afar. Always the ravens are there. Involuntarily, as one croaked above our heads, "Nevermore" echoed through my mind. "And my soul from out that shadow shall be lifted nevermore." There were dark shadows ahead of us among the rocks and the forests, and--But in a moment the thought was drowned and forgotten in the beauties of the scenery. Beauties?--yes; for bleak and desolate Labrador has a beauty and a charm all its own. Two hours after passing Cape Corbeau the rain began to pour, and at 7.30 o'clock, when we made camp on the south shore, we were well soaked. We resumed our journey at 5.30 in the morning. A stiff breeze was blowing, but by keeping in the lee of the shore we made good progress. At ten o'clock, when we found it necessary to cross to the north shore so as to shorten the distance, there was a rising sea, and we had to lighten the canoe and ferry the cargo over in two loads. It was soon after one o'clock that we reached the upper end of the lake, where we found a stream about 125 yards wide that flowed with a swift current from out a little lake. Into this lake after luncheon we paddled, and when we reached its upper end, there was the mouth of a river, which we immediately hailed as the Nascaupee, the stream that was to lead us up to Lake Michikamau. Its mouth was wide, and it seemed to answer so well all the descriptions we had heard of the river for which we were searching that the possibility of our being mistaken never once entered our heads; in fact, we remained under the impression that it was the Nascaupee until the last. But we were mistaken. We had passed the Nascaupee five miles below, where it empties, together with the Crooked River, into a deep bay extending northward from Grand Lake. At its mouth the Nascaupee is divided by an island into two streams, and this island is so thickly covered with trees, and the streams on either side of it are so narrow, that when we crossed along in front of the bay no break in the line of woods at the mouth of the river was perceptible. Perhaps it will be said we should have explored the bay. I know now myself that should have been done, but in justice to Hubbard it must be remembered that none of us then had any reason to suppose we should find a river at any place other than the extreme upper end of the lake. Time and time again Hubbard had asked the few natives who had been there if the Nascaupee entered Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer invariably had been: "Yes, sir; he do." Furthermore, it will have to be taken into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear that the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and by the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed. The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic memories. On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water. Proceeding up the Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low ridges covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and aspen trees. For the most part the banks of the river were steep and high; where they were low the river formed little pond expansions. For a mile above its mouth we had good canoeing. Up to this point the river was not more than thirty yards wide, and was deep, with little current. Then it began gradually to widen and become shallow and swift, with a boulder-strewn bottom. Soon we had to jump into the water, and with Hubbard at the end of the tracking line, and George and I at either end of the canoe, haul, lift, and push the heavily laden boat up the river, while we floundered over the boulders. Sometimes we would be able to get into the canoe and pole, but never for long. Around the worst places we portaged the whole outfit, canoe and all. It was desperately hard work, and when night came on and we went into camp, we were only two miles above the little lake. Hard as it was, we should not have minded our work in the rapids so much had it not been for the flies. For the first time we now realised the full form of what had been told us about the fly pest of Labrador. We had considered them annoying at Rigolet and Northwest River, but as soon as we began to buck the rapids they came upon us in clouds. They got into our nostrils, into our ears, into our mouths, into our eyes even, and our faces and hands were streaked with blood from their bites. They were villainous, hellish. Hubbard frequently remarked that the mosquitoes seemed friendly in contrast--and the mosquitoes were by no means considerate of our feelings and comfort either. We had purchased some cheesecloth at Rigolet for face nets, but the trial we had given it during the afternoon had proved that it was too closely woven for us to see through it and do our work, and it was useful only as some measure of protection for our ears and necks. On our faces we also tried some "fly dope" that we had purchased in New York, but it kept the pests away for a few minutes only. The ordinary Labrador fly is smaller than a pinhead. You do not feel it until after it has had its bite, and then the sensation is like that of a fiery itch. In addition to this kind, we had to withstand the attacks of flies called by the natives "bulldogs." These beasts are about the size of the top joint of one's thumb. They are well named. When they bite, you feel it immediately beyond a doubt. We used to say they bit out pieces of our flesh entire and flew up into the trees to eat them, and we used frequently to beg George to try his luck at shooting the brutes. However, it must be said to the credit of both kinds of flies that they have one good habit--they "knock off" work at the approach of the cool of evening, thus giving you a chance to bathe as well as sleep. The rain was still pouring when we pitched our tent that first night, but we had a good supper and were reasonably cheerful. There were flapjacks dripping with the syrup of melted sugar, and bacon, and hot bread, and coffee. "With this sort of work before us," said Hubbard, "we must keep well fed." "The river," said I, "certainly is the limit. If the Indians have to travel on it much, I feel sorry for them." "Well," said Hubbard, "we've surely got our work cut out. At this rate we're going to make pretty slow progress." "Blake told us," I ventured, "we could paddle up the river eighteen or twenty miles, and that he had sailed his boat up that far. I'd be willing to bet he never sailed it up this stream." "Oh," replied Hubbard, "he was mistaken in the distance. This must be the place where he said the river tumbled off the mountain. What do you say, boys," he added, "to throwing away some of the outfit? We'll never make any progress if we attempt to carry it all." "Let's stick to it a little longer," suggested George. However, we decided to abandon some clothing and a pail containing about four pounds of lard; and as George, particularly, was opposed to leaving behind us any provisions, it was decided to eat of them lavishly and pay no attention to the hunt for the present. All night it continued to rain, and we broke camp and started forward on Friday morning, July 17, in a drenching downpour. George thought this was rather hard. While Hubbard was out of hearing, he told me that the Indians never travelled in the rain, and that he had never been expected to do so before. The fact was that George had never before been on an expedition where there was so much necessity for haste. We found the river on the second day to be even worse than our worst fears had pictured it, and it kept growing worse as we ascended. The water was so swift and shoal that we could take only a part of the outfit in the canoe, which meant that we had to return at intervals for the rest and track all the way, Hubbard pulling on the line while George and I waded and pushed. Sometimes we were scarcely knee deep in the water, and at other times we would sink up to our armpits. Frequently we were swept off our feet. Once or twice we forced the canoe and outfit through the thick willows and alders that lined the river, and dragged them up the steep bank and attempted to portage; but the country here had been burned and fallen trees were piled high in every direction, so that we were compelled to return to the river and resume our efforts in the raging torrent. The work was awful, it was heartrending; and though we exerted ourselves to the utmost from six o'clock in the morning until eight at night, we advanced our camp only two miles that day. And when we gathered around the fire at night, how we did "cuss" that river! None of us, however, was discouraged, nor flinched at the prospect. Our oil-tanned, cowhide moccasins and woollen trousers were beginning to show the result of the attacks of bush, rock, and water, but our blue flannel shirts and soft felt hats were still quite respectable. Our coats we had left behind us as an unnecessary encumbrance. While George was cooking breakfast on Saturday morning (July 18), a red squirrel barked at us from a near-by tree. Drawing his pistol from its holster, Hubbard said: "Wallace, let's see who shall have the honour of bringing to George the first game of the trip." I acquiesced, and walking around the tree, caught the first glimpse of the squirrel. At it I carefully aimed my pistol, and down it came. It made a tiny morsel for three men, but as the "first game of the trip," we hugely enjoyed it when George served it in a pot of soup. At six o'clock we broke camp and laboured on, facing the same desperate conditions that we had met the day before. It is true that the rain had ceased to fall, but the good weather brought out the flies in increasing swarms. We fairly breathed flies, and we dreaded them far more than the hard work. Since they attacked us first, we had left our faces unwashed so as to retain the "dope," and they were streaming with a mixture of grease, dirt, blood, and perspiration. The return of the sun also sent the mercury soaring. At noon that Saturday it registered 90 degrees in the shade. Always at sunset, however, the temperature dropped with startling suddenness, and a variation of from fifty to sixty degrees between the maximum and minimum record for one day was not an unusual thing as long as summer lasted. Floundering up the boulder-strewn river that Saturday, we found the heat so oppressive that it seemed to us we had got into the torrid zone instead of up to within a few hundred miles of the Arctic Circle. We resolved, however, that the obstacles interposed against our advance by the unfeeling wild should make us fight only the harder, George and I receiving much inspiration from Hubbard, to whom difficulties were a blessing and whose spirit remained indomitable up to the very end. And when we sat down to our evening meal by a cosey fire, we had the satisfaction of knowing that we had doubled our previous day's record and were four miles further up the river. On our first Sunday out we remained in camp to rest. We were all pretty tired, and enjoyed the long sleep in the morning. The day was fine, but very warm. In the morning Hubbard caught about twenty small trout, and after luncheon he and George went up the river on a scouting trip. When they returned in the evening, they reported important discoveries. First they had come upon a small, rocky stream flowing into our river from the south, which stream Hubbard felt sure must be the Red River the Blakes had told us about, and a mile above that a two-mile stretch of good water. But the discovery that pleased Hubbard the most was some old cuttings that apparently had been made by Indians; he was of the opinion, as were all of us, that they indicated we really were on the Mountaineer Indian trail to Michikamau, and that we undoubtedly soon should come upon lakes and other good water that would carry us through; and the discoveries of the scouting trip buoyed up our spirits wonderfully. On Monday morning (July 20) George took an axe and cut us a portage route from our camp through a swamp a mile and a half to the foot of a hill. This route we covered three times. It was impossible for one man alone to carry the canoe through the swamp, and in addition to it and the firearms we had at this period to transport about five hundred pounds of baggage made up into packs of about seventy-five pounds each. At first Hubbard and I found seventy-five pounds a pretty good load to carry, and neither of us could get even that on his back without help from George; but later on we learned to back and carry with comparative ease a hundred pounds or more. In packing we never used either shoulder or chest straps, relying solely upon the head strap, which passes across the forehead. When, after much groaning and sweating, we finally arrived with all of our outfit at the foot of the hill, it took the combined efforts of all three of us to get the canoe to the top, whence we followed an old caribou trail for a mile along the summit, camping just above the smooth water that Hubbard and George had seen on Sunday. We were all completely exhausted when we reached camp. While staggering along with the canoe a hundred yards from the tent, I became so weak that I suddenly sank to the ground and the others had to come to my rescue and bring in the canoe. But the night was cool and starry, and we sat long by our fire and talked and drank pea soup and tea, and when it came time for us to turn in to our soft bed of fragrant spruce boughs, our troubles had been quite forgotten. The good water that Hubbard and George thought was two miles long shortened down, when we actually came to it the next morning, to less than half a mile, affording us only a meagre opportunity to make use of the canoe. For a little distance we again bucked the rapids, and then left the river for a rough portage of a mile and a half over the hills on the shore. Again at night we were exhausted, but again we had a fine camp on a point overlooking the river. The crisp air came laden with the perfume of spruce and balsam. On the surrounding hills the fir trees were darkly silhouetted against the sky, radiant with its myriads of stars. The roar of the river could be heard dying away into a mere murmur among the hills below. "Boys," said Hubbard, after we had made a good supper of a mess of trout I had caught at midday, "this pays for all the hard work." Undoubtedly Hubbard was in fine fettle that evening, and as we lay before the fire with that delicious feeling of languor which comes from conscientious toil, he entertained George and me with quotations from his favourite author, Kipling, while we puffed comfortably upon our pipes. One verse he dwelt upon, as it seemed particularly appropriate to our position. It was: When first under fire, if you're wishful to duck, Don't look or take heed of the man that is struck; Be thankful you're living and trust to your luck, And march to your front like a soldier." V. STILL IN THE AWFUL VALLEY The next day (Wednesday, July 22) was by far the most disheartening of our journey up the valley of the Susan. We portaged all day through gullies and swamps and over rough ridges, covering in all about two miles and a half. All of us were overcome by the hard work in the burning sun and the poisonous bites of the flies. I was the most susceptible to the attacks of the flies; for ten days I was fairly sick from the poison they instilled. The faces, bands, and wrists of all of us were badly swollen and very sore. My face was so swollen I could scarcely see. In the morning when we started forward the temperature was down to thirty-three degrees, but at noon it had risen to ninety-two. Hubbard was attacked with diarrhoea, and I with vomiting. We were all too exhausted to eat when we stopped for luncheon, and lay on the moss for an hour's rest, with the tent drawn over us to protect us from the flies. On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70 cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a circle of stakes. That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500 rounds of .22's. It had become strictly necessary to lighten our packs, and we had begun to drop odds and ends every day. In the afternoon Hubbard shot with his pistol a spruce partridge (grouse); it was the first seen by us on the trip. Together with a yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup. We camped that night on a bluff, barren point, and Hubbard named it "Partridge Point" in bonour of our first bird. On Thursday (July 23) Hubbard lay in the tent all day sick. All he was able to eat was some hardtack dipped in tea. At his request George and I scouted for trails. Each of us carried a rifle and wore at his belt a pistol and a cup in addition to the sheath knife we never were without. In our pockets we placed a half-pound package of pea meal. George started westward up the river, and I put for a high, barren bill two miles to the north. As I climbed the hill I heard gulls on the other side, which told me water lay in that direction, and when I reached the top, there at my feet, like a silver setting in the dark green forest, lay a beautiful little shoe-shaped lake. For miles and miles beyond the ridge I was on, the country was flat and covered with a thick spruce growth. To the northeast of the lake at my feet I could see the glimmer of other water among the trees, and I decided to go on and investigate. In doing so, I managed to get myself lost. Descending the hill to the lake, I made my way through the thick spruce growth in the swamp along the shore. A splash in the water startled me, and soon I found the fresh tracks of a caribou. As he had winded me, I knew it was useless to try to follow him. Pressing my way on to the northeast, I came upon another small lake and several small creeks. At midday I built a fire and made a cup of pea meal porridge. While waiting for my meal to cook, I read a letter that a friend had given me in New York, "to be opened after one week's canoeing in Labrador." It was like a letter just received from home. In the afternoon the sun became obscured by gathering clouds, and in the thick underbrush through which my course led me I could see scarcely twenty yards ahead. I attempted to get my direction with the compass, but the needle would not respond. Trusting, however, to my ability to find my course without it, I made my way on past two more lakes. A grouse fluttered up before me, and I brought it down with a pistol shot. After tying it to my belt, I decided it was time to turn back home, as we called our camp, and struck off by what I hoped would be a short cut through the swamp. Then it was that I lost my bearings, and at dusk, when I hoped to reach the first lake I had seen in the morning, I found myself on the shore of a lake I had never seen before. Too weary to cook the grouse, or even build a fire and make a cup of porridge, I threw myself on a flat rock, pillowed my head on the trunk of a fallen spruce tree, drew a handkerchief over my face to keep away the clouds of mosquitoes, and slept soundly. At dawn I arose, built a fire, repaired my compass, and ate a cup of porridge. I was not frightened, because with my compass again in working order I knew I should have no difficulty in finding the river, which must be somewhere to the south and which must lead me back to camp. So to the southward I took my course, pushing my way through thick brush and over marshes where the ground under my feet went up and down like the waves of the sea. Towards noon I reached a barren hill, and from its summit saw the river just beyond and the site of one of our old camping places that I knew was eighteen miles below our last camp. Down to the shore of the river I hurried, and built a fire for luncheon. The partridge at my belt had been torn into shreds by the bushes, and again a cup of porridge had to serve me for a meal. It was dark when I reached camp, to find Hubbard greatly worried and George away looking for me. There had been some good-natured arguments between Hubbard and me as to the merits of our respective compasses, and as he now appeared to have the better of it, he took advantage of the occasion to chaff me unmercifully. Then when George returned they both had fun with me for getting lost. "That's all right," I said, "your turn, Hubbard, will come later. You haven't been lost yet, because you haven't been out of sight of camp alone. Anyway, I just stayed out for a quiet evening by myself." My absence on Friday did not delay our progress any; for Hubbard was still unable to travel. On Saturday (July 25) he had not yet fully recovered, but he decided to push forward. A drizzling rain was falling as we started. Each of us carried a load some four miles up the valley and returned; and then Hubbard, with a second load, went ahead to make camp, while George and I, with the remainder of the baggage, endeavoured to drag the canoe upstream. Darkness came on when we were two miles below camp. While fording the river, I was carried off my feet by the current and nearly swept over the fall with a pack around my neck. Then George and I left the canoe on the bank for the night, and each with his pack proceeded to push his way through the thick willows and alders and over the rocks. It was so dark we could not see each other. Falling down constantly and struggling to our feet again, we stumbled on through the pitchy blackness and down-pouring rain, until suddenly we discerned the glowing light of our campfire and came upon Hubbard frying bacon. George and I were too tired to eat; we were glad to lie down in our wet clothes on the bed of spruce boughs that was ready for us and forget our troubles in sleep. We rested on Sunday--and ate. A partridge I had shot the day before was served stewed with rice and bacon for dinner, while for supper we had twenty-two trout that Hubbard caught in the morning, served with apple sauce and hot bread. This high living fully recompensed us for our hard fight against nature and the elements, and once more full of hope we lay down to sleep. In the morning (Monday, July 27) Hubbard arose with a feeling of depression, but fair progress during the day brightened him up. A typical fall wind blew all day, and we were very wet and very cold when we went into camp at night. But with the coming of evening the clouds were driven away before the wind, affording us an occasional glimpse of the new moon hanging low in the heavens; and this, together with the sound of the river and the roaring campfire, soon cheered us up. No matter how weary and discouraged we were during the day, our evening fire invariably brought to us a feeling of indescribable happiness, a sweet forgetfulness of everything but the moment's comfort. Our fire that Monday night was no exception to the general rule, but after supper, while we were luxuriantly reclining before it on a couch of boughs, Hubbard gave expression to a strange feeling that had been growing on him and me in the last few days. It was almost as if the solitude were getting on our nerves. Hubbard was munching a piece of black chocolate, which he dipped at intervals in a bit of sugar held in the palm of his left hand, when he said: "It's queer, but I have a feeling that is getting stronger from day to day, that we are the only people left in the world. Have you fellows experienced any such feeling?" "Yes," said I; "I have. I have been feeling that we must forever be alone, going on, and on, and on, from portage to portage, through this desolate wilderness." "That's it exactly," said Hubbard. "You sort of feel, that as you are now, so you always have been and always will be; and your past life is like a dream, and your friends like dream-folk. What a strange sensation it is! Have you felt that way, George?" George took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke to join the smoke of the fire, and spat meditatively over his shoulder. "Don't know as I have," he grunted. "I know there's mighty good huntin' down the bay; and I've been thinkin' of Rupert's House [the Hudson's Bay Company Post on James Bay where he was born], and what the fellus I know there are doin' these days. I can't say they seem like dream-folks to me; they're real enough, all right." Hubbard and I laughed. Solitude was an old story to our friend, the English-Indian, and our "feelings" must have seemed to him highly artificial, if not affected. Our progress on Tuesday and Wednesday (July 28 and 29) was the old story of hard tracking in the river and difficult portaging. The weather was cloudy and a chill wind blew. On Tuesday we advanced our camp a little more than three miles, and on Wednesday a little more than four. This continued slow work gave Hubbard serious concern, and the condition of our larder and wardrobe was not reassuring. Our bacon and sugar were going fast. Fish had become an absolute necessity, and our catches had been alarmingly small. There was also a lamentable lack of game. Far below we had heard the chatter of the last red squirrel, and seen the last bear signs and the last tree barked by porcupines. There were caribou trails a-plenty, but seldom a fresh track. A solitary rabbit had crossed our trail since we entered the valley, and there were no more rabbit runs visible. We could only hope that as we neared the "height of land," we should find more game--find plenty of caribou, at least, on the moss-covered barrens. We had also noted a change in the timber growth; neither birch nor aspen had we seen for a week. Our moccasins were breaking through the bottoms, and this was a serious matter; for while George had an extra pair, Hubbard and I had only those on our feet. Hubbard's feet were very sore. Two of his toe nails came off on Wednesday night, and a wide crack, which must have made walking very painful, appeared in one of his heels. The nearest thing we had to adhesive plaster was electrician's tape, and with this he bandaged his heel, and tied it and his toes up with pieces of cotton rags we had brought for cleaning rifles. It was on Thursday, July 30, that we reached the point where another good-sized stream comes into the Susan, or where the river may be said to divide into two branches. We found that the southerly branch came over a low fall from the west, while the other, or northerly branch, flowed down from the northwest. The southerly branch was fully as large as the northerly--narrower but deeper--and not nearly so swift and rocky. We were very uncertain as to which branch to follow, and Hubbard sent George on a scouting trip up the southerly stream, which we shall call Goose Creek, while he himself climbed a knoll to get a look at the country. A half mile or so up Goose Creek George found a blaze crossing the stream from north to south, which he pronounced a winter blaze made by trappers, as the cuttings were high up on the trees and freshly made. Half a mile above the blaze George came upon the rotten poles of an old Indian wigwam, and this discovery made Hubbard happy; he accepted it as evidence that Goose Creek was the river mapped as the "Northwest" and the Indian route to Michikamau. Accordingly it was decided to follow the southerly branch, and to leave the main stream at this point. I was glad to leave the valley of the Susan. Our whole course up the valley had been torturous and disheartening. We had been out fifteen days from Northwest River Post and had covered only eighty miles. Hubbard had been ill, and I had been ill. Always, as we pressed onward, I dreaded the prospect of retracing our steps through the Susan Valley. I hated the valley from end to end. I have more reason to hate it now. To me it is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. VI. SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL When we portaged into Goose Creek on Friday, July 31st, Hubbard had quite recovered from his illness, I, too, was well again, and our appetites had returned. It is true that my legs and feet were much swollen from the continuous work in the cold river, but the swelling caused me no inconvenience. All of us, in fact, were in better shape for the fight against the wild than at any time since the start. For three or four miles up Goose Creek the rapids were almost continuous, and we had to portage for practically the whole of the distance. On August 1st and 2d the weather was cold, with a raw wind and a continuous downpour of rain. At night the rain kept up a steady drop, drop, drop through our tent. On the 2d, owing to the inclemency of the weather, we did not travel; but the morning of the 3d brought brilliant sunshine and with the perfume of the forest in our nostrils we pushed on, soon reaching a flatter and a marshy country, where the creek deepened and narrowed with a sluggish current. Here the paddling was good, and for a little way we made rapid progress. In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house, and George stepped out of the canoe to examine it. "They're livin' here," he remarked. "If we're not too far away when we camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for 'em. They come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's not hard to get 'em." "What's the use of killing them?" I asked. "What could you do with a beaver if you got him?" "I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said George. "They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way for a piece of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than anything you ever ate." As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver meat, expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had consumed. However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more important things that evening claimed our attention. It was on this day that we reached a point where our branch creek itself separated into two branches. Upon scouting them, we discovered that each of these branches had for its origin a lake, the two bodies of water from which they flowed being close together some three miles to the westward. Apparently they were small lakes, but we hoped to find that they belonged to a chain that would carry us into the country, and their discovery encouraged us to push on. This hope was strengthened by Indian wigwam poles that we found in the vicinity. The poles, it is true, were old, indicating that the Indians had not been there for several years; but as it had been a long time since they had ceased to visit regularly Northwest River Post, we thought we had reason to believe that the poles marked what had been a permanent trail rather than the course of a hunting expedition. Hubbard was particularly observant of these old Indian signs. He was anxious to find them, and delighted when he did find them. "Here are the signs," he would say, "we are on the right trail." But we were not on the right trail. The right trail--the Nascaupee route--was miles to the northward. We eventually did stumble upon a trail to Michikamau, but it was another one--a very old one--and we found it only to lose it again. While we were following up Goose Creek the condition of our commissariat troubled us not a little. The scarcity of game had forced us to draw heavily upon our stores. Only a little of our lard and a small part of our twenty-five pounds of bacon remained. "We must hustle for grub, boys," Hubbard frequently remarked. Our diet, excepting on particular occasions, was bread and tea, fish when we could get them, and sometimes a little pea soup. The pea meal, plain and flavoured, was originally intended as a sort of emergency ration, but we had drawn on our stock of it alarmingly. Our flour, too, was going rapidly, and the time was drawing near when we felt that the ration of bread must be cut down. The only thing, perhaps, that we really craved was fresh meat. For several days after leaving the post we had experienced a decided craving for acids, but that craving had been partially satisfied when, on the barren hills that border the Valley of the Susan, we found a few cranberries that had survived the winter. Every day while we were on Goose Creek we caught a few small trout. When we halted for any purpose, Hubbard always whipped the stream. He was a tireless as well as an expert fisherman. He would fish long after I had become discouraged, and catch them in pools where they positively refused to rise for me. The trout thus obtained were relished, but a fish diet is not strengthening, neither is it satisfying, and as we had had no fresh meat since the day we landed at Indian Harbour a month before, our longing for it had become importunate. Imagine our joy, then, when on August 3d, the day we discovered the petering out of Goose Creek, some fresh meat came our way. Most unexpectedly was the day turned into one of feasting and thanksgiving. As we were preparing, soon after passing the beaver house, to pack at the foot of a rapid just below a little pond expansion, Hubbard saw four geese swimming slowly down the stream. He and George had just lifted their packs from the canoe, while I, some little distance off, had mine on my back. Hubbard had his rifle in his hands. George, who caught sight of the geese almost as soon as Hubbard, grabbed my rifle from the canoe. "Drop!" cried Hubbard, and down we all fell behind the little bank over which the birds had been sighted. There was fresh meat swimming towards us, and while we lay waiting for it to come in sight around the little head of land the excitement was intense. Soon the leader appeared, and Hubbard and George fired almost simultaneously. If ever there was a goose that had his goose cooked, it was that poor, unfortunate leader. One of the bullets from the .45-70 rifles that were aimed at him went through his neck, cutting the bone clean and leaving his head hanging by two little bits of skin. The other bullet bored a hole through his body, breaking both wings. I did not blame him when he keeled over. The leader disposed of, Hubbard and George again fired in quick succession, and two of the other geese dropped just as they were turning back upstream and vainly trying to rise on their wings, which were useless so soon after the moulting season. The second shot emptied George's rifle. He threw it down, grabbed a paddle and went after one of the birds, which, only slightly wounded, was flopping about in the water. Meanwhile Hubbard had fired twice at the fourth goose and missed both times. His rifle also being empty now, he cast it aside, seized his pistol, ran around the bank and jumped into the water in time to head off the remaining goose as it was flopping upstream. That brought the goose between him and George, and the bird was so bewildered that Hubbard had time to fire at him twice with his pistol and kill him, while George effectually disposed of the wounded goose by swatting him over the head with the paddle. Thus all four birds were ours, and our exultation knew no bounds. We shouted, we threw our hats in the air and shouted again. Lifting the birds critically, we estimated that we had on hand about fifty pounds of goose meat. More luck came to us that same day when we halted for luncheon at the foot of some rapid water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard, as usual, cast a fly, and almost immediately landed a half-pound trout. Then, as fast as I could split them and George fry them, another and another, all big ones, fell a victim to his skill. The result was that we had all the trout we could eat that noon, and we ate a good many. It was late in the afternoon when we reached the point where the two brooks joined to form Goose Creek. Our scouting was finished in less than two hours, and we went into camp early: for, as Hubbard expressed it, we were to have a "heap big feed," and George reminded us that it would take a good while to roast a goose. Our camp was pitched at the foot of a semi-barren ridge a half-mile above the junction of the brooks. George built a big fire--much bigger than usual. At the back he placed the largest green log he could find. Just in front of the fire, and at each side, he fixed a forked stake, and on these rested a cross pole. From the centre of the pole he suspended a piece of stout twine, which reached nearly to the ground, and tied the lower end into a noose. Then it was that the goose, nicely prepared for cooking, was brought forth. Through it at the wings George stuck a sharp wooden pin, leaving the ends to protrude on each side. Through the legs he stuck a similar pin in a similar fashion. This being done, he slipped the noose at the end of the twine over the ends of one of the pins. And lo and behold! the goose was suspended before the fire. It hung low--just high enough to permit the placing of a dish under it to catch the gravy. Now and then George gave it a twirl so that none of its sides might have reason to complain at not receiving its share of the heat. The lower end roasted first, seeing which, George took the goose off, reversed it and set it twirling again. After a time he sharpened a sliver of wood, stuck it into the goose and examined the wound critically. "Smells like a Christmas goose when one goes through the kitchen dead hungry before dinner," said Hubbard. "Um-m-n!" I commented. In a little while George tried the sharp splinter again. Hubbard and I watched him anxiously. White juice followed the stick. Two hours had passed, and the goose was done! Events now came crowding thick and fast. First, George put the steaming brown goose in his mixing basin, and deftly and rapidly disjointed it with his sheath knife. Meanwhile, with nervous haste, Hubbard and I had drawn our knives, and with the tin basin of goose before us, all three of us plumped down in a half-circle on the thick moss in the light of the bright-blazing fire. Many of the rules of etiquette were waived. We stood not on the order of our falling to, but fell to at once. We eat, and we eat, at first ravenously, then more slowly. With his mouth full of the succulent bird, George allowed he would rather have goose than caribou. "I prefer goose to anything else," said he, and proceeded to tell us of goose hunts "down the bay" and of divers big Indian feasts. At length all the goose was gone but one very small piece. "I'll eat that for a snack before I sleep," said George, as he started to put the giblets to stew for breakfast. The fire died down until nothing remained save a heap of glowing embers. For a long time we sat in the darkness over an extra pot of tea. At first, silence; and then, while George and I puffed complacently on our pipes, Hubbard, who never smoked, entertained us with more of Kipling. "The Feet of the Young Men" was one of his favourites, and that night he put more than his usual feeling into the words: "Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose-- Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain; Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trout's jumping--crazy for the fly? He must go--go--go away from here! On the other side the world he's overdue. 'Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you And the Red Gods call for you!" Again the silence. The northern lights flashed and swept in fantastic shapes across the sky, illuminating the fir tops in the valley and making the white lichens gleam on the barren hill above us. We thought of the lake ahead with its old wigwams, and the promise it held out of an easy trail to Michikamau made us feel sure that the worst part of our journey was ended. Thus we sat supremely happy and content until long past midnight, when we went to our tent and our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to be lulled asleep by the murmuring waters of the creek below. The brooks into which Goose Creek divided near our camp of course would not permit of canoeing, and the morning after our feast (August 4) we portaged through a swamp into the lake that fed the southerly one. We called this small body of water Mountaineer Lake, because the Mountaineer Indians had been there. Besides numerous cuttings and the remains of wigwams, we found the ruins of a drying stage where they had cured meat or fish. From Goose Camp to the lake shore George carried the canoe, and Hubbard and I each a pack. Then while George and I returned for the remaining packs, Hubbard waited by the lake. As he sat there alone, a caribou waded into the water less than a hundred feet away, stopped and looked fearlessly at him for a few moments, and then walked leisurely off into the woods. "It seemed as if he wanted to shake hands with me," Hubbard said when he told us of the incident. He had to let the deer depart in peace, because both rifles were back with the last loads at Goose Camp, and his pistol was in his bag. Needless to say, we were bitterly disappointed at losing the first deer we had seen, and it taught us the lesson always to take one rifle forward with the first load on a portage. We spent the afternoon scouting in different directions, and discovered that the only inlet to Mountaineer Lake ended in a bog a mile or so up. A mile or more to the westward, however, George discovered another and much larger lake, which in honour of him we shall call Lake Elson. An old trail led from Mountaineer Lake to Lake Elson, which George pronounced to be a caribou trail, but which Hubbard believed to be an old portage, because it led from lake to lake by the most direct course. There were no axe cuttings, however, to indicate that the Indians had followed it. We tried the troll in Mountaineer Lake, but caught nothing. Apparently there was nothing there but trout, of which fish I caught eight at the inlet. I shot with my pistol a muskrat that was swimming in the lake, but George did not cook it, as he said the flesh would be too strong at that season. It was raining again and the mosquitoes were out in millions, but with three geese still on hand and a good lake ahead we were indifferent to such troubles as that, although our clothing was not now in a condition successfully to withstand much bad weather. Rags, in fact, were beginning to appear upon us all. One of Hubbard's trousers legs was ripped clear down the front, and it was continually streaming behind in the wind and getting caught in the bushes, despite his efforts to keep it in place with pieces of twine. At length he patched it with a piece of white duffel, and exhibited his tailoring feat to us with much pride. About noon on August 5, after a two-mile portage, we reached Lake Elson. On the way Hubbard sighted two caribou. He dropped his pack and grabbed his rifle. They were 250 yards away and partially hidden by the timber, and as they were approaching him, he waited, believing he would get a better shot. But, while he was waiting, what he called a "cussed little long-legged bird" scared them off, by giving a sharp, shrill cry of alarm, which the deer evidently were clever enough to construe as meaning that something out of the ordinary was happening. Lake Elson proved to be about three and a half miles long and a half mile wide. It lay in a basin surrounded by wooded hills. The northerly portion was dotted with low, mound-like islands of drift, with two or three irregular, rocky islands, all completely wooded. It was a beautiful sheet of water, and, like all the lakes in Labrador, as clear as crystal and very cold. On the northerly side there were narrow straits and inlets, doubtless connecting the lake with others to the northwest that were hidden by the growth. The outlet was at the southern end. It flowed through a pass in a low ridge of hills that extended for a great distance east and west, and emptied into a small lake, the waters of which were discharged through a creek that flowed through a pass in another low ridge that ran parallel with the first as far as we could see. Between the two ridges was a marsh that extended westward for many miles. The ridges and the hills surrounding the lakes were covered with spruce and balsam. Nowhere along our route since we left Northwest River Post, however, had we seen any timber of commercial value; the largest trees did not exceed eight inches in diameter, the generality being much smaller. We were somewhat disconcerted upon finding no further signs of Indians, and feared we had lost the trail. Neither trapper's blaze nor trapper's cutting was to be seen; for now we were beyond their zone and in a country that apparently no white man and no breed had ever viewed. We selected a site for our camp near the outlet at the southern end of the lake. In the afternoon Hubbard and George went to some bluffs that could be seen two or three miles to the southward, to scout for a route to Michikamau and find the Indian trail if possible. I remained behind to make camp. The days were now shortening rapidly; it was dark before eight o'clock. In the grey of the twilight George returned. When he hailed me, I was fishing in the outlet just below the camp, standing on a rock in midstream to which I had waded. "Come 'long up to camp," he called. Once in the wilderness, we made no distinctions as to master and servant; we were all companions together. Hence George's familiar manner of address. "When I land two more trout," I shouted back. "You've got enough; come 'long now," he pleaded. There was that in his tone that excited my curiosity; he seemed all of a sudden to have acquired an unusual fondness for my society. "What's the matter, George?" I asked. "I've been about lost," he returned. "Come on and I'll tell you." I was astonished. I had seen George drop a pack in the bush, where everything for miles around looked alike to me, and without marking the spot or apparently taking note of any guiding signs, he would go directly to it again. I was with him one pitch-dark night when he left a pack among alders and willows in the depth of a marsh, and in the morning he went back two miles straight to the very spot. How a man that could do this could get lost was beyond my understanding. I hurried up to camp. "How did it happen, George?" I asked. "I just got turned 'round," he replied. "I didn't have any grub, and I didn't have a pistol, or a fishhook, or any way to get grub, and I didn't have a compass, and I was scared." "But don't you know how you got lost?" I persisted. "No, I don't," said George. "I just got lost. But I found myself pretty quick. I never got lost before." The only way I could account for it was that he had permitted his thoughts to wander. I asked him what he would have done if he had not been able to find his way back. "Gone to the highest hill I could see," he answered with a grin, "and made the biggest smoke I could make at its top, and waited for you fellus to find me." While we were talking George was busily engaged in making the fire, putting a goose to boil and preparing water for tea. The twilight deepened, and ere we realised it darkness had come. Every moment we expected to hear Hubbard, but he did not appear. "Another man lost," said I, with a forced lightness that illy concealed the anxiety George and I both felt; we knew that Hubbard not only had nothing to eat, but no matches to make a fire. Frequently we stopped our work and talk, to peer into the gathering night and listen for the breaking of a twig. At length I took my rifle and fired at intervals half a dozen shots; but the reports echoed and died away without a reply. A damp north wind chilled the air, and the gloom seemed particularly oppressive. "Hubbard will have a hard night out there in the bush," said George. "Yes," I replied; "I don't suppose we can expect him back now before morning; and when a man is lost in this wild country it's pretty hard to find a little tent all by itself." I was thinking of my own experience farther back, and what might happen should Hubbard fail to find us or we him. He was not so fortunate as I had been, in that there was no river to guide his return. However, at five o'clock in the morning he appeared. He had spent a miserable night on a ridge two miles to the southward, wet and shivering, with no fire, and tormented by mosquitoes. He reported that from the ridge he could hear the roar of a rapid. Darkness had prevented him from going on, and he had not seen the rapid, but he was sure it was a part of a big river. At first he was loath to admit he had been lost, doubtless remembering how he and George had "guyed" me when I had been out all night and my prediction that his turn would come; but when George confessed to having gone astray also, he made a clean breast of it, telling us he was "lost good and plenty, and scared some, too." Now I had my innings, and I must confess I took great delight in returning some of the chaff they had given me. Hubbard decreed, in consequence of these experiences--getting lost--that thereafter each man at all times should have on his person an emergency kit, to consist of matches, a piece of fish line, some hooks and two or three flies, enclosed in a film box waterproofed with electrician's tape. We remained in our camp on Lake Elson for two days in order to scout and dry fish. It was the best fishing place we had yet come to. During our stay we had all the trout we could eat, and we dried and smoked forty-five large ones. The scouting proved that Hubbard's "big river" was an important discovery. It lay two miles to the south of us, flowing to the southeast. Hubbard sent George to look at it, and he reported that it certainly came from large lakes, as it was big, deep and straight. Could it come from Lake Michikamau? While George was away Hubbard and I took a trip in the canoe around the lake and through some inlets. At the northeast we discovered a creek flowing into the lake, and as there were some old Indian wigwams and cuttings near it, indicating the possibility of its being part of a trail, we seriously considered the advisability of following it up. From a knoll near by we could see to the northwest other lakes into which the creek might possibly lead us; but, after returning to camp, we considered the situation fully in the light of George's report of the big river, and we decided that to the big river we should go. This decision was not to prove an error of judgment; for the big river was none other than the Beaver--an important part of an old trail of the Indians to Lake Michikamau. VII. ON A REAL RIVER AT LAST We broke camp in the forenoon of August 7th, and a few hours later, after making two trips back and forth, we arrived with our baggage on the bank of our new river. At last we had a real river to travel on, its average width being between 100 and 150 yards. None of us, of course, then knew that our real river was the Beaver, and that in taking to it we had stumbled upon an old Indian route to Lake Michikamau. If we had known this, it would have made a great difference in our fortunes. Immediately below the point where we portaged into the river, wooded ridges on either side hugged it close, forming a narrow valley. Just above us the valley broadened, and a mile or so up a big hill reared its barren summit above the black spruce trees at its base, standing there like a lonely sentinel among the little hills that bordered the widening river basin. Despite the fact that we had reached a real river, we still had rapids to encounter, and we had to make so many short portages that after we had ascended the river two miles it was time to camp. We pitched our tent on a rising plateau just below a stretch of rushing water. As soon as we stopped, Hubbard tried to fish, and while I made camp he landed fifteen trout averaging nearly half a pound each. They were most welcome, as the time had come when we had to live off the country. Our bread ration was now cut down to one-third of a loaf a day for each man. As we had no lard, it was made simply of flour, baking powder, and water. It was baked in our frying pan, and a loaf was about eight inches in diameter and one inch thick, so that our daily ration was but a morsel. We also decided that from now on we should use pea meal only on rare occasions, and to reserve our other provisions, with the exception of a few dried apples, tea, coffee and a little chocolate and cocoa, to give us a start should we at any time find it necessary to make a sudden dash for the Post. Our clothing was rapidly disintegrating. The front of Hubbard's trouser leg was all torn open again, and once more he had to resort to pieces of twine. We had frequent discussions at this period as to whose appearance was the most beautiful. For a time Hubbard and I would claim the distinction each for himself, but it usually ended by our conceding the distinction to George. As a matter of fact, with our unkempt hair and beards and our rags, we now formed as tough looking a party of tramps as ever "came down the pike." That night in camp I cut up my canvas leggings and used pieces of the canvas to rebottom my moccasins, sewing it on with shoemaker's thread. It was a glorious evening. A big moon rising over the bluffs beyond us transformed the river into a silvery thread stretching far down through the dark valley. Behind us the black spruce forest made our roaring fire seem more cheerful in contrast. A cold east wind had driven away the flies and the mosquitoes. Supper eaten, our cup of contentment was full to the brim. After all, the wilderness was not so inhospitable. Who would be anywhere else, if he could? Not one of us. With the sensation that we were the only people in Labrador, a fancy struck me and I suggested to my companions that we ought to organise some sort of government. "We'll make you, Hubbard," I said, "the head of the nation and call you the Great Mogul. Of course you will be commander-in-chief of the army and navy and have unlimited power. We're your subjects." "I suspect," replied Hubbard, "you are looking for a political job. However, I, of course, stand ready, like our politicians at home, to serve the country when duty calls--if there's enough in it. As the Great Mogul of Labrador, I appoint you, Wallace, Chief Justice and also Secretary of State. George I shall appoint Admiral of the Navy." "Where are my ships?" asked George. "Ships!", exclaimed Hubbard. "Well, there will be only one for the present. But she's a good staunch one--eighteen feet long, with a beam of thirty-three and a half inches. And she carries two quick-fire rifles." With these and other conceits we whiled away the beautiful evening hours. What a difference there was in the morning! We awoke--it was Saturday, August 8--to find that the east wind had increased in force and was accompanied by a driving, chilling rain. Reluctantly we broke camp, and began a day of back-breaking, disheartening work. The wind soughed dismally through the forests, and it was as though late autumn had overtaken us in a night. The spruce boughs, watersoaked, seemed to hang low for no other purpose than to strike us in the face at every step, and the willows and alders along the river that now and again obstructed our way appeared to be thicker and wetter than ever. Under these conditions we had made six portages, the longest of which was about three-quarters of a mile, and covered in all about four and a half miles, when one o'clock came and we gave up the fight for the day, to make our Sunday camp and try to get fish. We were ravenously hungry, and ate even the heads of the dried trout we had for luncheon, these being the last of those we caught and smoked on Lake Elson. During the afternoon we put out for the first time the old gill net Mackenzie had given us, and by hard work with the rod caught a few more trout for supper. It still poured on Sunday morning. Hubbard fished all day, and I the greater part of the forenoon. The net product of our labor was forty-five trout, most of them little fellows. The gill net yielded us nothing. In the afternoon George and I took the rifles and started out in different directions to look for caribou. Neither of us found any fresh tracks. I returned at dusk, to find George already in camp and our supper of boiled fish ready to be eaten. Our sugar was all gone by this time, and our supply of salt was so low that we were using hardly any. In spite of us the salt had been wet in the drenching rains we had encountered all up the Susan Valley, and a large part of it had dissolved. While we all craved sugar and other sweets, I believe Hubbard suffered the most from their absence. Perhaps the fact that George and I used tobacco and he did not, was the explanation. He was continually discussing the merits of various kinds of cake, candies, and sweet things generally. Our conversation too often turned to New York restaurants, and how he would visit various ones of them for particular dishes. Bread undoubtedly was what we craved the most. "I believe I'll never refuse bread again," Hubbard would say, "so long as there's a bit on the table." Monday (August 10) brought with it no abatement of the driving rain and cold east wind. Working industriously for half an hour before breakfast, Hubbard succeeded in landing a single small trout, which fell to me, while he and George ate thick pea meal porridge, of which they were very fond. We made several short portages during the morning, and, despite the dismal weather, our spirits brightened; for we came upon old wigwam poles and axe cuttings, which we accepted as proof that we were now surely on the Indian trail to Michikamau. Towards noon Hubbard said: "Well, boys, we're on the right road, we've covered three miles this morning, and this rain is killing, so we'll pitch camp now, and wait for the weather to clear and try to get some fish ahead. There are fish here, I know, and when the wind changes we'll get them." After warming ourselves by a big fire and eating luncheon, Hubbard and I took our rods and fished the greater part of the afternoon, catching between us twelve or fifteen trout. "You had better cook them all for supper, George," said Hubbard. "This is my mother's birthday, and in honour of it we'll have an extra loaf of bread and some of her dried apples. And I tell you what, boys, I wish I could see her now." On the following day (Tuesday, August 11) the weather had somewhat moderated, but the east wind continued, and the rain still fell during all the forenoon. We could get no fish at our camp, and at two in the afternoon started forward, all of us hungry and steadily growing hungrier. Hubbard whipped the water at the foot of every rapid and tried every pool, but succeeded in getting only a very few trout. While he fished, George and I made the portages, and thus, pushing on as rapidly as possible, we covered about four miles. While George and I were scouting on Sunday, we had each caught sight of a ridge of rocky mountains extending in a northerly and southerly direction, which we estimated to be from twenty to twenty-five miles to the westward. Previous to Tuesday, these mountains had not been visible from the river valley, but on that day they suddenly came into view, and they made us stop and think, for they lay directly across our course. However, we did not feel much uneasiness then, as we decided that our river must flow through a pass in the mountains far to the north, and follow them down before turning east. Our camp on Tuesday night was rather a dreary one; but before noon on Wednesday (August 12) the clouds broke, big patches of blue sky began to appear, and with a bit of sunshine now and again, our hearts lightened as we proceeded on our journey. At the foot of a half-mile portage Hubbard caught fourteen trout, and our luncheon was secure. Three more portages we made, covering in all about three miles, and then we shouted for joy, for there ahead of us lay open water. Along it for five miles we gaily canoed before stopping for luncheon. Hungry? Yes, we were hungry even after devouring the fourteen trout and drinking the water they were boiled in--I could have eaten fifty like them myself--but our spirits were high, and we made merry. For the first time since leaving Grand Lake there was good water behind us and good water before us. At the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out. Wide marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and then a low hill of drift. The north side was followed by a low ridge of drift, well wooded. We landed for luncheon on the south bank, at the foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an interesting discovery, namely, the remains of an old Indian camp and the ruins of two large birch-bark canoes. In November, at Northwest River Post, I heard the story of those canoes. Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had camped there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon its canoes and make a dash for the Post. Game was scarce, and the fish had gone to deeper waters. The Indians pushed desperately on overland, but one by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend, Starvation, had claimed them all. Since that time no Indian has ever travelled that trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we had stumbled was thereupon abandoned. The Indians believe the trail is not only unlucky, but haunted; that if while on it they should escape Starvation--that terrible enemy which nearly always dogs them so closely--they are likely to encounter the spirits of them that died so many years ago. Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our luncheon on the very spot where others in desperation had faced death. It was to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason for believing we were on the right trail, that was all. While we ate, the sun came out brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling feeling ready for almost anything that might happen. And something soon did happen--something that made the day the most memorable so far of the trip. No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled three miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big woodland stag caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the northern shore, two hundred yards ahead. I seized my rifle, and, without waiting for the canoe to stop, fired. The bullet went high. The caribou raised his head and looked at us inquisitively. Then Hubbard fired, and with the dying away of the report of his rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit 'im, Hubbard; you've got 'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his knees, but struggled to his feet again. As he did so, Hubbard sent another shot at him, but missed. Slowly the big deer turned, and began to struggle up the bank. Again Hubbard and I fired, but both shots went low. We ran the canoe to shore, and while I made it fast, Hubbard and George ran breathlessly ahead to where the caribou had disappeared. I followed at once, and soon came upon them and the caribou, which fallen thirty yards from the river with a bullet through his body just back of the left shoulder. A trail of blood marked his path from the river to where he lay. As the animal floundered there in the moss, Hubbard, with the nervous impetuosity he frequently displayed, fired again against George's protest, the bullet entering the caribou's neck and passing down through his tongue the full length. Then George caught the thrashing animal by the antlers, and while he held its head down Hubbard cut its throat. We made our camp right where the caribou fell. It was an ideal spot on the high bank above the river, being flat and thickly covered with white moss. The banks at this point were all sand drift; we could not find a stone large enough to whet our knives. George made a stage for drying while Hubbard and I dressed the deer. Our work finished, we all sat down and roasted steaks on sticks and drank coffee. The knowledge that we were now assured of a good stock of dried meat, of course, added to the hilarity of feast. As we thought it best to hoard our morsel of flour, it was a feast of venison and venison alone. While waiting for our meat to dry, we had to remain in camp for three or four days. On the next afternoon (Thursday, August 13) Hubbard and I paddled about three miles up the river to look for fish, but we got no bites, probably because of the cold; in the morning there had been a fringe of ice on the river shore. "We'll take it easy," said Hubbard while we were paddling upstream, "and make a little picnic of it. I'm dead tired myself. How do you feel, Wallace?" "I feel tired, too," I said. "I have to make an extra effort to do any work at all." Hubbard was inclined to attribute this tired feeling to the freedom from strain after our nerve-racking work of the last few weeks, while I hazarded the opinion that our purely meat diet had made us lazy. Probably it was due to both causes. As Hubbard was anxious to obtain definite knowledge as to what effect the high ridge of rocky mountains had upon our river, George and I, with the object of ascertaining the river's course, left camp in the canoe on Friday morning (August 14), taking with us, in addition to our emergency kits, our cups, some tea, and enough caribou ribs for luncheon. We portaged around a few short rapids, and then, about eight miles above our camp, came upon a lake expansion of considerable size with many inlets. On the northerly side of the lake was a high, barren hill, which afforded us a splendid view of the surrounding country. Winding away to the southeast was the river we had ascended. To the west was a series of lake expansions connected by narrow straits, and beyond them were the mountains, which we estimated rose about 2,500 feet above the country at their base. In sheltered places on their sides, patches of ice and snow glistened in the sunshine. Barren almost to their base, not a vestige of vegetation to be seen anywhere on their tops or sides, they presented a scene of desolate grandeur, standing out against the blue sky like a grim barrier placed there to guard the land beyond. As I gazed upon them, some lines from Kipling's "Explorer" that I had often heard Hubbard repeat were brought forcibly to my mind: "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" Let us call these ranges the Kipling Mountains. To the north, hill after hill, with bald top rising above the stunted trees on its sides, limited our range of vision. Far away to the south stretched a rolling, wooded country. To the eastward the country was flatter, with irregular ranges of low hills, all covered with a thick growth of spruce and fir balsam. Beyond the point where the water flowed from it southeasterly into the river we had ascended, the lake at the foot of our hill seemed to extend directly eastward for four for five miles; but the thick wood of the valleys and low-lying hills made it difficult to see just where it ended, so that from where we stood it was impossible to tell what course the river took--whether it came from the east, bending about in the lake expansion below us, or flowed from the west through the lake expansions beyond. Away off to the northeast an apparently large lake could be discerned, with numerous mound-like islands dotting its surface. For a long time we stood and gazed about us. Far to the southeast a tiny curl of smoke rose heavenward in the clear atmosphere. That was Hubbard's campfire--the only sign of life to be seen in all that wide wilderness. The scene was impressive beyond description. It gave me a peculiar feeling of solemnity and awe that I shall never forget. We found on our hill a few dead twigs of sub-Arctic shrubbery with which to make a fire to broil our caribou ribs, and gathered some mildly acid berries of a variety neither of us had ever seen before, which we ate as a dessert. After luncheon George said he thought we had better go to the westward to look for the river. "But how can it come through those mountains?" I asked. "I don't know as it can," he replied. "But," pointing to one of the range, "I want to take a look at the country beyond from that high mountain." So we returned to our canoe, and paddled to the westward a few miles through two lake expansions, which brought us to the foot of the mountains. We landed at a place where a small creek tumbled down through a rocky pass. George went up his mountain alone. During his absence, with my emergency kit, I caught ten six-inch trout to be divided between us for supper, as only two of our caribou ribs remained. Near dark George came back. After climbing half way to the summit of his mountain, he had encountered perpendicular walls of rock that blocked his further progress. We made a fire of old wigwam poles, and roasted our fish before it on a flat stone. A quart of hot tea between us washed down our meagre supper, and then we made a bed of boughs. But when we tried to sleep the icy wind that blew through the pass caused us to draw closer to the fire, before which we alternately sat and lay shivering throughout the night. Having brought no axe with us, we could not build a fire of any size. I do not believe either of us slept more than half an hour. "Which would you rather have, Wallace, a piece of bread or a blanket?" George would ask at frequent intervals. "Bread," I always answered. At that he would chuckle. We had tasted nothing but venison and fish since the day we killed the caribou, and for bread we had an inexpressible craving. "Anyway," George would say, "this cold will weaken the flies." And with this reflection he continued to comfort us as the nights became chillier. In the morning we had to break the ice to get water for our tea, which with the two remaining caribou ribs constituted our breakfast. George then made another attempt at his mountain. Again he failed to reach the summit, and I failed to induce any more trout to rise. In a somewhat despondent mood we turned back, and paddled for some distance into the lake expansions to the eastward of the point where our river flowed out. Although we were compelled to start for "home" before obtaining any definite knowledge of the course of the river, we were of the opinion that it came from the east. For all we knew, however, the river might end in those lake expansions; we could not tell, as no current could be discerned, and having no food we could not continue the search. It was five o'clock in the evening when we reached camp, tired out and as hungry as two wolves, and we astonished Hubbard with the amount of venison we put out of sight. While George was temporarily out of hearing, Hubbard said: "It's bully good to see you back again, Wallace. I was disappointed when you didn't come back last night, and I've been dead lonesome. I got thinking of my wife and home, and the good things to eat there, and was on the verge of homesickness." "We were mightily disappointed, too, at not getting back," said I between mouthfuls. "Up there on the lakes we put in the toughest night yet, and we were thinking of the venison and warm blankets down here at camp." Hubbard was much discouraged and depressed at our report of the uncertain course of the river, although he was careful to conceal his feelings from George. The next day (Sunday, August 16) we cut up our canvas guncases and used some of the material to re-bottom our moccasins. What was left over we put away carefully for future use. George cracked the caribou bones and boiled out the marrow grease. He stripped the fat from the entrails and tried out the tallow, preserving even the cracklings or scraps. "We'll be glad to eat 'em yet," said he. One of the hoofs he dressed and put with our store of meat. We preserved everything but the head, the entrails and three of the hoofs. The tallow we found an excellent substitute for lard. In the afternoon Hubbard and I caught thirty trout in an hour at the rapid a mile and a half above our camp, and a few more in the river close by the camp. High living during the day raised all of our spirits. For breakfast we had the caribou heart, which George thought at first he would roast but changed his mind and served stewed. For dinner we had the tongue, the tidbit of the animal, boiled with pieces of other parts. Hubbard's second bullet had torn out the centre of the tongue, but what there was of it was delicious. And at night we had the trout caught during the afternoon, to which, as a Sunday luxury, was added a cake of bread. When we gathered around the fire in the evening Hubbard had entirely recovered from his depression and took a more hopeful view of the river. We discussed the matter thoroughly, and decided that the river George and I had seen coming from the eastward must take a turn farther north and break through the Kipling Mountains, and that it might prove to be Low's Northwest River we all thought was possible. At the same time we could not disguise the fact that it was extremely probable we should have to portage over the mountains, and the prospect was far from pleasing; but, ragged and almost barefooted though we were, not a man thought of turning back, and on Monday morning, August 17th, we prepared to leave Camp Caribou and solve the problem as to where lay the trail of Michikamau. VIII. "MICHIKAMAU OR BUST!" The temperature was three degrees below freezing when grey dawn at half past four o'clock that Monday morning bid us up and on. The crisp air and the surpassing beauty of the morning stirred within us new hope and renewed ambition. And the bags of jerked venison and the grease gave us faith that we should succeed in reaching our goal. Though we had some food in stock, there was to be no cessation in our effort to get fish; our plan was for Hubbard to try his rod at the foot of every rapid while George and I did the portaging. Before midday Hubbard had forty trout, one of them sixteen inches long--the biggest we had caught yet. We stopped for luncheon on the sandy shore of a pretty little lake expansion, and ate the whole morning's catch, fried in caribou tallow, with unsweetened coffee to wash it down. Then on we pushed towards the Kipling Mountains. At a narrow strait between two lakes we left Hubbard to fish, George and I going on two miles farther to the place where we had spent that chilly night while scouting, and where our camp for this night was to be pitched. Our object in going there was to give George another chance to view the country on the other side of the mountain range. This time he was to try another peak. As he disappeared up the mountain side, I paddled back to get Hubbard, who was awaiting me with a good string of big trout. The two-mile stretch of lake from where Hubbard was fishing to our camping ground was as smooth as a sheet of glass. The sun hanging low over the mountains and reflecting their nude forms in the silvery water, and the dark green forest of fir trees on the shores moved Hubbard to exclamations of delight. "Oh, if it could be painted just as it appears now!" he said. "Why, Wallace, this one scene is worth all the groaning we've done to get here. It's grand! grand!" At dark George returned to camp with the report that from his peak he could see only higher mountains looming up to the westward. In the shadow of the grey rocks of the grim old mountains that so stubbornly held their secret of what lay beyond, we had a good supper of trout and were happy, though through the gulch the creek roared defiance at us, and off in the night somewhere a loon would break out at intervals in derisive laughter. At the base of the mountains the narrow lake reflected a million stars, and in their kindly light the snow and ice patches on the slopes above us gleamed white and brilliant. With our day's work the listlessness from which we had recently suffered had entirely disappeared, and we felt ready to undertake any task, the more difficult the better. Hubbard suggested giving up route hunting if our river ended where we then were, and striking right across the mountains with our outfit on our backs, and we received the suggestion with enthusiasm. He talked, too, a great deal about snowshoeing in winter to St. Augustine on the St. Lawrence, cutting across country from the Kenemish River, which flows into Groswater Bay opposite Northwest River Post. This trip, which he held out as a possibility in the event of our missing the last steamer out from Rigolet, seemed to appeal to him immensely. "I don't care if we are too late for the steamer," he said; "that snowshoeing trip would be a great stunt." We found a great many wigwam poles near and in the pass hard by our camp, while by the creek we came across the remains of both summer and winter camps, probably those of hunters. "One of the beggars was high-toned," said George; "he had a stove." This was evidenced by the arrangement of stones within the circle of wigwam poles, and a few pieces of wood cut stove-size. On Tuesday morning (August 18) we turned back and into the long, narrow lake expansions to the eastward, and soon satisfied ourselves that this was the right course. Our thermometer registered 28 degrees that morning. The day dawned clear and perfect; it was a morning when one draws in long breaths, and one's nerves tingle, and life is a joy. Early in the forenoon we reached rapids and quickly portaged around them; all were short, the largest being not more than half a mile. At ten o'clock we ate luncheon at the foot of one of the rapids where we caught, in a few minutes, fourteen large trout. Just above this rapid the river opened into long, narrow lakes, and the canoeing was superb. Suddenly the river took a sharp turn to the westward, and appeared to lead directly into the mountains. At that we sent up three rousing cheers--the river problem seemed to be solved; apparently the road to Michikamau lay straight before us. A little above the bend in the river we came upon an old gander and goose and two unfeathered young. The gander with a great squawk and flapping wings took to the bush, but we killed the old goose with a rifle, and George "knocked over," as he expressed it, one of the young ones with a pistol. More luck (and food) came to us a little later. While George and I portaged around the last rapid that evening, Hubbard caught fifty trout averaging over a pound each. They jumped greedily to the fly, four or five rising at every cast. Above this rapid the river again took the form of a long, narrow lake--a lake so beautiful that we were entranced. It was evening when we arrived, and the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the place. Undoubtedly we were the first white men that had ever invaded its solitude, and the first human beings of any kind to disturb its repose for many years. On the north a barren, rocky bluff rose high above the water; at all other places the shores were low and wooded. A few miles to the westward could be seen the barren Kipling Mountains, and between them and us was a ridge of low hills covered with black-green spruce. The sun was setting in our faces as we paddled slowly along the lake, and as it went down behind the mountains a veil was gradually drawn over the lovely scene. Not a breath of air was stirring, and hardly a sound broke the stillness save the ripple at the bow of the canoe and the soft splash of the paddles. In the placid waters two otters were swimming and diving. One was timid and remained at a distance, but the other was bold and inquisitive and came close to the canoe. Here and there all over the lake, its mirror-like surface was broken by big jumping trout. Two loons laughed at us as we drew the canoe on to the sandy beach of a low jutting point, and they continued to laugh while we pitched our camp in the green woods near the shore and prepared our supper of roast goose. It was a feast day. With goose, plenty of trout and good water for paddling, it was a time to eat, drink, and be merry. Our high spirits still remained when we broke camp in the morning (Wednesday, August 19), but they were destined soon to be dashed. Not long after we started we found ourselves in good-sized lakes, with arms extending in every direction. All day we hunted for the river, but found only small streams emptying into the lakes. The country now was much rougher, and much more rocky and barren, than any we had seen since we left the coast. The trees were more stunted and gnarled, and the streams usually had a bed-rock bottom. In the course of the day Hubbard shot three rock ptarmigans--"rockers," George called them. They were the first we had seen, and were still wearing their mottled summer dress; later in the season they are a pure, spotless white. Towards evening we made our way to a point on the northwesterly part of the lakes where a small stream came through a mountain pass, and there went into camp. We were much disappointed at our failure to find the river, but not disheartened. In order to make certain that we had not overlooked it, we decided to paddle back the next day as far as the last rapid and make one more careful search. Failing then to find the river, we should portage through the mountain pass at the entrance to which we had camped. "Do you remember," asked Hubbard, "the slogan of the old Pike's Peakers?--'Pike's Peak or Bust?'" "Yes," said I; "and very often they busted." "Well," said Hubbard, "we'll adopt it and change it to our needs. 'Michikamau or Bust,' will be our watchword now." And sitting around the fire, we all took it up and repeated determinedly, "Michikamau or Bust!" The morning of the next day (Thursday, August 20) we occupied in mending our moccasins with parts of the caribou skin. George also took the venison from the bags and hung it over the fire to give it a little more drying, as it had begun to mould. In the afternoon Hubbard and I, in accordance with the plan we had adopted, paddled back over our course and re-explored the lower lakes. We discovered nothing new. The fact was that these lakes were the source of the Beaver River. While we were paddling about we came upon two old and two young loons. The old ones tried to lure us away from their young, by coming very near the canoe. The young loons made frequent dives, but we succeeded in catching one of them. Finally, however, we restored it to its parents, and when the loon family was re-united there was great rejoicing in the household. In the pool at the foot of the last rapid we spent an hour fishing, and caught eighty-one trout, averaging, perhaps, a half-pound each. Upon our return to camp in the evening we dressed our catch and hung the fish to dry over a slow, smoky fire. The river having come to an end, our only course now was to cross the mountains, and on Friday (August 21), with "Michikamau or Bust!" for our slogan, we began our portage along the stream that flowed through the pass near our camp. A heavy rain was falling. During the first part of the day, in the course of which we crossed three small ponds, the travelling was fairly good; but during the latter part it was exceedingly rough and difficult. We pitched our tent that night on the divide; in other words, we had reached the place where small streams flowed both east and west. The cold rain continued when we broke camp the next morning (Saturday, August 22). For a time we again encountered rough work, forcing a passage over rocks and through thick brush and scrambling down high banks, and then, as we neared the end of the pass, the portage became less difficult. Before noon we came upon a lake of considerable size and unmistakable signs that in directing our course through the pass we had kept upon the old Indian trail. On the edge of the lake--we shall call it Lake Hope--trees had been blazed to make plain the exact point where the portage trail left the water, and near this place were sweat holes where the medicine men had given baths to the sick. Much drift wood showing axe cuttings was on the shore, and we picked up an old canoe paddle of Indian make. All this led us to believe we were on waters connected directly with Lake Michikamau (which was the fact), and we thought that possibly we had reached a deep bay said to extend from the main body of the lake some thirty miles in a southeasterly direction. Where we launched our canoe the mountain pass was very narrow, and on the southerly side, rising almost perpendicularly from the water to a height of eight or nine hundred feet, stood a hill of absolutely bare rock. The wind was blowing the rain in sheets over its face, and, despite the wet and chill, we paused to enjoy the grandeur of the scene. We had travelled about six miles through the pass, and this hill marked its end; the mountain barrier that at one time seemed so formidable had not proved so difficult to cross after all. And in accomplishing the pass we had reached the great interior plateau--the land that lay hidden behind the ranges. After we had paddled along Lake Hope a hundred yards, we struck a sharp-pointed rock that tore a hole through the bottom of the canoe. This accident forced us to take refuge on a near-by island where George could repair the damage and procure gum from the spruce trees to cover the patch. Sunshine came with Sunday morning (August 23), and we dried our blankets and camp outfit before starting forward, so that it was after ten o'clock when we quit the island. Lake Hope proved to be long and narrow, and we soon realised that it could not be Michikamau's southeast bay; but at the western end we hoped to find a strait connecting it with another lake, and as we approached the western end with a feeling of uncertainty as to what lay beyond, George remarked: "It's like goin' into a room where there's a Christmas tree." Sure enough there was a strait, and as we turned into it, we saw beyond big water stretching away to the westward for miles. "There's a Christmas tree without a doubt," said Hubbard. We felt positive now that this second lake was Michikamau's southeast bay, and we broke the solemn stillness of the wilderness with three lusty cheers. It is violating no confidence to say here that the second lake was not Michikamau's southeast bay; it was simply the peculiarly-shaped body of water that appears on my map under the name, Lost Trail Lake. Two and a half miles up Lost Trail Lake we climbed a barren ridge, where we found blueberries, mossberries and bake-apple berries. The latter berry is salmon-coloured, and grows on a plant resembling that of the strawberry. The berry itself resembles in form the raspberry, and has a flavour like that of a baked apple, from which fact it derives its name. It ripens after the first frost. The mossberry is small and black, resembling in shape and size the blueberry, and is sweet and palatable after being touched with frost. It is usually found on the moss clinging to rocks. On the ridge it grew in abundance, and we ate a great many. The blueberry of Labrador is similar to the blueberry of the United States. Some distance beyond where we got the berries we went into camp. Trolling on the way, we caught a namaycush (lake trout), the first we had seen on the trip. In our camp on Lost Trail Lake we were held all of Monday (August 24) by a gale that beat the water into a fury. We took advantage of the opportunity to try our gill net, sinking it on the lee shore, but it was so rotten it would not hold a fish large enough to get fast in it, and we finally threw it away as a useless encumbrance. In the course of the day Hubbard and climbed a hill not far away, while I remained in camp to do some "chores." They found bake-apple berries in abundance--the only spot we came across where they grew in any great quantity--and had a good look at a lake we had previously sighted two miles to the north. This lake was larger than the one we were on, being about twenty-five miles long; it was, in fact, the largest body of water by far that we had seen since leaving Grand Lake. Its size impressed Hubbard with the fatal belief that it, rather than Lost Trail Lake, was connected with Michikamau, and to it he decided to go. Our experience there led us to call it Lake Disappointment. We portaged into it on Tuesday morning (August 25). Our course was over a neck of land which was mostly soft marsh partially covered with spruce. We did not know then that in abandoning Lost Trail Lake for Lake Disappointment we were wandering from the Indian trail to Michikamau. Some Indians I met during the winter at Northwest River Post told me that a river flowed out of the western end of Lost Trail Lake into the very southeast bay of Lake Michikamau we were longing so much to see. This was the trail. And we lost it. We ate our luncheon on the southern shore of Lake Disappointment. That afternoon and the next two days (August 26 and 27) we spent in paddling about the lake in a vain search for a river. Thirty or more miles a day we paddled, and found nothing but comparatively small creeks. One of these we followed almost to its source, and then returned to the lake again. We were living pretty well. While we were on these lakes near the mountains we killed four geese and one spruce-grouse, and caught about eighty half-pound trout, two two-pound namaycush and a five-pound pike. The pike we got in this unsportsmanlike manner: We were fishing for trout in a creek that emptied into Lake Disappointment in a succession of falls, and found that while there were some above the lower fall, none could be induced to rise where the creek at the foot of the lower fall made an ideal pool for them. We were lunching on a rock near this pool when Hubbard suddenly remarked: "There's only one reason why trout don't rise here." "What's that?" I asked. "Pike," he answered laconically, and left his luncheon to fasten a trolling hook on his trout line. After he had fixed a piece of cork to the line for a "bobber," he baited the hook with a small live trout and dropped it into the pool. "Now we'll have a pike," said he. Scarcely had he resumed his luncheon when the cork bobbed under, and he grabbed his rod to find a big fish on the other end. He played it around until it was near the shore, and as it arose to the surface I put a pistol bullet through its head. Then Hubbard hauled in the line, and he had our five-pound pike. There were two occasions when we felt particularly like feasting. One was when we were progressing with a clear course ahead and were happy, and the other was when we were not sure of the way and were blue. That night we were blue; so we had a feast of goose and pike. Hubbard planked the pike, and it was excellent. All of our food was eaten now without salt, but we were getting used to its absence. After our feast Hubbard astonished George and me by taking out a new pipe I had brought along to trade with the Indians, and filling it with the red willow bark George and I had been mixing with our tobacco. We watched him curiously as he lighted it; for, with the exception of a puff or two on a cigarette, he had never smoked before. He finished the pipe without flinching. I asked him how he liked it. "Pretty good," he said. Then after a pause he added: "And I'll tell you what; if ever I start out again on another expedition of this sort, I am going to learn to smoke; watching you fellows makes me believe it must be a great comfort." George and I had been mixing red willow bark with our tobacco, because our stock had become alarmingly low. In fact, it would have been entirely gone had not Hubbard presented us with some black plug chewing he had purchased at Rigolet to trade with the Indians. The plugs, having been wet, had run together in one mass; but we dried it out before the fire, and, mixed with the bark, it was not so bad. Later on George and I took to drying out the tea leaves and mixing them with the tobacco. On Wednesday morning (August 26) when we left camp to continue the search for a river, we decided to leave the caribou skin behind us; its odour had become most offensive, and in spite of our efforts to keep out the flies they had filled it with blows and it was now fairly crawling with maggots. On Thursday when we were passing the same way, George gave a striking example of his prescience. He was at the stern paddle, and turned the canoe to the place where we had left the hide. "What are you stopping for?" asked Hubbard. "I thought I would get that caribou skin, wash it off, and take it along," said George. "What in the world do you expect to do with it? "Well," answered George quietly, "we may want to eat it some day." Hubbard and I both laughed. Nevertheless Hubbard jumped out of the canoe with George and helped him wash the skin, and we took it along. And, as George predicted, the day came when we were glad we did. It was on Thursday night that, disgusted and weary, we gave up the search for a river. Our camp was on the north shore of Lake Disappointment, down near the western end. Hubbard now expressed the opinion that we should have to portage north or northwest across country. His idea was that by proceeding north we should eventually reach the river that Low had mapped as flowing from Michikamau, the so-called Northwest. If we reached the latitude in which the river was supposed to be and could not find it, Hubbard's plan then called for our turning directly west. The situation that confronted us was serious. Hubbard had recently had another attack of diarrhoea, and was weak. The patches we put on our moccasins would last only a day or two, and we were practically barefoot. Our rags were hanging in strips. Our venison was going rapidly, and our flour was practically gone. To portage across country meant that we should probably not have many opportunities for fishing, as we should not have any stream to follow. Getting game had proved uncertain. Even were we to face towards home, we had not sufficient provisions to carry us half way to Northwest River Post. That Thursday evening in camp we discussed the situation from all sides. We knew that if we pressed on winter in all probability would overtake us before we reached a post, but we decided that we should fight our way on to Lake Michikamau and the George River. There was no doubt about it, we were taking a long chance; nevertheless, we refused to entertain the thought of turning back. Daring starvation, we should on the morrow start overland and see what lay beyond the hills to the northward. "Michikamau or Bust!" was still our slogan. IX. AND THERE WAS MICHIKAMAU! From the northwesterly end of Lake Disappointment we portaged on Friday (August 28) across a neck of land to two small, shallow lakes that lay to the northward, and in the teeth of a gale paddled to the northern shore of the farther lake. There we went into camp for the day in order that Hubbard might rest, as he was still weak from the effects of his recent illness. We took advantage of the opportunity to patch up our moccasins and clothing as best we could, and held a long consultation, the outcome of which was, that it was decided that for the present, at least, we should leave behind us our canoe and the bulk of our camp equipment, including the tent, and push on with light packs, consisting of one blanket for each man, an axe, the two pistols, one rifle, and our stock of food. Before us there apparently stretched miles of rough, rocky country. Our equipment and stock of food at this time made up into four packs of about 100 pounds each. The canoe, water-soaked and its crevices filled with sand, must now have weighed nearly a hundred pounds. It was a most awkward thing to carry over one's head when the wind blew, and where there were rocks there was danger of the carrier falling and breaking, not only the canoe, but his own bones. This meant that if our entire outfit were taken along, practically every bit of land we travelled would have to be covered twice. In leaving the canoe behind, we, of course, should have to take chances on meeting intervening lakes; but, once in the region of northern Michikamau, there seemed a fair chance of our falling in with Indians that would take us down the George River, and the advantages of light travel were obvious with winter fast approaching. The stock of food we had to carry would not weigh us down. The dried venison had been reduced to a few pounds, so that we had to eat of it sparingly and make our principal diet on boiled fish and the water in which it was cooked. We had just a bit of flour, enough to serve bread at rare intervals as a great dainty. Nothing remained of our caribou tallow and marrow grease. It is true we held in reserve the "emergency ration"; but this consisted only of eighteen pounds of pea meal, a pint of rice, and a small piece of bacon. This ration we had pledged ourselves to use only in case of the direst necessity, should we be compelled to make a forced retreat, and we felt we must not think of it at this time as food on hand. In camp on Friday night I could see that Hubbard was worrying considerably. Nervously active by habit, he found delay doubly hard. The days we had spent on Lake Disappointment in a vain search for a river had been particularly trying on his nerves, and had left him a prey to many fears. The spectre of an early winter in this sub-Arctic land began to haunt him constantly. The days were slipping away and were becoming visibly shorter with each sunset. If we could get to the Indians on the George, we should be safe; for they would give us warm skins for clothing and replenish our stock of food. But should we meet with more delays, and arrive on the George too late for the caribou migration, and fail to find the Indians, what then? Well, then, our fate would be sealed. Hubbard was the leader of the expedition and he felt himself responsible, not only for his own life, but, to a large extent, for ours. It is little wonder, therefore, that he brooded over the possibilities of calamity, but with youth, ambition, and the ardent spirit that never will say die, he invariably fought off his fears, and bent himself more determinedly than ever to achieve the purpose for which he had set out. Frequently he confided his fears to me, but was careful to conceal all traces of them from George. In light marching order we went out on Saturday morning (August 29), making rapid progress to the northward, through a thick growth of small spruce timber and over a low ridge; but scarcely had we gone a mile when we were compelled to halt. There in front of us was a small lake extending east and west. It was not more than an eighth of a mile across it, but a long distance around it. Back we went for the canoe, and at the same time brought forward the whole camp outfit. Again we tried light marching order, and again a lake compelled us to go back for the canoe and outfit. And thus it was all day: a stretch of a mile or so; then a long, narrow lake to cross, until finally we were forced to admit that our plan of proceeding with light packs and without the canoe was impracticable. Hubbard was feeling stronger on Saturday evening, and we had a pleasant camp. George made a big fire of tamarack, and we lay before it on a couch of spruce boughs and ate tough boiled venison and drank the broth; and, feeling we had made some progress, we were happy, despite the fact that we were in the midst of a trackless wilderness with our way to Michikamau and the Indians as uncertain as ever. Sunday morning (August 30) broke superbly beautiful, and the day continued clear and mild. We made an early start; for every hour had become precious. While we were doing this cross-country work without any streams to guide us, it was George's custom to go ahead all the way from half a mile to two miles and blaze a trail, so that when we were travelling back and forth bringing up the packs and the canoe we might not go astray. In the course of the morning we came to two small lakes, which we paddled over. We had believed that our goose chases were over; for these birds now having grown their feathers, could fly, and were generally beyond the reach of our pistols and the uncertain aim of a rifle at anything on the wing. For two days we had heard them flying, and now and then would see them high in the air. But while we were crossing one of the small lakes this Sunday, five geese walked gravely down the bank and into the water ahead of the canoe. One of them we got with a pistol shot; the others flew away. In another lake we reached late in the day we came upon five or six ducks. They were not far away, but dived so frequently we were unable to shoot them with pistol or rifle. A shotgun might have enabled us to get nearly all the geese as well as the ducks and other game we saw on the wing and in the water on other occasions. We often expressed the regret that we had no shotgun with us. At one time Hubbard had intended that one should be taken, but later decided that the ammunition would be too bulky. A low, semi-barren ridge running east and west lay just beyond the small blue-green lake in which we saw the ducks towards evening. About seven miles beyond the ridge to the north was a short range of high, barren mountains that were perhaps a trifle lower than the Kipling Mountains. Upon ascending the ridge we heard the rushing of water on the other side, which sound proved to come from a small fall on a stream expanding and stretching out, to the eastward in long, narrow lakes. Apparently these lakes were the headquarters of a small river flowing to the southeast, and in all probability here was the source of the Red River, which, as I have described, flows into the Nascaupee some fifteen or eighteen miles above Grand Lake. The whole character of the country had now changed. It was very rocky and steadily growing more barren. Ridges and hills extended to the mountains on the north. Great boulders were piled in confusion behind us and in front of us. Portaging over them had been most difficult and dangerous. A misstep might have meant a broken leg, and as it was, the skin had been pretty nearly all knocked off of our shins from the instep to the knee. Below the fall we had discovered was a deep pool in which Hubbard caught, with his emergency kit and a tamarack pole, twenty trout averaging twelve inches in length. We camped near this pool. The hard work of the day had brought on Hubbard another attack of his old illness; apparently it was only by a great exertion of will-power that he kept moving at all during the afternoon, and at night he was very weak. Before supper he drank a cup of strong tea as a stimulant, and was taken immediately with severe vomiting. Watching his suffering, the thought came to me whether, disregarding all other considerations, I should not at this point strongly insist on the party turning back. I was aware, however, of the grim determination of the man to get his work done, and was convinced of the uselessness of any attempt to sway him from his purpose. Moreover, I myself was hopeful of our ability to reach the caribou grounds; I felt sure that Hubbard's grit would carry him through. Looking back now, I can see I should have at least attempted to turn him back, but I am still convinced it would have been useless. I thoroughly believe only one thing would have turned the boy back at that time--force. After this vomiting ceased, Hubbard said he felt better, but he ate sparingly of the boiled fish we had for supper. George and I also felt a bit weak, and our stomachs were continually crying out for bread or some other grain food. As we reclined before the fire, Hubbard had George tell us of various Indian dishes he had prepared. After he had entered into these gastronomic details with great gusto, George suddenly said: "Wouldje believe it, fellus?--I once threw away a whole batch of cookies." "No!" we both cried. "Fact," said George. "For Heaven's sake," said Hubbard, "why did you do it?" "Well," said George, "it was when I first went cookin' in a surveyor's camp. The cookies wasn't as good as I thought they ought to be, and I was so ashamed of 'em that I took the whole lot out and buried 'em. Supposin'," added George, in an awed whisper, "supposin' we had 'em now!" "Why what in the world would you do with them?" asked Hubbard. "Um!" grunted George. "Well, I guess we'd find a way to use 'em, all right." The story of the buried cookies started us all to talking of doughnuts, and cake, and pie, and Hubbard extolled the merits of the chocolate served at one of the New York hotels. "Wallace," he at length asked, "do you like pig's knuckles?" "I like," I replied, "anything that can be eaten." "Well," confided Hubbard, "I know a place down on Park Row where they serve the best pigs' knuckles you ever ate. I used to go there for them when I was on the old Daily News. They cook them just right, and serve a big plate of nice greasy cabbage or sauerkraut with them, and a cup of pretty good coffee. We'll have to go there some time when we get back." And until it was time to go to sleep Hubbard continued to talk of the good dinners he had eaten when a child and of those his wife had recently prepared at his Congers home. As he had decided that before proceeding farther we should know something of the country that lay to the northward, Hubbard on Monday morning (August 31) sent George on a scouting trip to the short range of mountains just ahead. He and I planned to spend the day catching and drying fish. For some reason the fish refused to rise near the camp, and Hubbard, who was so weak he could hardly stand, returned to lie down, while I went farther down the stream. Towards luncheon-time I returned with only two or three small fish. Hubbard was still resting in the tent, but soon after I had begun to repair my fishing rod by the fire he came out and joined me. "Oh, how glad I'll be, Wallace," he said, "to get to Michikamau and finish my work here and get home again! I've been wondering when that will be. I'm afraid," he added slowly, "I've been a bit homesick to-day." "We'll surely get there soon, old man," I said encouragingly, "and when we do get there, we'll appreciate it more than ever. Just think how it will be to eat good bread, and all we want of it." "Yes," he said, "and then we'll be glad we came here, and can laugh at the recollection of these terrible ridges, and the whole awful country, and the hard times we've been through. I'm dead glad I had just you two fellows come with me. If I'd had a single man that growled about the grub and work, or wanted to quit, it would have been hell. But we haven't had a growl or a word about quitting or turning back." "There's no reason for quitting," said I. "And as for growling, there's no call for it. We've done the best we could, and that's enough to make any real man satisfied." "That's so," said Hubbard. "Take things as they come and make the best of them--that's good philosophy. I was thinking that here it is the last of August, and we don't know where we are; and it bothered me some as I lay there in the tent. But we've done our best and ought to be satisfied." In the afternoon I took my rod and went about three miles to the westward, where I came upon an isolated pond with no apparent outlet. Everywhere I could see the trout jumping, and by sundown had as long a string of them as I could conveniently carry. It was an hour after dark when I reached camp. George had returned, and they were beginning to fear that I was lost. George had climbed the mountains, and he reported a fair line of travel to the northwest, with a "long lake that looked like a river," and, some distance northwest of that, "big water" and a tolerably good route for portages. What he told us led Hubbard to decide to continue on with the canoe and our entire outfit. George brought back with him two grouse he had shot. The next morning (Tuesday, September 1) Hubbard was much better, and we began September with a renewed effort. It was rough and painful portaging over rocks and knolls. Every forty or fifty rods we came upon deep ponds with water so clear we could see the pebbles on the bottom. Between these ponds boulders were piled indiscriminately. In directing our course to the northwest we avoided the mountains that had lain just ahead. For two days we pushed on among the boulders, then over a wide marsh and through a heavy spruce growth, which brought us, on September 3d, to George's "lake that looked like a river." Let us call it Mary Lake. Along Lake Mary we paddled, in the pouring rain that began that day, some five miles to its western end; and there, near a creek that flowed into it, we found the remains of an old Indian camp. George looked the camp over critically and remarked: "The beggars killed two caribou, and they broke every bone up and boiled out the last drop of grease." "What was it--a summer or a winter camp?" asked Hubbard. "A summer," said George. "And they'd been fishing, too. There's a good fishing place--just try it!" We did try it, and we had a fairly good catch of large trout. For supper we had a few of the trout boiled, together with the water, with one spoonful of flour for each man stirred in. We ate the fish entire, entrails, head, and all, and from that time on we let no part of the fish we caught be thrown away. Everything now in the way of food George divided carefully into three equal parts, even the fish broth. By this time we had not enough flour on hand to make more than half a dozen cakes of bread, and we continued to use only a spoonful or two a day for each man, mixing it with game or fish broth; in this way we hoped it would satisfy to some extent our craving for grain, and last longer. As evening approached the sky cleared, and a big full moon tipped the fir trees with silver and set Lake Mary to gleaming. The air was filled with the perfume of the balsam and spruce, and it acted as a tonic on our spirits and drove away the depression of the day's work in the rain. Hubbard seemed to be as full of vim as ever, and all of us were quite contented. Sitting on the couch of boughs, George looked up at the sky and said: "There's a fine Indian story about that moon." Of course Hubbard and I begged that he tell it to us. "Well," said George, "it's a long story about a boy and girl that lived together in a wigwam by a great water. Their father and mother were dead, and the boy had learned to be a great hunter, because he had to hunt for them both, though he was young. One day he found a tree that was very high, and he climbed it, and told his sister to climb it with him; and they climbed higher and higher, and as they climbed, the tree grew taller and taller; and after a while they reached the moon. And then the boy laid down to sleep, and after a while he woke up with a bright light shinin' in his face--it was the sun passin' 'long that way. The boy said he would set a snare for the sun and catch it, and the next night he had his snare set when the sun came 'long, and he caught the sun, and then it was always bright on the moon. "There's a lot more to that story," added George, after a pause, "and I'll tell it to you some time; but it's too long and too late to tell it to-night." Unfortunately we never heard the continuation of the tale. George often hinted at interesting folklore stories about the milky way and different stars, and various other things in nature; but this was the nearest approach to a story we ever wrung from him. From our last camp on Lake Disappointment to our camp at the western end of Lake Mary we had travelled about twenty-five miles. In leaving the latter camp on September 4th we inclined our course directly west, to reach the "big water" George had seen from his mountain. During the next four days we encountered bad weather. As evening came on the sky would clear and remain clear until morning, when the clouds and rain would reappear. On the 4th there was sleet with the rain, and on the 6th we had our first snow, which soon was washed away, however, by rain. Our progress on the 4th was along the edge of a marsh between two low, wooded ridges, and then over the marsh and through several ponds, upon the shore of one of which we camped early in order that George might climb a hill, view the country and decide upon the shortest and best route to the "big water." He reported it about three miles ahead. It had been our rule to defer our bathing until the evening's chill had quieted the flies, but now there was no need of that, as the colder weather had practically killed them for the season. About this time I noticed that Hubbard did not take his usual bath, and I remarked: "The weather is getting pretty cold for bathing in the open, isn't it?" "Yes," said Hubbard; "but I wouldn't let that stop me if I weren't ashamed of my bones. To tell you the truth, Wallace, I'm like a walking skeleton." It was true. We were all very thin, but our lack of food told upon Hubbard's appearance the most, as he was naturally slender. The "big water" George thought was only three miles away proved to be like the wisp of hay that is held before the donkey's nose to lead him on. Day after day we floundered through swamps and marshes, over rocky, barren hills, and through thick growths of willows and alders, and at the end of the day's journey it would apparently be as far off as ever. The explanation was that in the rarefied atmosphere of interior Labrador distances are very deceptive; when George reported that the "big water" was three miles ahead it must have been fully fifteen. On the 5th, while crossing the barrens we came upon some blueberries and after eating our fill we were able to gather enough to supply each man with a big dish of them for supper. We were working our way over some bluffs on the afternoon of the 6th, when George, who was carrying the canoe, became separated from Hubbard and me. The wind was blowing hard, and he had difficulty in keeping the boat above his head. Suddenly I heard a call, and, looking back, saw George running after me, empty-handed. Hubbard did not hear the call, and went on. I dropped my pack, and waited for George to come up. "You fellus better wait for me," he panted. "I can't manage the canoe alone in the wind, and if we get separated, I might strike the lake one place and you somewhere else. And," added George, sententiously, "you fellus have got the grub." We shouted to Hubbard to wait, and when he answered, George and I returned for the canoe. Hubbard, however, kept on, and George and I carried the canoe ahead until we reached the thick woods into which he had disappeared; then George went back for my pack. Presently we heard Hubbard call from the depths of the woods, and a little later the sound of an axe. As we learned later, he had dropped his pack, and was blazing a trail towards us in order that he might find it again. He was as nervous as George had been over his narrow escape from being permanently separated from the rest of the party, and at a time when such a happening would have had serious consequences for us all. Under the best of circumstances, the prospect of being left alone in the midst of that inhospitable wilderness was enough to appal. On the 7th we reached a creek, and launched the canoe. Hubbard went ahead to fish below the rapids in the creek while George and I brought down the canoe and outfit, making several short portages. That night we camped two miles down the stream. Hubbard had caught, by hard work, thirty small trout, half of which we ate for supper. We were still ravenously hungry after we finished the trout, but the bag contained only one more meal of venison and we did not dare draw on it. This, together with the difficulty we were having in reaching the "big water," set Hubbard to worrying again. He was especially anxious about the sufficiency of the material he had gathered for a story, fearing that if he failed to reach the caribou grounds there would not be enough to satisfy his publishers. I told him I thought he already had enough for a "bang-up" story. "Anyway," I said, "we'll reach the caribou grounds, and see the Indians yet. George and I will go with you to the last ditch; you can count on us to the finish." "All right," said Hubbard, evidently relieved. "If you boys aren't sick of it, it's on to the caribou grounds, late or no late. But I feel I've got you fellows in a tight place." "We came with our eyes open," I replied, "and it's not your fault." On the morning of September 8th, following our stream out to a shoal, rocky bay, we reached the "big water" at last. It was the great body of water that I have mapped out as Windbound Lake. Forty miles we had portaged from Lake Disappointment. We were practically out of food of any kind. Looking over the great expanse of water stretching miles away to the westward, we wondered what our new lake had in store for us of hope and success, of failure and, despair. Would it lead us to Michikamau? If not, what were we to do? On its farther shore, about twenty miles to the northwest, rose in solemn majesty a great, grey mountain, holding its head high above all the surrounding world. It shall be known as Mount Hubbard. To this mountain we decided to paddle and view the country. Instinctively we felt that Michikamau lay on the other side. We launched our canoe after a light luncheon of trout and a small ptarmigan George had shot. Once in the course of the afternoon we stopped paddling to climb a low ridge near the shore and eat cranberries, which we found in abundance on its barren top. From the ridge we could see water among the hills in every direction. In the large lake at our feet were numerous wooded islands. We camped at dusk on one of these islands, and on Wednesday, September 9th, launched our canoe at daybreak, to resume our journey to Mount Hubbard. We reached its base before ten o'clock. Blueberries grew in abundance on the side of the mountain, which, together with the country near it, had been burned. One of us, it was decided, should remain behind to pick berries, while the others climbed to the summit. I volunteered for the berrypicking, but I shall always regret it was not possible for me to go along. Before Hubbard and George returned, I had our mixing basin filled with berries, and the kettle half full. The day was clear, crisp and delightful--one of those perfect days when the atmosphere is so pure and transparent that minute objects can be distinguished for miles. On the earth and on the water, not a thing of life was to be seen. The lake, relieved here and there with green island-spots; the cold rocks of distant mountains to the northeast; the low, semi-barren ridges and hills that we had travelled over bounding the lake to the eastward, and a ridge of green hills west of the lake that extended southward from behind Mount Hubbard as far as the eye could reach--all combined to complete a scene of vast and solemn beauty; and I, alone on the mountain side picking blueberries, felt an inexpressible sense of loneliness--felt myself the only thing of life in all that boundless wilderness-world. From the moment Hubbard and George had left me, I had not seen or heard them. But up the mountain they went through the burnt spruce forest, up for four miles over rocks, up and up to the top; and then to the westernmost side of the peak they went and looked--looked to the West; and there, only a few miles away, lay Michikamau with its ninety-mile expanse of water--the lake we so long had sought for and fought so desperately to reach. It was there, just beyond the ridge I had seen extending to the southward. X. PRISONERS OF THE WIND It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun was getting low, that I, near the base of the mountain and still industriously picking berries, heard a shout from Hubbard and George at the canoe on the shore of the lake below. I was anxious to hear the result of their journey, and hurried down. "It's there! it's there!" shouted Hubbard, as I came within talking distance. "Michikamau is there, just behind the ridge. We saw the big water; we saw it!" In our great joy we fairly hugged each other, while George stood apart with something of Indian stoicism, but with a broad grin, nevertheless, expanding his good-natured features. We felt that Windbound Lake must be directly connected with Michikamau, and that we were now within easy reach of the caribou grounds and a land of plenty. It is true that from the mountain top Hubbard and George had been unable to trace out the connection, as Windbound Lake was so studded with islands, and had so many narrow arms reaching out in the various directions between low, thickly-wooded ridges, that their view of the waters between them and Michikamau was more or less obscured; but they had no doubt that the connection was there. "And," added Hubbard, after I had heard all about the great discovery, "good things never come singly. Look there!" I looked where he pointed, and there on the rocks near George's feet lay a pile of ptarmigans and one small rabbit. I picked them up and counted them with nervous joy; there were nine--nine ptarmigans, and the rabbit. "You see," said Hubbard reverently, "God always gives us food when we are really in great need, and He'll carry us through that way; in the wilderness He'll send us manna." On similar occasions in the past Hubbard had made like remarks to this, and he continued to make them on similar occasions in the future. Invariably they were made with a simplicity that robbed them of all cant; they came from the man's real nature. While George dressed three of the birds, Hubbard and I built a fire on the rocks by the shore. Since early morning, when we had a breakfast of thin soup made with three thin slices of bacon and three spoonfuls of flour, we had had nothing to eat, and our hunger was such, that while dinner was cooking, we each took the entrails of a bird, wrapped them as George told us the Indians did, on the end of a stick, broiled them over the fire and ate them greedily. And when the ptarmigans were boiled what a glorious feast we had! In using a bit of bacon for soup in the morning we had drawn for the first time on our "emergency ration"--the situation seemed to warrant it; nevertheless, we were as bent as ever on hoarding this precious little stock of food. At five o'clock we paddled up the lake to the northeast, to begin our search for the connection with Michikamau. Hubbard dropped a troll as we proceeded, and caught two two-pound namaycush, which, when we went into camp at dusk on a small island, George boiled entire, putting into the pot just enough flour to give the water a milky appearance. With this supper we had some of the blueberries stewed, and Hubbard said they would have been the "real thing if we only had a little sugar for them." All day on September 10th we continued our search for the connection with Michikamau, finally directing our course to the southwest where a mountain seemed to offer a view of the waters in that direction. It was dark when we reached its base, and we went into camp preparatory to climbing to the summit in the morning. We had been somewhat delayed by wind squalls that made canoeing dangerous, and before we made camp rain began to fall. We caught no fish on the troll that day, but Hubbard shot a large spruce-grouse. At our evening meal we ate the last of our ptarmigans and rabbit. "George," said Hubbard, after we had eaten our supper, "you have a few more of mother's dried apples there. How would it be to stew them to-night, and stir in a little flour to thicken them? Wouldn't they thicken up better if you were to cook them to-night and let them stand until morning?" "Guess they would," replied George. "There ain't many of 'em here. Shall I put them all to cook? "Yes," said Hubbard, "put them all to cook, and we'll eat them for breakfast with that small trout Wallace caught and the two ptarmigan entrails." In the morning (September 11th) we drew lots for the trout, and George won. So he took the fish, and Hubbard and I each an entrail, and, with the last of the apples before us that Hubbard's mother had dried, sat down to breakfast. "How well," said Hubbard, "I remember the tree on the old Michigan farm from which these apples came! And now," he added, "I'm eating the last of the fruit from it that I shall probably ever eat." "Why," said George, "don't you expect to get back to eat any more?" "That isn't it," replied Hubbard. "Father signed a contract for the sale of the farm last spring, and they're to deliver the property over to its new owners on the fifteenth of this month. Father wanted me to come to the farm and run it, as he's too old to do the work any longer; but I had other ambitions. I feel half sorry now I didn't; for after all it's home to me, and always will be wherever I go in the world. How often I've watched mother gathering these apples to dry! And then, the apple butter! Did you ever eat apple butter, boys?" George had not, but I had. "Well," continued Hubbard, "there was an old woman lived near us who could make apple butter better than anybody else. Mother used to have her come over one day each fall and make a big lot for us. And, say, but wasn't it delicious! "I've told you, Wallace, about the maple sugaring on the farm, and you had some of the syrup I brought from there when I visited father and mother before I came away on this trip. We used to bring to the house the very first syrup we made in the spring, while it was hot--the first, you know, is always the best--and mother would have a nice pan of red hot tea biscuits, and for tea she'd serve the biscuits with cream and the hot new syrup. And sometimes we'd mix honey with the syrup; for father was a great man with bees; he kept a great many of them and had quantities of honey. He had a special house where he kept his honey, and in which was a machine to separate it from the comb when the comb was not well filled. In the honey house on a table he always had a plate with a pound comb of white clover honey, and spoons to eat it with; and he invited every visitor to help himself. "Once, I remember, a neighbour called on father, and was duly taken out to the honey house. He ate the whole pound. 'Will you have some more?' asked father. 'Don't care if I do,' said the neighbour. So father set out another pound comb, which the neighbour proceeded to put out of sight with a facility fully equal to that with which he demolished the first. 'Have some more,' said father. 'Thanks,' said the neighbour, 'but maybe I've had enough.' I used to wonder how the man ever did it, but I guess I myself could make two pounds of honey disappear if I had it now." Hubbard poured some tea in the cup that had contained his share of the apple sauce, and after carefully stirring into the tea the bit of sauce that clung to the cup, he poured it all into the kettle in which the sauce had been cooked and stirred it again that he might get the last bit of the apples from the tree on that far-away Michigan farm. Then he poured it all back into his cup and drank it. "I believe it sweetened the tea just a little," he said, "and that's the last of mother's sweet apples." Breakfast eaten, we had no dinner to look forward to. Of course there was the "emergency ration," but we felt we must not draw on that to any extent as yet. Hubbard was much depressed, perhaps because of his reminiscences of home and perhaps because of our desperate situation. We still had to find the way to Michikamau, and the cold rain that fell this morning warned us that winter was near. The look from the mountain top near our camp revealed nothing, owing to the heavy mist and rain. Once more in the canoe, we started southward close to the shore, to hunt for a rapid we had heard roaring in the distance. Trolling by the way, we caught one two-pound namaycush. The rapid proved to be really a fall where a good-sized stream emptied into the lake. We had big hopes of trout, but found the stream too shoal and rapid, with almost no pools, and we caught only a dozen small ones. Towards evening we took a northwesterly course in the canoe in search of the lake's outlet to Michikamau. While paddling we got a seven-pound namaycush, which enabled us to eat that night. Our camp was on a rock-bound island, partially covered with stunted gnarled spruce and fir trees. The weather had cleared and the heavens were bright with stars when we drew our canoe high upon the boulder-strewn shore, clear of the breaking waves. The few small trout we had caught we stowed away in the bow of the canoe, as they were to be reserved for breakfast. Early in the morning (September 12th) we were awakened by a northeast gale that threatened every moment to carry our tent from its fastenings, and as we peered out through the flaps, rain and snow dashed in our faces. The wind also was playing high jinks with the lake; it was white with foam, and the waves, dashing against the rocks on the shore, threw the spray high in the air. Evidently there was no hope of launching the canoe that day, and assuming indifference of the driving storm that threatened to uncover us, we settled down for a much-needed morning sleep. At ten o'clock George crawled out to build a fire in the lee of some bushes and boil trout for a light breakfast. Soon he stuck his head in the tent, and his face told us something had happened even before he said: "Well, that's too bad." "What's too bad?" asked Hubbard anxiously. "Somebody's stole the trout we left in the canoe." "Who?" asked Hubbard and I together. "Otter or somebody--maybe a marten." (George always referred to animals as persons.) We all went again to look and make sure the fish were not there somewhere; but they were really gone, and we looked at one another and laughed, and continued to make light of it as we ate a breakfast of soup made of three little slices of bacon, with two or three spoonfuls of flour and rice. We occupied the day in talking--visiting, Hubbard called it--and mending. Hubbard made a handsome pair of moccasins, using an old flour sack for the uppers and a pair of skin mittens for the feet. George did some neat work on his moccasins and clothing, and I made my trousers look quite respectable again, and ripped up one pair of woollen socks to get yarn to darn the holes in another. Altogether it was rather a pleasant day, even though Hubbard's display of his beautiful new moccasins did savour of ostentation and thereby excite much heartburning on the part of George and me. Our second day on the island was Sunday, September 13th. We awoke to find that the wind, rain, and sleet were still with us. Our breakfast was the same as all our meals of the previous day--thin bacon soup. The morning we spent in reading from the Bible. Hubbard read Philemon aloud and told us the story. I read aloud from the Psalms. George, who received his religious training in a mission of the Anglican Church on James Bay, listened to our reading with reverent attention. Towards noon the storm began to moderate, and in a short stroll about the island we found some blueberries and currants, which we fell upon and devoured. At one o'clock the wind abated to such an extent that we succeeded in leaving the island and reaching the mainland to the northeast. The wind continuing to abate, we paddled several miles in the afternoon looking in vain for the outlet. In the course of our search we caught a namaycush, and immediately put to shore to eat it. While it was being cooked we picked nearly a gallon of cranberries on a sandy knoll. We camped near this spot, and for supper had a pot of the cranberries stewed, leaving enough for two more meals. For several days past now, when George and I were alone, he had repeated to me stories of Indians that had starved to death, or had barely escaped starvation, and a little later he spoke of these things in Hubbard's presence. To me he would tell how weak he was becoming, and how Indians would get weaker and weaker and then give up to it and die. He also spoke of how he had heard the big northern loons cry at night farther back on the trail, which cries, he said, the Indians regarded as sure signs of coming calamity. At the same time he was cheerful and courageous, never suggesting such a thing as turning back. His state of mind was to me very interesting. Apparently two natures were at war within him. One--the Indian--was haunted by superstitious fears; the other--the white man--rejected these fears and invariably conquered them. In other words, the Indian in him was panicky, but the white man held him fast. And in seeing him master his superstitious nature, I admired him the more. Until this time it had been Hubbard's custom to retire to his blankets early, while George and I continued to toast our shins by the fire and enjoy our evening pipe. Then George would turn in, and I, while the embers died, would sit alone for an hour or so and let my fancy form pictures in the coals or carry me back to other days. In our Sunday night's camp on Windbound Lake, however, Hubbard sat with me long after George was lost in sleep, and together we talked of the home folks and exchanged confidences. I observed now a great change in Hubbard. Heretofore the work he had to do had seemed almost wholly to occupy his thoughts. Now he craved companionship, and he loved to sit with me and dwell on his home and his wife, his mother and sister, and rehearse his early struggles in the university and in New York City. Undoubtedly the boy was beginning to suffer severely from homesickness--he was only a young fellow, you know, with a gentle, affectionate nature that gripped him tight to the persons and objects he loved. Our little confidential talks grew to be quite the order of things, and often as the days went by we confessed to each other that we looked forward to them during all the weary work hours; they were the bright spots in our dreary life. A tremendous gale with dashes of rain ushered in Monday morning, September 14th. Again we were windbound, with nothing to do but remain where we were and make the best of it. A little of our thin soup had to serve for breakfast. Then we all slept till ten o'clock, when Hubbard and I went out to the fire and George took a stroll through the bush on the shore, in the hope of seeing something to shoot. While I cleaned my rifle and pistol, Hubbard and I chatted about good things to eat and the days of yore. "Well, Wallace," he said, "I suppose that father and mother are to-day leaving the old farm forever, and that I never can call it home again. I dreamed of it last night. Over fifty years ago father cleared that land when he was a young man and that part of Michigan was a wilderness. He made a great farm of it, and it has been his home ever since. How I hate to think of them going away and leaving it to strangers who don't love it or care more for it than any other plot of ground where good crops can be raised! Daisy [his sister] and I grew up together there, and I used to tell her my ambitions, and she was always interested. Daisy gave me more encouragement in my work than anyone else in the world. I'd never have done half so well with my work if it hadn't been for Daisy." After a moment's silence, he continued: "That hickory cleaning rod for the rifle we lost on a portage on the big river [the Beaver] father cut himself on the old farm and shaped it and gave it to me. That's the reason I hated so to lose it. If we go back that way, we must try to find it. Father wanted to come with me on this trip; he wanted to take care of me. He always thinks of me as a child; he's never quite realised I'm a grown man. As old as he is, I believe he could have stood this trip as well as I have. He was a forty-niner in California, you know, and has spent a lot of his life in the bush." When George returned--empty-handed, alas!--we had our dinner. The menu was not very extensive--it began with stewed cranberries and ended there. The acid from the unsweetened berries made our mouths sore, but, as George remarked, "it was a heap better than not eatin' at all." Perhaps I should say here that these were the hungriest days of our journey. What we suffered later on, the good Lord only knows; but we never felt the food-craving, the hunger-pangs as now. In our enforced idleness it was impossible for us to prevent our thoughts from dwelling on things to eat, and this naturally accentuated our craving. Then, again, as everyone that has had such an experience knows, the pangs of hunger are mitigated after a certain period has been passed. In the afternoon George and I took the pistols and ascended a low ridge in the rear of the camp to look for ptarmigans. Soon George exclaimed under his breath: "There's two! Get down low and don't let 'em see you; the wind blows so they'll be mighty wild. I'll belly round to that bush over there and take a shot." He crawled or wriggled along to the bush, which was the nearest cover and about forty yards from the birds. With a dinner in prospect, I watched him with keen anxiety. I could see him lying low and carefully aiming his pistol. Suddenly, bang!--and one of the birds fluttered straight up high in the air, trying desperately to sustain itself; then fell into the brush on the hillside below. At that George raised his head and gave a peculiar laugh--a laugh of wild exultation--an Indian laugh. He was the Indian hunter then. I never heard him laugh so again, nor saw him look quite as he did at that moment. As the other bird flew away, he rose to his feet and shouted: "I hit 'im!--did you see how he went? Now we'll find 'im." But we didn't. We beat the bushes high and low for an hour, and finally in disappointment and disgust gave up the search. The bird lay there dead somewhere, but we never found it, and we returned to camp empty-handed and perhaps, through anticipation, hungrier than ever. On Tuesday (September 15th) the high west wind had not abated, and the occasional sleet-squalls continued. We were dreary and disconsolate when we came out of the tent and huddled close to the fire. For the first time Hubbard heard George tell his stories of Indians that starved. And there we were still windbound and helpless, with stomachs crying continually for food. And the caribou migration was soon to begin, if it had not already begun, and there seemed no prospect of the weather clearing. We made an inventory of the food we were hoarding for an emergency, and found that in addition to about two pounds of flour, we had eighteen pounds of pea meal, a little less than a pint of rice, and a half a pound of bacon. George then told another story of Indians that starved. At length he stopped talking, and we sat silent for a long while, staring blankly at the blazing logs. Slowly the minutes crawled. In great gusts the wind swept down, howling dismally among the trees and driving the sleet into our faces. Still we sat cowering in silence when Hubbard arose, pushed the loose ends of the partially burned sticks into the fire and stood with his back to the blaze, apparently deep in thought. Presently, turning slowly towards the lake, he walked down through the intervening brush and stood alone on the sandy shore contemplating the scene before him--the dull, lowering skies, the ridges in the distance, the lake in its angry mood protesting against his further advance, the low, wooded land that hid the gate to Michikamau. Weather-beaten, haggard, gaunt and ragged, he stood there watching; then seemed to be lost completely in thought, forgetful of the wind and weather and dashing spray. Finally he turned about briskly, and, with quick, nervous steps, pushed through the brush to the fire, where George and I were still sitting in silence. Suddenly, and without a word of introduction, he said: "Boys, what do you say to turning back?" XI. WE GIVE IT UP For a moment I was dazed at the thought--the thought of turning back without ever seeing the Indians or caribou hunt, and I could not speak. George, however, soon found his tongue. He was still willing to go on, if need be, and risk his life with us. "I came to go with you fellus," he said, "and I want to do what you fellus do." "But," I said to Hubbard, "don't you think it will be easier to reach the Indians on the George, or even the George River Post, than Northwest River Post? We must surely be near the Indians; we shall probably see the smoke of their wigwams when we reach Michikamau. It is likely we shall find them camping on the big lake--either Mountaineers or Nascaupee--and if we get to them they'll surely help us." "Yes," answered Hubbard, "if we get to them they'll help us; but these miserable westerly and northwesterly gales may keep us on these waters indefinitely, or even on the shore of Michikamau at a spot where we may not be able to launch our canoe or reach the Indians for days, and that would be fatal. The caribou migration is surely begun, and perhaps is over already, and there's no use in going ahead." I saw his point and acquiesced. "I suppose it's best to turn back as soon as the wind will let us," I said; "for it's likely to subside only for a few hours at a time at this season, and perhaps if we don't get out when we can, we may never get out at all. But what does George say?" I asked, turning to our plucky companion. "Oh," said he, "I'd like to turn back, and I think it's safest; but I'm goin' to stick to you fellus, and I'm goin' where you go." "Well," said Hubbard, "what's the vote?--shall we turn back or go on?" "Turn back," said I. "Very well, then" he replied quietly; "that's settled." The decision reached, George's face brightened perceptibly, and I must confess we all felt better; a great burden seemed to have been lifted from our shoulders. It had required courage for Hubbard to acknowledge himself defeated in his purpose, but the acknowledgment once made, we thought of only one thing--how to reach home most quickly. Hubbard was now satisfied that the record of our adventures would make a "bully story," even without the material he had hoped to gather on the George, and his mind being easy on that point, he discussed with animation plans for the homeward trip. "We'll have to catch some fish here," he said, "to take us over the long portage to Lake Disappointment. We ought to be able to dry a good bit of namaycush, and on the way we'll probably have a good catch of trout at the long lake [Lake Mary], and another good catch where I used the tamarack pole. And then when we get to Lake Disappointment we ought to get more namaycush." "Yes," said I; "and the berries should help us some." "What do you think the chances of getting caribou are?" Hubbard asked George. "We saw some comin' up," replied George, "and there ought to be more now; I guess we'll find 'em." "If we kill some caribou," continued Hubbard, "I think we'd better turn to and build a log shack, cure the meat, make toboggans and snowshoes, wait for things to freeze up, and then push on to the post over the snow and ice. We can get some dogs at the post, and we'll be in good shape to push right on without delay to the St. Lawrence. It'll make a bully trip, and we'll have lots of grub. What would we need to get at the post, George?" "Well," said George, "we'd need plenty of flour, pork, lard, beans, sugar, tea, and bakin' powder; and we might take some condensed milk, raisins, currants, rice, and molasses, and I'd make somethin' good sometimes." "That's a good idea," said Hubbard, whose mouth was evidently watering even as mine was. "And we might take some butter, too. And how would oatmeal go for porridge?--don't you think that would be bully on a cold morning?" "Yes," assented George; "we could eat molasses on it, or thin up the condensed milk." "We shall probably have caribou meat that we can take along frozen," Hubbard went on. "Frozen caribou meat is bully; it's better than when it's fresh killed. Did you ever eat any, Wallace?" "No," said I; "the only caribou meat I've ever eaten was what we've had here." "Then," said Hubbard, "there's a rare treat in store for you. The first I ever ate was on my Lake St. John trip. The Indian I had with me used to chop off pieces of frozen caribou with an axe, and fry it with lard, and we'd just drink down the grease. It was fine." "It's great," said George. "Well," said Hubbard, coming back to the present, "I'm dead glad we've decided to strike for the post. If this wind will ever let up, we must get at it and catch some fish. I lay awake most of last night thinking it all over and planning it all." "I was awake most of the time, too," said George; "my feet were mighty cold." There was no fishing on the day we decided to turn back, as the wind confined us to camp, and all we had to eat was rice and bacon soup; but our anticipations of home to some extent overcame the clamour of our stomachs, and we passed the time chatting about the things we intended to do when we regained "God's country." "I'm going to take a vacation," said Hubbard. "I'll visit father and mother, if they're in the east, and sister Daisy, and maybe go to Canada with my wife and stay a little while with her people. What will you do, boys?" I told of my plans to visit various relatives, and then George described a trip he was going to make to visit a sister whom he had not seen since he was a little boy, closing the description with a vivid account of the good things he would have to eat, and what he would cook himself. It was always so--no matter what our conversation was about, it sooner or later developed into a discussion of gastronomy. In the evening Hubbard had me make out a list of the restaurants we intended to visit when we got back to New York and take George to. I have the list yet, but since my return I have never had the heart to go near any of the places it mentions. From the talk about restaurants Hubbard suddenly turned to lumber camps, asking George and me if we had ever visited one. We replied that we had not, and wondered what had brought lumber camps into his mind. We soon learned. "You've missed something," he said. "We'll make it a point to call at Sandy Calder's camp when we go back, and make him give us a feed of pork and beans and molasses to sop our bread in. They're sure to have them." "Do they have cake and pie?" asked George. "Yes, in unlimited quantities; and doughnuts, too--at least they used to in the Michigan lumber camps I've visited." "That sounds good," I remarked--"the pork and beans and molasses, best of all. When I was a boy I was fond of bread and molasses--good, black molasses--but I haven't eaten any since. I'd like to have a chance at some now." "So should I," said Hubbard; "I'd just roll my bread in it lumberjack fashion." "Do they have gingerbread in the camps?" asked George. "Yes," said Hubbard; "gingerbread is always on the table." "How do they make it? "Well, I don't just know; but I'll tell you what, George--if you want to know, I'll ask Mrs. Hubbard to show you when we get home, and I know she'll be delighted to do it. She's the best cook I ever knew." "Do you think she would mind?" "Oh, no; she'd be very glad to do it. You must stop at our house for a while before you go back to Missanabie, and she will teach you to cook a good many things." And so our conversation continued until we turned to our blankets and sought the luxury of sleep, I to dream I was revelling in a stack of gingerbread as high as a house that my sisters had baked to welcome me home. To our ever-increasing dismay, the northwest gale continued to blow almost unceasingly during the next few days. Sometimes towards evening the wind would moderate sufficiently to permit us to troll with difficulty along the lee shore of an island, but seldom were we rewarded with more than a single namaycush, and so far from our getting enough fish to carry us over our long portage to Lake Disappointment, we did not catch enough for our daily needs, and were compelled to draw on our little store of emergency provisions. On Wednesday (September 16th) we ate the last bit of bacon and the last handful of rice we had so carefully hoarded. We succeeded that day in reaching the rapid where we caught the few trout that some animal stole from us, and there we camped. From this point we believed we could more readily gain the bay where we had entered the lake, and begin our retreat when the wind subsided. The Canada jay, a carrion bird about the size Of a robin that is generally known through the north as the "whiskey jack," had always hovered about our camps and been very tame when, in the earlier days of our trip, we had refuse to throw away; but now these birds called at us from a greater distance, seeming to know we were looking at them with greedy eyes. George told us that their flesh had saved many an Indian from starvation, and that the Indians looked upon them with a certain veneration and would kill them only in case of the direst need. Our compunctions against eating carrion birds had entirely disappeared, and the course of the whiskey jacks in holding aloof from camp when they were most needed used to make George furious. "See the blamed beggars!" he would ejaculate. "Just look at 'em! We've been feedin' 'em right long, and now when it's their turn to feed us, look at 'em go!" On Thursday (September 17th) George got his revenge. Stealthily he crept upon a whiskey jack in the bush and shot it with a pistol. "They're pretty tough," he said, upon returning with his prize to camp, "and will take a long time to cook." We did not care for that; we ate that bird, bones and all, stewed in a big pot of water with two or three spoonfuls of flour and an equal amount of pea meal. That was our breakfast. We had no luncheon; for although we spent the entire day trolling up and down the lee shore, it was not until evening that we caught any fish. The wind was icy and set us all a-shiver, our hands were benumbed by the cold water, and we were just beginning to despair when we landed a two-pound namaycush, and a little later a five-pounder. Then, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, we paddled back to camp, to cheer ourselves up with a good fire and a supper of one-third of the larger fish, a dish of stewed sour cranberries and plenty of hot tea. "I feel more satisfied every time I think of our decision to turn back," said Hubbard, as, with supper eaten, we reclined comfortably before the fire. "I had a pretty hard night of it though, on Monday; for I hated to turn back without seeing the Indians." "I was awake thinkin' about it, too," said George. "I told you about havin' cold feet, and that they kept me awake." He paused, and we felt that something was coming. At length out it came: "Well, they did, but that wind out in the lake kept me awake more than the cold feet. I knew that wind was makin' the huntin' good down the bay, the game was comin' down there now, and the young fellus I used to hunt with had been wishin' for this very wind that was keepin' us here, and they were glad to see it, and were out shootin' waveys [a species of wild goose]; and here we boys was, up against it for sure." Hubbard and I had to laugh at George's confession, and we joked him a little about being homesick. "Well," said Hubbard, "we'll soon get away now; this wind must let up some time. Talking about the bay reminds me that I want to arrange for a trip to Hudson's Bay next summer. I want a nice, easy trip that I can take Mrs. Hubbard on. I'd like to go up early and return in the fall, and maybe get some wavey shooting. Could you get one or two good men besides yourself to go with us, George?" George said he thought he could, and after Hubbard had invited me to make one of the party, they went into minute details as to the food they would take with them, planning an elaborate culinary outfit. Just before George went to bed, Hubbard and I, using the trees that stood close to the fire for a support, stretched a tarpaulin over our heads, to shelter us from the rain and sleet. Beyond the circle of our bright-blazing fire the darkness was profound. As the wind in great blasts swept over the tops of the trees, its voice was raised to piercing shrieks that gradually died away into low moans. We thought of the vast wilderness lying all about us under the pall of a moonless and starless night. Where had all the people in the world gone to, anyway? But, sitting there on our couch of boughs beneath the tarpaulin, in the grateful warmth of the high-leaping flames, we found it very cosey. And we talked of the places and persons that were somewhere beyond the solitudes. "You don't mind sitting here for a while and chatting, do you, b'y?" said Hubbard. "It's very cold and shivery in the tent." "B'y" was a word we had picked up from the Newfoundland fishermen, who habitually use it in addressing one another, be the person addressed old or young. At first Hubbard and I called each other "b'y" in jest, but gradually it became with us a term almost of endearment. "No, b'y," I answered; "I would much rather be out here with you than in the tent." "I was thinking," said Hubbard, "of how I loved, in the evening after dinner last winter, to sit before the wood fire in our grate at Congers, and watch the blaze with Mina [Mrs. Hubbard] near me. What a feeling of quiet, and peace, and contentment, would come to me then!--I'd forget all about the grind at the office and the worries of the day. That's real happiness, Wallace--a good wife and a cheerful fireside. What does glory and all that amount to, after all? I've let my work and my ambition bother me too much. I've hardly taken time for my meals. In the morning I'd hurry through breakfast and run for my train. I haven't given my wife and my home the attention they deserve. That wife of mine, Wallace, deserves a great deal of attention. She's always thinking of my comfort, and doing things to please me, and cooking things I like. But I must be boring you with all this talk about my own affairs." "No, b'y," I said; "I like to hear about them. I've always been interested in witnessing how happy you and your wife have been together." "She's been a good wife to me, Wallace; and as time has gone on since our marriage we've grown closer and closer together." "I see you're like every other man that gets a good wife--you've found the real key to the house of a man's happiness." "That's so. A single man, or a man with an uncongenial wife whom he doesn't love and who doesn't love him, may be as rich as Croesus, and gain all the honours in the world, and he won't possess an atom of the happiness of a poor man congenially married. Did I ever tell you about the day I was married?--the trouble I had?" "I don't remember that you did. Although I suspected something unusual on foot, I didn't hear of your marriage until after the deed was done. You didn't take me into your confidence, you know." "That was because we had never camped together then, b'y. If we had camped together, I'd have told you all about it. Mina and I had not intended to get married so soon. We were to have been married in the spring, but that January I received an assignment for a trip through the South, and I knew it would keep me away until after our wedding date. I didn't want to postpone the wedding, so I decided, if I could get Mina's consent, to make my trip our honeymoon. She was at her parents' home in Canada, and there was no time to lose, and I telegraphed asking her to come on at once and get married. She was a brick and consented, and then I was in such a nervous state of anticipation I was afraid the folks where I was stopping would discover something was up, so the day before I expected Mina to arrive I ran over to Jersey to spend the night with my old friend Dr. Shepard, the minister. "Well, Mina's train was due at the Grand Central Station early in the morning, and I had to catch a train from Jersey a little after five o'clock to meet her. I was afraid I'd oversleep, and I kept awake nearly all night. Long before the train was due I was down at the station and took a seat in the waiting room. And what do you suppose I did?" "What?" said I. "Why," said Hubbard, with a cheerful grin, "I fell to thinking so hard about what was going to happen that I sat there in the station and let the train I was so afraid to lose come and go without ever hearing it." Under the sleet-covered tarpaulin, there in the interior of Labrador, Hubbard and I laughed heartily. "And was the bride-elect kept waiting?" I asked. "No," said Hubbard; "I hustled over a couple of miles to another line and got a train there, and as Mina fortunately didn't arrive as early as expected, I was in time." The fire had died down and the darkness was beginning to close in upon us. I arose to renew the fire, and when the logs had begun to blaze again, and I had resumed my seat, I saw that the drawn and haggard look had returned to Hubbard's face, and that he was staring wistfully out over the fire into the impenetrable gloom. "What is it, b'y?" I said. "That was a great trip, Wallace--that southern trip. I want to visit some of the places again with Mina and live over our honeymoon. And," he went on--"yes, I want some more of the good southern cooking. You ought to eat their cornbread, Wallace!--there's nothing like it anywhere else in the world. They cook corn meal in a dozen ways, from corn pone to really delicate dishes. And they know how to cook chickens, too. Their chickens and yams and cornbread are great. It makes my mouth water to think of even the meals I've eaten in the mountaineers' cabins--wild hog, good and greasy; wild honey, hoecake, and strong black coffee. When I get home I'm going to experiment in camp with cooking corn meal, and I've got an idea that a young sucking pig roasted before the fire like George roasted the goose would be great." There we were, plunged once more into a discussion about food, and it was after midnight when the talk about roasting pigs, and stuffing pigs, and baking this, and baking that, came to an end. Even then Hubbard was loath to seek the tent, it was so "cold and shivery"; but he expressed himself as being fairly comfortable when he had followed my example and toasted himself thoroughly before the fire immediately before turning in with a pair of socks on his feet that had been hung up to warm. On Friday (September 18th) a fierce northwest gale again kept us on the lee shore, and all we got on the troll was a three-quarter-pound namaycush. Hubbard and I also fished conscientiously at the rapid near which we were still camping, and our combined efforts yielded us only two eight-inch trout and a twenty-inch trout. Trying as we were to get fish ahead for our long portage, it was most depressing. Despite the steady gnaw, gnaw at the pit of our stomachs, we had cut down our meals to the minimum amount of food that would keep us alive; we were so weak we no longer were sure where our feet were going to when we put them down. But all the fish we had to smoke was two or three. And on Friday night we ate the last bit of our flour; it was used to thicken the water in which we boiled for supper some entrails, a namaycush head and the two little trout we had caught during the day. All that night the northwest gale was accompanied by gusts of rain and snow. On Saturday (September 19th) the mercury dropped to 32 degrees, and the air was raw. Not a single fish were we able to catch. George and I smoked a pipe for breakfast, while Hubbard imbibed the atmosphere. A bit of the smoked fish we had hoped to keep, boiled with a dash of pea meal in the water, did us for luncheon and supper. Heretofore we had slept each rolled in his own blanket, but it was so cold in the tent that night we had to make a common bed by spreading one blanket beneath us on a tarpaulin and lying spoon-fashion with the other two blankets drawn over us. The blankets were decidedly narrow for three men to get under, and it was necessary for us to lie very close together indeed; but our new method enabled us to keep fairly warm and we continued its use. On Sunday (September 20th) the temperature dropped to 29 and the squalls continued. In desperation we broke camp in the morning and tried to cross the lake with our outfit, but the wind soon drove us back to shelter. While we were out on the lake we caught a namaycush on the troll, and this fish we had for luncheon, together with some cranberries we found on a ridge near where we had taken refuge on the shore. A little later I was attacked with vomiting and faintness. When I tried to swing an axe, I reeled and all but lost consciousness. Late in the afternoon the squalls subsided, and we made another attempt to escape from the prison in which we were slowly starving. Fortunately the wind continued fair and there were no cross-seas; and on and on we paddled in the direction of--home! Oh, the great relief of it! For nearly two weeks we had been held on that dreadful lake. Day after day the relentless storm had raged, while hunger leered at us and tormented us with its insistent clamour as we, with soaked rags and shivering bodies, strove vainly to prevent the little stock of food from diminishing that we felt was our only hold on life. And now we were going home! Darkness had long since fallen when we reached an island near the point where we had entered the lake. In a driving rain we pitched our camp. For supper we had the last of the little stock of fish that we had been able to dry. This meant that, in addition to our stock of tea, the only food we had left on hand was sixteen pounds of pea meal. But we did not worry. We were going home. And on Monday morning, September 21st, though the wind was again blowing a gale, and the passage among the spray-covered rocks was filled with risk, we paddled over to the mainland, ready to begin our race for life down the trail we had fought so hard to ascend. XII. THE BEGINNING OF THE RETREAT Upon reaching the mainland we stopped to assort and dry our baggage. All of us felt we had entered upon a race against starvation, and everything that was not strictly necessary to aid our progress to Northwest River Post we threw away. In addition to many odds and ends of clothing we abandoned about three pounds of tea. Tea was the one thing of which we had carried an abundance, and though we had used it freely, we had more than we deemed necessary to carry us through. While we were nearing the shore, we sighted three little ducklings bobbing up and down in the tumbling waves and repeatedly diving. They were too far off to reach with a pistol, and Hubbard took his rifle. It seemed almost like attacking a fly with a cannon, but with our thoughts on grub, none of us was impressed with its incongruity then. After Hubbard had fired two or three shots, one of the ducklings suddenly turned over. We paddled to it with feverish haste, and found that it had been stunned by a ball that had barely grazed its bill. It was a lucky shot; for if the bullet had gone through the duckling's body there would have been little left of it to eat. While George and I were drying the camp equipment, Hubbard caught five small trout in the stream that emptied into the lake at this point--the stream we had followed down. These fish we ate for luncheon. Once more ready to start, we pushed up the stream to the place where we had last camped before reaching the lake, and there we again pitched our tent. For supper we made soup of the duckling. It was almost like coming home to reach this old camping ground, and it cheered us considerably. The first day of the forty-mile portage we had to make before reaching fairly continuous water had been, as a whole, depressing. Rain, accompanied by a cold wind, began to fall early in the afternoon. The weather was so cold, in fact, that the trout would not rise after we caught the five near the lake, and this made us uneasy as to how the fishing would prove farther down the trail. The day's journey, moreover, had made it clear, in spite of our efforts to hide the fact from one another, that we were much weaker than when we last had made portages. We had reached the stage where none of us could carry the canoe alone. Decidedly we were not the same men that had set out so blithely from the post eight weeks before. As for myself, I had shortened my belt thirteen inches since July 15th. It became the custom now for George and me to go ahead with the canoe for a mile or so while Hubbard brought forward in turn each of the three packs for about an eighth of a mile. Then George and I would return to him, and, each taking a pack, we would advance to the place where the canoe had been left. Sometimes, however, this routine was varied, Hubbard now and then helping George with the canoe while I juggled with the packs until they returned to me. Despite the fact that we had fewer as well as lighter packs to carry than on the up trail, our progress was slower because of our increasing weakness. Whereas it had taken us three days on the up trail to portage the fifteen miles between Lake Mary and Windbound Lake, it now took us five days to cover the same ground. On Tuesday, the 22d, the second day of our portage, it rained all the time, and for the greater part of the day we floundered through marshes and swamps. We caught no fish and killed no game. Hubbard tried to stalk a goose in a swamp, wading above his knees in mud and water to get a shot; but he finally had to fire at such long range that he missed, and the bird flew away, to our great disappointment. Our day's food consisted of half a pound of pea meal for each man. During the day Hubbard had an attack of vomiting, and at night, when we reached our second camping ground above the lake, we were all miserable and thoroughly soaked, though still buoyed up by the knowledge that we were going home. The cold rain continued on the 23d until late in the day, when the sky cleared and evening set in cold and crisp. That day I was attacked with vomiting. Our food was the same as on the day previous, with the addition of some mossberries and cranberries we found on the barren ridge over which we crossed. It was another day of hard portaging on stomachs crying for food, and when we pitched our camp we were so exhausted that we staggered like drunken men. Silent and depressed, we took our places on the seat of boughs that George had prepared by the roaring fire; but after we had eaten our meagre supper and drunk our tea, and our clothes had begun to dry in the genial glow, we found our tongues again; and, half forgetting that, starving and desperate, we were still in the midst of the wilderness, far from human help, we once more talked of the homes that were calling to us over the dreary wastes; talked of the dear people that would welcome us back and of the good things they would give us to eat; talked until far into the night, dreading to go to the cold tent and the wet blankets. We awoke on the morning of the 24th to find six inches of snow on the ground and the storm still raging, with the temperature down to 28. Soon after we began plodding through the snow on a pea-soup breakfast, George left us to hunt geese. The night before he had told Hubbard he would kill a goose in the morning, if he were permitted to go on with a rifle. He had heard the geese flying, and believed they had alighted for the night in a small lake some distance ahead. The knowledge that he was a famous goose hunter "down the bay" made his confidence impressive; still we were doubtful about his succeeding in his quest; for the geese had been so hard to approach of late we were beginning to fear we should never shoot any more. For half an hour after George had taken his pack and a rifle and gone on, Hubbard and I slowly followed his trail through the snow. Then in the distance we heard a "Bang!" and after a short interval, "Bang!--Bang!"--three shots in all. "He's seen them," said Hubbard. "And shot one," said I. "I'm not so sure of that," returned Hubbard; "I'm afraid they flew and he tried to wing them, and if that's the case the chances are against him." Presently we came upon George's pack near the western end of the little lake, and we stopped and anxiously waited for him to appear. In a few moments he came. "You can kick me," he began with apparent disgust; then, observing the look of keen disappointment upon Hubbard's haggard face, he quickly changed his tone. "That's all right, fellus," he said; "I got a goose. I saw 'em out there fifty yards from shore, and I bellied along through the brush as close as I dared, and fired and knocked one over. Then the others flew out about two hundred yards farther, and I thought I'd chance another shot; for if I didn't try I wouldn't get another, and if I did I might knock one over. So I shot again and did get another. Then the rest of the flock rose up, and I tried to wing one, but missed, and they've gone now. But there's two dead ones out in the lake." Joy?--the word fails to express our feeling. George and I hurried back for the canoe, and when we paddled out, there, sure enough, were the two geese, one dead and the other helpless with a broken wing. George ended the life of the wounded goose with a pistol, and we paddled back to our packs and built a big fire in the lee of a thick clump of trees. The snow had turned into a fierce, driving rain, but that did not bother us. To dress the geese did not take long. We put the giblets and entrails to boil immediately, and, to quiet our impatience while waiting for them to cook, George cut from the necks a piece of skin and fat for each of us. These we warmed on the end of a stick, taking great care not to heat them enough to permit a single drop of the oil to escape from the fat; then, half raw as they were, we ate them down greedily and found them delicious. It was really wonderful how much happiness that bit of game brought us. As we were eating the giblets and entrails and drinking the broth, we freely admitted that never before had we sat down to such a banquet. "And," remarked Hubbard, "just think how original is our menu. I'll bet there isn't a menu in New York that contains boiled goose entrails." On the 25th the fierce northwest gale still blew, and the air was again filled with snow. But still we pushed onward. Let the wind blow, and the snow and rain come as they liked, they could not stop us--we were going home. We portaged this day to another of our old camps by a small lake. On the evening before we had eaten the wings and feet of the geese boiled. For breakfast we had half a goose, for luncheon we had pea soup, and at night we had the other half of the goose left over from the morning. We scorched the bones in the fire and ate even them. These meals did not begin to satisfy our appetites, but they were sufficient to give us a little new life. While we were sitting around the fire Hubbard wished me to promise to spend Thanksgiving Day with him that year--if we reached home in time. For two years I had spent the day at his home, and Thanksgiving, he said, must be our reunion day always. No matter what happened, we must always make a special effort to spend that day together in the years to come. We must never drift apart. We were brothers, comrades--more than brothers. We had endured the greatest hardships together, had fought our way through that awful country together, had starved together; and never had there been misunderstanding, never a word of dissension. From this time on we talked less about what we should eat when we reached civilisation. True, we would sometimes lapse into restaurant and home-dinner talks, but we fought against it as much as possible, realising that to permit our thoughts to dwell on good things to eat accentuated our distress. Gradually we talked more and more of childhoods days, and incidents, long forgotten, came vividly before us. It was a psychological phenomenon I cannot account for; but it was the case with all of us--Hubbard, George, and myself. During these trying times we had one never-failing source of amusement, which, because it was the only one, was all the more valued and taken advantage of. I refer to our appearance. George had shaved once since we had gone into the country, but neither Hubbard nor I had known the caress of a razor since we left the post on July 15th. None of us had felt the loving touch of the scissors upon his hair since leaving New York in June, and our heads were shaggy masses of more or less dishevelled and tangled locks. Long-continued exposure to sun and storm and the smoke of campfires had covered our faces with a deep coat of brown. Our eyes were sunken deep into their sockets. Our lips were drawn to thin lines over our teeth. The skin of our faces and hands was stretched tight over the bones. We were almost as thin, and almost the colour of the mummies one sees in museums. As for our clothing, it was still hanging upon us, and that is about all that can be said of it. Our trousers, full of rents, were tied together with pieces of fish line. The bottoms of our moccasins were so hopelessly gone that we had our feet wrapped in rags, with pieces of fishline tied around what remained of the uppers. Our flannel shirts were full of rents. Around our necks we wore red bandanna handkerchiefs. Our soft felt hats had become shapeless things so full of rents that if it were not for the bandanna handkerchiefs we wore in them our hair would have protruded at every point. Frequently we would picture ourselves walking into our homes or through the streets of New York as we then were, and laugh at the thought. "Wallace," Hubbard would say, "the cops wouldn't let you walk a block; they'd run you in sure. You're the most disreputable-looking individual I ever saw, by long odds." And I would retort: "I'd make a good second to you; for you're the worst that ever happened." It was on Saturday morning, the 26th, that we reached the western end of Lake Mary and completed fifteen miles of our forty-mile portage. We pitched our tent, as we had done before, on the site of the old Indian camp, near the brook George had pointed out as a good fishing place. The rain and wind continued in the morning, but at midday the sun came out and we were able to dry our blankets. Always we waited for the sun to dry the blankets; for we had had so many articles of clothing burned while hanging before the fire we did not dare to trust the blankets near it. While we were following our old trail to the lake, Hubbard decapitated a duck with a rifle bullet, and we went into camp with high hopes of more food in the way of fish. Hubbard's rod was hopelessly broken, so he took mine, now much wound with linen thread, but, still usable if not very pliable, and while I made camp and George prepared the duck for luncheon, he caught twenty trout of fair size, which caused our spirits to run high. Luncheon over, Hubbard resumed his fishing, and I stole away with my rifle along the marshes in the hope of seeing a caribou. When I returned towards dusk without having sighted any game, I found a stage over the fire and George hanging up trout to dry. Hubbard, it appeared, had caught ninety-five more. Our exultation knew no bounds. We had not dreamed of any such catch as that. By remaining in camp and fishing another day, we should, at this rate, be able to dry nearly enough trout to see us through to Lake Disappointment. We were as happy and as free from care as children. Our great success here made us feel sure that down below, where we had caught so many fish on our inbound journey, we should again get plenty--all we should need, in fact--and our safety seemed assured. We admitted we had felt doubts as to the outcome, which we had not expressed out of consideration for one another. But now we felt we could look forward to reaching home as a certainty. And, feeling freer to indulge our fancies, our talk at once returned to the good things we were going to eat. Sunday, the 27th, was warm and clear, with a southwest wind, and everything seemed favourable for more fish. For breakfast we ate the last of our goose, and for luncheon trout entrails and roe. While George and I were drying fish during the forenoon, Hubbard caught fifty more. One big fellow had sores all over his body, and we threw it aside. Towards noon the fish ceased to rise, the pool probably being fished out. After luncheon I again left camp with my rifle in the vain hope of sighting a caribou. The gloom of night was beginning to gather when I returned. As I approached, stepping noiselessly on the mossy carpet of the forest, I saw Hubbard sitting alone by the bright-burning fire, mending his moccasins. Something in his attitude made me pause. He was bareheaded, and his long, unkempt hair hung half way down to his shoulders. As he sat there in the red glow of the fire, with the sombre woods beyond and the lonely stretch of lake below, and I took note of his emaciated form and his features so haggard and drawn, I seemed for the first time to realise fully the condition to which the boy had been brought by his sufferings. And while I stood there, still unobserved, I heard him softly humming to himself: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." How strangely the old hymn sounded among those solitudes! After a little I again started to advance, and as I stepped upon a dry branch Hubbard stopped his singing and looked up quickly. "Wallace," he exclaimed, "I'm glad to see you! George and I have been having a long Sunday talk and we missed you. We were wishing you'd come. No luck?" "No," said I; "nothing but old trails; not a fresh track anywhere. What were you talking about?" "We had a chapter from the Bible and a little talk about it. I've been thinking about my class of boys in the Sunday-school at Congers, and how glad I'll be to get back to them again; I've a lot I want to tell them. It's restful just to think of that little church, and this Sunday afternoon I've been thinking about it a good deal." George was lying in the tent, and Hubbard and I joined him and continued our conversation there. Hubbard spoke of the luck we had had in catching trout, saying: "It's God's way of taking care of us so long as we do our best." It was wonderful to see how, as his body became weaker, his spirit grew brighter. Steadily he became more gentle and affectionate; the more he suffered the more his faith in the God of his youth seemed to increase. Early the next morning (September 28th) George, who was the first to be stirring, poked his head into the tent, and with an air of mystery asked me for my pistol. A moment later we heard a shot. Hubbard and I both looked out, to see George returning with empty hands and an expression of deep chagrin. "What are you shooting at now?" asked Hubbard. "The blackest marten I ever saw," said George. "I knocked him over, but he got on his feet again and was into the lake and away before I could reach him. The beggar was right here in camp tryin' to make off with that fish with sores we threw away. He might have made good eatin' if we'd got him." As the day was squally with snow, and a heavy wind was kicking up a sea on the lake, we decided to remain in camp another day and smoke the fish a little more. While we kept the smoke going under the stage, we sat by the fire and chatted. The day's rations consisted of three fish for each man at each of the three meals. By way of a little variety we roasted some of the fish on sticks. We were all very weak, but George explained that away. "The Indians," he said, "always go to pieces after they've been hard up for a while and finally get grub. Then they feed up and get strong again. It's the grub comin' all of a sudden that makes you weak. Your mind feelin' easier, you feel you can't do anything." Hubbard and I agreed that George was right. Our minds certainly had relaxed; homeward bound with enough fish on hand to last us for several days, we had no doubts as to the future. We decided, however, that whatever the weather conditions in the morning might be, we should break camp and push on with the greatest possible speed, as it was the part of wisdom to make our supply of fish carry us down the back trail as far as possible. So we went to our blankets more than eager for the morning's start, and more confident we should get out safely than at any time since we began the retreat. XIII. HUBBARD'S GRIT Two things soon became plain after our struggle back to the post was resumed. One was that winter was fast closing in upon us; the other was that Hubbard's condition was such as might well cause the gravest concern. The morning that we broke camp on Lake Mary (Tuesday, September 29th), was ushered in by a gale from the west and driving snow. The mercury had dropped to 24, and all of us were a-shiver when we issued from the tent. While George and I were preparing the outfit for travel Hubbard caught twelve trout in the pool. On the lake we encountered as heavy a sea as our little canoe could weather, and we had to struggle hard for an hour to reach the farther shore. Upon landing, Hubbard was again attacked with diarrhoea. George and I carried the packs up the high bank to a sheltered spot in the woods, but when I returned to Hubbard he insisted on helping me to carry the canoe. Up the steep ascent we laboured, and then, as we put the canoe down, Hubbard said: "I'm dead tired and weak, boys; I think I'll have to take a little rest." After building him a roaring log fire, George and I carried the canoe a mile and a half ahead through the driving snow, which was of the wet kind that clings to every bush and tree, robing the woods in a pure and spotless white that inevitably suggests fairyland. But I was not in a mood to admire the beauty of it all. Upon our return to Hubbard he announced that we should have to camp where we were for the day, that he might have time to recuperate. The delay affected him keenly. We should eat nearly as much food in our idleness as we should in moving onward, and the thought of drawing on our thirty-five pounds of dried fish without making progress was anything but pleasant. The wintry weather did not worry us; for we knew the snow then falling would disappear before the ground became covered for good, and we felt sure we should reach the Susan Valley before freezing-up time, in which event ice would assist rather than retard our progress, as even with the Susan River open it would be impossible to use the canoe in its shoal, rapid waters. As for Hubbard's condition, I suppose it worried me more than anyone else. George had failed to note the signs of increasing weakness in our leader that I had, and Hubbard himself was so under the influence of his indomitable spirit that for a long time he apparently did not realise the possibility of an utter collapse. By the campfire that night he was confident we should be able to make up the next day for the delay caused by his weakness. For a long time he sat silently gazing into the fire, but as he had just been expressing a longing to see his wife, if only for a moment, I knew he did not see the blaze before him. He was looking into another fire--a big, wood fire in an old-fashioned fireplace in the cheerful sitting-room of a far-away Congers home, and his wife was by his side. He put out his arm to draw her closer to him. I could see it all and understand--understand the look of perfect happiness that his fancy's picture brought to his face. But when George arose to throw some more logs on the fire, the shower of sparks that flew heavenward brought him suddenly back to reality--to the snow-covered woods of Labrador. "I hope we shall be able to find another house in Congers with a fireplace such as our old one had," he said, turning to me as if he knew I had been reading his thoughts. "In the evening we sit long before the fire without lighting a lamp. Sometimes we make believe we're camping, and make our tea and broil some bacon or melt some cheese for our crackers over the coals, and have a jolly time. I want you, b'y, to visit us often and join us in those teas, and see if you don't find them as delightful as we do." The next morning (September 30th) Hubbard said he was much better, and gave the order to advance. We made a short march, camping just beyond the long swamp on the edge of the boulder-strewn country we had found so hard to traverse on the upward trail. On the way we stopped for a pot of tea at a place in the swamp where we had previously camped, and there discovered a treasure; namely, the bones of a caribou hoof we had used in making soup. We seized upon the bones eagerly, put them in the fire and licked the grease off them as it was drawn out by the heat. Then we cracked them and devoured the bit of grease we found inside. It was agreed that from this point George and I should carry the canoe about two miles ahead, while Hubbard carried the packs to a convenient place beyond the swamps and there pitched camp. It was about dusk when George and I, after a laborious struggle among the boulders and brush, put the canoe down and turned back. As we approached the place that had been selected for a camp, we looked expectantly for the glow of the fire, but none was to be seen. At length we heard axe strokes, and came upon Hubbard cutting wood. He greeted us with rather a wan smile. "I've been slow, boys," he said. "I haven't got the firewood cut yet, nor the boughs for the bed. I've only just pitched the tent." "I'll get the other axe," I said quickly, "and help you while George builds the fire." "No, no," he protested; "you get the boughs while I'm getting the wood." "I can get the boughs after we have the wood chopped; it won't take me long and you must let me help you." At that Hubbard said, "Thank you, b'y," in a tone of great relief. Then he added slowly, "I'm still a bit weak, and it's hard to work fast to-night." It was the first time since we left the post that he consented to anyone doing any part of his share of the work. It is true that since we had turned back I had been relieving him of his share of carrying the canoe, but I was able to do so only by telling him I much preferred toting the boat to juggling with the packs. From this time on, however, he consented, with less resistance, to George or myself doing this or that while he rested by the fire. The fact was he had reached the stage where he was kept going only by his grit. October began with tremendous gales and a driving rain mixed with sleet, that removed all traces of the snow. The sleet stung our faces, and we frequently had to take refuge from the blasts in the lee of bushes and trees so as to recover our breath; but we managed to advance our camp three miles on the first, pitching the tent on the shore of one of the limpid ponds among the boulders. For supper we ate the last of the dried fish, which again left us with only the diminishing stock of pea meal, and none of us did much talking when we crouched about the fire. On Friday (October 2d), with high hopes of getting fish, we hurried ahead with our packs to the pool where Hubbard had caught the big trout with his emergency kit and the tamarack pole, and near which we had camped for a day while he rested and George made a trip to the mountains from which he discovered Lake Mary and Windbound Lake. The sight of the old camping place brought back to me the remembrance of how sick Hubbard had been there a month before, and how the thought had come to me to try to make him give up the struggle. The weather was very unfavourable for trouting--a cold west wind was blowing accompanied by snow squalls--but Hubbard caught two within a few minutes, and George boiled them with a bit of pea meal for luncheon. Then, leaving Hubbard to try for more fish, George and I went back to the canoe. While we were returning to camp, George shot a duck with my rifle. It was a very fat black duck, and we gloated long over its fine condition. Only three more trout rewarded Hubbard's afternoon's work. However, we had duck for supper, and were nearer home, and that comforted us. I remember that while we sat by the fire that evening George produced from somewhere in the recesses of his pockets a New York Central Railroad timetable on which was printed a buffet lunch menu, and handed it to us with the suggestion that we give our orders for breakfast. Hubbard examined it and quickly said: "Give me a glass of cream, some graham gems, marmalade, oatmeal and cream, a jelly omelette, a sirloin steak, lyonnaise potatoes, rolls, and a pot of chocolate. And you might bring me also," he added, "a plate of griddle cakes and maple syrup." Every dish on that menu card from end to end we thoroughly discussed, our ultimate conclusion being that each of us would take a full portion of everything on the list and might repeat the order. It was on this evening also that, while calculating the length of time it would take us to travel from point to point on our back trail, we began the discussion as to whether it would be better to stick to the canoe on the "big river" (the Beaver) and follow it down to its mouth, wherever that might be, or abandon the canoe at the place where we had portaged into the river from Lake Elson, and make a dash overland with light packs to the Susan Valley and down that valley to the hunters' cabins we had seen at the head of Grand Lake, where we hoped we might find a cache of provisions. Hubbard was strongly in favour of the latter plan, while George and I favoured the former. As the reader knows, I had a great dread of the Susan Valley, and expressed my feelings freely. But we all had the idea that the "big river" emptied into Goose Bay (the extreme western end of Hamilton Inlet), and Hubbard reasoned that we might reach the broad waters of the bay far from a house, be windbound indefinitely and die of starvation on the shore. On the other hand, we were sure of the route through the Susan Valley, and, in his opinion, it would be better to bear the ills we had borne before than fly to others we know not of. I cannot deny that his argument had weight, but we decided that for the present we should hold the matter in abeyance. One thing we felt reasonably sure of, and that was we should get fish in the big river, and we eagerly counted the days it would take us to reach it. Bright and cold and crisp was Saturday morning (October 3d), with black wind-driven clouds and occasional snow squalls later in the day. About noon, when Hubbard had gone ahead with a pack, George and I sighted two small black ducks while we were canoeing across a pond. They were quietly swimming about fifty yards in front of us. I passed my rifle ahead to George. He carefully knelt in the canoe, and took a deliberate aim while I held my breath. Then, Crack! went the rifle, and but one duck rose on the wing. Quick as a flash, without removing the rifle from his shoulder, George threw the lever forward and back. Instantly the rifle again spoke, and the bird in the air tumbled over and over into the water. The first duck had been decapitated; the other received a bullet through its body. The moment was intense; for we had only a little fish for breakfast, and the outlook for other meals had seemed dismal indeed; but George was stoicism itself; not a word did he utter, nor did a feature of his face change. When, after picking up the ducks, we touched the shore, I jumped out, took his hand and said "George, you're a wonder." But he only grinned in his good-natured way and remarked: "We needed 'em." Tying the birds' legs together, he slung them over his shoulder, and proudly we marched to the place where Hubbard was awaiting us, to make his heart glad with our good fortune. One of the ducks we ate on the spot, and the other we had for supper at our camp by a little pond among the moonlit hills. The thermometer registered only 10 degrees above zero on Sunday morning (October 4th), but there was not a cloud in the sky, and we should have enjoyed the crisp, clear air had it not been for the ever-present spectre of starvation. All the food we had besides the pea meal was two of the fish Hubbard had caught two days before. One of these we ate for breakfast, boiled with a little pea meal. Our old trail led us up during the forenoon to the shore of one of the larger of the small lakes with which the country abounded. This lake we crossed with difficulty, being compelled to break the ice ahead of the canoe with our paddles. On the opposite shore we stopped to make a fire for tea--that was all we thought we should have for luncheon; just tea. George stepped into the timber to get wood, and in a moment returned and asked me for my pistol. "I saw a partridge in there," he said quietly. Presently Hubbard and I heard the pistol crack, and we counted, at short intervals, four shots. "There's something up," said Hubbard, and we started to our feet just as George came in view with a grin on his face and four spruce-grouse in his hand. He always did those things in that quiet, matter-of-fact way. Two of the birds George cooked immediately, and as he served to each an equal share, Hubbard said: "Boys, we should thank the Lord for this food. It has seemed sometimes, I know, as if He had forgotten us; but He has not. Just now when we needed food so much He gave us these partridges. Let us thank Him." So we bowed our heads for a moment, we three gaunt, ragged men, sitting there by our fire in the open, with the icy lake at our backs and the dark wilderness of fir trees before us. During the afternoon we bagged two more grouse. Hubbard shot them as they fluttered up before him on the trail, and a meal on the morrow was assured. The day's work practically completed our forty-mile portage; for we camped at night on the first little lake north of Lake Disappointment. It was well that we had about reached fairly continuous water. None of us would have been able to stand much longer the strain of those rough portages day after day. Fortunate as we had been in getting game at critical moments since leaving Windbound Lake, the quantity of food we had eaten was far below that which was necessary to sustain the strength of men who had to do hard physical work. It had become so that when we tried to sit down our legs would give way and we would tumble down. Hubbard was failing daily. He habitually staggered when he walked, and on this last day of our long portage he came near going all to pieces nervously. When he started to tell me something about his wife's sister, he could not recall her name, although it had been perfectly familiar, and this and other lapses of memory appeared to frighten him. For a long time he sat very still with his face buried in his hands, doubtless striving to rally his forces. And the most pitiable part of it was his fear that George and I should notice his weakness and lose courage. But he rallied--rallied so as again to become the inspirer of George and me, he who was the weakest physically of the three. XIV. BACK THROUGH THE RANGES In our camp on the first little lake north of Lake Disappointment we ate on Monday morning (October 5th) the last of the grouse we had killed on the previous day, and when we started forward we again were down to the precious little stock of pea meal. In a storm of snow and rain we floundered with the packs and canoe through a deep marsh, until once more we stood on the shore of the big lake where we had spent the weary days searching for a river--Lake Disappointment. We built a fire on the shore to dry our rags and warm ourselves; for we were soaked through and shivering with the cold. Then we launched the canoe and paddled eastward. Late in the afternoon we landed on an island that contained a semi-barren knoll, but which otherwise was wooded with small spruce. On the knoll we found an abundance of mossberries, and soon after we had devoured them we happened upon a supper in the form of two spruce-grouse. George and Hubbard each shot one. The sun's journey across the sky was becoming noticeably shorter and shorter, and before we had realised that the day was spent, night began to close in upon us, and we pitched camp on the island. In the morning (October 6) our breakfast flew right into camp. George crawled out early to build a fire, and a moment later stuck his head in the tent with the words, "Your pistol, Wallace." I handed it out to him, and almost immediately we heard a shot. Then George reappeared, holding up another spruce-grouse. "This grub came right to us," he said; "I knocked the beggar over close by the fire." While we were eating the bird, Hubbard told us he had been dreaming during the night of home. Nearly every day now we heard that he had been dreaming the night before of his wife or his mother; they were always giving him good things to eat, or he was going to good dinners with them. It had rained hard during the night, but with early morning there came again the mixture of rain and snow we had endured on the day before. When we put off in the canoe, we headed for the point where we expected to make the portage across the two-mile neck of land that separated Lake Disappointment from Lost Trail Lake; but soon we were caught by a terrific gale, and for half an hour we sat low in the canoe doing our best with the paddles to keep it headed to the wind and no one speaking a word. The foam dashed over the sides of our little craft, soaking us from head to foot. Tossed violently about by the big seas, we for a time expected that every moment would be our last. Had George been less expert with the stern paddle, we surely should have been swamped. As it was we managed, after a desperate struggle, to gain the lee side of a small, rocky island, upon which we took refuge. At length the wind abated and the lake became calmer, and, venturing out once more, we made for the mainland some distance to the west of where we had intended to make our portage. There we stumbled upon a river of considerable size flowing in a southwesterly direction from Lake Disappointment into Lost Trail Lake. This river we had missed on the up trail and here had lost the old Indian trail to Michikamau. I volunteered to take my rifle and hunt across the neck of land separating the two lakes while Hubbard and George ran the rapids; but presently I heard them calling to me, and, returning to the river, found them waiting on the bank. "We'll camp just below here for the night," said Hubbard, "and finish the river in the morning. I couldn't manage my end of the canoe in a rapid we were shooting and we got on a rock. You'd better shoot the rapids with George after this." I suppose Hubbard's weakness prevented him from turning the canoe quickly enough when occasion required, and he realised it. All we had to eat that night was a little thin soup made from the pea meal, and an even smaller quantity had to serve us for breakfast. In the morning (October 7th) we shot the rapids without incident down into Lost Trail Lake, and, turning to the eastward, were treated to a delightful view of the Kipling Mountains, now snow-capped and cold-looking, but appearing to us so much like old friends that it did our hearts good to see them. It was an ideal Indian summer day, the sun shining warmly down from a cloudless sky. Looking at the snow-capped peaks that bounded the horizon in front of me, I thought of the time when I had stood gazing at them from the other side, and of the eagerness I had felt to discover what lay hidden beyond. "Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!" Well, we had gone. And we had found what lay hidden behind the ranges. But were we ever to get out to tell about it? We stopped on the shore of Lost Trail Lake to eat some badly-needed cranberries and mossberries. The mossberries, having been frozen, were fairly sweet, and they modified, to some extent, the acid of the cranberries, so that taken together they made a luncheon for which we, in our great need, were duly grateful. After eating as many of the berries as our stomachs would hold, we were able to pick a pan of them to take with us. Paddling on, we passed through the strait connecting Lost Trail Lake with Lake Hope, and, recalling with grim smiles the enthusiastic cheers we had sent up there a few weeks before, sped rapidly across Lake Hope to the entrance of our old mountain pass, camping for the night on a ridge near the old sweat holes of the medicine men. Our supper consisted of a little more pea soup and half of the panful of berries. While we were lying spoon-fashion under the blankets at night, it was the custom for a man who got tired of lying on one side to say "turn," which word would cause the others to flop over immediately, usually without waking. On this night, however, I said "turn over," and as we all flopped, Hubbard, who had been awake, remarked: "That makes me think of the turnovers and the spicerolls mother used to make for me." And then he and I lay for an hour and talked of the baking days at the homes of our childhood. Under-the-blanket talks like this were not infrequent. "Are you awake, b'y?" Hubbard would ask. "Yes, b'y," I would reply, and so we would begin. If we happened to arouse George, which was not usual, Hubbard would insist on his describing over and over again the various Indian dishes he had prepared. Weak as we were upon leaving Lake Hope (October 8), we did an heroic day's work. We portaged the entire six miles through the mountain pass, camping at night on the westernmost of the lakes that constitute the headwaters of the Beaver River, once more on the other side of the ranges. We did this on a breakfast of pea soup and the rest of our berries, and a luncheon of four little trout that Hubbard caught in the stream that flows through the pass. I shot a spruce grouse in the pass, and this bird we divided between us for supper. It was a terrible day. The struggle through the brush and up the steep inclines with the packs and the canoe so exhausted me that several times I seemed to be on the verge of a collapse, and I found it hard to conceal my condition. Once Hubbard said to me: "Speak stronger, b'y. Put more force in your voice. It's so faint George'll surely notice it, and it may scare him." That was always the way with Hubbard. Despite his own pitiable condition, he was always trying to help us on and give us new courage. As a matter of fact, his own voice was getting so weak and low that we frequently had to ask him to repeat. And the day ended in a bitter disappointment. On our uptrail we had had a good catch of trout at the place where the stream flowing out of the pass fell into the lake near our camp, and it was the hope of another good catch there that kept us struggling on to reach the end of the pass before night. But Hubbard whipped the pool at the foot of the fall in vain. Not a single fish rose. The day had been bright and sunshiny, but the temperature was low and the fish had gone to deeper waters. It was a dismal camp. The single grouse we had for supper served only to increase our craving for food. And there we were, with less than two pounds of pea meal on hand and the fish deserting us, more than one hundred and fifty miles from the post at Northwest River. By the fire Hubbard again talked of home. "I dreamed last night," he said, "that you and I, Wallace, were very weak and very hungry, and we came all at once upon the old farm in Michigan, and mother was there, and she made us a good supper of hot tea biscuits with maple syrup and honey to eat on them. And how we ate and ate!" But George's customary grin was missing. In silence he took the tea leaves from the kettle and placed them on a flat stone close by the fire, and in silence he occasionally stirred them with a twig that he broke from a bush at his back. At length, the tea leaves having dried sufficiently, he filled his pipe from them, and I filled my pipe. We had not had any tobacco to smoke for many days. The silence continued. On my right sat George, his cheeks sunken, his eyes deep down in their sockets, his long black hair falling over his ears--there he sat stiffly erect, puffing his tea leaves with little apparent satisfaction and gazing stoically into the fire. I could guess what was passing through his mind--the stories of the Indians that starved. On my left was Hubbard. He had assumed the attitude that of late had become characteristic when he was dreaming of his wife and his mother and his far-away home. His elbows were resting on his knees, and his hands were supporting his head. His long hair hid his bony fingers and framed his poor, wan face. His sunken eyes, with their look of wistful longing, were fixed on the blazing logs. The silence became so oppressive that I had to break it: "George," I said, "were you never hungry before?" "Never in my life was short of grub till now," he answered shortly. At that Hubbard, aroused from his reverie, looked up. "Well, I can tell you, George," he said, "there are worse places than Labrador to starve in." "How's that?" grunted George. "If you had been as hungry as I have been in New York City, you'd know what I mean," said Hubbard. "It's a heap worse to be hungry where there's lots of grub around you than in the bush where there's none. I remember that when I first went to New York, and was looking for work, I found myself one rainy night with only five cents in my pocket. It was all the money I had in the world, and I hadn't any friends in the city, and I didn't want to write home, because nearly all the people there had no faith in my venture. I was soaking wet and good and hungry; I hadn't been eating much for several days. Well, I went to a bakery and blew in my last nickel on stale rolls and crullers and took them to my room. Then I took off my wet clothes and got into bed to get warm and snug, and there I ate my rolls and crullers, and they were bully. Yes, I remember that although my room rent was overdue, and I didn't know where my breakfast was coming from, I was supremely happy; I sort of felt I was doing the best I could." We went to bed that night feeling that our lives now depended on whether fish could be caught below. More than anxious were we for the morrow, because then we should go to the first rapid on the Beaver River below the lakes, and there in the pool, where two fishings had yielded us more than one hundred and thirty trout on the up trail, test our fortunes. The morning (October 9th) dawned crisp and wintry. The sun rose in a cloudless sky and set all the lake a-glinting. On the peaks of the Kipling Mountains the sunbeams kissed the snow, causing it to gleam and scintillate in brilliant contrast to the deep blue of the heavens above and the dark green of the forests below. Under normal circumstances we should have paused to drink in the beauty of it all; but as we in our faithful old canoe paddled quickly down over the lake I am afraid that none of us thought of anything save the outcome of the test we were to make of our fortunes at the rapid for which we were bound. It is difficult to be receptive to beauty when one has had only a little watered pea meal for breakfast after a long train of lean and hungry days. We were glad only that the sun was modifying the chill air of the dawn, thus increasing our chance of getting fish. How friendly the narrow lake looked where we had seen the otter at play at sunset and where the loons had laughed at us so derisively. And the point, where we had camped that August night and roasted our goose seemed very homelike. We stopped there for a moment to look for bones. There were a few charred ones where the fire had been. They crumbled without much pressure, and we ate them. No trout were jumping in the lake now--its mirror-like surface was unbroken. All was still, very still. To our somewhat feverish imagination it seemed as if all nature were bating its breath as if tensely waiting for the outcome at the fishing pool. I can hardly say what we expected. I fear my own faith was weak, but I believe Hubbard's was strong--his was the optimistic temperament. How glad we were to feel the river current as it caught the canoe and hurried it on to the rapid! Suddenly, as we turned a point in the stream, the sound of the rushing waters came to us. A few moments more and we were there. Just above the rapid we ran the canoe ashore, and Hubbard with his rod hurried down to the pool and cast a fly upon the water. XV. GEORGE'S DREAM Since the weather had become colder we always fished with bait, if any were available, and so, when after a few minutes a small trout took Hubbard's fly, he made his next cast with a fin cut from his first catch. Before he cast the fly, George and I ran the canoe through the rapid to a point just below the pool where we had decided to camp. Then, leaving George to finish the work of making camp, I took my rod and joined Hubbard. All day long, and until after dusk, we fished. We got sixty. But they were all tiny, not averaging more than six inches long. The test of our fortunes was not encouraging. Hubbard especially was disappointed, as he had been cherishing the hope that we might catch enough to carry us well down the trail. And what were sixty little fish divided among three ravenous men! We ate fifteen of them for luncheon and eighteen for supper, and began to fear the worst. The pea meal now was down to one and a half pounds. It was late when we gave up trying to get more fish, but we sat long by the fire considering the possibility of finding scraps at the camp down the Beaver where we had killed the caribou on August 12. The head, we remembered, had been left practically untouched, and besides the bones there were three hoofs lying about somewhere, if they had not been carried off by animals. We knew that these scraps had been rotting for two months, but we looked forward hopefully to reaching them on the morrow. No lovelier morning ever dawned than that of Saturday (October 10th), and until midday the weather was balmy and warm; but in the afternoon clouds began to gather attended by a raw west wind. While George and I shot the rapids, Hubbard fished them, catching in all seventeen little trout. Some of the rapids George and I went through in the canoe we should never, under ordinary conditions, have dreamed of shooting. But George expressed the sentiments of all of us when he said: "We may as well drown as starve, and it's a blamed sight quicker." Only when the river made actual falls did George and I resort to portaging. However, we did not make the progress we had hoped, and much disappointed that we could not reach Camp Caribou that night, we camped at the foot of the last fall above the lake expansion on the shore of which George and I had ascended a hill to be rewarded with a splendid view of the country and the Kipling Mountains. Our day's food consisted of three trout each at each of our three meals. Sunday (October 11th) was another perfect day. It was wintry, but we had become inured to the cold. We each had a pair of skin mittens, which although practically gone as to the palms, served to protect our hands from the winds. Before we started forward I read aloud John xvii. Again in the morning we divided nine little trout among us, and the remaining eight we had for luncheon. The weather was now so cold that do what we would we never again could induce a trout, large or small, to take the bait or rise to the fly. In the course of the day George took two long shots at ducks, and missed both times; it would have been phenomenal if he hadn't. There was one fall that we could not shoot, and we landed on the bank to unload the canoe. All three of us tried to lift the canoe so as to carry it about thirty yards down to where we could again launch it, but we were unable to get it to our heads and it fell to ground with a crash. Then we looked at one another and understood. No one spoke, but we all understood. Up to this time Hubbard and I had kept up the fiction that we were "not so weak," but now all of us knew that concealment no longer was possible, and the clear perception came to us that if we ever got out of the wilderness it would be only by the grace of God. With difficulty we dragged the canoe to the launching place, and on the way found the cleaning rod Hubbard's father had made for him, which had been lost while we were portaging around the fall on our upward journey. Hubbard picked the rod up tenderly and put it in the canoe. An hour before sunset we reached Camp Caribou, the place where we had broiled those luscious steaks that 12th of August and had merrily talked and feasted far into the night. Having dragged the canoe up on the sandy shore, we did not wait to unload it, but at once staggered up the bank to begin our eager search for scraps. The head of the caribou, dried and worm-eaten, was where we had left it. The bones we had cut the meat from were there. The remnants of the stomach, partially washed away, were there. But we found only two hoofs. We had left three. Up and down and all around the camp we searched for that other hoof; but it was gone. "Somebody's taken it," said George. "Somebody's taken it, sure--a marten or somebody." When all the refuse we could find had been collected, and the tent had been pitched on the spot where it stood before, George got a fire going and prepared our banquet of bones and hoofs. The bit of hair that clung to the skin on the upper part of the hoofs he singed off by holding them a moment in the fire. Then, taking an axe, he chopped the hoofs and bones up together, and placed some of the mess in the kettle to boil. A really greasy, though very rancid, broth resulted. Some of the bones and particularly the hoofs were maggoty, but, as Hubbard said, the maggots seemed to make the broth the richer, and we drank it all. It tasted good. For some time we sat gnawing the gristle and scraps of decayed flesh that clung to the bones, and we were honestly thankful for our meal. The bones from which we made our broth were not thrown away. On the contrary we carefully took them from the kettle and placed them with the other bones, to boil and reboil them until the last particle of grease had been extracted. There was little left on the head save the hide, but that also was placed with the pile of bones, as well as the antlers, which were in velvet, and what remained of the stomach and its contents. After we had finished gnawing our bones, George sat very quiet as if brooding over some great problem. Finally he arose, brought his camp bag to the fire, and, resuming his seat, went low into the recesses of the bag. Still holding his hand in the bag, he looked at me and grinned. "Well?" said I. "Sh-h-h," he replied, and slowly withdrawing his hand held up--an ounce package of cut plug tobacco! I stared at the tobacco, and then again caught George's eye. Our smiles became beatific. "I've been savin' this for when we needed it most," said George. "And I guess the time's come." He handed me the package, and I filled my pipe, long unused to anything save leaves from the teapot and red willow bark. Then George filled his pipe. From the fire we took brands and applied them to the tobacco. Deep, deep were our inhalations of the fragrant smoke. "George," said I, "however in the world could you keep it so long?" "Well," said George--puff, puff--"well, when we were gettin' so short of grub"--puff--"thinks I"--puff--"the time's comin'"--puff, puff--"when we'll need cheerin' up"--puff--"and, says I,"--puff--"I'll just sneak this away until that time comes." "George," said I, lying back and watching the smoke curl upward in the light of the fire, "you are not a half bad sort of a fellow." "Wallace," said be, "we'll have a pipeful of this every night until it is gone." "I'd try it, too," said Hubbard wistfully, "but I know it would make me sick, so I'll drink a little tea." After he had had his tea, he read to us the First Psalm. These readings from the Bible brought with them a feeling of indescribable comfort, and I fancy we all went to our blankets that night content to know that whatever was, was for the best. With the first signs of dawn we were up and had another pot of bone broth. Again the morning (October 12th) was crisp and beautiful, and the continuance of the good weather gave us new courage. While the others broke camp, I went on down the river bank in the hope of finding game, but when, after I had walked a mile, they overtook me with the canoe I had seen nothing. While boiling bones at noon, we industriously employed ourselves in removing the velvet skin from the antlers and singeing the hair off. In the afternoon we encountered more rapids. Once Hubbard relieved me at the stern paddle, but he was too weak to act quickly, and we had a narrow escape from being overturned. While making camp at night, George heard a whiskey jack calling, and he sneaked off into the brush and shot it. We reserved it as a dainty for breakfast. As we sat by the fire gnawing bones and chewing up scorched pieces of antlers, we again discussed the question as to whether we should stick to the canoe and run the river out to its mouth or abandon the canoe where we had entered the river. As usual George and I urged the former course. "When you're in the bush stick to your canoe as long as you can," said George; "that's always a good plan." But Hubbard was firm in the belief that we should take the route we knew, and renewed his argument about the possibility of getting windbound on Goose Bay, into which we thought the river flowed. Being windbound had for him especial terrors, due, I suppose, to his normally active nature. Another thing that inclined him towards taking the old trail was his strong faith that we should get trout in the outlet to Lake Elson, where we had such a successful fishing on the inbound journey. He argued, furthermore, that along what we then thought was the Nascaupee River we should be able to recover the provisions we had abandoned soon after plunging into the wild. "However," he said in closing, "we'll see how we feel about it to-morrow. I'll sleep on it." I remember I dreaded so much a return to the Susan Valley that I told Hubbard it seemed like suicide to leave the river we were on and abandon the canoe. I felt strongly on the subject and expressed my opinion freely. But it was a question of judgment about which one man's opinion was as likely to be right as another's and, recognising this, we never permitted our discussions as to the best course to follow to create any ill-feeling. On Tuesday (October 13th) the weather continued to favour us. We shot the rapids without a mishap, and camped at night within three miles of where we had entered the river. But still the question about leaving it was undecided. The whiskey jack and a bit of pea meal helped our pot of bone broth at breakfast, and in addition to more broth we had in the evening some of the caribou stomach and its contents and a part of a moccasin that Hubbard had made from the caribou skin and had worn full of holes. Boiled in the kettle the skin swelled thick and was fairly palatable. Clouds and a sprinkle of rain introduced the morning of Wednesday (October 14th). While the bones were boiling for breakfast, George brought out the caribou skin that he had picked up on the shore of Lake Disappointment after we had abandoned it. Now as he put a piece of it in the kettle, we recalled his prophecy that some day we might want to eat it, and laughed. Into the pot also went one-sixth of a pound of pea meal together with a few lumps of flour that we carefully scraped from a bag we had thrown away in the summer and found near the camp. While we were eating this breakfast (and really enjoying it) we again considered the problem as to whether or not we should leave the river. In the course of the discussion George said quietly: "I had a strange dream about that last night, fellus." We urged him to tell us what it was. "It was a strange dream," he repeated, and hesitated. Then: "Well, I dreamed the Lord stood before me, very beautiful and bright, and He had a mighty kind look on His face, and He said to me: 'George, don't leave this river--just stick to it and it will take you out to Grand Lake where you'll find Blake's cache with lots of grub, and then you'll be all right and safe. I can't spare you any more fish, George, and if you leave this river you won't get any more. Just stick to this river, and I'll take you out safe.' "The Lord was all smilin' and bright," continued George, "and He looked at me very pleasant. Then He went away, and I dreamed we went right down the river and came out in Grand Lake near where we had left it comin' up, and we found Blake there, and he fed us and gave us all the grub we wanted, and we had a fine time." It was quite evident that George was greatly impressed by his dream. I give it here simply for what it is worth. At the same time I cannot help characterising it as remarkable, not to say extraordinary; for none of us had had even a suspicion that the river we were on emptied into Grand Lake at all, much less that its mouth was near the point where we left the lake. But I myself attached no importance to the dream at the time, whatever I may think now; I was chiefly influenced, I suppose, in my opposition to the abandonment of the river by the unspeakable dread I had felt all along of returning to the Susan Valley--was it a premonition?--and no doubt it was only natural that Hubbard should disregard the dream. "It surely was an unusual dream," he said to George; "but it isn't possible, as you know, for this river to empty into Grand Lake. We were talking about leaving the river until late last night, and you had it on your mind--that's what made you dream about it." "May be it was," said George calmly; "but it was a mighty strange dream, and we'd better think about it before we leave the river. Stick to the canoe, Hubbard, that's what I say. Wallace and I 'll shoot the rapids all right. They're sure to be not so bad as we've had, and I think they'll be a lot better. We can run 'em, can't we, Wallace?" I added my opinion to George's that there would be more water to cover the rocks farther down, and said that however bad the rapids might be I should venture to take the stern paddle in every one that George dared to tackle. But Hubbard only said: "I still think, boys, we should take the trail we know." "That means suicide," I said for the second time, rather bitterly, I fear. "We'll surely leave our bones in that awful valley over there. We're too weak to accomplish that march." Once more Hubbard marshalled his arguments in favour of the overland route, and George and I said no more that morning. Soon after we relaunched the canoe something occurred to change the current of our thoughts. A little way ahead of us, swimming slowly down the river, George espied a duck. No one spoke while we landed him, rifle in hand, on the bank. Cautiously he stole down among the alders and willows that lined the shore, and then crawled on hands and knees through the marsh until the duck was opposite to him. It seemed a very small thing for a rifle target while it was moving, and as George put the rifle to his shoulder and carefully aimed, Hubbard and I watched him with nerves drawn to a tension. Once he lowered the rifle, changed his position slightly, then again raised the weapon to his shoulder. He was deliberation personified. Would he never fire? But suddenly the stillness of the wilderness was broken by a loud, clear report. And Hubbard and I breathed again, breathed a prayer of gratitude, as we saw the duck turn over on its back. With his long black hair falling loosely over his ears, ragged, and dripping wet with the marsh water, George arose and returned to us. Stopping for a moment before entering the canoe, he looked heavenward and reverently said: "The Lord surely guided that bullet." It was still early in the morning when we arrived at the point where we had portaged into the river. George prepared the duck--small it was but very fat--for a delicious, glorious luncheon, and while it was cooking we had our last discussion as to whether or not we should leave the river. "Well," I at length said to Hubbard, "a final decision can be deferred no longer. It's up to you, b'y--which route are we to take?" "I firmly believe," said Hubbard, "that we should stick to our old trail." George and I said no more. The question was settled. Hubbard was the leader. Immediately after luncheon we set to work preparing for the march overland. In addition to several minor articles of equipment, we decided to leave behind us the artificial horizon, the sextant box, and one of the axes. When our light packs had been prepared, we turned the canoe bottom up on the river bank. I hated to leave it. I turned once to pat and stroke the little craft that had carried us so far in safety. To me it was one of our party--a dear friend and comrade. It seemed cruel to abandon it there in the midst of the wilderness. In my abnormal state of mind I could scarcely restrain the tears. But the best of friends must part, and so, shouldering our light packs, we bid the canoe a last farewell, and staggered forward to the horrors in store for us on the trail below. XVI. AT THE LAST CAMP We began our march back to the Susan Valley with a definite plan. Some twenty-five miles below, on the Susan River, we had abandoned about four pounds of wet flour; twelve or fifteen miles below the flour there was a pound of powdered milk, and four or five miles still further down the trail a pail with perhaps four pounds of lard. Hubbard considered the distances and mapped out each day's march as he hoped to accomplish it. We had in our possession, besides the caribou bones and hide, one and one-sixth pounds of pea meal. Could we reach the flour? If so, that perhaps would take us on to the milk powder, and that to the lard; and then we should be within easy distance of Grand Lake and Blake's winter hunting cache. Hubbard was hopeful; George and I were fearful. Hubbard's belief that we should be able to reach the flour was largely based on his expectation that we should get fish in the outlet to Lake Elson. His idea was that the water of the lake would be much warmer than that of the river. He had, poor chap! the fatal faculty, common to persons of the optimistic temperament, of making himself believe what he wanted to believe. Neither George nor I remarked on the possibilities or probabilities of our getting fish in Lake Elson's outlet, and just before we said good-bye to the canoe Hubbard turned to me and said: "Wallace, don't you think we'll get them there? Aren't you hopeful we shall?" "Yes, I hope," I answered. "But I fear. The fish, you know, b'y, haven't been rising at all for several days, and perhaps it's better not to let our hopes run too high; for then, if they fail us, the disappointment won't be so hard to bear." "Yes, that's so," he replied; "but it makes me feel good to look forward to good fishing there. We will get fish there, we will! Just say we will, b'y; for that makes me feel happy." "We will--we'll say we will," I repeated to comfort him. Under ordinary conditions we should have found our packs, in their depleted state, very easy to carry; but, as it was, they weighed us down grievously as we trudged laboriously up the hill from the river and over the ridge to the marsh on the farther side of which lay Lake Elson. On the top of the ridge and on the slope where it descended to the marsh we found a few mossberries, which we ate while we rested. Crossing the marsh, we stepped from bog to bog when we could, but a large part of the time were knee-deep in the icy water and mud. Our feet at this time were wrapped in pieces of a camp blanket, tied to what remained of the moccasin uppers with pieces of our old trolling line. George and I were all but spent when we reached our old camping ground on the outlet to Lake Elson, and what it cost Hubbard to get across that marsh I can only imagine. As soon as we arrived Hubbard tried the fish. It did not take him long to become convinced that there was no hope of inducing any to rise. It was a severe blow to him, but he rallied his courage and soon apparently was as full of confidence as ever that we should be able to reach the flour. While Hubbard was trying the fish, George looked the old camp over carefully for refuse, and found two goose heads, some goose bones, and the lard pail we had emptied there. "I'll heat the pail," he said, "and maybe there'll be a little grease sticking to it that we can stir in our broth." Then, after looking at us for a moment, he put his hand into the pail and added: "I've got a little surprise here. I thought I'd keep it until the bones were boiled, but I guess you might as well have it now." From out of the pail he brought three little pieces of bacon--just a mouthful for each. I cannot remember what we said, but as I write I can almost feel again the thrill of joy that came to me upon beholding those little pieces of bacon. They seemed like a bit of food from home, and they were to us as the rarest dainty. George reboiled the bones with a piece of the hide and the remainder of the deer's stomach, and with this and the goose bones and heads we finished our supper. We were fairly comfortable when we went to rest. The hunger pangs were passing now. I have said that at this time I was in an abnormal state of mind. I suppose that was true of us all. The love of life had ceased to be strong upon us. For myself I know that I was conscious only of a feeling that I must do all I could to preserve my life and to help the others. Probably it was the beginning of the feeling of indifference, or reconciliation with the inevitable, that mercifully comes at the approach of death. In the morning (Thursday, October 15th) we again went over our belongings, and decided to abandon numerous articles we had hitherto hoped to carry through with us--my rifle and cartridges, some pistol ammunition, the sextant, the tarpaulin, fifteen rolls of photograph films, my fishing rod, maps, and note book, and various other odds and ends, including the cleaning rod Hubbard's father had made for him. "I wonder where father and mother are now," said Hubbard, as he took a last look at the cleaning rod. For a few moments he clung to it lovingly; then handed it to me with the words, "Put it with your rifle and fishing rod, b'y." And as I removed the cartridge from the magazine, and held the rifle up for a last look before wrapping it in the tarpaulin, he said: "It almost makes me cry to see you leave the fishing rod. If it is at all possible, we must see that the things are recovered. If they are, I want you to promise me that when you die you'll will the rod to me. It has got us more grub than anything else in the outfit, and it's carried us over some bad times. I'd like to have it, and I'd keep and cherish it always." I promised him that he certainly should have it. Well, the rod was recovered. And now when I look at the old weather-beaten piece of wood as it reposes comfortably in my den at home, I recall this incident, and my imagination carries me back to those last fishing days when Hubbard used it; and I can see again his gaunt form arrayed in rags as he anxiously whipped the waters on our terrible struggle homeward. It is the only thing I have with which he was closely associated during those awful days, and it is my most precious possession. As we were chewing on a piece of hide and drinking the water from the reboiled bones at breakfast, Hubbard told us he had had a realistic dream of rejoining his wife. The boy was again piteously homesick, and when we shouldered with difficulty our lightened packs and began the weary struggle on, my heart was heavy with a great dread. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, but the day was mild. Once or twice while skirting Lake Elson we halted to pick the few scattering mossberries that were to be found, once we halted to make tea to stimulate us, and at our old camp on Mountaineer Lake we again boiled the bones and used the water to wash down another piece of the caribou hide. In the afternoon George took the lead, I followed, and Hubbard brought up the rear. Suddenly George stopped, dropped his pack, and drew Hubbard's pistol, which he carried because he was heading the procession. Hubbard and I also halted and dropped our packs. Into the brush George disappeared, and we heard, at short intervals, the pistol crack three times. Then George reappeared with three spruce-grouse. How our hearts bounded! How we took George's hand and pressed it, while his face lighted up with the old familiar grin! We fingered the birds to make sure they were good and fat. We turned them over and over and gloated over them. George plucked them at once that we might see their plump bodies. It is true we were not so very hungry, but those birds meant that we could travel just so much the farther. We pushed on that we might make our night camp at the place where we had held the goose banquet on the 3d of August--that glorious night when we were so eager to proceed, when the northern lights illuminated the heavens and the lichens gleamed on the barren hill. Hubbard, I noticed, was lagging, and I told George quietly to set a slower pace. Then, to give Hubbard encouragement, I fell to the rear. The boy was staggering fearfully, and I watched him with increasing consternation. "We must get him out of here! We must! We must!" I kept saying to myself. The camping place was only two hundred yards away when he sank on the trail. I was at his side in a moment. He looked up at me with a pitiful smile, and spoke so low I could scarcely hear him. "B'y, I've got to rest here--a little--just a little while...you understand...My legs--have given out." "That's right, b'y, take a little rest," I said. "You'll be all right soon. But rest a little. I'll rest a bit with you; and then we'll leave your pack here, and you walk to camp light, and I'll come back for your pack." In a few minutes he got bravely up. We left his pack and together walked slowly on to join George at the old goose camp on Goose Creek. Then I returned for the pack that had been left behind. George boiled one of the grouse for supper. Hubbard told us he was not discouraged. His weakness, he said, was only momentary, and he was sure he would be quite himself in the morning, ready to continue the march homeward. After supper, as he was lying before the fire, he asked me, if I was not too tired, to read him the latter part of the sixth chapter of Matthew. I took the Book and read as he requested, closing with the words: "Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." "How beautiful, how encouraging that is!" said Hubbard, as I put away the Book. He crawled into the tent to go to sleep. Then: "I'm so happy, b'y, so very, very happy to-night...for we're going home...we're going home." And he slept. Before I lay down I wrote in my diary: "Hubbard is in very bad shape--completely worn out physically and mentally--but withal a great hero, never complaining and always trying to cheer us up." George said he was sick when he went to rest, and that added to my concern. Friday morning (October 16th) came clear, mild, and beautiful. I was up at break of day to start the fire, and soon was followed by George and a little later by Hubbard. We all said we were feeling better. George shot a foolhardy whiskey jack that ventured too near the camp, and it went into the pot with a grouse for breakfast. The meal eaten, we all felt very much stronger, but decided that more outfit must be abandoned. I gave George my extra undershirt and a blue flannel shirt, both of which he donned. Every scrap we thought at the time we could do without, including many photograph films and George's blanket, was cached. After Hubbard read aloud John xv, we resumed the struggle. Naturally George and I relieved Hubbard of everything he would permit us to. The fact was, we could not have taken much more and moved. When Hubbard broke down on the trail, it was strictly necessary for me to make two trips with the packs; although his weighed something less than ten pounds, I could not have carried it in addition to my own if my life had depended upon it. Just below the place where Hubbard caught so many fish that day in August that we killed the geese, we stopped for a moment to rest. Hardly had we halted when George grabbed Hubbard's rifle, exclaiming, "Deer!" About four hundred yards below us, a magnificent caribou, his head held high, dashed across the stream and into the bush. He was on our lee and had winded us. No shot was fired. One fleeting glance, and he was gone. Our feelings can be imagined. His capture would have secured our safety. We struggled on. At midday we ate our last grouse. At this stopping place George abandoned his waterproof camp bag and his personal effects that he might be able to carry Hubbard's rifle. This relieved Hubbard of seven pounds, but he again failed before we reached our night camp. It was like the previous evening. With jaws set he tottered grimly on until his legs refused to carry him farther, and he sank to the ground. Again I helped him into camp, and returned for his pack. We pitched the tent facing a big rock so that the heat from the fire, blazing between, might be reflected into the tent, the front of which was thrown wide open. Of course George and I did all the camp work. Fortunately there was not much to do; our camps being pitched on the sites of previous ones, we had stakes ready to hand for the tent, and in this part of the country we were able to find branches and logs that we could burn without cutting. We still had one axe with us, but neither George nor I had the strength to swing it. The night was cold and damp. For supper we had another piece of the caribou hide, and water from the much-boiled bones with what I believed was the last of the pea meal--about two spoonfuls that Hubbard shook into the pot from the package, which he then threw away. As we reclined in the open front of the tent before the fire, I again read from the Bible, and again a feeling of religious exaltation came to Hubbard. "I'm so happy, and oh! so sleepy," he murmured, and was quiet. He did not make his usual entry in his diary. In my own diary for this date I find: "Hubbard's condition is pitiable, but he bears himself like the hero that he is--trying always to cheer and encourage us. He is visibly failing. His voice is very weak and low. I fear he will break down at every step. O God, what can we do! How can we save him!" On Saturday (October 17th) threatening clouds overcast the sky, and a raw wind was blowing. It penetrated our rags and set us a-shiver. At dawn we had more water from the bones and more of the hide. Cold and utterly miserable, we forced our way along. Our progress was becoming slower and slower. But every step was taking us nearer home, we said, and with that thought we encouraged ourselves. At noon we came upon our first camp above the Susan River. There George picked up one of our old flour bags. A few lumps of mouldy flour were clinging to it, and he scraped them carefully into the pot to give a little substance to the bone water. We also found a box with a bit of baking powder still in it. The powder was streaked with rust from the tin, but we ate it all. Then Hubbard made a find--a box nearly half full of pasty mustard. After we had each eaten a mouthful, George put the remainder in the pot. He was about to throw the box away when Hubbard asked that it be returned to him. Hubbard took the box and sat holding it in his hand. "That box came from Congers," he said, as if in a reverie. "It came from my home in Congers. Mina has had this very box in her hands. It came from the little grocery store where I've been so often. Mina handed it to me before I left home. She said the mustard might be useful for plasters. We've eaten it instead. I wonder where my girl is now. I wonder when I'll see her again. Yes, she had that very box in her hands-in her hands! She's been such a good wife to me." Slowly he bent his head, and the tears trickled down his cheeks. George and I turned away. It was near night when we reached the point near the junction of the Susan River and Goose Creek where we were to cross the river to what had been our last camping ground in the awful valley, and which was to prove our last camp in Labrador. Hubbard staggered along during the afternoon with the greatest difficulty, and finally again sank to the ground, completely exhausted. George took his pack across the river. While he crouched there on the trail, Hubbard's face bore an expression of absolute despair. At length I helped him to his feet, and in silence we forded the shallow stream. Our camp was made a short distance below the junction of the streams, among the fir trees a little way from the river bank. Here and there through the forest were numerous large rocks. Before one of these we pitched the tent, with the front of it open to receive the heat from the fire as it was reflected from the rock. More bone water and hide served us for supper, with the addition of a yeast cake from a package George had carried throughout the trip and never used. Huddling in the front of the tent, we counselled. "Well, boys," said Hubbard, "I'm busted. I can't go any farther--that's plain. I can't go any farther. We've got to do something." In the silence the crackling of the logs became pronounced. "George," Hubbard continued, "maybe you had better try to reach Blake's camp, and send in help if you're strong enough to get there. If you find a cache, and don't find Blake, try to get back with some of the grub. There's that old bag with a little flour in it--you might find that. And then the milk powder and the lard farther down. Maybe Wallace could go with you as far as the flour and bring back a little of it here. What do you say, b'y?" "I say it's well," I answered. "We've got to do something at once." "It's the only thing to do," said George. "I'm willin', and I'll do the best I can to find Blake and get help." "Then," said Hubbard, "you'd better start in the morning, boys. If you don't find the bag, you'd better go on with George, Wallace; for then there would be no use of your trying to get back here. Yes, boys, you'd better start in the morning. I'll be quite comfortable here alone until help comes." "I'll come back, flour or no flour," I said, dreading the thought of his staying there alone in the wilderness. We planned it all before Hubbard went to sleep. George and I, when we started in the morning, were to carry as little as possible. I thought I should be able to reach the flour bag and be back within three days. We were to prepare for Hubbard a supply of wood, and leave him everything on hand that might be called food--the bones and the remainder of the hide, a sack with some lumps of flour sticking to it that I had recovered at this camp, and the rest of the yeast cakes. George and I were to depend solely on the chance of finding game. "I'm much relieved now," said Hubbard, when it had all been settled. "I feel happy and contented. I feel that our troubles are about ended. I am very, very happy and contented." He lay down in his blanket. After a little he said: "B'y, I'm rather chilly; won't you make the fire a little bigger." I threw on more wood, and when I sat down I told him I should keep the fire going all night; for the air was damp and chill. "Oh, thank you, b'y," he murmured, "thank you. You're so good." After another silence, the words came faintly: "B'y, won't you read to me those two chapters we've had before?--the fourteenth of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians... I'd like to hear them again, b'y... I'm very... sleepy... but I want to hear you read before... I go... to sleep." Leaning over so that the light of the fire might shine on the Book, I turned to the fourteenth of John and began: "'Let not your heart be troubled'" I paused to glance at Hubbard. He was asleep. Like a weary child, he had fallen asleep with the first words. The dancing flames lit up his poor, haggard, brown face; but upon it now there was no look of suffering; it was radiant with peace. George lay by his side, also asleep. Thus I began a night of weary vigil and foreboding. My heart was heavy with a presentiment of something dreadful. In the forest beyond the fire the darkness was intense. There was a restless stir among the fir tops; then a weary, weary sighing. The wind had arisen. I dozed. But what was that! I sat suddenly erect. On the canvas above me sounded a patter, patter, patter. Rain! Gradually the real and the seeming became blended. Beyond the fire-glow, on the edge of the black pall of night, horrid shapes began to gather. They leered at me, and mocked me, and oh! they were telling me something dreadful was going to happen. A sudden jerk, and I sat up and stared wildly about me. Nothing but the sighing tree-tops, and the patter, patter, patter of the rain. The fire had died down. I struggled to my feet, and threw on more wood. Again the horrid shapes leered at me from out the gloom. Then I heard myself exclaiming, "No, no, no!" The nameless dread was strong upon me. I listened intently for Hubbard's breathing. Had it ceased? I crawled over and peered long and anxiously at his face--his face which was so spectral and wan in the uncertain firelight. Twice I did this. A confused sense of things evil and malicious, a confused sense of sighing wind and pattering rain, a confused sense of starts and jerks and struggles with wood, and the night wore on. The black slowly faded into drab. The trees, dripping with moisture, gradually took shape. The day of our parting had come. XVII. THE PARTING It was a drizzling rain, and the sombre clouds hung low in the sky. The wind appeared to be steadily increasing. The day was Sunday, October 18th. Presently George sat up, rubbed his eyes and gazed about him for a moment in bewilderment. "Mornin', Wallace," he said, when he had collected his senses, "that blamed rain will make the travellin' hard, won't it?" He tied the pieces of blanket to his feet, and started for the river to get a kettle of water with which to reboil the bones. The movement aroused Hubbard, and he, too, sat up. "How's the weather, b'y?" he asked. "It makes me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy Day,"' I replied. "'The day is cold, and dark, and dreary.'" "Yes," he quickly returned; "but "'Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.'" I looked at him with admiration. "Hubbard," I exclaimed, "you're a wonder! You've a way of making our worst troubles seem light. I've been sitting here imagining all sorts things." "There's no call to worry, by," he smilingly said; "we'll soon have grub now, and then we can rest and sleep--and get strong." He arose from his blanket, and walked out of the tent to look at the sky. Slowly he returned, and sank wearily down. "I'm feeling stronger and better than I did last night," he said; "but I'm too weak to walk or stand up long." When our breakfast of bones and hide boiled with a yeast cake was ready, he sat up in the tent to receive his share. While drinking the water and chewing the hide, we again carefully considered how long it should take George to reach Grand Lake, and how long it would be before help could arrive, if he were able to obtain any, and how long it would require me to reach the flour and return. It was, roughly speaking, forty miles to Grand Lake, and fifteen miles to the flour. That there was room for doubt as to whether my strength would carry me to the flour and back again, we all recognised; and we fully realised, that if George failed to reach Grand Lake, or, reaching there, failed to find Blake or Blake's cache, our doom would be sealed; but so long had death been staring us in the face that it had ceased to have for us any terror. It was agreed, however, that each man should do his best to live as long as possible. I told Hubbard I should do my utmost to be back in three days, even if I did not find the flour. Hubbard remained seated in the front of the tent while George and I went about gathering a supply of wood that we thought should last him until someone returned. George also brought a kettle of water from the river, and thoughtfully placed it near the fire for Hubbard's use in boiling the bones and hide, all of which we left with him together with the yeast and some tea. I also turned over to him the pair of blankets he had delivered to me at Halifax--the birthday gift from my sisters. These preparations for Hubbard's comfort completed, George and I returned to the tent to arrange the kits we were to take with us. Hubbard sat in the middle of the tent towards the rear; George and I on either side of him in the front. Hubbard gave George his pistol and compass, and I had my own pistol and compass. The pistols we fastened to our belts along with a sheath knife and tin cup. Having a case for my compass, I wore it also on my belt; George placed his in his pocket. Each of us had half a blanket, this to be our only covering at night. George placed his half, together with a tea pail and some tea, in the waterproof bag he had been using to carry food. This bag he bound with a pack strap, leaving a loop to sling over his shoulder. I also bound my half a blanket with a pack strap, thinking as I did so that I soon might want to eat the strap. And then, when George and I had filled our waterproof boxes with wax taper matches, and placed a handful of pistol cartridges in our pockets, we were ready to start. At this point I suggested it might be well for each man to make a note of such disposition as he desired made of his effects. George made an entry in his note book, and asked Hubbard to write when we were gone a letter to Mr. King, the Hudson's Bay Company's agent at Missanabie, in reference to his (George's) affairs at that post. I then made the last entry in my diary, and with it wrote what I believed might be a last message to my sisters and my friend and associate in business, Mr. Alonzo G. McLaughlin. I put the diary with my other papers in my camp bag, and placed the bag in the rear of the tent, where the note Hubbard was to write for George was also to be placed; we believed that if worst came to worst the tent was more likely to be found than our bodies down on the trail. Hubbard had been watching us silently while we did these things, and now he said: "Wallace, if you get out of this, and I don't, you'll have to write the story of the trip." I expressed some doubt as to my ability, but he made me promise I would do the best I could. I also promised, at his request, that if I survived him I should place his diary in his wife's hands. "Thank you, b'y," he said. "And now before you leave me won't you read to me again?--I want to hear that fourteenth chapter of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians. I fell asleep last night while you were reading, I was so tired. I'm sleepy now, very sleepy; but I'll keep awake this time while you read." I got my testament from my camp bag and read both chapters through, noting as I read that the look of happiness and peace was returning to Hubbard's poor, wan face. When I had finished, he said quietly: "Thank you, b'y, thank you very much. Isn't that comforting?--'Let not your heart be troubled.' It makes me feel good. I've faith that we'll all be saved. I'm not worried. McLean was caught just as we are. He sent a man for help and got out all right. God will send us help, too." "Yes," said I, "and we shall soon be safe home." "We'll soon be safe home" repeated Hubbard--"safe home. How happy that makes me feel!" It was time for George and me to go. But I could not say good-bye just yet. I turned my back to Hubbard and faced the fire. The tears were welling up into my eyes, and I struggled for self-control. George sat silent, too, and his face was strangely drawn. For a full ten minutes we sat silently gazing into the fire. Finally George arose. "Well, Wallace, we'd better start now." "Yes," I said; "we'd better start." I collected myself as best I could, and, turning to Hubbard, held out my hand. "Good-bye, b'y; I'll be back soon." And then, as I looked into his poor, wistful eyes, I broke down and sobbed. I crawled over to him, and put my arm about him. I kissed his cheek, and he kissed my cheek. We embraced each other, and for a moment held our faces close together. Then I drew away. George was crying, too. The dear fellow went over to Hubbard, stooped and kissed his cheek. "With God's help, I'll save you, Hubbard!" Hubbard kissed his cheek, and they embraced. George slung his bundle on his shoulder, and I took up mine. We turned to go. But I had to return. I stooped and again kissed Hubbard's cheek, and he again kissed mine. He was quite calm--had been calm throughout. Only his eyes shone with that look of wistful longing. "Good-bye, boys, and God be with you!" "Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" And George and I left him. About twenty yards away I turned for a last look at the tent. Hubbard evidently had immediately lain down; for he was not to be seen. All I saw was the little peak of balloon silk that had been our home for so many weeks, the fire blazing between it and the big rock, the kettle of water by the fire, and the white moss and the dripping wet fir trees all about. * * * * * Some one hundred and fifty yards farther on George and I forded a brook, after which our course was through closely-grown, diminutive fir trees until we came to a series of low, barren knolls. On these knolls we found some mossberries. Then we pushed on. It was dreadfully slow travelling. The wind was in the east, and was rising. The drizzling rain had become a downpour, and it was dashed into our faces in sheets. The cold was increasing. Our hands were stiff and numb. Somewhat after midday George threw down his pack. "We'll have a spell [rest] and a cup of tea to warm us up," he said. I did not protest. The previous night had been a trying one, and I was very tired. We drew together some wood. With his sheath-knife George whittled some shavings, and a fire was soon blazing. When the kettle had been placed over the fire to boil, George drew out of his bag a package--yes, it was a half-pound package of pea meal! At first I could not believe my eyes, and I stood stupidly staring as George prepared to stir some of it into the kettle. At length I found my tongue. "George," I cried indignantly, "where did you get that pea meal?" "Hubbard gave it to me this morning while you were gettin' wood," he answered promptly. "But why did you take it? "He made me take it. I didn't want to, but he said I must. He said we'd be workin' hard, and we'd need it, and if we didn't have somethin' to eat, we couldn't travel far and couldn't get help to him. We ought to have it as much for his sake as for ours, he said, and I had to take it from him to make him feel right." Hubbard had evidently reserved that last half-pound of pea meal to be used in a last extremity, and as the argument he had used to force it on George had been at least specious, I could say nothing. George put one-third of the package (one-sixth of a pound) into the kettle, and we each drank a pint of the soup. It was very thin, but it did us good. After a half-hour's rest, we pressed on as rapidly as possible, but when night overtook us we could not have travelled more than six miles from camp. To the storm, as well as our weakness, was due our slow progress. As the afternoon wore on, the storm became furious. The rain descended in drenching sheets, and staggering blasts of wind drove it into our faces. Even if darkness had not stopped us, further progress in the face of the tempest would have been impossible. We selected for our bivouac as sheltered a spot as possible in a spruce growth, hauled together a good supply of small dead trees and made a fire. For supper we had one-half of what remained of the pea meal, reserving the other half (one-sixth of a pound) for breakfast. There was a little comfort to be gained from the fire. The rain still descended upon us in sheets. The blast of wind drove the smoke into our eyes and blinded us. Despite our weariness we could not sleep. George lay down, but I sat crouching before the fire. We tried to keep our pieces of blanket over our heads, but when we did so we nearly suffocated. Now and again one or the other would rise to throw on more wood. Towards midnight the wind shifted, and snow began to fall. It fell as I never saw snow fall before. And the wind never ceased, and the smoke was more blinding than ever, and the night grew colder. There were fully six inches of snow on the ground when the clouds broke just before dawn, and before the first rays of the sun greeted us the wind died away. It was Monday, October 19th. With the return of daylight we ate the rest of the pea meal, and resumed our march down the valley. The daylight proved that my eyes had been greatly affected by the smoke of our night's fire. Everything had a hazy appearance. George complained of the same trouble. Soon after we started, George came upon a grouse track in the fresh snow, and followed it to a clump of bushes a short distance off. He aimed his pistol with great care, but the bullet only knocked a few feathers out of the bird, and it flew away, to George's keen chagrin and my bitter disappointment. The flour bag we were to look for was on the opposite or south side of the river, and it was necessary to cross. Before noon we reached a place at which George said it would be as easy to ford the stream as at any other. The icy water came almost up to our armpits, but we made the other shore without mishap. There we halted to build a fire and thaw ourselves out; for immediately upon emerging from the river our clothing froze hard and stiff. While waiting we had some hot tea, and as quickly as possible pushed on. We must reach the flour bag that night. I found it hard to keep the pace George was setting, and began to lag wofully. Several times he had to wait for me to overtake him. We came upon a caribou trail in the snow, and followed it so long as it kept our direction. To some extent the broken path aided our progress. In the afternoon we came upon another grouse track. George followed it to a clump of trees, where the bird was discovered sitting on a limb. This time his aim was accurate, and the bird fell at his feet. Quickly he plucked the wings, cut them off and handed me one with the remark: "They say raw partridge is good when a fellus' weak." It was delicious. I ate the wing, warm with the bird's life blood, bones and all, and George ate the other wing. I soon found it utterly impossible to keep George's pace, and became so exhausted that I was forced to take short rests. At length I told George he had better go ahead and look for the flour; that I should rest, follow his trail and overtake him later. He went on, but just over the bare knoll we were crossing I found him sitting in the snow waiting for me. "I don't feel right to go ahead and leave you," he said. "Do you see that second knoll?" He pointed to one of a series of round barren knolls about half a mile down the river. "Yes," I answered. "Well, don't you remember it? No? Why, that's where we camped when we threw the flour away, and that's where we'll stop to-night. We'd better eat a mouthful to help us on." He had plucked the head and neck of the grouse, and now proceeded to cut them off near the body. To me he gave the neck, and ate the head himself--raw, of course. It was just dusk when we reached the knoll George had designated. Straightway he went to a bush, ran his hand under it and pulled out--the bag we were looking for. We opened it eagerly. As has been said, we left about four pounds of flour in it. Now there was a lump of green and black mould. However, we rejoiced at finding it; for it was something and it might sustain our lives. It might send George to the lard, and keep Hubbard and me until help could arrive. On this side of the Susan the country for some distance had been burned; but, while there were no standing trees, and the place was entirely unsheltered, fallen spruce trees covered the ground in every direction, so we found no difficulty in getting together a good pile of dry wood for our night's fire, and we soon had a rousing big one going. For supper we ate all of the grouse boiled with some of the flour mould stirred in. It was a splendid supper. I had not sat long before the fire when I felt a strange sensation in my eyes. It was as if they had been filled with sharp splinters, and I found it impossible to open them. I was afflicted with smoke-blindness, which is almost identical in its effect to snow-blindness. George filled my pipe with dried tea leaves and just a bit of his precious tobacco; then lit it for me, as I could not see to do it myself. After our smoke we lay down, and I slept heavily; it was practically the first sleep I had had in three days. Some time in the night George awoke me to make me eat a little of a concoction of the mouldy flour and water, cooked thick and a trifle burned after the style of nekapooshet, an Indian dish of which George was very fond. At the first signs of dawn he again roused me, saying: "It's time to be up, Wallace. We're goin' to have more snow to travel in." He was right. The clouds were hanging low and heavy, and the first scattering flakes were falling of a storm that was to last for ten days. I was able to open my eyes in the morning, but everything still looked hazy. We boiled some of the wretched mouldy flour for breakfast, and then divided what remained, George taking the larger share, as he had the most work to do. Looking critically at my share, he asked: "How long can you keep alive on that?" "It will take me two days to reach Hubbard," I replied, "and the two of us might live three days more on it--on a pinch." "Do you think you can live as long as that?" said George, looking me hard in the eye. "I'll try," I said. "Then in five days I'll have help to you, if there's help to be had at Grand Lake. Day after to-morrow I'll be at Grand Lake. Those fellus'll be strong and can reach camp in two days, so expect 'em." It was time for us to separate. "George," I asked, "have you your Testament with you?" "It's the Book of Common Prayer," he said, drawing it from his pocket; "but it's got the Psalms in it." He handed me the tiny leather-covered book, but I could not see the print; the haze before my eyes was too thick. I returned the book to him, and asked him to read one of the Psalms. Quite at haphazard, I am sure, he turned to the ninety-first, and this is what he read: "Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the Most High; shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. "I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my stronghold: my God, in him will I trust. "For he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter: and from the noisome pestilence. "He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe under his feathers: his faithfulness and truth shall be thy shield and buckler. "Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day; "For the pestilence that walketh in darkness: nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day. "A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand: but it shall not come nigh thee. "Yea, with thine eyes shalt thou behold: and see the reward of the ungodly. "For thou, Lord, art my hope: thou hast set thine house of defence very high. "There shall be no evil happen unto thee: neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee In all thy ways. "They shall bear thee in their hands: that thou hurt not thy foot against a stone. "Thou shalt go upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet. "Because He hath set His love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him up, because he hath known my name. "He shall call upon me, and I will hear him: yea, I am with him in trouble; I will deliver him and bring him to bonour. "With long life will I satisfy him: and show him my salvation" The Psalm made a deep impression upon me. "For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee in all thy ways." How strange it seems, in view of what happened to me, that George should have read that sentence. We arose to go on our separate ways, George twenty-five miles down the valley to Grand Lake, and I fifteen miles up the valley to Hubbard. The snow was falling thick and fast. "You'd better make a cape of your blanket," suggested George. "Let me fix it for you." He placed the blanket around my shoulders, and on either side of the cloth where it came together under my chin made a small hole with his knife. Through these holes he ran a piece of our old trolling line, and tied the ends. Then he similarly arranged his own blanket. I held out my hand to him. "Good-bye, George. Take care of yourself." He clasped my hand warmly. "Good-bye, Wallace. Expect help in five days." Near the top of a knoll I stopped and looked back. With my afflicted eyes I could barely make out George ascending another knoll. He also stopped and looked back. I waved my hand to him, and he waved his hand to me and shouted something unintelligible. Then he disappeared in the snow, and as he disappeared a silence came on the world, to remain unbroken for ten days. XVIII. WANDERING ALONE With every hour the storm gathered new force, and over the barren knolls, along which my course for some distance lay, the snow whirled furiously. The track George and I had made on our downward journey soon was obliterated. Once in the forenoon, as I pushed blindly on against the storm, I heard a snort, and, looking up, beheld, only a few yards away, a big caribou. He was standing directly in my path. For a second he regarded me, with his head thrown back in fear and wonder; and then, giving another snort, he dashed away into the maze of whirling snow. My eyes troubled me greatly, and the pain at length grew so intense that I was forced to sit down in the snow for perhaps half an hour with both eyes tightly closed. I was keeping some distance from the river, as the obstructions here were fewer than near the bank. In the afternoon it occurred to me that I might have turned in my course, and I took my compass from its case, to satisfy myself that I was going in the right direction; but my sight was so impaired that I could not read the dial, nor be certain which way the needle pointed. And I wondered vaguely whether I was becoming totally blind. My day's progress was not satisfactory. I had hoped to reach the place where George and I had forded the river, and cross to the north shore before bivouacking, but in the deepening snow it was impossible. With the first indications of night, I halted in a thick spruce grove near the river and drew together a fairly good supply of dead wood. On the under side of the branches of the fir trees was generally to be found a thick growth of hairy moss, and with a handful of this as tinder it did not take me long to get a good fire blazing. Close to the fire I threw a pile of spruce boughs that I broke from low branches and the smaller trees. I melted snow in my cup for water, and in this put a few lumps of mould from the flour bag, eating the mixture after it had cooked a while. On the couch of boughs by the fire I spent a fairly comfortable night, waking only at intervals to throw on more wood and shake the snow from my back. The storm was still raging in the morning (Wednesday, October 21st). With the first grey streaks of dawn, I boiled another cup of snow water and mould, and then, slinging the flour bag over my shoulder, began my day's struggle. The snow was now knee-deep. Soon I reached the fording place. The river was beginning to freeze over. For two or three yards from shore the ice bore my weight; then I sank up to my waist in the cold current. Approaching the other shore, I broke the outer ice with my arms until it became thick enough to permit me to climb out upon it. The ice that immediately formed on my clothing make walking impossible, and reluctantly I halted to build a fire and dry myself. This took fully an hour and a half, to my extreme vexation. I realised now that my hope of reaching Hubbard that night was vain. While I dried my clothing, I made a cup of tea. I had just enough left for two brewings, so after drinking the tea I preserved the leaves for further use, wrapping them carefully in a bit of rag. Once more on my way up the valley, I found, to my consternation and almost despair, that my eyes would again compel me to stop, and for nearly an hour I sat with them closed. That night, with the snow still falling, though very lightly, I made my couch of boughs by a fairly comfortable fire, and rested well. On Thursday morning (October 22d) a light snow was failing, and the weather was very cold. The cup of thin gruel that I made from the green lumps of mould nauseated me, and I had to brew some tea to settle my stomach and stimulate me. With my piece of blanket drawn over my head to protect my ears from the biting wind, and with my hands wrapped in the folds, I continued my struggle towards camp. I had to force my way, blindly and desperately, through thick clumps of fir trees, and as the branches were hanging low under their weight of feathery snow, I continually received a deluge of snow in my face. My stock of matches was small and time was precious, and I did not stop at noon to build a fire. Even when night began to close in upon me I still plodded on, believing that I now must be near Hubbard. The snow was falling gently, and as there was a moon behind the clouds the night was sufficiently light for me to make my way tediously through the trees, with the roar of the rapids to guide me. It must have been near midnight when, utterly exhausted, I was forced to abandon the hope of finding Hubbard before morning. Fearing that the mould would again sicken me, I ate nothing when I halted; I simply collected a few dry sticks and huddled for the remainder of the night by a miserable fire, dozing and awaking with a shudder from awful dreams. The storm continued during the night, and with the morning of Friday (October 23d) broke upon the world and me with renewed fury. I prepared myself another dose of the mould, and forced it down. I was nervously anxious to get on and find Hubbard. I knew I must be near him now, although the snow had changed the whole face of the country and obliterated all the landmarks. Soon I crossed a brook, frozen and covered with snow, that I felt must be the one near our camp. Eagerly I looked about me for the tent. Because of the falling snow and the snow-bent branches, I could scarcely see twenty yards in any direction. From snow-covered rock to snow-covered rock I went, believing each in turn to be the tent, but always to meet disappointment. Repeatedly I stopped to peer into the maze of snow for smoke. But there was none. Again and again I shouted. But there was no answer. The tent was really near me, but it kept its secret well. I travelled on and on. I became desperate. Over and over I repeated to myself, "I must find Hubbard before night comes--I must find him--I must--I must." At length the first signs of night warned me that I must collect my wood, that I might be as comfortable as possible through the dreary hours of darkness. As night came on the storm moderated. The wind ceased. An unwonted, solemn, awful stillness came upon the world. It seemed to choke me. I was filled with an unutterable, a sickening dread. Hubbard's face as I had last seen it was constantly before me. Was he looking and waiting for me? Why could I not find him? I must find him in the morning. I must, I must. Before going to sleep I made some more gruel and tea, drinking them both as a duty. The snow was falling gently on Saturday (October 24th), the wind had mercifully abated, and the temperature was somewhat milder. After more gruel and the last cup of tea I was to have in my lonely wanderings, I renewed my search for Hubbard. I decided that possibly I was below the camp, and pushed on to the westward. Finally I became convinced I was in a part of the country I had never seen before. I began to feel that possibly I was far above the camp; that a rescuing party had found Hubbard, and that, as my tracks in the snow had been covered, they had abandoned the hope of finding me and had returned. They might even have passed me in the valley below; it was quite possible. But perhaps George's strength had failed him, and help never would come to any of us. I turned about, and again started down the valley. After a time I attempted to cross the ice on the river, to try and discover some familiar landmark on the south shore. In midstream, where the current had not permitted thick ice to form, I broke through. The water was nearly up to my armpits. Standing there with the icy current swirling about me, I said, "What's the use?" It seemed to me I had reached the limit of human endurance. Instead of trying to struggle on, how much pleasanter to permit myself to sink beneath the water and thus end it all! It would be such a relief to die. Then there came to me the remembrance that it was my duty to live as long as I could. I must do my best. As long as I had any strength left, I must exert myself to live. With a great effort I climbed out on the hard ice, and made my way back to the north shore. Night was approaching. I staggered into the spruce growth, and there came upon the same brook I have previously mentioned as crossing. Near its bank I made my night fire. That fire was within two hundred yards of the tent. Perhaps it is just as well that I did not know it. The snow, which had fallen rather mildly, all day, thickened with the coming of night. All the loose wood was now buried under the snow, and it was with difficulty that I gathered a scant supply for the night. My wet rags were freezing hard and stiff. I moved about, half-dazed. I broke only a few branches for my bed, and sat down. Scarcely had I done so when a woman's voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging. "Hadn't you better break a few more boughs?" it said. "You will rest better then." There was no mistaking the voice. It was clear and distinct. It was the voice of my wife, who had been dead for more than three years. I remember it did not impress me as being at all strange that my wife, who was dead, should be speaking to me up there in the Labrador wilderness. It seemed to me perfectly natural that she should be looking after my comfort, even as she had done in life. I arose and broke the boughs. I am not a spiritist. I have never taken any stock in the theory that the spirits of the dead are able to communicate with the living. So far as I have thought about them at all, it has been my opinion that spiritists are either fools or frauds. But I am endeavouring to give a faithful account of my feelings and sensations at the time of which I am writing, and the incident of the voice cannot be ignored. Perhaps it was all a delusion--an hallucination, if you will, due to the gradual breaking down of my body and mind. As to that, the reader can form his own conclusions. Certain it is, that from this time on, when I needed help and encouragement the most, I felt a vague assurance that my wife was by my side; and I verily believe, that if it had not been for this,--hallucination, delusion, actuality, reality, or whatever it may have been,--I should now be in a land where the truth about these things is probably known for certain. At times I even thought I saw my wife. And often, often throughout those terrible days her voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging. When I felt I really could plod no farther through the snow, her voice would tell me not to lose heart, but to do my best, and all would be right in the end. And when, wearied beyond measure at night, I would fall into a heavy sleep, and my fire would burn low, a hand on my shoulder would arouse me, and her voice would tell me to get up and throw on more wood. Now and again I fancied I heard the voice of my mother, who died when I was a boy, also encouraging and reassuring me. Indescribably comforting were those voices, whatever their origin may have been. They soothed me, and brought balm for my loneliness. In the wilderness, and amid the falling snow, those that loved me were ministering unto me and keeping me from harm. At least, so it seemed to me. And now, as I think of those dear voices, and feel once more that loving touch on my shoulder, there comes back to me that verse from the Psalm George read at our parting--"For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways." It is all like a half-dream to me now. I know that after Saturday night (October 24th), when I bivouacked within a stone's throw of Hubbard's tent, I lost all count of the days, and soon could not recall even the month. I travelled on and on, always down the valley. Sometimes I fancied I heard men shouting, and I would reply. But the men did not come, and I would say to myself over and over again, "Man proposes, God disposes; it is His will and best for all." The flour mould nauseated me to such an extent that for a day at a time I could not force myself to eat it. The snow clogged in all that was left of my cowhide moccasins (larigans), and I took them off and fastened them to my belt, walking thereafter in my stocking feet. I wore two pairs of woollen socks, but holes already were beginning to appear in the toes and heels. The bushes tore away the legs of my trousers completely, and my drawers, which thus became the sole protection of my legs from the middle of my thighs down, had big holes in them. Each night I cut a piece of leather from my moccasin uppers, and boiled it in my cup until morning, when I would eat it and drink the water. I found afterward, carefully preserved in my match box, one of the brass eyelets from the moccasins. Probably I put it away thinking I might have to eat even that. I knew there was something the matter with my feet; they complained to me every night. They seemed to me like individuals that were dependent upon me, and they told me it was my duty to care for them. But I gave no heed to their complaints. I had enough to do to care for myself. My feet must look out for themselves. Why should I worry about them? And still it snowed, night and day--sometimes gently, sometimes blindingly; but always it snowed. Once while plodding along the side of a rocky hill, I staggered over the edge of a shelving rock and fell several feet into a snow drift. I was uninjured, but extricating myself was desperately hard work, and it was very pleasant and soft in the snow, and I was so tired and sleepy. Why not give it up and go to sleep? But she was with me, and she whispered, "Struggle on, and all will be well," and reluctantly I dragged my poor old body out. There were times when the feeling was strong upon me that I had been alone and wandering on forever, and that, like the Wandering Jew, I must go on forever. At other times I fancied I was dead, and that the snow-covered wilderness was another world. Instinctively I built my fire at night under the stump of a fallen tree, if I could find one; for the rotten wood would smoulder until morning, and a supply of other wood was very hard to get. One evening I remember crossing the river, which had now gone into its long winter sleep tucked away under a blanket of ice and snow, and building a fire under a rotten stump on the south side behind a bank near the shore. I felt that I must be well down the valley. My supply of wood was miserably small, but I had worked hard all day and could not gather any more. I fell down by the fire and struggled against sleep. She told me I must not sleep. When I dozed, her hand on my shoulder would arouse me. Thus the night passed. At dawn I realised in a vague sort of way that the clouds had at last broken away; that the weather was clear and biting cold. Before me was the river. It had been a raging torrent when I first saw it; now it lay quiet and still under its heavy winter blanket. At my back the low bank with its stunted spruce trees hid the ridge of barren, rocky hills and knolls that lay beyond. A few embers of the rotten stump were smouldering, sending skyward, with each fitful gust of the east wind, a fugitive curl of smoke. A few yards away lay a dead tree, with its branches close to the snow. If I could break some of those branches off, and get them back to my smouldering stump, I might fan the embers into a blaze, get some heat and melt snow in my cup for a hot drink. Not that I craved the drink or anything else, but it perhaps would give me strength to go just a little farther. I pulled my piece of ragged blanket over my shoulders and struggled to my feet. It was no use. I swayed dizzily about, took a few steps forward and fell. I crawled slowly back to the smouldering stump and tried to think. I felt no pain; I was just weary to the last degree. Should I not now be justified in surrendering to the overpowering desire to sleep? Perhaps, I argued, it would strengthen me. I could no longer walk; why not sleep? But still I was told that I must not... Was Hubbard still waiting and watching for me to come back?--somewhere in that still wilderness of snow was he waiting and watching and hoping? Perhaps he was dead, and at rest. Poor Hubbard... Why did not the men come to look for us--the trappers that George was to send? Had they come and missed me, and gone away again? Or was George, brave fellow, lying dead on the trail somewhere below? How long had I been wandering, anyway... My sisters in far-away New York, were they hoping and praying to hear from me? Perhaps they never would. There was a certain grave in a little cemetery on the banks of the dear old Hudson. It had been arranged that I should lie beside that grave when I went to sleep forever. Would they find my bones and take them back?... How enthusiastic Hubbard had been for this expedition! It was going to make his reputation, he thought. Well, well, man proposes, God disposes; it was His will and best for all. I found myself dozing, and with an effort to recover myself sat up straight. The sun was making its way above the horizon. I looked at it and hoped that its warming rays would give me strength to do my duty--my duty to live as long as I could. Anyway, the storms had passed! the storms had passed! I dozed again. It may have been that I was entering upon my final sleep. But gradually I became hazily conscious of an unusual sound. Was it a shout? I was aroused. I made a great effort and got on my feet. I listened. There it was again! It was a shout, I felt sure it was a shout! With every bit of energy at my command, I sent up an answering "Hello!" All was silent. I began to fear that again I had been deceived. Then over the bank above me came four swarthy men on snow-shoes, with big packs on their backs. XIX. THE KINDNESS OF THE BREEDS The unintelligible words that George shouted to me from the knoll after we parted on Tuesday (October 20th) were an injunction to keep near the river, as the men he would send to rescue Hubbard and me would look for us there. As he proceeded down the valley his progress was slow and tedious, owing to his weakness, the rough country, and the deepening snow. Towards noon he came upon the newly made track of a porcupine, followed it a short distance into a clump of trees, where he soon saw the round quill-covered animal in the snow and shot it. Immediately he built a fire, and singed off quills and hair. Then, as he related to me afterwards, he considered, talking aloud to himself, what was best to do with his prize. "There's them fellus up there without grub," he said. "Maybe I'd better turn about and take 'em this porcupine. But if I do, it won't last long, and then we'll be worse off than ever. This snow's gettin' deeper all the time, and if it gets so deep I can't walk without snowshoes, we'll all die for sure. No, I'd better go on with this porcupine to help me." So after boiling a piece of the porcupine in his tea kettle and eating it, he continued down the valley. By his fires be always talked to himself to keep himself company, and that night he said: "This 's been a tough day, and I ain't where I ought to be. But I'll eat a good snack of this porcupine now with some of the flour, and in the mornin' I'll have another good snack, and that'll make me stronger and I can travel farther to-morrow. I ought to get most to Grand Lake to-morrow night." But so far from getting anywhere near Grand Lake the next day, he did not complete his twenty-five-mile journey for several days to come. The snow became so deep he could hardly push through it. He carefully hoarded the bones of his porcupine, thinking he might have to eat them; but Providence sent him more food. When the first porcupine was eaten, he came upon and killed another, and when that was gone, he shot a third. He also succeeded in shooting several grouse. If it had not been for this game, he would not have lived to do the hard work that was before him. The pieces of blanket in which his feet were wrapped were continually coming off, and frequent halts were necessary to readjust them. He must not let his feet freeze; for then he would not be able to walk, and not only would he perish himself, but "there'd be no hope for them fellus up there." One day he came upon a man's track. He was exultant. That it was a trapper's trail he had no doubt. Staggering along it with all the speed he could command, he shouted wildly at every step. Presently he discovered that he was following his own trail; he had been travelling in a circle. The discovery made him almost frantic. He stopped to reason with and calm himself. Said he, so that all the listening wilderness might hear: "Them fellus up there in the snow have got to be saved. I said to Hubbard, 'With God's help I'll save you,' and I'm a-goin' to if my legs hold out and there's anybody at Grand Lake." And then he went on. His progress down the valley that day was only a mile and a half. It was most discouraging. He must do better. The powdered milk we had abandoned he did not find, but on October 26th he recovered our old lard pail. Some of the lard he ate, some he used in cooking a grouse, and the rest he took along with him. Below the place where he bivouacked that night the snow was not so deep, and early the next morning George once more beheld the broad waters of Grand Lake. The journey he had expected to make in three days had actually taken him seven. He arrived at Grand Lake three days after I, wandering in the valley above, lost all track of time. A few miles above its mouth the Susan River bends to the southward, and from that direction reaches the little lake that lies just north of the extreme western end of Grand Lake, so that George, proceeding down the river on the south bank, eventually came to the little lake's western shore. Along this shore he made his way until he reached the point of land formed by the little lake and the branch of the Beaver River that flows a little south of east to merge its waters in the little lake with those of the Susan. The water here had not been frozen, and George found his further progress arrested. He was in a quandary. The trapper's tilt for which he was bound was on the south shore of Grand Lake about seven or eight miles from its western end, and in order to reach the tilt he would have to continue on south around the end of the lake. The land on the other side of the swirling stream to which George had come was the island at the mouth of the Beaver that separates it into two branches, and which forms the western shore of the swift stream or strait that, flowing to the southward, discharges the waters of the little lake into Grand Lake. George thought, however, that this island was a part of the western boundary of Grand Lake, and he determined to reach it. But how? To swim across was impossible. Well, then, he would build a raft. And, although he had no implements, he did. He hauled together several fallen trees, laid them in a row and bound them at one end with his pack strap and at the other with a piece of our old trolling line. When this was done, he hacked himself a pole with his sheath-knife, threw his bag containing a piece of a porcupine and some grouse on the raft, launched it, jumped on it himself and pushed out into the stream. One or two good shoves George gave with his pole, and then found he no longer could touch bottom. He was at the mercy of the swift current. Down into the little lake he was swept, and thence through the strait right out into Grand Lake. A high sea was running, and the frail raft promptly began to fall to pieces. "Have I escaped starvin' only to drown?" thought George. It certainly looked like it. "But," said he to himself, "if I drown them fellus up there will be up against it for sure." So he determined not to drown. He got down on his hands and knees, and, although the icy seas broke relentlessly over him, he held the floating sticks in place, at the same time clinging tenaciously to his food bag; for, as he confided to me later, "it would have been just as bad to escape drownin' only to starve as it would have been to escape starvin' only to drown." Farther out on the broad bosom of the lake George was carried. "Now," said he, "if I jump, I'll drown; and if I don't, I'll drown anyway. So I guess I'll hang on a little longer." And hang on he did for something like two hours, when the wind caught his raft and drove it back to the southern end of the island at the mouth of the Beaver. "You can't lose me," said George, as he landed. He and his game bag were saved, but his difficulties were not ended by any means. While the wind was driving him back, George caught sight of the branch of the Beaver that flows almost due south directly into Grand Lake, forming the island's western shore. Standing on this shore, he made a shrewd guess. "I'll bet," he said, "my dream was right, and here we have the same river we were on when we said good-bye to the canoe." What interested him the most, however, was a row boat he espied a little south of the island on the opposite shore. Apparently it had been abandoned. "If can reach that boat," said George, "and it'll float and I don't find Blake or any grab at his tilt, I'll put right off for the post, and send help from there to them fellus up there." There was no doubt about it, he would have to take chances with another raft. Although his rags were beginning to freeze to his body, he did not stop to build a fire, neither did he wait to eat anything. At first it seemed hopeless to try to launch a raft; for the bank on the western side of the island was very steep. Farther north, however, ice had formed in the river for some distance from the shore, and to this ice George dragged fallen trees and bound them as he had done before. It was the labour of hours, the trees having to be dragged for considerable distances. Once more afloat, George found no difficulty in touching bottom with his pole, and in the gathering dusk he reached the other shore. Supposing that he was still many miles from a place where there was any possibility of finding a human being, he decided to bivouac for the night; but first he must examine the rowboat he had sighted from the island. This made necessary the fording of a small stream. Hardly had he emerged from the water, when, from among the spruce trees farther back from the shore, there came a sound that brought him to a sudden standstill and set his heart to thumping wildly against his ribs. It was a most extraordinary sound to hear when one supposed one was alone in a wilderness, and when all had been solemnly still save for the dashing of waves upon a shore. On the night air there came floating to George the cry of a little child. "When I heard that youngster scream," said George, in telling me about the incident, "I knew folks was there, and I dropped my bag, and I tore my piece of blanket from my shoulders, and I runned and I runned." In the course of the summer Donald Blake had built himself a log house on the spot to which George was so wildly fleeing. The rowboat George had spied belonged to him, but the house, standing back in a thick clump of trees, had not been visible from the water. On the evening of George's arrival, Donald and his brother Gilbert were away, and Donald's wife and another young woman who stayed with her to keep her company were alone. The latter young woman, with Mrs. Blake's baby in her arms, was standing at the door of the house, when suddenly she heard a crashing noise in the bush in front of her, and the next moment there loomed up before her affrighted vision in the gloaming the apparition of a gaunt and ragged man, dripping wet, and running towards her with long, black hair and straggling beard streaming in the wind. She turned and fled into the house. "O Mrs. Blake! O Mrs. Blake!" she cried, "'tis somethin' dreadful comin'! 'tis sure a wild man!" Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Blake went to the door. George, panting and still dripping, stood before her. "Lord ha' mercy!" she piously exclaimed, throwing up her arms. "Don't be scared, ladies," panted George; "I couldn't hurt a rabbit. Ain't there any men here?" His ingratiating manner reassured the frightened women, and explanations followed. All the natives of the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet had been wondering what had become of us, and Mrs. Blake quickly grasped the situation. Kindness itself, she took George in. Donald and Gilbert, she said, would be back directly. She made him hot tea, and put on the table for him some grouse stew, molasses, and bread and butter, all the time imploring him to sit down and warm himself. But George was too excited to sit down. Up and down he paced, the melting ice on his rags making tiny rivulets on his hostess's spotless floor. Most of the breeds who live near the western end of Hamilton Inlet are remarkably cleanly, this probably being due to their Scotch blood. George at length calmed himself sufficiently to turn his attention to the meal that had been prepared for him. He had salt for his meat, molasses to sweeten his tea and a bountiful supply of good bread. He ate greedily, which fact he soon had cause to regret; for later in the evening he began to bloat, and for several days thereafter he writhed with the colic. But for the present he thought of nothing save the satisfaction of the appetite that had been regenerated by the food he had been able to obtain after leaving me. It was especially difficult for him to tear himself away from the bread. As there must be an end to all things, however, George eventually stopped eating, and then he started to go for his bag. But Mrs. Blake said: "No, Donald'll get he. Sit down, sir, and rest." A little later Donald and Gilbert appeared. We had made Donald's acquaintance, it will be remembered, at Rigolet; it was he who had sailed his boat up the Nascaupee and had given us the most information about that river. When he had heard George's story, there was no need to urge him to make haste. Lithe, ambitious, and in the habit of doing a dozen things at a time, Donald was activity itself. His brother Gilbert, a young fellow of seventeen, commonly called Bert, was also eager to start to the rescue of Hubbard and me. They told George it was fortunate he had arrived when he did, as in a day or so they would have been away on their trapping paths. "But didn't you see Allen Goudie's tilt, sir?" asked Donald, when George had finished telling about his trip down what he supposed to be the Nascaupee River. "She's on th' Nascaupee right handy to th' bank, and in fair sight from th' river, sir." "If there's a tilt on the Nascaupee," said George, "you can kick me." Donald asked him to tell more about the river we were on, and George drew a rough map of its leading features. Then it was that George learned that the river of our distress was really the Susan. "And we passed right by the mouth of the Nascaupee?" he asked. He was informed that such was the case. "Well," said George, "I'll be blamed!" "Blamed" was George's most violent expletive; I never heard him use profanity. Donald told George he must not think of going back with the rescuing party, as his weakness would retard its progress. So George marked on the map he had made of the Susan's course the general situation of our last camp. He warned Donald that the deep snow up the valley might have prevented me from reaching the tent, but that in any event they would find me near the river. Hearing that, Donald quickly decided that more men were needed for the rescuing party; for if either Hubbard or I was found alone the party would have to separate in order to continue the search for the other man. The packs, besides, would be too heavy for two men to carry and make the rapid progress that was necessary. Fortunately Allen Goudie and a young fellow named Duncan McLean were at the former's winter tilt on the Nascaupee, seven miles across the lake from Donald's. The hour was late and the lake was rough, but Donald and Gilbert started for them in their rowboat immediately after making ready their packs of provisions and camp equipment, prepared for an early start up the Susan the next day. At noon (October 28th) they were back with both Allen and Duncan, and at once loaded the packs into the boat. Then the four men rowed up through the little lake to the first rapid on the Susan, hauled the boat up on the shore, donned their snowshoes, shouldered their packs, and started up the valley. Running when they could, which the rough country would not permit of their doing often, they camped at night ten miles above their boat. The next morning (October 29th) they cached some provisions to lighten their packs, and as they proceeded fired a rifle at intervals, thinking there was now a chance of coming upon either Hubbard or me. As a matter of fact they must have passed me towards evening. They were on the north side of the river, and it was the evening when I staggered down the north shore, to cross the ice at dusk and make my last bivouac in the lee of a bank on the south shore. Whether I had crossed the river before they came along, or whether, hidden by the trees and the falling snow, I passed them unobserved on the same shore, I do not know; the fact is, they camped that night about a mile and a half above me, and about twelve miles below Hubbard's tent. There was only one thing that saved me from being left alone to die--these trappers' keen sense of smell. In the morning (October 30th) while they were breaking camp preparatory to continuing on up the valley, Donald Blake fancied that he smelled smoke. He spoke to Allen Goudie about it, and both men stood and sniffed the air. Yes, Allen smelled smoke, too. It was unmistakable. The wind was blowing up the valley; therefore someone must have a fire below them. Hastily finishing the work of breaking camp, the four men shouldered their packs and turned back. Close down to the shore of the river they scrambled, and hurried on, shouting and discharging a rifle. At length they paused, to give exclamations of satisfaction. They had found my track leading across the ice to the other shore. Only a moment they paused, and then, following the trail, they broke into a run, redoubling their shouts and repeatedly discharging the rifle. They had smelled my smouldering rotten stump, but if a whiff of smoke was now rising it was too small for them to see. My trail, however, led them to the bank over which they heard my feeble answering shout. So down the bank they scrambled, to come to a sudden halt, transfixed with amazement, as they told me afterwards, that such a wreck as I could stand and live. The spectacle I presented certainly must have been an unusual one--a man all skin and bones, standing in drawers and stocking feet, with the remnants of a pair of trousers about his hips, there in the midst of the snow-covered forest. They were heavily clad and had their caps pulled far down over their ears to protect them from the biting wind, while I did not even have my hat on. It was some time before I could realise that living men were before me. As if in a half-dream, I stood stupidly gazing at them. But with the return of sensibility I recollected that George had gone to find Donald Blake, and gradually it dawned upon me that he was there. I spoke his name "Donald Blake." At that Donald stepped forward and grasped my hand warmly and firmly like an old friend. "Did George get out and send you?" I asked. "Yes, sir; it was he that sent us, sir. He's safe at my house." "Have you found Hubbard?" "Not yet, sir. We smelled smoke a mile and a half above, where our camp was last night, an' came down to find you, sir." I remember telling Donald that he had better leave me something to eat, and go on to Hubbard as fast as he could. He replied that Duncan and Bert, the two young fellows, would stay with me, while he and Allen would continue on up the valley. During this talk, the kind-hearted trappers had not been idle. While two of them cut wood for a rousing fire and put the kettle on for tea, the others made a cosey couch close to the blaze and sat me on it. They gave me a very small piece of bread and butter. "You'd better eat just a small bit at first, sir," said Allen. "You're fair starved, and much grub at th' beginnin' might be th' worse for you." Before I had my tea, Donald and Allen were ready to start. Allen hesitated for a moment; then asked: "If the other man be dead, sir?" "Dead?" I said. "Oh, no, he won't be dead. You'll find him in the tent waiting for you." "But if he be dead?" persisted Allen. "He may be, and we sure can't bring th' body out now, sir." Although still struggling against the fear that my reason told me was only too well founded, I requested, that in the event of what they thought possible proving to be the case, they wrap the body in the blankets they would find in the tent, and build for it a stage high enough from the ground to protect it from animals. I also asked that they bring back with them all the things they should find in the tent, including the rifle and camera, and especially the books and papers of all descriptions. Promising that all should be done as I wished, and again cautioning me against eating too much, Allen and Donald departed, leaving me a prey to anxiety and fear as to the news they should bring back. XX. HOW HUBBARD WENT TO SLEEP A pot of hot tea soon was ready, and I drank some of it. "I hopes you feels better, sir," then spoke young Duncan MacLean. "A smoke'll taste good now. Got a pipe, sir?" I produced my pipe, and he held out to me a plug of tobacco. "Take he an' fill th' pipe, sir." With the plug in my possession, I drew my sheath-knife to cut it. But Gilbert Blake objected. "He's a big un, sir, to cut tobacca with. Let me fill he, sir." Obediently I handed him my pipe to be filled, and when it had been returned to me one of the boys struck a match and held it to the bowl while I puffed. Then Duncan took the plug from the log where Gilbert had left it, and, holding it out to me, said: "He's yours, sir; I brought he for you. An'," added Duncan impressively, "there's more when he's gone, sir." The tea and the great leaping blaze warmed me, the tobacco stimulated me, and my tongue was loosed. I talked and I talked. It was good to have human society and human sympathy again. The boys told me how George had finally reached them after his struggles, and what news of the world they had heard. After a little they gave me a bit more bread, and told me I had better sleep while they built a break to keep the wind, which had shifted to the west, from my couch. And, while watching them fell trees for the wind-break and vaguely wondering whether I should ever be strong and able to move about like that again, I did go to sleep. When, after an hour had passed, I awoke, the boys made me drink more tea and eat another piece of bread. Then Duncan took his rifle, and remarking, "The 's deer signs right handy, an' a bit o' deer's meat might do you good, sir," strode off into the bush. Late in the afternoon he returned without having been rewarded in his hunt, and took a seat with Gilbert near my feet as I reclined on the boughs. Twilight came and then darkness, and I, lying before the crackling flames, wondered, as they burned ever brighter, whether Donald and Allen had yet found Hubbard, and hoped against hope that they had found him alive. Instinctively I felt that I should prepare for the worst, but I cudgelled my brain for specious arguments to make myself believe he had survived, and went on hoping. My feet had been paining me all day. I tried to take off my socks, but blood clots held them fast to the raw flesh. The fact was, they had been frozen. It was hardly to be wondered at--the wonder was, how I, wandering for ten days in a bitter snowstorm almost naked as to my lower extremities, escaped with my life. Under ordinary circumstances, a physician has told me, the exposure would have killed me in short order; but, having been living in the open for months, I had become gradually inured to the cold, and the effect of the exposure was thus greatly mitigated. There were only two or three nights on the entire trip when any of us went to bed with dry feet, and that none of us ever had the slightest symptom of a cold certainly speaks volumes for an out-of-door life. Although I ate very sparingly on the day the trappers found me, I soon began to suffer greatly from bloating and nausea. In the night I was very ill. The boys did everything they could for me. They were excellent nurses, those rough, brown fellows of the forest, anticipating my every wish. When once or twice in the night I tried to walk a few steps from the fire to relieve my nausea, their faces and actions showed plainly their concern. That I might not stagger into the fire, they would rise to stand between it and me. One of them remained awake all night, to keep the fire going and to help me should I need anything. The sun was again showing itself above the horizon, setting the expanse of fir trees and snow aglow, and the boys, having placed the kettle over the fire for breakfast, were cutting more wood, when Donald and Allen suddenly came over the bank, as they had done on the morning before. Their packs were as large as ever, and they had Hubbard's rifle. I knew at once that the worst had happened. "His wife and mother!"--like lightning the thought flashed through my mind. A dizziness came over me, and for a moment I could not breathe. Donald spoke: "Yesterday evenin' we found th' tent, sir. He were fastened up tight with pins on th' inside, an' hadn't been opened since th' snow began. Says I to Allen, sir, 'Th' poor man's dead, 'tis sure he's dead.' An' Allen he opened th' tent; for I had no heart to do it, sir, and there th' poor man was, wrapped all up in th' blankets as if sleepin', sir. But he were dead, sir, dead; and he were dead for a long time. So there was nothin' to do but to wrap th' poor man safe in th' things that were there, an' bring back th' papers an' other things, sir." We kept silent, we five men, until Donald added: "We saw a place when right handy to th' tent where you'd had a fire by a brook, sir." "Yes," I said; "I built that fire--so that really was the brook near our tent!" "'Twere th' mercy of God, sir," said Allen, "that you didn't know th' poor man were there dead; you would ha' given up yourself, sir." Having a superstitious horror of the dead, Donald would not touch the body, and without assistance Allen had been unable to place it on a stage as I wished. However, he arranged it carefully on the ground, where, he assured me, it would be perfectly safe. He suggested that I permit them to bury the body where it was, as it would be quite impossible to transport it over the rough country for weeks to come, or until Grand Lake had frozen solid and the ice on the Susan River rapids become hard enough to bear the weight of men with a sled. Both Donald and Allen were willing to go back to the log-house on Grand Lake, and get the tools necessary for digging the grave. But it would be bad enough for me to return home without Hubbard alive, and I felt that I simply must get the body out and take it with me. And, although the trappers could not understand my reasons, I refused to consent to its burial in the wilderness. In spite of their superior knowledge of the country and the weather conditions, I felt that the body could be taken down to the post later, but recognised the impracticability, if not impossibility, of undertaking the task immediately. When Donald and Allen turned over to me the papers they had found in the tent, I took up Hubbard's diary wondering if he had left a last message. In the back part of the book was a letter to his mother, a note to his wife, the evident attempt again to write to his wife, and the letter to the agent at Missanabie written on George's behalf. From these I turned hastily to the diary proper. Yes, there was an entry written on the day George and I had left him, and this is what I read: "Sunday, October 18th, 1903. "Alone in camp, junction Nascaupee and some other stream--estimated (overestimated, I hope) distance above head of Grand Lake 33 miles. "For two days past we have travelled down our old trail with light packs. We left a bit of flour--wet--about 11 miles below here--12 miles (approx.) below that about a pound of milk powder--4 miles below that about 4 pounds of lard. We counted on all these to help us out in our effort to reach the head of Grand Lake where we hoped to find Skipper Tom Blake's trapping camp and cache. On Thursday, as stated, I busted. Friday and Saturday it was the same. I saw it was probably hopeless for me to try to go farther with the boys, so we counselled last night and decided they should take merely half a blanket each, socks, etc., some tea, tea pail, cups and the pistols, and go on. They will try to reach the flour to-morrow. Then Wallace will try to bring a little and come back to me. George will go on to the milk and lard and to Skipper Blake's, if he can, and send or lead help to us. I want to say here that they are two of the very best, bravest and grandest men I ever knew, and if I die it will not be because they did not put forth their best efforts. Our past two days have been trying ones. I have not written my diary because so very weak. Day before yesterday we caught sight of a caribou, but it was on our lee, and winding us got away before a shot could be fired. Yesterday at our old camp we found the end we had cut from a flour bag. It had a bit of flour sticking to it. We boiled it with our old caribou bones, and it strengthened the broth a little. We also found a can of mustard we had thrown away. Mina gave it to me as we were coming away, saying she had no use for it and it might be good for plasters here. I sat and held it in my hand a long time thinking how it came from Congers and our home, and what a happy home it was, and what a dear, dear girl presided. Then I took a bite of it and it was very good. We mixed some in our bone soup and it seemed to stimulate us. We had a bit of caribou skin in that same pot. It swelled up thick and was very good. Last night I fell asleep while the boys were reading to me. This morning I was very, very sleepy. After the boys left--they left me tea, the caribou bones and another end of a flour sack found here, a rawhide caribou moccasin and some yeast cakes--I drank a cup of strong tea and some bone broth. I also ate some of the really delicious rawhide (boiled with bones) and it made me stronger--strong to write this. The boys have only tea and 1-2 pound of pea meal. Our parting was most affecting. I did not feel so bad. George said: 'The Lord help us, Hubbard. With His help I'll save you if I can get out.' Then he cried. So did Wallace. Wallace stooped and kissed my cheek with his poor, sunken bearded lips--several times--and I kissed his. George did the same, and I kissed his cheek. Then they went away. God bless and help them. "I am not so greatly in doubt as to the outcome. I believe they will reach the flour and be strengthened, that Wallace will reach me, that George will find Blake's cache and camp and send help. So I believe we will all get out. My tent is pitched in open-tent style in front of a big rock. The rock reflects the fire, but now it is going out because of the rain. I think I shall let it go and close the tent till rain is over, thus keeping out wind and saving wood. To-night or to-morrow perhaps the weather will improve, so I can build fire, eat the rest of my moccasins and have some more bone broth. Then I can boil my belt and oil-tanned moccasins and a pair of cowhide mittens. They ought to help some. "I am not suffering. The acute pangs of hunger have given way to indifference. I'm sleepy. I think death from starvation is not so bad. But let no one suppose I expect it. I am prepared--that is all. I think the boys will be able, with the Lord's help, to save me." Bravo, Hubbard! nothing could down your spirit for long, could there? So high was your spirit that you could not know it was impossible for your poor old body to hold it any longer. Your hand was firm when you wrote, b'y, speaking eloquently of that which most of all was you. "It is a man's game," you said one day, in referring to our desperate struggle to reach those we loved. Well, you played it to the limit, b'y, and it was a man's death. My friend, I am proud of you. * * * * * Putting down the coverless book in which Hubbard's brave last words had been written, I sat and thought. The tea, the bones and the other things we had left with him had been found in the tent with the body. The tent was closed as he said he was going to close it, and the snow, which began to fall that Sunday night, had not been disturbed. He had been found well wrapped in the blankets, as if sleeping. Yes, it was quite evident that after making that last entry in his diary on the day we left him, he had lain down, and there all alone amid the solitudes of desolate Labrador, there in the wild that had called to him with a voice to which he must needs harken, had gone to sleep, and sleeping had not awakened. XXI. FROM OUT THE WILD Donald and Allen returned at once to the log house on Grand Lake, leaving with the boys and me their tent and tent-stove. Donald also gave me a pair of high sealskin boots with large, soft moccasin bottoms. It was their expectation that we should remain in camp until they got back with other things to aid my journey out; but, although I was still very ill, and the heated tent was comfortable, I found waiting irksome, and at daylight the next morning (Sunday, November 1st) the boys and I pulled up stakes. To protect my hands during the journey I made a pair of mittens from a piece of blanket duffel that had been brought back from the tent where Hubbard was. A pretty good path had been trodden in the snow by the trips of my rescuers up and down the valley, and following along it, with Duncan and Gilbert on their snowshoes ahead of me packing it down still further, I did not sink very deeply; nevertheless, such was the condition of my feet that every step I took was painful. As the boys carried all that was to be carried, I managed, however, to walk about ten miles during the day. We camped at a place where the four trappers on their journey in had cached a fat porcupine. For supper I ate a bit of the meat and drank some of the broth, and found it very nourishing. On the following day we met Donald and Allen as they were returning to aid us. Allen brought with him a pair of trousers to cover my half-naked legs. At sunset we reached the rowboat, which had been left near the mouth of the Susan, and as we approached Donald's log-house something more than an hour later a rifle was fired as a signal that we were coming. When we landed, George was there on the starlit shore to welcome us. I hardly knew him. His hair had been cut, he had shaved off his ragged beard, and he was dressed in clean clothing that Donald had lent him. He, of course, had heard of Hubbard's death from Donald and Allen, and when he clasped my hand in a firm grip to help me from the boat, he said: "Well, Wallace, Hubbard's gone." "Yes," I said, "Hubbard's gone." He was good enough to say he was glad I had escaped, and then in silence we followed the trail up to the house the first human habitation I had seen for months. There was only one room in the house, and there all of us, men and women alike, slept as well as ate; but it was scrupulously clean--the floor, table, chests and benches had been scoured until they shone and to me it seemed luxurious. The family did everything for me that was within their power. Donald gave me fresh underclothes, and his wife made me drink some tea and eat some rice and grouse soup before I lay down on the bed of skins and blankets they had prepared for me on the floor by the stove. My two-days' walk had completely exhausted me, and I had a severe attack of colic and nausea. George then told me of his sufferings. Mrs. Blake, it appeared, had baked a batch of appetising buns, and George, not profiting by his experience after his indiscretion on the night of his arrival, had partaken thereof with great liberality, the result being such as to induce the reflection, "Have I escaped drownin' and starvin' only to die of over-feedin'?" The women of the household slept in bunks fastened to the wall, and while they prepared themselves for their night's rest the lamps were turned low and we men discreetly turned our backs. Just before this incident we had family worship, which consisted of readings from the Bible and the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, in accordance with the usual custom of the household. Donald, our host, professed not to be a religious man, but never a day passed that he did not offer thanks to his Maker, he regularly subscribed one-tenth of his income to the support of the Methodist Mission, he would not kill a deer or any other animal on Sunday if it came right up to his door, his whole life and his thoughts were decent and clean, and he was ever ready to abandon his work and go to the rescue of those who needed help. It may be thought strange that he should observe the forms of the Anglican Church in his family worship and subscribe to the Methodist Mission. The explanation is, that denominations cut absolutely no figure in Labrador; to those simple-hearted people, whose blood, for the most part, is such a queer mixture of Scotch, Eskimo, and Indian, there is only one church--the Church of Jesus Christ,--and whenever a Christian missionary comes along they will flock from miles with the same readiness to hear him whatever division of the Church may claim his allegiance. So accustomed had I become to living in the open that I soon found the atmosphere of the closed room unendurable, and several times during the night I had to go out to breathe. I was down on the shore of Grand Lake for a breath of the crisp winter air when the sun rose. It was glorious. Not a cloud was there in all the deep blue vault of the heavens, and, as the sunbeams peeked over Cape Corbeau, the lake was set a-shimmering and the snow on the surrounding hills radiated tiny shafts of fire. It was to me as if the sun were rising on a new world and a new life. Our hardships and their culminating tragedy seemed to belong to a dim and distant past. What a beautiful world it was after all! and how I thanked God that I lived! Allen Goudie had offered George and me the use of his sailboat in returning to Northwest River Post, and it was agreed that he and Duncan should row us over to his tilt on the Nascaupee. So after breakfast George and I said good-bye to Donald and the rest of his household, and three hours later were welcomed by Allen's wife. Again we received every attention that kindly hearts could suggest. We remained at Allen's two days while he and Duncan made a pair of oars and fitted up the sailboat for our trip to the post. With the soap and warm water and bandages provided by Mrs. Goudie I was able to dress my feet. One foot especially had been affected, and from it I cut with a jack knife much gangrenescent flesh. It was on Thursday morning, November 5th, that George and I, warmly dressed in Donald's and Allen's clothes, set sail in a snowstorm for the post through the thin ice that was forming in the river. Upon reaching Grand Lake we found the wind adverse and the snow so thick we could not see our course, but after we had hovered about a fire on the shore until well into the afternoon, the wind shifted to the west and the storm abated, enabling us to proceed a little farther on our journey, or until signs of approaching night compelled us to take refuge in a trapper's tilt near Cape Blanc on the southern shore. This was the tilt that George, in his struggle out, had supposed he would have to reach to get help. It was about six by seven feet, and as it contained a tent-stove we were able to make ourselves comfortable for the night after our supper of tea and bread and butter and molasses thoughtfully provided by Mrs. Goudie. The next morning was clear and beautiful, and although there was scarcely wind enough to fill the single sail of our little craft, we made an early start. Towards noon the wind freshened and soon was blowing furiously. The seas ran high, but George and I had become so used to rough weather and had faced danger so often that we ran right on in front of the gale, I at the tiller, and he handling the sail rope and bailing the water out when occasionally we shipped a sea. The rate at which we travelled quickly brought us to the rapid at the eastern end of the lake, and through this we shot down into the Little Lake, and thence through the strait known as the Northwest River out into Groswater Bay. It was about 3.30 o'clock in the afternoon when, turning sharply in below the post wharf, we surprised Mackenzie, the agent, and Mark Blake, the company's servant, in the act of sawing wood close down by the shore. That they were astonished by the sudden appearance of the boat with its strange-looking occupants, was evident. They dropped their crosscut saw, and stood staring. In a moment, however, Mackenzie recognised George, who, having had a hair cut and a shave, looked something like his old self, and came to the conclusion that the other occupant of the boat must be I. He came quickly forward, and, grasping my hand as I stepped from the boat, asked abruptly: "Where's Hubbard?" "Dead," I said. "Dead of starvation eighty miles from here." Mark Blake, a breed but not related to Donald, took charge of George, and as Mackenzie and I walked to the post house, I gave him a brief account of Hubbard's death and my rescue. He had been warmly attracted to Hubbard, and his big heart was touched. I saw him hastily brush away a tear. Taking me into the kitchen, he instructed his little housekeeper, Lillie Blake, Mark's niece, to give me a cup of cocoa and some soda biscuit and butter, while he made a fire in the dining-room stove. Lillie cried all the time she was preparing my lunch. "I feels so sorry for you, sir," she said. "An' 'tis dreadful th' poor man's starvin', an' he were such a pretty man. In th' summer I says, before you went t' th' bush, sir, he's sure a pretty man. 'Tis wonderful sad, 'tis wonderful sad t' have he die so." Oh, that pleasant kitchen, with the floor and all the woodwork scrubbed white and the rows of shining utensils on the shelves! And the comfort of the great wood-burning stove roaring out a tune to us on that frosty winter evening! As I sat there sipping the deliciously rich cocoa, Mackenzie joined me, and while Lillie cooked the dinner I must tell him over and over again my story. And in spite of herself the tender-hearted little housekeeper would cry and cry. The dinner, which consisted of grouse, potatoes, marmalade, bread, and tea, was served in the dining room, which was also the living room. Mackenzie sat at the head of the table, I at the foot, and on a lounge to one side sat Atikamish, a small Mountaineer Indian hunting dog, gravely alert for the bones his master would occasionally toss to him. Atikamish had very good table manners. He caught the bones neatly and deftly, and he invariably chewed them up without leaving his seat or changing his position. My appetite was returning, and I ate well; but it was fully two weeks before I could eat without experiencing distress later. When that blessed time arrived, I never could get enough; Lillie was always pressing me to eat, and for a time I had at least six meals a day. After dinner Mackenzie got Mark Blake to cut my hair and shave off my beard. Then he took me to my room upstairs, where a stove was crackling out a welcome and a big tub of warm water had been prepared for me. After my bath, he again came up to rub my legs, which were much swollen from frostbite, and to dress my foot with salve. In a suit of Mackenzie's flannel pajamas I then went to my soft bed, and lay snug and warm under the blankets. It was the first real bed I had lain in for nearly four months, and oh, the luxury of it! It is impossible for me to express the gratitude I feel towards those good friends. They nursed me with the tenderest care. Mackenzie's big Scotch heart and the woman's sympathetic instinct of the little housekeeper anticipated my every want, and he and she never could seem to satisfy themselves with doing things for my comfort. When I left the post with Hubbard I weighed 170 pounds; a week after my return I weighed ninety-five. But with the care they took of me my general health was soon restored, and I rapidly put on flesh. My difficulties, however, were not yet ended. Hubbard's body was still to be recovered from the wild and repatriated, and during the long months that ensued before it could be reached I lived in constant dread lest it should be destroyed by animals, until at length the dread amounted almost to an obsession. Moreover, the gangrene in my foot became worse, and if it had not been for the opportune arrival in that dreary land of an unfortunate young medical student, it in all likelihood would have killed me. XII. A STRANGE FUNERAL PROCESSION The young medical student was George Albert Hardy, of Prince Edward Island. Everybody called him "Doctor," and for all practical purposes he was a regular physician and surgeon; for if he had been able to do two or three months' more hospital work he would have received his degree. The reason he had hastily abandoned his studies and sought professional service with the lumber company that maintains camps at the western end of the Hamilton Inlet was that he had fallen a victim to consumption. He arrived at Northwest River Post on November 8th on a small schooner that brought supplies from Rigolet for Mackenzie and the Muddy Lake lumber camp at the mouth of the Grand River. The schooner remained only an hour at Northwest River, and Dr. Hardy had to continue on to Muddy Lake with her, but he found time to operate on my left foot, which was badly affected, and advise me how to continue its treatment myself. The doctor said that the mail boat, the Virginia Lake, which had carried him to Rigolet, would return there within three weeks for her last trip to Newfoundland of the season, and he urged me to take advantage of that opportunity to go home, and get proper treatment for my feet. The temptation was great, but I felt it was my duty not to leave Labrador without Hubbard's body. It was my plan to engage dog teams and start with the body for the coast so soon as it could be brought to the post. Everybody agreed that it could not be recovered before January, and Mackenzie argued strongly against the practicability of transporting it with dogs, suggesting that we place it in the old post mission chapel until navigation opened in the spring, when it could be sent home on the mail steamer. But I knew I must get home as soon as possible, and my mind was made up to take the body with me, if I had to haul it all the way to Quebec. The great toe on my left foot growing steadily worse, it became necessary for me again to see the doctor. Groswater Bay and Goose Bay by this time were frozen solid, and on December 4th I travelled to Muddy Lake, where Dr. Hardy was stationed, by dog team and komatik, Willie Ikey, an Eskimo employed by Monsieur Duclos, the manager of the French trading post across the Northwest River, acting as my driver. Upon my arrival I was cordially welcomed by Mr. Sidney Cruikshanks, the lumber "boss"; Mr. James McLean, the storekeeper, and Dr. Hardy. It was arranged that I should stop and sleep with the doctor at McLean's house. The doctor did some more cutting, and under his careful treatment my foot so improved that it was thought I could with safety return to the post on December 15th, to prepare letters and telegrams for the winter mail, which was scheduled to leave there by dog team for Quebec on the 18th. It was the 20th before the mail got away, and with it went the first news of Hubbard's death to reach his relatives and friends. My dispatches, forwarded from Chateau Bay, the outpost of the Canadian coast telegraph service, were received in New York on January 22d, the letters two months later. Immediately upon my return to Northwest River, my feet began to trouble me again. Word was sent to Dr. Hardy, who, regarding it as a call of duty, arrived on December 31st. I very much regret to say, that in responding to the call, Dr. Hardy received a chill that hastened, if it did not cause, his death. After examining my feet upon his arrival, he advised me to return with him to Muddy Lake. So it was arranged that George, with Mackenzie's dogs and komatik, should drive Dr. Hardy and me to the Kenemish lumber camp, twelve miles across Groswater Bay, where there was a patient that required attention, and that from there Hardy and I should go on to Muddy Lake with other dogs. Alas! the doctor never saw Muddy Lake again. Before starting, I learned from Allen Goudie and Duncan MacLean, who came from the interior to spend New Year's Day, that Grand Lake was frozen hard and an attempt might be made to bring out Hubbard's body. Accordingly, I engaged Duncan MacLean and Tom Blake, also a breed, to undertake the task with George, and to recover, so far as possible, the photographic films and other articles we had abandoned at Goose Camp and Lake Elson. Blake was the father of Mackenzie's housekeeper, and lived at the rapid at the eastern end of Grand Lake. As he had, at the request of friends, frequently prepared bodies for burial, it was arranged that he should head the expedition, while George acted as guide, and the agreement was that, weather permitting, the party should start inland on January 6th. A coffin, made by the carpenter at Kenemish was all ready to receive the body when it should arrive at the post. George was to have driven Dr. Hardy and me to Kenemish on January 3d, but as there was a stiff wind blowing and the thermometer registered 40 degrees below zero, we postponed our departure until the following day. The morning was clear, and the temperature was 34 below. The dogs, with a great howling and jumping, had hardly settled down to the slow trot which with only fair travelling is their habitual gait, when we observed that the sky was clouding, and in an incredibly short time the first snowflakes of the gathering storm began to fall. Soon the snow was so thick that it shut us in as with a curtain, and eventually even old Aillik, our leader, was lost to view. "Bear well t' th' east'ard, an' keep free o' th' bad ice; the's sure t' be bad ice handy t' th' Kenemish," had been Mark Blake's parting injunction. So George kept well to the eastward as, hour after hour, we forged our way on through the bending, drifting snow. At length we came upon land, but what land we did not know. The storm had abated by this time, and a fresh komatik track was visible, which we proceeded to follow. On all sides of us ice was piled in heaps as high as a house. We had been travelling altogether about six hours, and the storm had ceased, when we came upon a tilt on the shore of a deep bay, and, close by it, a man making passes with a stick at a large wolf, which, apparently emboldened by hunger, was jumping and snarling about waiting for a chance to spring in upon him. The noise of our approaching komatik caused the wolf to slink off, and then the man hurried to the tilt, reappeared with a rifle and shot the beast as it still prowled among the ice hills. He proved to be Uriah White, a trapper. Not at all excited by his adventure, he welcomed us to his tilt. In throwing off his mittens to fire his rifle at the wolf, he had exposed his naked hands to the bitter cold, and they had been frost-bitten. While thawing out his hands at a safe distance from the stove, he informed us that he had been "handy 'nuf to he [meaning the wolf] to see that he were a she." The condition of my feet had not permitted me to leave the komatik during our long journey, and I suffered severely from the cold. George and, alas! Hardy, were also thoroughly chilled, though they had occasionally exercised themselves by running behind. Uriah prepared for us some hot tea and hardtack, and gave us our bearings. We were about four miles east of Kenemish, and an hour later we arrived there. The lumber camp at the mouth of the Kenemish River is composed of a saw mill, a storehouse in which also live the native helpers, a cookhouse, a part of which is given over to lodgings for the Nova Scotian lumbermen, and a log stable for the horses that do the general work about the camp and in the woods. Hugh Dunbar, the engineer, extended a warm welcome to the doctor and me, and his wife, who did the camp cooking, made us comfortable in the cookhouse. I was destined to remain at the camp for many weeks, and I cannot help testifying to the gratitude I feel to those lumber folk, especially Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar, Wells Bently, the storekeeper; Tom Fig, the machinist, and Archie McKennan, Leigh Stanton and James Greenan. The chill he had received during the trip from Northwest River so affected Dr. Hardy that he was unable to proceed to Muddy Lake. Two days after our arrival he had a severe hemorrhage, and the following day another. They forced him to take to his bed, and thereafter he rose only occasionally for half an hour's rest in a chair. He was a deeply religious nature, and, realising that he was doomed, he awaited the slow approach of death with calm resignation. And my feet steadily grew worse. Three days after our arrival at Kenemish I could not touch them to the floor. The doctor and I lay on couches side by side. I could not even bear the weight of the bed-clothes on my feet, and Dunbar built a rack from the hoops of an old flour barrel to protect them. Under the doctor's direction, Mrs. Dunbar every day removed the bandages from my feet, cleansed them with carbolic acid water and rebandaged them. Dunbar and the other men carried me in their arms when it was necessary for me to be taken from my couch. My temperature ran up until it reached 103 1/2. The doctor then said there was only one way to save my life--to cut off my legs. "And," he added, "I'm the only one here that knows how to do it, and I'm too weak to undertake it. So were both going to die, Wallace. There's nothing to fear in that, though, if you trust in God." The doctor was an accomplished player of the violin, but he had left his own instrument at Muddy Lake, and the only one he could obtain at Kenemish was a miserable affair that gave him little satisfaction. So while he lay dying by the side of his patient who he thought was also dying, he, for the most part, gratified his love of music and sought to comfort us both by softly singing in his sympathetic tenor voice the grand old hymns of the church. "Lead Kindly Light" and "Nearer My God to Thee" were his favourites, and every syllable was enunciated clearly and distinctly. But he was mistaken in thinking that I, too, was to die. Soon there was an improvement noticeable in the condition of both of my feet, and gradually they grew better. "It's truly a miracle that the Lord is working," said the doctor. "You were beyond human aid. I've prayed from the bottom of my heart that you'd get well. I've prayed a dozen times a day, and now the prayer is answered. It's the only one of my prayers," he added sadly, "that has been answered since I have been in Labrador." During January and February the cold was terrific. The spirit thermometer at the camp was scaled down to 64 degrees below zero, and on several days the spirit disappeared below the scale mark before 8 o'clock in the evening. For a week the temperature never, even at midday, rose above 40 below. The old natives of the bay said there never had been such a winter before. Not a man in the camp escaped without a frozen nose and the cheeks and chins of all of them were black from being nipped by the frost. Bently declared that he froze his nose in bed, and Mrs. Bently bore witness to the truth of the statement. But Bently's nose was frosted on an average of once a day. Nearly all of this time I lay at the lumber camp worrying about Hubbard's body. One day late in January, when I had been hoping that the body had been safely brought out, Mackenzie and George arrived from Northwest River with the news that the storms had been so continuous it had not been deemed wise to attempt the journey inland. I wished to be removed at once to the post, thinking that my presence there might hasten matters, but Dr. Hardy said there would be no use of having two dead men, and I was forced to be content with promises that the expedition would get under way as soon as possible. Early in February the doctor said I might try my feet on the floor. The result was the discovery that my knees would not bear me, and that I should have to learn to walk all over again. Recovering the use of my legs was a tedious job, and it was not until February 29th that I was able to return to Northwest River. After leaving Kenemish I never saw the unfortunate young doctor again; for he died on March 22d. Back at Northwest River, I was able to stir things up a bit, and bright and early on Tuesday morning, March 8th, George, Tom Blake, and Duncan MacLean, composing the expedition that was to recover Hubbard's body, at last left the post, prepared for their difficult journey into the interior. I regretted much that my physical condition made it impossible for me to accompany them. Their provisions were packed on an Indian flat sled or toboggan, and their tent and other camp equipment on a sled with broad flat runners that I had obtained especially for the transportation of the body from some Indians that visited the post. At the rapid they were to get Tom Blake's dogs to haul their loads to Donald Blake's at the other end of Grand Lake. After that, the hauling was all to be done by hand, as it is quite impossible to use dogs in cross-country travelling in Labrador. In the course of the afternoon snow squalls developed, and all day Wednesday and Thursday the snow fell heavily. I knew the storm would interfere with the progress of the men, but I hoped they had succeeded in reaching Donald's, and were at that point holding themselves in readiness to proceed. What was my disappointment, then, when towards noon on Sunday Douglas and Henry Blake, Tom's two young sons, came to the post to announce that their father was at home! He had made a start up Grand Lake, they said, but the storms had not permitted the party to advance any farther than the Cape Corbeau tilt. Douglas had accompanied the men to Cape Corbeau, which point it had taken an entire day to reach, as the dogs, even with the men on their snowshoes tramping a path ahead, sank so deeply in the snow that they could hardly flounder along, to say nothing of hauling a load. It was evident, therefore, that the dogs would retard rather than accelerate the progress of the party on Grand Lake, and when the Cape Corbeau tilt was reached on Tuesday night it was decided that Douglas should take them back to the rapid. On Wednesday morning the storm was raging so fiercely that it was considered unsafe to go ahead for the present. George, moreover, complained of a lame ankle, and said he required a rest. So Tom came to the conclusion that if he remained at the tilt he would be eating the "stock of grub" to no purpose, and when Douglas turned homeward with the dogs he went with him. George and Duncan were to stay at the tilt until the travelling became better, Douglas said, and then push on to Donald's and wait for Tom there. Douglas's story made it plain that the weather conditions on Grand Lake had been fierce enough to appal any man, but as there had been no snow since Friday night I could not understand what Tom was doing at the rapid on Sunday, and with Mackenzie's consent I had Mark immediately harness the post dogs and drive me up to his house. I arrived there considerably incensed by his inactivity, but I must say that his explanation was adequate. He asked me if I had been able to see anything of Grand Lake, and made me realise what it meant to be out there with a high west wind of Arctic bitterness drifting the snow in great clouds down its thirty-seven miles of unbroken expanse. There was no doubt that the men had done the best they could, and after instructing Tom that, if more provisions were needed, to obtain them at Donald's at my expense, and receiving from him an assurance that he would again start for Hubbard's body as soon as the weather would permit, I returned, mollified, to the post. It was on this day (Sunday, March 13th) that I received my first news from home and the outside world, Monsieur Duclos, who had been on a trip north, bringing me two telegrams from New York. They conveyed to me the comforting assurance that all was well at home, being replies to the dispatches I had sent in December. Received at Chateau Bay, they had been forwarded to me three hundred and fifty miles by dog teams and snowshoe travellers. Tom Blake started on Monday morning, the 14th, and Tuesday at noon joined George and Duncan at Donald's. On Wednesday the three men began their march up the Susan. The weather continuing fair, they made good progress and had no difficulty in finding the site of our last camp. Hubbard's body, with the tent lying flat on top of it, was under eight feet of snow. Near the spot a wolverine had been prowling, but the body was too deeply buried for any animal to scent it, and in its quiet resting place it lay undisturbed. It was fortunate that it had not been placed on a stage, as I had suggested; for in that event it would undoubtedly have been destroyed. Continuing on inland, the men recovered the photographic films, the sextant, my fishing rod, and other odds and ends we had dropped on the trail as far back as Lake Elson. Tom and Duncan praised George unstintingly for the unvarying accuracy with which he located the things. With the country and smaller trees buried under a great depth of snow, and no landmarks to guide him, George would lead the other men on, and, with no searching about or hesitancy, stop and say, "We'll dig here." And not once did his remarkable instinct play him false. "'Tis sure wonderful," said Tom, in telling me about it. "I ne'er could ha' done it, an' no man on Th' Labrador could ha' done it, sir. Not even th' Mountaineers could ha' done it." And Duncan seconded Tom's opinion. On Sunday, March 27th, I was sitting in the cosey post house wondering where George and the others were, when suddenly George appeared from out the snow that the howling gale was whirling about. My long suspense was ended. The body had been recovered in good condition, George said. Wrapped in the blankets that Hubbard had round him when died--the blankets he had so gaily presented me with that June morning on the Silvia--and our old tarpaulin, which George had recovered farther back on the trail, it had been dragged on the Indian sled forty miles down over the sleeping Susan River, and thence out over Grand Lake to the Cape Corbeau tilt, where the men had been compelled to leave it the day before owing to the heavy snowstorm that then prevailed. From the tilt the men had gone on to Tom's house at the rapid to spend the night, and George had now come down to the post to relieve my mind with the news that the body was safe. It was arranged that the next morning George and Duncan should take the post dogs and komatik, drive up to Cape Corbeau and bring the body down. The morning was calm and fine, and they started early. It was a strange funeral procession that returned. The sun was setting when, on their way back, with the body lashed to the komatik, they passed over the rapid where Hubbard that beautiful July morning had sprung vigorously into the water to track the canoe into Grand Lake. How full of hope and pleasurable anticipation he had been when we paddled through the Little Lake! Over the snow and ice that now hid the lake the seven dogs that were hauling his corpse strained and tugged, ever and anon breaking into a trot as George and Duncan, running on their snowshoes on either side of the komatik, urged them forward with Eskimo exclamations or cracked their long whip over a laggard. No need to urge any one of them on, however, when they came in sight of the post. Darkness was falling. Knowing that their daily meal was near at hand, the dogs broke into a run, and with much howling and jumping swung around the point and up to the buildings. XXIII. OVER THE ICE With the body at the post, it was my intention to hire dog teams, and, accompanied by George, start with it at once for home, travelling up Hamilton Inlet to the ocean, and then down along the coast to Battle Harbour, or some port farther south, where we might happen on a ship that would take us away from the land where we had suffered so much. More than three weeks elapsed, however, before we could get away from the Northwest River. It was about 325 miles over the ice to Battle Harbour, and Mackenzie and the others continued to argue against the feasibility of my plan. For a time it did seem as if it would be impossible to carry it out. First of all, I had trouble with Hubbard's coffin. When we received the body, the plain spruce box that had been made for it was found not to be deep enough. I sent over a request to James Greenan, the carpenter at Kenemish, that another one be made as speedily as possible. He replied that the last board they had on hand had been used in making a coffin for poor Dr. Hardy, but said that if I would return to him the coffin we had, he believed he could raise the sides to the requisite height. Mackenzie immediately despatched Mark with the dogs and komatik to carry the coffin to Kenemish, and on April 4th it was returned with the necessary alterations. The body meanwhile had lain wrapped in the blankets and tarpaulin in a storehouse where the temperature practically was as low as it was out of doors. Now we placed it in the box with salt as a preservative, and everything was ready for our long journey. Then arose the question as to where I could get dogs. Two teams were needed, one for the body and one for our baggage. Not a dog owner could I find who would undertake the task. I sent imploring messages for twenty-five miles around, but all to no purpose. They would not even undertake the ninety-mile journey to Rigolet. Some, I knew, did not like the idea of travelling with a corpse, and others, like Tom Blake, did not have enough dogs to haul our loads. In despair I went to Monsieur Duclos on April 19th and urged him to lend me his team to take us as far as Rigolet, telling him that Mackenzie was willing to let us have his team for the trip to Rigolet, but that another was needed. The French post dogs had just returned from a long journey, and Monsieur Duclos said they were not fit for travel, but finally, to my great joy, he very kindly consented to let me have them, with Belfleur, a French-Indian, as driver, after they had a couple of days' rest. It was Mackenzie's custom to make an annual trip to Rigolet on post business, and this usually took place in May; but he expedited his arrangements so as to be able to leave with us and thus save his dogs an additional journey. Belfleur arrived with his dogs early on the morning of April 21st. Unfortunately Fred Blake, Mackenzie's driver, was not on hand, but it was decided that Belfleur should go ahead with George and the coffin, and that Mackenzie and I should follow with the baggage the next morning. It was nine o'clock when the eight dogs that were to haul the two men and the coffin got under way. All the natives were sorry to see George go, his genial manners and cheerful grin having made him a prime favourite. Mackenzie's little housekeeper and Mark Blake's wife, who had been George's hostess, wept copiously. Mackenzie, Fred Blake, and I got off at six o'clock the next morning. Our seven big dogs were howling and straining on the long traces as I said good-bye to all the good friends that had been so kind to me and had gathered to see me leave. It took us until evening of the following day to reach Rigolet. The Eskimo dogs almost invariably leave a house and arrive at one with a great flourish, but between times they settle down to a gentle pace and have to be urged on with exclamations and much snapping of the whip. Ours were much better travellers than those belonging to the French post, and, despite the fact that they had a heavier load to haul and were one less in number, we overtook George and Belfleur on the afternoon of the second day. A part of the time Mackenzie and Fred ran beside the komatik on their snowshoes to get warm, but my knees were still so weak that I had to stick to the komatik all the way. We spent the night at the log cabin of a breed, and before noon the next day came to the cabin of one Bell Shepard, where we learned George and Belfleur had spent their second night. It is considered a gross beach of etiquette on The Labrador to pass a man's house without stopping for bread and tea, and so we had to turn in to see Bell. As he served us with refreshment, he gave us a startling bit of news, to wit: that there was a great war raging in the outside world, with Great Britain, the United States, and Japan on one side, and Russia, France, and Germany on the other. "I's sure 'tis true, sir," he insisted, upon observing that Mackenzie and I appeared incredulous. "I's just come frum Rigolet, an' Scott, th' trader, had th' word by th' telegraph to Chateau. So 'tis sure true, sir, an' 'tis bad word for us poor folk on Th' Labrador, with th' prices to go up, as they tells me they sure will, on flour an' pork." We found out later that such a report had really spread up the coast from dog driver to dog driver until it had reached Rigolet, and it was not until I got to Battle Harbour that I learned that its basis was the beginning of the conflict between Russia and Japan. At Rigolet we were again hospitably received by Fraser, the factor. The news of Hubbard's death had preceded us; in fact it had been carried up and down the coast all the way from Cape Charles to Cape Chidley. Awaiting me was a letter from Dr. Cluny Macpherson, of the Deep Sea Mission at Battle Harbour, who, I was informed, had recently been to Rigolet and had hoped to see me. The letter proved to contain much valuable information as to stopping places and the probabilities of getting dogs between Rigolet and Battle Harbour, as well as the good news that a steamer was expected at Battle Harbour early in May. I also learned from Fraser that Mr. Whitney, editor of Outing magazine, of which Hubbard had been the associate editor, had sent a message to the telegraph operator at Chateau Bay requesting him to lend me every assistance possible and "to spare no expense." Well-meant though the message was, it had the effect of increasing my difficulties. Duly exaggerated and embellished, it had spread up the coast until every dog owner gained the impression that a little gold mine was about to pass through his country. I found this out when I tried to get dog teams to carry me to Cartwright Post, the next stage on my journey. A haughty person named Jerry Flowers, it appeared, had a monopoly just then of the dog-team business in the vicinity of Rigolet, and when we arrived at the post he proceeded to deal with me in the high-handed manner common to trust magnates. The regular rate paid by traders for transportation over the eighty odd miles between Rigolet and Cartwright was from ten to twelve dollars a team, but for the two teams I needed Jerry expected me to pay him sixty dollars. While I was still arguing with the immovable Jerry, John Williams, an old livyere, fortunately arrived from West Bay, which is half way to Cartwright, and Fraser used his influence with John to such good purpose that he consented to take us with his dog team at least as far as his home at the regular rate. John had only six dogs, but he told us we should be able to get an additional team at William Mugford's two miles beyond Rigolet. The strait at Rigolet was open, and when, late in the afternoon of Monday, April 25th, we bade Mackenzie and Fraser farewell, George and I, with our baggage and Hubbard's body, were taken across through the cakes of floating ice in one of the Company's big boats, manned by a crew of brawny post servants. On the other shore we loaded the baggage and coffin on John's komatik, and with him driving the dogs and George and I walking behind on snowshoes, we reached Mugford's at dusk. There we stopped for the night, being served with the meals that the people all down the coast usually eat at that time of the year--bread and molasses and tea. With one or two exceptions we had to sleep on the floor at the places where we stopped; for the houses generally contained only one room divided by a partition. Almost all of the houses had low extensions used as a storage place, and there Hubbard's body would rest over night. Never did we pay anything for our entertainment; poor as the people are, they would be greatly offended if a traveller they took in offered them money. Generally speaking, we had good weather for our long journey to Battle Harbour and pretty fair going. Day after day we followed the coast line south, crossing from neck of land to neck of land over the frozen bays and inlets. Sometimes we encountered ridges on the necks of land, and then we would have to help the dogs haul the loads to the top. Resuming our places on the komatiks, we would coast down the slopes, with the dogs racing madly ahead to keep from being run over. If the descent was very steep, a drag in the form of a hoop of braided walrus hide would be thrown over the front of one of the komatik runners, but even then the dogs would have to run their hardest to preserve a safe distance between them and us, and out on the smooth ice of the bays we would shoot, to skim along with exhilarating swiftness. As we proceeded south we were interested in observing signs of spring. Towards the end of our journey we encountered much soft snow and water-covered ice. Mugford agreed to help us out with his four dogs as far as West Bay. Arriving there, we found that only one team was procurable for the rest of the trip to Cartwright, so John Williams continued on with us all the way. Forty or fifty miles a day is about all that dogs can be expected to accomplish with average going, and we spent two days between Rigolet and Cartwright, reaching the Hudson's Bay Company Post at Sandwich Bay on the evening of Wednesday, April 27th, to receive kindly welcome from the agent, Mr. Swaffield. Again at Cartwright we had some difficulty in getting dogs, and it was not until Friday morning that we could push on. These delays were exasperating, for I was bent on catching the steamer that Dr. Macpherson informed me in his letter was due at Battle Harbour early in May. Our journey resumed, it was a case of fighting dog owners all the way. Seal Islands, about ninety miles farther down the coast, we reached on Saturday night, April 30th. There we had the good fortune to be entertained by a quaint character in the person of Skipper George Morris, a native trader. He had been expecting us, and he greeted me as if I had been his long-lost brother. "Dear eyes!" he exclaimed, wringing my hand in his bluff, cordial way; "Dear eyes! but I'se glad to see you--wonderful glad!" The skipper's house was far above the average of those on the coast. It had two floors with two rooms each, and his good wife kept everything clean and bright. Soon after our arrival the skipper got out for our edification two shotguns--one single, and the other double-barrelled--each of which was fully six feet long from butt to muzzle and had a bore of one and one-half inches. "Th' Boers ha' been fightin' England," said he, "an' I got un [the gun] t' fight, sir. Dear eyes! if th' Boers ha' come handy t' us, I thinks I could ha' kept un off, sir. I knows I could wi' them guns. I'd sure ha' shot through their schooners, sir, if un was big as th' mail boat an' steamers like th' mail boat. I'd ha' shot through un, sir, an' th' mail boat's a big un, sir, as you knows." The next day was May Day. I knew that at home the birds and the flowers had returned, and that in dear old New York gay parties of children were probably marching to the parks. What a May Day it was on The Labrador! The morning ushered in a heavy snow storm, with a tremendous gale. Thinking of the steamer due at Battle Harbour, I suggested that, despite the storm, we might make a start. But the skipper exclaimed: "Dear eyes! an' start in this gale! No, no, th' dogs could ne'er face un, sir." And as George and our drivers thought likewise, we spent the day resting with the old skipper and his wife, warmly housed and faring sumptuously on wild duck, while the storm outside seemed to shake the world to its very foundations. On May 2d the snow had almost ceased falling and the wind had somewhat subsided, when at eleven o'clock we parted from the quaint old skipper whose "Dear eyes!" continued to lend emphasis to his remarks up to the last that we saw of him. Rounding a point of land soon after leaving Seal Islands, we came suddenly upon two runaway dogs from a team that had been stormbound at Seal Islands like ourselves. The runaways were thoroughly startled by our sudden appearance, and took to their heels, with our teams, composed respectively of ten dogs and twelve dogs, after them. The ice we were on had been swept clear of snow by the wind, the hauling was easy, and our dogs almost flattened themselves out in their effort to get at the strangers and chew them up. The pace became terrific, but there was nothing to do but hold on tight and trust to luck. For perhaps five miles our wild ride lasted, and then, the strange dogs turning to the snow-covered land, our teams abandoned the race and condescended to pay some heed to their masters' excited observations. Fortunately the chase had carried us in the direction for which we were bound. Early in the afternoon we reached a cache of cod heads, and stopped while the dogs were fed one each. Poor brutes! they had had nothing to eat since Friday night--this was Monday--and I imagine a rather scant meal even then; for at this time of the year the stock of salt seal meat and fat and dried cod heads and caplin that the natives put up in the summer and fall for dog food is nearly exhausted, and what remains is used very economically. Often the dogs receive only one scanty meal every other day. Our drivers had intended to feed their teams at Seal Islands, but on account of the scarcity of dog food none could be purchased. At four o'clock in the afternoon we reached Norman Bay, where we found a miserable hut unoccupied save by an abundance of filth, two cats, and one hen. As there were no tracks visible in the snow, the people evidently had been away since the storm began on Saturday night. We built a fire in the stove, made tea and fed ourselves, the cats, and the hen from our grub bag. I invariably insisted that our drivers travel as long as there was light, which at this season lasted until after eight o'clock, and we pushed on until we came to Corbett's Bite, a place that also rejoices in the name of New York, the same having been facetiously bestowed upon it by some fisherman wag, because four small huts had been collected there to make a "city." The inhabitants of New York had all moved to their fishing quarters farther out on the coast when we arrived, and we took possession for the night of the best of the huts. Filth and slush lay an inch deep on the floor of the single room. A hole in the roof provided a means of escape for the smoke from the fire we built in an improvised fireplace, and, at the same time, a constant source of fear on our part lest some of the dogs which roamed at will over the roof, fall through it and into our fire. An old bench and loose boards taken from a semi-partition in the room served as beds for our party, and we passed a fairly comfortable night. We were off at daylight, and at half-past eight that morning (May 3d) reached Williams Harbour, where I had hoped to engage the teams of John and James Russell and proceed immediately to Battle Harbour, which place was now only a few miles off. But the Russells were away and did not return until night, so that we were unable to proceed until the following morning. With their teams of eight and six dogs the Russells got us away early, however, and at half-past eleven that morning (May 4th) we arrived at Fox Harbour, eight miles across the bay from Battle Harbour. Now a new problem presented itself, which was all the more exasperating for the reason that we were in sight of our goal. The ice pack was in the bay, and it was quite impossible to cross it until the wind might shift and blow the pack out. It is true that by a tortuous trail some thirty miles around we could with dogs reach Cape Charles, just below Battle Harbour; but none of the few drivers that knew the trail was anxious to undertake the journey, and as the probabilities were that even if we did succeed in reaching Cape Charles we should be in the same fix there as where we were, our only course seemed to be to remain at Fox Harbour and wait. No vessel, they told us, had yet arrived either at Battle Harbour or Cape Charles. George Wakeham, an old English fisherman from Devonshire, who had spent forty years of his life on The Labrador and had an Eskimo wife, welcomed us to his house. Near it was an eminence called Watch Hill, from which the general situation of the ice pack could be observed. Day after day I climbed Watch Hill, and for hours at a time with a telescope viewed the ice and gazed longingly at Battle Harbour in the distance. On the morning of the ninth day the pack appeared to be spreading, and I decided to run the risk of getting fast in the ice, and make at least an attempt to start. So George and I and the five natives that were to row us over got the boat afloat, prepared for a start immediately after luncheon. Meanwhile George and I ascended Watch Hill for another look at the ice pack. Upon scanning the distant shore line through the telescope we discovered a speck moving in the bay away over near Battle Harbour. A little later we were assured that it was a big row-boat laboriously making its way through the ice. It came nearer and nearer, obviously headed for Fox Harbour. At noon it arrived, and its brawny crew of fishermen said they had come for us. Dr. Macpherson had sent them. The steamer that the doctor had written me was expected had arrived at Cape Charles with a cargo for a new whale factory, and probably would sail for Newfoundland the next day. Having heard we were on our way down the coast, and divining that we were held at Fox Harbour by the ice, Dr. Macpherson had sent the boat so that we might be sure to get the steamer. I marvelled greatly at these evidences of the doctor's thoughtfulness for us who were absolute strangers to him, and was deeply touched. We placed the coffin in the boat, together with our baggage, and started at once. The men had instructions to take us directly to the ship as she lay off Cape Charles, and after a row of about thirteen miles we reached her at five o'clock in the afternoon. She was the Aurora, one of the Newfoundland sealing fleet. It was like reaching home to be on shipboard again, and I felt that my troubles were ended. The mate, Patrick Dumphry, informed me, however, that her commander, Captain Abraham Kean, was at Battle Harbour, and that the steamer would not sail before the following night. So, wishing to have Hubbard's coffin prepared for the voyage, and to meet and thank Dr. Macpherson, I had the men row me back the five miles to Battle Harbour. There I learned that, upon receiving the first news of my proposed attempt to bring out Hubbard's body, Dr. Macpherson had made a special trip of twenty-five miles to Chateau Bay, to telegraph to New York suggesting that arrangements be made with Bowering & Co., the owners of the Aurora, to have that steamer pick us up at Battle Harbour. Perhaps I should say here that the kindness of the doctor to us was only what might have been expected from a gentleman by birth and breeding who, with his charming wife, buries himself on the desolate coast of Labrador, in order to do his Master's work. Pitiable indeed would be the condition of the poor folk on The Labrador were it not for Dr. Grenfell and his brave co-workers of the Deep Sea Mission. For hundreds of miles along the coast they travel on their errands of mercy, braving the violent storms of the bitter Arctic winter, sleeping in the meanest of huts, and frequently risking their lives in open boats on the raging sea. Many is the needy one for whom they have found work, many is the stricken soul that they have comforted, and many is the life that their medical skill has saved. At the doctor's house I received my first letters from home, and the first accurate news of what had been transpiring in the outside world. While there I also met Captain Kean. Unfortunately the people in New York had not made the arrangement Dr. Macpherson had suggested, but the captain assumed the responsibility of carrying us to Newfoundland, saying that we should go as his guests. He is a former member of the Newfoundland parliament, and a man of influence as well as initiative, and it was lucky for us that he commanded the Aurora, else we, in all probability, should have had to push farther down the coast with dogs, or waited at Battle Harbour for the first appearance of the mail boat. The next day (Friday, May 13th) a firm of traders at Battle Harbour, under Dr. Macpherson's supervision, lined Hubbard's coffin with sheet lead and sealed it hermetically. The body was still frozen and in good condition. In the afternoon we were taken to the Aurora by Dr. Macpherson and a crew of his men, and established in the cabin, while Hubbard's coffin was carefully stowed away in the hold, there to remain until it was transferred at St. Johns to the Silvia, the steamer on which my old friend, so full of life and ambition, had sailed from New York, and which now was to carry him back a corpse. Because of a delay in getting her unloaded, the Aurora did not sail until Saturday evening. The sky was all aglow with a gorgeous sunset when we weighed anchor and steamed out of Cape Charles Harbour down across the straits of Belle Isle. The night was equally glorious. As darkness fell, the sky and sea were illuminated by the northern lights. There was no wind and the sea was calm. Close to our port side an iceberg with two great spires towered high above us; another large iceberg was on our starboard. Before us Belle Isle and the French shore were dimly visible. Behind us the rocky coast of Labrador gradually faded away. XXIV. HUBBARD'S MESSAGE Out voyage from Labrador to Newfoundland was uneventful, and on Tuesday morning, May 17th, the Aurora steamed into St. Johns Harbour. I was on the bridge with Captain Kean when we passed through the narrows, eagerly looking to see if the ship was there that was to take us home. To my great satisfaction the Silvia was at her wharf, and George and I lost no time in presenting ourselves to my old friend Captain Farrell, her commander, who was engaged on deck when we arrived. He literally took me to his arms in welcome, and like everyone in St. Johns showed me the greatest consideration and kindness. Bowring & Company, the owners of the Aurora, placed at my disposal their steam launch and such men as I needed, to aid me in the transference of the body from the Aurora to the Silvia, and they would make no charge for either this service or for our passage from Cape Charles to St. Johns. On Friday morning, May 20th, the Silvia sailed from St. John's, and one week later (Friday the 27th), with her flag at half mast, steamed slowly to her dock in Brooklyn. It was a sad home-coming. Scarcely a year before, Hubbard, light-hearted and gay, filled with hope and ambition and manly vigour, had stood by my side on that very deck as together we waved farewell to the friends that were gathered now to welcome George and me back. I thought of how, when we were fighting our way across the desolate wilderness, he had talked of, and planned for, this hour; and thought of his childlike faith that God would take care of us and lead us safely out. And then I asked myself why George and I, whose faith was so much the weaker, had been spared, while Hubbard, who never lost sight of the religion of his youth, was left to die. I felt that I was the least deserving. And I lived. And Hubbard died. Why? I had no answer to the question. That was God's secret. Perhaps Hubbard's work, in the fulness of His plan, had been completed. Perhaps He still had work for me to do. We laid him to rest in a beautiful spot in the little cemetery at Haverstraw, at the very foot of the mountains that he used to roam, and overlooking the grand old Hudson that he loved so well. The mountains will know him no more, and never again will he dip his paddle into the placid waters of the river; but his noble character, his simple faith, a faith that never wavered, but grew the stronger in his hour of trouble, his bravery, his indomitable will--these shall not be forgotten; they shall remain a living example to all who love bravery and self-sacrifice. The critics have said that Hubbard was foolhardy, and without proper preparation he plunged blindly into an unknown wilderness. I believe the early chapters of this narrative show that these criticisms are unfounded, and that Hubbard took every precaution that could occur to a reasonable mind. Himself a thorough student of wilderness travel, in making his preparations for the journey he sought the advice of men of wider experience as to every little detail and acted upon it. Others tell how fish-nets might have been made from willow bark "after the manner of the Indians," and describe other means of securing food that they claim men familiar with woodcraft would have resorted to. The preceding chapters show how impracticable it would have been for us to have consumed our small stock of provisions while manufacturing a fish-net from bark; and how we did resort to every method at our command of procuring food. Unfortunately we fell upon a year of paucity. The old men of the country bore witness that never before within their memory had there been such a scarcity of game. But by far the most serious criticism of all, to my mind, is that against the object of the expedition. It has been said that, even had Hubbard succeeded in accomplishing everything that he set out to do, the result would have been of little or no value to the world. In answer to this I cannot do better than to quote from the eloquent tribute to Hubbard's expedition made by his old college friend, Mr. James A. LeRoy, in the magazine issued by the Alumni Association of their alma mater. "Editorial wiseacres," says Mr. LeRoy, "may preach that such efforts as Hubbard made are of no great immediate value to the world, even if successful. But the man who is born with the insatiable desire to do something, to see what other men have not seen, to push into the waste places of the world, to make a new discovery, to develop a new theme or enrich an old, to contribute, in other words, to the fund of human knowledge, is always something more than a mere seeker for notoriety; he belongs, however slight may be his actual contribution to knowledge, however great his success or complete his failure, to that minority which has from the first kept the world moving on, while the vast majority have peacefully travelled on with it in its course. The unpoetical critic will not understand him, will find it easy to call him a dreamer; yet it is from dreams like these that have come the world's inspirations and its great achievements." Without any trace of the finicality that so often is pure morbidity, Hubbard was the most conscientious man I ever knew, a man who was continually thinking of others and how he might help them. Doubtless some will see in his brave life's struggle only a determination to win for himself a recognised place as a writer and expert upon out-of-door life; but those who were privileged to enjoy his intimacy know that the deep, underlying purpose of the man was to fit himself to deliver to the world a message that he felt to be profoundly true--a message that should inspire his fellow-men to encounter the battle of life without flinching, that should make them realise that unceasing endeavour and loyalty to God, their conscience and their brothers are indeed worth while. He died before he reached the goal of his ambition, but I do not believe that his message was undelivered. Only men that have camped together in a lonely, uninhabited country can in any degree comprehend the bond of affection and love that drew Hubbard and me ever closer to each other, as the Labrador Wild lured us on and on into the depths of its desolate waste. "The work must be done," he used to say, "and if one of us falls before it is completed, the other must finish it." His words ring in my ear as a call to duty. I see his dear, brave face before me now. I feel his lips upon my cheek. The smoke of the camp-fire is in my blood. The fragrance of the forest is in my nostrils. Perhaps it is God's will that I finish the work of exploration that Hubbard began. 
39130	----	Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net _DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH_ [Illustration: "A DOCTOR ... THE PROPHET AND CHAMPION OF A PEOPLE"] _Dr. Grenfell's Parish_ _The Deep Sea Fishermen_ _By_ _NORMAN DUNCAN_ _Author of_ _"Doctor Luke of the Labrador"_ _New York Chicago Toronto_ _Fleming H. Revell Company_ _London and Edinburgh_ Copyright, 1905, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY THIRD EDITION New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 63 Washington Street Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street _TO_ _THE CREW OF THE "STRATHCONA"_ Henry Bartlett, _Skipper_ Munden Clark, _Second Hand_ William Percy, _First Engineer_ John Scott, _Second Engineer_ Archie Butler, _Hospital Hand_ James Hiscock, _Cook_ Alec Sims, _Ship's Boy_ _TO THE READER_ This book pretends to no literary excellence; it has a far better reason for existence--a larger justification. Its purpose is to spread the knowledge of the work of Dr. Wilfred T. Grenfell, of the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, at work on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador; and to describe the character and condition of the folk whom he seeks to help. The man and the mission are worthy of sympathetic interest; worthy, too, of unqualified approbation, of support of every sort. Dr. Grenfell is indefatigable, devoted, heroic; he is more and even better than that--he is a sane and efficient worker. Frankly, the author believes that the reader would do a good deed by contributing to the maintenance and development of the doctor's beneficent undertakings; and regrets that the man and his work are presented in this inadequate way and by so incapable a hand. The author is under obligation to the editors of _Harper's Magazine_, of _The World's Work_, and of _Outing_ for permission to reprint the contributed papers which, in some part, go to make up the volume. He wishes also to protest that Dr. Grenfell is not the hero of a certain work of fiction dealing with life on the Labrador coast. Some unhappy misunderstanding has arisen on this point. The author wishes to make it plain that "Doctor Luke" was _not_ drawn from Dr. Grenfell. N. D. _College Campus,_ _Washington, Pennsylvania, January 25, 1905._ _CONTENTS_ I. The Doctor 11 II. A Round of Bleak Coasts 18 III. Ships in Peril 26 IV. Desperate Need 37 V. A Helping Hand 48 VI. Faith and Duty 55 VII. The Liveyere 67 VIII. With the Fleet 83 IX. On the French Shore 103 X. Some Outport Folk 110 XI. Winter Practice 132 XII. The Champion 146 _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_ "A Doctor ... the Prophet and Champion of a People" _Title_ "It is an Evil Coast" 20 "Bound North" 30 "A Turf Hut" 44 "Set Sail from Great Yarmouth Harbour for Labrador" 50 "Appeared with a Little Steam-launch, the Princess May" 55 "The Hospital Ship, Strathcona" 65 "The Labrador 'Liveyere'" 73 "At Indian Harbour" 86 "Set the Traps in the Open Sea" 93 "The Bully-boat Becomes a Home" 101 "The Whitewashed Cottages on the Hills" 111 "Toil" 122 "The Hospital at Battle Harbour" 133 "The Doctor on a Winter's Journey" 144 "A Crew Quite Capable of Taking You into It" 150 _Dr. Grenfell's Parish_ I _THE DOCTOR_ Doctor Wilfred T. Grenfell is the young Englishman who, for the love of God, practices medicine on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador. Other men have been moved to heroic deeds by the same high motive, but the professional round, I fancy, is quite out of the common; indeed, it may be that in all the world there is not another of the sort. It extends from Cape John of Newfoundland around Cape Norman and into the Strait of Belle Isle, and from Ungava Bay and Cape Chidley of the Labrador southward far into the Gulf of St. Lawrence--two thousand miles of bitterly inhospitable shore: which a man in haste must sail with his life in his hands. The folk are for the most part isolated and desperately wretched--the shore fishermen of the remoter Newfoundland coasts, the Labrador "liveyeres," the Indians of the forbidding interior, the Esquimaux of the far north. It is to such as these that the man gives devoted and heroic service--not for gain; there is no gain to be got in those impoverished places: merely for the love of God. * * * * * I once went ashore in a little harbour of the northeast coast of Newfoundland. It was a place most unimportant--and it was just beyond the doctor's round. The sea sullenly confronted it, hills overhung it, and a scrawny wilderness flanked the hills; the ten white cottages of the place gripped the dripping rocks as for dear life. And down the path there came an old fisherman to meet the stranger. "Good-even, zur," said he. "Good-evening." He waited for a long time. Then, "Be you a doctor, zur?" he asked. "No, sir." "Noa? Isn't you? Now, I was thinkin' maybe you might be. But you isn't, you says?" "Sorry--but, no; really, I'm not." "Well, zur," he persisted, "I was thinkin' you might be, when I seed you comin' ashore. They _is_ a doctor on this coast," he added, "but he's sixty mile along shore. 'Tis a wonderful expense t' have un up. This here harbour isn't able. An' you isn't a doctor, you says? Is you sure, zur?" There was unhappily no doubt about it. "I was thinkin' you might be," he went on, wistfully, "when I seed you comin' ashore. But perhaps you might know something about doctorin'? Noa?" "Nothing." "I was thinkin', now, that you might. 'Tis my little girl that's sick. Sure, none of us knows what's the matter with she. Woan't you come up an' see she, zur? Perhaps you might do something--though you isn't--a doctor." The little girl was lying on the floor--on a ragged quilt, in a corner. She was a fair child--a little maid of seven. Her eyes were deep blue, wide, and fringed with long, heavy lashes. Her hair was flaxen, abundant, all tangled and curly. Indeed, she was a winsome little thing! "I'm thinkin' she'll be dyin' soon," said the mother. "Sure, she's wonderful swelled in the legs. We been waitin' for a doctor t' come, an' we kind o' thought you was one." "How long have you waited?" "'Twas in April she was took. She've been lyin' there ever since. 'Tis near August, now, I'm thinkin'." "They was a doctor here two year ago," said the man. "He come by chance," he added, "like you." "Think they'll be one comin' soon?" the woman asked. I took the little girl's hand. It was dry and hot. She did not smile--nor was she afraid. Her fingers closed upon the hand she held. She was a blue-eyed, winsome little maid; but pain had driven all the sweet roguery out of her face. "Does you think she'll die, zur?" asked the woman, anxiously. I did not know. "Sure, zur," said the man, trying to smile, "'tis wonderful queer, but I _sure_ thought you was a doctor, when I seed you comin' ashore." "But you isn't?" the woman pursued, still hopefully. "Is you sure you couldn't do nothin'? Is you noa kind of a doctor, at all? We doan't--we doan't--want she t' die!" In the silence--so long and deep a silence--melancholy shadows crept in from the desolation without. "I wisht you _was_ a doctor," said the man. "I--_wisht--you--was_!" He was crying. "They need," thought I, "a mission-doctor in these parts." And the next day--in the harbour beyond--I first heard of Grenfell. In that place they said they would send _him_ to the little maid who lay dying; they assured me, indeed, that he would make haste, when he came that way: which would be, perhaps, they thought, in "'long about a month." Whether or not the doctor succoured the child I do not know; but I have never forgotten this first impression of his work--the conviction that it was a good work for a man to be about. * * * * * Subsequently I learned that Dr. Grenfell was the superintendent of the Newfoundland and Labrador activities of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, an English organization, with a religious and medical work already well-established on the North Sea, and a medical mission then in process of development on the North Atlantic coast. Two years later he discovered himself to be a robust, hearty Saxon, strong, indefatigable, devoted, jolly; a doctor, a parson by times, something of a sportsman when occasion permitted, a master-mariner, a magistrate, the director of certain commercial enterprises designed to "help the folk help themselves"--the prophet and champion, indeed, of a people: and a man very much in love with life. II _A ROUND of BLEAK COASTS_ The coast of Labrador, which, in number of miles, forms the larger half of the doctor's round, is forbidding, indeed--naked, rugged, desolate, lying sombre in a mist. It is of weather-worn gray rock, broken at intervals by long ribs of black. In part it is low and ragged, slowly rising, by way of bare slopes and starved forest, to broken mountain ranges, which lie blue and bold in the inland waste. Elsewhere it rears from the edge of the sea in stupendous cliffs and lofty, rugged hills. There is no inviting stretch of shore the length of it--no sandy beach, no line of shingle, no grassy bank; the sea washes a thousand miles of jagged rock. Were it not for the harbours--innumerable and snugly sheltered from the winds and ground swell of the open--there would be no navigating the waters of that region. The Strait Shore is buoyed, lighted, minutely charted. The reefs and currents and tickles[1] and harbours are all known. A northeast gale, to be sure, raises a commotion, and fog and drift-ice add something to the chance of disaster; but, as they say, from one peril there are two ways of escape to three sheltered places. To the north, however, where the doctor makes his way, the coast is best sailed on the plan of the skipper of the old _Twelve Brothers_. "You don't cotch _me_ meddlin' with no land!" said he. Past the Dead Islands, Snug Harbour, Domino Run, Devil's Lookout and the Quaker's Hat--beyond Johnny Paul's Rock and the Wolves, Sandwich Bay, Tumbledown Dick, Indian Harbour, and the White Cockade--past Cape Harrigan, the Farmyard Islands and the Hen and Chickens--far north to the great, craggy hills and strange peoples of Kikkertadsoak, Scoralik, Tunnulusoak, Nain, Okak, and, at last, to Cape Chidley itself--northward, every crooked mile of the way, bold headlands, low outlying islands, sunken reefs, tides, fogs, great winds and snow make hard sailing of it. It is an evil coast, ill-charted where charted at all; some part of the present-day map is based upon the guess-work of the eighteenth century navigators. The doctor, like the skippers of the fishing-craft, must sometimes sail by guess and hearsay, by recollection, and old rhymes. * * * * * The gusts and great waves of open water--of the free, wide sea, I mean, over which a ship may safely drive while the weather exhausts its evil mood--are menace enough for the stoutest heart. But the Labrador voyage is inshore--a winding course among the islands, or a straight one from headland to headland, of a coast off which reefs lie thick: low-lying, jagged ledges, washed by the sea in heavy weather; barren hills, rising abruptly--and all isolated--from safe water; sunken rocks, disclosed, upon approach, only by the green swirl above them. They are countless--scattered everywhere, hidden and disclosed. They lie in the mouths of harbours, they lie close to the coast, they lie offshore; they run twenty miles out to sea. Here is no plain sailing; the skipper must be sure of the way--or choose it gingerly: else the hidden rock will inevitably "pick him up." [Illustration: "IT IS AN EVIL COAST"] Recently the doctor _was_ "picked up." "Oh, yes," says he, with interest. "An uncharted rock. It took two of the three blades of the propeller. But, really, you'd be surprised to know how well the ship got along with one!" * * * * * To know the submerged rocks of one harbour and the neighbouring coast, however evil the place, is small accomplishment. The Newfoundland lad of seven years would count himself his father's shame if he failed in so little. High tide and low tide, quiet sea and heavy swell, he will know where he can take the punt--the depth of water, to an inch, which overlies the danger spots. But here are a hundred harbours--a thousand miles of coast--with reefs and islands scattered like dust the length of it. The man who sails the Labrador must know it all like his own back yard--not in sunny weather alone, but in the night, when the headlands are like black clouds ahead, and in the mist, when the noise of breakers tells him all that he may know of his whereabouts. A flash of white in the gray distance, a thud and swish from a hidden place: the one is his beacon, the other his fog-horn. It is thus, often, that the doctor gets along. * * * * * You may chart rocks, and beware of them; but--it is a proverb on the coast--"there's no chart for icebergs." The Labrador current is charged with them--hard, dead-white glacier ice from the Arctic: massive bergs, innumerable, all the while shifting with tide and current and wind. What with floes and bergs--vast fields of drift-ice--the way north in the spring is most perilous. The same bergs--widely scattered, diminished in number, dwarfed by the milder climate--give the transatlantic passenger evil dreams: somewhere in the night, somewhere in the mist, thinks he, they may lie; and he shudders. The skipper of the Labrador craft _knows_ that they lie thick around him: there is no surmise; when the night fell, when the fog closed in, there were a hundred to be counted from the masthead. * * * * * Violent winds are always to be feared--swift, overwhelming hurricanes: winds that catch the unwary. They are not frequent; but they _do_ blow--will again blow, no man can tell when. In such a gale, forty vessels were driven on a lee shore; in another, eighty were wrecked overnight--two thousand fishermen cast away, the coast littered with splinters of ships--and, once (it is but an incident), a schooner was torn from her anchors and flung on the rocks forty feet above the high-water mark. These are exceptional storms; the common Labrador gale is not so violent, but evil enough in its own way. It is a northeaster, of which the barometer more often than not gives fair warning; day after day it blows, cold, wet, foggy, dispiriting, increasing in violence, subsiding, returning again, until courage and strength are both worn out. * * * * * Reefs, drift-ice, wind and sea--and over all the fog: thick, wide-spread, persistent, swift in coming, mysterious in movement; it compounds the dangers. It blinds men--they curse it, while they grope along: a desperate business, indeed, thus to run by guess where positive knowledge of the way merely mitigates the peril. There are days when the fog lies like a thick blanket on the face of the sea, hiding the head-sails from the man at the wheel; it is night on deck, and broad day--with the sun in a blue sky--at the masthead; the schooners are sometimes steered by a man aloft. The _Always Loaded_, sixty tons and bound home with a cargo that did honour to her name, struck one of the outlying islands so suddenly, so violently, that the lookout in the bow, who had been peering into the mist, was pitched headlong into the surf. The _Daughter_, running blind with a fair, light wind--she had been lost for a day--ran full tilt into a cliff; the men ran forward from the soggy gloom of the after-deck into--bright sunshine at the bow! It is the fog that wrecks ships. "Oh, I runned her ashore," says the castaway skipper. "Thick? Why, _sure_, 'twas thick!" So the men who sail that coast hate fog, fear it, avoid it when they can, which is seldom; they are not afraid of wind and sea, but there are times when they shake in their sea-boots, if the black fog catches them out of harbour. [Footnote 1: A "tickle" is a narrow passage to a harbour or between two islands.] III _SHIPS in PERIL_ It is to be remarked that a wreck on the Labrador coast excites no wide surprise. Never a season passes but some craft are cast away. But that is merely the fortune of sailing those waters--a fortune which the mission-doctor accepts with a glad heart: it provides him with an interesting succession of adventures; life is not tame. Most men--I hesitate to say all--have been wrecked; every man, woman, and child who has sailed the Labrador has narrowly escaped, at least. And the fashion of that escape is sometimes almost incredible. * * * * * The schooner _All's Well_ (which is a fictitious name) was helpless in the wind and sea and whirling snow of a great blizzard. At dusk she was driven inshore--no man knew where. Strange cliffs loomed in the snow ahead; breakers--they were within stone's throw--flashed and thundered to port and starboard; the ship was driving swiftly into the surf. When she was fairly upon the rocks, Skipper John, then a hand aboard (it was he who told me the story), ran below and tumbled into his bunk, believing it to be the better place to drown in. "Well, lads," said he to the men in the forecastle, "we got t' go this time. 'Tis no use goin' on deck." But the ship drove through a tickle no wider than twice her beam and came suddenly into the quiet water of a harbour! * * * * * The sealing-schooner _Right and Tight_ struck on the Fish Rocks off Cape Charles in the dusk of a northeast gale. It is a jagged, black reef, outlying and isolated; the seas wash over it in heavy weather. It was a bitter gale; there was ice in the sea, and the wind was wild and thick with snow; she was driving before it--wrecked, blind, utterly lost. The breakers flung her on the reef, broke her back, crunched her, swept the splinters on. Forty-two men were of a sudden drowned in the sea beyond; but the skipper was left clinging to the rock in a swirl of receding water. "Us seed un there in the marnin'," said the old man of Cape Charles who told me the story. "He were stickin' to it like a mussel, with the sea breakin' right over un! 'Cod! he were!" He laughed and shook his head; that was a tribute to the strength and courage with which the man on the reef had withstood the icy breakers through the night. "Look! us couldn't get near un," he went on. "'Twas clear enough t' see, but the wind was blowin' wonderful, an' the seas was too big for the skiff. Sure, I _knows_ that; for us tried it. "'Leave us build a fire!' says my woman. 'Leave us build a fire on the head!' says she. ''Twill let un know they's folk lookin' on.' "'Twas a wonderful big fire us set; an' it kep' us warm, so us set there all day watchin' the skipper o' the _Right an' Tight_ on Fish Rocks. The big seas jerked un loose an' flung un about, an' many a one washed right over un; but nar a sea could carry un off. 'Twas a wonderful sight t' see un knocked off his feet, an' scramble round an' cotch hold somewheres else. 'Cod! it were--the way that man stuck t' them slippery rocks all day long!" He laughed again--not heartlessly; it was the only way in which he could express his admiration. "We tried the skiff again afore dark," he continued; "but 'twasn't no use. The seas was too big. Sure, _he_ knowed that so well as we. So us had t' leave un there all night. "'He'll never be there in the marnin',' says my woman. "'You wait,' says I, 'an' you'll see. I'm thinkin' he will.' "An' he was, zur--right there on Fish Rocks, same as ever; still stickin' on like the toughest ol' mussel ever you tasted. Sure, I had t' rub me eyes when I looked; but 'twas he, never fear--'twas he, stickin' there like a mussel. But there was no gettin' un then. Us watched un all that day. 'Twas dark afore us got un ashore. "'You come nigh it _that_ time,' says I. "'I'll have t' come a sight nigher,' says he, 'afore _I_ goes!'" The man had been on the reef more than forty-eight hours! * * * * * The _Army Lass_, bound north, was lost in the fog. They hove her to. All hands knew that she lay somewhere near the coast. The skipper needed a sight of the rocks--just a glimpse of some headland or island--to pick the course. It was important that he should have it. There was an iceberg floating near; it was massive; it appeared to be steady--and the sea was quiet. From the top of it, he thought (the fog was dense and seemed to be lying low), he might see far and near. His crew put him on the ice with the quarter-boat and then hung off a bit. He clambered up the side of the berg. Near the summit be had to cut his foothold with an axe. This was unfortunate; for he gave the great white mass one blow too many. It split under his feet. He fell headlong into the widening crevice. But he was apparently not a whit the worse for it when his boat's crew picked him up. [Illustration: "BOUND NORTH"] * * * * * A schooner--let her be called the _Good Fortune_--running through dense fog, with a fair, high wind and all sail set, struck a "twin" iceberg bow on. She was wrecked in a flash: her jib-boom was rammed into her forecastle; her bows were stove in; her topmast snapped and came crashing to the deck. Then she fell away from the ice; whereupon the wind caught her, turned her about, and drove her, stern foremost, into a narrow passage which lay between the two towering sections of the "twin." She scraped along, striking the ice on either side; and with every blow, down came fragments from above. "It rained chunks," said the old skipper who told me the story. "You couldn't tell, look! what minute you'd get knocked on the head." The falling ice made great havoc with the deck-works; the boats were crushed; the "house" was stove in; the deck was littered with ice. But the _Good Fortune_ drove safely through, was rigged with makeshift sails, made harbour, was refitted by all hands--the Labradormen can build a ship with an axe--and continued her voyage. * * * * * I have said that the Newfoundlanders occasionally navigate by means of old rhymes; and this brings me to the case of Zachariah, the skipper of the _Heavenly Rest_. He was a Newf'un'lander. Neither wind, fog nor a loppy sea could turn his blood to water. He was a Newf'un'lander of the hardshell breed. So he sailed the _Heavenly Rest_ without a chart. To be sure, he favoured the day for getting along, but he ran through the night when he was crowding south, and blithely took his chance with islands of ice and rock alike. He had some faith in a "telltale," had Zachariah, but he scorned charts. It was his boast that if he could not carry the harbours and headlands and shallows of five hundred miles of hungry coast in his head he should give up the _Heavenly Rest_ and sail a paddle-punt for a living. It was well that he could--well for the ship and the crew and the folk at home. For, at the time of which I write, the _Rest_, too light in ballast to withstand a gusty breeze, was groping through the fog for harbour from a gale which threatened a swift descent. It was "thick as bags," with a rising wind running in from the sea, and the surf breaking and hissing within hearing to leeward. "We be handy t' Hollow Harbour," said Zachariah. "Is you sure, skipper?" asked the cook. "Sure," said Zachariah. The _Heavenly Rest_ was in desperate case. She was running in--pursuing an unfaltering course for an unfamiliar, rocky shore. The warning of the surf sounded in every man's ears. It was imperative that her true position should soon be determined. The skipper was perched far forward, peering through the fog for a sight of the coast. "Sure, an' I hopes," said the man at the wheel, "that she woan't break her nose on a rock afore the ol' man sees un." "Joe Bett's P'int!" exclaimed the skipper. Dead ahead, and high in the air, a mass of rock loomed through the mist. The skipper had recognized it in a flash. He ran aft and took the wheel. The _Heavenly Rest_ sheered off and ran to sea. "We'll run in t' Hollow Harbour," said the skipper. "Has you ever been there?" said the man who had surrendered the wheel. "Noa, b'y," the skipper answered, "but I'll get there, whatever." The nose of the _Heavenly Rest_ was turned shoreward. Sang the skipper, humming it to himself in a rasping sing-song: "When Joe Bett's P'int you is abreast, Dane's Rock bears due west. West-nor'west you must steer, 'Til Brimstone Head do appear. "The tickle's narrow, not very wide; The deepest water's on the starboard side When in the harbour you is shot, Four fathoms you has got." The old song was chart enough for Skipper Zachariah. Three times the _Heavenly Rest_ ran in and out. Then she sighted Dane's Rock, which bore due west, true enough. West-nor'west was the course she followed, running blindly through the fog and heeling to the wind. Brimstone Head appeared in due time; and in due time the rocks of the tickle--that narrow entrance to the harbour--appeared in vague, forbidding form to port and starboard. The schooner ran to the starboard for the deeper water. Into the harbour she shot; and there they dropped anchor, caring not at all whether the water was four or forty fathoms, for it was deep enough. Through the night the gale tickled the topmasts, but the ship rode smoothly at her anchors, and Skipper Zachariah's stentorian sleep was not disturbed by any sudden call to duty. And the doctor of the Deep Sea Mission has had many a similar experience. IV _DESPERATE NEED_ It was to these rough waters that Dr. Grenfell came when the need of the folk reached his ears and touched his heart. Before that, in the remoter parts of Newfoundland and on the coast of Labrador there were no doctors. The folk depended for healing upon traditional cures, upon old women who worked charms, upon remedies ingeniously devised to meet the need of the moment, upon deluded persons who prescribed medicines of the most curious description, upon a rough-and-ready surgery of their own, in which the implements of the kitchen and of the splitting-stage served a useful purpose. For example, there was a misled old fellow who set himself up as a healer in a lonely cove of the Newfoundland coast, where he lived a hermit, verily believing, it may be, in the glory of his call and in the blessed efficacy of his ministrations; his cure for consumption--it was a tragic failure, in one case, at least--was a bull's heart, dried and powdered and administered with faith and regularity. Elsewhere there was a man, stricken with a mortal ailment, who, upon the recommendation of a kindly neighbour, regularly dosed himself with an ill-flavoured liquid obtained by boiling cast-off pulley-blocks in water. There was also a father who most hopefully attempted to cure his little lad of diphtheria by wrapping his throat with a split herring; but, unhappily, as he has said, "the wee feller choked hisself t' death," notwithstanding. There was another father--a man of grim, heroic disposition--whose little daughter chanced to freeze her feet to the very bone in midwinter; when he perceived that a surgical operation could no longer be delayed, he cut them off with an axe. An original preventative of sea-boils--with which the fishermen are cruelly afflicted upon the hands and wrists in raw weather--was evolved by a frowsy-headed old Labradorman of serious parts. "_I_ never has none," said he, in the fashion of superior fellows. "No?" "Nar a one. No, _zur_! Not _me_!" A glance of interested inquiry elicited no response. It but prolonged a large silence. "Have you never _had_ a sea-boil?" with the note and sharp glance of incredulity. "Not me. Not since I got my cure." "And what might that cure be?" "Well, zur," was the amazing reply, "I cuts my nails on a Monday." * * * * * It must be said, however, that the Newfoundland government did provide a physician--of a sort. Every summer he was sent north with the mail-boat, which made not more than six trips, touching here and there at long intervals, and, of a hard season, failing altogether to reach the farthest ports. While the boat waited--an hour, or a half, as might be--the doctor went ashore to cure the sick, if he chanced to be in the humour; otherwise the folk brought the sick aboard, where they were painstakingly treated or not, as the doctor's humour went. The government seemed never to inquire too minutely into the qualifications and character of its appointee. The incumbent for many years--the folk thank God that he is dead--was an inefficient, ill-tempered, cruel man; if not the very man himself, he was of a kind with the Newfoundland physician who ran a flag of warning to his masthead when he set out to get very drunk. The mail-boat dropped anchor one night in a far-away harbour of the Labrador, where there was desperate need of a doctor to ease a man's pain. They had waited a long time, patiently, day after day. I am told; and when at last the mail-boat came, the man's skipper put out in glad haste to fetch the government physician. "He've turned in," they told him aboard. What did _that_ matter? The skipper roused the doctor. "We've a sick man ashore, zur," said he, "an' he wants you t' come----" "What!" roared the doctor. "Think I'm going to turn out this time of night?" "Sure, zur," stammered the astounded skipper. "I--I--s'pose so. He's very sick, zur. He's coughin'----" "Let him cough himself to death!" said the doctor. Turn out? Not he! Rather, he turned over in his warm berth. It is to be assumed that the sick man died in pain; it is to be assumed, too, that the physician continued a tranquil slumber, for the experience was not exceptional. "Let 'em die!" he had said more than once. The government had provided for the transportation of sick fishermen from the Labrador coast to their homes in Newfoundland; these men were of the great Newfoundland fleet of cod-fishing schooners, which fish the Labrador seas in the summer. It needed only the doctor's word to get the boon. Once a fisherman brought his consumptive son aboard--a young lad, with but a few weeks of life left. The boy wanted his mother, who was at home in Newfoundland. "Ay, he's fair _sick_ for his mother," said the father to the doctor. "I'm askin' you, zur, t' take un home on the mail-boat." The doctor was in a perverse mood that day. He would not take the boy. "Sure, zur," said the fisherman, "the schooner's not goin' 'til fall, an' I've no money, an' the lad's dyin'." But still the doctor would not. "I'm thinkin', zur," said the fisherman, steadily, "that you're not quite knowin' that the lad wants t' see his mother afore he dies." The doctor laughed. "We'll have a laugh at _you_," cried the indignant fisherman, "when _you_ comes t' die!" Then he cursed the doctor most heartily and took his son ashore. He was right--they did have a laugh at the doctor; the whole coast might have laughed when he came to die. Being drunk on a stormy night, he fell down the companion way and broke his neck. * * * * * Deep in the bays and up the rivers south of Hamilton Inlet, which is itself rather heavily timbered, there is wood to be had for the cutting; but "down t' Chidley"--which is the northernmost point of the Labrador coast--the whole world is bare; there is neither tree nor shrub, shore nor inland, to grace the naked rock; the land lies bleak and desolate. But, once, a man lived there the year round. I don't know why; it is inexplicable; but I am sure that the shiftless fellow and his wife had never an inkling that the circumstance was otherwise than commonplace and reasonable; and the child, had he lived, would have continued to dwell there, boy and man, in faith that the earth was good to live in. One hard winter the man burnt all his wood long before the schooners came up from the lower coast. It was a desperate strait to come to; but I am sure that he regarded his situation with surprising phlegm; doubtless he slept as sound, if not as warm, as before. There was no more wood to be had; so he burnt the furniture, every stick of it, and when that was gone, began on the frame of his house--a turf hut, builded under a kindly cliff, sheltered somewhat from the winds from the frozen sea. As, rafter by rafter, the frame was withdrawn, he cut off the roof and folded in the turf walls; thus, day by day, the space within dwindled; his last fire was to consume the last of his shelter--which, no doubt, troubled him not at all; for the day was not yet come. It is an ugly story. When they were found in the spring, the woman lay dying on a heap of straw in a muddy corner--she was afflicted with hip-disease--and the house was tumbling about her ears; the child, new born, had long ago frozen on its mother's breast. [Illustration: "A TURF HUT"] * * * * * A doctor of the Newfoundland outports was once called to a little white cottage where three children lay sick of diphtheria. He was the family physician; that is to say, the fisherman paid him so much by the year for medical attendance. But the injection of antitoxin is a "surgical operation" and therefore not provided for by the annual fee. "This," said the doctor, "will cost you two dollars an injection, John." "Oh, ay, zur," was the ready reply. "I'll pay you, zur. Go on, zur!" "But you know my rule, John--no pay, no work. I can't break it for you, you know, or I'd have to break it for half the coast." "Oh, ay! 'Tis all right. I wants un cured. I'll pay you when I sells me fish." "But you know my rule, John--cash down." The fisherman had but four dollars--no more; nor could he obtain any more, though the doctor gave him ample time. I am sure that he loved his children dearly, but, unfortunately, he had no more than four dollars; and there was no other doctor for fifty miles up and down the coast. "Four dollars," said the doctor, "two children. Which ones shall it be, John?" Which ones? Why, of course, after all, the doctor had himself to make the choice. John couldn't. So the doctor chose the "handiest" ones. The other one died. "Well," said John, unresentfully, the day after the funeral, "I s'pose a doctor haves a right t' be paid for what he does. But," much puzzled, "'tis kind o' queer!" * * * * * This is not a work of fiction. These incidents are true. I set them down here for the purpose of adequately showing the need of such a practitioner as Wilfred T. Grenfell in the sphere in which he now labours. My point is--that if in the more settled places, where physicians might be summoned, such neglect and brutality could exist, in what a lamentable condition were the folk of the remoter parts, where even money could not purchase healing! Nor are these true stories designed to reflect upon the regular practitioners of Newfoundland; nor should they create a false impression concerning them. I have known many noble physicians in practice there; indeed, I am persuaded that heroism and devotion are, perhaps, their distinguishing characteristics. God knows, there is little enough gain to be had! God knows, too, that that little is hard earned! These men do their work well and courageously, and as adequately as may be; it is on the coasts beyond that the mission-doctor labours. V _A HELPING HAND_ While the poor "liveyeres" and Newfoundland fishermen thus depended upon the mail-boat doctor and their own strange inventions for relief, Wilfred Grenfell, this well-born, Oxford-bred young Englishman, was walking the London hospitals. He was athletic, adventurous, dogged, unsentimental, merry, kind; moreover--and most happily--he was used to the sea, and he loved it. It chanced one night that he strayed into the Tabernacle in East London, where D. L. Moody, the American evangelist, was preaching. When he came out he had resolved to make his religion "practical." There was nothing violent in this--no fevered, ill-judged determination to martyr himself at all costs. It was a quiet resolve to make the best of his life--which he would have done at any rate, I think, for he was a young Englishman of good breeding and the finest impulses. At once he cast about for "some way in which he could satisfy the aspirations of a young medical man, and combine with this a desire for adventure and definite Christian work." I had never before met a missionary of that frank type. "Why," I exclaimed to him, off the coast of Labrador, not long ago, "you seem to _like_ this sort of life!" We were aboard the mission steamer, bound north under full steam and all sail. He had been in feverish haste to reach the northern harbours, where, as he knew, the sick were watching for his coming. The fair wind, the rush of the little steamer on her way, pleased him. "Oh," said he, somewhat impatiently, "_I'm_ not a martyr." So he found what he sought. After applying certain revolutionary ideas to Sunday-school work in the London slums, in which a horizontal bar and a set of boxing-gloves for a time held equal place with the Bible and the hymn-book, he joined the staff of the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, and established the medical mission to the fishermen of the North Sea. When that work was organized--when the fight was gone out of it--he sought a harder task; he is of that type, then extraordinary but now familiar, which finds no delight where there is no difficulty. In the spring of 1892 he set sail from Great Yarmouth Harbour for Labrador in a ninety-ton schooner. Since then, in the face of hardship, peril, and prejudice, he has, with a light heart and strong purpose, healed the sick, preached the Word, clothed the naked, fed the starving, given shelter to them that had no roof, championed the wronged--in all, devotedly fought evil, poverty, oppression, and disease; for he is bitterly intolerant of those things. And---- "It's been jolly good fun!" says he. [Illustration: "SET SAIL FROM GREAT YARMOUTH HARBOR FOR LABRADOR"] The immediate inspiration of this work was the sermon preached in East London by D. L. Moody. Later in life--indeed, soon before the great evangelist's death--Dr. Grenfell thanked him for that sermon. "And what have you been doing since?" was Mr. Moody's prompt and searching question. "_What have you been doing since?_" Dr. Grenfell might with propriety and effect have placed in Mr. Moody's hands such letters as those which I reprint, saying: "What have I been doing since? I have been kept busy, sir, responding to such calls as these." Such calls as these: Docter plase I whant to see you. Doeher sir have you got a leg if you have Will you plase send him Down Praps he may fet and you would oblig. * * * * * Reverance dr. Grandfell. Dear sir we are expecting you hup and we would like for you to come so quick as you can for my dater is very sick with a very large sore under her left harm we emenangin that the old is two enchis deep and tow enches wide plase com as quick as you can to save life I remains yours truely. * * * * * Docker,--Please wel you send me somting for the pain in my feet and what you proismed to send my little boy. Docker I am almost cripple, it is up my hips, I can hardly walk. This is my housban is gaining you this note from * * * * * To Dr. Gransfield Dear honrabel Sir, I would wish to ask you Sir, if you would Be pleased to give me and my wife a littel poor close. I was going in the Bay to cut some wood. But I am all amost blind and cant Do much so if you would spear me some Sir I should Be very thankfull to you Sir. * * * * * I got Bad splotches all over my Body and i dont know what the cause of it is. Please Have you got anything for it. i Have'nt got any money to Pay you now for anything But i wont forget to Pay you when i gets the money. * * * * * doctor--i have a compleant i ham weak with wind on the chest, weaknes all all over me up in my harm. * * * * * Dear Dr. Grenfell. I would like for you to Have time to come Down to my House Before you leaves to go to St. Anthony. My little Girl is very Bad. it seems all in Her neck. Cant Ply her Neck forward if do she nearly goes in the fits, i dont know what it is the matter with Her myself. But if you see Her you would know what the matter with Her. Please send a Word By the Bearer what gives you this note and let me know where you will have time to come down to my House. i lives down the Bay a Place called Berry Head. "What have you been doing since?" Dr. Grenfell has not been idle. There is now a mission hospital at St. Anthony, near the extreme northeast point of the Newfoundland coast. There is another, well-equipped and commodious, at Battle Harbour--a rocky island lying out from the Labrador coast near the Strait of Belle Isle--which is open the year round; when the writer was last on the coast, it was in charge of Dr. Cluny McPherson, a courageous young physician, Newfoundland-born, who went six hundred miles up the coast by dog-team in the dead of winter, finding shelter where he might, curing whom he could--everywhere seeking out those who needed him, caring not a whit, it appears, for the peril and hardship of the long white road. There is a third at Indian Harbour, half-way up the coast, which is open through the fishing season. It is conducted with the care and precision of a London hospital--admirably kept, well-ordered, efficient. The physician in charge is Dr. George H. Simpson--a wiry, keen, brave little Englishman, who goes about in an open boat, whatever the distance, whatever the weather; he is a man of splendid courage and sympathy: the fishing-folk love him for his kind heart and for the courage with which he responds to their every call. There is also the little hospital steamer _Strathcona_, in which Dr. Grenfell makes the round of all the coast, from the time of the break-up until the fall gales have driven the fishing-schooners home to harbour. [Illustration: "APPEARED WITH A LITTLE STEAM-LAUNCH, THE PRINCESS MAY"] VI _FAITH and DUTY_ When Dr. Grenfell first appeared on the coast, I am told, the folk thought him a madman of some benign description. He knew nothing of the reefs, the tides, the currents, cared nothing, apparently, for the winds; he sailed with the confidence and reckless courage of a Labrador skipper. Fearing at times to trust his schooner in unknown waters, he went about in a whale-boat, and so hard did he drive her that he wore her out in a single season. She was capsized with all hands, once driven out to sea, many times nearly swamped, once blown on the rocks; never before was a boat put to such tasks on that coast, and at the end of it she was wrecked beyond repair. Next season he appeared with a little steam-launch, the _Princess May_--her beam was eight feet!--in which he not only journeyed from St. Johns to Labrador, to the astonishment of the whole colony, but sailed the length of that bitter coast, passing into the gulf and safely out again, and pushing to the very farthest settlements in the north. Late in the fall, upon, the return journey to St. Johns in stormy weather, she was reported lost, and many a skipper, I suppose, wondered that she had lived so long; but she weathered a gale that bothered the mail-boat, and triumphantly made St. Johns, after as adventurous a voyage, no doubt, as ever a boat of her measure survived. "Sure," said a skipper, "I don't know how she done it. The Lord," he added, piously, "must kape an eye on that man." * * * * * There is a new proverb on the coast. The folk say, when a great wind blows, "This'll bring Grenfell!" Often it does. He is impatient of delay, fretted by inaction; a gale is the wind for him--a wind to take him swiftly towards the place ahead. Had he been a weakling, he would long ago have died on the coast; had he been a coward, a multitude of terrors would long ago have driven him to a life ashore; had he been anything but a true man and tender, indeed, he would long ago have retreated under the suspicion and laughter of the folk. But he has outsailed the Labrador skippers--out-dared them--done deeds of courage under their very eyes that they would shiver to contemplate,--never in a foolhardy spirit; always with the object of kindly service. So he has the heart and willing hand of every honest man on the Labrador--and of none more than of the men of his crew, who take the chances with him; they are wholly devoted. One of his engineers, for example, once developed the unhappy habit of knocking the cook down. "You must keep your temper," said the doctor. "This won't do, you know." But there came an unfortunate day when, being out of temper, the engineer again knocked the cook down. "This is positively disgraceful!" said the doctor. "I can't keep a quarrelsome fellow aboard the mission-ship. Remember that, if you will, when next you feel tempted to strike the cook." The engineer protested that he would never again lay hands on the cook, whatever the provocation. But again he lost his temper, and down went the poor cook, flat on his back. "I'll discharge you," said the doctor, angrily, "at the end of the cruise!" The engineer pleaded for another chance. He was denied. From day to day he renewed his plea, but to no purpose, and at last the crew came to the conclusion that something really ought to be done for the engineer, who was visibly fretting himself thin. "Very well," said the doctor to the engineer; "I'll make this agreement with you. If ever again you knock down the cook, I'll put you ashore at the first land we come to, and you may get back to St. Johns as best you can." It was a hard alternative. The doctor is not a man to give or take when the bargain has been struck; the engineer knew that he would surely go ashore somewhere on that desolate coast, whether the land was a barren island or a frequented harbour, if ever again the cook tempted him beyond endurance. "I'll stand by it, sir," he said, nevertheless; "for I don't want to leave you." * * * * * In the course of time the _Princess May_ was wrecked or worn out. Then came the _Julia Sheridan_, thirty-five feet long, which the mission doctor bought while she yet lay under water from her last wreck; he raised her, refitted her with what money he had, and pursued his venturesome and beneficent career, until she, too, got beyond so hard a service. Many a gale she weathered, off "the worst coast in the world"--often, indeed, in thick, wild weather, the doctor himself thought the little craft would go down; but she is now happily superannuated, carrying the mail in the quieter waters of Hamilton Inlet. Next came the _Sir Donald_--a stout ship, which in turn disappeared, crushed in the ice. The _Strathcona_, with a hospital amidships, is now doing duty; and she will continue to go up and down the coast, in and out of the inlets, until she in her turn finds the ice and the wind and the rocks too much for her. "'Tis bound t' come, soon or late," said a cautious friend of the mission. "He drives her too hard. He've a right t' do what he likes with his own life, I s'pose, but he've a call t' remember that the crew has folks t' home." * * * * * But the mission doctor is not inconsiderate; he is in a hurry--the coast is long, the season short, the need such as to wring a man's heart. Every new day holds an opportunity for doing a good deed--not if he dawdles in the harbours when a gale is abroad, but only if he passes swiftly from place to place, with a brave heart meeting the dangers as they come. He is the only doctor to visit the Labrador shore of the Gulf, the Strait shore of Newfoundland, the populous east coast of the northern peninsula of Newfoundland, the only doctor known to the Esquimaux and poor "liveyeres" of the northern coast of Labrador, the only doctor most of the "liveyeres" and green-fish catchers of the middle coast can reach, save the hospital physician at Indian Harbour. He has a round of three thousand miles to make. It is no wonder that he "drives" the little steamer--even at full steam, with all sail spread (as I have known him to do), when the fog is thick and the sea is spread with great bergs. "I'm in a hurry," he said, with an impatient sigh. "The season's late. We must get along." * * * * * We fell in with him at Red Ray in the Strait, in the thick of a heavy gale from the northeast. The wind had blown for two days; the sea was running high, and still fast rising; the schooners were huddled in the harbours, with all anchors out, many of them hanging on for dear life, though they lay in shelter. The sturdy little coastal boat, with four times the strength of the _Strathcona_, had made hard work of it that day--there was a time when she but held her own off a lee shore in the teeth of the big wind. It was drawing on towards night when the doctor came aboard for a surgeon from Boston, a specialist, for whom he had been waiting. "I see you've steam up," said the captain of the coastal boat. "I hope you're not going out in _this_, doctor!" "I have some patients at the Battle Harbour Hospital, waiting for our good friend from Boston," said the doctor, briskly. "I'm in a hurry. Oh, yes, I'm going out!" "For God's sake, don't!" said the captain earnestly. The doctor's eye chanced to fall on the gentleman from Boston, who was bending over his bag--a fine, fearless fellow, whom the prospect of putting out in that chip of a steamer would not have perturbed, though the doctor may then not have known it. At any rate, as though bethinking himself of something half forgotten, he changed his mind of a sudden. "Oh, very well," he said. "I'll wait until the gale blows out." He managed to wait a day--no longer; and the wind was still wild, the sea higher than ever; there was ice in the road, and the fog was dense. Then out he went into the thick of it. He bumped an iceberg, scraped a rock, fairly smothered the steamer with broken water; and at midnight--the most marvellous feat of all--he crept into Battle Harbour through a narrow, difficult passage, and dropped anchor off the mission wharf. Doubtless he enjoyed the experience while it lasted--and promptly forgot it, as being commonplace. I have heard of him, caught in the night in a winter's gale of wind and snow, threading a tumultuous, reef-strewn sea, his skipper at the wheel, himself on the bowsprit, guiding the ship by the flash and roar of breakers, while the sea tumbled over him. If the chance passenger who told me the story is to be believed, upon that trying occasion the doctor had the "time of his life." "All that man wanted," I told the doctor subsequently, "was, as he says, 'to bore a hole in the bottom of the ship and crawl out.'" "Why!" exclaimed the doctor, with a laugh of surprise. "He wasn't _frightened_, was he?" [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL SHIP, STRATHCONA"] Fear of the sea is quite incomprehensible to this man. The passenger was very much frightened; he vowed never to sail with "that devil" again. But the doctor is very far from being a dare-devil; though he is, to be sure, a man altogether unafraid; it seems to me that his heart can never have known the throb of fear. Perhaps that is in part because he has a blessed lack of imagination, in part, perhaps, because he has a body as sound as ever God gave to a man, and has used it as a man should; but it is chiefly because of his simple and splendid faith that he is an instrument in God's hands--God's to do with as He will, as he would say. His faith is exceptional, I am sure--childlike, steady, overmastering, and withal, if I may so characterize it, healthy. It takes something such as the faith he has to move a man to run a little steamer at full speed in the fog when there is ice on every hand. It is hardly credible, but quite true, and short of the truth: neither wind nor ice nor fog, nor all combined, can keep the _Strathcona_ in harbour when there comes a call for help from beyond. The doctor clambers cheerfully out on the bowsprit and keeps both eyes open. "As the Lord wills," says he, "whether for wreck or service. I am about His business." It is a sublime expression of the old faith. VII _THE LIVEYERE_ Doctor Grenfell's patients are of three classes. There is first the "liveyere"--the inhabitant of the Labrador coast--the most ignorant and wretched of them all. There is the Newfoundland "outporter"--the small fisherman of the remoter coast, who must depend wholly upon his hook and line for subsistence. There is the Labradorman--the Newfoundland fisherman of the better class, who fishes the Labrador coast in the summer season and returns to his home port when the snow begins to fly in the fall. Some description of these three classes is here offered, that the reader may understand the character and condition of the folk among whom Dr. Grenfell labours. "As a permanent abode of civilized man," it is written in a very learned if somewhat old-fashioned work, "Labrador is, on the whole, one of the most uninviting spots on the face of the earth." That is putting it altogether too delicately; there should be no qualification; the place is a brutal desolation. The weather has scoured the coast--a thousand miles of it--as clean as an old bone: it is utterly sterile, save for a tuft or two of hardy grass and wide patches of crisp moss; bare gray rocks, low in the south, towering and craggy in the north, everywhere blasted by frost, lie in billowy hills between the froth and clammy mist of the sea and the starved forest at the edge of the inland wilderness. The interior is forbidding; few explorers have essayed adventure there; but the Indians--an expiring tribe--and trappers who have caught sight of the "height of land" say that it is for the most part a vast table-land, barren, strewn with enormous boulders, scarce in game, swarming with flies, with vegetation surviving only in the hollows and ravines--a sullen, forsaken waste. Those who dwell on the coast are called "liveyeres" because they say, "Oh, ay, zur, I lives yere!" in answer to the question. These are not to be confounded with the Newfoundland fishermen who sail the Labrador seas in the fishing season--an adventurous, thrifty folk, bright-eyed, hearty in laughter--twenty-five thousand hale men and boys, with many a wife and maid, who come and return again. Less than four thousand poor folk have on the long coast the "permanent abode" of which the learned work speaks--much less, I should think, from the Strait of Belle Isle to Cape Chidley. It is an evil fate to be born there: the Newfoundlanders who went north from their better country, the Hudson Bay Company's servants who took wives from the natives, all the chance comers who procrastinated their escape, desperately wronged their posterity; the saving circumstance is the very isolation of the dwelling-place--no man knows, no man really _knows_, that elsewhere the earth is kinder to her children and fairer far than the wind-swept, barren coast to which he is used. They live content, bearing many children, in inclemency, in squalor, and, from time to time, in uttermost poverty--such poverty as clothes a child in a trouser leg and feeds babies and strong men alike on nothing but flour and water. They were born there: that is where they came from; that is why they live there. "'Tis a short feast and a long famine," said a northern "liveyere," quite cheerfully; to him it was just a commonplace fact of life. * * * * * There are degrees of wretchedness: a frame cottage is the habitation of the rich and great where the poor live in turf huts; and the poor subsist on roots and a paste of flour and water when the rich feast on salt junk. The folk who live near the Strait of Belle Isle and on the gulf shore may be in happier circumstances. To be sure, they know the pinch of famine; but some--the really well-to-do--are clear of the over-shadowing dread of it. The "liveyeres" of the north dwell in huts, in lonely coves of the bays, remote even from neighbours as ill-cased as themselves; there they live and laugh and love and suffer and die and bury their dead--alone. To the south, however, there are little settlements in the more sheltered harbours--the largest of not more than a hundred souls--where there is a degree of prosperity and of comfort; potatoes are a luxury, but the flour-barrel is always full, the pork-barrel not always empty, and there are raisins in the duff on feast-days; moreover, there are stoves in the whitewashed houses (the northern "liveyere's" stove is more often than not a flat rock), beds to sleep in, muslin curtains in the little windows, and a flower, it may be, sprouting desperately in a red pot on the sill. That is the extreme of luxury--rare to be met with; and it is at all times open to dissolution by famine. "Sure, zur, _last_ winter," a stout young fellow boasted, "we had all the grease us wanted!" [Illustration: "THE LABRADOR 'LIVEYERE'"] It is related of a thrifty settler named Olliver, however, who lived with his wife and five children at Big Bight,--he was a man of superior qualities, as the event makes manifest,--that, having come close to the pass of starvation at the end of a long winter, he set out afoot over the hills to seek relief from his nearest neighbour, forty miles away. But there was no relief to be had; the good neighbour had already given away all that he dared spare, and something more. Twelve miles farther on he was again denied; it is said that the second neighbour mutely pointed to his flour-barrel and his family--which was quite sufficient for Olliver, who thereupon departed to a third house, where his fortune was no better. Perceiving then that he must depend upon the store of food in his own house, which was insufficient to support the lives of all, he returned home, sent his wife and eldest son and eldest daughter away on a pretext, despatched his three youngest children with an axe, and shot himself. As he had foreseen, wife, daughter, and son survived until the "break-up" brought food within their reach; and the son was a well-grown boy, and made a capable head of the house thereafter. * * * * * The "liveyere" is a fisherman and trapper. In the summer he catches cod; in the winter he traps the fox, otter, mink, lynx, and marten, and sometimes he shoots a bear, white or black, and kills a wolf. The "planter," who advances the salt to cure the fish, takes the catch at the end of the season, giving in exchange provisions at an incredible profit; the Hudson Bay Company takes the fur, giving in exchange provisions at an even larger profit; for obvious reasons, both aim (there are exceptions, of course) to keep the "liveyere" in debt--which is not by any means a difficult matter, for the "liveyere" is both shiftless and (what is more to the point) illiterate. So it comes about that what he may have to eat and wear depends upon the will of the "planter" and of the company; and when for his ill-luck or his ill-will both cast him off--which sometimes happens--he looks starvation in the very face. A silver fox, of good fur and acceptable colour, is the "liveyere's" great catch; no doubt his most ecstatic nightmare has to do with finding one fast in his trap; but when, "more by chance than good conduct," as they say, he has that heavenly fortune (the event is of the rarest), the company pays sixty or eighty dollars for that which it sells abroad for $600. Of late, however, the free-traders seem to have established a footing on the coast; their stay may not be long, but for the moment, at any rate, the "liveyere" may dispose of his fur to greater advantage--if he dare. The earth yields the "liveyere" nothing but berries, which are abundant, and, in midsummer, "turnip tops"; and as numerous dogs are needed for winter travelling--wolfish creatures, savage, big, famished--no domestic animals can be kept. There was once a man who somehow managed for a season to possess a pig and a sheep; he marooned his dogs on an island half a mile off the coast; unhappily, however, there blew an off-shore wind in the night, and next morning neither the pig nor the sheep was to be found; the dogs were engaged in innocent diversions on the island, but there was evidence sufficient on their persons, so to speak, to convict them of the depredation in any court of justice. There are no cows on the coast, no goats,--consequently no additional milk-supply for babies,--who manage from the beginning, however, to thrive on bread and salt beef, if put to the necessity. There are no pigs--there is one pig, I believe,--no sheep, no chickens; and the first horses to be taken to the sawmill on Hamilton Inlet so frightened the natives that they scampered in every direction for their lives whenever the team came near, crying: "Look out! The harses is comin'!" The caribou are too far inland for most of the settlers; but at various seasons (excluding such times as there is no game at all) there are to be had grouse, partridge, geese, eider-duck, puffin, gulls, loon and petrel, bear, arctic hare, and bay seal, which are shot with marvellously long and old guns--some of them ancient flintlocks. Notwithstanding all, the folk are large and hardy--capable of withstanding cruel hardship and deprivation. In summer-time the weather is blistering hot inland; and on the coast it is more often than not wet, foggy, blustering--bitter enough for the man from the south, who shivers as he goes about. Innumerable icebergs drift southward, scraping the coast as they go, and patches of snow lie in the hollows of the coast hills--midway between Battle Harbour and Cape Chidley there is a low headland called Snowy Point because the snow forever lies upon it. But warm, sunny days are to be counted upon in August--days when the sea is quiet, the sky deep blue, the rocks bathed in yellow sunlight, the air clear and bracing; at such times it is good to lie on the high heads and look away out to sea, dreaming the while. In winter, storm and intense cold make most of the coast uninhabitable; the "liveyeres" retire up the bays and rivers, bag and baggage, not only to escape the winds and bitter cold, but to be nearer the supply of game and fire-wood. They live in little "tilts"--log huts of one large square room, with "bunks" at each end for the women-folk, and a "cockloft" above for the men and lads. It is very cold; frost forms on the walls, icicles under the "bunks"; the thermometer frequently falls to fifty degrees below zero, which, as you may be sure, is exceedingly cold near the sea. Nor can a man do much heavy work in the woods, for the perspiration freezes under his clothing. Impoverished families have no stoves--merely an arrangement of flat stones, with an opening in the roof for the escape of the smoke, with which they are quite content if only they have enough flour to make hard bread for all. It goes without saying that there is neither butcher, baker, nor candlestick-maker on the coast. Every man is his own bootmaker, tailor, and what not; there is not a trade or profession practiced anywhere. There is no resident doctor, save the mission doctors, one of whom is established at Battle Harbour, and with a dog-team makes a toilsome journey up the coast in the dead of winter, relieving whom he can. There is no public building, no municipal government, no road. There is no lawyer, no constable; and I very much doubt that there is a parson regularly stationed among the whites beyond Battle Harbour, with the exception of the Moravian missionaries. They are scarce enough, at any rate, for the folk in a certain practical way to feel the hardship of their absence. Dr. Grenfell tells of landing late one night in a lonely harbour where three "couples wanted marrying." They had waited many years for the opportunity. It chanced that the doctor was entertaining a minister on the cruise; so one couple determined at once to return to the ship with him. "The minister," says the doctor, "decided that pronouncing the banns might be dispensed with in this case. He went ahead with the ceremony, for the couple had three children already!" * * * * * The "liveyere" is of a sombrely religious turn of mind--his creed as harsh and gloomy as the land he lives in; he is superstitious as a savage as well, and an incorrigible fatalist, all of which is not hard to account for: he is forever in the midst of vast space and silence, face to face with dread and mysterious forces, and in conflict with wind and sea and the changing season, which are irresistible and indifferent. Jared was young, lusty, light-hearted; but he lived in the fear and dread of hell. I had known that for two days. "The flies, zur," said he to the sportsman, whose hospitality I was enjoying, "was wonderful bad the day." We were twelve miles inland, fishing a small stream; and we were now in the "tilt," at the end of the day, safe from the swarming, vicious black-flies. "Yes," the sportsman replied, emphatically. "I've suffered the tortures of the damned this day!" Jared burst into a roar of laughter--as sudden and violent as a thunderclap. "What you laughing at?" the sportsman demanded, as he tenderly stroked his swollen neck. "Tartures o' the damned!" Jared gasped. "Sure, if _that's_ all 'tis, I'll jack 'asy about it!" He laughed louder--reckless levity; but I knew that deep in his heart he would be infinitely relieved could he believe--could he only make sure--that the punishment of the wicked was no worse than an eternity of fighting with poisonous insects. "Ay," he repeated, ruefully, "if that's all 'twas, 'twould not trouble me much." The graveyard at Battle Harbour is in a sheltered hollow near the sea. It is a green spot--the one, perhaps, on the island--and they have enclosed it with a high board fence. Men have fished from that harbour for a hundred years and more--but there are not many graves; why, I do not know. The crumbling stones, the weather-beaten boards, the sprawling ill-worded inscriptions, are all, in their way, eloquent: [Illustration: "Sarah Combe died the fourth of August, 1881, aged 31 years."] There is another, better carved, somewhat better spelled, but quite as interesting and luminous: In Memory of John Hill who Died December 30 1890 Aged 34 Weep not dear Parents For your lost tis my Etarnel gain May May Crist you all take up The crost that we Shuld meat again These things are, indeed, eloquent--of ignorance, of poverty; but no less eloquent of sorrow and of love. The Labrador "liveyere" is kin with the whole wide world. VIII _WITH The FLEET_ In the early spring--when the sunlight is yellow and the warm winds blow and the melting snow drips over the cliffs and runs in little rivulets from the barren hills--in the thousand harbours of Newfoundland the great fleet is made ready for the long adventure upon the Labrador coast. The rocks echo the noise of hammer and saw and mallet and the song and shout of the workers. The new schooners--building the winter long at the harbour side--are hurried to completion. The old craft--the weather-beaten, ragged old craft, which, it may be, have dodged the reefs and out-lived the gales of forty seasons--are fitted with new spars, patched with new canvas and rope, calked anew, daubed anew and, thus refitted, float brave enough on the quiet harbour water. There is no end to the bustle of labour on ships and nets--no end to the clatter of planning. From the skipper of the ten-ton _First Venture_, who sails with a crew of sons bred for the purpose, to the powerful dealer who supplies on shares a fleet of seventeen fore-and-afters manned from the harbours of a great bay, there is hope in the hearts of all. Whatever the last season, every man is to make a good "voyage" now. This season--_this_ season--there is to be fish a-plenty on the Labrador! The future is bright as the new spring days. Aunt Matilda is to have a bonnet with feathers--when Skipper Thomas gets home from the Labrador. Little Johnny Tatt, he of the crooked back, is to know again the virtue of Pike's Pain Compound, at a dollar a bottle, warranted to cure--when daddy gets home from the Labrador. Skipper Bill's Lizzie, plump, blushing, merry-eyed, is to wed Jack Lute o' Burnt Arm--when Jack comes back from the Labrador. Every man's heart, and, indeed, most men's fortunes, are in the venture. The man who has nothing has yet the labour of his hands. Be he skipper, there is one to back his skill and honesty; be he hand, there is no lack of berths to choose from. Skippers stand upon their record and schooners upon their reputation; it's take your choice, for the hands are not too many: the skippers are timid or bold, as God made them; the schooners are lucky or not, as Fate determines. Every man has his chance. John Smith o' Twillingate provisions the _Lucky Queen_ and gives her to the penniless Skipper Jim o' Yellow Tickle on shares. Old Tom Tatter o' Salmon Cove, with plea and argument, persuades the Four Arms trader to trust him once again with the _Busy Bee_. He'll get the fish _this_ time. Nar a doubt of it! _He'll_ be home in August--this year--loaded to the gunwale. God knows who pays the cash when the fish fail! God knows how the folk survive the disappointment! It is a great lottery of hope and fortune. When, at last, word comes south that the ice is clearing from the coast, the vessels spread their little wings to the first favouring winds; and in a week--two weeks or three--the last of the Labradormen have gone "down north." Dr. Grenfell and his workers find much to do among these men and women and children. * * * * * At Indian Harbour where the _Strathcona_ lay at anchor, I went aboard the schooner _Jolly Crew_. It was a raw, foggy day, with a fresh northeast gale blowing, and a high sea running outside the harbour. They were splitting fish on deck; the skiff was just in from the trap--she was still wet with spray. "I sails with me sons an' gran'sons, zur," said the skipper, smiling. "Sure, I be a old feller t' be down the Labrador, isn't I, zur?" He did not mean that. He was proud of his age and strength--glad that he was still able "t' be at the fishin'." [Illustration: "AT INDIAN HARBOR"] "'Tis a wonder you've lived through it all," said I. He laughed. "An' why, zur?" he asked. "Many's the ship wrecked on this coast," I answered. "Oh no, zur," said he; "not so many, zur, as you might think. Down this way, zur, _we knows how t' sail_!" That was a succinct explanation of very much that had puzzled me. "Ah, well," said I, "'tis a hard life." "Hard?" he asked, doubtfully. "Yes," I answered; "'tis a hard life--the fishin'." "Oh no, zur," said he, quietly, looking up from his work. "'Tis just--just _life_!" * * * * * They do, indeed, know how "t' sail." The Newfoundland government, niggardly and utterly independable when the good of the fisherfolk is concerned, of whatever complexion the government may chance to be, but prodigal to an extraordinary degree when individual self-interests are at stake--this is a delicate way of putting an unpleasant truth,--keeps no light burning beyond the Strait of Belle Isle; the best it does, I believe, is to give wrecked seamen free passage home. Under these difficult circumstances, no seamen save Newfoundlanders, who are the most skillful and courageous of all, could sail that coast: and they only because they are born to follow the sea--there is no escape for them--and are bred to sailing from their earliest years. "What you going to be when you grow up?" I once asked a lad on the far northeast coast. He looked at me in vast astonishment. "What you going to _be_, what you going to _do_," I repeated, "when you grow up?" Still he did not comprehend. "Eh?" he said. "What you going to work at," said I, in desperation, "when you're a man?" "Oh, zur," he answered, understanding at last, "I isn't clever enough t' be a parson!" And so it went without saying that he was to fish for a living! It is no wonder, then, that the skippers of the fleet know "how t' sail." The remarkable quality of the sea-captains who come from among them impressively attests the fact--not only their quality as sailors, but as men of spirit and proud courage. There is one--now a captain of a coastal boat on the Newfoundland shore--who takes his steamer into a ticklish harbour of a thick, dark night, when everything is black ahead and roundabout, steering only by the echo of the ship's whistle! There is another, a confident seaman, a bluff, high-spirited fellow, who was once delayed by bitter winter weather--an inky night, with ice about, the snow flying, the seas heavy with frost, the wind blowing a gale. "Where have you been?" they asked him, sarcastically, from the head office. The captain had been on the bridge all night. "Berry-picking," was his laconic despatch in reply. There is another--also the captain of a coastal steamer--who thought it wise to lie in harbour through a stormy night in the early winter. "What detains you?" came a message from the head office. "It is not a fit night for a vessel to be at sea," the captain replied; and thereupon he turned in, believing the matter to be at an end. The captain had been concerned for his vessel--not for his life; nor yet for his comfort. But the underling at the head office misinterpreted the message. "What do we pay you for?" he telegraphed. So the captain took the ship out to sea. Men say that she went out of commission the next day, and that it cost the company a thousand dollars to refit her. * * * * * "A dunderhead," say the folk, "can _cotch_ fish; but it takes a _man_ t' find un." It is a chase; and, as the coast proverb has it, "the fish have no bells." It is estimated that there are 7,000 square miles of fishing-banks off the Labrador coast. There will be fish somewhere--not everywhere; not every man will "use his salt" (the schooners go north loaded with salt for curing) or "get his load." In the beginning--this is when the ice first clears away--there is a race for berths. It takes clever, reckless sailing and alert action to secure the best. I am reminded of a skipper who by hard driving to windward and good luck came first of all to a favourable harbour. It was then night, and his crew was weary, so he put off running out his trap-leader until morning; but in the night the wind changed, and when he awoke at dawn there were two other schooners lying quietly at anchor near by and the berths had been "staked." When the traps are down, there follows a period of anxious waiting. Where are the fish? There are no telegraph-lines on that coast. The news must be spread by word of mouth. When, at last, it comes, there is a sudden change of plan--a wild rush to the more favoured grounds. It is in this scramble that many a skipper makes his great mistake. I was talking with a disconsolate young fellow in a northern harbour where the fish were running thick. The schooners were fast loading; but he had no berth, and was doing but poorly with the passing days. "If I hadn't--if I _only_ hadn't--took up me trap when I did," said he, "I'd been loaded an' off home. Sure, zur, would you believe it? but I had the berth off the point. Off the point--the berth off the point!" he repeated, earnestly, his eyes wide. "An', look! I hears they's a great run o' fish t' Cutthroat Tickle. So I up with me trap, for I'd been gettin' nothin'; an'--an'--would you believe it? but the man that put his down where I took mine up took a hundred quintal[2] out o' that berth next marnin'! An' he'll load," he groaned, "afore the week's out!" [Illustration: "SET THE TRAPS IN THE OPEN SEA"] When the fish are running, the work is mercilessly hard; it is kept up night and day; there is no sleep for man or child, save, it may be, an hour's slumber where they toil, just before dawn. The schooner lies at anchor in the harbour, safe enough from wind and sea; the rocks, surrounding the basin in which she lies, keep the harbour water placid forever. But the men set the traps in the open sea, somewhere off the heads, or near one of the outlying islands; it may be miles from the anchorage of the schooner. They put out at dawn--before dawn, rather; for they aim to be at the trap just when the light is strong enough for the hauling. When the skiff is loaded, they put back to harbour in haste, throw the fish on deck, split them, salt them, lay them neatly in the hold, and put out to the trap again. I have seen the harbours--then crowded with fishing-craft--fairly ablaze with light at midnight. Torches were flaring on the decks and in the turf hut on the rocks ashore. The night was quiet; there was not a sound from the tired workers; but the flaring lights made known that the wild, bleak, far-away place--a basin in the midst of barren, uninhabited hills--was still astir with the day's work. At such times, the toil at the oars, and at the splitting-table,[3] whether on deck or in the stages--and the lack of sleep, and the icy winds and cold salt spray--is all bitter cruel to suffer. The Labrador fisherman will not readily admit that he lives a hard life; but if you suggest that when the fish are running it may be somewhat more toilsome than lives lived elsewhere, he will grant you something. "Oh, ay," he'll drawl, "when the fish is runnin', _'tis_ a bit hard." I learned from a child--he was merry, brave, fond of the adventure--that fishing is a pleasant business in the sunny midsummer months; but that when, late in the fall, the skiff puts out to the trap at dawn, it is wise to plunge one's hands deep in the water before taking the oars, no matter how much it hurts, for one's wrists are then covered with salt-water sores and one's palms are cracked, even though one take the precaution of wearing a brass chain--that, oh, yes! it is wise to plunge one's hands in the cold water, as quick as may be; for thus one may "limber 'em up" before the trap is reached. "'Tis not hard, now," said he. "But, oh--oo--oo! when the big nor'easters blow! Oo--oo!" he repeated, with a shrug and a sage shake of the head; "'tis won-der-ful hard those times!" The return is small. The crews are comprised of from five to ten men, with, occasionally, a sturdy maid for cook, to whom is given thirty dollars for her season's work; some old hands will sail on no ship with a male cook, for, as one of them said, "Sure, some o' thim min can't boil water without burnin' it!" A good season's catch is one hundred quintals of dry fish a man. A simple calculation--with some knowledge of certain factors which I need not state--makes it plain that a man must himself catch, as his share of the trap, 30,000 fish if he is to net a living wage. If his return is $250 he is in the happiest fortune--richly rewarded, beyond his dreams, for his summer's work. One-half of that is sufficient to give any modest man a warm glow of content and pride. Often--it depends largely upon chance and the skill of his skipper--the catch is so poor that he must make the best of twenty-five or thirty dollars. It must not be supposed that the return is always in cash; it is usually in trade, which is quite a different thing--in Newfoundland. * * * * * The schooners take many passengers north in the spring. Such are called "freighters" on the coast; they are put ashore at such harbours as they elect, and, for passage for themselves, families, and gear, pay upon the return voyage twenty-five cents for every hundredweight of fish caught. As a matter of course, the vessels are preposterously overcrowded. Dr. Grenfell tells of counting thirty-four men and sixteen women (no mention was made of children) aboard a nineteen-ton schooner, then on the long, rough voyage to the north. The men fish from the coast in small boats just as the more prosperous "green-fish catchers" put out from the schooners. Meantime, they live in mud huts, which are inviting or otherwise, as the women-folk go; some are damp, cave-like, ill-savoured, crowded; others are airy, cozy, the floors spread deep with powdered shell, the whole immaculately kept. When the party is landed, the women sweep out the last of the winter's snow, the men build great fires on the floors; indeed, the huts are soon ready for occupancy. At best, they are tiny places--much like children's playhouses. There was once a tall man who did not quite fit the sleeping place assigned to him; but with great good nature he cut a hole in the wall, built a miniature addition for his feet, and slept the summer through at comfortable full length. It is a great outing for the children; they romp on the rocks, toddle over the nearer hills, sleep in the sunshine; but if they are eight years old, as one said--or well grown at five or seven--they must do their little share of work. * * * * * Withal, the Labradormen are of a simple, God-fearing, clean-lived, hardy race of men. There was once a woman who made boast of her high connection in England, as women will the wide world over; and when she was questioned concerning the position the boasted relative occupied, replied, "Oh, _he's_ Superintendent o' Foreign Governments!" There was an austere old Christian who on a Sunday morning left his trap--his whole fortune--lie in the path of a destroying iceberg rather than desecrate the Lord's day by taking it out of the water. Both political parties in Newfoundland shamelessly deceive the credulous fisherfolk; there was a childlike old fellow who, when asked, "And what will you do if there _is_ no fish?" confidently answered: "Oh, they's goin' t' be a new Gov'ment. _He'll_ take care o' we!" There was a sturdy son of the coast who deserted his schooner at sea and swam ashore. But he had mistaken a barren island for the mainland, which was yet far off; and there he lived, without food, for twenty-seven days! When he was picked up, his condition was such as may not be described (the Labrador fly is a vicious insect); he was unconscious, but he survived to fish many another season. * * * * * The mail-boat picked up Skipper Thomas of Carbonear--then master of a loaded schooner--at a small harbour near the Straits. His crew carried him aboard; for he was desperately ill, and wanted to die at home, where his children were. "He's wonderful bad," said one of the men. "He've consumption." "I'm just wantin' t' die at home," he said, again and again. "Just that--just where my children be!" All hearts were with him in that last struggle--but no man dared hope; for the old skipper had already beaten off death longer than death is wont to wait, and his strength was near spent. "Were you sick when you sailed for the Labrador in the spring?" they asked him. "Oh, ay," said he; "I were terrible bad then." "Then why," they said--"why did you come at all?" They say he looked up in mild surprise. "I had t' make me livin'," he answered, simply. [Illustration: "THE BULLY-BOAT BECOMES A HOME"] His coffin was knocked together on the forward deck next morning--with Carbonear a day's sail beyond. * * * * * The fleet goes home in the early fall. The schooners are loaded--some so low with the catch that the water washes into the scuppers. "You could wash your hands on her deck," is the skipper's proudest boast. The feat of seamanship, I do not doubt, is not elsewhere equalled. It is an inspiring sight to see the doughty little craft beating into the wind on a gray day. The harvesting of a field of grain is good to look upon; but I think that there can be no more stirring sight in all the world, no sight more quickly to melt a man's heart, more deeply to move him to love men and bless God, than the sight of the Labrador fleet beating home loaded--toil done, dangers past; the home port at the end of a run with a fair wind. The home-coming, I fancy, is much like the return of the viking ships to the old Norwegian harbours must have been. The lucky skippers strut the village roads with swelling chests, heroes in the sight of all; the old men, long past their labour, listen to new tales and spin old yarns; the maids and the lads renew their interrupted love-makings. There is great rejoicing--feasting, merrymaking, hearty thanksgiving. Thanks be to God, the fleet's home! [Footnote 2: A "clever hand" can split--that is, clean--thirty fish in a minute.] [Footnote 3: A quintal is, roughly, a hundred pounds. One hundred quintals of green fish are equal, roughly, to thirty of dry, which, at $3, would amount to $90.] IX _On The FRENCH SHORE_ Doctor Grenfell appears to have a peculiar affection for the outporters of what is locally known as the "French Shore"--that stretch of coast lying between Cape John and the northernmost point of Newfoundland: it is one section of the shore upon which the French have fishing rights. This is the real Newfoundland; to the writer there is no Newfoundland apart from that long strip of rock against which the sea forever breaks: none that is not of punt, of wave, of fish, of low sky and of a stalwart, briny folk. Indeed, though he has joyously lived weeks of blue weather in the outports, with the sea all a-ripple and flashing and the breeze blowing warm, in retrospect land and people resolve themselves into a rocky harbour and a sturdy little lad with a question--the harbour, gray and dripping wet, a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched on the rocks, towards which a tiny, red-sailed punt is beating from the frothy open, with the white of breakers on either hand, while a raw wind lifts the fog from the black inland hills, upon which ragged patches of snow lie melting; the lad, stout, frank-eyed, tow-headed, browned by the wind, bending over the splitting-table with a knife in his toil-worn young hand and the blood of cod dripping from his fingers, and looking wistfully up, at last, to ask a question or two concerning certain old, disquieting mysteries. "Where do the tide go, zur, when 'e runs out?" he plainted. "Where do 'e go, zur? Sure, zur, _you_ is able t' tell me that, isn't you?" * * * * * So, in such a land--where, on some bleak stretches of coast, the potatoes are grown in imported English soil, where most gardens, and some graveyards, are made of earth scraped from the hollows of the hills, where four hundred and nineteen bushels of lean wheat are grown in a single year, and the production of beef-cattle is insignificant as compared with the production of babies--in such a land there is nothing for the young man to do but choose his rock, build his little cottage and his flake and his stage, marry a maid of the harbour when the spring winds stir his blood, gather his potato patch, get a pig and a goat, and go fishing in his punt. And they do fish, have always fished since many generations ago the island was first settled by adventurous Devon men, and must continue to fish to the end of time. Out of a total male population of one hundred thousand, which includes the city-folk of St. Johns and an amazing proportion of babies and tender lads, about fifty-five thousand men and grown boys catch fish for a living. "Still an' all, they's no country in the world like this!" said the old skipper. "Sure, a man's set up in life when he haves a pig an' a punt an' a potato patch." "But have you ever seen another?" I asked. "I've been so far as Saint Johns, zur, an' once t' the waterside o' Boston," was the surprising reply, "an' I'm thinkin' I knows what the world's like." So it is with most Newfoundlanders: they love their land with an intolerant prejudice; and most are content with the life they lead. "The Newfoundlander comes back," is a significant proverb of the outports; and, "White Bay's good enough for me," said a fishwife to me once, when I asked her why she still remained in a place so bleak and barren, "for I've heered tell 'tis wonderful smoky an' n'isy 't Saint Johns." The life they live, and strangely love, is exceeding toilsome. Toil began for a gray-haired, bony-handed old woman whom I know when she was so young that she had to stand on a tub to reach the splitting-table; when, too, to keep her awake and busy, late o' nights, her father would make believe to throw a bloody cod's head at her. It began for that woman's son when, at five or six years old, he was just able to spread the fish to dry on the flake, and continued in earnest, a year or two later, when first he was strong enough to keep the head of his father's punt up to the wind. But they seem not to know that fishing is a hard or dangerous employment: for instance, a mild-eyed, crooked old fellow--he was a cheerful Methodist, too, and subject to "glory-fits"--who had fished from one harbour for sixty years, computed for me that he had put out to sea in his punt at least twenty thousand times, that he had been frozen to the seat of his punt many times, that he had been swept to sea with the ice-packs, six times, that he had weathered six hundred gales, great and small, and that he had been wrecked more times than he could "just mind" at the moment; yet he was the only old man ever I met who seemed honestly to wish that he might live his life over again! The hook-and-line man has a lonely time of it. From earliest dawn, while the night yet lies thick on the sea, until in storm or calm or favouring breeze he makes harbour in the dusk, he lies off shore, fishing--tossing in the lop of the grounds, with the waves to balk and the wind to watch warily, while he tends his lines. There is no jolly companionship of the forecastle and turf hut for him--no new scene, no hilarious adventure; nor has he the expectation of a proud return to lighten his toil. In the little punt he has made with his own hands he is forever riding an infinite expanse, which, in "fish weather," is melancholy, or threatening, or deeply solemn, as it may chance--all the while and all alone confronting the mystery and terrible immensity of the sea. It may be that he gives himself over to aimless musing, or, even less happily, to pondering certain dark mysteries of the soul; and so it comes about that the "mad-house 't Saint Johns" is inadequate to accommodate the poor fellows whom lonely toil has bereft of their senses--melancholiacs, idiots and maniacs "along o' religion." Notwithstanding all, optimism persists everywhere on the coast. One old fisherman counted himself favoured above most men because he had for years been able to afford the luxury of cream of tartar; and another, a brawny giant, confessed to having a disposition so pertinaciously happy that he had come to regard a merry heart as his besetting sin. Sometimes an off-shore gale puts an end to all the fishing; sometimes it is a sudden gust, sometimes a big wave, sometimes a confusing mist, more often long exposure to spray and shipped water and soggy winds. It was a sleety off-shore gale, coming at the end of a sunny, windless day, that froze or drowned thirty men off Trinity Bay in a single night; and it was a mere puff on a "civil" evening--but a swift, wicked little puff, sweeping round Breakheart Head--that made a widow of Elizabeth Rideout o' Duck Cove and took her young son away. Often, however, the hook-and-line man fishes his eighty years of life, and dies in his bed as cheerfully as he has lived and as poor as he was born. X _SOME OUTPORT FOLK_ It had been a race against the peril of fog and the discomfort of a wet night all the way from Hooping Harbour. We escaped the scowl of the northeast, the gray, bitter wind and the sea it was fast fretting to a fury, when the boat rounded Canada Head and ran into the shelter of the bluffs at Englee--into the damp shadows sombrely gathered there. When the punt was moored to the stage-head, the fog had thickened the dusk into deep night, and the rain had soaked us to the skin. There was a light, a warm, yellow light, shining from a window, up along shore and to the west. We stumbled over an erratic footpath, which the folk of the place call "the roaad"--feeling for direction, chancing the steps, splashing through pools of water, tripping over sharp rocks. The whitewashed cottages of the village, set on the hills, were like the ghosts of houses. They started into sight, hung suspended in the night, vanished as we trudged on. The folk were all abed--all save Elisha Duckworthy, that pious giant, who had been late beating in from the fishing grounds off the Head. It was Elisha who opened the door to our knock, and sent a growling, bristling dog back to his place with a gentle word. [Illustration: "THE WHITEWASHED COTTAGES ON THE HILLS"] "Will you not----" "Sure, sir," said Elisha, a smile spreading from his eyes to the very tip of his great beard, "'twould be a hard man an' a bad Christian that would turn strangers away. Come in, sir! 'Tis a full belly you'll have when you leaves the table, an' 'tis a warm bed you'll sleep in, this night." After family prayers, in which we, the strangers he had taken in, were commended to the care and mercy of God in such simple, feeling phrases as proved the fine quality of this man's hospitality and touched our hearts in their innermost parts, Elisha invited us to sit by the kitchen fire with him "for a spell." While the dogs snored in chorus with a young kid and a pig by the roaring stove, and the chickens rustled and clucked in their coop under the bare spruce sofa which Elisha had made, and the wind flung the rain against the window-panes, we three talked of weather and fish and toil and peril and death. It may be that a cruel coast and a sea quick to wrath engender a certain dread curiosity concerning the "taking off" in a man who fights day by day to survive the enmity of both. Elisha talked for a long time of death and heaven and hell. Then, solemnly, his voice fallen to a whisper, he told of his father, Skipper George, a man of weakling faith, who had been reduced to idiocy by wondering what came after death--by wondering, wondering, wondering, in sunlight and mist and night, off shore in the punt, labouring at the splitting-table, at work on the flake, everywhere, wondering all the time where souls took their flight. "'Twere wonderin' whether hell do be underground or not," said Elisha, "that turned un over at last. Sure, sir," with a sigh, "'twere doubt, you sees. 'Tis faith us must have." Elisha stroked the nearest dog with a gentle hand--a mighty hand, toil-worn and misshapen, like the man himself. "Do your besettin' sin get the best o' you, sir?" he said, looking up. It may be that he craved to hear a confession of failure that he might afterwards sustain himself with the thought that no man is invulnerable. "Sure, we've all besettin' sins. When we do be snatched from the burnin' brands, b'y, a little spark burns on, an' on, an' on; an' he do be wonderful hard t' douse out. 'Tis like the eye us must pluck out by command o' the Lard. With some men 'tis a taste for baccy. With some 'tis a scarcity o' salt in the fish. With some 'tis too much water in the lobster cans. With some 'tis a cravin' for sweetness. With me 'tis worse nor all. Sure, sir," he went on, "I've knowed some men so fond, so wonderful fond, o' baccy that um smoked the shoes off their children's feet. 'Tis their besettin' sin, sir--'tis their besettin' sin. But 'tis not baccy that worries me. The taste fell away when I were took from sin. 'Tis not that. 'Tis worse. Sure, with me, sir," he said, brushing his hand over his forehead in a weary, despairing way, "'tis laughin'. 'Tis the sin of jokin' that puts my soul in danger o' bein' hove overboard into the burnin' lake. I were a wonderful joker when I were a sinful man. 'Twas all I lived for--not t' praise God an' prepare my soul for death. When I gets up in the marnin', now, sir, I feels like jokin' like what I used t' do, particular if it do be a fine day. Ah, sir," with a long sigh, "'tis a great temptation, I tells you--'tis a wonderful temptation. But 'tis not set down in the Book that Jesus Christ smiled an' laughed, an' with the Lard's help I'll beat the devil yet. I'll beat un," he cried, as if inspired to some supreme struggle. "I'll beat un," he repeated, clinching his great hands. "I will!" Elisha bade us good-night with a solemn face. A little smile--a poor, frightened little smile of tender feeling for us--flickered in his eyes for the space of a breath. But he snuffed it out relentlessly, expressed his triumph with a flash of his eye, and went away to bed. In the morning, when the sun called us up, he had come back from the early morning's fishing, and was singing a most doleful hymn of death and judgment over the splitting-table in the stage. The sunlight was streaming into the room, and the motes were all dancing merrily in the beam. The breeze was rustling the leaves of a sickly bush under the window--coaxing them to hopeful whisperings. I fancied that the sea was all blue and rippling, and that the birds were flitting through the sunlight, chirping their sympathy with the smiling day. But Elisha, his brave heart steeled against the whole earth's frivolous mood, continued heroically to pour forth his dismal song. Twilight was filling the kitchen with strange shadows. "We had disposed of Aunt Ruth's watered fish and soaked hard-bread with hunger for a relish. Uncle Simon's glance was mournfully intent upon the bare platter. "But," said Aunt Ruth, with obstinate emphasis, "I knows they be. 'Tis not what we hears we believe, sir. No, 'tis not what we hears. 'Tis what we sees. An' I've seed un." "'Tis true, sir," said Uncle Simon, looking up. "They be nar a doubt about it." "But where," said I, "did she get her looking-glass?" "They be many a trader wrecked on this coast, sir," said Uncle Simon. "'Twere not a mermaid I seed," said Aunt Ruth. "'Twere a mer_man_." "Sure," said Uncle Simon, mysteriously, "they do be in the sea the shape o' all that's on the land--shape for shape, sir. They be sea-horses an' sea-cows an' sea-dogs, Why not the shape o' humans?" "Well," said Aunt Ruth, "'twas when I were a little maid. An' 'twas in a gale o' wind. I goes down t' Billy Cove t' watch me father bring the punt in, an' I couldn't see un anywhere. So I thought he were drownded. 'Twere handy t' dark when I seed the merman rise from the water. He were big an' black--so black as the stove. I could see the eyes of un so plain as I can see yours. He were not good lookin'--no, I'll say that much--he were not good lookin'. He waved his arms, an' beckoned an' beckoned an' beckoned. But, sure, sir, I wouldn't go, for I were feared. ''Tis the soul o' me father,' thinks I. 'Sure, the sea's cotched un.' So I runs home an' tells me mother; an' she says 'twere a merman. I _knows_ they be mermans an' mermaids, 'cause I'se seed un. 'Tis what we sees we believes." "'Tis said," said Uncle Simon, "that if you finds un on the rocks an' puts un in the water they gives you three wishes; an' all you has t' do is wish, an'----" "'Tis said," said Aunt Ruth, with a prodigious frown across the table, "that the mermaids trick the fishermen t' the edge o' the sea an' steals un away. Uncle Simon Ride," she went on, severely, "if ever you----" Uncle Simon looked sheepish. "Sure, woman," said he, the evidences of guilt plain on his face, "they be no danger t' me. 'Twould take a clever mermaid t'----" "Uncle Simon Ride," said Aunt Ruth, "nar another word. An' if you don't put my spinnin' wheel t' rights this night I'll give you your tea in a mug[4] t'-morrow--an' mind that, sir, mind that!" After we had left the table Uncle Simon took me aside. "She do be a wonderful woman," said he, meaning Aunt Ruth. Then, earnestly, "She've no cause t' be jealous o' the mermaids. No, sir--sure, no." * * * * * It is difficult to convey an adequate conception of the barrenness of this coast. If you were to ask a fisherman of some remote outport what his flour was made of he would stare at you and be mute. "Wheat" would be a new, meaningless word to many a man of those places. It may be that the words of the Old Skipper of Black Harbour will help the reader to an understanding of the high value set upon the soil and all it produces. "Come with me," said the Old Skipper, "an' I'll show you so fine a garden as ever you seed." The garden was on an island two miles off the mainland. Like many another patch of ground it had to be cultivated from a distant place. It was an acre, or thereabouts, which had been "won from the wilderness" by the labour of several generations; and it was owned by eleven families. This was not a garden made by gathering soil and dumping it in a hollow, as most gardens are; it was a real "meadow." "Look at them potatoes, sir," said the skipper. He radiated pride in the soil's achievement as he waited for my outburst of congratulation. The potatoes, owing to painstaking fertilization with small fish, had attained admirable size--in tops. But the hay! "'Tis fine grass," said the skipper. "Fine as ever you seed!" It was thin, and nearer gray than yellow; and every stalk was weak in the knees. I do it more than justice when I write that it rose above my shoe tops. "'Tis sizable hay," said the skipper. "'Tis time I had un cut." On the way back the skipper caught sight of a skiff-load of hay, which old John Burns was sculling from Duck Island. He was careful to point it out as good evidence of the fertility of that part of the world. By and by we came to a whisp of hay which had fallen from the skiff. It was a mere handful floating on the quiet water. "The wastefulness of that dunderhead!" exclaimed the skipper. He took the boat towards the whisp of hay, puffing his wrath all the while. "Pass the gaff, b'y," he said. With the utmost care he hooked the whisp of hay--to the last straw--and drew it over the side. "'Tis a sin," said he, "t' waste good hay like that." Broad fields, hay and wheat and corn, all yellow, waving to the breeze--the sun flooding all--were far, far beyond this man's imagination. He did not know that in other lands the earth yields generously to the men who sow seed. How little did the harvest mean to him! The world is a world of rock and sea--of sea and naked rock. Soil is gathered in buckets. Gardens are made by hand. The return is precious in the sight of men. * * * * * Uncle Zeb Gale--Daddy Gale, who had long ago lost count of his grandchildren, they were so many--Ol' Zeb tottered up from the sea, gasping and coughing, but broadly smiling in the intervals. He had a great cod in one hand, and his old cloth cap was in the other. His head was bald, and his snowy beard covered his chest. Toil and the weight of years had bowed his back, spun a film over his eyes and cracked his voice. But neither toil nor age nor hunger nor cold had broken his cheery interest in all the things of life. Ol' Zeb smiled in a sweetly winning way. He stopped to pass a word with the stranger, who was far away from home, and therefore, no doubt, needed a heartening word or two. "Fine even, zur," said he. "Tis that, Uncle Zeb. How have the fish been to-day?" "Oh, they be a scattered fish off the Mull, zur. But 'tis only a scattered one. They don't run in, zur, like what they used to when I were young, sure." "How many years ago, sir?" [Illustration: "TOIL"] "'Tis many year, zur," said Uncle Zeb, smiling indulgence with my youth. "They was fish a-plenty when--when--when I were young. 'Tis not what it used t' be--no, no, zur; not at all. Sure, zur, I been goin' t' the grounds off the Mull since I were seven years old. Since I were seven! I be eighty-three now, zur. Seventy-six year, zur, I has fished out o' this here harbour." Uncle Zeb stopped to wheeze a bit. He was out of breath with this long speech. And when he had wheezed a bit, a spasm of hard coughing took him. He was on the verge of the last stage of consumption, was Uncle Zeb. "'Tis a fine harbour t' fish from, zur," he gasped. "They be none better. Least-ways, so they tells me--them that's cruised about a deal. Sure, I've never seen another. 'Tis t' Conch[5] I've wanted t' go since I were a young feller. I'll see un yet, zur--sure, an' I will." "You are eighty-three?" said I. "I be the oldest man t' the harbour, zur. I marries the maids an' the young fellers when they's no parson about." "You have fished out of this harbour for seventy-six years?" said I, in vain trying to comprehend the deprivation and dull toil of that long life--trying to account for the childlike smile which had continued to the end of it. "Ay, zur," said Uncle Zeb. "But, sure, they be plenty o' time t' see Conch yet. Me father were ninety when he died. I be only eighty-three." Uncle Zeb tottered up the hill. Soon the dusk swallowed his old hulk. I never saw him again. * * * * * We were seated on the Head, high above the sea, watching the fleet of punts come from the Mad Mull grounds and from the nets along shore, for it was evening. Jack had told me much of the lore of lobster-catching and squid-jigging. Of winds and tides and long breakers he had given me solemn warnings--and especially of that little valley down which the gusts came, no man knew from where. He had imparted certain secrets concerning the whereabouts of gulls' nests and juniper-berry patches, for I had won his confidence. I had been informed that Uncle Tom Bull's punt was in hourly danger of turning over because her spread of canvas was "scandalous" great, that Bill Bludgell kept the "surliest dog t' the harbour," that the "goaats was wonderful hard t' find" in the fog, that a brass bracelet would cure salt-water sores on the wrists, that--I cannot recall it all. He had "mocked" a goat, a squid, a lamb, old George Walker at prayer, and "Uncle" Ruth berating "Aunt" Simon for leaving the splitting-table unclean. Then he sang this song, in a thin, sweet treble, which was good to hear: "'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island, When daddy comes home from swilin',[6] (Maggoty fish hung up in the air, Fried in maggoty butter)! Cakes and tea for breakfast, Pork and duff for dinner, Cakes and tea for supper, When daddy comes home from swilin'." He asked me riddles, thence he passed to other questions, for he was a boy who wondered, and wondered, what lay beyond those places which he could see from the highest hill. I described a street and a pavement, told him that the earth was round, defined a team of horses, corrected his impression that a church organ was played with the mouth, and denied the report that the flakes and stages of New York were the largest in the world. The boys of the outports do not play games--there is no time, and at any rate, the old West Country games have not come down to this generation with the dialect, so I told him how to play tag, hide-and-go-seek and blind man's buff, and proved to him that they might be interesting, though I had to admit that they might not be profitable in certain cases. "Some men," said I, at last, "have never seen the sea." He looked at me and laughed his unbelief. "Sure," said he, "not a hundred haven't?" "Many more than that." "'Tis hard t' believe, zur," he said. "Terrible hard." "We were silent while he thought it over. "What's the last harbour in the world?" he asked. I hesitated. "The very last, zur! They do say 'tis St. Johns. But, sure, zur, they must be something beyond. What do it be?" After a silence, he continued, speaking wistfully, "What's the last harbour in all the whole world, zur? Doesn't you know?" * * * * * It had been a raw day--gray and gusty, with the wind breaking over the island from a foggy sea: a sullen day. All day long there had been no rest from the deep harsh growl of the breakers. We were at tea in Aunt Amanda's cottage; the table was spread with dried caplin, bread and butter, and tea, for Aunt Amanda, the Scotsman who was of the harbour, and me. The harbour water was fretting under the windows as the swift gusts whipped over it; and beyond the narrows, where the sea was tumbling, the dusk was closing over the frothy waves. Out there a punt was reeling in from the Mad Mull fishing grounds; its brown sail was like a leaf driven by the wind. I saw the boat dart through the narrows to the sheltered water, and I sighed in sympathy with the man who was then furling his wet and fluttering sail, for I, too, had experienced the relief of sweeping from that waste of grasping waves to the sanctuary of the harbour. "Do you think of the sea as a friend?" I asked Aunt Amanda. She was a gray, stern woman, over whose face, however, a tender smile was used to flitting, the light lingered last in her faded eyes--the daughter, wife, and mother of punt fishermen. So she had dealt hand to hand with the sea since that night, long ago, when, as a wee maid, she first could reach the splitting-table by standing on a bucket. As a child she had tripped up the path to Lookout Head, to watch her father beat in from the grounds; as a maiden, she had courted when the moonlight was falling upon the ripples of Lower Harbour, and the punt was heaving to the spent swell of the open; as a woman she had kept watch on the moods of the sea, which had possessed itself of her hours of toil and leisure. In the end--may the day be long in coming--she will be taken to the little graveyard under the Lookout in a skiff. Now, at my suggestion, she dropped her eyes to her apron, which she smoothed in an absent way. She seemed to search her life--all the terror, toil, and glory of it--for the answer. She was not of a kind to make light replies, and I knew that the word to come would be of vast significance. "It do seem to me," she said, turning her eyes to the darkening water, "that the say is hungry for the lives o' men." "Tut, woman!" cried the old Scotsman, his eyes all a-sparkle. "'Tis a libel on the sea. Why wull ye speak such trash to a stranger? Have ye never heard, sir, what the poet says?" "Well," I began to stammer. "Aye, man," said he, "they all babble about it. But have ye never read, "'O, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?'" With that, the sentimental old fellow struck an attitude. His head was thrown back; his eyes were flashing; his arm was rigid, and pointing straight through the window to that patch of white, far off in the gathering dark, where the sea lay raging. It ever took a poet to carry that old Scotsman off his feet--to sweep him to some high, cloudy place, where the things of life rearranged and decked themselves out to please his fancy. I confess, too, that his enthusiasm rekindled, for a moment, my third-reader interest in "a wet sheet and a flowing sea" and "a wind that follows fast." We have all loved well the sea of our fancy. "Grand, woman!" he exclaimed, turning to Aunt Amanda, and still a-tremble. "Splendid!" Aunt Amanda fixed him with her gray eye. "I don't know," she said, softly. "But I know that the say took me father from me when I was a wee maid." The Scotsman bent his head over his plate, lower and lower still. His fervour departed, and his face, when he looked up, was full of sympathy. Of a sudden my ears hearkened again to the growling breakers, and to the wind, as it ran past, leaping from sea to wilderness; and my spirit felt the coming of the dark. [Footnote 4: A scolding.] [Footnote 5: Some miles distant.] [Footnote 6: Sealing.] XI _WINTER PRACTICE_ It is, then, to the outporter, to the men of the fleet and to the Labrador liveyere that Doctor Grenfell devotes himself. The hospital at Indian Harbour is the centre of the Labrador activity; the hospital at St. Anthony is designed to care for the needs of the French shore folk; the hospital at Battle Harbour--the first established, and, possibly, the best equipped of all--receives patients from all directions, but especially from the harbours of the Strait and the Gulf. In the little hospital-ship, _Strathcona_, the doctor himself darts here and there and everywhere, all summer long, responding to calls, searching out the sick, gathering patients for the various hospitals. She is known to every harbour of the coast; and she is often overcrowded with sick bound to the hospitals for treatment or operation. Often, indeed, in cases of emergency, operations are performed aboard, while she tosses in the rough seas. She is never a moment idle while the waters are open. But in the fall, when navigation closes, she must go into winter quarters; and then the sick and starving are sought out by dog-team and komatik. There is no cessation of beneficent activity; there is merely a change in the manner of getting about. Summer journeys are hard enough, God knows! But winter travel is a matter of much greater difficulty and hardship. Not that the difficulty and hardship seem ever to be perceived by the mission-doctor; quite the contrary: there is if anything greater delight to be found in a wild, swift race over rotten or heaving ice, or in a night in the driving snow, than in running the _Strathcona_ through a nor'east gale. The Indian Harbour hospital is closed in the fall; so intense is the cold, so exposed the situation, so scarce the wood, so few the liveyeres, that it has been found unprofitable to keep it open. There is another way of meeting the needs of the situation; and that is by despatching the Battle Harbour doctor northward in midwinter. The folk know that he is bound towards them--know the points of call--can determine within a month the time of his arrival. So they bring the sick to these places--and patiently wait. This is a hard journey--made alone with the dogs. Many a night the doctor must get into his sleeping bag and make himself as comfortable as possible in the snow, snuggled close to his dogs, for the sake of the warmth of their bodies. Six hundred miles north in the dead of winter, six hundred miles back again; it takes a man of unchangeable devotion to undertake it! [Illustration: "THE HOSPITAL AT BATTLE HARBOR"] * * * * * The Labrador dogs--pure and half-breed "huskies," with so much of the wolf yet in them that they never bark--are for the most part used by the doctor on his journeys. There would be no getting anywhere without them; and it must be said that they are magnificent animals, capable of heroic deeds. Every prosperous householder has at least six or eight full-grown sled-dogs and more puppies than he can keep track of. In summer they lie everywhere under foot by day, and by night howl in a demoniacal fashion far and near; but they fish for themselves in shallow water, and are fat, and may safely be stepped over. In winter they are lean, desperately hungry, savage, and treacherous--in particular, a menace to the lives of children, whom they have been known to devour. There was once a father, just returned from a day's hunt on the ice, who sent his son to fetch a seal from the waterside; the man had forgotten for the moment that the dogs were roaming the night and very hungry--and so he lost both his seal and his son. The four-year-old son of the Hudson Bay Company's agent at Cartwright chanced last winter to fall down in the snow. He was at once set upon by the pack; and when he was rescued (his mother told me the story) he had forty-two ugly wounds on his little body. For many nights afterwards the dogs howled under the window where he lay moaning. Eventually those concerned in the attack were hanged by the neck, which is the custom in such cases. * * * * * Once, when Dr. Grenfell was wintering at St. Anthony, on the French shore, there came in great haste from Conch, a point sixty miles distant, a komatik with an urgent summons to the bedside of a man who lay dying of hemorrhage. And while the doctor was preparing for this journey, a second komatik, despatched from another place, arrived with a similar message. "Come at once," it was. "My little boy has broken his thigh." The doctor chose first to visit the lad. At ten o'clock that night he was at the bedside. It had been a dark night--black dark: with the road precipitous, the dogs uncontrollable, the physician in great haste. The doctor thought, many a time, that there would be "more than one broken limb" by the time of his arrival. But there was no misadventure; and he found the lad lying on a settle, in great pain, wondering why he must suffer so. "Every minute or two," says the doctor, "there would be a jerk, a flash of pain, and a cry to his father, who was holding him all the time." The doctor was glad "to get the chloroform mask over the boy's face"--he is a sympathetic man, the doctor; glad, always, to ease pain. And at one o'clock in the morning the broken bone was set and the doctor had had a cup of tea; whereupon, he retired to a bed on the floor and a few hours' "watch below." At daylight, when he was up and about to depart, the little patient had awakened and was merrily calling to the doctor's little retriever. "He was as merry as a cricket," says the doctor, "when I bade him good-bye." * * * * * About twelve hours on the way to Conch, where the man lay dying of hemorrhage--a two days' journey--the doctor fell in with a dog-train bearing the mail. And the mail-man had a letter--a hasty summons to a man in great pain some sixty miles in another direction. It was impossible to respond. "That call," says the doctor, sadly, "owing to sheer impossibility, was not answered." It was haste away to Conch, over the ice and snow--for the most of the time on the ice of the sea--in order that the man who lay dying there might be succoured. But there was another interruption. When the dog-train reached the coast, there was a man waiting to intercept it: the news of the doctor's probable coming had spread. "I've a fresh team o' dogs," sir, said he, "t' take you t' the island. There's a man there, an' he's wonderful sick." Would the doctor go? Yes--he would go! But he had no sooner reached that point of the mainland whence he was bound across a fine stretch of ice to the island than he was again intercepted. It was a young man, this time, whose mother lay ill, with no other Protestant family living within fifty miles. Would the doctor help her? Yes--the doctor would; and did. And when he was about to be on his way again---- "Could you bear word," said the woman, "t' Mister Elliot t' come bury my boy? He said he'd come, sir; but now my little lad has been lying dead, here, since January." It was then early in March. Mr. Elliot was a Protestant fisherman who was accustomed to bury the Protestant dead of that district. Yes--the doctor would bear word to him. Having promised this, he set out to visit the sick man on the island; for whom, also, he did what he could. * * * * * Off again towards Conch--now with fresh teams, which had been provided by the friends of the man who lay there dying. And by the way a man brought his little son for examination and treatment--"a lad of three years," says the doctor; "a bright, healthy, embryo fisherman, light-haired and blue-eyed, a veritable celt." "And what's the matter with him?" was the physician's question. "He've a club foot, sir," was the answer. And so it turned out: the lad had a club foot. He was fond of telling his mother that he had a right foot and a wrong one. "The wrong one, mama," said he, "is no good." He was to be a cripple for life--utterly incapacitated: the fishing does not admit of club feet. But the doctor made arrangements for the child's transportation to the St. Anthony hospital, where he could, without doubt be cured; and then hurried on. * * * * * The way now led through a district desperately impoverished--as much by ignorance and indolence as by anything else. At one settlement of tilts there were forty souls, "without a scrap of food or money," who depended upon their neighbours--and the opening of navigation was still three months distant! In one tilt there lay what seemed to be a bundle of rags. "And who is this?" the doctor asked. It was a child. "The fair hair of a blue-eyed boy of about ten years disclosed itself," says the doctor. "Stooping over him I attempted to turn his face towards me. It was drawn, with pain, and a moan escaped the poor little fellow's lips. He had disease of the spine, with open sores in three places. He was stark naked, and he was starved to a skeleton. He gave me a bright smile before I left, but I confess to a shudder of horror at the thought that his lot might have been mine. Of course the 'fear of pauperizing' had to disappear before the claims of humanity. Yet, there, in the depth of winter," the doctor asks, with infinite compassion, "would not a lethal draught be the kindest friend of that little one of Him that loved the children?" * * * * * For five days the doctor laboured in Conch, healing many of the folk, helping more; and at the end of that period the man who has suffered the hemorrhage was so far restored that with new dogs the doctor set out for Canada Bay, still travelling southward. There, as he says, "we had many interesting cases." One of these involved an operation: that of "opening a knee-joint and removing a loose body," with the result that a fisherman who had long been crippled was made quite well again. Then there came a second call from Conch. Seventeen men had come for the physician, willing to haul the komatik themselves, if no dogs were to be had. To this call the doctor immediately responded; and having treated patients at Conch and by the way, he set out upon the return journey to St. Anthony, fearing that his absence had already been unduly prolonged. And he had not gone far on the way before he fell in with another komatik, provided with a box, in which lay an old woman bound to St. Anthony hospital, in the care of her sons, to have her foot amputated. Crossing Hare Bay, the doctor had a slight mishap--rather amusing, too, he thinks. "One of my dogs fell through the ice," says he. "There was a biting nor'west wind blowing, and the temperature was ten degrees below zero. When we were one mile from the land, I got off to run and try the ice. It suddenly gave way, and in I fell. It did not take me long to get out, for I have had some little experience, and the best advice sounds odd: it is 'keep cool.' But the nearest house being at least ten miles, it meant, then, almost one's life to have no dry clothing. Fortunately, I had. The driver at once galloped the dogs back to the woods we had left, and I had as hard a mile's running as ever I had; for my clothing was growing to resemble the armour of an ancient knight more and more, every yard, and though in my youth I was accustomed to break the ice to bathe if necessary, I never tried running a race in a coat of mail. By the time I arrived at the trees and got out of the wind, my driver had a rubber poncho spread on the snow under a snug spruce thicket; and I was soon as dry and a great deal warmer than before." At St. Anthony, the woman's foot was amputated; and in two days the patient was talking of "getting up." Meantime, a komatik had arrived in haste from a point on the northwest coast--a settlement one hundred and twenty miles distant. The doctor was needed there--and the doctor went! * * * * * [Illustration: "THE DOCTOR ON A WINTER'S JOURNEY"] This brief and inadequate description of a winter's journey may not serve to indicate the hardship of the life the doctor leads: he has small regard for that; but it may faintly apprise the reader of the character of the work done, and of the will with which the doctor does it. One brief journey! The visitation of but sixty miles of coast! Add to this the numerous journeys of that winter, the various summer voyages of the _Strathcona_; conceive that the folk of two thousand miles are visited every year, often twice a year: then multiply by ten--for the mission has been in efficient existence for ten years--and the reader may reach some faint conception of the sum of good wrought by this man. But without knowing the desolate land--without observing the emaciated bodies of the children--without hearing the cries of distress--it is impossible adequately to realize the blessing his devotion has brought to the coast. XII _THE CHAMPION_ The Deep-sea Mission is not concerned chiefly with the souls of the folk, nor yet exclusively with their bodies: it endeavours to provide them with religious instruction, to heal their ailments; but it is quite as much interested, apparently, in improving their material condition. To the starving it gives food, to the naked clothing; but it must not be supposed that charity is indiscriminately distributed. That is not the case. Far from it. When a man can cut wood for the steamer or hospitals in return for the food he is given, for example, he is required to do so; but the unhappy truth is that a man can cut very little wood "on a winter's diet" exclusively of flour. "You gets weak all of a suddent, zur," one expressed it to me. In his effort to "help the people help themselves" the doctor has established cooperative stores and various small industries. The result has been twofold: the regeneration of several communities, and an outbreak of hatred and dishonest abuse on the part of the traders, who have too long fattened on the isolation and miseries of the people. The cooperative stores, I believe, are thriving, and the small industries promise well. Thus the mission is at once the hope and comfort of the coast. The man on the _Strathcona_ is the only man, in all the long history of that wretched land, to offer a helping hand to the whole people from year to year without ill temper and without hope of gain. "But I can't do everything," says he. And that is true. There is much that the mission-doctor cannot do--delicate operations, for which the more skilled hand of a specialist is needed. For a time, one season, an eminent surgeon, of Boston, the first of many, it is hoped, cruised on the _Strathcona_, and most generously operated at Battle Harbour. The mission gathered the patients to the hospital from far and near before the surgeon arrived. Folk who had looked forward in dread to a painful death, fast approaching, were of a sudden promised life. There was a man coming, they were told, above the skill of the mission surgeons, who could surely cure them. The deed was as good as the promise: many operations were performed; all the sick who came for healing were healed; the hope of not one was disappointed. Folk who had suffered years of pain were restored. Never had such a thing been known on the Labrador. Men marvelled. The surgeon was like a man raising the dead. But there was a woman who is now, perhaps, dead; she lacked the courage. Day after day for two weeks she waited for the Boston surgeon; but when he came she fled in terror of the knife. Her ailment was mortal in that land; but she might easily have been cured; and she fled home when she knew that the healer had come. No doubt her children now know what it is to want a mother. Dr. Grenfell will let no man oppress his people when his arm is strong enough to champion them. There was once a rich man (so I was told before I met the doctor)--a man of influence and wide acquaintance--whose business was in a remote harbour of Newfoundland. He did a great wrong; and when the news of it came to the ears of the mission-doctor, the anchor of the _Strathcona_ came up in a hurry, and off she steamed to that place. "Now," said the doctor to this man, "you must make what amends you can, and you must confess your sin." The man laughed aloud. It seemed to him, no doubt, a joke that the mission-doctor should interfere in the affairs of one so rich who knew the politicians at St. Johns. But the mission-doctor was also a magistrate. "I say," said he, deliberately, "that you must pay one thousand dollars and confess your sin." The man cursed the doctor with great laughter, and dared him to do his worst. The joke still had point. "I warn you," said the doctor, "that I will arrest you if you do not do precisely as I say." The man pointed out to the doctor that his magisterial district lay elsewhere, and again defied him. "Very true," said the doctor; "but I warn you that I have a crew quite capable of taking you into it." The joke was losing its point. But the man blustered that he, too, had a crew. "You must make sure," said the doctor, "that they love you well enough to fight for you. On Sunday evening," he continued, "you will appear at the church at seven o'clock and confess your sin before the congregation; and next week you will pay the money as I have said." "I'll see you in h--ll first!" replied the man, defiantly. [Illustration: "A CREW QUITE CAPABLE OF TAKING YOU INTO IT"] At the morning service the doctor announced that a sinful man would confess his sin before them all that night. There was great excitement. Other men might be prevailed upon to make so humiliating a confession, the folk said, but not this one--not this rich man, whom they hated and feared, because he had so long pitilessly oppressed them. So they were not surprised when at the evening service the sinful man did not show his face. "Will you please to keep your seats," said the doctor, "while I go fetch that man." He found the man in a neighbour's house, on his knees in prayer, with his friends. They were praying fervently, it is said; but whether or not that the heart of the doctor might be softened I do not know. "Prayer," said the doctor, "is a good thing in its place, but it doesn't 'go' here. Come with me." The man meekly went with the doctor; he was led up the aisle of the church, was placed where all the people could see him; and then he was asked many questions, after the doctor had described the great sin of which he was guilty. "Did you do this thing?" "I did." "You are an evil man, of whom the people should beware?" "I am." "You deserve the punishment of man and God?" "I do." There was much more, and at the end of it all the doctor told the man that the good God would forgive him if he should ask in true faith and repentance, but that the people, being human, could not. For a whole year, he charged the people, they must not speak to that man; but if at the end of that time he had shown an honest disposition to mend his ways, they might take him to their hearts. The end of the story is that the man paid the money and left the place. This relentless judge, on a stormy day of last July, carried many bundles ashore at Cartwright, in Sandwich Bay of the Labrador. The wife of the Hudson Bay Company's agent exclaimed with delight when she opened them. They were Christmas gifts from the children of the "States" to the lads and little maids of that coast. With almost all there came a little letter addressed to the unknown child who was to receive the toy; they were filled with loving words--with good wishes, coming in childish sincerity from the warm little hearts. The doctor never forgets the Christmas gifts. He is the St. Nicholas of that coast. If he ever weeps at all, I should think it would be when he hears that despite his care some child has been neglected. The wife of the agent stowed away the gifts against the time to come. "It makes them _very_ happy," said the agent's wife. "Not long ago," I chanced to say, "I saw a little girl with a stick of wood for a dolly. Are they not afraid to play with these pretty things?" "They _are_," she laughed. "They use them for ornaments. But _that_ doesn't matter. It makes them happy just to look at them." We all laughed. "And yet," she continued, "they _do_ play with them, sometimes, after all. There is a little girl up the bay who _has kissed the paint off her dolly_!" * * * * * Thus and all the time, in storm and sunshine, summer and winter weather, Grenfell of the Deep-sea Mission goes about doing good; if it's not in a boat, it's in a dog-sled. He is what he likes to call "a Christian man." But he is also a hero--at once the bravest and the most beneficently useful man I know. If he regrets his isolation, if the hardship of the life sometimes oppresses him, no man knows it. He does much, but there is much more to do. If the good people of the world would but give a little more of what they have so abundantly--and if they could but know the need, they would surely do that--joy might be multiplied on that coast; nor would any man be wronged by misguided charity. "What a man does for the love of God," the doctor once said, "he does differently." _Decorated Cloth, $1.50_ _Doctor Luke of The Labrador_ BY NORMAN DUNCAN "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise for this, his first novel.... In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is sincere to the smallest detail. His characters are painted in with bold, wide strokes.... Unlike most first novels, 'Doctor Luke' waxes stronger as it progresses."--_N. Y. Evening Post_. _James MacArthur, of Harper's Weekly, says_: "I am delighted with 'Doctor Luke.' So fine and noble a work deserves great success." "A masterpiece of sentiment and humorous characterization. Nothing more individual, and in its own way more powerful, has been done in American fiction.... The story is a work of art."--_The Congregationalist_. _Joseph B. Gilder, of The Critic, says_: "I look to see it take its place promptly among the best selling books of the season." "It fulfills its promise of being one of the best stories of the season. Mr. Duncan evidently is destined to make a name for himself among the foremost novelists of his day.... Doctor Luke is a magnetic character, and the love story in which he plays his part is a sweet and pleasant idyl.... The triumph of the book is its character delineation."--_Chicago Record-Herald_. _Miss Bacon, Literary Editor of The Booklover's Library, says_: "Of all the stories I have read this Autumn there is none that I would rather own." "Norman Duncan's novel is a great enterprise, and will probably prove to be the greatest book yet produced by a native of Canada."--_Toronto Globe_. _8vo, Cloth Price, $1.75 net_ _Denizens of the Deep_ _By_ FRANK. T. BULLEN There is a new world of life and intelligence opened to our knowledge in Mr. Bullen's stories of the inhabitants of the sea. He finds the same fascinating interest in the lives of the dwellers in the deep as Thompson Seton found in the lives of the hunted ashore, and with the keenness and vigor which characterized his famous book "The Cruise of The Cachalot" he has made a book which, being based upon personal observation, buttressed by scientific facts and decorated by imagination, is a storehouse of information--an ideal romance of deep sea folk and, as _The Saturday Times-Review_ has said, worth a dozen novels. Not the least attractive feature of an unusually attractive volume is the series of illustrations by Livingston Bull and others. [Illustration: DENIZENS OF THE DEEP, FRANK T. BULLEN] _By_ MARGARET SANGSTER _Cloth, each, $1.50_ _Janet Ward_ _Eleanor Lee_ Without exaggeration and with perfectly consistent naturalness Mrs. Sangster has produced two pieces of realism of a most healthy sort, demonstrating conclusively that novels may be at once clean and wholesome yet most thoroughly alive and natural. As with all her work, Mrs. Sangster exhibits her splendid skill and excellent taste, and succeeds in winning and holding her readers in these two books which treat of the life of today. "If ever there was an author whose personality shone through her work, Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster is that author. Mrs. Sangster has written a novel with a moral purpose. That was to be expected, but it was also to be expected that the story would be free from hysteria and intolerance, filled with gentle humor, sane common sense and warm human sympathy, and saturated with cheerful optimism. The book fulfills the expectation."--_The Lamp_. [Illustration: JANET WARD by Margaret E. Sangster] _Essays--Fiction_ _By_ JAMES M. LUDLOW Incentives for Life. Personal and Public. 12mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25 net. "Dr. Ludlow shows versatility and rare culture in this book of essays. From the first page one is impressed with the beautifully clear style, the brilliant thought which flashes through every sentence, and the marvelous storehouse of illustration from which the author draws. The vital importance of will power in the formation of character, and the incentives which lie back of it as motives to action, are set forth with vigor and power."--_Christian Observer_. Deborah. A Tale of the Times of Judas Maccabaeus. By the author of "The Captain of the Janizaries." 12mo, cloth, illustrated ... $1.50 "Deborah is a genuine Jewess, noble, brilliant, loving and lovely."--_Congregationalist_. "Nothing in the class of fiction to which 'Deborah' belongs, the class of which 'Ben Hur' and 'Captain of the Janizaries' are familiar examples, exceeds the early chapters of this story in vividness and rapidity of action. The book as a whole has vigor and color."--_The Outlook_. [Illustration: DEBORAH, JAMES M. LUDLOW] _Tales of the West--Virile, true, tender_ _By_ RALPH CONNOR The Sky Pilot; A Tale of the Foothills. 12mo, cloth, illustrated ... Price, $1.25 "Ralph Connor's 'Black Rock' was good, but 'The Sky Pilot' is better. The matter which he gives us is real life; virile, true, tender, humorous, pathetic, spiritual, wholesome. His style, fresh, crisp and terse, accords with the Western life, which he understands. Henceforth the foothills of the Canadian Rockies will probably be associated in many a mind with the name of 'Ralph Connor.'"--_The Outlook_. The Man From Glengarry; A Tale of the Ottawa. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.50 "As straight as a pine, as sweet as a balsam, as sound as a white oak."--_The Interview_. Glengarry School Days; A Tale of the Indian Lands. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.25 In pathos it reaches the high level of "The Sky Pilot." In atmosphere it is "The Man from Glengarry." In action it rivals "Black Rock." Black Rock; A Tale of the Selkirks. 12mo, cloth ... Price, $1.25 12mo, cloth, cheaper edition ... .25 "'Ralph Connor' is some man's nom de plume. The world would insist on knowing whose. He has gone into the Northwest Canadian mountains and painted for us a picture of life in the mining camps of surpassing merit. With perfect wholesomeness, with exquisite delicacy, with entire fidelity, with truest pathos, with freshest humor, he has delineated character, has analyzed motives and emotions, and has portrayed life. Some of his characters deserve immortality, so faithfully are they created."--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat_. The world _has_ known and today Ralph Connor has been accorded the signal honor of seeing his books, by virtue of their sterling worth, attain a sale of over one and one-half million copies. 
43934	----	HARBOR JIM [Illustration: SIGNAL HILL, HARBOUR OF ST. JOHNS.] HARBOR JIM OF NEWFOUNDLAND By A. EUGENE BARTLETT, D.D. _Author of "The Joy Maker," etc._ [Illustration] NEW YORK CHICAGO Fleming H. Revell Company LONDON AND EDINBURGH Copyright, 1922, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street _To those Newfoundlanders who, in gathering harvests from the sea for the world's hungry, have garnered for themselves both faith and courage, I dedicate this book._ Contents I. JIM AND BOB 9 II. THE CONVERSION OF JIM 20 III. AN ENGAGEMENT AS PLANNED 30 IV. SOME MIRACLES 40 V. "I ASKED FOR FISH" 49 VI. LIVIN' ALONG 56 VII. THE HEAVEN HOME 61 VIII. CHRISTMAS WITH JIM'S FRIENDS 68 IX. HONEY-MOONING ON THE FLAKES 80 X. JIM AND HIS BOOK 86 XI. RAILROADING WITH THE KID 93 XII. THROUGH THE VALLEY WITH THE LITTLE FELLOW 100 XIII. THE QUEER ONE 107 I JIM AND BOB Bob McCartney was spreading cod on the flakes and I was watching him and estimating the chances of better weather. The sun had not succeeded in rolling back the fog and St. John's was still half asleep in blankets of mist. Signal Hill was altogether hidden and the harbor entrance could not be seen. In the water-soaked atmosphere the flakes were merged together and the tiny houses of the fishers were almost joined into one long rambling house. The air was heavy with the smell of fish and the morning was not conducive to enthusiastic conversation. Bob McCartney was a Newfoundlander born and bred and had left with his ancestors in Ireland the gift of blarney. This morning in particular he contented himself with monosyllabic answers, that occasionally did not come even to the estate words, but ended only in an effective grunt. Finally he condescended to speak a whole sentence with some little life in his voice. "Yes, I guess she's agoin' to lift, fer there goes Harbor Jim." I strained my eyes to see thru the fog and could just discern a sail boat headed toward what I supposed was the harbor entrance. "And who is Harbor Jim?" I asked. "Why, he's my friend and he can knock spalls off'n any Lander in the Dominion," replied Bob and then lapsed into silence as he went on slowly laying out his cod on the flakes. Just then the sun made a gain and succeeded in piercing thru the fog and I saw, suddenly, a little boat some seventy-five yards out from the shore, and standing out near the bow stood a man as erect as the mast behind him, and looking straight out to sea. "There's Harbor Jim!" and Bob pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the boat as he spoke the words. It gave me a thrill, as the light brought him sharply to my attention, to see him standing there, intently looking toward the harbor entrance. I looked from the shore even as he looked from his boat and the sun at that moment uncovered the rocks on both sides. He lifted his hand and the helper behind him brought the sail to the faint breeze that was springing up, and the boat headed for the harbor entrance and the open sea. The sun seemed to lift Bob's spirit and the sight of Harbor Jim to warm the cockles of his heart, for he began in a good-natured drawl to tell me of the finding of his friend. "It was the third week in March, eleven years ago, come next spring, that we were sealing down North. Harbor Jim and I were then on Cap'en Boynton's ship. I didn't know Jim then more'n any other fellow. It was an odd kind of a trip. For days it hung nasty and we couldn't have seen a seal if he had been within shot of us. "Then, one day, I think it was a Friday, but that doesn't matter, it come bright and sparkling and grew cold. By noon our ship was frozen in the ice, and we were waiting and hoping the look-out would see seals. The ice had been piled up in some places and just south it looked like a town, a little village with houses and meeting house and school, all a sparklin' pretty. I never seed bluer sky, deep as chicory flowers and you could see fer miles, seems though you was a-goin' to see thru it almost to 'tother side o' the world. "Long about two o'clock the look-out yelled: 'Seals to the nor-east!' "No sooner did he yell than the Cap'en shouted: 'Look alive men! Over and after!' "Then with gaffs and guns and ropes we went over the ship's side and after the seals. The ice was uncertain and some of the men went thru the crust into the sea, but we quickly pulled them out and were off agin. "Now in the days before we had decided to make a contest of it, as we often did. It made good sport and we would get more seals. Harbor Jim and I had chosen up, like they do in a spellin' bee, and all the men had been divided into two sides to see which one on'em would bring the biggest load o' seals back to the ship. "Unfortunately the seals were some distance from the ship and it was after two when we started. We were so intent on getting the catch that we failed to note it was not only beginning to snow, but also getting on toward the end o' the day. "At the moment when we should have turned back, I saw an old hood, that's an old seal that pulls a visor over his eyes and fights to a finish. I'd been tender-hearted and passed by just then a young seal that looked kinder pitiful at me and begged for life and I resolved that I'd get the old hood, come what would. He lured me away from the crowd, and when I finally succeeded in silencing him, the men were gone, and thru the snow I could not see the ship. "Worse luck still the ice-pan on which I stood was beginning to shake and break up. I thought of the woman at home and the boy, and I thought of freezing to death out to sea and I guess, too, I thought o' my sins. The other fellows had gone back to the ship and I was alone, facing the cold, the storm and the night. Then I began to shout in the hope that they were not too far away to hear me. After some waiting, that seemed longer than probably 'twas, I heared two words and I don't honest think, if I gets to Paradise and the good Lord says, 'Come, Bob, there's room,' it'll sound half so good as it did to me then when I heared ringing out: "'Comin', Bob!' It was the shout of Harbor Jim. I kept hollering and he found me and together we made our way back. I don't know jes' how and I don't believe he does, but when we reached the rest, we joined hands and felt our way back to the ship. "I have asked him about it, many a time, but he always says, '_He_ showed me the way, Bob, and He'll show you the way. Ask Him, Bob.' "He went after me when all the rest said he was a fool and a riskin' of his life. That's how I found my friend and I don't believe Jonathan ever loved David more'n I love Jim. He never goes scow-ways; he always sails straight. But you mustn't think I am the only one that loves him. Jerusalem spriggins, I do believe the whole world would love Jim, if they only could know him." The lethargy that had been born out of the morning had completely disappeared. Bob had become all animation as he told of the finding of his friend. If I had not known that Bob was a man who never showed his feelings, except in most orderly and measured fashion, I should have thought, once or twice, that the tears were starting, but it must have been the dampness of the morning, that the sun was now fast drying up. The city of St. John's now stood out clear in the sunshine. Harbor Jim's boat had gone thru the narrow entrance and disappeared out to sea. Both sides of the bay stood out sharp, revealing a harbor that from many viewpoints is as beautiful as that of Naples. Bob carefully laid out his last fish and left it to dry on the flakes. Rubbing his sleeve across his face, he abruptly turned and said: "I needs a plug of terbaccy. Walk down town and I'll tell you how Jim got his name." I did not need a second invitation and we started toward town. "You see it was this-away. His mother gave him the Jim, but his friends and neighbors give him the Harbor. "Jim was always one to take chances, 'specially if some one needed him. Didn't he take a chance--a big one--when he saved me on the ice-pan? But somehow he always pulled thru. Other boats would lie outside and wait but Jim would pull thru the Narrows and tie up and be home afore the others. The others dasn't come into the Harbor, a fear o' the rocks. "Folks come to say, 'Jim always makes the Harbor.' Then jes' naturally they come to call him Harbor Jim. It's so now that the women folks are always glad if their men can go with Jim, for they feel that then they'll sure come back. Everybody who lives yere loves Harbor Jim." "I would like to meet Harbor Jim and have a talk with him," I said, when Bob ceased talking and trudged on in silence. "I am sure he has a philosophy worth hearing about and adopting." "You can meet him all right," replied Bob, "but as for talkin' much with him, I don't know. He isn't very strong on talkin'. He says some folks talk so much, they set their tongue to goin' and go off and leave it runnin' and it does a heap a mischief. Another time he sed to me that he thought most folks would _do_ more if they talked less. "I remember a year ago a white-washed Yankee was here travelling for some soap concern. He heared about Harbor Jim and wanted me to take him over to his house and introduce him and I did. That Yankee started right in doing all the talkin'. He had a tongue that was balanced and would wag easy. He told Jim he was making a mistake in not having a bigger garden, that he ought to farm more and fish less. He told him what the Dominion needed and when at last he began to get out of breath he turned to Jim and said: "'What do you think?' "And Harbor Jim just said kind of slow like and deliberate: "'Guess you have said it all, sir, but mebbe when everybody goes to farming they will need a little fish to change off from potatoes and cabbage, and I guess I better bid you good day and go fishing.' That was every word Jim said and that Yankee watched him go out of sight and what that Yankee said then want a credit to him nor favorable to the Dominion." I smiled at the thought of the discomforted travelling man and wondered if my own luck or my own tact would succeed any better, for I was already convinced that Harbor Jim was a man worth knowing. "Suppose we go and meet Mrs. Harbor Jim," I said to Bob when the tobacco had been purchased and his pipe was doing right. "If you say so, but meetin' her ain't the same as meetin' him. She's all right, but she's jes' learning from Jim, she says so herself," answered Bob. Their home was in a little town a few miles out from St. John's and it was kind of Bob to go out with me. After a walk of about an hour we stood looking down upon a little fishing village with great, brown-stained rocks protecting it a little from the sea. "This is his town," said Bob, "can you find his house?" But they looked alike to me; for all were small rectangular affairs, flat-roofed, shingled and painted white. Jim's house was evidently no different from his neighbor's. "I guess I'll have to tell you," Bob chuckled, as we went down a lane and saw two rather dirty children at play in front of a house where a woman was bending over a tub of clothes. "Hello, Bob, did Jim go out?" the woman called, as soon as she recognized Bob. "Yes, he went out a couple of hours ago. Here's a man who wants to meet Mrs. Harbor Jim." She wiped her hands on her wet apron, pushed the hair back from the baby's face as she passed her and beckoned us to follow her into the house. Extending her hand she said: "I think, sir, you want to see my husband, but he's a fishin' and may not be back afore tomorrow. Can I do anything for you, sir? There's some brewse,[1] on the back of the stove, if you care to eat. I am wondering what you can be awantin' this time of a working morning? Is it that some one has fell sick and wants Jim to watch or pray?" "We were a bit tired with walking and thought we would like to rest and see you and the children in passing," I said none to easily, for the little woman was searching us hard to find the reason of our visit. Bob came to our rescue by starting a conversation about the promise of prices for fish and what Bill Coaker was doing for the Fishermen's Protective Union. Relieved by the shift in the conversation I looked about the room. It was positively no different from other fishermen's homes that I had visited; no better furniture, no more of it; the house was no cleaner; and the woman, who was Jim's wife, was on a par with other women of the neighborhood; only she seemed a little brighter and a certain light was in her eyes when she spoke of Jim. There was just one object that attracted my attention, a spruce tree in one corner, and I asked the purpose of it. She replied: "Jim keeps a tree in that corner. He says it keeps him remembering how beautiful the world is. He says it connects us with out o' doors and Jim loves the open country just as he does the sea." Then after a pause she added: "But you must come again when Jim is home. I want you to know him. I wish every one could know Jim; he is so good, so true, so kind!" That was all I could find out about Harbor Jim that day, but I did not forget that tribute to her husband, spoken simply, out of her heart, and it made me feel as I went back to the city with Bob, that perhaps I had under-estimated her ability and worth. It was more than a week afterward that in unexpected fashion and without introduction, I met Jim, But there was not a day of that week that I did not think of the little woman in faded blue, her flaxen hair falling over her face in confusion, because of wind and work, as I had seen her that morning over the white-picketed fence of Jim's house. I knew that I should not leave St. John's until I had seen Harbor Jim and his wife again. [1] A Newfoundland dish of hard bread, fish and pork. II THE CONVERSION OF JIM The pressure of my own work, during the following days, postponed my intended visit to Harbor Jim's. Then, one afternoon, I started for a walk, not to Jim's, but to Signal Tower by way of the flakes. The path I chose, wound around among the little fishermen's summer homes and past the flakes now heavy with fish curing in the sun; then across the little valley, near the end of the promontory, up back of the hospital to Cabot Tower and down around the reservoir back to the city. St. John's offers many attractive walks. There is the road out to Quidi Vidi, past the little lake where the regattas are held. There is the road to Bowring Park that gives one the quiet of woods there, with many flowers and a little, singing brook; but for one who loves the sea and the fishers, the walk that goes along the flakes must ever be the favorite. The afternoon of my walk was clear and the deep, blue water of the harbor was in sight most of the way. I had reached Cabot Tower and had been looking across the unhindered sea toward Ireland, the nearest land beyond, and was turning to go down toward the city, that lay comfortably upon the hills in the mellow, warm light of late afternoon, when I noticed a rather tall, bronzed fisherman, standing close by, evidently sharing the view with me. I turned and looked squarely at him and thought, "John Cabot himself might have been such a one as you are." I nodded and the fellow returned it and said, removing his hat as he spoke: "Don't you think we had better uncover before such a view as that?" I did as he suggested and drawn to the fellow by his winsome smile I decided to go back to the city with him; but there was a certain reserve in his manner, that did not make it quite easy to go with him unbidden. I hesitated and then asked: "Have you any objection to my walking back to the city with you?" "Not in the least," he replied, "provided you do not spoil the last of the day with too many words. You see, sir, I need some time to let that scene sink into my soul." For a New Yorker who had been interviewing Dominion leaders and talking politics in the interests of a newspaper, the command to keep silent was at least a surprise, but no doubt altogether wholesome. We started toward the city. The hill drops rather rapidly, you may remember, and then winds more leisurely. Forbidden to spoil the afternoon with words, I could at least watch my unknown companion who chose to practice the vow of silence like a Trappist monk. He was a fisherman. His clothes told me that, but there was to his walk an elasticity, a certain springiness that the fishermen I knew had lacked. He carried his head higher, his back was straighter. He walked as the son of a King might have walked, who had decided for the time to travel incognito and had chosen the garb of a fisherman. Now and then I would get a little ahead of him for the chance of looking back and up into his face. The very smile with which he had closed my mouth lingered and lit his face, just as light sometimes lingers on clouds at sunset. I fell to wondering how long it would last, just as sometimes I had estimated the length of sunsets. We came to a house and a little girl, seeing him, came running down and, without a word, slipped her hand into the man's and walked on some three rods and then left him and went back into the house from which she had come. She also smiled and seemed glad to walk and be silent. The houses increased in number as we came down the hill. Two boys came and, grabbing each a hand of my companion, walked a little way with him. This time he bestowed upon the boys, not words but a marble a piece. The boys utterly ignored me, kept their eyes rivetted upon him and left, giving him a hearty "Thank you!" When we came to the last dip of the hill that descends into the city, he paused and, keeping his eyes on the western sky, said: "Hard on you, sir! I didn't intend to be rude, but since I was converted I have to have more time to myself. Seems only fair that a fellow should have a little time now and then to enjoy his own company. Here's a good place to watch the Lord as He blesses the city at the close of the day." He waved me to a seat beside him and we sat watching. The silence was not as oppressive. I was a little nearer to my companion and the great gray clouds suffused with pink rivetted my attention. As the sunset waned and the cold, gray of night came on, he got up and, starting toward the city, said: "Thank you for praying with me." Now I had not been aware of having said anything at all, but I remembered that prayer may be uttered or unexpressed and ventured no reply. "Words often weigh down as well as lift. A lot of folks are smothered with them." He was breaking the silence which he had stipulated should be maintained until the view had sunk into his soul. "Words have to be well chosen, then they lift their pound. I'm not averse to talking on occasion; only, I find, when I'm talking too much, I'm thinking too little. Then, again, God wants to have His say now and then, and how can He, if we are sputtering all the while? Guess He talks still to some folks in the cool of the evening just as He did in the old garden." Released from the command to be silent and no longer with the opportunity of seeing my companion clearly, for it was fast growing dark, I felt that I would very much like to know something more of this strange, yet likable, fellow, and the words that he had spoken about his conversion prompted me in turn to break the silence. "I think I have received more out of this walk and this sunset than any I can remember, but my conversion was evidently not the same as yours. I would like to know about your conversion. Maybe it would open my eyes wider and let me see more as you do." I spoke now, not curiously, but earnestly, for I wanted to know how he could find so much on the old familiar hill and how I might find what he was finding. He laughed heartily and his laugh left the situation less tense and made him seem more human. "Maybe my conversion won't interest you," he said, "then again, it may help you. It was on this very road, I was converted. Only it was in the morning at half past nine. It was a foggy morning. Newfoundland has a good many of them. I used to think, too many, before I was converted, but now it seems to me best, for it just curtains the beautiful world and each time the curtain lifts it seems a little fairer than before for the waiting. "Now I've always loved the hills and the sea and enjoyed a good view, as most fishermen do, but that morning I was scuffing along, out of patience with a poor catch of the day before and seeing nothing but fog. The sea and the hills were out of sight. Suddenly I heard a voice say: "'Why don't you look at yourself, Jim?' "I stopped stock still in the middle of the road, like a hand had been put upon me and detained me. The voice was no more but the question was for me and it had to be answered. "It would take some time, so I decided to sit down and consider it. I could show you the very rock, sometime, if you cared to see it. I had never done much thinking 'till that morning. I said to myself: "'James, you don't know yourself well enough to call yourself by your first name. You have peeped into your neighbors' affairs. You've criticised other folks but you've never really gotten acquainted with yourself.' "So I stood myself up and asked myself questions in a real, down-right, honest desire to see just what I was and what I was doing here. First I says: "'Who are you, Jim?' "And I figured out that I had the right answer, though I had forgotten it and lived in contradiction of it. I was and I am a child of the Father. "Do you know, sir, the knowledge of that will ask a man a good many more questions and answer 'em, too. "'Where are you living, Jim?' I said to myself and the answer came, 'You are living in His world and it's a good world. He made it for you and His other children. He's put fish in all the seas and if it ain't one kind it's another. There is enough in His world for all the children, and if any on'em starves, it's because some on'em is blind or the other children has forgotten they are to share His things. It's a fair world, with blue sky and little birds that sing, and little flowers that praise Him, too.' "It's a cheery thought, sir, that we're a livin' in _His_ world. It makes it worth while to live right. Then the next question I put myself was this: "'What are you worth?' "I reckoned up and found I was worth five quintals of salt fish, a half a barrel of cod liver oil and twelve lobster pots, most of 'em empty. I owned no house and aside from the fish I had $149 in the bank and an extra suit of clothes that wouldn't count for much. "'Is that _all_ you're worth,' I said, and I saw it wasn't enough to count me rich. I remembered, I could really think that morning, that Job's riches were not in camels and sheep. So I might be rich in other things beside codfish and oil, but I grew ashamed of myself that morning when I come to see how little I could count up that was worth carrying with me for eternity. "Bob McCartney's friendship, the part I'd given, counted a little; but when it come to counting faith and hope and truth, it didn't show up very well. I was poor and I had come to know it and that was the best part of it. There was hope then for me and a chance I might become rich. "'Where are you going?' again the Voice asked me a big question. I meet folks who have forgotten, just as I had done. But it helps to keep a fellow on the right track to remember where the road ends. "'What are you doing here?' was the next question and I put myself to answer it there on the rock that morning I was converted. "Fishing, I answered first, but what for, and is that all, came the questions. Now I take it fishing or farming, writing or preaching, it don't make much difference, so long as we're each just where He wants us to be and are doing just what He wants us to do. And every man has got to find out if he is where the Father wants him to be. "It didn't take me long to find out that I might be where He wanted me to be, but I knew I wasn't doing all He wanted me to do and I was adoin' a good many things He didn't want me to do. "Then I made some resolutions. Some folks don't believe in 'em, I know, but they always seemed to me to be good crutches, till a man could manage to get on without them and learn to walk straight. I resolved to be the best fisherman ever put out to sea, to clean my fish thorough, to salt 'em well and sell 'em honest weight. "Then I resolved to know more of His world since He made it for me and the other children. Then, I remembered that since He had sent His Son to show the way, I'd better listen to Him and go His way. "The next day I went over to Parson Curtis' and said to him: "'Yesterday was my day o' grace, and I was converted at half past nine. I'm not saved, but I'm on the way to salvation and I'd like to be broughten just as near to His Son as I can be. I'm just a learnin', but no child ever wanted to learn more than I do now.' "So when it come Sunday, he took me into the fellowship of Jesus and I've been learnin' ever since." I think I have given you almost his words. You see they were short, real words, and the only fear I have is that in repeating them I may have lost the quiet, deep-seated earnestness that was in his voice. He spoke that night from his heart. We were on Water Street now and it was time for us to part. "Thank you," I said, and I spoke as sincerely as he had spoken, "and if you don't mind I would like to know your name. It is James, what?" He reached out a big hand and took a firm grip of mine and said: "I'm Jim. Harbor Jim they call me." And then I remembered that I had been looking for him. III AN ENGAGEMENT AS PLANNED "Come," came a voice from within and I opened the door and stepped into Harbor Jim's cozy home. Its warmth and cheer were in sharp contrast to the evening without. It was raining hard and everything was saturated with water. Out of the chill and wet, I stepped across the threshold into warmth and dryness. I thought at once of the Cotter's Saturday night. In the centre of the room at a little table, close to a kerosene lamp, was Harbor Jim reading from the Bible, and sharing the rather uncertain light with him was his wife with a pile of stockings to be mended, in her lap. Beyond them, a small fire-place with rough stone dogs. A spruce fire crackled like pop corn and did its best to dissipate anything of disconsolateness that might have crept in from the night's cold rain. At the right of the fire-place, on a roll of comforters, lay a little girl of perhaps two years, breathing gently in her sleep. Harbor Jim did not rise to greet me but with a motion of his hand expressed his desire that I should remove my wet coat and take the empty chair. He paused long enough for me to be comfortably seated and resumed his reading. He was in the midst of the Ninety-First Psalm, and he read slowly on, as one none too familiar with print and anxious that no word or meaning be lost. "He shall cover thee with His wings, and under His feathers shalt thou trust. You understand it, Effie," he said, turning to his wife. "It's the picture you see every day when the mother hen tucks the little ones under her wings. "You, sir, will remember," he turned now to me, "that our Master used the same thought of the cuddling power of love, when He stood on Olivet and looked down on the sin-blind Jerusalem. I would have gathered you as a hen doth her chicks under her wing. "His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. This sentence puzzled me for a good while, chiefly because I didn't know what a buckler was. For a long time I couldn't find any Lander who did know. Finally I got an Englishman to look it up in a book he had and he told me it was something that went all around the body. Then I seed it plain. The Lord was to protect us at the one danger point, with the shield; but He doesn't stop there, He protects us at all points with the buckler." He did not pause again in the reading of the Psalm until he came to the word angels, and then he spoke rather forcibly of his belief in angels. "Yes, I believe in angels, travelling angels. Why shouldn't He let 'em travel? He let's us go about, then surely He must let them journey considerable more. Naturally they want to be where they are needed most and I reckon this world needs 'em. When we get the listenin' habit, we'll all hear 'em, and when we get to the trustin' habit, we'll obey 'em when they bring us messages. I reckon they've helped me a good deal. Sometimes they guide me to a big haul of fish, but more often they bring me to a passage of Scripture, that's like a draft of cool water on a thirsty day. I don't want you to think I'm looney, sir, but I fancy they walk with me sometimes and most often when no humans are with me." At the last verse he paused and then read these words twice: "With long life will I satisfy thee. This promise has troubled me a good deal. It don't seem to be coming true. Good little kids die; and tough, scaly old rascals live on poking fun at the righteous. I have been wondering what the Hebrews meant, for a good many of their prophets have said the same thing. "Mebbe it's one of the delayed promises. But I imagine it is coming true oftener than we know. There is some connection between holiness and happiness and between contented days and lengthened days. It is natural to expect the man who obeys the law to find the benefit here and now in this life. Well, if the Lord had each one of us alone working out the promises, it would be very easy for Him and for us, but He's seen fit to let us live together and we interfere with one another considerable; but He thinks it best because we've got to get well acquainted with each other before we are really able to know Him. As we get so we can understand the laws for the many as well as the laws for the each, I guess we'll most of us live long, but now the main thing is to live well." "But does it seem quite fair, Jim?" his wife questioned him, naturally, as though they were alone together. "I've thought about that a good while, Effie," he replied. "If I had only one day to fish and only caught something on one hook in twenty-eight, it would be a sorry day for me and you 'uns; but since I've many days, it doesn't matter which day I get the fish, so long as I get 'em. Now, I take it, it doesn't make much difference whether the bounty and the blessing He's intended for each of us comes one day or another, so long as it never fails to come. If this earth day was all I couldn't believe in Him as I do, but when I remember that there are days that have no ending, why it seems all right to have some getting a little more this day and others a little more that day. It's all in the life time of the soul. How long we stay in this room of Hisn' and how much He gives us don't matter much in the long years o' eternity. Do you begin to see how it is, Effie?" Then Jim closed his Bible and was silent. Without the rain came down and beat its loud tattoo upon the roof. The spruce log ceased to crackle and the little kerosene light seemed to relax its effort now that it was no longer necessary to read the print. I had learned in the few weeks that I had known Jim, that silence even more than speech hath her rewards. After a quarter of an hour of quiet, in which we could hear in the occasional let up of the rain the tick-tock of the little clock on the shelf, I ventured a question: "How long have you been married, Jim?" "Fourteen years," he answered, "and it was no mistake that we made when we built this home. There's been rain, but the sun came out the quicker because of the together-spirit we had. Would you be interested, sir, in hearing how we started out?" My face answered him and he began to tell me such parts of his own love story as it pleased him to tell. "I was not married until after I was converted, that was a good thing! There is a good many reasons why a man should be converted before he is married. If there is anything in this life, more'n another in which the hand of God should be felt it's marriage. "I'd had friends among the girls before I was converted, but I'd never thought of settling down, until after that morning. Then I come to see that a man needed a home on shore as well as a boat on the sea; that a man would be likely to catch more fish if he had some one waiting on shore and that fish never tasted so well when eaten alone. "I got to readin' the book of Genesis one night. I never read the Bible much till after I was converted, and then it became a new book to me and I began diggin' in it for treasure and I'm by no manner a means thru diggin' and findin' treasure. I come across the command in Genesis: To be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth. I halted there that night for a spell o' thinkin' and I came to the conclusion that I ought to do my part and leave some one else to take my place and fish when I lay down the hooks. The next thing was to find the right one. Now a Bible readin' man is a prayin' man. And I shut the book and I prayed, for if there is anywhere a man needs guidance it is in finding the right one and keepin' offen the rocks o' trouble and despair in such matters. "The next morning I went fishing the same as usual. I've noted that the Lord never hurries an answer to a man who prays and then stands round idle waitin' for his answer. Seems the Lord loves to surprise a man with his answer while he's in the midst of work. "So the weeks went by till one late afternoon I was walking along the flakes and I see a young woman splitting cod in the front yard of a house, and the western light rested on her hair and it shimmered and she looked up as I come by and we both smiled. Sir, then, I knew, just as plain as a straight, taut line that she was the one and I had my answer from the Lord, but I had still to get her answer. Some times you have to wait for a woman's answer same as you do for the Lord's. "The next afternoon, about the same time, I come by her house, and just as I expected she was there splitting cod, and that afternoon we talked. I'd inquired and found her name was Effie Streeter. Now what I said and the walks we had together wouldn't interest you, and anyhow they belonged to us. But perhaps you might like to hear a little of our engagement day. It come out just as I planned only a little better. "I was pretty sure then and it has been confirmed to me many times since that a woman likes to have her joys come as surprises. Now if I'd a proposed to her on the ordinary walk on an ordinary evening, she might have accepted but it wouldn't have come with the happiness that comes when you're not expecting, then it's like light out of dark cloud or flowers that come quick after a long winter's snow. "One night I stopped in at her house and told her I had to go on business over beyond Brigus and would like to have her go with me on the train the next morning. It would be a short trip and we would be back at night, on the train. "A fellow doesn't have much choice of trains here, but some seasons you can go somewhere and get back the same day, but not every season. "It was the middle of July, but as I started for the station, thinks I, it might be colder up at Brigus and I took along my great coat, so she would be sure to be warm. We made the ride up, without event. It is a lovely ride to Brigus, as you know, sir. "I don't remember much that we said on the way, do you, Effie?" and he turned to her acquiescing smile. "But I had the place all selected and I never expect to forget that day, either here or in Kingdom Come. "Under the shadow of a spruce we sat down and before us were acres and acres of sheep laurel. The winter before had been cold and that summer the laurel was redder than ever I have seen it, before or since. Away beyond was Conception Bay with its hills and the wonderful blue water. I don't know, sir, what scenes there are over seas, but I doubt if there's a lovelier view anywhere in the world than that. "I had rehearsed pretty well what I was going to say and I have never forgotten it to this day, and I am glad I haven't. Some forget what they say before marriage and it brings a black shadow after marriage. "It was so very beautiful, that we set a spell, a holdin' hands and lookin' with our souls as well as our eyes. "'Effie,' I said, 'I've brought you here to say a great word and I felt it ought to be said in the fairest place in the world. This is the loveliest place I know and if I knew a fairer one I'd have taken you there. The word I am going to say is the one God said when it was dark and He decided to make it light. It's the word He said when the world was tired and He decided to send His Son and it's the one word the Son spoke that has been changing the world since. That word is, Love!' Then I felt my own unworthiness and I stammered and I lost something out o' my speech and I've never found it, but I added,--'I'm only a fisherman but what I want to give you is as much as I can of the very same love.' "Sir, that was all I had to say and she understood. Right after that a strange thing happened. It had been clouding up and it began to snow. Yes, we have once in a while a snow storm in summer, and we did that year. Then I took the great coat I had brought and wrapped her tenderly up in it and I said: Love has a good many duties, but I guess one on'em is to keep you warm. "The snow came down and it covered the earth, but it didn't cover the blossoms and there was a world of white with pink beauty scattered on it, all the spruce and firs standing and looking and worshipping, if trees worship. And I said: I guess it's the Lord's way of saying, He's glad it's all settled. Now, if He had sent the rain we might a doubted, but He's sent the snow so's we wouldn't doubt and we never have. "Now our trains sometimes take an uncommon long time, and you folks from the States laugh at our railroads, but do you know I never went a journey where the train made such a fast time as that night. We were in St. John's afore we knew it." IV SOME MIRACLES "You orter been here a short while ago," Jim chuckled, as he addressed his friend Bob McCartney, who entered soon after Mr. Jewett had left. "We had a queer one here who believed you and I and the rest o' the sinners were out o' sight of the Lord. Told us the Lord didn't know nothing except the good and this world was just shadows and delusions." "Well," said Bob, "there's a few real things left and last night Harry Marchant got up agin one of 'em. Towards night I met him on the Bowring Road. He motioned to me afore I got to him to keep my side o' the road. He acted just as though he had leprosy. When he got within hearing he shouted: "'Bob, you never did me a bad turn and I'm not agoin' to do you one. You keep your side of the road and don't ever speak to me when I go by. I was comin' along a spell back and I met some skunks, not one, but a mother and father and two children. They was walkin' separate and I tried to dodge, but I couldn't dodge four ways at the same time. I'm goin' home now to bury my clothes, scour my skin and try to forget myself.' Now, Harry Marchant didn't meet no shadow and he was bathed in the very oil o' gloom." We all laughed, but Jim was the first to sober up. "See here, boys, we mustn't poke fun at the queer one. Some folks probably get a blessing without thinking straight. Mebbe he's on the way to a great faith. There's more'n one way across the sea and we all got to go thru the same narrows to get into the Harbor. "There's this much to be said in favor of the fellow, he's beginning to read his Bible. Seems strange though that outen the same book men draw so many different things. Then, it was written by many a different one and it's intended for all. Perhaps when we get too far astray He'll send us another Son and a new Book. "Though I don't believe in his notion of getting rid of a real world with real things in it, an' pushin' God out of this world, I do believe in miracles. Now some folks come to a miracle in the Bible and they sit down in front of it like the Marys at the tomb and they never are able to roll it away or pass it. Just beyond that miracle is a great truth, there always is, and these folks never get beyond wondering and doubting about how it happened to be there. "Take the story of the miracle that happened to Jonah. I don't pretend to say whether he ever had a berth in a real whale or not. It may be the boat was called a whale and he took passage on her against orders. But either way it's a beautiful truth we find, after we get over worrying about the whale. The point, I take it, is, the man was trying to run away from his duty and the story tells how he fared and how he came back and was established as a prophet. A good many folks seem to be still worrying about the whale and forgetting all about the truth. I'm not sayin' it didn't happen. It could a happened and stranger things have happened, I am only saying that whatever you believe about the whale the truth is there to help just the same. "I don't like the way a good many folks talk about miracles, anyhow. They look at 'em once or twice and then they say that it couldn't a happened. Why it doesn't follow because the Lord couldn't work a miracle on them He couldn't on somebody else. It may only prove they was too hardened in their sins and their doubts to be worked on, at least, for the present. Then it may be the thing has happened, right before their eyes only when it comes to great things and spiritual facts they are more'n half blind. "Raisin' from the dead I suppose would be considered the biggest miracle of all, and perhaps it's about the hardest to believe. But at some time or other, I have never been able to tell when, and I don't knows any one else can either, the Lord God puts a soul into every child of His. It is something that a father or a mother cannot put in of themselves, and it is something that can't be destroyed. A good many have tried to destroy their souls; but it's my belief they haven't succeeded, not any one of all that have tried. Now, if He is the only one that can put a soul into this earth house, He's the one that knows best when to take it out, and it might be very easy, on an important occasion, for Him to slip the soul back in again for a few days. He did that in the case of His Divine Son and the Son did it on several occasions, when He thought the soul ought to keep in its earth house a while longer." "Did you ever hear anything about reincarnation, Jim?" I inquired. "Big word, isn't it," said Jim, immediately giving full attention to my subject. "No, I don't know as ever I did. What is it, a doctrine or a medicine?" "It's the belief, Jim, that souls return to the earth again in new bodies. Some believe that only in animals and lower forms does this happen and others that even when souls have been on this earth, they return again to complete their experiences. I was thinking that your idea of the ease with which God might slip in or out a soul might make it easy for you to believe in this rather strange doctrine of reincarnation. What do you think of it?" "Sounds fairly sensible to me, on first thought. I don't remember anything in the Book about it, though I don't pretend to say I know all that's in that Book. It might explain some things that's hard to explain now with our present eye-sight. There's old lady Farrar, that I was a'telling you about, who cured herself of weakness and was about twenty years younger at eighty-five than eighty. She never had any real luck or any great blessings until she cured herself. She was one of the unfortunate kind, most always ailin' and when you went to see her she had some new misfortune to tell you about. She lost every one of her children and two husbands besides. Folks said it wasn't any great loss, so far as the husbands were concerned, but then they were hers and she took on considerable. Yet she has always been a decent woman, kept the commandments far as her neighbors could judge; paid her bills, when she could; went to church and said her prayers; and she had only a triflin' amount of good fortune. She had to wash and scrub for the neighbors to make ends meet and the splicin' was often poor. "Just compare her life with the lives of other women folks whose husbands usually had a good catch and got good prices, whose children never died and who prospered thru the years and even handled the commands in a slippery fashion. It is hard to think justice has been done in both cases or perhaps in either case. But if this miracle of slipping a soul back into a body and sending it to school again is true, that you are telling me about, why it clears up a lot of the problems. Mrs. Farrar didn't pass the examinations the first or second time she was here and she was sent back to study more and she is getting about what she ought to have in His judgment. "I think, however, that reincarnation idea that you mention, I would need to think a good deal about before I cared to tie too fast to it. I presume I'll end up in putting it into quite a big package of goods I am saving for shipping across the stream when I take passage. I've marked them 'For His Judgment' and when I get over there, I'll sort 'em and see if they're worth saving, and if I'm still doubtful about any on 'em I'll just get Him to pass judgment on them. That's seems to be a sensible thing to do. "But we was talking about miracles here and now. To me the greatest miracles Christ worked were not in curing diseases, but in curing sins. I have always thought it a miracle that He could take Peter with his stubbornness and his habit of speaking up too quick and make him strong enough, sound enough, to be a real corner stone in His new church. I callate Peter was pretty well along in years when the Master called him and old folks ain't as easy to work on as those that are young and more pliable. I count it a miracle that He made over Peter so well. "I have always been a good deal interested to find out what became of Judas Iscariot who betrayed Him. He wasn't a fisherman like Peter and he was harder still to work on. I know some of the ministers have got rid of him, by tossing him over board and letting him drown in perdition. But the Lord God that went after the sheep would a some day heared the moaning of Judas and a-gone to his rescue, seems though. If the Lord could work a miracle on Peter couldn't He some time, some how do it on Judas? He must a had some beginning points on him some wheres." "I tell you the Lord has plenty a chances to work miracles if He wishes, right round here. There's Rascal Moore. He ain't been converted yet." "_Rascal_ Moore, did you say, Jim?" I interrupted. "Well that wasn't the name his mother gave him, but she didn't know he would take all his father's bad points and add a few more evil ways. She named him, Pascal. But Rascal fits him better and everybody knows him by that name, and I have to think twice to remember he ever had another name. "Rascal has done more to hurt the salt-fish business than any fisherman I know. He manages to get hold of the most ornery, two-cent fish there are in the sea. These fish have a hankering for Rascal, I guess, and they scoot straight for his nets. When he gets 'em, he never cleans well and he always hurries the curing, and he is none too particular about either counting or weighing. He'll sell a little cheaper or lie a little stronger and get rid of 'em, usually to an exporter and they go perhaps to Naples and they're so poor, the folks who buy them never want any more Newfoundland cod-fish. The government ought not to wait for the Lord to punish Rascal, they should get after him right away. "Rascal has other sins to account for. Everybody feels, though they don't hardly dare say so, that he killed his wife, and he's so mean he's never married since. If there's been a piece of deviltry carried out anywheres within fifty miles of St. John's that he hasn't had a part in, I have yet to learn o' the fact. "I say to convert Rascal Moore would be a real miracle. And it will be done and I would be glad to see it done on short order. I know it can be done, for I have seen other folks as mean, ornery and selfish as Rascal come meekly to the judgment seat, I have seen 'em rise outen their old selves and become new and clean as a sunshiny morning after the air has been washed in a fog. I have seen so much done by the Lord on His own account and working thru the hands of His servants that I never doubt that Rascal Moore will be made right. "Yes, sir, I believe in miracles and I see them every day. Brown earth a-turning into blades and blossoms, in some wonderful way that He planned. No less wonderful I see bad men becoming good men; sick men becoming well men; and they that have been under the heels of sin and slavery standin' up on their own feet. When I can't explain something I still feel it is happening under the law and it's another of His miracles." V "I ASKED FOR FISH" My business in St. John's had been brought to a conclusion and it was time that I crossed to Port-aux-Basques and made my way thru Nova Scotia and back into the States. There was only one reason for my staying, and that was the chance of seeing a little more of Harbor Jim and perhaps learning a little more of his philosophy. So it happened that again I was in the little fisherman's cottage and Mrs. Jim was brewing tea for me, for she never permitted even an inquirer to come to her door without his cup of tea. I put a question to Jim that fortunately set him to talking about prayer. I had expected to draw out a fish story but I found him launching into an account of his belief in prayer and his ventures in talking with His Father. "What was the best catch you ever had, Jim?" I questioned him. "It was last April and it come in direct answer to prayer," Jim answered promptly and without the least embarrassment. "In answer to prayer?" I said, and the tone of surprise was in my voice. "Why not," said Jim. "You believe in prayer, I suppose, then why limit it. I needed a big catch. I'd had to paint the house and there had been many expenses and I had to have a big catch to tide things over. You will remember that the Bible takes for granted folks will pray for fish, for it says: "'If ye ask for fish will he give you a stone.' "No, the man that asks for fish and asks right gets fish and the man that asks for bread gets bread. It doesn't matter what you want, prayer will fetch it. You remember He said: "'Ye shall ask _what ye will_ in my name and I will give it you.' "I don't pretend to set myself up to judge of what the parsons should or shouldn't do. I am more or less an ignorant man, so far as schools go, though I have read a heap since I was converted, and what's more important, I have looked and thought a good deal. And I've looked in more'n one direction. Old Mr. Squibbs who used to live out to Heart's Delight was an odd stick. His wife died and he took to livin' alone and he got kinder warped. He built him a house with only one window and he always had only the one view when he looked out. Thinks I, some folks are like old Mr. Squibbs, they have only one window and looking out o' that window they see only a few things and no wonder they're often a little lackin' in the loft. But I've tried to keep all the windows of my mind and soul open and to let the light in and to look out on all sides. The result o' all this lookin' and a thinkin' is that some parsons and some folks, parsons is folks, though they are commonly reckoned in a different class, don't understand the nature o' prayer. They take it the Lord has got kinder out o' touch with the doings of His children, and it's up to them to let the Lord on to the situation. I have heared some prayers in churches that sounded like a newspaper recounting the happenings. Strikes me they must have a queer notion of the Lord, to think He don't know what's happening to His own created children. "There's other prayers appear rather impudent. They tell the Lord just what He ought to do. Who are we, poor creatures on the earth, who can't see back of us, or before us, but a very little way and then only when it's a clear sky, who are we that we should rise up in our conceit and tell the Lord what He had better do. It's turning the boat round and headin' it the wrong way. We are to ask Him what He wants us to do. We are to come to Him not to give knowledge but to get wisdom. "Parson Curtis called me impudent because I asked the Lord for a mess o' fish, and a big mess, too. But I don't agree with the parson on this matter. I don't know why we shouldn't ask Him for what we think we need, but there's a right and a wrong way of asking. Mind you I didn't presume to tell the Lord how to send them or where. I just left it in His hands. I prayed something like this: "'Kind Father, we were talking over blessings last night and I mentioned a good many that You had sent us; and then when I'd finished sayin' my thanksgivings, I asked that You make it possible for me to find a mess o' fish and a good-sized one. Now I know You'll say no, if it's best, and I'll not murmur or complain; but if it seems to You to be best, You'll know the way to send them and when it's best. It's all in Your hands and I'm not dictating to You, Father. But I want You to know that we are needing fish and that I'm a-goin' to keep my eyes open and my boat trim and my hooks and sinkers right and my nets all mended, and I'll be waitin' for the Word.' "That's just about the way I pray. I am not afraid to come boldly to the throne of grace. He would never find fault with my grammar, for doesn't He encourage the little folks to talk with Him. Sure, that's just what it is talking with Him. When we talk to one another, it's conversation; when we talk to ourselves, it's thinking; and when we talk to God, it's praying. "I never yet have told the Lord how to do anything, or how to fetch my gifts. For since all things and all powers and all means are in His hands, He doesn't need to be told. I most likely wouldn't know the best way for transporting His gifts. I have to ask humbly and faithfully and then to keep the doors open, so's whoever He sends will find me ready and waitin' to receive. "Then again, I seldom pray for an easy time or a smooth sea. I want to be strong and I don't mind wrestling like Jacob with the strange one, so long's I come out the winner. I don't mind if the sea is ruffled, or the waves mount, or the wind lashes the sails, so long as I know He has an eye on me and keeps me. I have found that if He sends me extra work, He always sends along extra strength, and the blessed part of it is that the strength comes at just about the time the work does. "I pray sometimes for health for my body, but I am much more likely to pray for the health of soul. For I dread sickness of soul, more'en I do sickness of my body. It is far harder to get rid of selfishness than to get over a stomach-ache. I'd rather see my little Clara sick with the measles than to see her developing dishonesty." "How long does it usually take the Lord to answer your prayers," I asked, and not jocularly, but in the hope of finding out what results had come to Jim as a result of his sincere prayers. "How long does it take before it rains, do you know? Can you tell when the frost will take my cabbages or the snow heap up my door-way? Neither can I tell when the Lord will send what I ask. He knows better than I do. He knows the value of delays, and how long to try my patience. I wouldn't say He hurried, for the more I come to know of Him, the more I find it true that He has taken time to do most things He has done. You can get an idea of how He works by looking at this earth that He took so long to fix up for us. As I've told you before, I think the Lord loves to surprise us children and often He sends a blessing when we are least expecting it and the answer comes on a dark, stormy day when it's like a ray of sunshine breaking thru a cloud. "I talk over all my needs with Him, but I don't devote all my praying to myself. I've done quite a lot of praying for Rascal Moore, and some day the Lord will surprise Rascal and me and he'll be converted. Of course I pray for my own wife and my own little girl and I pray for Bob McCartney and I also remember Spotty, my dog. If I had a cow, which I haven't just now, I'd pray for her. They are God's offspring, and they were planned by Him and they need His care to provide fresh green and abundant water. It's a responsibility for which we need help, the caring for the other children." "You are wandering away from your fish story," I reminded him. "What about that big catch? How did it happen?" "It was very simple. I went out to the fishing grounds. It would have been asking too much of the Lord to have demanded that He send them ashore. I went where I'd be likely to find fish. And when I got to the grounds, I heared a voice say, 'Let your nets down on the starboard side.' And I did as He told me and I had the best catch of the season." VI LIVIN' ALONG Several months had passed without a word from Harbor Jim, when one morning going thru a batch of mail, that was given over to business matters, I came upon a rather soiled envelope that was post-marked "St. John's." I was quite sure that it was from Jim and I pushed aside the communications from firms that offered me oil stock and a fortune and the letters of others who were suing for favors of one kind and another and turned with the relish of a boy to read the message from my friend. I am willing that you should read it, but I have made some corrections in spelling and a few in grammar, that you may read it about as he would have read it aloud, about, I think, as he intended it to read. "Dear One, "It's a long time since we've seen you on the flakes. It's a long time since we've read the word o' the Lord together beside the evening lamp. I'm not thinking of coming to New York to see you. I know I have been invited manys the time, but I'm not risking a leg yet in your full streets. It's gettin' bad enough in St. John's with all the autos a-whisking down Water St. It's a fine thing that we can send a message up there to you. It was a kind Father that made it possible for us to get acquainted with each other as well as with Him. I often think of the Master's ideas on the subject. You remember He told us if we really got acquainted with our brothers we should know the Father, and without that acquaintance we couldn't really know Him. "There ain't no great thing happened to tell of. I've just been livin' along. Eatin' and sleepin' every day and fishin' most days. But I've been prayin' every day and a receivin' of replies day by day. The Lord's been with me all the way. Yes, just as much as though I could write you of a great, sudden happening. There's a good many folks I find who recognize the Lord's doings in the big, flashing things of life and forget Him altogether except at them special times. It's rare that I sit up with a corpse, which I often do, without hearing a confession about the Lord's hand and the Lord's doing in the coming of the stroke; but it's most likely that same man who is very conscious and pitiful didn't have much thought or dealings with the Lord till his sorrows come upon him. "Now the Lord is in the Valley of the Dark Times and He's on the Bright Height of Victory, but He's also along the Common Way, the level road that makes up the every day's travel. That's what I used to forget and that's what I'm beginning to remember and it makes heap a different in your knowledge o' life itself and the joy you get outen it. "There's countless folks know He never fails in time o' need, but I'm one who finds that He never fails at any time and that every day is a day o' need. "It may be I've met the wrong kind o' folks some of the journey, but I've found a good many that make a heap a trouble just out o' living. They remind me o' Martha who got so fussed up doing common housework she couldn't understand the need o' spiritual house-keeping at all. Folks don't seem to have time enough to live their lives easily. They start off with a hitch and they break down afore they get very far. Seems though they thought there want goin' to be another life after this one and they'd got to do all eternity's work in this little span o' time. Don't seem reasonable and natural to expect a man to do the work o' two worlds in one. The Lord don't expect it neither. "The Lord Jesus had about the biggest task on hand that any man ever had. His job was to save the world. He had only three years for His ministry and if he had lived as some of the folks hereabouts are livin' He would have so consumed Himself with worry and fret that He would a died with a fever afore the first year was over. One thing I note as I read His story is that He moved majestic like He had time to do what needed to be done. I guess it's the things that we could get on with out that take the most time and gender the most worry. "There's always time enough to do what the Lord intended to be done in this life, else He wouldn't have assigned it. He wouldn't run His universe on a leisurely and comfortable plan, if He expected us to wear ourselves out hustling. I take it He counts a thousand years are as one day not only for Himself but as well for us children. Thinkin' of His plan kinder takes the fever outen your veins, kinder makes you understand what His Son meant about the peace that passeth understandin'. "Effie is the same as ever. She's just livin' along, same's I. The children are doin' well at school. Bob McCartney was over night afore last. His boy has got the rheumatics, but I guess tain't nothin' permanent. The government is thinkin' o' takin' over the railroad again. Our railroad has had a hard time and it's been found fault with a good deal, but it's got an iron constitution and I guess it can stand it. As I told you once, it's all the railroad we've got and it's a powerful lot bettern no railroad. "I am thinkin' often these days of little Peter. I can think now without swallowin' hard and I'm beginnin' to get comfort instead of trouble when I think. I have been thinking about the conditions o' life over there. Sometime when your down here I'll talk with you about the Heaven Home, but it would take too long to write it out and then I don't knows you would be interested. Any how it would come out easy with your kind o' questions. I like you, but I do think your about the hardest questioner I ever knowed. "Respectfully yours, that's how letters are signed when a man writes you for fish or bait or somethin', but I don't see why it ain't proper for a friend, for certain we ought to respect our friends, and the fact we can respect 'em makes us the more sure their friends. "Jim." "P. S. I saw Bob McCartney last night. He was lookin' well and had his behaviour (silk-hat) on. He had been to a party." VII THE HEAVEN HOME When again the good fortune brought me to Newfoundland and led me out to the fisherman's cottage, I did not forget Jim's promise to tell me of his observations concerning the future life. We had, thru our increasing friendship, come to understand each other. I had learned when to keep silent and I knew Jim's moods and when to intrude would be the height of ingratitude and when to enter would be the act of an accepted friend. The reading of the Book had been finished for the evening and there was yet a half hour before my friend would count it his time to retire. "How about the Heaven Home, I think that is what you called it," I asked, and Jim, without parleying, was ready to speak freely in answer. "Yes," he said, "I like the word home, as applied to it. I couldn't think of Peter as wantin' to stay in a mansion. In the Comfort Chapter in John, I've always read the word 'home' in place of 'mansion.' The parsons tell me that there are some mistakes in the translatin' o' the Good Book, and I am sure that it's a mistake here. There ain't enough comfort in the thought of a mansion for most of us common run o' folks, and it was for us that He come and told of this life and the life to come. "I'm sure it's a home. I think it must have in it things that match up with what we got here. I don't see how we could feel at home without something like tables and chairs. We had a parson one time who knew all about it over there, accordin' to his tell. He told us about the crowns and harps and the golden streets and the singin' that went on all the day long. But I callate no Lander would care for such a life as that, and if that's what it's like there's precious few of us 'uns over there. "Now if it's a home as I think it must be since the Father has planned it, there must be homelikeness there. There must be somethin' that corresponds to tables and chairs and all the little things that go to makin' up a real home, else how could a man be happy over there, who had just left a happy home here. I'm not sayin' we shall always need them things, but I am a sayin' that in the very next life we must have things we are used to for a spell till we get to the point where we don't need them, but somethin' else. Sounds sensible to me to think that way. "You remember that after the Lord was dead and Peter was plumb worn out and discouraged; there didn't seem to be no hope nowheres; he decided to go fishin'. I callate there are times when a man would rather go salmon fishing than to do anything else in the world, provided he knows what good salmon fishin' is. Now for these fishermen about the only thing the Lord can do, if He wants to make 'em happy as He promised to do, is to give 'em a chance at fishin'. "I wouldn't be at all surprised some morning in Heaven to be trailin' along the bank o' some good stream fishin' and lookin' up sudden to see the Lord there a fishin' too. "You smile, but why not? Do you think the Father is so foolish as to drop us down in a strange place where we don't understand and we don't know what to do. Does it appear to you that the Lord would take a little fellow like Peter and send him around with a harp. I'll tell you what Peter would want to do, he would want to jump rain barrels so as he would know how to jump ice pans when he got older. "What good would it do to take any little fellow outen the primary school and put him right into college. It wouldn't do him or the college one particle of good. It would be a sheer waste for everybody concerned. I think the Father is wiser than that, and it's always kinder amused me and somewhat disgusted me that the parsons have imagined heaven to be so teetotally different from this life. "I've seen so much of His wisdom here, I can't come to think that He's working blind and foolish over there. Will I know little Peter, sure I will, or it wouldn't be heaven. Then his new little body must look like the present one, only stronger and it won't hurt it so much when he pinches it. "He'll get into the place that fits for him, not because he's sent, but because he just naturally goes where he belongs. And as it is with little Peter so it will be with every one. Perhaps by this time he has seen the Christ, for the kingdom is always found quicker by a child than by a grown man. Children see things that we older folks find it hard to see." "How about Rascal Moore?" I asked. "Just now he's taken his cat and dog and he's gone to the woods.[2] Mebbe there a stick will hit him and knock a little sense into him. He's by no means hopeless. I've seen worse ones than he is get sense afore they died. But you mean what would become of him if he went just as he is. Well, there must be sufferin' for the likes o' him. You can't, and I find the Lord Himself don't, seem to make a sinner into a saint all of a sudden. He may wake him up sudden and start him, but it takes time to get him rounded off. He'll go where he belongs just as the others; and if for a while he belongs in an uncomfortable, painful place why there's where he'll go. I never could see the sense in trying to think that everybody would go right off to one same place and be in heaven. There's too much difference in folks; there's the converted and the unconverted; there's the sinners and the saints; and though you put 'em in the same place, it wouldn't be the same place for them. It don't seem probable to me either that they can't never change their places when they get over there. There's a good deal o' changin' here, so there's likely to be over there. "There are changes in the earth homes, there'll be changes in the heaven homes. And it will be well so long as the changes are for the better. I can't think that will always be the case, howsomever, for it ain't the case here. But gradual I'm expectin' conditions will improve and the handicaps are less over there. With the help o' Moses, Isaiah and the prophets and saints we ought to get on at a fair pace. A tremendous lot o' mothers is over there; they've been a goin' out one by one for a terrible long spell, makes me dizzy when I get to thinkin' o' some o' these subjects. Mothers don't loaf so long as there's chance to help kids, an' I'm callating that they'll do some pretty good work along lines o' convertin' over there. "I expect to hear the baccaloo[3] over there and I'd rather hear a baccaloo than a nightingale or a lark for it would seem more like home. That's the big thing and the Lord ain't likely to disappoint me or any one who is lookin' for a home over there. "The heaven home is a good sight nearer than most folks think. The journey is short and it's only our poor sight and our hearin' that has made it so far away. I know Peter's often near me while I'm at work and it's a comfortable feeling, not a scarey one to think he's liable to be around most any time and I must be on my guard not to let slip any string o' words that would be bad for him to hear. It chucks a fellow up to feel that he must be on his best for the little fellow sees and knows. I want to be such a father as he'll respect. It must be mighty oncomfortable for some folks when they get over there, for some folks don't do no growing after they lose their loved ones and how in sank they expect to be fit company for their folks when they themselves get over there is more'n I can tell. "Because there's homes there don't in no way interfere with it's bein' a beautiful place. It don't have to have golden harps to make it worth while. There's probably rivers that are prettier than 'ourn, and there must be pink calmia, fox-gloves and sweet william, pansies, tea-bushes and a good many others that I don't happen to think of. There must be places in heaven that look like Deer Lake, Gaff Topsail, Kelligrews and Brigus. Mebbe there's places in heaven like New York, too, though from what you say it will need some changin' to be kept as a heaven city. "I don't want you to think that I'm a gump[4] because of these ideas, but to me they've been a good deal of comfort and whenever I get to doubting at all about things over there I just recall it's a home and I settle back content." [2] Gone to a lumber camp. [3] A loon. [4] A very foolish person. VIII CHRISTMAS WITH JIM'S FRIENDS There was the calendar right before me on the wall, with figures big enough to mentally hit me and hit hard, and I should have remembered that the road of the year had turned toward Christmas. But before me was an unfinished news article that even a hungry and insistent stomach did not seem able to push to a conclusion. Beyond my desk out of the window I looked now and then down upon the hurrying throng who were making their way across City Hall Park to Brooklyn Bridge. It was the hour when you do not know whether to call it day or night. It was indescribable in another way,--it was either misting or raining. I suppose a Scotchman would have called it mist and an Irishman rain. I think that any one looking out that night would have found it hard to see in the gray view anything suggestive of Christmas. I turned from the wet view to my unfinished work only to be again interrupted. A Western Union boy burst into my office with a telegram. It was from St. John's and I wondered as I tore it open if anything had happened to Harbor Jim. It was short and for once the operators had apparently followed the author's spelling. come fur chrismus cant take no fur an answer no how biggest an best you or yourn hev ever seed come jim A few days afterward a long letter came enforcing and elaborating the invitation. Jim wrote that he was already at work upon a Christmas that would eclipse anything New York had ever had. He had taken the idea out of a city paper that I had sent him a year before and had developed it and he wouldn't care to go forward with it, unless I could be there. That is how it happened that a few days before Christmas, on the last steamer that would get me there in time, I was steaming into St. John's Harbor. Our boat was sheathed with ice and as in the morning we came thru the Narrows there were knobs of ice floating around us. The hills were white and the brown stone now and then stuck thru where the snow had lost its footing. Landing I found the people in furs and the sleighs making merry music with their bells. A fellow agreed to drive me out to Jim's for two dollars and a half and I went in his sleigh, he called it, but in New England it would have more properly have been called a pung. Jim almost literally wrapped me in his arms and outdid himself in the cordiality of his welcome. "How's fishing, Jim?" I asked when the first greetings were over and I had my feet up in front of the stove. "Fishin', why land o' Goshen, this ain't no time for fishin'. There ain't but one thing on my mind an' that is Christmas. Don't you see what we are a' doin'?" A kettle of oil was on the stove and the dipping of half grown candles had been recently finished. On the floor were half a hundred full grown candles. Jim could talk only of Christmas. "I've been thinkin'," he said, "that if there should ever be a second coming of the Lord or He should send another Son to His people He couldn't pick out a better place than this. Suppose it was to be another birth. I callate this land has just as good a chance as Palestine and hereabouts is as fittin' a place as Bethlehem. Look out there at the snow! Makes you think o' a baby's blankets, it's so white and clean and pretty. Our nights man't have stars as brilliant as that one greater star of the first Christmas mornin', but I don't believe they have flyin' lights[5] like 'ourn. I hev noticed that the Lord tries to be as impartial as He can and since He sent His Son to the East last time, if ever He should send again why I think He'd be likely to send Him somewhere hereabouts. You remember the Son liked fishin' an' He'd be delighted with Newfoundland." The door opened and Bob McCartney walked in. "What's the matter, Bob; what you got your good behavior[6] on fur?" asked Jim as his friend entered. "Ain't the occasion worth it? You sed yourself that it was to be the biggest Christmas the Landers ever hed; and I'd like to know if we aren't in a way celebratin' now while we're gettin' ready." "Who's coming to this Christmas, Jim?" I asked, taking my turn at a question. "Well, everybody in this town, quite a mess o' folk from St. John's and Quidi Vidi. Some from Brigus, Kelligrews and Heart's Ease. Aunt Saray Bailey is a' comin' from Nancy Jobble.[7] It's such a general invitation that they ain't no definite countin' no how, but their comin'. Everybody that meets anybody hereabouts and nowadays jes' says are you a' comin' to Jim's fur Christmas." Gradually by prying questions I found out what Jim was planning to do. He had been extremely interested in the account I had sent him of the illuminated tree in Madison Square, and had resolved to have the trees on a neighboring hill-top all illuminated where they stood. In place of electric lights he was engaged in making tallow candles by hand. The day before Christmas, Mrs. Jim was up very early and when I came down to breakfast she greeted me with this: "Got to make a biler full o' tea this morning fur the Decoratin' Committee will be here shortly." "Yes," added Jim, "they'll be here shortly and then we'll be a carryin' out Christmas. Up your way they fetch it _in_, but we're a goin' to carry it out, good and proper, this year." The first arrival was Bob, who had caught the full contagion of Jim's spirit, and the second was Parson Curtis. "Hello, Pa'son Curtis," said Jim as he ushered in his guest. "Did you come to look on or to work?" "Put me in among the workers, Jim," replied the parson. "That's right, Pa'son," Jim spoke with heartiness. "I like a pa'son that ain't a mite afraid o' work. I callate that our Lord was one o' the greatest workers this world ever seed, and it's a good thing fur those who are a takin' His place to be up in the front row o' workers. Here's a bag o' candles and here's a coil o' wire. You can take 'em up the hill and begin hitchin' 'em to the tallest tree. You can begin on the low branches an' when the younger fellows get here we'll let 'em shinney up to the taller branches." By eight o'clock, fifty men and boys were at work, many of them bringing their own donation of candles, and each time that Jim saw more candles coming he beamed, for it meant more trees could be included in the scheme. With banter, jest and story the work of attaching the candles went on thru the morning and at noon we went back to Jim's for dinner. We all knew what to expect and we were not disappointed, when with keen appetites, we crowded the little house and waited our turn for a hot plate of brewse. It's Newfoundland's distinctive dish and salt fish and pork never tasted better than that noon after our climbing up in the trees. Walking back to finish our work in the afternoon I said to Jim: "It strikes me it is a little unfortunate that the hill we are decorating has no tall spruce on top. The trees are well arranged on the slopes but the top of the hill itself hasn't a tree on it!" "That's what pleases me about it. That's why I selected it, because it leaves room for the Candles of the Lord," answered Jim. "There on the top is where the Light o' the World will shine out tonight. When we get the rest of the work done we'll place it." An hour later Jim came dragging a sled with a huge candle, four feet high, at least, and it was carefully erected in the centre of the open place on the hill. At three o'clock the work was finished and Jim addressed the workers: "Thank you all. We'll knock off for a spell. Those that lives near can go home. Those that lives too far will find plenty at my house. Be back every one of you an hour before sunset. The sun won't wait for any o' ye and if you don't get here the lightin' will go on jes' the same, but I wants you all to be here, sure." They began to arrive before the appointed time, but I waited within until it began to grow dark, then I stepped to the door and watched the multitude coming up from the valley. I remember once I went out with the crowds and climbed Mt. Rubidoux in California on an Easter morning. A little in advance of the larger contingent I stood and watched them coming up out of the darkness of the roads below into the growing light of the mountain top and the new day. I thought of that experience again as I watched them coming along the road to climb the hill and keep Christmas Eve with Jim. Only in this instance the picture was reversed and I saw them coming out of the light into the gathering darkness of the night. There were many from St. John's who had come out for the lark of it. Men that worked along Water St. and Dock St. Girls from the stores came in little groups full of tickles and nudging one another as things happened to meet their fancy. Women in black were in the crowd who had been before along a sorrowful way and turned to make this journey that they might find light. Some of them plainly showed by their demeanor that they were conscious of the fact that Christ was the best part of Christmas. Boys were in the throng, many of them swaggering along with sticks, copying the manner of English soldiers who feel their importance when on furlough. Little girls tripped along, some of them singing a little Christmas song that begins "I saw three ships come sailing in, On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day." The chatter of the many voices did not altogether drown their childish voices and they rose like bird notes above the rushing winds of a forest. It was slippery walking and now and then some one would fall, but a hand would be reached out to them and they would again go on with a laugh. Everywhere was the glitter. That is what the Newfoundlanders call the spectacle of a snow and icegirt earth. During the day many of our hands had been nearly frozen because of the ice on the trees and they were festooned and sheathed with ice where their branches were a little out of the wind and it had not stripped them of snow during the recent storm. It was a white, shining world, softened by a waning light. Now the fellows who had been appointed had been at work some time with torches and as we looked up tree after tree put on a garland of jewels and stood forth resplendent for the feast. Parson Curtis had lit the first torch from the Candle of the Lord, as Jim called the big candle on the hill-top, and each torch had been lit from his. Murmurs ran thru the crowd as the scene grew more beautiful with the lighting of more trees and the deepening of the night shadows. It was now quite dusky, but the snow kept the light so that we could see the workers finishing the lighting. When all was ready, standing beside the Candle of the Lord, Jim spoke: "Brothers in Christ, we all are that tonight. I am glad you have come to celebrate the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ. Pa'son Curtis will lead us in prayer." Jim knelt in the snow and the great company followed his example. The prayer was short and Jim was ready to announce the singing of the first of the Christmas hymns, when some one I didn't know made his way thru the crowd, and waiving all formalities, touched Jim on the arm and spoke hurriedly: "Rascal Moore's took sick. He's got a ketch in his glutch[8] and the Missus wants you to come over right now to sit up with him. She can't manage him no how and she's sent for you." I was standing beside Jim, watching now his face and now the lights. I looked squarely at him now and thought of the weeks of preparation that he had gone thru and how like some rare flower that blossoms only in the night it had unfolded petal by petal before his delighted eyes. I thought, too, of Rascal Moore, who had so long been living up to his name. It seemed unfair indeed to ask him to go now on this Christmas Eve that he had planned for and was making so successful. Let any one else go if they would, but surely not Jim. "Tell 'em I'm on my way," was all he said to the messenger, and he moved along as he spoke. Turning to me he said, what made me feel that he was still human, and without these words I think I must have doubted it. "It would have been a little easier if it had a' been Bob instead of Rascal." The program began, though Jim was leaving and had turned his back on it all. Will Cunningham, whose tenor voice often led in the little church, started the Christmas hymn "Holy Night, Peaceful Night," and the crowd sang. The female voices seemed in preponderance and I fancied the men all thru the crowd were doing what the few around me were doing, heaping choice epithets upon Rascal Moore. Jim was yet to see more of his Christmas trees. He may have forgotten it, but his friends remembered that Rascal Moore's place was just about at the foot of the hill and some one started taking off the candles from the trees that were a little beyond and decorating those that were in the direct line toward the Moore house. There were so many hundreds the work was speedily performed. The candles were re-lit and by seven o'clock there was a row of lighted trees extending straight down the hill to the Moore house and at the top of the hill the big candle could now be distinctly seen against the black back-ground of the night. It may be the angels are a little nearer on Christmas Eve and they decided to add to the wonderful beauty of that night for which Jim had worked and prayed. For now the northern lights came, adding great plumes of light, flashing across the sky in a glory burst of light. "It's the dead men playing. Come to earth, they have, for Christmas Eve," explained Bob. When all was ready some one knocked at the Moore door and brought Jim to the porch and he stood bare-headed looking up the wonderful avenue of light to the top of the hill. Then he lifted his eyes from the earth lights and the black crowd to the sky. "The heavens declare the glory of God," Jim spoke quietly, but many could hear his words. "Mebbe little Peter is here tonight playing in the heavens and joinin' us in our songs. The Lord of Joy has come again!" "What did you leave us for, Jim?" some one in the crowd shouted. The hundreds stood waiting for Jim's answer. It was a hush of expectancy, such as fitted that holy night. Jim answered slowly, measuring his words: "I heard my Father calling and I went to answer Him!" [5] Northern Lights. [6] A silk hat. [7] Lance du Diable. [8] A sore throat. IX HONEY-MOONING ON THE FLAKES Jim lapsed into silence and his wife, laying down her mending, poked the fire and soon had tea brewing. The Landers are tea drinkers like the English. "It's a beautiful story, sir, and we often live it over again," Mrs. Jim said as she poured the tea. I noted the flow-blue china and, answering my query, she said: "It was my grandfather's. He brought it from England sixty years ago. Of course we're awful careful of it, but we use it, for Jim says the only way to have plenty is to use what you have. We always keep a pot handy and there's always a ready chair, for many a time a neighbor drops in and we wouldn't want to let them go on without a cup o' tea,--a cup o' kindness, Jim calls it." "Now, I've read books," continued Jim, "and they always end just where they really should begin. When in the book story they decide to get married, then they stop short. If I should ever write a story, which I ain't likely to do, with my little learnin', I'd not stop there, but I'd let that end only the first chapter and I'd let the story go on with its joy and sorrow and its hope and its fear and the problems big and little; the blessings so rare that follow along even as they do in real life. "If I'm not tiring you, I'd be glad to give you another half chapter afore we all quit and turn in for the night." Jim put down his empty tea cup with a smack of appreciation at his wife's proper brewing and deliberately cut off a fresh slice of tobacco and crushed it into the bowl of his pipe, and I knew that for at least a half hour, the story would go on, the story that was so real to him and now so fascinating to me. "Bein' both of us very sure, and the Lord havin' given the sign o' His good pleasure, there beyond Brigus, we didn't wait long afore we were hitched up. "We begun right here in this house and we started right in here the first night and we went to work on the flakes the next morning. We didn't go off no where's for a honey-mooning. "I reckon there's no place a real woman would rather go at that time than to the new home where her life is agoin' to be lived, and that vacationing then ain't best for either. In any case we never thought a travelling, for you see the cod was running well and 'twas the height of the season and we had to fill the flakes, while we could. "A man and a woman who gets married has to get acquainted and adjusted one to the other and there's no better place for learnin' to conform than right where they are agoin' to live and raise their children. "Course a couple can just pretend for a spell there ain't any work to be done, but there is, and I reckon the sooner they face it, the better for all concerned. If you're agoin' to cut bait, there's no use standin' round dreadin' it. "When I was a boy we used to have in our house a religious book with pictures of saints in it and every blessed one on' 'em had a ring around their head, halos, I think they call 'em; now I callate that a home ought to have some kind of a halo over it and it's easier to get it fastened on just right when your startin' married life and if you don't get it on then, like's not you'll never have a real home but just a house for feeding and sleeping. "We got the halo fixed on, eh, Effie," and the fisherman's eyes confirmed his words. "So, next morning we put on our fishin' clothes and went out on the flakes. We'd clean fish for a spell and then we'd split and spread for a spell. Now I know from the standin' point o' city folks fishin' clothes ain't very scrumptious to look at and they are kinder soused with smell, but our clothes didn't interfere none with our honeymoon. "Her dress was kinder faded blue, but I always liked blue. It's heaven's color and often the sea borrows it, and that morning it made her cheeks more wonderful pink than I'd seen 'em before. "There was a kind of down-right, deep-seated satisfaction to both of us in feeling we was at work; both of us a doin' what needed to be done and a sharin' of the burdens or the joys which ever you wants to call 'em. For I have found that some folks get their joys and burdens mixed up and don't seem to know one from 'tother till it's too late and they wake up with a start when they can't change 'em. "Sharin', I said, and that's a word we set out to understand when we commenced an' with us it's always been a big word ever since. "After breakfast that first morning we went to the flakes, I took out my wallet and said to her: 'There's no sense of my carryin' this round when you are more likely to need it than I. I'll leave it here behind the clock and when you need money, it's yours and bein' yours you don't have to give any account of it 'cept to your own conscience. More properly speakin' it's 'ourn, for now we're married there ain't no longer yourn or mine, but 'ourn.' "I callate that if a man can trust a woman to bring up his children, trust her with his house and his reputation and his disposition, he ain't no cause to fear to trust her with his wallet. "Bob McCartney always says a woman ought to have an allowance, but I tell him too much book-keeping is bad for a married couple and then how's a man able to judge the amount of an allowance anyhow. I guess most women earn more'n an allowance, and a sharin' always seems bigger than an allowance. "I've heared folks liked honey-moons 'cause they got away from pryin' eyes, but I want you to know that our honeymoon want never once interrupted. The neighbors see we had work to do and they had theirs and we both of us did it. The children of the neighbors was often round with us then, but they made us think of 'ourn that was to come, in the favor of the Lord. And if when I helped her along from plank to plank, I held her hand a little longer than absolutely necessary, who was to care. "There's been no decided change in the years; we've been honey-mooning along just about the same. Course with the children she had more to do in doors, but she's always managed, if there was an extra run o' fish to come to the flakes and help me over the rush; and if one o' the kids was sick or anything extra come, why I've always toted the load for her." During the last few sentences Jim was watching the clock intently and as he spoke the last sentence, he crossed the little room and began winding the clock. I looked up and there, sticking out from behind the clock, was a worn, brown wallet. Evidently he was still living up to his habit of sharing. "It's time all decent folks was in bed," he said. "We done want to ape the city folks." So bidding them good night I went out into the night. The rain had ceased and there were fast hurrying clouds breaking up and I could see the moon high over the spruces. I felt my way along the road back to St. John's. X JIM AND HIS BOOK "They that seek the Lord understand _all_ things." Jim spoke with his usual deliberation. Again, I had found my way to the little house, where now I felt welcome. It was "lightin' an' readin'" time as Jim called it. "They that seek the Lord, understand _all_ things," repeated Jim. I'm finding it true more and more. It is true that the Lord giveth to a man what is good in His sight, wisdom and knowledge and joy. "We began sharin' the book, just as we began sharin' the wallet. I callated that since the Lord by wisdom founded the earth we'd have to found our earth home the same way. "I'm not educated with figgering knowledge. I never got much school wisdom, for I never went much, and what I did get was mostly from the fellow that set on the bench with me instead of from the teacher. The teacher was so busy with fifty odd pupils, varying from four to twenty years in age, that he didn't have much time for any one. He had to skip from the multiplication table to algebra and often he skipped some of the pupils, and I was apt to be the one he overlooked. "I know my limitations. A city chap told me about them once and I thanked him." Jim chuckled at the remembrance. "'Look ahere,' the city chap said to me, 'do you know you've lost all the G's out of your vocabulary. Your words don't look nor sound natural. You better start in putting them on. And there is no such word as ain't. Remember that or you can't talk in polite society.' "I presume he knew, for he talked as though he was on good terms with a dictionary; and when he went fishing and caught the hook in his hand he said words that weren't in the dictionary, and that came near breaking the first commandment. I've got some of those G's put back on, but not all. Two things is helping me on the job, the reading of the Good Book and the children. "Book learnin's a fine thing. I'm stumblin' along thru a book or two myself, but I callate the prophets didn't refer to book knowledge when they wrote of wisdom, but rather heart and soul wisdom. The promise I recollect was this: 'For wisdom shall enter into thine _heart_ and knowledge shall be pleasant unto thy _soul_.' Then he reached for his Bible, but before he opened it he said: "This is the most valuable thing in this house. I've been in houses in St. John's fussed up with furniture and things, so many you felt you would disturb 'em by setting down, but this book wasn't no where to be seen and once I asked a woman to let me look at the Book, and she said she'd have to keep me waitin' till she found it, but she was quite sure she had it. Guess its wisdom never got very far into her soul. "It's a satisfyin' book. Readin' of it is like quenching your thirst at a hill spring. In the days afore I was converted as a young fellow with the rest, I used to sail over to the French Island of St. Pierre and smuggle in a few gallons of rum. But it never quenched my thirst. It would leave me afterward, all-fired thirsty. But open this book and you find fountains of cool water. "I've tried in the years to halt at the springs as Moses and his people did when they crossed the desert and come to a spring. There's many a river of the water o' life flowing sweet and fair as we journey thru the good book, but to me the promises are the springs and wife and I have lingered longest at the springs. We've marked them and there's a good many of them and we haven't found them all yet. She has helped me mark 'em. A fisherman's hands get a bit calloused and clumpsy and she does most of the markin', but I do my share of the discoverin'. It's always a happy night, when we find a new spring and rejoice in a new promise, but it's a glad night when we quench our thirst at any one of the never-failing springs. Their all of 'em fresh an' sparklin'; there's nary a one of His that are salt or bitter. "Effie keeps a pencil handy there with her sewing things and when I find a new promise, I hand over the book to her and she underlines it. Then the favorite springs we mark in the margin, so we'll find 'em easy as we journey." He opened the book, _his_ book it was in more ways than one. It was very much worn; its leaves were thumbed and now and then as he turned the pages a fish scale dropped out. "Here are the Great Mountain Springs. The Master indicated them with a big, Blessed, so we wouldn't miss them, perhaps the clearest one is this, Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God, but they've all got sparkling water; their all promises that quench the soul's thirst. "You will find some of these same markers in the Old Testament, though few folks seem to search there for the Blesseds. Here are some of the springs that are marked for our use. "'Blessed are they that wait for Him!' "'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.' "'Blessed is the man whom thou choosest and causest to approach unto Thee, that he may dwell in Thy courts: we shall be satisfied with the goodness of Thy house, even of Thy holy temple.' "'Blessed is he that considereth the poor.' "'Blessed is the man whose strength is in Thee, in whose heart are the highways to Zion.' "Let me turn the pages slowly and when I come to a favorite spring we'll halt a moment," commented Jim as he continues his reading. "'He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.' "It won't hurt you a mite, if you hev to wait awhile atween the verses. Most parsons read the Bible too fast. They go scurryin' thru the readin' like as though a shower was comin' an' they had to get in out of it post haste." "'Fear not; I am with thee; be not discouraged; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee, yes, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.' "'With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.' "That there first part has puzzled me somewhat, for I've known many a one to die young. My folks used to say the good died young, cause the Lord had need of 'em over there. Struck me as kinder queer. But I reckon He meant here just what He said, as He does elsewhere. It's His intention to have long life and goodness go together, only some of us interferes with His plan, but He lets us interfere 'cause it's best and will work out His way in the end." "'He shall call upon me and I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble. I will deliver him and honor him.' "'Behold I will bring thee health and a cure.' "'The Lord shall be thine _everlasting light_, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.' "'There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.' "Did you think," said Jim, interrupting his reading, "that there were so many bright, clear springs for the traveller?" Then, without waiting for any answer, he continued slowly turning the pages, reading me from his marked places. "'Delight thyself in the Lord and _He_ shall give thee the desires of thy heart.' "'The joy of the Lord shall be your strength.' "'He that endureth to the end shall be saved.' "There are signs put up, too, not only to mark springs but to inform us," interpolated Jim. "Now once as we was journeying, it come over me that these springs may have been intended for others and not for us and that very night, I come upon this sign and it took every bit of doubt out of my heart. "'For the promise is unto _you and your children_.' How could it be plainer than that?" As he closed the Book I said: "I, too, have a Book but I think sometimes I have lost my way as I journeyed and I am going to put up sign-boards of my own now, so I'll never lose my way again. There is no use to camp in dark valleys when just beyond are the hills and the springs. It's unwise to wander thru deserts of generalizations when the promises are close at hand." "Yes," added Jim, "what do we care whether King Agag was hewed to pieces or not. We know the words of salvation." XI RAILROADING WITH THE KID If there is anything that I have told you about Harbor Jim that sounds feeble or sickly sentimental, I have told you an untruth. Turn back to where I said it, and cross it out. It doesn't belong in this story. It's rank injustice to Jim. I have fished with a good many of the Landers. I have been fishing off the banks when the weather has kept every man of us praying, who knew how to pray, and I have had a chance to judge of these bronzed fellows, big of hand and foot and the same of heart, most of them, as they met the wind and weather, the fortunes of life on the sea and the shore; and I want you to know I never have known and loved a manlier man than Jim. Maybe that was why I was surprised one morning as we were returning to camp from a trip up the Humber River after salmon, to see the tears rolling down his cheeks and to note that he hastily took his sleeve and wiped his face and swallowed hard. In this land of uncrossed lakes and unfished rivers, there is probably not a fairer one than the Humber River and there are reminders of Norway both on the lower and upper Humber. It was with some difficulty that I had persuaded Harbor Jim to leave his home for the trip inland to the Humber for salmon fishing. The Lander does not take readily to a vacation, indeed, the average Lander cannot afford to take one. After several days of argument, Jim gave in, with this sentiment: "I think the Lord must a been a good fisherman, else He wouldn't a picked fishermen to follow Him. He wanted to swap stories with 'em now and again. The Master knew by the ruffle and the shadow on the lake when the fish was schooling and he told Peter where to let down his nets. I have an idea He went away sometimes to fish as well as to pray and that fishin' with Peter and John, they come to know each other better." After that Jim was as keen as a boy to get ready the lines and the flies and to pack our little outfit. We went on the train to Deer Lake, crossed the lower end of the lake and went up the river. We fished near Steady Brook Falls and away up at Big Falls and the weather was all that could be desired. We caught more salmon and trout than we needed and we were bringing out all that the law would allow us to transport. It had been the best week's fishing I had ever had, and there had been some surprises. We had by chance fallen in with an old friend of mine from the States and another day we had seen a stag of great size following the birds down to a pool. All had gone so well with us that I was at a loss to account for this sudden demonstration of feeling. It was not like Jim. I knew him and his way well enough, to know that he would not wish to be questioned, so we tramped on in silence over the carry, and it was not for an hour afterward that he ventured an explanation. "There at the carry you may have thought it strange, the way I acted up. That little fellow we seed there playing with his father's canoe, made me think of little Peter. I've never mentioned him, I seldom do, but I think a good deal about him and often I believe he is with me. He made the carry and past over to Kingdom Come three years ago. "Do you know sometimes when I used to watch my little Peter playing, and the light and shadows would be around him, I used to think, pardon me, he looked like the pictures I've seen of the carpenter's Son, His Son. He was our first child, born out of our first wonderful love, but he never was a strong child. I don't know why. I never could think of him as becomin' a fisherman. He used to like better'n the average child, to journey with us thru the land o' the springs during the evenings, and I thought mebbe the Lord would call him to be a preacher, though I never let on to him, what I was a thinkin'. "When he was eight, he got kinder spindlin' and at the same time he wanted to go to the woods and to see the island. He had another hankering, too, that was to ride on the trains. He used to collect engine numbers any time he was in St. John's. His mother used to say that she believed he'd be an engine driver instead of a preacher. "At first I didn't pay much attention when he asked to go, but as he got thinner and paler, I began to take trips with him on the railroad. We had great times together going to places and for a time they seemed to chuck him up a bit. We went down to old Placentia one time. Ever down there? It's a lovely old place; lies sprawled out on a sandy beach with arms reaching round it and the hills sending down beauty on to it. We climbed the hill across the gut from the town, Castle Hill, and saw the crumbling ruins of the old French Fort and we went across to Bradshaw's and saw the Communion set that was presented by King William the Fourth. "Sometimes we would take mother along and go to Top-sails and look down the bay as we ate our lunch. Then one time we went over to Belle Isle and saw the men working in the iron mines under the sea and Peter talked about what he saw for weeks. I was worried a good deal about him, but we both felt better on the trips. There was always something to see. For miles our railroad gives you Conception Bay with now a frame of hills and now one of spruces. Then in the centre of the island are great lonesome barrens where the caribou come to feed and the little nameless lakes are clustered. Peter had 'em all named, but I think he used to change the names sometimes. There were so many his little mind forgot the long list. "Then 'twas fun to be on our railroad. It's a road that throws you about some; makes an impression on you, and a good hard one, sometimes. But it's the only railroad we've got in the Dominion and without it our country wouldn't have the farms it has now, nor friends like you, coming and going. "I remember when we took the sleeper, the kid and I. We didn't often do that; we couldn't afford it, but this time we were going over to the Codroys and I put the little fellow to bed and sat down for a spell of thinking, across the aisle from him. Suddenly the train gave a lurch. Guess the engineer got kinder hot stoppin' to drive cows off the track and we was a hittin' it up as much as thirty miles an hour. What do you think? Little Peter come a flyin' down from his berth right into my arms and he says, not hurt a bit, only tickled: "'Pa, a fellow has to be put to bed more'n once to stay put on our road.' "He always called it our road, though he knew its short-comings as well as I. "We only took one winter trip and that was a long one and I blamed myself many a time for taking the risk, though I don't know's it hurt him any, and I'm sure I always kept him warm and covered. When we got to Gaff Topsails, the track ahead was solid, sheer ice and the wind swept fierce across it from the south. They strapped the train on the track, so's it wouldn't tumble over. Seems funny now, but it wasn't then. But we didn't suffer any. They had lots of food-stuff aboard and when it give out the train hands went across the snow to the next town to get more. It took us fifteen days to get to Petrie's. The store-keeper at Petrie's had been up to St. John's to buy goods and he was on the train with us, anxious to get home. He was kind to little Peter and rode him pig-a-back every day, when it was too bad for him to walk about. "The store-keeper reached Petrie's in thirteen days, two days ahead of the train, by walking the last ten miles. His folks was surprised, for they didn't expect him until the train got in. "Still that trip we made better time than the trains sometimes do in the winter. One train took twenty-six days to get across the island. "On these trips, Peter and I would come home with many a story to tell mother and little Peter would be wildly excited and there would be big, red spots in both his cheeks; and when the excitement of the trip was over he would grow weary. He would cough and want to eat less and sleep less, but always he was cheerful and a-planning for railroading with his Dad." It came time to camp for the night and Jim stopped the story, as he started our fire and I began to put up our tent. XII THROUGH THE VALLEY WITH THE LITTLE FELLOW When we had eaten our fill of fried salmon and blue-berry duff, that no one could stir up and bake better than Jim, and the camp was tidied for the night, Jim went on with his story. He had come to the hard part of the story, the saddest part of his life, and I was glad that it was dark; I knew it would be easier for him. I was glad, too, that the camp fire was dying down, for thus I would see less of suffering that might be revealed could I see his face in the brighter light. "I had the Grenfell doctor come. I'd sent ahead to have him met at the Hospital Ship and a doctor, a great man from the States, on his vacation, they said, come over here to our place. He was giving his vacation because he loved Grenfell and the fishermen. "Little Peter answered all of his questions and I was sheer proud of him. I could see the Doctor liked the little man. He said to Peter, when he had finished examining him: "'I'll make you better, my little man, if I can. You take all the eggs and milk the hens and the cows will let you have and grow so fat your mother won't know you.' "But to me, he said, when he walked down the road a piece with me: "'You're Harbor Jim, they tell me, a man loved hereabouts for the fights you've made to reach the harbor in a night of storm. I am hating to tell you, Jim, but it's goin' to be a hard fight this time, the hardest fight you ever had. There's a chance; but one lung is all gone and the other's bad. I'll do my best, but if you have to go thru the valley with the little fellow, I'll only hope you won't forget to live up to your reputation.' "Then he left me all manner of directions, about eggs and milk that was to give him ammunition for the fight. Told me to soak him in sunshine and so on. And I did just as he told me. I gave him his cod-liver oil, when I had to invent fairy stories to get him to swallow it. I wrapped him up in blankets and sat him in the sunshine. His mother did as much or more'n I did. I used to listen of a night to see if he breathed all right. I listened, when ever Effie was asleep, to see if I could tell if he breathed as strong as he did the night before. "Those days my heart was sore all the while, but I couldn't let on for fear she'd know just how I felt." Jim swallowed hard, but he had made up his mind to tell me the story of little Peter and he wasn't the man to back down. He had a knife and a piece of a birch and he was whittling away. The light would flare up a moment and I could see him looking straight ahead into the fire and whittling faster. "Then I had to cover it up from him; for little Peter was sure that he was getting better. Seems though the worse he got, the surer he was he'd be better tomorrow. When he got so weak I had to carry him across the room, he began to talk more about spring and railroading again with his dad. "Sometimes when I'd been off and was comin' home, I dreaded so seeing him, thus weak, that I'd rather a-gone thru the Narrows on the darkest night God ever made, than to face Peter with a jolly quip. So many times then, and so many times since, I have thought, if I only could have toted the load for him. If only my hand could a-held it up for him. He was so little and frail and I was big and strong. And it was the utter, awful helplessness of it that made it so hard to bear. We wanted to help so bad and there was so very little that either of us could do. "We didn't have Clara then. She didn't come until afterward, and then Peter was all we had. It didn't seem that we could give him up. I reasoned with myself and I didn't one night forget the Book. But there were nights when we halted at the springs that our mouths were so dry and parched that even the Water of Life seemed not to be sufficient to quench them. "We went deeper and deeper into the valley. He grew weaker and weaker. Just like a little flower that is fading away. One night he grew worse. It was February, and I put on my snow shoes and started for St. John's for a doctor. I walked away into the night and I got a doctor and was back afore dawn. "The doctor took his pulse and said: "'He'll be crossing at the dawn.' "Little Peter often listened to the Book and he was beginning to love it, too; and just before the sun broke that cold, February morning, he whispered: "'God is light; in Him is no darkness at all.' "Then it was morning, but oh, it was night and the valley for us! The doctor left us and we sat alone, her hand in mine. Effie didn't say anything; I think if she had I couldn't a bore it. And there was no minister present. I was glad of that, too. I guess they all want to help, but a good many on'em that I have knowed want to argue and to tell you it's all right and you don't want to talk just then and arguments don't offer much comfort. The time had come when only one could comfort us and we had to find Him. Some do not find Him for days, some for weeks, some never find Him again. "The words that kept saying themselves over to me were these: 'Be still and know that I am God.' I was some impatient, some bitter. I know I oughtn't to have been, but I was, and I answered the Lord: 'I _am_ still; see me suffering here; is that all the message?' "It was a good thing we had something to do. We had to see to the little wasted body. We had to arrange for the service. We had to tidy up the house. We shared it all, the new sorrow and the pain, just as we had shared the wallet and the joys. The minister come way from St. John's and I was grateful to him. I don't remember just what he said, but I am sure that Peter was worthy all the good he said of him; and I know that I needed all the prayer he made. "But when it was all over and the house was so quiet, it was harder still. It didn't do no good to listen for his breathing. There was no need to think of eggs or milk for the little fellow's breakfast. He was gone! "I was very tired and I was about to turn in that night after the funeral, when Effie said: "'We need to halt by the springs more than ever.' "I knew she was right, so with a sad heart I opened the Book. I never knowed just how it was, perhaps the Lord himself guided my hands, but we come to a little halt at the 14th chapter of John. It was the Spring of Comfort and Peace, we so much needed. It was the place where so many have camped before in their night of sorrow and gone forth strengthened and rejoicing in the morning. We were very thirsty and it was real water, the water of life and we drank as we never had drank before. He spoke to us and said: 'Let not your heart be troubled!' "I won't repeat that chapter, but it has never lost its power, to refresh and comfort since the day He first uttered the words. If you ever have to go again thru the valley yourself; halt there. It will be the wisest thing you ever did. "After that I was able to think clear again. I said to myself. I trusted the Father before and He never did me wrong. I can't just see, but I can trust and it will grow brighter and so it has, though sometimes I don't see quite plain, even yet. I know that He must have a place for the little fellow and He must know what Peter needs. He'll know how to pick the best teachers and all the experiences he needs. My Father is looking out for him. He can do no wrong." For a little while all was quiet but for the chattering of the river as it hurried on down to sea. The wind freshened in the trees. Messages were passing above us. Jim brought a bundle of fresh wood and the fire leaped into a cheerful blaze. There was not any more that needed to be said. We both made an effort to shake off the sadness and fell to talking of the weight of the day's salmon catch, as we undressed. We carried but one little tent and slept together. Some hour after we had gone to bed, I imagined Jim was trying to find out if I was asleep without disturbing me. At last he decided that I was awake and said: "I'm sure it's all right about little Peter. We're out of the valley now and are finding again the sunny plain." XIII THE QUEER ONE "Sartin sure! By the big dipper, it's sartin shame!" Bob McCartney stood at my door all excitement as he delivered himself of these explosives. Bob is a short man and middle-wide, and he is on the increase. This particular morning he stood on my stoop, the very personification of heat. He took off his hat and mopped his head and his red face and without waiting went on with his message. "The Missus Jim is took sudden and terrible sick. Doc Withers is there and don't know what ails her. Think of anything she could take? Anything you know of she could do? Everybody is suggestin'! Neighbors comin' an' goin' all the while, tryin' to do something for the Missus Jim. Didn't seem to be anything more I could do. You can't try everything to onct, so think's I, I'll go and see him. He comes from New York an' mebbe he'll have a new idea." "It might be a good thing to let one or two ideas have a chance," I replied. "I've noticed that ideas that get rushed and crowded don't do as well." Bob brightened and pulling on his cap, backed down the stairs. "I'll tell 'em to go slow and let the first ideas have a chance." I wisely concluded that Jim would have all the help and more than he needed and I did not call for three days. When I did Mrs. Jim herself answered my knock and from just behind Jim shouted: "She's all right again. Didn't prove so bad as we thought. Something got inside of her that didn't belong there and soon's it got out, she come along all right." "Was it the doctor or you, Jim, that cured her?" I asked, as I sat down. "I've been thinking o' that a good deal, this day," he answered. "Everything traces back to the Almighty, when you let your thought travel far enough, and I'd like to thank Him, first. I prayed a good deal and though I don't need no thanks, I believe those prayers helped. Then the neighbors helped. They loaned hot water bags and fetched pillows, an' done all manner o' things, 'till thinks I, nobody ever had such neighbors as us. Then there was Doc Withers. Now some folks give all the credit to the docs, but I don't; neither do I take all the praise from 'em. Their His servants, too, and I callate dividing up the responsibility and the thanks for a cure is a mighty difficult task. I know I ain't worthy to do it myself." A knock, a quick, nervous knock came just then and Jim answered it, throwing wide the door, as he always did, with his cheery, "Come right in." A thin, tall man with a long rain-coat and big, black-rimmed glasses stepped in. Snatching off his gray Alpine hat, he introduced himself. "I'm Clarence O. Jewett, of Boston. Am visiting in Newfoundland, spending two and a half days here. Came in on the steamer 'Rosalind' from Halifax, yesterday, going back tomorrow. In St. John's I was told of Harbor Jim and that his wife was very ill, and I hired a car and came out here and I am ready to give your wife a treatment. I have been thinking that perhaps the Lord is using me to bring the only, real, true religion to Newfoundland. When your wife has seen the light and comes to know the truth that sin and everything material is a delusion, deception and a snare, she will understand that being perfect she cannot really suffer from an illusion. This earth and all things upon which we look are but shadows. When your wife is whole again and understands the non-reality of matter, she will testify and others may hear and heed, until many on this island will come to praise the Lord and to remember Clarence O. Jewett, of Boston, who brought the only, real, true religion--" At this moment, Mrs. Jim, who had stepped out at the knock, re-entered the room and Jim had his first chance to speak. "This is the Missus. The news you received is a little late, for she has recovered. Since you are a mound-tripper and doin' the country, probably we ought not to keep you. The road across is about five hundred miles, and if you're goin' to see any more'n St. John's, you'll have to hurry afore your ship sails. There was a man down here last year who staid two days in St. John's and then wrote a book about Newfoundland, but he skipped a few things." The man was keenly disappointed. He changed his weight from one foot to the other, for he had not yet taken the seat that Jim had offered him. He took off his glasses and wiped them and then seating himself and clearing his throat, resumed. "The cure is but temporary. Your wife will not be well until she has learned that there is but one thing to know and that is the truth and the truth about the truth. And though you cannot expect to understand it, I will start you on the way toward the one, only, real, true religion." "Am I supposed just to listen?" asked Jim, "or do you think I might know enough to ask a question now and then?" "Certainly, certainly," the queer man replied. "I have an answer for every question that is absolutely logical. Take the question of the existence of evil; that is the most puzzling question in all the world. I have an answer to it that is entirely satisfactory. Nobody can contradict it. Evil is matter. Matter does not exist. Therefore evil does not exist and since it does not exist, it never could have been created. Evil and matter are just wrong statements of mind. Do you see? Is it perfectly clear to you?" Jim gulped, as though he was in swimming and had accidentally swallowed some salt water. I had come to have a profound admiration for Jim and was coming more and more to appreciate his wholesome philosophy, and now I was waiting to see what Jim would do with this man's statements. "You have doused me beyond my depth, I guess," was the somewhat puzzled reply of Jim. "It isn't plain to me. But heave ahead a little and mebbe I'll get some idea of what port you're sailin' to. The only thing you have said so far that has any familiar sound to me is what you said about the one, only, real, true religion. I've heard that several times before. Seems though most every kind o' religion and every different church feels that it's got the one, only, real, true religion. Strikes me, every blessed one on'em has got some of the real religion and also some foolishness and smallness and no one on'em has got the pure, undiluted article that Jesus Christ brought to the world. I think He come the nearest to livin' the real religion. But how'd you discover that your's was the only religion?" The queer man evidently thought the question irrelevant, for he was off again. "It is now proved that all is mental or mind. _Your_ thoughts are the opposites of mind. They do not exist. They are even as all other things, non-existent, non-real. God is the only reality. There is no thing outside of God. You are not separated from Him." "Then," interrupted Jim, "how about the Prodigal Son? Didn't he get separated from his Father?" "That is speaking in terms of no-mind. You have not yet grasped the thought. Nothing can exist but good. God never saw the Prodigal Son until he came back, because he never has or can see anything evil." "Your God may not see or know evil, sickness or suffering or anything that makes a man miserable. I say, _your_ God mayn't, but _mine_ does. It's his _knowledge_ that makes Him compassionate. If He didn't know what was happening to His own children, that He had created and planned for, then I'd rather pray to Bob McCartney. Think, sir, what kind of a mother would your mother a-been, if she hadn't known when you cried, and you hadn't a-been able to climb up and lay in her arms and be comforted and forgiven? She wouldn't a-been a mother and God wouldn't be a God unless He knew what was a-happening to His own children! Why man alive didn't He make the world; aren't they His, the cattle on a thousand hills, the lightenin' and the thunder, the sweet grass and the flowers and all things in and on and under the earth? If He has gone off and forgotten it all and don't know good and evil, if He don't know when we're tired and failin' and tryin' again, why what would be the use o' prayer or, for that matter, for livin' at all?" The queer man, at this point, removed his rubbers, but made no comment upon Jim's questions. Perhaps his feet were so warm it was hard for him to keep his head cool. "You are utterly deceived," he continued. "You are confusing the real and the non-real. You are following after shadows that do not exist at all. You do not know the truth. You are bound. You are looking at the mist of matter that will disappear as the knowledge of truth develops within you. If you will begin to deny the existence of evil, you will begin to banish disease and ultimately you will understand that all things are but illusions." "Pears to me," Jim said, as the queer man paused for breath, before launching more sentences about the truth. "Pears to me, you're sailin' round in a circle, and havin' a hard time dodging the winds o' logic. Call the flower, the mountain, and the man, shadows and illusions; if you will. I don't object to that, only I want you to agree with me that they are beautiful. The only thing I am afeared of is that you'll make some folks think this is not _His_ world at all; and I want them to know that this is His world and that He planned these things you have re-named shadows and illusions. I callate there's danger in your statements when you come to follow them out. Then, too, these shadows have been actin' about uniform for as long ago as the book o' Genesis and afore that, and I don't propose to try to get much farther back, for it makes my eyes ache to see back o' that. "When you tell me this body o' mine is an illusion, it kinder riles me, for I believe the Good Father planned this body as much as He planned a soul for me. It's a house for my soul as long as I'm in this earth and I callate it's to be treated holy while it houses my soul. I know it will get kinder old and dingy bye and bye and I'll be quitting it, but that ain't no good reason for neglectin' it now. "Of course if what you say was true and there was no material and it was all in thinking, then we wouldn't have to wear clothes, nor eat food and you wouldn't have to wear your specs, nor your goloshes, because it's a little damp under feet this morning. You may be different, Mr. Jewett, with your one, only, real, true religion, but we Landers up here all get a little older as days go by; we all like to be cheered by food and fuel, and we all feel the difference between winter and summer, and we all travel sooner or later to the better land. Seems to be His plan." The queer man was gathering words for new statements; but while he was listening to the last of Jim's replies, he was looking intently at his hands. If it may be permitted to speak in ordinary fashion of a man of his philosophy, his hands were dirty and he had become painfully aware of it. Jim noticed his concern and remarked with a certain acerbity of tone: "You don't clean your hands with soap and water, do you?" The queer man in turn showed some increase of warmth as he replied: "I certainly do when I need to, that's only common sense." "Well," mused Jim, this time very slowly, "do you know, I don't believe in using too much soap, it's caustic and it's harmful sometimes to the skin, but do you know, once in a while I get a bit riled and dirty inside o' me and I decide that it's only common sense to clean that just as I would my hands." The queer man sniffed and asked for a Bible. "Have you a Bible?" He won't get ahead very fast, if he thinks Jim doesn't own a Bible and know its contents, I thought; but I kept my thoughts to myself, for the man had utterly ignored me, thus far, for Jim was keeping him as busy as he cared to be. Before Jim could answer he saw his Bible on the little table and it opened easily and he saw at once the markings and said: "Glad you read your Bible, but it needs another book beside it else you can't understand it and it's a closed book. You need a key to the Scriptures." "I callate," replied Jim, "that a man ought to be able to read his own Bible and interpret it for himself. The Lord has given every man a key in his own mind and heart. The fathers that have lived and died didn't have your key, but they got comfort out of this Book. Ever since the words were uttered they have been helping and some on 'em is so simple and beautiful that little fellows can read and be blessed in the reading." The queer man read now from Jim's Bible: "And Jesus went about preaching the gospel of the kingdom _and healing all manner of diseases_." "Do you believe that? There it is plain, too plain to be contradicted." "Yes, I believe," answered Jim. The queer man was surprised and it gave Jim time to add: "Jesus also said: 'According to your _faith_ be it unto thee. All things are possible to Him that _believeth_! "There's an old Indian lives down the road a piece, who was all tied up with rheumatiz. He got back the other day from New Mexico, all cured. He'd never heard of you or your key to the Scriptures. He'd been to a place called Chimayo. Went to a little clay church down there and scraped up some of the clay from the floor and mixed it with water and drank it and has come back well. Every year or two somebody goes from St. John's away to Quebec and out to a place called St. Ann's, where they got a wrist-bone of hers, so they tell, and some of 'em come back well again. "There's an old lady in Quidi Vidi nigh on to eighty-five. She got sick when she was eighty, grew feeble and pindling. She took to readin' this Book and praying all by herself and she got her strength back and she is as chipper as any woman of sixty in the Dominion. "What was it cured her; what is it that cures lots of folks for a time, though we mustn't forget that we all go hence according to His plan. He's evidently got a good many rooms in His big house and He doesn't intend for us to stay too long in any one. "Did these folks that drank mud, prayed in front of a wrist-bone, or just prayed, believe that they was living in the shadows; did they build up an airy, fairy world and re-name things; not a bit of it; they was cured just as you and I might be, can be cured. Mr. Jewett, they had _faith_! "I believe it's the measure of faith we have that counts. The Lord speaks about our doing things He did and greater also, and we shall just as our faith grows. I believe in praying because it makes that faith grow; I believe in reading the Book for the same reason. If I had faith enough, I could, like Him, remove mountains or walk upon the sea; but it don't grieve me because I can't in a moment do the things the Divine Son did. Faith always seems to me to be a bigger thing than love. I guess faith is love that has learned how to bring things to pass. "Let's not expect too much. Let's remember we and the world have yet to do a good deal of growing. I don't measure God's greatness nor His goodness by the number of times He cures my stomach-ache. It may be I'm pretty careless and a certain amount of pain is about the only handy Teacher He can find for me. It may be that in this first room some of us will have to be somewhat ailing, but let's not forget He gives us grace to bear as well as strength to heal. I only ask to be able to do my work and not grunt. "I callate that if your one, only, real, true religion is devoting its chief thought and its most time to simply curing aches and pains, it ain't the religion of our Lord for He went about doin' _all kinds of good_." The queer man was fidgeting and from his looks I concluded he was about to seek new pastures. Jim, noticing this, continued: "I appreciate your coming, sir, proves there's good in your religion. You've got the missionary zeal and that deserves to be kept. After all we ain't so far apart, as it might seem, some ways; but we're starting from different points. I believe this is a real world, an intended world, with real folks and real facts and that it is a good world, His World, and it's a goin' to be better; only not all to onct, by re-naming the old and beautiful things He planned and sent." Mr. Jewett was wise in withdrawing, for Jim was gaining in power and facility of expression. Now, as the man edged toward the door, Jim extended his hand and said: "Don't lose your logic, 'cause there's no harm in mixin' logic and religion. If religion is any good it'll stand logic. Remember the Lord knowed what He was a-doin' and He ain't abandoned His children." When he was well outside, Mrs. Jim spoke: "Jim, do you think he has a screw loose in his loft?" But the queer man was back in a moment, with a less confident air, but this time he had but one brief sentence: "Please, I left my rubbers." _Printed in the United States of America._ TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Inconsistencies in the author's use of hyphens has been left unchanged, as in the original text. Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
44037	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 44037-h.htm or 44037-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44037/44037-h/44037-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44037/44037-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/adventuresofbill00duncuoft THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL * * * * * _THE WORKS OF_ NORMAN DUNCAN _Second Edition_ The Mother A Novelette of New York Life. 12mo, cloth, $1.25, de Luxe, $2.00 net. "Another book quite unlike 'Dr. Luke' in environment, but very like it in its intuitive understandings of the natures of the lowly and obscure . . . holds the reader spellbound."--_Nashville American._ _Twenty-fifth Thousand_ Doctor Luke of the Labrador 12mo, cloth, $1.50. "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected of him in this story; it established him beyond question as one of the strong masters of the present day."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ _Fourth Edition_ Dr. Grenfell's Parish Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00 net. "He tells vividly and picturesquely many of the things done by Dr. Grenfell and his associates. They have a distinct literary tone. It is splendid, heroic work that Dr. Grenfell and his fellows are doing as missionaries of humanity and civilization in a field that is painfully near home."--_N. Y. Sun._ FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY _Publishers_ * * * * * [Illustration: HIS CLOTHES WERE FROZEN STIFF, AND HE HAD TO BEAT THEM ON THE ICE TO SOFTEN THEM.] THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL by NORMAN DUNCAN Author of "Doctor Luke of The Labrador," "The Mother," "Dr. Grenfell's Parish" Illustrated [Illustration] New York Chicago Toronto Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1906, by Fleming H. Revell Company New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street _J. K._ _To the editors of the "Youth's Companion" the author's thanks are due for the permission to reprint much of the contents of this book._ _To the Boy who Reads the Book_ YOU must not be surprised because the adventures of Billy Topsail and a few of his friends fill this book. If _all_ the adventures of these real boys were written the record would fill many books. This is not hard to explain. The British Colony of Newfoundland lies to the north of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and to the east of the Canadian Labrador. It is so situated that the inhabitants may not escape adventures. On the map, it looks bleak and far away and inhospitable--a lonely island, outlying in the stormy water of the Atlantic. Indeed, it is all that. The interior is a vast wilderness--a waste place. The folk are fishermen all. They live on the coast, in little harbours, remote, widely scattered, not connected by roads; communication is only by way of the sea. They are hospitable, fearless, tender, simple, willing for toil; and, surely, little else can be said of a people. Long, long ago, their forbears first strayed up that forbidding shore in chase of the fish; and the succeeding generations, though such men as we are, have there lived their lives, apart from the world's comforts and delights as we know them. The land is barren; sustenance is from the sea, which is moody and cold and gray: thus life in that far place has many perils and deprivations and toilsome duties. The boys of the outports are like English-speaking boys the world over. They are merry or not, brave or not, kind or not, as boys go; but it may be that they are somewhat merrier and braver and kinder than boys to whom self-reliance and physical courage are less needful. At any rate, they have adventures, every one of them; and that is not surprising--for the conditions of life are such that every Newfoundland lad intimately knows hardship and peril at an age when the boys of the cities still grasp a hand when they cross the street. N. D. New York, _September, 1906_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I 11 In which young Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove puts out to his first adventure with his dog in the bow of the punt. CHAPTER II 19 Concerning the behaviour of Billy Topsail and his dog in the water when the _Never Give Up_ went to the bottom, and closing with an apology and a wag of the tail. CHAPTER III 26 Describing the haunts and habits of devil-fish and informing the reader of Billy Topsail's determination to make a capture at all hazards. CHAPTER IV 34 Recounting the adventure of the giant squid of Chain Tickle, in which the punt gets in the grip of a gigantic tentacle and Billy Topsail strikes with an axe. CHAPTER V 44 On the face of the cliff: Wherein Billy Topsail gets lost in a perilous place and sits down to recover his composure. CHAPTER VI 52 In which Billy Topsail loses his nerve. Wherein, also, the wings of gulls seem to brush past. CHAPTER VII 59 In which Billy Topsail hears the fur trader's story of a jigger and a cake of ice in the wind. CHAPTER VIII 69 In the offshore gale: In which Billy Topsail goes seal hunting and is swept to sea with the floe. CHAPTER IX 78 In which old Tom Topsail burns his punt and Billy wanders in the night and three lives hang on a change of wind. CHAPTER X 86 How Billy Topsail's friend Bobby Lot joined fortunes with Eli Zitt and whether or not he proved worthy of the partnership. CHAPTER XI 93 Bobby Lot learns to swim and Eli Zitt shows amazing courage and self-possession and strength. CHAPTER XII 104 Containing the surprising adventure of Eli Zitt's little partner on the way back from Fortune Harbour, in which a Newfoundland dog displays a saving intelligence. CHAPTER XIII 116 In which Billy Topsail sets sail for the Labrador, the _Rescue_ strikes an iceberg, and Billy is commanded to pump for his life. CHAPTER XIV 123 Faithfully narrating the amazing experiences of a Newfoundland schooner and describing Billy Topsail's conduct in a sinking boat. CHAPTER XV 131 In which the Ruddy Cove doctor tells Billy Topsail and a stranger how he came to learn that the longest way 'round is sometimes the shortest way home. CHAPTER XVI 142 Describing how Billy Topsail set out for Ruddy Cove with Her Majesty's Mail and met with catastrophe. CHAPTER XVII 151 Billy Topsail wrings out his clothes and finds himself cut off from shore by thirty yards of heaving ice. CHAPTER XVIII 159 In which Billy Topsail joins the whaler _Viking_ and a school is sighted. CHAPTER XIX 164 In which the chase is kept up and the captain promises himself a kill. CHAPTER XX 172 The mate of the fin-back whale rises for the last time, with a blood-red sunset beyond, and Billy Topsail says, "Too bad!" CHAPTER XXI 176 In which Billy Topsail goes fishing in earnest. Concerning, also, Feather's Folly of the Devil's Teeth, Mary Robinson, and the wreck of the _Fish Killer_. CHAPTER XXII 184 The crew of the _Fish Killer_ finds refuge on an iceberg and discovers greater safety elsewhere, after which the cook is mistaken for a fool, but puts the crew to shame. CHAPTER XXIII 196 In which the clerk of the trader _Tax_ yarns of a madman in the cabin. CHAPTER XXIV 208 In which a pirate's cave grows interesting, and two young members of the Ethnological and Antiquarian Club of St. John's, undertake an adventure under the guidance of Billy Topsail. CHAPTER XXV 216 In which there is a landslide at Little Tickle Basin and something of great interest and peculiar value is discovered in the cave. CHAPTER XXVI 223 In which Billy Topsail determines to go to the ice in the spring of the year, and young Archibald Armstrong of St. John's is permitted to set out upon an adventure which promises to be perilous and profitable. CHAPTER XXVII 231 While Billy Topsail is about his own business Archie Armstrong stands on the bridge of the _Dictator_ and Captain Hand orders "Full speed ahead!" on the stroke of twelve. CHAPTER XXVIII 238 In which Archie Armstrong falls in with Bill o' Burnt Bay and Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove, and makes a speech. CHAPTER XXIX 246 Billy Topsail is shipped upon conditions, and the _Dictator_, in a rising gale, is caught in a field of drift ice, with a growler to leeward. CHAPTER XXX 255 In which Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail have an exciting encounter with a big dog hood, and, at the sound of alarm, leave the issue in doubt, while the ice goes abroad and the enemy goes swimming. CHAPTER XXXI 264 The _Dictator_ charges an ice pan and loses a main topmast. CHAPTER XXXII 272 In which seals are sighted and Archie Armstrong has a narrow chance in the crow's-nest. CHAPTER XXXIII 279 The ice runs red, and, in storm and dusk, Tim Tuttle brews a pot o' trouble for Captain Hand, while Billy Topsail observes the operation. CHAPTER XXXIV 287 In which Tim Tuttle's shaft flies straight for the mark. The crews of the _Dictator_ and _Lucky Star_ declare war, and Captain Hand is threatened with the shame of dishonour, while young Billy Topsail, who has the solution of the difficulty, is in the hold of the ship. CHAPTER XXXV 296 In which the issue is determined. CHAPTER XXXVI 302 It appears that the courage and strength of the son of a colonial knight are to be tried. The hunters are caught in a great storm. CHAPTER XXXVII 308 In which the men are lost, the _Dictator_ is nipped and Captain Hand sobs, "Poor Sir Archibald!" CHAPTER XXXVIII 317 And last: In which wind and snow and cold have their way and death lands on the floe. Billy Topsail gives himself to a gust of wind, and Archie Armstrong finds peril and hardship stern teachers. Concerning, also, a new sloop, a fore-an'-after and a tailor's lay figure. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE HIS CLOTHES WERE FROZEN STIFF, AND HE HAD TO BEAT THEM ON THE ICE TO SOFTEN THEM _Title_ BILLY RAISED HIS HAND AS IF TO STRIKE HIM 20 THEN LIKE A FLASH IT SHOT TOWARDS THE BOAT 38 "JUMPED LIKE A STAG FOR THE SECOND PAN" 62 BILLY STAGGERED INTO THE CIRCLE OF LIGHT 82 "SHE'S LOST," HE THOUGHT. "LOST WITH ALL HANDS" 126 "MY LITTLE LAD'S WONDERFUL SICK. COME QUICK!" 132 "IT IS A DEAD W'ALE!" 174 HE WAS NEAR THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH VERSE 245 THEN HE ADVANCED UPON THE BOY 261 "LASH YOUR TOWS, B'YS," SAID BILL. "LEAVE THE REST GO" 305 "WE'RE SAVED!" SAID BILL 326 The publishers acknowledge the courtesy of _The Youth's Companion_ and _Outing_ for the use of various illustrations appearing originally in these periodicals. THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL CHAPTER I _In Which Young Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove Puts Out to His First Adventure with His Dog in the Bow of the Punt_ FROM the very beginning it was inevitable that Billy Topsail should have adventures. He was a fisherman's son, born at Ruddy Cove, which is a fishing harbour on the bleak northeast coast of Newfoundland; and there was nothing else for it. All Newfoundland boys have adventures; but not all Newfoundland boys survive them. And there came, in the course of the day's work and play, to Billy Topsail, many adventures. The first--the first real adventure in which Billy Topsail was abandoned to his own wit and strength--came by reason of a gust of wind and his own dog. It was not strange that a gust of wind should overturn Billy Topsail's punt; but that old Skipper should turn troublesome in the thick of the mess was an event the most unexpected. . . . * * * * * Skipper was a Newfoundland dog, born of reputable parents at Back Arm and decently bred in Ruddy Cove. He had black hair, short, straight and wiry--the curly-haired breed has failed on the Island--and broad, ample shoulders, which his forbears had transmitted to him from generations of hauling wood. He was heavy, awkward and ugly, resembling somewhat a great draft-horse. But he pulled with a will, fended for himself, and within the knowledge of men had never stolen a fish; so he had a high place in the hearts of all the people of the Cove, and a safe one in their estimation. "Skipper! Skipper! Here, b'y!" The ringing call, in the voice of Billy Topsail, never failed to bring the dog from the kitchen with an eager rush, when the snow lay deep on the rocks, and all the paths of the wilderness were ready for the sled. He stood stock-still for the harness, and at the first "Hi, b'y! Gee up there!" he bounded away with a wagging tail and a glad bark. It was as if nothing pleased him so much on a frosty morning as the prospect of a hard day's work. If the call came in summer-time when Skipper was dozing in the cool shadow of a flake--a platform of boughs for drying fish--he scrambled to his feet, took his clog[1] in his mouth and ran, all a-quiver for what might come, to where young Billy waited. If the clog were taken off, as it was almost sure to be, it meant sport in the water. Then Skipper would paw the ground and whine until the stick was flung out for him. But best of all he loved to dive for stones. At the peep of many a day, too, he went out in the punt to the fishing-grounds with Billy Topsail, and there kept the lad good company all the day long. It was because he sat on the little cuddy in the bow, as if keeping a lookout ahead, that he was called Skipper. "Sure, 'tis a clever dog, that!" was Billy's boast. "He would save life--that dog would!" This was proved beyond doubt when little Isaiah Tommy Goodman toddled over the wharf-head, where he had been playing with a squid. Isaiah Tommy was four years old, and would surely have been drowned had not Skipper strolled down the wharf just at that moment. Skipper was obedient to the instinct of all Newfoundland dogs to drag the sons of men from the water. He plunged in and caught Isaiah Tommy by the collar of his pinafore. Still following his instinct, he kept the child's head above water with powerful strokes of his fore paws while he towed him to shore. Then the outcry which Isaiah Tommy immediately set up brought his mother to complete the rescue. For this deed Skipper was petted for a day and a half, and fed with fried caplin and salt pork, to his evident gratification. No doubt he was persuaded that he had acted worthily. However that be, he continued in merry moods, in affectionate behaviour, in honesty--although the fish were even then drying on the flakes, all exposed--and he carried his clog like a hero. "Skipper," Billy Topsail would ejaculate, "you _do_ be a clever dog!" * * * * * One day in the spring of the year, when high winds spring suddenly from the land, Billy Topsail was fishing from the punt, the _Never Give Up_, over the shallows off Molly's Head. It was "fish weather," as the Ruddy Cove men say--gray, cold and misty. The harbour entrance lay two miles to the southwest. The bluffs which marked it were hardly discernible, for the mist hung thick off the shore. Four punts and a skiff were bobbing half a mile farther out to sea, their crews fishing with hook and line over the side. Thicker weather threatened and the day was near spent. "'Tis time to be off home, b'y," said Billy to the dog. "'Tis getting thick in the sou'west." Skipper stretched himself and wagged his tail. He had no word to say, but Billy, who, like all fishermen in remote places, had formed the habit of talking to himself, supplied the answer. "'Tis that, Billy, b'y," said he. "The punt's as much as one hand can manage in a fair wind. An' 'tis a dead beat to the harbour now." Then Billy said a word for himself. "We'll put in for ballast. The punt's too light for a gale." He sculled the punt to the little cove by the Head, and there loaded her with rocks. Her sails, mainsail and tiny jib, were spread, and she was pointed for Grassy Island, on the first leg of her beat into the wind. By this time two other punts were under way, and the sails of the skiff were fluttering as her crew prepared to beat home for the night. The _Never Give Up_ was ahead of the fleet, and held her lead in such fine fashion as made Billy Topsail's heart swell with pride. The wind had gained in force. It was sweeping down from the hills in gusts. Now it fell to a breeze, and again it came swiftly with angry strength. Nor could its advance be perceived, for the sea was choppy and the bluffs shielded the inshore waters. "We'll fetch the harbour on the next tack," Billy muttered to Skipper, who was whining in the bow. He put the steering oar hard alee to bring the punt about. A gust caught the sails. The boat heeled before it, and her gunwale was under water before Billy could make a move to save her. The wind forced her down, pressing heavily upon the canvas. "Easy!" screamed Billy. But the ballast of the _Never Give Up_ shifted, and she toppled over. Boy and dog were thrown into the sea--the one aft, the other forward. Billy dived deep to escape entanglement with the rigging of the boat. He had long ago learned the lesson that presence of mind wins half the fight in perilous emergencies. The coward miserably perishes where the brave man survives. With his courage leaping to meet his predicament, he struck out for windward and rose to the surface. He looked about for the punt. She had been heavily weighted with ballast, and he feared for her. What was he to do if she had been too heavily weighted? Even as he looked she sank. She had righted under water; the tip of the mast was the last he saw of her. The sea--cold, fretful, vast--lay all about him. The coast was half a mile to windward; the punts, out to sea, were laboriously beating towards him, and could make no greater speed. He had to choose between the punts and the rocks. A whine--with a strange note in it--attracted his attention. The big dog had caught sight of him, and was beating the water in a frantic effort to approach quickly. But the dog had never whined like that before. "Hi, Skipper!" Billy called. "Steady, b'y! Steady!" Billy took off his boots as fast as he could. The dog was coming nearer, still whining strangely, and madly pawing the water. Billy was mystified. What possessed the dog? It was as if he had been seized with a fit of terror. Was he afraid of drowning? His eyes were fairly flaring. Such a light had never been in them before. In the instant he had for speculation the boy lifted himself high in the water and looked intently into the dog's eyes. It was terror he saw in them; there could be no doubt about that, he thought. The dog was afraid for his life. At once Billy was filled with dread. He could not crush the feeling down. Afraid of Skipper--the old, affectionate Skipper--his own dog, which he had reared from a puppy! It was absurd. But he _was_ afraid, nevertheless--and he was desperately afraid. "Back, b'y!" he cried. "Get back, sir!" FOOTNOTE: [1] In Newfoundland the law requires that all dogs shall be clogged as a precaution against their killing sheep and goats which run wild. The clog is in the form of a billet of wood, weighing at least seven and a half pounds, and tied to the dog's neck. CHAPTER II _Concerning the Behaviour of Billy Topsail and His Dog in the Water When the Never Give Up Went to the Bottom, and Closing With an Apology and a Wag of the Tail_ IT chanced that Billy Topsail was a strong swimmer. He had learned to swim where the water is cold--cold, often, as the icebergs stranded in the harbour can make it. The water was bitter cold now; but he did not fear it; nor did he doubt that he could accomplish the long swim which lay before him. It was the unaccountable behaviour of the dog which disturbed him--his failure in obedience, which could not be explained. The dog was now within three yards, and excited past all reason. "Back, sir!" Billy screamed. "Get back with you!" Skipper was not deterred by the command. He did not so much as hesitate. Billy raised his hand as if to strike him--a threatening gesture which had sent Skipper home with his tail between his legs many a time. But it had no effect now. "Get back!" Billy screamed again. It was plain that the dog was not to be bidden. Billy threw himself on his back, supported himself with his hands and kicked at the dog with his feet. [Illustration: BILLY RAISED HIS HAND AS IF TO STRIKE HIM.] Skipper was blinded by the splashing. He whined and held back. Then blindly he came again. Billy moved slowly from him, head foremost, still churning the water with his feet. But, swimming thus, he was no match for the dog. With his head thrown back to escape the blows, Skipper forged after him. He was struck in the jaws, in the throat, and again in the jaws. But he pawed on, taking every blow without complaint, and gaining inch by inch. Soon he was so close that the lad could no longer move his feet freely. Then the dog chanced to catch one foot with his paw, and forced it under. Billy could not beat him off. No longer opposed, the dog crept up--paw over paw, forcing the boy's body lower and lower. His object was clear to Billy. Skipper, frenzied by terror, the boy thought, would try to save himself by climbing on his shoulders. "Skipper!" he cried. "You'll drown me! Get back!" The futility of attempting to command obedience from a crazy dog struck Billy Topsail with force. He must act otherwise, and that quickly, if he were to escape. There seemed to be but one thing to do. He took a long breath and let himself sink--down--down--as deep as he dared. Down--down--until he retained breath sufficient but to strike to the right and rise again. The dog--as it was made known later--rose as high as he could force himself, and looked about in every direction, with his mouth open and his ears rigidly cocked. He gave two sharp barks, like sobs, and a long, mournful whine. Then, as if acting upon sudden thought, he dived. For a moment nothing was to be seen of either boy or dog. There was nothing but a choppy sea in that place. Men who were watching thought that both had followed the _Never Give Up_ to the bottom. In the momentary respite under water Billy perceived that his situation was desperate. He would rise, he was sure, but only to renew the struggle. How long he could keep the dog off he could not tell. Until the punts came down to his aid? He thought not. He came to the surface prepared to dive again. But Skipper had disappeared. An ejaculation of thanksgiving was yet on the boy's lips when the dog's black head rose and moved swiftly towards him. Billy had a start of ten yards--or something more. He turned on his side and set off at top speed. There was no better swimmer among the lads of the harbour. Was he a match for a powerful Newfoundland dog? It was soon evident that he was not. Skipper gained rapidly. Billy felt a paw strike his foot. He put more strength into his strokes. Next the paw struck the calf of his leg. The dog was upon him now--pawing his back. Billy could not sustain the weight. To escape, that he might take up the fight in another way, he dived again. The dog was waiting when Billy came up--waiting eagerly, on the alert to continue the chase. "Skipper, old fellow--good old dog!" Billy called in a soothing voice. "Steady, sir! Down, sir--back!" The dog was not to be deceived. He came, by turns whining and gasping. He was more excited, more determined, than ever. Billy waited for him. The fight was to be face to face. The boy had determined to keep him off with his hands until strength failed--to drown him if he could. All love for the dog had gone out of his heart. The weeks of close and merry companionship, of romps and rambles and sport, were forgotten. Billy was fighting for life. So he waited without pity, hoping only that his strength might last until he had conquered. When the dog was within reach Billy struck him in the face. A snarl and an angry snap were the result. Rage seemed suddenly to possess the dog. He held back for a moment, growling fiercely, and then attacked with a rush. Billy fought as best he could, trying to clutch his enemy by the neck and to force his head beneath the waves. The effort was vain; the dog eluded his grasp and renewed the attack. In another moment he had laid his heavy paws on the boy's shoulders. The weight was too much for Billy. Down he went; freed himself, and struggled to the surface, gasping for breath. It appeared to him now that he had but a moment to live. He felt his self-possession going from him--and at that moment his ears caught the sound of a voice. "Put your arm----" The voice seemed to come from far away. Before the sentence was completed, the dog's paws were again on Billy's shoulders and the water stopped the boy's hearing. What were they calling to him? The thought that some helping hand was near inspired him. With this new courage to aid, he dived for the third time. The voice was nearer--clearer--when he came up, and he heard every word. "Put your arm around his neck!" one man cried. "Catch him by the scruff of the neck!" cried another. Billy's self-possession returned. He would follow this direction. Skipper swam anxiously to him. It may be that he wondered what this new attitude meant. It may be that he hoped reason had returned to the boy--that at last he would allow himself to be saved. Billy caught the dog by the scruff of the neck when he was within arm's length. Skipper wagged his tail and turned about. There was a brief pause, during which the faithful old dog determined upon the direction he would take. He espied the punts, which had borne down with all speed. Towards them he swam, and there was something of pride in his mighty strokes, something of exultation in his whine. Billy struck out with his free hand, and soon boy and dog were pulled over the side of the nearest punt. Through it all, as Billy now knew, the dog had only wanted to save him. * * * * * That night Billy Topsail took Skipper aside for a long and confidential talk. "Skipper," said he, "I beg your pardon. You see, I didn't know what 'twas you wanted. I'm sorry I ever had a hard thought against you, and I'm sorry I tried to drown you. When I thought you only wanted to save yourself, 'twas Billy Topsail you were thinking of. When I thought you wanted to climb atop of me, 'twas my collar you wanted to catch. When I thought you wanted to bite me, 'twas a scolding you were giving me for my foolishness. Skipper, b'y, honest, I beg your pardon. Next time I'll know that all a Newfoundland dog wants is half a chance to tow me ashore. And I'll give him a whole chance. But, Skipper, don't you think you might have given me a chance to do something for myself?" At which Skipper wagged his tail. CHAPTER III _Describing the Haunts and Habits of Devil-Fish and Informing the Reader of Billy Topsail's Determination to Make a Capture at all Hazards_ WHEN the Minister of Justice for the colony of Newfoundland went away from Ruddy Cove by the bay steamer, he chanced to leave an American magazine at the home of Billy Topsail's father, where he had passed the night. The magazine contained an illustrated article on the gigantic species of cephalopods[2] popularly known as devil-fish. Billy Topsail did not know what a cephalopod was; but he did know a squid when he saw its picture, for Ruddy Cove is a fishing harbour, and he had caught many a thousand for bait. So when he found that to the lay mind a squid and a cephalopod were one and the same, save in size, he read the long article from beginning to end, doing the best he could with the strange, long words. So interested was he that he read it again; and by that time he had learned enough to surprise him, even to terrify him, notwithstanding the writer's assurance that the power and ferocity of the creatures had generally been exaggerated. He was a lad of sound common sense. He had never wholly doubted the tales of desperate encounters with devil-fish, told in the harbour these many years; for the various descriptions of how the long, slimy arms had curled about the punts had rung too true to be quite disbelieved; but he had considered them somewhat less credible than certain wild yarns of shipwreck, and somewhat more credible than the bedtime stories of mermaids which the grandmothers told the children of the place. Here, however, in plain print, was described the capture of a giant squid in a bay which lay beyond a point of land that Billy could see from the window. That afternoon Billy put out in his leaky old punt to "jig" squid for bait. He was so disgusted with the punt--so ashamed of the squat, weather-worn, rotten cast-off--that he wished heartily for a new one all the way to the grounds. The loss of the _Never Give Up_ had brought him to humiliating depths. But when he had once joined the little fleet of boats, he cheerfully threw his grapnel into Bobby Lot's punt and beckoned Bobby aboard. Then, as together they drew the writhing-armed, squirting little squids from the water, he told of the "big squids" which lurked in the deep water beyond the harbour; and all the time Bobby opened his eyes wider and wider. "Is they just like squids?" Bobby asked. "But bigger," answered Billy. "Their bodies is so big as hogsheads. Their arms is thirty-five feet long." Bobby picked a squid from the heap in the bottom of the boat. It had instinctively turned from a reddish-brown to a livid green, the colour of sea-water; indeed, had it been in the water, its enemy would have had hard work to see it. He handled it gingerly; but the ugly little creature managed somehow to twine its slender arms about his hand, and swiftly to take hold with a dozen cup-like suckers. The boy uttered an exclamation of disgust, and shook it off. Then he shuddered, laughed at himself, shuddered again. A moment later he chose a dead squid for examination. "Leave us look at it close," said he. "Then we'll know what a real devil-fish is like. Sure, I've been wantin' to know that for a long, long time." They observed the long, cylindrical body, flabby and cold, with the broad, flap-like tail attached. The head was repulsively ugly--perhaps because of the eyes, which were disproportionately large, brilliant, and, in the live squid, ferocious. A group of arms--two long, slender, tentacular arms, and eight shorter, thicker ones--projected from the region of the mouth, which, indeed, was set in the centre of the ring they formed at the roots. They were equipped with innumerable little suckers, were flexible and active, and as long as the head, body and tail put together. Closer examination revealed that there was a horny beak, like a parrot's, in the mouth, and that on the under side of the head was a curious tube-like structure. "Oh, that's his squirter!" Billy explained. "When he wants to back up he points that forward, and squirts out water so hard as he can; and when he wants to go ahead he points it backward, and does the same thing. That's where his ink comes from, too, when he wants to make the water so dirty nobody can see him." "What does he do with his beak?" "When he gets his food in his arms he bites out pieces with his beak. He hasn't any teeth; but he's got something just as good--a tongue like a rasp." "I wouldn't like to be cotched by a squid as big as a hogshead," Bobby remarked, timidly. "Hut!" said Billy, grimly. "He'd make short work o' _you_! Why, b'y, they weighs half a ton apiece! I isn't much afraid, though," he added. "They're only squid. Afore I read about them in the book I used to think they was worse than they is--terrible ghostlike things. But they're no worse than squids, only bigger, and----" "They're bad enough for _me_," Bobby interrupted. "And," Billy concluded, "they only comes up in the night or when they're sore wounded and dyin'." "I'm not goin' out at night, if I can help it," said Bobby, with a canny shake of the head. "If they was a big squid come up the harbour to your house," said Billy, after a pause, "and got close to the rock, he could put one o' they two long arms in your bedroom window, and----" "'Tis in the attic!" "Never mind that. He could put it in the window and feel around for your bed, and twist that arm around you, and----" "I'd cut it off!" "Anyhow, that's how long they is. And if he knowed you was there, and wanted you, he could get you. But I'm not so sure that he _would_ want you. He couldn't see you, anyhow; and if he could, he'd rather have a good fat salmon." Bobby shuddered as he looked at the tiny squid in his hand, and thought of the dreadful possibilities in one a thousand times as big. "You leave them alone, and they'll leave you alone," Billy went on. "But if you once make them mad, they can dart their arms out like lightning. 'Tis time to get, then!" "I'm goin' to keep an axe in my punt after this," said Bobby, "and if I sees an arm slippin' out of the water----" "'Tis as big as your thigh!" cried Billy. "Never mind. If I sees it I'll be able to cut it off." "If I sees one," said Billy, "I'm goin' to cotch it. It said in the book that they was worth a lot to some people. And if I can sell mine I'm goin' to have a new punt." But although Bobby Lot and Billy Topsail kept a sharp lookout for giant squids wherever they went, they were not rewarded. There was not so much as a sign of one. By and by, so bold did they become, they hunted for one in the twilight of summer days, even daring to pry into the deepest coves and holes in the Ruddy Cove rocks. Notwithstanding the ridicule he had to meet, Bobby never ventured out in the punt without a sharp axe. He could not tell what time he would need it, he said; and thus he formed the habit of making sure that it was in its place before casting off from the wharf. As autumn drew near they found other things to think of; the big squids passed out of mind altogether. "Wonderful queer," Billy said, long afterwards, "how things happen when you isn't expectin' them!" FOOTNOTE: [2] "The early literature of natural history has, from very remote times, contained allusions to huge species of cephalopods, often accompanied by more or less fabulous and usually exaggerated descriptions of the creatures. . . . The description of the 'poulpe,' or devil-fish, by Victor Hugo, in 'Toilers of the Sea,' with which so many readers are familiar, is quite as fabulous and unreal as any of the earlier accounts, and even more bizarre. . . . Special attention has only recently been called to the frequent occurrence of these 'big squids,' as our fishermen call them, in the waters of Newfoundland and the adjacent coasts. . . . I have been informed by many other fishermen that the 'big squids' are occasionally taken on the Grand Banks and used for bait. Nearly all the specimens hitherto taken appear to have been more or less disabled when first observed, otherwise they probably would not appear at the surface in the daytime. From the fact that they have mostly come ashore in the night, I infer that they inhabit chiefly the very deep and cold fiords of Newfoundland, and come to the surface only in the night."--From the "Report on the Cephalopods of the Northeastern Coast of America," by A. E. Verrill. Extracted from a report of the Commissioner of Fish and Fisheries, issued by the Government Printing Office at Washington. In this report twenty-five specimens of the large species taken in Newfoundland are described in detail. CHAPTER IV _Recounting the Adventure of the Giant Squid of Chain Tickle, in Which the Punt Gets in the Grip of a Gigantic Tentacle and Billy Topsail Strikes With an Axe_ ONE day late in September--it was near evening of a gray day--Billy Topsail and Bobby Lot were returning in Bobby's punt from Birds' Nest Islands, whither they had gone to hunt a group of seals, reported to have taken up a temporary residence there. They had a mighty, muzzle-loading, flintlock gun; and they were so delighted with the noise it made that they had exhausted their scanty provision of powder and lead long before the seals were in sight. They had taken the shortest way home. It lay past Chain Hole, a small, landlocked basin, very deep, with a narrow entrance, which was shallow at low tide. The entrance opened into a broad bay, and was called Chain Tickle. "What's that in the tickle?" Billy exclaimed, as they were rowing past. It was a black object, apparently floating quietly on the surface of the water. The boys gazed at it for a long time, but could make nothing of it. They were completely puzzled. "'Tis a small bit o' wreck, I'm thinkin'," said Bobby. "Leave us row close and see." "Maybe 'tis a capsized punt." When they were within about thirty yards of the object they lay on their oars. For some unaccountable reason they did not care to venture nearer. Twilight was then fast approaching. The light was already beginning to fail. "'Tis a wonderful queer thing!" Billy muttered, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Row ahead, Bobby. We'll go alongside." "They's something movin' on it!" Bobby whispered, as he let his oars fall in the water. "Look! They's two queer, big, round spots on it--big as plates." Billy thought he saw the whole object move. He watched it closely. It _did_ stir! It was some living thing, then. But what? A whale? A long, snakelike arm was lifted out of the water. It swayed this way and that, darted here and there, and fell back with a splash. The moving spots, now plainly gigantic eyes, glittered. "'Tis the devil-fish!" screamed Bobby. Another arm was lifted up, then a third and a fourth and a fifth. The monster began to lash the water--faster and yet more furiously--until the tickle was heaving and frothy, and the whole neighbourhood was in an uproar. "Pull! Pull!" cried Bobby. Billy, too, was in a panic. They turned the head of the punt and pulled with all their might. The water swirled in the wake of the boat. Perceiving, however, that the squid made no effort to follow, they got the better of their fright Then they lay on their oars to watch the monster. They wondered why it still lay in the tickle, why it so furiously lashed the water with its arms and great tail. It was Bobby who solved the mystery. "'Tis aground," said he. That was evidently the situation. The squid had been caught in the shallow tickle when the tide, which ran swiftly at that point, was on the ebb. The boys took courage. Their curiosity still further emboldened them. So once more they turned the punt about and pulled cautiously towards the tickle. There was less light than before, but still sufficient to disclose the baleful eyes and writhing arms of the squid when the boat was yet a safe distance away. One by one the arms fell back into the water, as if from exhaustion; slowly the beating of the tail subsided. After a time all sound and motion ceased. The boys waited for some further sign of life, but none came. The squid was still, as if dead. "Sure, he's dead now," said Billy. "Leave us pull close up." "Oh, no, b'y! He's but makin' believe." But Billy thought otherwise. "I wants that squid," he said, in a dogged way, "and I'm goin' to have him. I'll sell him and get a new punt." Bobby protested in vain. Nothing would content Billy Topsail but the possession of the big squid's body. Bobby pointed out that if the long, powerful arms were once laid on the boat there would be no escape. He recalled to Billy the harbour story of the horrible death of Zachariah North, who, as report said, had been pursued, captured and pulled under water by a devil-fish in Gander Bay.[3] It was all to no purpose, however, for Billy obstinately declared that he would make sure of the squid before the tide turned. He admitted a slight risk, but he wanted a new punt, and he was willing to risk something to obtain it. [Illustration: THEN LIKE A FLASH IT SHOT TOWARD THE BOAT.] He proposed to put Bobby ashore, and approach the squid alone; but Bobby would not listen. Two hands might be needed in the boat, he said. What if the squid were alive, after all? What if it laid hold of the punt? In that event, two hands would surely be needed. "I'll go," he said. "But leave us pull slow. And if we sees so much as a wink of his eye we'll pull away." They rowed nearer, with great caution. Billy was in the bow of the boat. It was he who had the axe. Bobby, seated amidships, faced the bow. It was he who did the rowing. The squid was quiet. There was not a sign of life about it. Billy estimated the length of its body, from the beak to the point of the tail, as twenty feet, the circumference as "the size of a hogshead." Its tentacular arms, he determined, must be at least thirty-five feet long; and when the boat came within that distance he shuddered. "Is you sure he's dead?" Bobby whispered, weakly. "I don't know!" Billy answered, in a gasp. "I thinks so." Bobby dropped the oars and stepped to the bow of the punt. The boat lost way and came to a stop within twenty feet of the squid. Still there was no sign of life. The boys stared at the great, still body, lying quiet in the gathering dusk and haze. Neither seemed to feel the slight trembling of the boat that might have warned them. Not a word was spoken until Billy, in a whisper, directed Bobby to pull the boat a few feet nearer. "But we're movin' already," he added, in a puzzled way. The boat was very slowly approaching the squid. The motion was hardly perceptible, but it was real. "'Tis queer!" said Bobby. He turned to take up the oars. What he saw lying over the port gunwale of the boat made him gasp, grip Billy's wrist and utter a scream of terror! "We're cotched!" The squid had fastened one of its tentacles to the punt. The other was poised above the stern, ready to fall and fix its suckers. The onward movement of the punt was explained. Billy knew the danger, but he was not so terrified as to be incapable of action. He was about to spring to the stem to strike off the tentacle that already lay over the gunwale; but as he looked down to choose his step he saw that one of the eight powerful arms was slowly creeping over the starboard bow. He struck at that arm with all his might, missed, wrenched the axe from the gunwale, and struck true. The mutilated arm was withdrawn. Billy leaped to the stern, vaguely conscious in passing that another arm was creeping from the water. He severed the first tentacle with one blow. When he turned to strike the second it had disappeared; so, too, had the second arm. The boat seemed to be free, but it was still within grasp. In the meantime the squid had awakened to furious activity. It was lashing the water with arms and tail, angrily snapping its great beak and ejecting streams of black water from its siphon-tube. The water was violently agitated and covered with a black froth. In this the creature manifested fear and distress. Had it not been aground it would have backed swiftly into the deep water of the basin. But, as if finding itself at bay, it lifted its uninjured tentacle high above the boat. Billy made ready to strike. By this time Bobby had mastered his terror. While Billy stood with uplifted axe, his eyes fixed on the waving tentacle overhead, Billy heaved mightily on the oars. The boat slowly drew away from that highly dangerous neighbourhood. In a moment it was beyond reach of the arms, but still, apparently, within reach of the tentacle. The tentacle was withdrawn a short distance; then like a flash it shot towards the boat, writhing as it came. Billy struck blindly--and struck nothing. The tentacle had fallen short. The boat was out of danger! * * * * * But still Billy Topsail was determined to have the body of the squid. Notwithstanding Bobby's pleading and protestation, he would not abandon his purpose. He was only the more grimly bent on achieving it. Bobby would not hear of again approaching nearer than the boat then floated, nor did Billy think it advisable. But it occurred to Bobby that they might land, and approach the squid from behind. If they could draw near enough, he said, they could cast the grapnel on the squid's back, and moor it to a tree ashore. "Sure," he said, excitedly, "you can pick up a squid from behind, and it can't touch you with its arms! It won't be able to see us, and it won't be able to reach us." So they landed. Billy carried the grapnel, which was attached to twelve fathoms of line. It had six prongs, and each prong was barbed. A low cliff at the edge of the tickle favoured the plan. The squid lay below, and some twenty feet out from the rock. It was merely a question of whether or not Billy was strong enough to throw the grapnel so far. They tied the end of the line to a stout shrub. Billy cast the grapnel, and it was a strong, true cast. The iron fell fair on the squid's back. It was a capture. "That means a new punt for me," said Billy, quietly. "The tide'll not carry _that_ devil-fish away." "And now," Bobby pleaded, "leave us make haste home, for 'tis growin' wonderful dark--and--and there might be another somewhere." So that is how one of the largest specimens of _Architeuthis princeps_--enumerated in Prof. John Adam Wright's latest monograph on the cephalopods of North America as the "Chain Tickle specimen"--was captured. And that is how Billy Topsail fairly won a new punt; for when Doctor Marvey, the curator of the Public Museum at St. John's--who is deeply interested in the study of the giant squids--came to Ruddy Cove to make photographs and take measurements, in response to a message from Billy's father, he rewarded the lad. FOOTNOTE: [3] Stories of this kind, of which there are many, are doubted by the authorities, who have found it impossible to authenticate a single instance of unprovoked attack. CHAPTER V _On the Face of the Cliff: Wherein Billy Topsail Gets Lost in a Perilous Place and Sits Down to Recover His Composure_ IN summer, when there chanced to be no fish, or when no bait was to be had, and the fish were not to be jigged, Billy Topsail had idle time, which he was not slow to improve for his own amusement. Often he wandered on the cliffs and heads near the harbour--not always for gulls' eggs: sometimes for sheer love of the sky and space and sunlit air. Once, being bound for Breakheart Head, to watch the waves beat on the rocks below, he came across old Arch Butt. "Wonderful sea outside," said the old fisherman. "Wonderful sea, Billy. 'Tis as big a tumble as ever I seed stirred up in a night." "An' you'll not be takin' the punt t' the grounds?" Billy asked, in surprise. "I'm not able, lad. 'Tis too much for any paddle-punt. Sure, the sea's breakin' right across the tickle. 'Tis so much as a man's life is worth t' try t' run out." "Isn't you got a salmon net off Shag Rock?" "I is that," Arch answered; "an' I'm wantin' bad t' get to it. 'Tis set off the point of Shag Rock, an' I'm thinkin' the sea will wreck it, for 'tis a wonderful tumble, indeed. 'Tis like I'll not be able t' get out afore to-morrow mornin', but I'm hopin' I will." "An' I hopes you may, Skipper Arch," said Billy. It was a fine wish, born of the fresh breeze and brightness of the day--a word let drop from a heart full of good feeling for all the world: nothing more. Yet within a few hours Billy Topsail's life hung upon the possibility of its fulfillment. "Ay," he repeated, "I hopes you may." Billy Topsail followed the rocky road to the Bath Tub, climbed the Lookout, and descended the rough declivity beyond to the edge of the sea, meanwhile lifted to a joyous mood by the sunlight and wind and cloudless sky. Indeed, he was not sorry he had come; the grim cliffs and the jagged masses of rock lying at their feet--the thunder and froth where sea met rock--the breaking, flashing water to seaward; all this delighted him then, and were not soon forgotten. Best of all, the third submerged rock off Shag Cliff--the rock they call the Tombstone--was breaking; the greater waves there leaped into the air in fountains of froth. "I 'low I'll get closer t' the Tombstone," thought he. Thus he was led along the coast to the foot of Shag Cliff. It was a hard climb, in which hands and feet were both concerned. There were chasms to leap, sharp points to round, great rocks to scale, narrow ledges to pass over on the toes of his boots; and all the while the breakers were crashing and foaming below him, and now and again splashing him with spray. Had the day been drear, it may be he would not have ventured so far; but the sun was out, the day long, the gulls quietly soaring over the sea, and on he went, giving no thought whatever to his return. Once under the cliff, he ventured farther. Detached from it, there lies Nanny's Rock, which must long ago have fallen from above; the breakers surrounded but did not sweep it when they rose and broke. His wish to lie there in the sunshine, with the blue sky above him and the noise of the water in his ears, led him to dash across the dripping space between when the wave fell back, even though he must scramble out of the way of the returning water. In a few minutes he was deep in an enchanting day-dream, which, to his subsequent peril, soon changed to sleep. The tide was rising. A few drops of spray, falling upon his face from a great breaker, awoke him. On the instant he was wide awake and looking desperately about. Then he laughed to think that the breakers were reaching for him--that they would have had him fast in the trap had he slept much longer; for, in a glance, he thought he had made sure that his escape from the rock was not yet cut off. But his laugh was touched with some embarrassment when he found, upon trial, that the sea had blocked the path by which he had reached the foot of Shag Cliff. "I must go 'tother way," he thought. There was no other way; to right and to left the sea was breaking against overhanging juts of rock. He could pass from jut to jut, but he could round neither. "Sure, I'll be late for dinner," he thought; "an' dad won't like it." It was all very well to exclaim vexatiously, but he was forced to abandon the hope of returning by way of the foot of the cliffs. The tide had cut him off. "I'll scale Shag Cliff," he determined. He was not alarmed; the situation was awkward, but it promised the excitement of an adventure, and for a time he was rather glad that he had fallen asleep. To scale the two hundred feet of Shag Cliff--that was something to achieve! His father would say that he was "narvy," and forget that he had kept him from his dinner. Scale Shag Cliff, by all means! He knew well enough that he had but to seek higher ground and wait for the tide to fall, if he wanted an unexciting return; but it pleased him to make believe that his situation was desperate--that the rising water would overwhelm him if he did not escape over the brow of the cliff: an indulgence which his imagination did not need half an hour later. When he looked up, however, to choose a path of ascent, he found that, from where he stood, close against the cliff at the base, there seemed to be no path at all. "I 'low I'll have t' go back t' Nanny's Rock for a better squint," he told himself. Back to Nanny's Rock he went, at no small risk, for the occasional flow of foam, which had cut it off from the mainland when first he crossed, had swollen to a strait of some depth and strength. He must make the leap, but he dreaded it. There was a moment of terror when his foot slipped, and he came near falling back into the very claws of the breaker which followed him; on that account, perhaps, his survey of the face of the cliff was a hurried one, and his return to safe ground precipitate and somewhat flurried. He had seen enough, however, to persuade him that the ascent would be comparatively easy for at least a hundred feet, and that, for the rest of the way, it would not, probably, be much more difficult. In point of fact, he knew nothing whatever of what lay beyond the first hundred feet. But the element of probability, or rather improbability, did not disconcert him. He could at least make a start. If you have ever climbed about a rocky sea-coast, you will know that an ascent may be comparatively simple where a descent is quite impracticable; you will know that the unwary may of a sudden reach a point where to continue the climb is a nauseating necessity. There are times when one regrets the courage that led him into his difficulty--the courage or the carelessness, as the case may be. Experience had long ago taught Billy Topsail that; but the lesson had not been severe--there had been no gulf behind him; the whip of life or death had not urged him on. Indeed, he had never attempted a climb of such height and ugly possibilities in the way of blind leads as Shag Cliff, else possibly he should not have made the start with a sense of adventure so inspiring. Up he went--up and still up, his cheeks glowing, his nerves pleasurably tingling! Up--up and still up, until he could hear the whiz of gulls' wings near him, and the feeling of space below began to try his nerves. At last he stopped to rest and look about. Down deep lay the breakers, so far off, it seemed, that he marvelled he could hear the roar and crash so distinctly. "An' they says 'tis a hundred feet!" thought he. "Hut! 'Tis two hundred if 'tis an inch. An' I isn't but half way up!" Beyond that point his difficulties began. The cliff was bolder; it was almost bare of those little ledges and crevices and projections upon which the cliff-climber depends for handhold and foothold. Moreover, the path was interrupted from time to time by sheer or overhanging rock. When he came to these impassable places, of course, he turned to right or left, content with his progress if only he mounted higher and higher. Thus he strayed far off the path he had picked out from Nanny's Rock; indeed, he was climbing blindly, a thoughtless course, for--had he but stopped to think--there was no knowing that the cliff did not overhang at the end of the way he had taken. Meanwhile, time was passing. He had climbed with such caution, retraced his steps, changed his course so often that noon was long past. So when next he came to a roomy ledge he sat down to rest before proceeding farther. "Wonderful queer!" he thought, after a look about. "But where is I?" It was a puzzling question. The cliff, projecting below him, cut off his view of the breakers; and the rock above, which came to an end in blue sky, was of course unfamiliar. At what part of Shag Rock he then was he could not tell. CHAPTER VI _In Which Billy Topsail Loses His Nerve. Wherein, also, the Wings of Gulls Seem to Brush Past_ "WONDERFUL queer!" thought Billy Topsail. "Lost on a cliff! 'Tis the queerest thing I ever knowed." But that was Billy's case. "I 'low," he concluded, at last, "that I'd better be goin' up instead o' down." It did not appear that he would be unable to go down; the way up was the shorter way, that was all. Nevertheless, his feeling of security was pretty well shaken when he again began to climb. His grip was tighter, his shrinking from the depths stronger and more frequent; in fact, he hugged the rock more than was good for him. He knew the symptom for an alarming one--it turned him faint when first he recognized it--and he tried to fix his attention upon the effort to climb higher. But now and again the fear of the space behind and below would creep in. Reason told him that the better part was to return; but he was in no condition to listen to reason. His whole desire--it was fast becoming frantic--was to crawl over the brow of the cliff and be safe. But where was the brow of the cliff? It seemed to him that he had climbed a thousand feet. A few minutes later he caught sight of a shrub; then he knew that he was within a few feet of the end of the climb. The shrub--a stunted spruce, which he had good reason to remember--was to his right, peeping round a projection of rock. He was then on a ledge, with good foothold and good handhold; and a way of return to the shore lay open to him. By craning his neck he made out that if he could pass that projection he would reach shelving, broken rock, and be safe. Then he studied the face of the rocks between--a space of some six feet. There was foothold there, midway, but he shrank from attempting to reach it. He had never thought in his life to try so perilous a passage. A survey of the course of a body falling from that point was almost more than he could support. Nevertheless, strange as it may seem, the waving shrub tempted him to risk something more to end his suspense. He summoned courage enough to stretch out his right foot and search with his right hand for a hold. Unfortunately, he found both--a ledge for his foot and a crevice for his fingers. He drew himself over. It took courage and strength, for it was a long stretch. Had he been cramped for room, had he not been free to move at the starting-point, he could not have managed it. But there he was--both feet on a ledge as wide as his feet were long, both hands with a comfortable grip on solid rock. He shuffled along until he came to the end of the ledge. His last obstacle now lay before him. He must round the projection which divided him from the broken, shelving rock beyond. Had he foreseen the slightest difficulty he would not have gone so far. So, with confidence, he sought a foothold for his right foot--a crevice for the fingers of his right hand. And he tried again, with confidence unshaken; again, with patience; again, with rising fear. There was no hold; the passage was impracticable. There was nothing for it but to return. So he shuffled back to the other end of the ledge. Then, keenly regretting the necessity of return, he sought a foothold for his left foot--a crevice for the fingers of his left hand. He tried again, in some wonder; again, with a rush of fear; again, in abject terror. To his horror, he found that he could not return. From the narrow ledge it was impossible to pass to the wider, although it had been possible to pass from the wider to the narrow. For an instant he was on the point of toppling back; but he let his body fall forward against the face of the cliff, and there he rested, gripping the rock with both hands until the faintness passed. The situation was quite plain to him. He was standing on a ledge, as wide as his feet were long, some two or three hundred feet above the sea; his face was to the cliff, and he could neither sit down nor turn round. There he must stand until--who could tell? In what way could relief come to him? Who was to see? Who could hear his cries for help? No fishermen were on the grounds--no punts were out of the harbour; the sea was too high for that, as he had been told. There was only one answer to his question. He must stand until--he fell. "Yes," he was courageous enough to admit calmly, "I 'low I got t' go." That once admitted, his terror of that space behind and below in some measure departed. The sun was still shining; the sky--as he knew, for he could catch a glimpse of it on each side--was still blue. But soon he began to think of the night; then his terror returned--not of the present moment, but of the hours of darkness approaching. Could he endure until night? He thought not. His position was awkward. Surely his strength would wear out--his hands weaken, although the strain upon them was slight; his legs give way. Of course he followed the natural impulse to cling to his life as long as he could. Thus, while the afternoon dragged along and the dusk approached, he stood on the face of the cliff, waiting for the moment when his weakening strength would fail and he would fall to his death. "In an hour," he thought; soon it was, "In half an hour." Before that last half-hour had passed he felt something brush past his back. It frightened him. What was it? Again he felt it. Again it startled and frightened him. Then he felt it no more for a time, and he was glad of that. He was too dull, perhaps, to dwell upon the mystery of that touch. It passed from his mind. Soon he felt it for the third time. Was it a wing? He wondered, too, if he had not heard a voice; for it seemed to him that some one had hailed him. When next he heard the sound, he knew that his name had been called. He looked up. A rope was hanging over the brow of the cliff, sweeping slowly towards him. He could see it, although the light was failing. When it came near he extended his right hand behind him and caught it, then gave it a tug, in signal to those above that the search was ended. Painfully, slowly, for his situation was none too secure, he encircled his waist with that stout rope, lashed it fast, shouted, "Haul away!" and fainted. * * * * * When Billy Topsail came to his senses, it was to find himself lying on the moss, with old Arch, the skipper, leaning over him, and half a dozen fishermen gathered round. "So you did get out to the salmon net?" he muttered. "Aye," said Arch; "'twas I that seed you hangin' there. Sure, if I hadn't had my net set off Shag Rock, and if I hadn't got through the tickle to see if 'twas all right, and if----" Billy shuddered. CHAPTER VII _In Which Billy Topsail Hears the Fur Trader's Story of a Jigger and a Cake of Ice in the Wind_ "WOULDN'T think I'd been born on Cherry Hill, would you, now?" said the man with the fur cap. The stranger had been landed at Ruddy Cove from Fortune Harbour. He had been in the far north, he said; and he was now waiting for the mail-boat to take him south. Billy Topsail and the lads of Ruddy Cove cocked their ears for a yarn. "Fact!" said he, with a nod. "That's where I was born and bred. And do you know how I come to be away up here? No? Well, I'm a fur trader. I'm the man that bought the skin of that silver fox last winter for thirty dollars and sold it for two hundred and fifty. I'd rather be the man that bought it from me and sold it in London for six hundred. But I'm not." "And you're bound for home, now?" the old skipper asked. "Yes," he drawled. "I'm bound home for New York to see the folks. I've been away six years, and came nearer to leaving my bones up here in the north last spring than ever I did before. I've done some travelling in my time. You can take me at my word; I have." The trader laughed uproariously. He was in a voluble mood. The old skipper knew that he needed but little encouragement to tell the story of his escape. "It makes me think about that old riddle of the corked bottle," he said. "Ever hear it? This is it: If you had a bottle of ginger ale, how would you get the stuff out without breaking the bottle or drawing the cork? Can you answer that?" "The answer doesn't strike me," said the skipper. "That's just it," the trader burst out. "The way to do it doesn't 'strike you.' But if you had the bottle in your hands now and wanted the ginger ale, it would 'strike' you fast enough to push the cork in. Well, that was my case. You think of yourself on a little pan of ice, drifting straight out to sea with a strong offshore wind, water all round you and no paddle--just think of yourself in that case, and a way of getting ashore might not 'strike' you. But once you're there--once you're right on that pan of ice, with the hand of death on your collar--you'll think like lightning of all the things you can do. Yes, that was my case." The listeners said nothing to interrupt the stocky, hard-featured, ill-clad little man while he mused. "'Don't you be fool enough to try to cross the bay this evening,' says I to myself," he went on. "But I'm a hundred-mile man, and I'd gone my hundred miles. I can carry grub on my back to last me just that far; and my grub was out. From what I knew of winds and ice, I judged that the ice would be four or five miles out to sea by dawn of the next day. So I didn't start out with the idea that the trip would be as easy as a promenade over Brooklyn Bridge of a moonlight night. Oh, no! I knew what I was doing. But it was a question of taking the risk or dragging myself into the settlement at Racquet Harbour in three days' time as lean as a car-horse from starvation. You see, it was forty miles round that bay and four across; and--my grub was out. Many a man loses his life in these parts by looking at the question in just that way. [Illustration: "JUMPED LIKE A STAG FOR THE SECOND PAN."] "'Oh, no!' says I to myself. 'You'd much better take your chance of starving, and walk round.' "It wasn't in human nature, though, to do it. Not when I knew that there was grub and a warm fire waiting for me at Racquet Harbour. Says I, 'I'll take the long chance and stand to win.' Don't you run away with the idea that the ice was a level field stretching from shore to shore, fitting the rocks, and kept as neat as a baseball diamond. It wasn't. Some day in the winter the wind had jammed the bay full of big rough chunks--they call them pans in this country--and the frost had stuck them all together. When the spring came, of course the sun began to melt that glue, and the whole floe was just ready to fall apart when I had the bad luck to make the coast. I was a day too late. I knew it. And I knew that the offshore wind would sweep the ice to sea the minute it broke up. "I made the first hundred yards in ten minutes; the second in fifteen more. In half an hour I'd made half a mile. The ice was rough enough and flimsy enough to take the nerve out of any man. But that wasn't the worst; the worst was that there were hundreds of holes covered with a thin crust of snow--all right to look at, but treacherous. I knew that if I made the mistake of stepping on a crust instead of solid ice, I'd go through and down. "I had four otter skins, some martens and ten fine fox skins in the pack on my back. To do anything in the water with that handicap was too much for me. So I wasn't at all particular about making time until I found that the night would catch me if I didn't wag along a little faster. "No, sir!" the trader said. "I didn't want to be caught out there in the dark. "By good luck, I struck some big pans about half-way over. Then I took to a dog-trot, and left the yards behind me in a way that cheered me up. Just before dusk I got near enough to the other side to feel proud of myself, and I began to think of what a fool I'd have been if I'd taken the shore route. A minute later I changed my mind. I felt the pack moving! Well, in a flash I said good-bye to Cherry Hill and the boys. Not many men are caught twice in a place like that. They never have the second chance. "There I was, aboard a rotten floe and bound out to the big, lonely ocean at the rate of four miles an hour. "'Oh, you might as well get ready to go, Jim,' thinks I. But I didn't give up. I loped along shoreward in a way that didn't take snow crust or air-holes into account. And I made the edge of the floe before the black hours of the night had come. "There was a couple of hundred yards of cold water between me and the shore. "'This is the time you think more of your life than your fur,' thinks I. "There was a stray pan or two--little rafts of things--lying off the edge of the floe; and beyond them, scattered between the shore and me, half a dozen other pans were floating. How to get from one to the other was the puzzle. They were fifty or sixty yards apart, most of them, and I had no paddle. It was foolish to think of making a shift with my jacket for a sail; the wind was out, not in, and I had no rudder. "What had I? Nothing that I could think of. It didn't _strike_ me, as you say. I wish it had. "'Anyhow,' says I to myself, 'I'll get as far as I can.' "It was a short leap from the floe to the first pan. I made it easily. The second pan was farther off, but I thought I could jump the water between. So I took off my pack and threw it on the ice beside me. It almost broke my heart to do it, for I'd walked five hundred miles in the dead of winter for that fur; I'd been nearly starved and frozen, and I'd paid out hard-earned money. I put down my pack, took a short run, and jumped like a stag for the second pan. "I landed on the spot I'd picked out. I can't complain of missing the mark, but instead of stopping there, I shot clear through and down into the water. "Surprised? I was worse than that. I was dead scared. For a minute I thought I was going to rise under the ice and drown right there. "How it happened I don't know; but I came up between the pans, and struck out for the one I'd left. I got to the pan, all right, and climbed aboard. There I was, on a little pan of ice, beyond reach of the floe and leaving the shore behind me, and cold and pretty well discouraged. "There's the riddle of the corked bottle," said the trader, interrupting his narrative. "Now how do I happen to be sitting here?" "I'm sure I can't tell," said the skipper. "No more you should," said he, "for you don't know what I carried in my pack. But you see I had the bottle in my hands, and I wanted the ginger ale bad; so I thought fast and hard. "It struck me that I might do something with my line and jigger.[4] Don't you see the chance the barbed steel hooks and the forty fathom of line gave me? When I thought of that jigger I felt just like the man who is told to push the cork in when he can't draw it out. I'd got back to the pan where I'd thrown down my pack, you know; so there was the jigger, right at hand. "It was getting dark by this time--getting dark fast, and the pans were drifting farther and farther apart. "It was easy to hook the jigger in the nearest pan and draw my pan over to it; for that pan was five times the weight of the one I was on. The one beyond was about the same size; they came together at the half-way point. Of course this took time. I could hardly see the shore then, and it struck me that I might not be able to find it at all, when I came near enough to cast my jigger for it. "About fifty yards off was a big pan. I swung the jigger round and round and suddenly let the line shoot through my fingers. When I hauled it in the jigger came too, for it hadn't taken hold. That made me feel bad. I felt worse when it came back the second time. But I'm not one of the kind that gives up. I kept right on casting that jigger until it landed in the right spot. "My pan crossed over as I hauled in the line. That was all right; but there was no pan between me and the shore. "'All up!' thinks I. "It was dark. I could see neither pan nor shore. Before long I couldn't see a thing in the pitchy blackness. "All the time I could feel the pan humping along towards the open sea. I didn't know how far off the shore was. I was in doubt about just where it was. "'Is this pan turning round?' thinks I. Well, I couldn't tell; but I thought I'd take a flier at hooking a rock or a tree with the jigger. "The jigger didn't take hold. I tried a dozen times, and every time I heard it splash the water. But I kept on trying--and would have kept on till morning if I'd needed to. You can take me at my word, I'm not the kind of fool that gives up--I've been in too many tight places for that. So, at last, I gave the jigger a fling that landed it somewhere where it held fast; but whether ice or shore I couldn't tell. If shore, all right; if ice, all wrong; and that's all I could do about it. "'Now,' thinks I, as I began to haul in, 'it all depends on the fishing line. Will it break, or won't it?' "It didn't. So the next morning, with my pack on my back, I tramped round the point to Racquet Harbour." "What was it?" was Billy Topsail's foolish question. "Shore or ice?" "If it hadn't been shore," said the trader, "I wouldn't be here." FOOTNOTE: [4] A jigger is a lead fish, about three inches long, which spreads into two large barbed hooks at one end; the other end is attached to about forty fathoms of stout line. Jiggers are used to jerk fish from the water where there is no bait. CHAPTER VIII _In the Offshore Gale: In Which Billy Topsail Goes Seal Hunting and is Swept to Sea With the Floe_ WHAT befell old Tom Topsail and his crew came in the course of the day's work. Fishermen and seal-hunters, such as the folk of Ruddy Cove, may not wait for favourable weather; when the fish are running, they must fish; when the seals are on the drift-ice offshore in the spring, they must hunt. So on that lowering day, when the seals were sighted by the watch on Lookout Head, it was a mere matter of course that the men of the place should set out to the hunt. "I s'pose," Tom Topsail drawled, "that we'd best get under way." Bill Watt, his mate, scanned the sky in the northeast. It was heavy, cold and leaden; fluffy gray towards the zenith, and black where the clouds met the barren hills. "I s'pose," said he, catching Topsail's drawl, "that 'twill snow afore long." "Oh, aye," was the slow reply, "I s'pose 'twill." Again Bill Watt faced the sullen sky. He felt that the supreme danger threatened--snow with wind. "I s'pose," he said, "that 'twill blow, too." "Oh, aye," Topsail replied, indifferently, "snow 'n' blow. We'll know what 'twill do when it begins," he added. "Billy, b'y!" he shouted. In response Billy Topsail came bounding down the rocky path from the cottage. He was stout for his age, with broad shoulders, long thick arms and large hands. There was a boy's flush of expectation on his face, and the flash of a boy's delight in his eyes. He was willing for adventure. "Bill an' me'll take the rodney," Topsail drawled. "I s'pose you might's well fetch the punt, an' we'll send you back with the first haul." "Hooray!" cried Billy; and with that he waved his cap and sped back up the hill. "Fetch your gaff, lad!" Topsail called after him. "Make haste! There's Joshua Rideout with his sail up. 'Tis time we was off." "Looks more'n ever like snow," Bill Watt observed, while they waited. "I'm thinkin' _'twill_ snow." "Oh, maybe 'twon't," said Topsail, optimistic in a lazy way. The ice-floe was two miles or more off the coast; thence it stretched to the horizon--a vast, rough, blinding white field, formed of detached fragments. Some of the "pans" were acres in size; others were not big enough to bear the weight of a man; all were floating free, rising and falling with the ground swell. The wind was light, the sea quiet, the sky thinly overcast. Had it not been for the threat of heavy weather in the northeast, it would have been an ideal day for the hunt. The punt and the rodney, the latter far in the lead, ran quietly out from the harbour, with their little sails all spread. From the punt Billy Topsail could soon see the small, scattered pack of seals--black dots against the white of the ice. When the rodney made the field, the punts of the harbour fleet had disappeared in the winding lanes of open water that led through the floe. Tom Topsail was late. The nearer seals were all marked by the hunters who had already landed. The rodney would have to be taken farther in than the most venturesome hunter had yet dared to go--perilously far into the midst of the shifting pans. The risk of sudden wind--the risk that the heavy fragments would "pack" and "nip" the boat--had to be taken if seals were to be killed. "We got to go right in, Bill," said Topsail, as he furled the rodney's sails. "I s'pose," was Watt's reply, with a backward glance to the northeast. "An' Billy?" "'Tis not wise to take un in," Topsail answered, hastily. "We'll have un bide here." Billy was hailed, and, to his great disappointment, warned to keep beyond the edge of the floe. Then the rodney shot into the lane, with Topsail and Bill Watt rowing like mad. She was soon lost to sight. Billy shipped his sail and paddled to the edge of the ice, to wait, as patiently as might be, for the reappearance of the rodney. Patience soon gave way to impatience, impatience to anxiety, anxiety to great fear for the lives of his father and the mate, for the offshore gale was driving up; the blue-black clouds were already high and rising swiftly. At last there came an ominous puff of wind. It swept over the sea from the coast, whipping up little waves in its course--frothy little waves, that hissed. Heavy flakes of snow began to fall. As the wind rose they fell faster, and came driving, swirling with it. With the fall of the first flakes the harbour fleet came pell-mell from the floe. Not a man among them but wished himself in a sheltered place. Sails were raised in haste, warnings were shouted; then off went the boats, beating up to harbour with all sail set. "Make sail, lad!" old Elisha Bull shouted to Billy, as his punt swung past. Billy shook his head. "I'll beat back with father!" he cried. "You'll lose yourself!" Elisha screamed, as a last warning, before his punt carried him out of hail. But Billy still hung at the edge of the ice. His father had said, "Bide here till we come out," and "bide" there he would. He kept watch for the rodney, but no rodney came. Minute after minute flew by. He hesitated. Was it not his duty to beat home? There was still the fair chance that he might be able to make the harbour. Did he not owe a duty to his mother--to himself? But a crashing noise from the floe brought him instantly to a decision. He knew what that noise meant. The ice was feeling the force of the wind. It would pack and move out to sea. The lane by which the rodney had entered then slowly closed. In horror Billy watched the great pans swing together. There was now no escape for the boat. The strong probability was that she would be crushed to splinters by the crowding of the ice; that indeed she had already been crushed; that the men were either drowned or cast away on the floe. At once the lad's duty was plain to him. He must stay where he was. If his father and Bill Watt managed to get to the edge of the ice afoot, who else was to take them off? The ice was moving out to sea, Billy knew. The pans were crunching, grinding, ever more noisily. But he let the punt drift as near as he dared, and so followed the pack towards the open, keeping watch, ever more hopelessly, for the black forms of the two men. Soon, so fast did the sea rise, so wild was the wind, his own danger was very great. The ice was like a rocky shore to leeward. He began to fear that he would be wrecked. Time and again the punt was nearly swamped, but Billy dared not drop the oars to bail. There was something more. His arms, stout and seasoned though they were, were giving out. It would not long be possible to keep the boat off the ice. He determined to land on the floe. But the sea was breaking on the ice dead to leeward. It was impossible to make a landing there, so with great caution he paddled to the right, seeking a projecting point, behind which he might find shelter. At last he came to a cove. It narrowed to a long, winding arm, which apparently extended some distance into the floe. There he found quiet water. He landed without difficulty at a point where the arm was no more than a few yards wide. Dusk was then approaching. The wind was bitterly cold, and the snow was thick and blinding. It would not be safe, he knew, to leave the boat in the water, for at any moment the shifting pans might close and crush it. He tried to lift it out of the water, but his strength was not sufficient. He managed to get the bow on the ice; that was all. "I'll just have to leave it," he thought. "I'll just have to trust that 'twill not be nipped." Near by there was a hummock of ice. He sought the lee of it, and there, protected from the wind, he sat down to wait. Often, when the men were spinning yarns in the cottages of Ruddy Cove of a winter night, he had listened, open-mouthed, to the tales of seal-hunters who had been cast away. Now he was himself drifting out to sea. He had no fire, no food, no shelter but a hummock of ice. He had the bitterness of the night to pass through--the hunger of to-morrow to face. "But sure," he muttered, with characteristic hopefulness, "I've a boat, an' many a man has been cast away without one." He thought he had better make another effort to haul the boat on the ice. Some movement of the pack might close the arm where it floated. So he stumbled towards the place. He stared round in amazement and alarm; then he uttered a cry of terror. The open water had disappeared. "She's been nipped!" he sobbed. "She's been nipped--nipped to splinters! I've lost meself!" Night came fast. An hour before, so dense was the storm, nothing had been visible sixty paces away; now nothing was to be seen anywhere. Where was the rodney? Had his father and Bill Watt escaped from the floe by some new opening? Were they safe at home? Were they still on the floe? He called their names. The swish of the storm, the cracking and crunching of the ice as the wind swept it on--that was all that he heard. For a long time he sat in dull despair. He hoped no longer. By and by, when it was deep night, something occurred to distract him. He caught sight of a crimson glow, flaring and fading. It seemed to be in the sky, now far off, now near at hand. He started up. "What's that?" he muttered. CHAPTER IX _In Which Old Tom Topsail Burns His Punt and Billy Wanders in the Night and Three Lives Hang on a Change of the Wind_ MEANWHILE, under the powerful strokes of old Tom Topsail and Bill Watt, the rodney had followed the open leads into the heart of the floe. From time to time Watt muttered a warning; but the spirit of the hunt fully possessed Tom, and his only cry was, "Push on! Push on!" Seal after seal escaped, while the sky darkened. He was only the more determined not to go back empty-handed. "I tells you," Watt objected, "we'll not get out. There's the wind now. And snow, man--snow!" The warning was not to be disregarded. Topsail thought no more about seals. The storm was fairly upon them. His only concern was to escape from the floe. He was glad, indeed, that Billy had not followed them. He had that, at least, to be thankful for. They turned the boat. Bending to the oars, they followed the lane by which they had entered. Confusion came with the wind and the snow. The lay of the pans seemed to have changed. It was changing every moment, as they perceived. "Tom," gasped Watt, at last, "we're caught! 'Tis a blind lead we're in." That was true; the lane had closed. They must seek another exit. So they turned the boat and followed the next lane that opened. It, too, was blocked. They tried another, selected at random. In that blinding storm no choice was possible. Again disappointment; the lane narrowed to a point. They were nearly exhausted now, but they turned instantly to seek another way. That way was not to be found. The lane had closed behind them. "Trapped!" muttered Watt. "Aye, lad," Topsail said, solemnly, "trapped!" They rested on their oars. Ice was on every hand. They stared into each other's eyes. Then, for the second time, Watt ran his glance over the shores of the lake in which they floated. He started, then pointed in the direction from which they had come. Topsail needed no word of explanation. The ice was closing in. The pressure of the pack beyond would soon obliterate the lake. They rowed desperately for the nearest shore. The ice was rapidly closing in. In such cases, as they knew, it often closed with a sudden rush at the end, crushing some pan which for a moment had held it in check. When the boat struck the ice Watt jumped ashore with the painter. Topsail, leaping from seat to seat, followed instantly. At that moment there was a loud crack, like a clap of thunder. It was followed by a crunching noise. "It's comin'!" screamed Topsail. "Heave away!" They caught the bow, lifted it out of the water, and with a united effort slowly hauled it out of harm's way. A moment later there was no sign of open water. "Thank God!" gasped Topsail. By this time the storm was a blizzard. The men had no shelter, and they were afraid to venture far from the boat in search of it. Neither would permit the other to stumble over the rough ice, chancing its pitfalls, for neither cared to be lost from the other. Now they sat silent in the lee of the upturned boat, with the snow swirling about them; again they ran madly back and forth; yet again they swung their arms and stamped their feet. At last, do what they would, they shivered all the time. Then they sat quietly down. "I'm wonderful glad Billy is safe home," Watt observed. "I wisht I was sure o' that," said Topsail. "It looks bad for us, Bill, lad. The ice is drivin' out fast, an' I'm thinkin' 'twill blow steady for a day. It looks wonderful bad for us, an' I'd feel--easier in me mind--about the lad's mother--if I knowed he was safe home." Late in the night Topsail turned to Watt. He had to nudge him to get his attention. "It's awful cold, Bill," he said. "We got the boat, lad. Eh? We got the boat." "No, no, Tom! Not yet! We'd be sure doomed without the boat." Half an hour passed. Again Topsail roused Watt. "We're doomed if we don't," he said. "We can't stand it till mornin', lad. We can't wait no longer." [Illustration: BILLY STAGGERED INTO THE CIRCLE OF LIGHT.] Watt blundered to his feet. Without a word he fumbled in the snow until he found what he sought. It was the axe. He handed it to Topsail. "Do it, Tom!" he said, thickly. "I'm near gone." Topsail attacked the boat. It was like murder, he thought. He struck blow after blow, blindly, viciously; gathered the splinters, made a little heap of them and set them afire. The fire blazed brightly. Soon it was roaring. The ice all around was lighted up. Above, the snow reflected the lurid glow. Warmth and a cheerful light put life in the men. They crept as close to the fire as they could. Reason would shut out hope altogether, but hope came to them. Might not the storm abate? Might not the wind change? Might not they be picked up? In this strain they talked for a long time; and meanwhile they added the fuel, splinter by splinter. "Father! 'Tis _you_!" Topsail leaped to his feet and stared. "'Tis Billy!" cried Watt. Billy staggered into the circle of light. He stared stupidly at the fire. Then he tottered a step or two nearer, and stood swaying; and again he stared at the fire in a stupid way. "I seed the fire!" he mumbled. "The punt's nipped, sir--an' I seed the fire--an' crawled over the ice. 'Twas hard to find you." Tom Topsail and Bill Watt understood. They, too, had travelled rough ice in a blizzard, and they understood. Billy was wet to the waist. That meant that, blinded by the snow or deceived by the night, he had slipped through some opening in the ice, some crack or hole. The bare thought of that lonely peril was enough to make the older men shudder. But they asked him no questions. They led him to the fire, prodigally replenished it, and sat him down between them. By and by he was so far recovered that he was able to support his father's argument that the wind had not changed. "Oh, well," replied Watt, doggedly, "you can say what you likes; but I tells you that the wind's veered to the south. 'Twould not surprise me if the pack was drivin' Cape Wonder way." "No, no, Bill," said Topsail sadly; "there's been no change. We're drivin' straight out. When the wind drops the pack'll go to pieces, an' then----" Thus the argument was continued, intermittently, until near dawn. Of a sudden, then, they heard a low, far-off rumble. It was a significant, terrifying noise. It ran towards them, increasing in volume. It was like the bumping that runs through a freight-train when the engine comes to a sudden stop. The pack trembled. There was then a fearful confusion of grinding, crashing sounds. Everywhere the ice was heaving and turning. The smaller pans were crushed; many of the greater ones were forced on end; some were lifted bodily out of the water, and fell back in fragments, broken by their own weight. On all sides were noise and awful upheaval. The great pan upon which the seal-hunters had landed was tipped up--up--up--until it was like the side of a steep hill. There it rested. Then came silence. Bill Watt was right: the wind had changed; the pack had grounded on Cape Wonder. The three men from Ruddy Cove walked ashore in the morning. Billy was the first to run up to the house. He went through the door like a gale of wind. "We're safe, mother!" he shouted. "I'm glad, dear," said his mother, quietly. "Breakfast is ready." When Billy was older he learned the trick his mother had long ago mastered--to betray no excitement, whatever the situation. CHAPTER X _How Billy Topsail's Friend Bobby Lot Joined Fortunes With Eli Zitt and Whether or Not he Proved Worthy of the Partnership_ RUDDY COVE called Eli Zitt a "hard" man. In Newfoundland, that means "hardy"--not "bad." Eli was gruff-voiced, lowering-eyed, unkempt, big; he could swim with the dogs, outdare all the reckless spirits of the Cove with the punt in a gale, bare his broad breast to the winter winds, travel the ice wet or dry, shoulder a barrel of flour; he was a sturdy, fearless giant, was Eli Zitt, of Ruddy Cove. And for this the Cove very properly called him a "hard" man. When Josiah Lot, his partner, put out to sea and never came back--an offshore gale had the guilt of that deed--Eli scowled more than ever and said a deal less. "He'll be feelin' bad about Josiah," said the Cove. Which may have been true. However, Eli took care of Josiah's widow and son. The son was Bobby Lot, with whom, subsequently, Billy Topsail shared the adventure of the giant squid of Chain Tickle. The Cove laughed with delight to observe Eli Zitt's attachment to the lad. The big fellow seemed to be quite unable to pass the child without patting him on the back; and sometimes, so exuberant was his affection, the pats were of such a character that Bobby lost his breath. Whereupon, Eli would chuckle the harder, mutter odd endearments, and stride off on his way. "He'll be likin' that lad pretty well," said the Cove. "Nar a doubt, they'll be partners." And it came to pass as the Cove surmised; but much sooner than the Cove expected. Josiah Lot's widow died when Bobby was eleven years old. When the little gathering at the graveyard in the shelter of Great Hill dispersed, Eli took the lad out in the punt--far out to the quiet fishing grounds, where they could be alone. It was a glowing evening--red and gold in the western sky. The sea was heaving gently, and the face of the waters was unruffled. "Bobby, b'y!" Eli whispered. "Bobby, lad! Does you hear me? Don't cry no more!" "Ay, Eli," sobbed Bobby. "I'll cry no more." But he kept on crying, just the same, for he could not stop; and Eli looked away--very quickly--to the glowing sunset clouds. Can't _you_ tell why? "Bobby," he said, turning, at last, to the lad, "us'll be partners--you an' me." Bobby sobbed harder than ever. "Won't us, lad?" Eli laid his great hand on Bobby's shoulder. Then Bobby took his fists out of his eyes and looked up into Eli's compassionate face. "Ay, Eli," he said, "us'll be partners--jus' you an' me." From that out, they _were_ partners; and Bobby Lot was known in the Cove as the foster son of Eli Zitt. They lived together in Eli's cottage by the tickle cove, where Eli had lived alone, since, many years before, _his_ mother had left _him_ to face the world for himself. The salmon net, the herring seine, the punt, the flake, the stage--these they held in common; and they went to the grounds together, where they fished the long days through, good friends, good partners. The Cove said that they were very happy; and, as always, the Cove was right. One night Eli came ashore from a trading schooner that had put in in the morning, smiling broadly as he entered the kitchen. He laid his hand on the table, palm down. "They's a gift for you under that paw, lad," he said. "For me, Eli!" cried Bobby. "Ay, lad--for my partner!" Bobby stared curiously at the big hand. He wondered what it covered. "What is it, Eli?" he asked. "Come, show me!" Eli lifted the hand, and gazed at Bobby, grinning, the while, with delight. It was a jack-knife--a stout knife, three-bladed, horn-handled, big, serviceable; just the knife for a fisher lad. Bobby picked it up, but said never a word, for his delight overcame him. "You're wonderful good t' me, Eli," he said, at last looking up with glistening eyes. "You're _wonderful_ good t' me!" Eli put his arm around the boy. "You're a good partner, lad," he said. "You're a wonderful good partner!" Bobby was proud of that. * * * * * They put the salmon net out in the spring. The ice was still lingering offshore. The west wind carried it out; the east wind swept it in: variable winds kept pans and bergs drifting hither and thither, and no man could tell where next the ice would go. Now, the sea was clear, from the shore to the jagged, glistening white line, off near the horizon; next day--the day after--and the pack was grinding against the coast rocks. Men had to keep watch to save the nets from destruction. The partners' net was moored off Break-heart Point. It was a good berth, but a rough one; when the wind was in the northeast, the waters off the point were choppy and covered with sheets of foam from the breakers. "'Tis too rough t' haul the salmon net," said Eli, one day. "I'll be goin' over the hills for a sack o' flour. An' you'll be a good b'y 'til I gets back?" "Oh, ay, sir!" said Bobby Lot. It was a rough day: the wind was blowing from the north, a freshening, gusty breeze, cold and misty; off to sea, the sky was leaden, threatening, and overhead dark clouds were driving low and swift with the wind; the water was choppy--rippling black under the squalls. The ice was drifting alongshore, well out from the coast; there was a berg and the wreck of a berg of Arctic ice and many a pan from the bays and harbours of the coast. With the wind continuing in the north, the ice would drift harmlessly past. But the wind changed. In the afternoon it freshened and veered to the east. At four o'clock it was half a gale, blowing inshore. "I'll just be goin' out the tickle t' have a look at that ice," thought Bobby. "'Tis like it'll come ashore." He looked the punt over very carefully before setting out. It was wise, he thought, to prepare to take her out into the gale, whether or not he must go. He saw to it that the thole-pins were tight and strong, that the bail-bucket was in its place, that the running gear was fit for heavy strain. The wind was then fluttering the harbour water and screaming on the hilltops; and he could hear the sea breaking on the tickle rocks. He rowed down the harbour to the mouth of the tickle, whence he commanded a view of the coast, north and south. The ice was drifting towards Break-heart Point. It would destroy the salmon net within the hour, he perceived--sweep over it, tear it from its moorings, bruise it against the rocks. Bobby knew, in a moment, that his duty was to put out from the sheltered harbour to the wind-swept, breaking open, where the spume was flying and the heave and fret of the sea threatened destruction to the little punt. Were he true man and good partner he would save the net! "He've been good t' me," he thought. "Ay, Eli 've been wonderful good t' me. I'll be true partner t' him!" CHAPTER XI _Bobby Lot Learns to Swim and Eli Zitt Shows Amazing Courage and Self-possession and Strength_ WHEN, returning over the hills, Eli Zitt came to the Knob o' Break-heart, he saw his own punt staggering through the gray waves towards the net off the point--tossing with the sea and reeling under the gusty wind--with his little partner in the stern. The boat was between the ice and the breakers. The space of open water was fast narrowing; only a few minutes more and the ice would strike the rocks. Eli dropped on his knees, then and there, and prayed God to save the lad. "O Lard, save my lad!" he cried. "O Lard, save my wee lad!" He saw the punt draw near the first mooring; saw Bobby loose the sheet, and let the brown sail flutter like a flag in the wind; saw him leap to the bow, and lean over, with a knife in his hand, while the boat tossed in the lop, shipping water every moment; saw him stagger amidships, bail like mad, snatch up the oars, pull to the second mooring and cut the last net-rope; saw him leap from seat to seat to the stem, grasp the tiller, haul taut the sheet, and stand off to the open sea. "Clever Bobby!" he screamed, wildly excited. "Clever lad! My partner, my little partner!" But the wind carried the cry away. Bobby did not hear--did not know, even, that his partner had been a spectator of his brave faithfulness. He was beating out, to make sea-room for the run with the wind to harbour; and the boat was dipping her gunwale in a way that kept every faculty alert to keep her afloat. Eli watched him until he rounded and stood in for the tickle. Then the man sighed happily and went home. "Us'll grapple for that net the morrow," he said, when Bobby came in. Bobby opened his eyes. "Aye?" he said. "'Tis safe on the bottom. I thought I'd best cut it adrift t' save it." "I seed you," said Eli, "from the Knob. 'Twas well done, lad! You're a true partner." "The knife come in handy," said Bobby, smiling. "'Tis a good knife." "Aye," said Eli, with a shake of the head. "I bought un for a good one." And that was all. * * * * * Eli set about rearing young Bobby in a fashion as wise as he knew. He exposed the lad to wet and weather, as judiciously as he could, to make him hardy; he took him to sea in high winds, to fix his courage and teach him to sail; he taught him the weather signs, the fish-lore of the coast, the "marks" for the fishing grounds, the whereabouts of shallows and reefs and currents; he took him to church and sent him to Sunday-school. And he taught him to swim. On the fine days of that summer, when there were no fish to be caught, the man and the lad went together to the Wash-tub--a deep, little cove of the sea, clear, quiet, bottomed with smooth rock and sheltered from the wind by high cliffs; but cold--almost as cold as ice-water. Here Bobby delighted to watch Eli dive, leap from the cliff, float on his back, swim far out to sea; here he gazed with admiration on the man's rugged body--broad shoulders, bulging muscles, great arms and legs. And here, too, he learned to swim. When the warmest summer days were gone, Bobby could paddle about the Wash-tub in promising fashion. He was confident when Eli was at hand--sure, then, that he could keep afloat. But he was not yet sure enough of his power when Eli had gone on the long swim to sea. Eli said that he had done well; and Bobby, himself, often said that he could swim a deal better than a stone. In an emergency, both agreed, Bobby's new accomplishment would be sure to serve him well. "Sure, if the punt turned over," Bobby innocently boasted, "I'd be able t' swim 'til you righted her." That was to be proved. * * * * * "Eli, b'y," said old James Blunt, one day in the fall of the year, "do you take my new dory t' the grounds t'-day. Sure, I'd like t' know how you likes it." Old James had built his boat after a south-coast model. She was a dory, a flat-bottomed craft, as distinguished from a punt, which has a round bottom and keel. He was proud of her, but somewhat timid; and he wanted Eli's opinion of her quality. "'Tis a queer lookin' thing!" said Eli. "But me an' my partner'll try she, James, just for luck." That afternoon a fall gale caught the dory on the Farthest Grounds--far out beyond the Wolf's Teeth Reef. It came from the shore so suddenly that Eli could not escape it. So it was a beat to harbour, with the wind and sea rising fast. Off the Valley, which is half a mile from the narrows, a gust came out between the hills--came strong and swift. It heeled the dory over--still over--down--down until the water poured in over the gunwale. Eli let go the main-sheet, expecting the sail to fall away from the wind and thus ease the boat. But the line caught in the block. Down went the dory--still down. And of a sudden it capsized. When Bobby came to the surface, he began frantically to splash the water, momentarily losing strength, breath and self-possession. Eli was waiting for him, with head and shoulders out of the water, like an eager dog as he waits for the stick his master is about to throw. He swam close; but hung off for a moment--until, indeed, he perceived that Bobby would never of himself regain his self-possession--for he did not want the boy to be too soon beholden to him for aid. Then he slipped his hand under Bobby's breast and buoyed him up. "Partner!" he said, quietly. "Partner!" Bobby's panic-stricken struggles at once ceased; for he had been used to giving instant obedience to Eli's commands. He looked in Eli's dripping face. "Easy, partner," said Eli, still quietly. "Strike out, now." Bobby smiled, and struck out, as directed. In a moment he was swimming at Eli's side. "Take it easy, lad," Eli continued. "Just take it easy while I rights the boat. It's all right. I'll have you aboard in a jiffy. Is you--is you--all right, Bobby?" "Aye," Bobby gasped. Eli waited for a moment longer. He was loath to leave the boy to take care of himself. Until then he had not known how large a place in his heart his little partner filled, how much he had come to depend upon him for all those things which make life worth while. He had not known, indeed, how far away from the old, lonely life the lad had led him. So he waited for a moment longer, watching Bobby. Then he swam to the overturned dory, where, after an anxious glance towards the lad, he dived to cut away the gear--and dived again, and yet again; watching Bobby all the time he was at the surface for breath. The gear cut away, the mast pulled from its socket, Eli righted the boat. It takes a strong man and clever swimmer to do that; but Eli was clever in the water, and strong anywhere. Moreover, it was a trick he had learned. "Come, Bobby, b'y!" he called. Bobby swam towards the boat. Eli swam to meet him, and helped him over the last few yards of choppy sea, for the lad was almost exhausted. Bobby laid a hand on the bow of the dory. Then Eli pulled off one of his long boots, and swam to the stern, where he began cautiously to bail the boat. When she was light enough in the water, he helped Bobby aboard, and Bobby bailed her dry. "Ha, lad!" Eli ejaculated, with a grin that made his face shine. "You is safe aboard. How is you, b'y?" "Tired, Eli," Bobby answered. "You bide quiet where you is," said Eli. "I'll find the paddles; an' I'll soon have you home." Eli's great concern had been to get the boy out of the water. He had cared for little else than that--to get him out of the reach of the sea. And now he was confronted by the problem of making harbour. The boat was slowly drifting out with the wind; the dusk was approaching; and every moment it was growing more difficult to swim in the choppy sea. It took him a long time to find the paddles. "Steady the boat, Bobby," he said, when the boy had taken the paddles into the dory. "I'm comin' aboard." Eli attempted to board the dory over the bow. She was tossing about in a choppy sea; and he was not used to her ways. Had she been a punt--his punt--he would have been aboard in a trice. But she was not his punt--not a punt, at all; she was a new boat, a dory, a flat-bottomed craft; he was not used to her ways. Bobby tried desperately to steady her while Eli lifted himself out of the water. "Take care, Eli!" he screamed. "She'll be over!" Eli got his knee on the gunwale--no more than that. A wave tipped the boat; she lurched; she capsized. And again Eli waited for Bobby to come to the surface of the water; again buoyed him up; again gave him courage; again helped him to the boat; again bailed the boat--this time with one of Bobby's boots--and again helped Bobby aboard. "I'm wonderful tired, Eli," said Bobby, when the paddles were handed over the side for the second time. "I'm fair' done out." "'Twill be over soon, lad. I'll have you home by the kitchen fire in half an hour. Come, now, partner! Steady the boat. I'll try again." Even more cautiously Eli attempted to clamber aboard. Inch by inch he raised himself out of the water. When the greater waves ran under the boat, he paused; when she rode on an even keel, he came faster. Inch by inch, humouring the cranky boat all the time, he lifted his right leg. But he could not get aboard. Again, when his knee was on the gunwale, the dory capsized. For the third time the little partner was helped aboard and given a boot with which to bail. His strength was then near gone. He threw water over the side until he could no longer lift his arms. "Eli," he gasped, "I can do no more!" Eli put his hand on the bow, as though about to attempt to clamber aboard again. But he withdrew it. "Bobby, b'y," he said, "could you not manage t' pull a bit with the paddles. I'll swim alongside." Bobby stared stupidly at him. Again Eli put his hand on the bow. He was in terror of losing Bobby's life. Never before had he known such dread and fear. He did not dare risk overturning the boat again; for he knew that Bobby would not survive for the fourth time. What could he do? He could not get aboard, and Bobby could not row. How was he to get the boy ashore? His hand touched the painter--the long rope by which the boat was moored to the stage. That gave him an idea: he would tow the boat ashore! So he took the rope in his teeth, and struck out for the tickle to the harbour! * * * * * "'Twas a close call, b'y," said Eli, when he and Bobby sat by the kitchen fire. "Ay, Eli; 'twas a close call." "A _wonderful_ close call!" Eli repeated, grinning. "The closest I ever knowed." "An' 'twas too bad," said Bobby, "t' lose the gear." Eli laughed. "What you laughin' at?" Bobby asked. "I brought ashore something better than the gear." "The dory?" "No, b'y!" Eli roared. "My little partner!" CHAPTER XII _Containing the Surprising Adventure of Eli Zitt's Little Partner on the Way Back from Fortune Harbour, in Which a Newfoundland Dog Displays a Saving Intelligence_ BOBBY LOT, Eli Zitt's little partner, left his dog at home when he set out for Fortune Harbour in Eli's punt. He thought it better for the dog. He liked company, well enough, did Bobby; but he loved his dog. Why expose the lazy, fat, old fellow, with his shaky legs and broken teeth, to an attack in force by the pack of a strange harbour? The old dog's fighting days were over. He had been a mighty, masterful beast in his prime; and he had scarred too many generations of the Ruddy Cove pack to be molested now as he waddled about the roads and coves where his strength and courage had been proved. But the dogs of Fortune Harbour knew nothing of the deeds he had done; and an air of dignity, a snarl and a show of yellow teeth would not be sufficient to discourage the yelping onset. "They'd kill him," thought the master. So the lad determined to leave his dog at home, and it was well for him that he did. "Go back, Bruce!" he cried, as he pushed out from Eli Zitt's wharf-head. But Bruce slipped into the water from the rocks, and swam after the boat, a beseeching look in the eyes which age had glazed and shot with blood. He was not used to being left at home when Bobby pushed out in the punt. "Go home, b'y!" cried Bobby, lifting an oar. The threatening gesture was too much for Bruce. He raised himself in the water and whined, then wheeled about and paddled for shore. "Good dog!" Bobby called after him. In response, the water in the wake of the dog was violently agitated. He was wagging his tail. Thus he signified a cheerful acquiescence. "He'll be wonderin' why he've been sent back," thought Bobby. "'Tis too bad we can't tell dogs things like that." * * * * * Bobby had a message for Sammy Tompkins. It was about the great run of cod at Good Luck Tickles, the news of which had reached Ruddy Cove that morning. But old Sammy was on the Black Fly fishing grounds when the lad got to Fortune Harbour. It was growing dark when he got in for the night. So Bobby chanced to be late starting home. The wind had fallen away to a breathless calm; the sky was thickly overcast, and a thin mist lay between the gloomy clouds and the sea's long, black ground-swell. Bobby had not pulled through four of the six miles before sea and sky and rocky coast were melted into one vast, deep shadow, except where, near at hand, the bolder headlands were to be distinguished by one who knew them well. "I wonder," Bobby thought, "if I'll get home before mornin'. 'Tis hard t' say. I might have t' lie out here all night. Sure, I hope it gets no thicker." He rowed on towards Ruddy Cove, taking new bearings from time to time as the deeper shadows of the headlands loomed out of the dark of the night. Thus, he followed the coast, making with great caution for the narrow entrance to the inner harbour, which invariably was hard to find at night or in the fog. The sea was breaking against the rocks. The noise was loud in Bobby's ears, and served to guide him at such times as the headlands were indistinguishable from the clouds. His progress was slow and cautious; for he knew the dangers of the way he must take. There was a line of submerged rocks--The Wrecker, Old Moll and Deep Down--lying out from Iron Head, directly in his path. That neighbourhood was a neighbourhood of danger. When the lad caught sight of the strange outline of Iron Head, he swerved the bow of the boat to sea and paddled out. He wanted to make sure of rounding Deep Down, the outermost rock--of giving it a wide berth. But the night and the noise of the breakers confused him. He could not tell whether or not he had gone far enough. At length he decided that he must be safely beyond the rock. But where was Deep Down? Often he paused to turn and look ahead. Every glance he cast was more anxious than the one before. He was getting nervous. "'Tis hard t' tell if the sea is breakin' on Deep Down," he said to himself. "Sure, it must be, though." It was important to know that. Sometimes only the larger swells curl and break as they roll over Deep Down. Bobby knew that just such a sea was running then. Had it been daylight, the green colour and the slight lifting of the water would have warned him of the whereabouts of that dangerous reef. But it was night; the spray, as the wave was broken and flung into the air, and the swish and the patter, as the water fell back, were the signs he was on the lookout for. If, then, the waves broke only at long intervals, the punt might at any moment be lifted and overturned. It might even then be floating over the rock. Bobby's heart beat faster when the greater swells slipped under the boat. Would they break beneath him? Would they break near at hand? He paddled slowly. It was better to be cautious, he thought, until he had Deep Down located. So he listened and looked as he paddled on. At last he heard the significant swish and patter. He flashed about to look ahead. But he was too late. The spray had fallen and disappeared. "'Tis somewheres near," he thought, "and 'tis breakin'. But whether t' port or starboard, I don't know." Again--and apparently from another quarter--he heard the noise of a breaking wave. He turned in time to catch sight of a gleam of phosphorescence off the port bow. "If that's Deep Down," he thought, "I'm safe. But if 'tis Old Moll or The Wrecker, I'm somewheres over Deep Down. I wisht I knowed which it was." What was it? The Wrecker, Old Moll or Deep Down? Which one of the three rocks that lay in a line off Iron Head? "I wisht I knowed," Bobby muttered, as he bent anew to the oars. * * * * * In the meantime, old Sol Sludge, of Becky Sharpe's cove, which lies beyond Iron Head, had started for Ruddy Cove by the goat paths to tell Skipper John Matthews that he would take a berth in the schooner _Rescue_ when she got back from the Labrador. He had a candle-lantern to light the way. When he had crossed the Head and was bound down the valley to meet the Ruddy Cove road, he heard a cry for help. It came from the sea, with a soft southwest wind which had sprung up--a sharp "Help! Help!" ringing out of the darkness again and again. Old Sol listened stupidly, until, as from exhaustion, the cries turned hoarse and weak. "Now, I wonder who's out there," the dull old fellow thought. "It sounded like a woman's voice. Sure, it may be the spirit o' Mary Rutt. She was drowned off Iron Head." Nevertheless, he made haste to Ruddy Cove--all the haste his old legs and dim sight would permit--and told the folk that he had heard the cry of a spirit drift in from the sea off Iron Head. But nobody believed that. Who was in the water off Iron Head? was the question that passed from cottage to cottage. Was it Billy Topsail? No; for Billy told the folk in person that he had come in from the grounds at twilight. Was it Josiah Seaworthy? No; for Josiah's wife said that he had gone by way of Crooked Tickle to Burnt Harbour. Who was it? Had Eli Zitt's little partner got back from Fortune Harbour? When Eli Zitt heard of that cry for help he knew that Bobby's punt had been overturned on one of the Iron Head rocks. Like a woman's voice? That surely was Bobby's--that clear, full voice. So he called for a crew to man the skiff, and in five minutes he was ready to push off. Old Bruce jumped aboard. "Get out with you!" said Bill Watt, aiming a kick at him by the light of the lantern. "Sc-ctt!" cried old Tom Topsail. But Bruce was a practiced stowaway. He slunk forward, and found a refuge under the bow seat. "Push off, lads!" Eli shouted. "Give way!" In ten minutes the skiff had passed from the harbour to the sea. Eli Zitt, who worked the scull oar, turned her bow towards the Iron Head rocks. It was dark; but he had fished those waters from boyhood, and he knew the way, daylight or dark. Dark it was, indeed! How was Bobby to be found in that great shadow? He was a water-dog, was Bobby; but there was a limit to his endurance, and half an hour at least had passed since old Sol Sludge had heard his cry for help. A long search meant failure. He must be found soon or he would not be found at all. On went the boat, the water curling from her bows and swirling in her wake. The phosphorescence flashed and glowed as the oars were struck deep and lifted. "He'll be swimmin' in," Bill Watt panted, when the skiff had covered half the distance to Deep Down. "They's no place for him t' land with this sea on. We ought t' meet him hereabouts." "If he's afloat," Topsail added. "Oh, he's afloat yet," Eli said, confidently. "He's a strong swimmer, that lad is." "I'm thinkin' he'll be nearer shore," said Bill Watt. "No, no! He's further out an' on." "Bobby!" Topsail shouted. "Oh, Bobby!" There was no reply. For a moment the rowers lifted their oars from the water. Silence was all about--from the boat to the shore rocks, where the waves were breaking. The cries for help had ceased. "Gone down," Bill Watt muttered. The men gave way again. Again they paused to call Bobby's name, and to listen, with anxious hearts, for some far-off, answering cry. Again they gave way. Again they called and called, but heard no answer. "Gone down," Bill Watt repeated. "Give way, lads!" cried Eli. "He's further out." Old Bruce came out from hiding. He crawled to the stern seat and sniffed to windward. Then, with his nose pointed astern, he began to howl. "Shut up, you!" Topsail exclaimed. But Bruce could not be quieted--not even after Topsail's boot had caught him in the side and brought a sharp howl of pain. Still he sniffed to windward and barked. "Throw him over," said Bill Watt. "We'll not be able t' hear Bobby." "Oh, if 'twas only light!" Eli groaned, not heeding Watt. But it was dark. The water was covered with deepest shadow. Only the breakers and the black outline of Iron Head could be seen. Bobby might be swimming near at hand but too far off to send an audible shout for help. "Bobby--oh--Bobby!" If a cry in answer had gone up, the barking of the dog drowned it. The dog must be quieted. "Push the brute over!" said Watt. Watt himself dropped his oar and stepped to the stern. He took Bruce unaware and tumbled him into the water. The old dog made no protest. He whined eagerly and swam out from the boat--a straight course astern. "Now, what did he do that for?" mused Watt. "That's queer," said Topsail. Eli looked deep into the night. The dog left a luminous wake. Beyond, in the direction the dog had taken, the man caught sight of a phosphorescent glow. Watt saw it at the same moment. "What's that?" said he. "They's fiery water, back there!" "Man," cried Eli, "the dog knowed! Sure, it must be Bobby, swimmin' up, an' too beat out t' cry. Fetch her about, lads. We're on the wrong course. Haste! He'll not be able t' last much longer." Eli was right. The dog _had_ known. It was Bobby. When they picked him up he was too much exhausted to speak. It was afterwards learned that he had mistaken the spray of the Old Moll breaker for Deep Down and had been turned over by the outer rock when he thought himself safe. He had heard the call of his name, and had seen the lantern of the rescuing skiff, as it drew near; but, long before, he had worn his voice out with screaming for help, and could make no answer. He had heard the barking of Bruce, too; had known its significance, and had wondered whether or not the dog would be understood. But all that he could say, when they lifted him aboard--and that in a hoarse, weak whisper--was: "Bruce!" At that moment the crew heard a piteous whine near at hand. It was Bill Watt who pulled the exhausted old dog over the gunwale. "Good dog!" said he. And so said they all. CHAPTER XIII _In Which Billy Topsail Sets Sail for the Labrador, the Rescue Strikes an Iceberg, and Billy is Commanded to Pump for His Life_ IT was early in the spring--a time of changeable weather when, in the northern seas, the peril of drift-ice, bergs, snow, wind and the dark must sometimes be met with short warning. The schooner _Rescue_, seventy tons, Job Small, master, had supplied the half-starved Labrador fishermen with flour and pork, and was bound back to Ruddy Cove, in ballast, to load provisions and shop goods for the straits trade. Billy Topsail was aboard. "I 'low, dad," he had said to his father, when the skipper of the _Rescue_ received the Government commission to proceed North with supplies, "that I'd like t' _see_ the Labrador." "You'll see it many a time, lad," his father had replied, "afore you're done with it." "An' Skipper Job," Billy had persisted, "says he'll take me." The end of it was that Billy was shipped. The _Rescue_ had rounded the cape at dawn, with all sails set, even to her topmast-staysail, which the Newfoundlanders call the "Tommy Dancer"; but now, with the night coming down, she was laboriously beating into a head wind under jib and reefed mainsail. "I'm fair ashamed t' have the canvas off her," said Skipper Job, after a long look to windward. "'Tis no more than a switch, an' we're clewed up for a snorter." "They's no one t' see, sir," said the cook. "That's good; an' sure I hopes that nothin' heaves in sight t' shame us." "Leave us shake the reef out o' the mains'l, sir, an' give her the fores'l," said the first hand. "We're not in haste, b'y," the skipper replied. "She's doin' well as she is. We'll not make harbour this night, an' I've no mind t' be in the neighbourhood o' the Break-heart Rocks afore mornin'. Let her bide." The weather thickened. With the night came a storm of snow in heavy flakes, which the wind swept over the deck in clouds. There was nothing to relieve the inky darkness. The schooner reeled forth and back on the port and starboard tacks, beating her way south as blind as a bat. There was no rest for the crew. The skipper was at the wheel, the first hand on the lookout forward, the cook and the two other hands standing by on deck for emergencies. So far as the wind, the sea and the drift-ice were concerned, the danger was slight, for the _Rescue_ was stoutly built; but the sea was strewn with vast fields and mountains of Arctic ice,--the glacier icebergs which drift out of the north in the spring--and in their proximity, in their great mass and changing position, lay a dreadful danger. "Sure, I wisht you could chart icebergs," said the skipper to the cook. "But," he added, anxiously, "you can't. They moves so fast an' so peculiar that--that--well, I wisht they didn't." "I wisht they wasn't none," said the cook. "Ay, lad," said the skipper. "But they might be a wonderful big one sixty fathom dead ahead at this minute. We couldn't see it if they was." "I hopes they isn't, sir," said the cook, with a shiver. The snow ceased before morning; but at the peep of dawn a thick fog came up with the wind, and when the light came it added nothing to the range of vision from the bow. The night had been black; the dawn was gray. It was so thick that the man at the wheel could not see beyond the foremast. The lookout was lost in the fog ahead. Eyes were now of no more use than in the depths of a cloudy night. But the schooner had weathered the night; and when the first light of day broke in the east, Skipper Job gave the wheel to the second hand, and went below with the cook to have a cup of tea. "I've no mind t' lose her," said he, "so I'll leave her bowl along under short sail. If we strike, 'twill be so much the easier." "'Twould be a sad pity t' lose her," said the cook, "when you've got her so near paid for." "Ay, that's it," said the skipper. The _Rescue_ had been built for young Skipper Job, after Skipper Job's own model, by the Ruddy Cove trader. The trader was to share in the voyages--whether for Labrador fish or in the Shore trade--until she was paid for. Then she would belong to Skipper Job--to the young skipper, who had married the parson's daughter, and now had a boy of his own for whom to plan and dream. That was the spring of his energy and caution--that little boy, who could no more than toddle over the kitchen floor and gurgle a greeting to the lithe young fellow who bounded up the path to catch him in his arms. The schooner was the fortune of the lad and the mother; and she was now all so nearly Job's own that another voyage or two--a mere four months--might see the last dollar of the obligation paid over. "No," Skipper Job repeated, absently, when he had thought of the toddler and the tender, smiling mother, "I've no mind t' lose this here schooner." Job dreamed of the lad while he sipped his tea. They must make a parson of him, if he had the call, the skipper thought; or a doctor, perhaps. Whatever, that baby must never follow the sea. No, no! He must never know the hardship and anxiety of such a night as that just past. He must be---- A scream of warning broke into the dream: "Har-rd-a-lee!" Skipper Job heard the fall of the feet of a man leaping back from the bow. There was meaning in the step, in the haste and length of the leaps--the imminence of a collision with the ice. "All hands!" The skipper had no more than leaped to his feet when there was a stunning crash overhead, followed on the instant by a shock that stopped the schooner dead and made her quiver from stem to stern. The bowsprit was rammed into the forecastle, the deck planks were ripped up, the upper works of the bows were crushed in, the cook's pots and pans were tumbled about, the lamp was broken and extinguished. Job was thrown from his feet. When he recovered, it was to the horror of this darkness and confusion--to a second crash and shock, to screams and trampling overhead, and to a rain of blows upon the deck. He cried to the cook to follow him on deck, and felt his way in mad haste to the ladder; but there he stopped, of a sudden, with his foot on the lowest step, for the cook had made no reply. "Cook, b'y!" he shouted. There was no answer. It was apparent that the man had been killed or desperately injured. The skipper knew the danger of delay. They had struck ice; the berg might overturn, some massive peak might topple over, the ship might fill and sink. But, as a matter of course, and with no thought of himself as a hero, he turned and made a groping search for the cook, until he found the poor fellow lying unconscious among his own pots and pans. Thence he carried him to the deck, and stretched him out on the fore hatch, with the foreboom and sail to protect him from the fragments of ice, which fell as in a shower each time the schooner struck the berg. Billy Topsail caught the skipper by the arm in a strong grip. "We're lost!" he cried. The roaring wind, the hiss of the seas, the shock and wreck, the sudden, dreadful peril, had thrown the lad into a panic. The skipper perceived his distress, and acted promptly to restore him to his manhood. "Leave me free!" he shouted, with a scowl. But Billy tightened his grip on the skipper's arm, and sobbed and whined. The skipper knocked him down with a blow on the breast; then jerked him to his feet and pointed to the pump. "Pump for your life!" he commanded, knowing well that what poor Billy needed was work, of whatever kind, to give him back his courage. CHAPTER XIV _Faithfully Narrating the Amazing Experiences of a Newfoundland Schooner and Describing Billy Topsail's Conduct in a Sinking Boat_ THE deck of the _Rescue_ was now littered with wreckage and casks. Splinters of the jib-boom, all tangled with the standing rigging, lay upon the forward deck. The maintopmast had snapped off, and hung from the mainmast in a tangle of wire and rope. They had already cut the mainsail halyards, and the big sail lay upon the boom, on the port side, in disarrayed folds. The bows were high out of the water, as if the ship had run up a steep, submerged shelf of ice; and the seas, which the wind of the night had raised, from time to time broke over the stern. It was impossible, however, to determine the general situation of the schooner. The fog was too thick for that, and the day had not yet fully broken. All that was revealed, in a glance about, was that upon one hand lay a waste of breaking water, and upon the other a dull white mass, lifting itself into the mist. "'Tis bad, lads," said the skipper, when the first and second hands had joined him under the mainmast shrouds. "She's lost," said the first. "We'll be takin' t' the boat," said the second. "I'm not so sure that she's lost," said the skipper. "Whatever, we'll not take t' the boat till we have to." The first and second hands exchanged a glance, and together looked at the boat. The swift glance and look were a danger-signal to the skipper. "Does you hear me?" he shouted, his voice ringing out above the wash of the waves and the noise of the wind. "We'll not leave her. Take a spell at the pump, both o' you!" For a moment the skipper's authority was in doubt. The men wavered. A repetition of the command, however, with clenched fists ready to enforce it, decided them. They relieved young Billy. "Is the water gainin', b'y?" said the skipper to the lad. Billy looked up steadily. The fright had left his eyes. He had recovered his self-possession. "No, sir," he said, quietly. "'Tis gettin' less all the while." At that moment the ship lurched slightly and slid off the shelf. The skipper shouted an order to raise the foresail, and ran aft to take the wheel. But the fall of the topmast had so tangled the rigging and jammed the gaff and boom that before the crew could remove the unconscious cook and lift the sail, the wind had turned the schooner and was driving her stern foremost, as it appeared, on the ice. The skipper, from his station at the wheel, calmly observed the nearing berg, and gave the schooner up for lost. There was no time to raise the sail--no room for beating out of danger. He saw, too, that if she struck with force, the quarter-boat, which was swinging from davits astern, would be crushed to splinters. "She's lost!" he thought. "Lost with all hands!" Nearer approach, however, disclosed the strange fact that there was a break in the ice. When the schooner was still a few fathoms nearer, it was observed that the great berg was in reality composed of two masses of ice, with a narrow strait leading between them. The light was now stronger, and the fog had somewhat thinned; it was possible to distinguish shadowy outlines--to see that great cliffs of ice descended on each side of the passage to the water's edge. Still deeper in the mist it was lighter, as if the strait indeed led directly through the berg to the open sea beyond. The crew was gathered aft, breathlessly awaiting the schooner's fate, helpless to fend or aid; and the cook was lying on the roof of the cabin, where they had laid him down, revived in part, and desperately struggling to recover his senses. [Illustration: "SHE'S LOST!" HE THOUGHT. "LOST WITH ALL HANDS."] "Lads," said the skipper, at last, "the Lord has the schooner in His hands. They's a way through the ice. He's guidin' her into it, but whether He'll save us or not, He only knows." The _Rescue_ drifted fairly into the passage, which was irregular, but in no part less than twice the width of the vessel. She was swept on, swinging from side to side, striking her bow here and her stern there; and with every shock fragments of rotten ice fell in a shower from above. How soon one might strike one of their number down, no man knew. How soon some great mass, now poised in the mist, might be dislodged and crush the schooner in its fall, no man knew. How soon the towering cliffs might swing together and grind the ship to splinters, no man could tell. Were these masses of ice connected deep down under water? Or were they floating free? There were no answers to these questions. On went the schooner, stern foremost, slipping ever nearer to the open.[5] "Skipper, sir," the first hand pleaded, "leave us launch the quarter-boat an' pull out. 'Tis--'tis--too horrible here." "Ay, lads, if you will," was the reply. It was then discovered that a block of ice had fallen in the boat at the bows, and sprung the planking. She was too leaky to launch; there was nothing for it but to wait. "We'll calk those leaks as best we can," said the skipper. "They's no tellin' what might----" The stern struck a projection, and the bow swung round and lodged on the other side. The schooner was jammed in the passage, almost broadside to the wind. They made a shift at calking the leaks with rags and a square of oiled canvas. At all hazards the schooner must be freed. "We must get her off quick, lads!" the skipper cried. "Come, now, who's going with me in the boat t' tow?" "I, sir," said young Billy, stepping forward eagerly. "I, sir," said the first hand. "So it is," said the skipper. "Andy, Tom, when we hauls her bow off, do you stand here with a gaff an' push. Lower away that boat, now! Billy, do you fetch a bucket for bailin'." The boat was launched with great difficulty from her place in the stern davits. She began at once to fill, for the calking had been ill done, and she was sadly damaged. It took courage to leap into her from the taffrail, leaky as she was, and tossing about; but there was a desperate sort of courage in the hearts of the men who had volunteered, and they leaped, one by one. Billy fell to bailing, and the skipper and the first hand rowed forward to catch the line. The line once caught and made fast, they pulled out with might and main. "She's fillin' fast, sir!" Billy gasped. "Bail, b'y, bail!" The tow-rope was now taut. The skipper and the first hand pulled with such strength that each stroke of an oar made a hissing little whirlpool. "'Tis gainin' on me fast, sir," said Billy. "Give way! Give way!" cried the skipper. The bow of the schooner swung round inch by inch--so slowly that the sinking of the boat seemed inevitable. "She'll sink, sir!" said Billy, in alarm, but still bailing steadily. "Pull! Pull!" When the schooner was once more in her old position--stern foremost, and driving slowly through the passage--the water was within an inch of the seats of the boat, which was now heavy and almost unmanageable. Twenty fathoms of water lay between the boat and the bow of the schooner. "She's goin' down, sir!" said Billy. "Cast lines!" the skipper shouted to those aboard. Water curled over the gunwales. The boat stopped dead, and wavered, on the point of sinking. Two lines came whizzing towards her, uncoiling in their flight. The one was caught by the first hand, who threw himself into the water and was hauled aboard. Billy and the skipper caught the other. With its help and a few strong strokes they made the bow chains and clambered to the deck. "She's drivin' finely," said the skipper, when he had looked around. "Stand by, there, an' be ready with the fores'l! We'll soon be through." It was true enough; in a few minutes the schooner had safely drifted through the passage, and was making off from the berg under a reefed foresail, while the mist cleared and the sun shone out, and the peaks and cliffs of the island of ice, far astern, shone and glistened. And three days later the young skipper bounded up the path at Ruddy Cove, and the little toddler whom he loved was at the kitchen door to greet him. FOOTNOTE: [5] At this point it may be of interest to the reader to know that the incident is true. CHAPTER XV _In Which the Ruddy Cove Doctor Tells Billy Topsail and a Stranger How He Came to Learn that the Longest Way 'Round is Sometimes the Shortest Way Home_ IT was a quiet evening--twilight: with the harbour water unruffled, and the colours of the afterglow fast fading from the sky. Billy Topsail and the doctor and a stranger sat by the surgery door, watching the boats come in from the sea, and their talk had been of the common dangers of that life. "It was a very narrow escape," said the doctor. "Crossing the harbour!" the stranger exclaimed. "Why, 'tis not two hundred yards!" "'Twas my narrowest escape--and 'twas all because of Billy Topsail." "Along o' _me_!" cried Billy. "Ay," said the doctor; "'twas all along o' you. Some years ago," he continued, "when you were a toddler in pinafores, you were taken suddenly ill. It was a warm day in the spring of the year. The ice was still in the harbour, locked in by the rocks at the narrows, though the snow had all melted from the hills, and green things were shooting from the earth in the gardens. The weather had been fine for a week," the doctor continued, addressing the stranger, "Day by day the harbour ice had grown more unsafe, until, when Billy was taken ill, only the daring ventured to cross upon it. [Illustration: "MY LITTLE LAD'S WONDERFUL SICK. COME QUICK!"] "Billy's father came rushing into the surgery in a pitiable state of grief and fright. I knew when I first caught sight of his face that Billy was ill. "'Doctor,' said he, 'my little lad's wonderful sick. Come quick!' "'Can we cross by the ice?' I asked. "'I've come by that way,' said he. ''Tis safe enough t' risk. Make haste, doctor, sir! Make haste!' "'Lead the way!' said I. "He led so cleverly that we crossed without once sounding the ice. It was a zigzag way--a long, winding course--and I knew the day after, though I was too intent upon the matter in hand to perceive it at the moment, that only his experience and acquaintance with the condition of the ice made the passage possible. After midnight, when my situation was one of extreme peril, I realized that the way had been neither safe for me, who followed, nor easy for the man who led. "'My boy is dying, doctor!' said the mother, when we entered the house. 'Oh, save him!' "My sympathy for the child and his parents,--they loved that lad--no less than a certain professional interest which takes hold of a young physician in such cases, kept me at Billy's bedside until long, long after dark. I need not have stayed so long--ought not to have stayed--for the lad was safe and out of pain; but in this far-away place a man must be both nurse and doctor, and there I found myself, at eleven o'clock of a dark night, worn out, and anxious only to reach my bed by the shortest way. "'I thinks, sir,' said Billy's father, when I made ready to go, 'that I wouldn't go back by the ice.' "'Oh, nonsense!' said I. 'We came over without any trouble, and I'll find my way back, never fear.' "'I wisht you'd stay here the night,' said the mother. 'If you'll bide, sir, we'll make you comfortable.' "'No, no,' said I. 'I must get to my own bed.' "'If you'll not go round by the shore, sir,' said the man, 'leave me pilot you across.' "'Stay with your lad,' said I, somewhat testily. 'I'll cross by the ice.' "''Twill be the longest way home the night,' said he. "When a man is sleepy and worn out he can be strangely perverse. I would have my own way; and, to my cost, I was permitted to take it. Billy's father led me down to the landing-stage, put a gaff in my hand, and warned me to be careful--warned me particularly not to take a step without sounding the ice ahead with my gaff; and he brought the little lesson to an end with a wistful, 'I wisht you wouldn't risk it.' "The tone of his voice, the earnestness and warm feeling with which he spoke, gave me pause. I hesitated; but the light in my surgery window, shining so near at hand, gave me a vision of comfortable rest, and I put the momentary indecision away from me. "'It is two hundred yards to my surgery by the ice,' I said, 'and it is two miles round the harbour by the road. I'm going by the shortest way.' "'You'll find it the longest, sir,' said he. "I repeated my directions as to the treatment of little Billy, then gave the man good-night, and stepped out on the ice, gaff in hand. The three hours following were charged with more terror and despair than, doubtless, any year of my life to come shall know. I am not morbidly afraid of death. It was not that--not the simple, natural fear of death that made me suffer. It was the manner of its coming--in the night, with the harbour folk, all ignorant of my extremity, peacefully sleeping around me--the slow, cruel approach of it, closing in upon every hand, lying all about me, and hidden from me by the night." The doctor paused. He looked over the quiet water of the harbour. "Yes," he said, repeating the short, nervous laugh, "it was a narrow escape. The sun of the afternoon--it had shone hot and bright--had weakened the ice, and a strong, gusty wind, such a wind as breaks up the ice every spring, was blowing down the harbour to the sea. It had overcast the sky with thick clouds. The night was dark. Nothing more of the opposite shore than the vaguest outline of the hills--a blacker shadow in a black sky--was to be seen. "But I had the lamp in the surgery window to guide me, and I pushed out from the shore, resolute and hopeful. I made constant use of my gaff to sound the ice. Without it I should have been lost before I had gone twenty yards. From time to time, in rotten places, it broke through the ice with but slight pressure; then I had to turn to right or left, as seemed best, keeping to the general direction as well as I could all the while. "As I proceeded, treading lightly and cautiously, I was dismayed to find that the condition of the ice was worse than the worst I had feared. "'Ah,' thought I, with a wistful glance towards the light in the window, 'I'll be glad enough to get there.' "There were lakes of open water in my path; there were flooded patches, sheets of thin, rubbery ice, stretches of rotten 'slob.' I was not even sure that a solid path to my surgery wound through these dangers; and if path there were, it was a puzzling maze, strewn with pitfalls, with death waiting upon a misstep. "Had it been broad day, my situation would have been serious enough. In the night, with the treacherous places all covered up and hidden, it was desperate. I determined to return; but I was quite as unfamiliar with the lay of the ice behind as with the path ahead. A moment of thought persuaded me that the best plan was the boldest--to push on for the light in the window. I should have, at least, a star to guide me. "'I have not far to go,' I thought. 'I must proceed with confidence and a common-sense sort of caution. Above all, I must _not_ lose my nerve.' "It was easy to make the resolve; it was hard to carry it out. When I was searching for solid ice and my gaff splashed water, when the ice offered no more resistance to my gaff than a similar mass of sea-foam, when my foothold bent and cracked beneath me, when, upon either side, lay open water, and a narrowing, uncertain path lay ahead, my nerve was sorely tried. "At times, overcome by the peril I could not see, I stopped dead and trembled. I feared to strike my gaff, feared to set my foot down, feared to quit the square foot of solid ice upon which I stood. Had it not been for the high wind--high and fast rising to a gale--I should have sat down and waited for the morning. But there were ominous sounds abroad, and, although I knew little about the ways of ice, I felt that the break-up would come before the dawn. There was nothing for it but to go on. "And on I went; but at last--the mischance was inevitable--my step was badly chosen. My foot broke through, and I found myself, of a sudden, sinking. I threw myself forward, and fell with my arms spread out; thus I distributed my weight over a wider area of ice and was borne up. "For a time I was incapable of moving a muscle; the surprise, the rush of terror, the shock of the fall, the sudden relief of finding myself safe for the moment had stunned me. So I lay still, hugging the ice; for how long I cannot tell, but I know that when I recovered my self-possession my first thought was that the light was still burning in the surgery window--an immeasurable distance away. I must reach that light, I knew; but it was a long time before I had the courage to move forward. "Then I managed to get the gaff under my chest, so that I could throw some part of my weight upon it, and began to crawl. The progress was inch by inch--slow and toilsome, with no moment of security to lighten it. I was keenly aware of my danger; at any moment, as I knew, the ice might open and let me in. "I had gained fifty yards or more, and had come to a broad lake, which I must round, when the light in the window went out. "'Elizabeth has given me up for the night,' I thought in despair. 'She has blown out the light and gone to bed.' "There was now no point of light to mark my goal. It was very dark; and in a few minutes I was lost. I had the wind to guide me, it is true; but I soon mistrusted the wind. It was veering, it had veered, I thought; it was not possible for me to trust it implicitly. In whatever direction I set my face I fancied that the open sea lay that way. "Again and again I started, but upon each occasion I had no sooner begun to crawl than I fancied that I had mischosen the way. Of course I cried for help, but the wind swept my frantic screams away, and no man heard them. The moaning and swish of the gale, as it ran past the cottages, drowned my cries. The sleepers were not alarmed. "Meanwhile that same wind was breaking up the ice. I could hear the cracking and grinding long before I felt the motion of the pan upon which I lay. But at last I did feel that mass of ice turn and gently heave, and then I gave myself up for lost. "'Doctor! Doctor!' "The voice came from far to windward. The wind caught my answering shout and carried it out to sea. "'They will not hear me,' I thought. 'They will not come to help me.' "The light shone out from the surgery window again. Then lights appeared in the neighbouring houses, and passed from room to room. There had been an alarm. But my pan was breaking up! Would they find me in time? Would they find me at all? "Lanterns were now gleaming on the rocks back of my wharf. Half a dozen men were coming down on the run, bounding from rock to rock of the path. By the light of the lanterns I saw them launch a boat on the ice and drag it out towards me. From the edge of the shore ice they let it slip into the water, pushed off and came slowly through the opening lanes of water, calling my name at intervals. "The ice was fast breaking and moving out. When they caught my hail they were not long about pushing the boat to where I lay. Nor, you may be sure, was I long about getting aboard." The doctor laughed nervously. "Doctor," said the stranger, "how did they know that you were in distress?" "Oh," said the doctor, "it was Billy's father. He was worried, and walked around by the shore. When he found that I was not home, he roused the neighbours." "As the proverb runs," said the stranger, "the longest way round is sometimes the shortest way home." "Yes," said the doctor, "I chose the longest way." CHAPTER XVI _Describing How Billy Topsail Set out for Ruddy Cove with Her Majesty's Mail and Met with Catastrophe_ THROUGH the long, evil-tempered winter, when ice and high winds keep the coasting boats from the outports, the Newfoundland mails are carried by hand from settlement to settlement, even to the farthermost parts of the bleak peninsula to the north. Arch Butt's link in the long chain was from Burnt Bay to Ruddy Cove. Once a week, come wind, blizzard or blinding sunlight, with four dollars and a half to reward him at the end of it, he made the eighty miles of wilderness and sea, back and forth, with the mail-bag on his broad back. No man of the coast, save he, dared face that stretch in all weathers. It may be that he tramped a league, skated a league, sailed a league, sculled a league, groped his way through a league of night, breasted his way through a league of wind, picked his way over a league of shifting ice. To be sure, he chose the way which best favoured his progress and least frayed the thread upon which his life hung. "Seems t' me, b'y," he said to his mate from New Bay, when the great gale of '98 first appeared in the northeast sky--"seems t' me we _may_ make Duck Foot Cove the night, safe enough." "Maybe, lad," was the reply, after a long, dubious survey of the rising clouds. "Maybe we'll get clear o' the gale, but 'twill be a close call, whatever (at any rate)." "Maybe," said Arch. "'Twould be well t' get Her Majesty's mail so far as Duck Foot Cove, whatever." When Arch Butt made Duck Foot Cove that night, he was on the back of his mate, who had held to him, through all peril, with such courage as makes men glorious. Ten miles up the bay, his right foot had been crushed in the ice, which the sea and wind had broken into unstable fragments. Luff of New Bay had left him in the cottage of Billy Topsail's uncle, Saul Ride, by the Head, the only habitation in the cove, and made the best of his own way to the harbours of the west coast of the bay. Three days' delay stared the Ruddy Cove mailman in the face. "Will you not carry the mail t' Ruddy Cove, Saul Ride?" he demanded, when he had dressed his foot, and failed, stout as he was, to bear the pain of resting his weight upon it. "'Tis too far in a gale for my old legs," said Ride, "an'----" "But 'tis Her Majesty's mail!" cried Arch. "Won't you try, b'y?" "An I had a chance t' make it, I'd try, quick enough," said Ride sharply; "but 'twould be not only me life, but the mail I'd lose. The ice do be broken up 'tween here an' Creepy Bluff; an' not even Arch Butt, hisself, could walk the hills." "Three days lost!" Arch groaned. "All the letters three days late! An' all----" "Letters!" Ride broke in scornfully. "Letters, is it? Don't you fret about they. A love letter for the parson's daughter; the price o' fish from St. John's for the old skipper; an' a merchant's account for every fisherman t' the harbour: they be small things t' risk life for." The mailman laid his hand on the leather bag at his side. He fingered the government seal tenderly and his eyes flashed splendidly when he looked up. "'Tis Her Majesty's mail!" he said. "Her Majesty's mail! Who knows what they be in this bag. Maybe, b'y--maybe--maybe they's a letter for old Aunt Esther Bludgel. She've waited this three year for a letter from that boy," he continued. "Maybe _'tis_ in there now. Sure, b'y, an' I believe 'tis in there. Saul Ride, the mail must go!" A touch of the bruised foot on the floor brought the mailman groaning to his chair again. If the mail were to go to Ruddy Cove that night, it was not to be carried on his back: that much was evident. Saul Ride gazed at him steadily for a moment. Something of the younger man's fine regard for duty communicated itself to him. There had been a time--the days of his strength--when he, too, would have thought of duty before danger. He went abstractly to the foot of the loft stair. "Billy!" he called. "Billy!" "Ay, Uncle Saul," was the quick response. "I wants you, b'y." Billy Topsail came swiftly down the stair. He was spending a week with his lonely Uncle Saul at Duck Foot Cove. A summons at that hour meant pressing service--need of haste. What was the call? Were they all well at home? He glanced from one man to the other. "B'y," said Ride, with a gesture towards the mail-bag, "will you carry that bag to Ruddy Cove? Will----" "Will you carry Her Majesty's mail t' Ruddy Cove?" Arch Butt burst out. His voice thrilled Billy, as he continued: "Her Majesty's mail!" "'Tis but that black bag, b'y," Ride said quietly. "Will you take it t' Ruddy Cove t'-night? Please yourself about it." "Ay," said Billy quickly. "When?" "'Twill be light enough in four hours," said the mailman. "Go back t' bed, b'y," Ride said. "I'll wake you when 'tis time t' be off." Five minutes later the boy was sound asleep. * * * * * No Newfoundlander ventures out upon the ice without his gaff--a nine-foot pole, made of light, tough dog-wood, and iron-shod. It was with his own true gaff that Billy felt his way out of Duck Foot Cove as the night cleared away. The sea had abated somewhat with the wind. In the bay beyond the cove, the broken ice was freezing into one vast, rough sheet, solid as the coast rocks on the pans, but unsafe, and deceptive over the channels between. The course was down the bay, skirting the shore, to Creepy Bluff, then overland to Ruddy Cove, which is a port of the open sea: in all, twenty-one miles, with the tail of the gale to beat against. "Feel every step o' the way till the light comes strong," had been old Saul Ride's last word to the boy. "Strike hard with your gaff before you put your foot down." Billy kept his gaff before him--feeling his way much as a blind man taps the pavement as he goes along a city street. The search for solid ice led him this way and that, but his progress towards Creepy Bluff, the shadowy outline of which he soon could see, steadily continued. He surmised that it was still blowing hard in the open, beyond the shelter of the islands; and he wondered if the wind would sweep him off his feet when he essayed to cross Sloop Run, down which it ran, unbroken, from the sea to the bluff. "Her Majesty's mail!" he muttered, echoing the thrill in the mailman's voice. "Her Majesty's mail!" When the light was stronger--but it was not yet break of day--he thought to make greater haste by risking more. Now and again he chanced himself on a suspicious-looking black sheet. Now and again he ran nimbly over many yards of rubber ice, which yielded and groaned, but did not break. Often he ventured where Arch Butt would not have dared take his massive body. All this he did, believing always that he should not delay the Gull Arm mailman, who might even then be waiting for him in Ruddy Cove. But when he had covered six miles of the route, he came to a wide channel which was not yet frozen over. It lay between two large pans. How far he might have to diverge from his course to cross without risk, he could not tell. He was impressed with the fact that, once across, the way lay clear before him--a long stretch of solid ice. "Sure, I must cross here," he thought. He sought for a large cake of floating ice, that he might ferry himself across with his gaff. None great enough to bear his weight was to be seen--none, at least, within reach of his gaff. There were small cakes a-plenty; these were fragments heavy enough to bear him for but an instant. Could he cross on them? He thought he might leap from one to the other so swiftly that none would be called upon to sustain his full weight, and thus pass safely over. With care he chose the path he would follow. Then, without hesitation, he leaped for the first cake--passed to the second--to the third--to the fourth--stepping so lightly from one to the other that the water did not touch the soles of his boots. In a moment, he was whistling on his way on the other side, leaving the channel ice bobbing excitedly behind him. Soon he broke off whistling and began to sing. On he trudged, piping merrily: 'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island, When daddy comes home from swilin',[6] Cakes and tea for breakfast, Pork and duff for dinner, Cakes and tea for supper, 'Way down on Pigeon Pond Island. At noon he came to an expanse of bad ice. He halted at the edge of it to eat a bit of the hard bread and dried venison in his nunny-bag. Then, forward again! He advanced with great caution, sounding every step, on the alert for thin places. A mile of this and he had grown weary. He was not so quick, not so sure, in his estimate of the strength of the ice. The wind, now blowing in stronger gusts, brought the water to his eyes and impaired his sight. He did not regret his undertaking, but he began ardently to wish that Creepy Bluff were nearer. Thus moved, his pace increased--with ever-increasing peril to himself. He must make haste! What befell the boy came suddenly. He trusted his feet to a drift of snow. Quick as a flash, and all unready, he was submerged in the water beneath. FOOTNOTE: [6] Sealing. CHAPTER XVII _Billy Topsail Wrings Out His Clothes and Finds Himself Cut off From Shore by Thirty Yards of Heaving Ice_ BILLY could swim--could swim like any Newfoundland dog bred in Green Bay. Moreover, the life he led--the rugged, venturesome calling of the shore fishermen--had inured him to sudden danger. First of all he freed himself from the cumbersome mail-bag. He would not have abandoned it had he not been in such case as when, as the Newfoundlanders say, it was "every hand for his life." Then he made for the surface with swift, strong strokes. A few more strokes brought him to the edge of the ice. He clambered out, still gasping for breath, and turned about to account to himself for his predicament. The drift of snow had collapsed; he observed that it had covered some part of a wide hole, and that the exposed water was almost of a colour with the ice beyond--a polished black. Hence, he did not bitterly blame himself for the false step, as he might have done had he plunged himself into obvious danger through carelessness. He did not wonder that he had been deceived. Her Majesty's mail, so far as the boy could determine, was slowly sinking to the bottom of the bay. There was no help in regret. To escape from the bitter wind and the dusk, now fast falling, was the present duty. He could think of all the rest when he had leisure to sit before the fire and dream. He took off his jacket and wrung it out--a matter of some difficulty, for it was already stiff with frost. His shirt followed--then his boots and his trousers. Soon he was stripped to his rosy skin. The wind, sweeping in from the open sea, stung him as it whipped past. When the last garment was wrung out he was shivering, and his teeth were chattering so fast that he could not keep them still. Dusk soon turns to night on this coast, and the night comes early. There was left but time enough to reach the first of the goat-paths at Creepy Bluff, two miles away--not time to finish the overland tramp to Ruddy Cove--before darkness fell. When he was about to dress, his glance chanced to pass over the water. The mail-bag--it could be nothing else--was floating twenty-yards off the ice. It had been prepared with cork for such accidents, which not infrequently befall it. "'Tis Her Majesty's mail, b'y," Billy could hear the mailman say. "But 'tis more than I can carry t' Ruddy Cove now," he thought. Nevertheless, he made no move to put on his shirt. He continued to look at the mail-bag. "'Tis the mail--gov'ment mail," he thought again. Then, after a rueful look at the water: "Sure, nobody'll know that it floated. 'Tis as much as I can do t' get myself safe t' Gull Cove. I'd freeze on the way t' Ruddy Cove." There was no comfort in these excuses. There, before him, was the bag. It was in plain sight. It had not sunk. He would fail in his duty to the country if he left it floating there. It was an intolerable thought! "'Tis t' Ruddy Cove I'll take that bag this day," he muttered. He let himself gingerly into the water, and struck out. It was bitter cold, but he persevered, with fine courage, until he had his arm safely linked through the strap of the bag. It was the country he served! In some vague form this thought sounded in his mind, repeating itself again and again, while he swam for the ice with the bag in tow. He drew himself out with much difficulty, hauled the mail-bag after him, and proceeded to dress with all speed. His clothes were frozen stiff, and he had to beat them on the ice to soften them; but the struggle to don them sent the rich blood rushing through his body, and he was warmed to a glow. On went the bag, and off went the boy. When he came to the firmer ice, and Creepy Bluff was within half a mile, the wind carried this cheery song up the bay: Lukie's boat is painted green, The finest boat that ever was seen; Lukie's boat has cotton sails, A juniper rudder and galvanized nails. At Creepy Bluff, which the wind strikes with full force, the ice was breaking up inshore. The gale had risen with the coming of the night. Great seas spent their force beneath the ice--cracking it, breaking it, slowly grinding it to pieces against the rocks. The Bluff marks the end of the bay. No ice forms beyond. Thus the waves swept in with unbroken power, and were fast reducing the shore cakes to a mass of fragments. Paul was cut off from the shore by thirty yards of heaving ice. No bit of it would bear his weight; nor, so fine had it been ground, could he leap from place to place as he had done before. "'Tis sprawl I must," he thought. The passage was no new problem. He had been in such case more than once upon his return from the offshore seal-hunt. Many fragments would together bear him up, where few would sink beneath him. He lay flat on his stomach, and, with the gaff to help support him, crawled out from the solid place, dragging the bag. His body went up and down with the ice. Now an arm was thrust through, again a leg went under water. Progress was fearfully slow. Inch by inch he gained on the shore--crawling--crawling steadily. All the while he feared that the great pans would drift out and leave the fragments room to disperse. Once he had to spread wide his arms and legs and pause until the ice was packed closer. "Two yards more--only two yards more!" he could say at last. Once on the road to Ruddy Cove, which he well knew, his spirits rose; and with a cheery mood came new strength. It was a rough road, up hill and down again, through deep snowdrifts and over slippery rocks. Night fell; but there was light enough to show the way, save in the deeper valleys, and there he had to struggle along as best he might. Step after step, hill after hill, thicket after thicket: cheerfully he trudged on; for the mail-bag was safe on his back, and Ruddy Cove was but three miles distant. Three was reduced to two, two to one, one to the last hill. From the crest of Ruddy Rock he could look down on the lights of the harbour--yellow lights, lying in the shadows of the valley. There was a light in the post-office. They were waiting for him there--waiting for their letters--waiting to send the mail on to the north. In a few minutes he could say that Her Majesty's mail had been brought safe to Ruddy Cove. * * * * * "Be the mail come?" Billy looked up from his seat by the roaring fire in the post-office. An old woman had come in. There was a strange light in her eyes--the light of a hope which survives, spite of repeated disappointment. "Sure, Aunt Esther; 'tis here at last." "Be there a letter for me?" Billy hoped that there was. He longed to see those gentle eyes shine--to see the famished look disappear. "No, Aunt Esther; 'tis not come yet. Maybe 'twill come next----" "Sure, I've waited these three year," she said, with a trembling lip. "'Tis from me son----" "Ha!" cried the postmaster. "What's this? 'Tis all blurred by the water. 'Missus E--s--B--l--g--e--l.' Sure, 'tis you, woman. 'Tis a letter for you at last!" "'Tis from me son!" the old woman muttered eagerly. "'Tis t' tell me where he is, an'--an'--when he's comin' home. Thank God, the mail came safe the night." What if Billy had left the mail-bag to soak and sink in the waters of the bay? What if he had failed in his duty to the people? How many other such letters might there not be in that bag for the mothers and fathers of the northern ports? "Thank God," he thought, "that Her Majesty's mail came safe the night!" Then he went off home, and met Bobby Lot on the way. "Hello!" said Bobby. "Got back?" "Hello yourself!" said Billy. "I did." They eyed each other delightedly; they were too boyish to shake hands. "How's the ice?" asked Bobby Lot. "Not bad," said Billy. CHAPTER XVIII _In Which Billy Topsail Joins the Whaler Viking and a School is Sighted_ OF a sunny afternoon the Newfoundland coastal steamer _Clyde_ dropped Billy Topsail at Snook's Arm, the lair of the whaler _Viking_: a deep, black inlet of the sea, fouled by the blood and waste flesh of forgotten victims, from the slimy edge of which, where a score of whitewashed cottages were squatted, the rugged hills lifted their heads to the clean blue of the sky and fairly held their noses. It was all the manager's doing. Billy had but given him direction through the fog from Mad Mull to the landing place of the mail-boat. This was at Ruddy Cove, in the spring, when the manager was making an annual visit to the old skipper. "If you want a berth for the summer, Billy," he had said, "you can be ship's boy on the _Viking_." On the _Viking_--the whaler! Billy was not in doubt. And so it came to pass, in due course of time, that the _Clyde_ dropped him at Snook's Arm. At half-past three of the next morning, when the dark o' night was but lightened by a rosy promise out to sea, the _Viking's_ lines were cast off. At half speed the little steamer moved out upon the quiet waters of the Arm, where the night still lay thick and cold--slipped with a soft chug! chug! past the high, black hills; factory and cottages melting with the mist and shadows astern, and the new day glowing in the eastern sky. She was an up-to-date, wide-awake little monster, with seventy-five kills to her credit in three months, again composedly creeping from the lair to the hunt, equipped with deadly weapons of offense. "'Low we'll get one the day, sir?" Billy asked the cook. "Wonderful quiet day," replied the cook, dubiously. "'Twill be hard fishin'." The fin-back whale is not a stupid, passive monster, to be slaughtered off-hand; nor is the sea a well-ordered shambles. Within the experience of the _Viking's_ captain, one fin-back wrecked a schooner with a quick slap of the tail, and another looked into the forecastle of an iron whaler from below. The fin-back is the biggest, fleetest, shyest whale of them all; until an ingenious Norwegian invented the harpoon gun, they wallowed and multiplied in the Newfoundland waters undisturbed. They were quite safe from pursuit; no whaler of the old school dreamed of taking after them in his cockle shell--they were too wary and fleet for that. "Ay," the cook repeated; "on a day like this a whale can _play_ with the _Viking_." The _Viking_ was an iron screw-steamer, designed for chasing whales, and for nothing else. She was mostly engines, winches and gun. She could slip along, without much noise, at sixteen knots an hour; and she could lift sixty tons from the bottom of the sea with her little finger. Her gun--the swivel gun, with a three-inch bore, pitched at the bow, clear of everything--could drive a four-foot, 123-pound harpoon up to the hilt in the back of a whale if within range; and the harpoon itself--it protruded from the muzzle of the gun, with the rope attached to the shaft and coiled below--was a deadly missile. It was tipped with an iron bomb, which was designed to explode in the quarry's vitals when the rope snapped taut, and with half a dozen long barbs, which were to spread and take hold at the same instant. "Well," Billy Topsail sighed, his glance on the gun and the harpoon, "if they hits a whale, that there arrow ought t' do the work!" "It does," said the cook, quietly. All morning long, they were all alive on deck--every man of that Norwegian crew, from the grinning man in the crow's nest, which was lashed to a stubby yellow mast, to the captain on the gun platform, with the glass to his eyes, and the stokers who stuck their heads out of the engine room for a breath of fresh air. The squat, grim little _Viking_ was speeding across Notre Dame Bay, with a wide, frothy wake behind her, and the water curling from her bows. She was for all the world like a man making haste to business in the morning, the appointment being, in this case, off a low, gray coast, which the lifting haze was but then disclosing. It was broad day: the sea was quiet, the sun shining brightly, the sky a cloudless blue; a fading breeze ruffled the water, and the ripples flashed in the sunlight. Dead ahead and far away, where the gray of the coast rocks shaded to the blue of the sea, little puffs of spray were drifting off with the light wind, like the puff of smoke from a distant rifle: they broke and drifted and vanished. From time to time mirror-flashes of light--swift little flashes--struck Billy's eyes and darted away. Puff after puff of spray, flash after flash of light: the far-off sea seemed to be alive with the quarry. But where was the thrilling old cry of "There she blows!" or its Norwegian equivalent? The lookout had but spoken a quiet word to the captain, who, in turn, had spoken a quiet word to the steersman. "W'ales," said the captain, whose English had its limitations. "Ho--far off!" CHAPTER XIX _In which the Chase is Kept up and the Captain Promises Himself a Kill_ THE number of whales was less than the captain of the _Viking_ had thought. When the vessel came up with the school, however, there were twenty or more fin-backs to pick and choose from. They lay on every hand, wallowing at the surface of the sea and spouting thick, low streams of water with evident delight: whales far and near, big and small, in pairs and threes, rising and gently sinking, blowing and _hon-g-king_, and, at last, arching their broad, finned backs for the long dive. The breathing spell was of two or three minutes' duration, the dive of five or ten, and might last much longer. Billy was told that as the whales went thus, rising and diving, they travelled in a circle, feeding on young caplin and herring, squid and crustaceans. He had never thought to admire the grace of a whale; but his admiration was compelled: the ponderous, ill-proportioned monsters were so perfectly adapted to the element they were in that the languor and grace with which they moved was a delight--particularly when they arched their glistening black backs and softly, languidly vanished. But meantime the _Viking_ was lying silent and still; and-- "_Hon-g-k!_" from off the port bow. "Ha!" exclaimed the captain. A big whale had risen. The long "_Hon-g-k!_" as he had inhaled a small cyclone of breath was sufficient to tell that. He was big and he was near. "Full speed!" quietly from the captain in Norwegian. The steersman had already spun the wheel without orders. The _Viking_ swung in a half circle and made for the whale at top speed. There was just a quiver of excitement abroad--a deepening glitter in the eyes of the crew, and silence. The rush was upon the whale from behind--instant, swift, straight: the engines chug-chugged and the water swished noisily at the bows. There was no lying in ambush, no stalking: it was sight your game and make for him. The captain leaned lazily on the gun, which he had not yet swung into position for firing; his legs were crossed, though the whale was not a hundred yards away, and he was placidly smoking his pipe. The fin-back lay dead ahead now, apparently unconscious of the _Viking's_ approach, and she was soon so near that his escape seemed to Billy to be beyond the barest chance. The captain waved his hand, calmly looked over the sea, and fell again into his careless position, with one eye on the whale. At once the engines stopped and the _Viking_ slipped softly on with diminishing speed. When she was within thirty yards of the whale, each separate muscle of Billy's body was tight with excitement--but the whale arched his back and slipped down deep into the water with a contemptuous swing of his broad, strong tail. "Psh-h!" exclaimed the captain, giving one slippered foot a kick with the other. "Psh!" They were running over a stretch of frothy, swirling water, where the whale had lain a moment before. "_Hon-g-k_!" from off the starboard quarter. The captain signaled the steersman, who shouted "Full speed!" down the wheel-house tube. In a flash they were chug-chugging in haste after another whale--which eluded them at once, with no more fuss than the first had made: no blowing and frantic splashing; just a lifting of the back and a languid swing of the tail. Thus the third, the fourth, the fifth: again and again, through the hours of that quiet morning, they gave chase; but all to no purpose--on the contrary, indeed, with the bad effect of alarming the whole school. The whales made sport of them; the flash of their fins, as they slipped away beyond pursuit, was most aggravating. Soon the captain's "Psh!" became guttural, and communicated itself to the man in the crow's-nest and the engineer who was off duty; the elusive fin-backs were too much for the patience of them all. But for hours the "old man" leaned on the gun and smoked his pipe, intent on the chase through every moment of that time. He kicked his right foot with his left; his broad back shook with rage; strange ejaculations drifted back with the clouds of tobacco smoke: that was all. Repeated disappointment but heightened the alertness and eagerness of the crew. Every lost whale was dismissed with a "Psh-h!" and quite forgotten in the pursuit of the next one. Nine hours out from Snook's Arm and six with the school without pointing a gun! "Agh!" the captain exclaimed, jumping from the gun platform, at last, "the whale captain have the worst business of all men. Agh! but I wish for rough seas. But I wish I had my harpoon in the back of some whale." All days are not blue. Before the summer was over, Billy Topsail learned there were times when the _Viking_ put out from the shelter of Snook's Arm to a sea that _is_ rough. A gale from the northeast, gray and gusty, whips up the white horses, and frost gives new weight to the water. Wind and fog and high seas and sleet make the chase perilous as well as bitter. She stumbles through the waves and wallows in the trough with a clear-cut duty before her--to catch and kill a whale: the little niceties of dodging breaking waves cannot be indulged in when all manoevering must be directed towards coming up with the quarry from the proper firing-quarter. But Billy's first day was clear and quiet; and the whales were having a glorious innings with the enemy. * * * * * By noon the prospects for a kill had faded to a bare possibility; the school had been well scattered. Down the coast and up the coast, out to sea and far away across the bay, puffs of spray made known the various directions the whales had taken. About two o'clock--ten hours out from Snook's Arm, with no let up in duty--the crew were attracted by the deep, long _hon-g-k_ of a big fellow out to sea and by the spouting of his two companions: a group of three, male and female, doubtless, with a well-grown young one. They gave chase. Captain and crew had come to that pass when fury gets the better of patience. It was determined to hunt that little school to the death or until deep night put an end to the chase. "I get 'im," said the captain between his teeth. "He is big. I get him--or none." It was not easy to get him. They were led twenty miles to sea in short rushes, each of which ended in disappointment and elicited a storm of guttural ejaculations; they were lured inshore, where submerged rocks were a menace; they were taken up the coast and back again towards the islands of the lower shore and once more to sea. Mile after mile--hour after hour! They came near--they could have hit the beast with a stone. Occasionally the captain swung the gun into position and put a hand on the trigger; but the arching back always gave notice, in good time, that he had been balked again. They tried to guess the point where the quarry would rise; they steamed near that point, and lay there waiting. "_Hon-g-k_!" from half a mile astern. "Agh!" cried the captain, chagrin twisting his face. "The whale captain have pos--ee--tiv--lee the worst----! Full speed!" Off again in persistent chase. Meantime the sun had declined; evening was drawing on, with gray clouds mounting in the west, and a breeze rising inshore. The sea was spread with shadow, and all the ripples grew to little waves, which, hissing as they broke, obscured the swish of water at our bows. The opportunity was better, and the whales, it may be, had acquired the inevitable contempt that familiarity breeds. The _Viking_ crept nearer. Each time, a little nearer; and, by and by, when she had come within range--within range for the first time that day--and was running at half speed, with the grayish-black backs most temptingly exposed, the captain dropped the muzzle of the gun, took swift sight, and--swung the gun around with impatient force! The whale was gone on the long dive before a vital spot had been exposed. There was no impatience of action aboard the _Viking_: the harpoon might even then have been fast in the whale's back, but the captain had coolly withheld his stroke until the opportunity should be precisely what he sought. And this display of patience after a fruitless chase of fifteen hours! Billy Topsail gasped his disappointment. But the captain laughed. "I get him yet," he said. "Soon, now," after a look at sea and darkening sky. CHAPTER XX _The Mate of the Fin-Back Whale Rises for the Last Time, With a Blood-Red Sunset Beyond, and Billy Topsail Says, "Too bad!"_ HALF a mile ahead the whales rose. The _Viking_ crept near without giving alarm, and waited for them to dive and rise again. The warning swish and _hon-g-k_ sounded next from off the port bow. There was a shout from the crew. The school lay close in, headed away; they were splashing and blissfully _hon-g-king_--and the _Viking_ not fifty yards distant. She was upon them from behind before they had well drawn breath. Steam was shut off. The captain's eye was at the butt of the gun, and his hand was on the trigger. The boat crept nearer--so near that Billy Topsail could have leaped from the bow to the back of the young whale; and she was fast losing way. But it was not the young whale that the captain wanted. He held his fire. Down went the young one. Down went the bull whale. But had he arched his back? The old female wallowed a moment longer and dived with arched back. She barely escaped the _Viking's_ bows and might have been mortally harpooned with ease. But it was not the female that the captain wanted. It was the big male. There was not a whale in sight. Still the captain kept his eye at the butt of the gun and his hand on the trigger. A moment later--the steamer was slipping along very slowly--the water ahead was disturbed. The back of the bull whale appeared. A stream of water shot into the air and broke like a fountain. The _Viking_ kept pace--gained; momentarily creeping nearer, until the range was but ten yards. Then the whale, as though taking alarm, arched his back; and---- Bang! The puff of smoke drifted away. Billy Topsail caught sight of the harpoon, sunk to the hilt in the whale's side. Then the waters closed over the wounded beast. "Ha!" cried the captain, jumping from the platform, and strutting about with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. "Did you see me? Ha! It is over!" A cheer broke from the crew. The men ran forward to their stations at the winch. "Ha!" the captain repeated with intense satisfaction, his ruddy face wreathed in smiles. "Did you see me? Ha-a-a-a! It is a dead w'ale." [Illustration: "IT IS A DEAD W'ALE!"] The harpoon line was paying out slowly, controlled by a big steam winch--a gigantic fishing reel. The engines were stopped; but the _Viking_ was going forward at a lively rate as the catch plunged down and on. Minute after minute slipped away--five minutes; then the rope slackened somewhat, and, a moment later, the big whale came to the surface and spouted streams of blood--streams as red as the streak of sunset light in the gray sky beyond him. He floundered there in agony, blowing and _hon-g-king_ and beating the sea with his tail: turning the water crimson with his blood. It took him a long, long time to die, frightfully torn by the bomb though he was. He dived and rose and coughed; and at last he sank slowly down, down, and still down; drawing out a hundred and forty fathom of line: straight down to the bottom of the sea in that place. From time to time the captain touched the rope with his fingers; and when the tremour of life had passed from it he gave the signal to haul away. Half an hour later the carcass of the monster was inflated with gas, lying belly up at the surface of the water, and lashed by the tail to the port bow of the steamer. Off the starboard quarter--far away where the dusk had gathered--the mate of the dead whale rose, _hon-g-ked_, dived and was seen no more. "Too bad!" muttered Billy Topsail. CHAPTER XXI _In Which Billy Topsail Goes Fishing in Earnest. Concerning, also, Feather's Folly of the Devil's Teeth, Mary Robinson, and the Wreck of the Fish Killer_ FEATHER'S FOLLY was one of a group of troublesome islands lying off Cape Grief on the way to the Labrador. Surveyed by a generously inaccurate apprentice it might have measured an acre. It was as barren as an old bone; but a painstaking man, with unimpaired eyesight, if he lingered long and lovingly enough over the task, could doubtless have discovered more than one blade of grass. There is no adjective in the English language adequate to describe its forbidding appearance as viewed from the sea in a gale of wind. On the chart it was a mere dot--a nameless rock, the outermost of a group most happily called the Devil's Teeth. To the Labrador fishermen, bound north from Newfoundland in the spring, bound south, with their loads of green cod, in the fall, it was the Cocked Hat. This name, too, is aptly descriptive; many a schooner, caught in the breakers, had, as the old proverb hath it, been knocked into that condition, or worse. But to the folk of the immediate coast, and especially of Hulk's Harbour, which lies within sight on the mainland, it was for long known as Feather's Folly. Old Bill Feather had once been wrecked on the Cocked Hat. The little _Lucky Lass_, bound to Hulk's Harbour from the Hen-and-Chickens, and sunk to the scupper-holes with green fish, had struck in a fog. Four minutes later she had gone down with all hands save Bill. An absentminded breaker had deposited him high and dry on a ledge of the northeast cliff; needless to say, it was much to Bill's surprise. For five days the castaway had shivered and starved on the barren rock. This was within sight of the chimney-smoke of home--of the harbour tickle, of the cottage roofs; even, in clear weather, of the flakes and stage of his own place. "It won't happen again," vowed Bill, when they took his lean, sore hulk home. What Bill did--what he planned and accomplished in the face of ridicule and adverse fortune--earned the rock the name of Feather's Folly in that neighbourhood. "Anyhow," old Bill was in the habit of repeating, to defend himself, "I 'low it won't happen again. An' I'll _see_ that it don't!" But season followed season, without event; and the Cocked Hat was still known as Feather's Folly. Billy Topsail was to learn this. * * * * * It was early in the spring of the year--too early by half, the old salts said, for Labrador craft to put out from the Newfoundland ports. Thick, vagrant fogs, drifting with the variable winds, were abroad on all the coast; and the Arctic current was spread with drift ice from the upper shores and with great bergs from the glaciers of the far north. But Skipper Libe Tussel, of the thirty-ton _Fish Killer_, hailing from Ruddy Cove, was a firm believer in the fortunes of the early bird; moreover, he was determined that the skipper of the _Cod Trap_, hailing from Fortune, should not this season preëmpt his trap-berth on the Thigh Bone fishing grounds. So the _Fish Killer_ was underway for the north, early as it was; and she was cheerily game to face the chances of wind and ice, if only she might beat the _Cod Trap_ to the favourable opportunities of the Thigh Bone grounds off Indian Harbour. "It's thick," Robinson remarked to the skipper. "_'Tis_ thick." Billy Topsail, now grown old enough for the adventurous voyage to the Labrador coast, was aboard; and he listened to this exchange with a deal of interest. It was his first fishing voyage; he had been north in the _Rescue_, to be sure, but that was no more than a cruise, undertaken to relieve the starving fishermen of the upper harbours. At last, he was fishing in earnest--really aboard the _Fish Killer_, bound north, there to fish the summer through, in all sorts of weather, with a share in the catch at the end of it! He was vastly delighted by this: for 'twas a man's work he was about, and 'twas a man's work he was wanting to do. "Thick as mud," said Robinson, with a little shiver. "'S mud," the skipper responded, in laconic agreement. And it _was_ thick! The fog had settled at mid-day. A fearsome array of icebergs had then been in sight, and the low coast, with the snow still upon it, had to leeward shone in the brilliant sunlight. But now, with the afternoon not yet on the wane, the day had turned murky and damp. A bank of black fog had drifted in from the open sea. Ice and shore had disappeared. The limit of vision approached, possibly, but did not attain, twenty-five yards. The weather was thick, indeed; the schooner seemed to be winging along through a boundless cloud; and there was a smart breeze blowing, and the circle of sea, in the exact centre of which the schooner floated, was choppy and black. "Thick enough," Skipper Libe echoed, thoughtfully. "But," he added, "you wouldn't advise heavin' to, would you?" "No, no!" Robinson exclaimed. "I'm too anxious to get to Indian Harbour." "And I," muttered the skipper, with an anxious look ahead, "to make the Thigh Bone grounds. But----" "Give her all the wind she'll carry," said Robinson. "It won't bother me." "I thinks," the skipper continued, ignoring the interruption, "that I'll shorten sail. For," said he, "I'm thinkin' the old girl might bleed at the nose if she happened t' bump a berg." While the crew reduced the canvas, Robinson went below. He was the Hudson's Bay Company's agent at Dog Arm of the Labrador, which is close to Indian Harbour. In January, with his invalid daughter in a dog-sled, he had journeyed from that far place to Desolate Bay of Newfoundland, and thence by train to St. John's. It had been a toilsome, dangerous, incredibly bitter experience. But he had forgotten that, nor had he ever complained of it; his happiness was that his child had survived the surgeons' operation, had profited in ease and hope, had already been restored near to her old sunny health. Early in the spring, word of the proposed sailing of the _Fish Killer_ from Ruddy Cove had come to him at St. John's; and he had taken passage with Skipper Libe, no more, it must be said, because he wished Mary's mother to know the good news (she had had no word since his departure) than because he was breathlessly impatient once more to be serving the company's interests at Dog Arm. To Mary and her father Skipper Libe had with seamanlike courtesy abandoned the tiny cabin. The child was lying in the skipper's own berth--warmly covered, comfortably tucked in, provided with a book to read by the light of the swinging lamp. "Are you happy, dear?" her father asked. "Oh, yes!" The man took the child's hand. "I'm sometimes sorry," he said, "that we didn't wait for the mail-boat. The _Fish Killer_ is a pretty tough craft for a little girl to be aboard." "Sorry?" was the instant response, made with a little smile. "I'm not. I'm glad. Isn't Cape Grief close to leeward? Well, then, father, we're half way home. Think of it! _We're--half--way--home!_" The father laughed. "And we might have been waiting at St. John's," the child continued, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, father, I'd rather be aboard the _Fish Killer_ off Grief Head than in the very best room of the Crosbie Hotel. Half way home!" she repeated. "Half way home!" "Half way is a long way." "But it's half way!" "On this coast," the father sighed, "no man is home until he gets there." "It's a fair wind." "And the fog as thick as mud." "But they've reefed the mains'l; they've stowed the stays'l; they've got the tops'l down. Haven't you heard them? I've been listening----" "_What's that!_" Robinson cried. It was a mere ejaculation of terror. He had no need to ask the question. Even Mary knew well enough what had happened. The _Fish Killer_ had struck an iceberg bow on. The shock; the crash forward; the clatter of a falling topmast; the cries on deck: these things were alive with the fearful information. CHAPTER XXII _The Crew of the Fish Killer Finds Refuge on an Iceberg, and Discovers Greater Safety Elsewhere, after Which the Cook is Mistaken for a Fool, but puts the Crew to Shame_ ROBINSON caught the child from the berth. He paused--it was an instinct born of Labrador experience--to wrap a blanket about her, though she was clothed for the day. She reminded him quietly that she would catch cold without her cap; and this he snatched in passing. Then he was on deck--in the midst of a litter from aloft and of a vast confusion of terrified cries. Before she struck, the _Fish Killer_ had ascended a gently shelving beach of ice, washed smooth by the sea. There she hung precariously. Her stem was low, so low that the choppy sea came aboard and swamped the cabin; and the bow was high on the ice. Her bowsprit was in splinters, her topmast on deck, her spliced mainmast tottering; she was the bedraggled wreck of a craft. Beyond, the berg towered into the fog, stretched into the fog; only a broken wall of blue-white ice was visible. The butt of the bowsprit overhung a wide ledge. To scramble to the shattered extremity, to hang by the hands, to drop to safe foothold: this would all have been easy for children. The impulse was to seek the solid berg in haste before the schooner had time to fall away and sink. Robinson ran forward. "Got that kid?" Skipper Libe demanded. "Ah, you has! Billy Topsail!" he roared. Billy answered. "Get ashore on that ice!" the skipper ordered. Billy ran out on the broken bowsprit and dropped to the berg. He looked back expectantly. "Take the kid!" A push sent Robinson on the same road. He dropped Mary into Billy's waiting arms. Then he, too, looked back for orders. "Ashore with you!" Robinson swung by the hands and dropped. Before he let go his hands he had felt the vessel quiver and begin to recede from her position. "Now, men," said the skipper, "grub! She'll be off in a minute." Every man of them leaped willingly to the imperative duty. The food was in the forecastle and hold; they disappeared. Skipper Libe kept watch on deck. With the waves restless beneath her stern, the schooner was perilously insecure. She was gradually working her way back to the sea. The briefest glance below had already assured Skipper Libe that her timbers were hopelessly sprung. She was old--rotten with age and hard service. The water was pouring in forward and amidships; it ran aft in a flood, contributing its weight to the vessel's inclination to slip away from the berg. It was slow in the beginning, this retreat; but through every moment the movement was accelerated. Five minutes--four--three: in a space too brief to be counted upon she would be wallowing in the sea. "Haste!" the skipper screamed. Waiting was out of the question. The _Fish Killer_ was about to drop into the sea. Though the men had but tumbled into the forecastle--though as yet they had had no time to seize the food of which to-morrow would find them in desperate need--the skipper roared the order to return. "Ashore! Ashore!" he shouted. They came back more willingly, more expeditiously, than they had gone; and they came back empty-handed. Not a man among them had so much as a single biscuit. "Jim!" said the skipper. With that, Jim Tall, the cook, clambered out on the bowsprit. The others of the crew waited, each with an anxious eye upon the skipper. "Bill!" No sooner was Jim Tall at the end of the bowsprit than Bill was underway. The skipper grimly watched his terrified progress. "Jack!" In turn, Jack Sop scrambled out and dropped to the berg. The schooner was fast receding from the ledge. Alexander Budge, John Swan, Archibald Mann, completing the fishing crew, with the exception of Tom Watt, the first hand, and the skipper, won the ice. "Now, Tom!" said the skipper. "You, sir!" "Tom!" Skipper Libe roared; and you may be sure that Tom Watt waited no longer. Only the skipper was left. The change from his passive attitude--from his unbending, reposeful attitude, with a hand carelessly laid on the windlass--was so sudden and unequivocal that Jim Tall, the cook, who was ever the wag of the crew, startled even himself with laughter. It was instant. Skipper Libe in a flash turned from a petrified man into a terrified and marvellously agile monkey. He bounded for the bowsprit, nimbly ran the broken length of it, and there stood swaying. The vessel was now so far from the ledge, and so fast receding, that he paused. Delay had but one issue. This was so apparent that horror tied the tongues of the crew. Not a cry of warning was uttered. The situation was too intense, too brief, for utterance. "Tom," said the skipper to the first hand, "catch!" He leaped. "Skipper," said Tom Watt, in the uttermost confusion, an instant later, "glad t' see you! Come in! You isn't a minute too early." In this way, proceeding with admirable self-possession, the souls aboard the _Fish Killer_ jumped from the frying-pan. Whether or not it was into the fire was not for a moment in doubt. When the schooner had once fairly reached the sea, which immediately happened, she sank. They saw her waver, slowly settle, disappear; when her topmast went tottering under water the end had come. Whatever may be said of a frying-pan, nobody can accuse the crew of the _Fish Killer_ of having come within reach of a fire. Aboard the berg it was cold--awfully cold. Icebergs carry an atmosphere of that sort even into the Gulf Stream; they radiate cold so effectively that the captains of steamers take warning and evade them. It was cold--very, very cold. There was nothing to temper the numbing bitterness of the situation. And what the night might bring could only be surmised. * * * * * Though they were born to lives of hardship and peril, though they had long been used to the chances of the sea, not one of the castaways had ever before fallen into a predicament so barren of hope. Flung on an iceberg, adrift on the wild North Atlantic, derelict where no ships passed, at the mercy of the capricious winds, without food or fire: there seemed to be no possibility of escape. But for a time they did not despair; and, moreover, for a time each felt it a high duty to make light of the situation, to joke of cold-storage and polar bears, that the spirits of the others might be encouraged. As dusk approached, however, the ghastly humour failed. Ruin, agony, grief, imminent death; in the moody silence, they dwelt, rather, upon these things. It was not yet dark when a faint shock, a hardly perceptible shiver, a crash from aloft, a subsiding rumble, apprised the castaways of a portentous change of condition. "What's that, now?" growled the cook. It was a cruelly anxious moment. Only the event itself would determine whether or not the berg was to turn turtle. They waited. "She's grounded, I 'low!" exclaimed the skipper. There was no further disturbance. Whatever had happened, the equilibrium of the berg had been maintained. "I'm thinkin'," said the skipper, "that I'll take a little look about." The skipper's "little look about" developed what appeared to be a saving opportunity. The berg had grounded; it had also jammed a wandering pack of drift-ice against the land. What that shore was, whether mainland or island, the skipper did not wait to ascertain; it was sufficient for him to know that the survivors of the _Fish Killer_ might escape from a disintegrating berg to solid ground. He returned, breathless, with the enlivening news; and in lively fashion, which almost approached a panic, the castaways abandoned the berg. It was a hard, painful, dangerous scramble, made in the failing light, and the cook had an unwelcome bath in the icy water between two pans; but it had a successful issue. Before dark, they were all ashore--more hopeful, now, than they had been, but still staring death in the face. So curious was Skipper Libe that, taking advantage of the last of the light, he set out to discover the character of the refuge. He returned discouraged. "'Tis but a rock," said he. "'Tis no more than a speck o' land." Then night fell. Robinson's little daughter was by this time on the point of succumbing to the exposure. Cold, hunger and despair had reduced her to a pitiable silence. She was in the extremity of physical exhaustion. They made a deep hollow in the snow in the shelter of a declivity of rock; and there they bestowed her, gladly yielding their jackets to provide her with such comfort as they could. But this was small mitigation of the hardship. The child was still hopeless and cold. It was sadly apparent that she could not survive the night. And Robinson knew that to-morrow and to-morrow--a long stretch of days--lay before them all. There was no hope for a frail body; weakness was death. In his heart he frankly admitted that he was about to lose his child. He lay down beside her. "Mary, dear," he pleaded, "don't give up!" She pressed his hand. "Don't give up!" he repeated. A wan smile came and went. "I can't help it," she whispered. Skipper Libe and his men withdrew. It was now near midnight. The fog was lifting. Stars twinkled in patches of black sky. Low towards the seaward horizon the moon was breaking through the clouds. Suddenly the cook sat bolt upright. "Skipper," he demanded, "where is we?" "On the Devil's Teeth." "An' what rock's this?" "This?" "Ay--_this_!" "I'd not be s'prised," the skipper answered, "if 'tis what they calls the Cocked Hat." "Feather's Folly!" roared the cook. "Which?" said the skipper, suspiciously. The cook was on his feet--dancing in glad excitement. "Feather's Folly!" he shouted "Feather's Folly!" "Catch un!" said the skipper, quietly. "He've gone mad." They set upon the poor cook. Before he could escape they had him fast. He was tripped, thrown, sat upon. "Don't let him up," the skipper warned. "He'll do hisself hurt. Poor man!" he sighed. "He've lost his senses." "Mad!" screamed the cook. "_You're_ mad. Feather's Folly! We're saved!" "Hold un tight," said the skipper. But the cook was not to be held. He wriggled free and bolted. Billy Topsail and all took after him, the skipper in the lead; and by the dim, changing light of that night he led them a mad chase over rock and through drifted snow. They pursued, they headed him off, they laid hold of his flying coat-tail; but he eluded them, dodged, sped, doubled. If he were mad, there was method in his madness. He was searching every square yard of that acre of uneven rock. At last, panting and perspiring, he came to a full stop and turned triumphantly upon his pursuers. He had found what he sought. "Mad!" he laughed. "Who's mad, now? Eh? Who's crazy?" The crew stared. "Who's crazy?" the cook roared. "Look at that! What d'ye make o' that?" "It looks," the skipper admitted, "like salvation!" * * * * * Old man Feather had indeed "seen that it wouldn't happen again." He had provided for castaways on the Cocked Hat. There was a tight little hut in the lee of the Bishop's Nose; within, there were provisions and blankets and fire-wood and candles. Moreover, in the sprawling, misspelled welcome, tacked to the wall, there was even the heartening information that "seegars is in the kityun tabl." The passengers and crew of the _Fish Killer_ were soon warm and satisfied. They spent a happy night--a night so changed, so cozy, so bountiful, that they blessed old man Feather until their tongues were tired. And old man Feather, himself, who kept watch on the Cocked Hat with a spy-glass, took them off to Hulk's Harbour in the clear weather of the next day. "An' did you find the cigars, skipper?" he whispered, with a wide, proud grin. "Us did." "An' was they good? Hist! now," the old fellow repeated, with a wink of mystery, "_wasn't_ they good?" "Well," the skipper drawled, not ungraciously, you may be sure, "the cook made bad weather of it. But he double-reefed hisself an' lived through. 'Twas the finest an' the first cigar he ever seed." The old man chuckled delightedly. CHAPTER XXIII _In Which the Clerk of the Trader Tax Yarns of a Madman in the Cabin_ THE trading-schooner _Tax_ of Ruddy Cove had come down from the Labrador. She was riding at anchor in the home harbour, with her hold full of salt fish and the goods in her cabin run sadly low. Billy Topsail, safely back from Feather's Folly, and doomed by the wreck of the _Fish Killer_ to spend the summer in the quieter pursuits of Ruddy Cove, had gone aboard to greet the crew. There was hot tea on the forecastle table, and the crew was yarning to a jolly, brown grinning lot of Ruddy folk, who had come aboard. It was Cook, the clerk, a merry, blue-eyed little man, who told the story of the madman in the cabin. "We were lying in Shelter Harbour," said he, "waiting for a fair wind to Point-o'-Bay. It was coming close to night when they saw him leaping along shore and kicking a tin kettle as though 'twas a football. I was in the cabin, putting the stock to rights after the day's trade. I heard the hail and the skipper's answering, 'Ay ay! This is the trader _Tax_ from Ruddy Cove.' Then the skipper sung out to know if I wanted a customer. Customer? To be sure I wanted one! "'If he has a gallon of oil or a pound of fish,' said I, 'fetch him aboard.' "'He looks queer,' said the skipper. "'Queer he may look,' said I, 'and queer he may be, but his fish will be first cousins to the ones in the hold, and I'll barter for them.' "With that the skipper put off in the punt to fetch the customer; but when he drew near shore he lay on his oars, something puzzled, I'm thinking, for the customer was dancing a hornpipe on a flat rock at the water's edge, by the first light of the moon. "'Have you got a fish t' trade?' said the skipper. "'Good-evenin', skipper, sir,' said the queer customer, after a last kick and flourish. 'I've a quintal or two an' a cask o' oil that I'm wantin' bad t' trade away.' "He was rational as you please; so the skipper was thrown off his guard, took him aboard, and pulled out. "'You're quite a dancer,' said he. "'Hut!' said the man. 'That's nothin' at all. When the moon's full an' high, sir, I dances over the waves; an' when they's a gale blowin' I goes aloft t' the clouds an' shakes a foot up there.' "'Do you, now?' said the skipper, not knowing whether to take this in joke or earnest. "'Believe _me_, sir,' said the man, with the gravest of faces, 'I'm a wonderful dancer.' "I was on deck when they came aboard. It was then dusk. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary in my customer's appearance. He was a large, big-boned man, well supplied with fat and muscle, and capable, as I thought at the moment, of enduring all the toil and hardship to which the men of that coast are exposed. The skipper handed him over to me without a word of warning, and went below to the forecastle, for the wind was blowing cold and misty." "Oh, well," the skipper broke in from his place in a bunk, "how could I tell that he was mad?" "Whatever, Skipper Job," the clerk resumed, with a twinkle in his eye, "I took him into the cabin, and the crew and you were snug enough in the forecastle, where no hail of mine could reach you. It was not until then," he resumed, "when the light of the cabin lamp fell full upon him, that I had a proper appreciation of my customer's size and strength--not until then that I marked the deathly pallour of his face and the strange light in his eyes. He was frowsy, dirty, dressed in ragged moleskin cloth; and he had a habit of looking to right and left and aloft--anywhere, it appeared, but straight in my face--so that I caught no more than a red flash from his eyes from time to time. I felt uneasy, without being able to account to myself for the feeling; so, anxious to be well rid of him, I asked, abruptly, in what I could serve him. "'I'm thinkin' you'll not be havin' the thing I wants,' said he. "That touched me on a tender spot. 'I'm thinking,' said I, 'that we've a little of all that you ever thought of.' "'I don't think you has,' said he, 'but 'twould be best for you if you had.' "There was a hidden meaning in that. Why should it be best for me? "'And what is it?' said I. "''Tis a spool o' silk thread,' said he, soberly, 't' bind the fairies with--the wicked fairies that tells me t' do the things I don't want t'. If you've any o' _that_, sir, I'll take all you got aboard, for I wants it bad.' "'Come, now, my man,' said I sharply, 'stop your joking. I'm tired, and in no humour for it. What is it you want?' "'I'm not jokin', sir,' said he. 'I wants a spool o' green silk thread t' lash the wicked fairies t' the spruce trees.' "I could not doubt him longer; there was too much longing, too much hopelessness, in his voice for that. He was demented; but there are many men of that coast whom lonely toil has driven mad, but yet who live their lives through to the natural end, peaceable folk and good fishermen, and I thought that this poor fellow had as good a right to trade with me as the sanest man in Shelter Harbour. "'We've no green silk thread, sir,' said I, 'that will securely lash fairies to spruce trees. But if you want anything else, and have fish to trade, I'll take them.' "'I wisht you had the thread,' said he. "'Why?' said I. "''Twould be best for you,' said he with a sigh. 'If I could tie the wicked fairies up, I wouldn't have t'--have t'--do it. But,' he went on, 'as you haven't any thread, I'll take some calico t' make a new dress for my brother's little maid.' "A certain look of cunning, which overspread his face at that moment, alarmed me. I thought I had better find out what the wicked fairies had to do with me. "'Did you meet the fairies to-night?' said I. "'Ay,' said he. 'I met the crew o' wicked ones on my way through the bush.' "'And what did they tell you?' said I. "He signed to me to be silent; then he closed the cabin door and came close to the counter, behind which I stood, with no way of escape open. "'Has you got a loaded gun?' he whispered hoarsely. "His face was close to mine. In his eyes, which were now steady, two live, red coals were glowing. I fell back from him, frightened; for I now knew what work the wicked fairies had assigned to him for that night. Poor fellow! Frightened though I was, I pitied him. I saw his distress, and pitied him! He was fighting manfully against the impulse; but it mastered him, at last, and I realized that my life was in grave danger. I was penned in, you know, and--they call me 'little Cook'--I was no match for him. "'No,' said I. 'I've no gun.' "'Has you got a knife?' said he. "'Sorry,' said I; 'but I'm sold out of knives.' "'Has you got a razor?' said he. "It was high time to mislead him. I saw an opportunity to escape. "'Is it razors you want?' I cried. 'Sure, I've some grand ones--big ones, boy, sharp ones, bright ones. I keep them in the forecastle where 'tis dry. So I'll just run up to fetch the lot to show you.' "His eyes glistened when I spoke of the brightness and sharpness of those razors. With a show of confidence, I jumped on the counter and swung my legs over. But he pushed me back--so angrily, indeed, that I feared to precipitate the encounter if I persisted. "'Don't trouble, sir,' said he. 'I'll find something that'll answer. Ha!' said he, taking an axe from the rack and 'hefting' it. 'This will do.' "'But I'm wanting to wash my hands, anyway,' said I. "''Twill make no difference in the end,' said he quietly. "I speak of it calmly now; but when I found myself alone in the cabin with that poor madman--found myself behind the counter, with no defensive weapon at hand, with my life in the care of my wits, which are neither sharp nor ready--I was in no condition for calm thought. To hail the skipper was out of the question; he would not hear me, and the first shout would doubtless excite the big man in the moleskin clothes beyond restraint. My hope of escape lay in distracting his attention from the matter in hand until the skipper should come aft of his own notion. But I made one effort in another direction. "'Did you say _green_ silk thread or _blue_?' said I. "'I said green, sir.' "'Did you, now?' I exclaimed. 'Sure, I thought you said blue. We've no blue, but we've the green, and you'll be able to lash the fairies to the spruce trees, after all.' "As a matter of fact, we had a few spools of silk thread, and one of them was green--a bad stock, as I knew to my cost, for I had long been trying to dispose of them. "''Tis too late,' said he. "'No, no!' said I. 'You'll surely not be letting the fairies drive you like that. You can take the green thread and lash them all up on the way home.' "'No,' he said doggedly; ''tis too late. What they told me to do I must do before the clock strikes.' "'Strikes what?' said I. "'Twelve,' said he. "With what relief did I hear this! Twelve o'clock? It was now but eight. The skipper would come aft long before that hour. "''Tis a long time to wait,' said I. 'I'll make up my bunk, and you may lie down a bit and rest.' "'It lacks but twelve minutes of the hour,' said he. 'They's a clock hangin' behind you, sir.' "He indicated a cheap American alarm clock. It was the last of a half dozen I had kept hanging from the roof of the cabin. I had kept them wound up, for the mere pleasure of hearing their busy ticking, but had never set them--never troubled to keep them running to the right time. When I looked up I was dismayed to find that the clock pointed to twelve minutes to twelve o'clock! "''Tis not the right time,' I began. ''Tis far too----' "'Hist!' said he. 'Don't speak. You've but eleven minutes left.' "Thus we stood, the fisherman with his back to the door and the axe in his hand, and myself behind the counter, while the cheap American alarm clock ticked off the minutes of my life. Eleven--ten--nine! They were fast flying. I could think of no plan to dissuade him--no ruse to outwit him. Indeed, my mind was occupied more with putting the blame on that lying clock than with anything else. I had determined, of course, to make the best fight I could--to blow out the light at the moment of attack, dive under the counter, catch my man by the legs, overturn him and escape by the door or there fight it out. Nine minutes--eight--seven! At that moment I caught a long hail from the shore. "'Schooner ahoy! Ahoy!' "I do not think the fisherman heard it. It was too faint--too far off; and he was too intent upon the thing he was to do. "'Six minutes, sir,' said he. "I wondered if Job had heard. The hail was repeated. Then I heard Skipper Job answer from the deck. At that the fisherman started; but his alarm passed in a moment. "'Ahoy!' shouted Skipper Job. "'Has you got a strange man aboard?' came from the shore. "'Yes, sir,' Job called. "'Watch him,' from the shore. 'He's mad.' "'Oh, he's all right,' Job called. 'He's harmless.' "Then silence. My hope of relief vanished. I should have to make the fight, after all, I thought. "'Five minutes, sir,' said the madman. "Had Skipper Job gone below again? Or would he come aft? For two minutes not a word was said. My customer and I were waiting for the first stroke of twelve. Soon I heard voices forward; then the tramp of feet coming aft over the deck--treading softly. They paused by the house, and the whispering ceased. Was it a rescue, or was it not? I could not tell. The men above seemed to have no concern with me. But, indeed, they had. "'John, b'y,' a strange voice called, 'is you below?' "''Tis me brother Timothy,' my customer whispered. 'I must be goin' home.' "'John, b'y, is you below?' "'Ay, Timothy!' "'Come up, b'y. I'm goin' ashore now, an' 'tis time you was in bed.' "My customer put up the axe, and, with a sign to me to keep silence, went on deck, with me following. He jumped in the punt, as docile as a child, gave us all good-night, and was rowed ashore. We did not see him again; for the wind blew fresh from the nor'west in the morning, and by night we were anchored at Point-o'-Bay. Whether or not the fairies had commanded the poor fellow to kill me at twelve o'clock, I do not know. He did not say so; but I think they had." CHAPTER XXIV _In Which a Pirate's Cave grows Interesting, and Two Young Members of the Ethnological and Antiquarian Club of St. John's, Undertake an Adventure under the Guidance of Billy Topsail_ THERE landed in Ruddy Cove, that summer, two youngsters from St. John's on a vacation--city schoolboys both: not fisher lads. They were pleasant fellows, and were soon fast friends with Billy Topsail and the lads of the place, by whom they were regarded with some awe, but still with great friendliness. "Hello!" the visitors exclaimed, when they clapped eyes on Billy. "Where you going?" "Fishin'." "Take us, won't you, please?" Billy Topsail grinned. "Won't you?" "I don't know," said Billy. "I 'low so." They went to the grounds; and the day was blue, and the sea was quiet, and Billy Topsail and the schoolboys had a marvellously splendid time; so they were all friends together from that out. Tom Call and Jack Wither were members of what they called, with no little pride, "The Ethnological and Antiquarian Club of St. John's." The object of this club of lads was, in the beginning, to preserve relics of the exterminated Beothuk tribe; but to the little collections of stone implements and flint-lock guns were soon added collections of mineral specimens, of fossils, of stamps, of fish and shells and sea-weeds, of insects, of old prints and documents--in short, of everything to which an inveterate collector might attach a value. Wherever they went in the long vacation, whether to the coast or to the interior, not one of them but kept an eye open for additions to the club collections; and, though much of what they brought back had to be rejected, it was not long before they had the gratification of observing an occasional reference to "the collections of the Ethnological and Antiquarian Club" in the city newspapers. All this accounts for the presence of Tom Call and Jack Wither in the Little Tickle Basin, in the thick of the islands off Ruddy Cove, one vacation day, and for their interest in a rusted iron mooring-ring, which was there sunk in the rock. "And nobody knows who put it there?" Tom asked, curiously fingering the old ring. "No," replied Billy Topsail, who had taken them over; "but they says 'twas the pirates put it there, long ago." "Pirates!" cried Tom. "Do they say that?" "'Twas me grandfather told me so." It may be that pirates harboured in the Little Tickle Basin in the days when they made the Caribbean Sea a fearsome place to sail upon. When the Newfoundland coast was remote, uninhabited, uncharted, no safer hiding place could have been found than that quiet little basin, hidden away among the thousand barren islands of the bay. If, as they say, every pirate had his place of refuge, the iron ring is some evidence, at least, that a buccaneer was accustomed to fly to the basin when pursuit got too persistent and too hot for him. "Of course!" said Tom, when they were sailing back to Ruddy Cove. "How else can you account for that ring? I bet you," he concluded, "that dozens of pirates had dens on this coast." "Now, Tom," said Jack, "you know as well as I do that that's just a little too----" "Well," he interrupted, "everybody knows that pirates used to come here. You'll find it in the histories. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that there is a cave around here." "There is," said Billy Topsail. "There!" cried Tom, his eyes shining. "I told you so!" "'Tis a wonderful curious place, too," Billy went on. "You has t' crawl through a hole t' get inside. Sure, the hole is no bigger than a scuttle. You could close it with a fair sized rock. But once you gets through, the cave is as big as a room. 'Twould hold a score o' men very comfortable." Tom gave Jack a meaning glance. Then he turned to Billy Topsail. "Can you take us there?" he asked. "I don't know as I could. I've only _heered tell_ they was a cave like that." "And you've never been there?" "Not me." Tom's face fell--fell so suddenly and to an expression so woeful that Jack laughed outright, though he sympathized with Tom's disappointment. "But I knows a man that _has_ been there," Billy continued. "He's the man that found it. 'Tis like, now, that he's the only man that's ever been inside." "Then the place isn't well known?" "So far as I can tell, nobody knows it but ol' Joe West." When they ran Billy's punt to old Joe West's stage, at Ruddy Cove, that night, Joe was inside, splitting the day's catch of cod. They broached the object of their visit without delay. Would he guide them to the cave at Little Tickle Basin? But Joe shook his head. The squid were in the harbour, and the fish were taking the bait in lively fashion. The loss of a day's catch was "beyond thinkin' of." "Do you know the bearings?" Tom asked. "T' be sure. 'Tis very simple t' get near the spot; but 'tis wonderful hard t' find the hole. 'Tis all overgrown. You might hunt for a year, I'm thinkin', an' never find it. When you does find it, it takes a deal o' nerve t' crawl in. 'Tis that dark an' damp! You keeps thinkin' all the time, too, that something will fall over the hole an' shut you in. If you crawls through," Joe concluded, impressively, "be sure one o' you stays outside." "But we've no chart of the place," Tom complained. "If you've paper an' a bit o' pencil," said Skipper Joe, "I'll draw you one." Here is what he drew: [Illustration] Skipper Joe, of course, carefully explained his drawing. "Does you see where the arrow points?" said he. "Well, 'tis there. You gets the head o' that little rock in line with the point, at high water, an' there you are. The cliff is rough, an' covered with a growth o' spruce. The hole is about half way up, openin' off a mossy ledge. You'll have t' pry around a wonderful lot t' find it." "What's it like inside?" Tom asked, eagerly. "Well, they is a deal o' birch bark scattered around, an' a lot o' broken rock. I saw that by the light of a match; but I was too scared t' stay long, an' I haven't never been there since." Billy Topsail agreed to sail the sloop to Little Tickle Basin on the next day. Then the boys walked home by the road, much excited. Indeed, Tom, who was of an imaginative and enthusiastic turn, was fairly transported. No flight of fancy was too high for him--no hope too wild. The chart passed from his hand to Jack's and back again a hundred times. The crude, strange drawing, with its significant arrow, touched all the pirate tales with reality. "If it had been only a cave, without a rusted mooring-ring, it wouldn't have been so much," said Tom. "But with the ring--_with_ the ring, my boy--a narrow, hidden passage to a cave means a great deal more." Jack asked Tom what he was "driving at." "I think," said he calmly, "that there is buried treasure there." Jack scoffed. "Very well," said Tom; "but you must remember that these discoveries come unexpectedly. They're _stumbled_ on. You can't expect to find a sign-post near buried treasure." That night they lay awake for a long time. Tom and Jack were bed-fellows at Ruddy Cove. Struck by a simple idea, Jack awoke his friend. "Tom," said he, "I think we'll find something there." "Spanish gold or English?" Tom asked, sleepily. "It will be _something_," Jack replied. "Something we want." CHAPTER XXV _In Which There is a Landslide at Little Tickle Basin and Something of Great Interest and Peculiar Value is Discovered in the Cave_ NOON of the next day found the three boys at Little Tickle Basin, with the punt moored to the mysterious ring. Many a vessel had floated in that snug berth before, no doubt. But whose? And what flag did they fly? When the tide was at the full, the boys set off across the basin in the punt; and they were soon ashore, with the head of the little rock in line with the point of land, as the chart directed. "Now for it!" cried Tom. And up the cliff he started, Jack following, with Billy Topsail, who was quite as deeply stirred as they, bringing up the rear, a pick in one hand and a shovel in the other. It was not hard climbing. The declivity could hardly be called a cliff. Rather, it was a hill, rising sharply from the water's edge--steep, strewn with broken rock, loose turf and decaying stumps, and overgrown with moss and ill-nourished shrubs. Jack was impressed with the instability of the whole mass. "If it weren't for the juts of naked rock," he thought, with some alarm, "this stuff would all slip into the water, like snow from the roof of a house." But he was far too deeply interested in the search to dwell upon such speculation, however threateningly the imagination might present the possibilities. They all kept to the perpendicular line, from their landing place to the crest of the hill; and they searched painstakingly, tearing aside the shrubs, peering under overhanging rocks, prying into dark holes. It was all without reward. At last, Jack came to the top of the hill. Tom was below him, following a narrow ledge; and Billy Topsail, now wearied of the search, was sitting on a boulder, lower down. "Hello, Tom!" Jack shouted. "What luck?" Jack caught hold of a shrub, and leaned outward, in an attempt to catch sight of Tom. "Nothing yet," Tom answered. Then Jack's feet, which had been resting on an insecure footing of loose stones, shot from under him. He clung to his shrub and held his position, but in the effort he dislodged a small boulder, which went crashing down, dislodging earth and the accumulations of broken rock in its course. He had started a little avalanche; and the most he could do was to cry a horrified warning and watch it go rolling down, growing greater as it went. "Tom!" he called. "Oh, Tom!" This time there was no answer. Dead silence followed the frantic call and the plunge of the avalanche into the water. What had become of Tom? Billy Topsail, who had found shelter in the "lee" of the boulder upon which he had been sitting, suggested, when Jack joined him, that Tom had been swept into the water by the flood of stones and earth. Jack scouted the suggestion. Had he not watched the course of that selfsame flood? Tom had been on the ledge. He must still be there--unconscious, probably, and unable to answer to the call of his name. "We'll look there first, at any rate," he determined. A great part of the avalanche had lodged on the ledge. Stones and moss and new earth lay in slanting heaps in many places; but of Tom's body there was no sign. "He've been swep' into the water, I fears," Billy declared. "Or buried on the ledge," said Jack. Jack called to his friend again. While they listened, straining their ears for the remotest response, he had his eye fixed on a remnant of the avalanche near by. To his unbounded astonishment, he perceived evidences of some disturbance within the heap. The disturbance suddenly developed into an upheaval. A foot and an ankle shot out. A moment later Billy Topsail had that foot and its mate in his hands and was hauling with small regard for the body behind. It was Tom. "I've found the cave!" he gasped, when they had set him on his feet, profusely perspiring, flushed and exceedingly dirty. "But what's up? How did I get shut in there? Part of the hill slipped away! I _thought_ it was a landslide. I found the hole, and started to crawl in, to make sure that it was the place before I said anything. Then I heard a racket; and then the light was shut out. I thought I might as well go on, though, and find out afterwards what had happened. So on I went. And it's the cave, boy!" he cried. "When I made sure of that," he went on, "I wanted to get out in a hurry. I was afraid to crawl into that hole head foremost--afraid of being jammed. Of course, I knew that something had fallen over the mouth of it; and I thought I could kick the thing out of the way just as easily as I could push it, and meantime have all the air there was. So out I came, feet first. Have you got that pick and shovel, Billy? Let's clear this stuff away from the hole and go in." "What's in there, Tom?" Jack asked. "You'll soon find out." They left Billy Topsail outside, as a precaution against entombment. Tom went first with the lantern. When, looking along the passage, Jack saw a flare of light, he followed. The passage was about six feet long, and so narrow that he could not quite go upon hands and knees. He squirmed through, with his heart in his mouth, and found himself, at last, in a roomy chamber, apparently rough-hewn, wherein Tom was dancing about like a wild Indian. "Pirate gold!" he shouted. "Pirate gold!" "Where is it?" Jack cried, believing, for the moment, that he had discovered it in sacks. "Dig, boy!" said Tom. "It's underground." At any rate, a glance about, by the light of the lantern, discovered no treasure. It was underground, if it were anywhere. So they set about unearthing it without delay. But there was no earth--nothing but broken rock. The shovel was of small use; they took turns with the pick, labouring hard and excitedly, expecting, momentarily, to catch the glitter of gold. Occasionally, the strength of both was needed to lift some great, obstinate stone out of the way; but, for the most part, while one wielded the pick, the other removed the loosened rock. "What in the world is this thing?" Tom asked. He had taken a round, brown object from the excavation. Suddenly he let it drop, with a little cry of horror, and started to his feet. Jack picked it up and held it close to the lantern. "Pirates!" whispered Tom, now utterly horrified. "Last night," said Jack, "I told you that we'd find _something_. We've found it." "We've found a pirates' den," said Tom. "No," Jack replied, handing him the skull; "we've found a Beothuk Indian burial cave. We've struck it rich for the Ethnological and Antiquarian Club!" "Well," Tom admitted, ruefully, "that's _something_!" Struck it rich? Indeed, they had! The most valuable part of the collection of Indian relics, now in the club's museum, came from that cave. The excavation occupied three days; and at the end of it, when they laid their treasures out at Ruddy Cove, they were thrown into a transport of delight. In addition to the skeleton remains, which have since served a highly useful purpose, they had found stone hatchets, knives, spearheads, clubs, and various other implements of warfare and the hunt; three clay masks, a curious clay figure in human form, and three complete specimens of Indian pottery, with a number of fragments. The rusted iron mooring-ring has never been explained. CHAPTER XXVI _In Which Billy Topsail Determines to go to the Ice in the Spring of the Year and Young Archibald Armstrong of St. John's is Permitted to Set Out Upon an Adventure Which Promises to be Perilous but Profitable_ IN the winter when he was fifteen years old, Billy Topsail determined to go to the ice with the great sealing fleet in the spring, if it could be managed by hook or crook. His father had no objection to make. The boy was old enough to look out for himself, he knew; and he was sure that the experience would complete the process of making a man of him. "Go, b'y," said he, "if you can." There was the difficulty. What sealing captain would take a lad of fifteen when there were grown men to be shipped? Billy was at a loss. But he determined, nevertheless, that he would go to the ice, and selected Long Tom Harbour as a promising port to sail from, for it was near by and well known. From Long Tom Harbour then, he would go seal hunting in the spring of the year if it could be managed by a boy with courage and no little ingenuity. "Oh, I'll go _somehow_!" said he. * * * * * It was twilight of a blustering February day. Sir Archibald Armstrong, the great St. John's merchant, sat alone in his office, with his chair drawn close to the low, broad window, which overlooked the wharves and the ice-strewn harbour beyond; and while the fire roared and the wind drove the snow against the panes, he lost himself in profound meditation. He stared absently at the swarm of busy men--now almost hidden in the dusk and storm--and at the lights of the sealing fleet, which lay there fitting out for the spring voyage to the drift-ice of the north; but no sound of the activity on deck or dock could disturb the quiet of the little office where the fire blazed and crackled and the snow fell softly against the window panes. "Beg pardon, sir," a clerk interrupted, putting his head in at the door. "Cap'n Hand, sir." Captain Hand, of the sealing ship _Dictator_, was admitted. He was a thick, stubby, hammer-fisted, fiery-faced old man, marked with the mark of the sea. His eyebrows made one broad black band of wiry hair, stretching from temple to temple, where they grew in the fashion of two sharp little horns; and he had a habit of dropping them over his little red eyes, as if in a passion--but nobody was deceived by that; for, save in moments of righteous anger, the light of good humour still shone in the little red eyes, however fiercely they flashed. The rest of his face was beard--a wilderness of gray beard; it sprang from somewhere below his shirt collar, and straggled in a tangled growth over his cheek-bones and neck. "Report t' you, sir," said he, in a surprisingly gruff voice; and at the same time he pulled the lobe of his right ear, which was his invariable manner of salute. Sir Archibald and Captain Hand were in close consultation for half an hour; during all of which time the burly captain's eyes were thickly screened by his eyebrows. "Oh, I sees, sir--I sees," said he, rising, at the end of it. "Oh, ay! Of course, sir--of course!" "And you'll take good care?" Sir Archibald began, almost tenderly. "Oh, ay!" heartily. "I ain't no nurse, as I tells you fair; but you needn't worry about _him_, sir." "His mother will be anxious. She'll hold you responsible, captain." Captain Hand violently pulled the lobe of his right ear, and turned to go. At the door he halted. "Tim Tuttle o' Raggles Island has turned up again, sir," he said, "an' wants t' be shipped." "Tuttle?" muttered Sir Archibald. "He's the man who led the mutiny on the _Never Say Die_. Well, as you will, captain." "Oh, I'll ship him!" said the captain, grimly; and with a last pull at his ear he disappeared. On the heels of the captain's departure came Archie. He was Sir Archibald's son; there was no doubt about that: a fine, hardy lad--robust, as every young Newfoundlander should be; straight, agile, alert, with head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea. His hair was tawny, his eyes blue and wide and clear, his face broad and good humoured. All this appeared as he pulled off his cap, threw back the flaps of his fur-lined overcoat, picked a stray thread from his knickerbockers, and, at last, eagerly approached his father. "You little dandy!" laughed his father. Archie laughed, too--and flushed. He knew that his father liked to poke fun at him because the cut of his coat, the knot in his cravat, the polish on his boots, were matters of such deep concern to the boy. "Oh, come now, father!" he protested. "Tell me whether I'm to go or not." For reply, Sir Archibald gravely led his son to the window. It was his purpose to impress the boy with the wealth and power (and, therefore, with the responsibilities) of the firm of Armstrong and Son. "Come," said he; "let us watch them fitting out the fleet." The wealth of the firm was vast, the power great. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald's business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every cove of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and South American Republics. His fishing-schooners went south to the Banks and north to the gray, cold seas off Cape Chidley; the whalers gave chase in the waters of the Gulf and of the Straits; the traders ran from port to port of all that rugged coast; the barques carried cod and salmon and oil to all the markets of the world. And when the ice came drifting down in the spring, the sealers scattered themselves over the waters of the North Atlantic. Archie looked into the dusk without, where lay the ships and wharves and warehouses that told the story. "They are mine," said Sir Archibald, gravely, looking deep into his son's wide-opened eyes. "Some day----" Archie was alarmed. What did it all mean? Why was his father so grave? Why had he boasted of his wealth? "They will be yours," Sir Archibald concluded. After a pause, he continued: "The firm has had an honourable career through three generations of our family. My father gave it to me with a spotless reputation. More than that, with the business he gave me the perfect faith of every man, woman and child of the outports. The firm has dealt with its fishermen and sealers as man with man; it has never wronged, or oppressed, or despised them. You are now fifteen years old. In September, you are going to an English public school, and thence to an English university. You will meet with new ideals. The warehouses and ships, the fish and fat, will not mean so much to you. You will forget. It may be, even--for you are something of a dandy, you know--that you will be ashamed to acknowledge that your father is a dealer in fish and seal-oil; that----" Archie drew breath to speak. "But I want you _to remember_," Sir Archibald went on, lifting his hand. "I want you to know a man when you meet one, whatever the clothes he wears. The men upon whom the fortunes of this firm are founded are true men. They are strong, and brave, and true. Their work is toilsome and perilous, and their lives are not unused to deprivation; but they are cheerful, and independent, and fearless, through it all--stout hearts, every one of them! They deserve respectful and generous treatment at the hands of their employers. For that reason I want you to know them more intimately--to know them as shipmates know one another--that you may be in sympathy with them. I am confident that you will respect them, because I know that you love all manly qualities. And so, for your good, and for their good, and for the good of the firm, I have decided that you may----" "That I may go?" Archie cried, eagerly. "With Captain Hand, of the _Dictator_, which puts out from Long Tom Harbour at midnight of March tenth." CHAPTER XXVII _While Billy Topsail is About His Own Business Archie Armstrong Stands on the Bridge of the Dictator and Captain Hand Orders "Full Speed Ahead!" on the Stroke of Twelve._ AND so it came to pass that, at near midnight of the tenth of March, Archie Armstrong, warmly clad in furs, and fairly on fire with excitement, was aboard the staunch old sealer, at Long Tom, half way up the east coast. It was blowing half a gale from the open sea, which lay, hidden by the night, just beyond the harbour rocks. The wind was stinging cold, as though it had swept over immense areas of ice, dragging the sluggish fields after it. It howled aloft, rattled over the decks, and flung the smoke from the funnel into the darkness inland. Archie breasted it with the captain and the mate on the bridge; and he was impatient as they to be off from the sheltered water, fairly started in the race for the north, though a great gale was to be weathered. "Good-bye, Skipper John," he had said to John Roth, with whom he had spent the three days of waiting in this small outport. "I'll send you two white-coats (young seals) for Aunt Mary's sitting room, when I get back." "I be past me labour, b'y," replied John, who was, indeed, now beyond all part in the great spring harvest, "but I'll give you the toast o' the old days. 'Red decks, an' many o' them!'" "Red decks," cried Archie, quoting the old proverb, "make happy homes." "'Tis that," said old John, striking the ground with his staff. "An' I wish I was goin' along with you, b'y. There's no sealin' skipper like Cap'n Hand." The ship was now hanging off shore, with steam up and the anchor snugly stowed. Not before the stroke of twelve of that night was it permitted by the law to clear from Long Tom. Fair play was thus assured to all, and the young seals were protected from an untimely attack. It was a race from all the outports to the ice, with the promise of cargoes of fat to stiffen courage and put a will for work in the hearts of men: for a good catch, in its deeper meaning, is like a bounteous harvest; and what it brings to the wives and little folk in all the cottages of that cruel coast is worth the hardship and peril. "What's the time, Mr. Ackell?" said the captain to the mate, impatiently. "Lacks forty-three minutes o' the hour, sir," was the reply. "Huh!" growled the captain. "'Tis wonderful long in passin'." "The whole harbour must be down to see the start," Archie observed looking to the shore. "More nor that, b'y," said the captain. "I've got a Green Bay crew. Most two hundred men o' them, an' every last one o' them a mighty man. They's folk here from all the harbours o' the bay t' see us off. Hark t' the guns they're firin'!" All the folk left in Long Tom--the women and children and old men--were at the water-side; with additions from Morton's Harbour, Burnt Bay, Exploits and Fortune Harbour. Sailing day for the sealers! It was the great event of the year. Torches flared on the flakes and at the stages all around the harbour. The cottages were all illuminated with tallow candles. Guns were discharged in salute. "God speed!" was shouted from shore to ship; and you may be sure that the crew was not slow to return the good wishes. Archie marked one man in particular--a tall, lean fellow, who was clinging to the main shrouds, and shouting boisterously. "Well, we can't lose Tuttle," said the mate, with a grin, indicating the man in the shrouds. The captain frowned; and Archie wondered why. But he thought no more of the matter at the moment--nor, indeed, until he met Tuttle face to face--for the wind was now blowing high; and that was enough to think of. "Let it blow," said bluff Captain Hand. "'Tis not the _wind_ I cares about, b'y. 'Tis the ice. I reckon there's a field o' drift ice offshore. This nor'east gale will jam the harbour in an hour, an' I don't want t' be trapped here What's the time, now, Mr. Ackell?" "Twenty-seven minutes yet, sir." "Take her up off Skull Head. That's within the law." The drift ice was coming in fast. There was a small field forming about the steamer, and growing continuously. Out to sea, the night-light now revealed a floe advancing with the wind, threatening to seal tight the narrow harbour entrance. "If we have t' cut our way out," muttered the captain, "we'll cut as little as we can. Mr. Girth!" he roared to the second mate, "get the bombs out. An' pick a crew that knows how t' use 'em." The _Dictator_ moved forward through the gathering ice towards Skull Head; and the three other steamers, whose owners had chosen to make the start from Long Tom, followed slyly on her heels, evidently hoping to get to sea in her wake, for she was larger than they. When her engines were stopped off the Head, it lacked twelve minutes of sailing time. An unbroken field of ice lay beyond the harbour entrance, momentarily jammed there. Would the ship be locked in? "Can't we run for it, sir?" asked the mate. "'Tis but seven minutes too soon." "No," said the captain. "We'll lie here t' midnight t' the second. Then we'll ram that floe, if we have t'. Hear me?" he burst out, such was the tension upon patience. "We'll ram it! We'll ram it!" It appeared that they _would_ have to. Archie could hear the ice crunching as the floe pressed in upon the jam. Pans were lifted out of the water, and, under the mighty force of the mass behind, were heaped up between the rocks on either side of the narrows. The barrier seemed even now to be impassable; and it had yet seven minutes to gather strength. If it should prove too great to be broken, the fleet might be locked in for a week; and with every hour of delay the size of the prospective catch would dwindle. The captains of the nearer vessels were madly shouting to the old skipper of the _Dictator_ to strike before it was too late; but he gave them no heed whatever. He stood with his watch in his hand, waiting for the moment of midnight. "We're caught!" cried the mate. The captain said nothing. He was watching the jam--hoping that it would break of its own weight. "Three minutes, sir," said the mate. The captain glanced at the watch in his hand. "Two an' a half," he muttered, a moment later. A pause. "Midnight, sir!" cried the mate. "Go ahead!" Archie heard the tinkle of the bell in the engineer's room below: then the answering signal on the bridge. The crew raised a cheer; the mate pulled the whistle rope; there was a muffled hurrah from the shore. "Half speed! Port a little!" The steamer gathered headway. She was now making for the harbour entrance on a straight course. "Full speed!" Then the _Dictator_ charged the barrier. CHAPTER XXVIII _In Which Archie Armstrong falls in with Bill o' Burnt Bay and Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove and Makes a Speech_ THERE is no telling what would have happened had the _Dictator_ struck the jam of ice in the narrows of Long Tom Harbour. Captain Hand was not the man to lose half a voyage because there was a risk to be taken; had he been used to counting the risk, he would not have been in command of the finest ship in Armstrong and Son's fine fleet. Rather than be locked in the harbour, he had launched his vessel at the barrier, quietly confident that she would acquit herself well. But, as he had foreseen, the jam broke of its own weight before the steamer struck. Of a sudden, it cracked, and gave way; the key blocks had broken. It then remained only to breast the pack, which was not at all an impossible undertaking for the stout _Dictator_. With her rivals following close, she struck the floe, broke a way through, and pushed on, with a great noise, but slowly, surely; and she was soon in the open sea. The course was then shaped northeast, for it appeared that open water lay in that direction. The floe retarded the ship's progress, but could not stop it; the ice pans crashed against her prow and scraped her sides, but she was staunch enough to withstand every shock; and so, gaining on the rest of the fleet, she crept out to sea, in the teeth of the rising gale. At two o'clock in the morning, Archie Armstrong was still on the bridge with the captain and mate. The lights of the fleet were lost in the night behind. The _Dictator_ had laboured through the first field of ice into open water. The sea was dotted with great, white "pans," widely scattered; and, as the captain had feared, there were signs of bergs in the darkness roundabout. The waves were rising, spume crested, on every hand; at intervals, they broke over the bows, port and starboard, with frightful violence. Gusts of wind whirled the spray to the bridge, where it soon sheathed men and superstructure in ice. "Send a lookout aloft, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, after he had long and anxiously peered straight ahead. The thud of ice, as the seas hurled it against the ship's prows, the hiss and crash of the waves, the screaming of the gale, drowned the captain's order. "Pass the word for Bill o' Burnt Bay!" he roared. A short, brawny man, of middle age, who had not missed a voyage to the ice in twenty years, soon appeared in response to the call, which had gone from mouth to mouth through the ship. Archie was inclined to smile when he observed Bill's unkempt, sandy moustache, which was curiously given an upward twist at one side, and a downward twist at the other. Nevertheless, he was strongly attracted to him; for he looked like a man who could be trusted to the limit of his courage and strength. "Take a glass t' the nest, b'y, an' look sharp for bergs," the captain ordered. "Don't stay up there. Come back an' report t' me here." The man went off with a brisk, "Ay, ay, sir!" It was his duty to clamber to the crow's-nest--a cask lashed to the topmast just below the masthead--and to sweep the sea for signs of bergs. "'Tis more than I bargained for, Mr. Ackell," the captain went on, to the mate, in an anxious undertone, which, however, Archie managed to catch; and it may be added that the lad's heart jumped into his throat, and had a hard time getting back into place again. "Dirty weather, sir!" the mate agreed. "I'm thinkin' we're close to some heavy ice." "Well," said the captain, after a pause, "keep her head as she points now. I'll have a look 'tween decks." Archie was tempted to ask the captain "if there was any danger." The foolish question was fairly on the tip of his tongue; but his better sense came to his rescue in time. Danger? Of course, there was! There was always danger. He had surely not come on a sealing voyage expecting none! But catastrophe was not yet inevitable. At any rate, it was the captain's duty to sail the ship. He was responsible to the owners, and to the families of the crew; the part of the passenger was but bravely to meet the fortune that came. So, completely regaining his courage, Archie followed the captain below. 'Tween decks the stout hearts were rollicking still. The working crew had duty to do, every man of them; but the two hundred hunters, who had been taken along to wield gaff and club, were sprawled in every place, singing, laughing, yarning, scuffling, for all the world like a pack of boys: making light of discomfort, and thinking not at all of danger, for the elation of departure still possessed them. Had any misgiving still remained with Archie, the sight of this jolly, careless crowd of hunters would have quieted it. _They_ were not alarmed. Then, why should he be? Doubtless, it was responsibility that made the captain anxious. In the improvised cabin aft, Ebenezer Bowsprit, of Exploits, was roaring the "Luck o' the Northern Light," a famous old sealing song, which, no doubt, his grandfather had sung to shipmates upon similar occasions long ago. Rough, frank faces, broadly smiling, were turned to him; and when it came time for the chorus, willing voices and mighty lungs swelled it to a volume that put the very gale to shame. The ship was pitching violently--with a nauseating roll occasionally thrown in--and the cabin was crowded and hot and filled with clouds of tobacco smoke; but neither pitch, nor roll, nor heat, nor smoke, could interfere with the jollity of the occasion. "All right here," the captain growled, grinning in his great beard. "Speech, Sir Archie!" shouted one of the men. Before Archie could escape--and amid great laughter and uproar and louder calls for a speech--he was caught by the arm, jerked off his feet, and hoisted on the table, where he bumped his head, and, by an especially violent roll of the vessel, was almost thrown headlong into the arms of the grinning crowd around him. "Speech, speech!" they roared. Archie would have declined with some heat had he not caught sight of the face of Tim Tuttle--a tawny, lean, long man, apparently as strong as a wire rope. There was a steely twinkle in his eye, and a sneering, utterly contemptuous smile upon his thin lips. Archie did not know that this was Tuttle's habitual expression. He felt that the man expected a rather amusing failure on the part of Sir Archibald Armstrong's son; and that stimulated him to take the situation seriously. Unconsciously calling his good breeding to his aid, he pulled off his cap, smoothed his hair, touched his cravat, and-- "Ahem!" he began; as he had heard the governor of the colony do a dozen times, and as now, to his surprise, he found most inspiring. "Hear, hear!" burst rapturously from old Ebenezer Bowsprit. [Illustration: HE WAS NEAR THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH VERSE.] Ebenezer was in a condition of high delight and expectation. Admiration shone in his eyes, surprise was depicted by his wide opened mouth, bewonderment by his strained attention. The sight of his face was too much for Archie. "Oh, what Tommy-rot!" he laughed. "Here, let me go! I can't (hold me up, or I'll fall) make a speech. ("Hear, hear!" from the awe-stricken Ebenezer.) All I got to say is that I'm (_please_ get a better hold on my legs, or I'll be pitched off) mighty glad to be here. I'm having the best time of my life, and I expect to have a better one when we strike the seals. (Loud and prolonged cheering.) I hope----" But, in the excitement following his last remark, the speaker's support was withdrawn, and a pitch of the ship threw him off the table. He was caught, set on his feet, and clapped on the back. Then he managed to escape with the captain, followed by loud cries of "More! More!" to which he felt justified in paying no attention. "You're your father's son," laughed the captain, as they made their way up the deck. "Sure, your father never in his life let slip a chance t' make a speech." In the forecastle they had a lad on the table under the lantern--a tow-headed, blue-eyed, muscular boy, of Archie's age, or less. He had on goatskin boots, a jacket of homespun, and a flaring red scarf. The men were quiet; for the boy was piping, in a clear, quavering treble, the "Song o' the Anchor an' Chain," a Ruddy Cove saga, which goes to the air of a plaintive West Country ballad of the seventeenth century, with the refrain, "Sure, the chain 'e parted, An' the schooner drove ashoare, An' the wives o' the 'ands Never saw un any moare. No moare! Never saw un any mo-o-o-are!" He was near the end of the sixteenth verse, and the men were drawing breath for the chorus, when the captain appeared in the door, wrath in his eyes. "What's this?" roared he. There was no answer. The lad turned to face the captain, in part deferentially, in part humorously, altogether fearlessly. CHAPTER XXIX _Billy Topsail is Shipped Upon Conditions, and the Dictator, in a Rising Gale, is Caught in a Field of Drift Ice, with a Growler to Leeward_ "WHERE'D you come aboard, b'y?" Captain Hand demanded. "Long Tom, sir." "Who shipped you?" "I stowed away in a bunker, sir." "You're from Ruddy Cove?" said the captain. "Yes, sir. Me name's Billy, an' me father's a Labrador fisherman. Sure, I've sailed t' the French Shore, sir, an' I'm a handy lad t' work, sir." "Billy what?" "Topsail, sir." The captain raised his eyebrows; then dropped them, and stared at the boy. He had been before the mast with old Tom Topsail on a South American barque in years long gone. "You'll work hard, b'y," said he, severely, for he had been bothered with stowaways for thirty years, "an' I'll ship you regular, if you do your duty. If you don't," and here the captain frowned tremendously, "I'll have you thrashed at the post at Long Tom, an' you'll have no share with the crew in the cargo." "Ay, sir," said Billy, gladly. "Sure, I'll stand by it, sir." When the captain turned his back, out came the belated chorus, with young Billy Topsail leading: "Sure, the chain 'e parted, An' the schooner drove ashoare, An' the wives o' the 'ands Never saw un any moare. No moare! Never saw un any mo-o-o-are!" "If he's like his dad," the captain chuckled to Archie, as they mounted to the deck, "his name will be on the ship's books before the v'y'ge is over, sure enough." It appeared from the bridge that the gale was venting the utmost of its force. The wind had veered a point or two to the north, and was driving out of the darkness a vast field of broken ice. This, close packed and grinding, was bearing down swiftly. It threatened to block the ship's course--if not to surround her, take hold of her, and sweep her away. In the northeast, dead over the bows, there loomed a great white mass, a berg, grandly towering, with its peaks hidden in black, scudding clouds. Beyond, and on either side, patches of white, vanishing and reappearing, disclosed the whereabouts of other bergs. "I was thinkin' about slowin' down," said the mate, when the captain had scanned the prospect ahead. With that, some part of Archie's alarm returned. It continued with him, while the captain moved the lever of the signal box until the indicator marked half speed, while the ship lost way, and the engines throbbed, as though alive and breathing hard. "Report, sir!" This was Bill o' Burnt Bay, down from the crow's-nest, with his beard frozen to his jacket and icicles hanging from his shaggy eyebrows. "Well?" "They's a big field o' ice bearin' down with the wind. 'Tis heavy, an' comin' fast, an' 'tis stretchin' as far as I can see. They's five good-sized bergs ahead, sir, with pan ice all about them. An'----" "Growlers?" sharply. "An' they's a big growler off the port bow. 'Twill soon be dead t' leeward, if we keeps this course." Bill o' Burnt Bay lumbered down the ladder and made for the forecastle to thaw out. Meantime, the captain devoted himself to giving the growler a wide berth; for a growler is a berg which trembles on the verge of toppling over, and he had no wish to be caught between it and the advancing floe. He had once lost a schooner that way; the adventure was one of his most vivid recollections. "We'll have t' get out o' this, Mr. Ackell," he said, "or we may get badly nipped. We'll tie up t' the first steady berg we come to. Here, b'y," sharply, to Archie, "you'll not go t' bed for a while. Keep near me--but keep out o' the way." "Ay, ay, sir!" "Turn out all hands!" The cry of "All hands on deck!" was passed fore and aft. It ran through the ship like an alarm. The men trooped from below, wondering what had occasioned it. Once on deck, a swift glance into the driving night apprised these old sealers of the situation. They placed the ice hooks and tackle in handy places; for the work in hand was plain enough. The ship was swinging wide of the growler, against which the wind beat with mighty force. A vast surface was exposed to the gale; and upon every square foot a varying pressure was exerted. As the vessel drew nearer, Archie could see the iceberg yield and sway. It was evident that its submerged parts had been melted and worn until the equilibrium of the whole was nearly overset. A sudden, furious gust might turn the scale; and in that event a near-by vessel would surely be overwhelmed. Captain Hand kept a watchful eye on the ice pack, which had now come within a hundred fathoms, and was hurrying upon the advancing ship. The vessel was between the floe and the growler: a situation not to be escaped, as the captain had foreseen. The danger was clear: if the rush of the floe should be too great for the steamer to withstand, she would be swept, broadside on, against the berg, which, being of greater weight and depth, moved sluggishly. Stout as she was, she could not survive the collision. The captain turned her bow to the pack; then he signalled full speed ahead. There was a moment of waiting. "Grab the rail, b'y," said the captain. "Ay, ay, sir!" The floe divided before the ship; the shock was hardly perceptible. For a moment, where, at the edge, the ice was loose, she maintained her speed. But the floe thickened. The fragments were packed tight. It was as though the face of the sea were covered with a solid sheet of ice, lying ahead as far as sight carried into the night. The ship laboured. Her speed diminished, gradually, but perceptibly--vividly so! Her progress was soon at the rate of half speed. In a moment it was even slower than that. Would it stop altogether? Archie was on the port side of the bridge. The captain walked over to him and slapped him heartily on the back. "Well, b'y," he cried, "how do you like the sealin' v'y'ge?" That was a clever thought of the captain! Here was a man in desperate case who could await the issue in light patience. The boy took heart at the thought of it; and he needed that encouragement. "I knew what it was when I started," he replied, with a gulp. "Will she make it, think you?" Another clever ruse of this great heart! He wanted the boy to have a part in the action. Archie felt the blood stirring in his veins once again. "She's pretty near steady, sir, I think," he replied, after a pause. The two leaned over the rail and looked intently at the ice sweeping past. "Are we losing, sir?" asked the boy. "I think we're holdin' our own," said the captain, elatedly. The boy turned to the great growler, now vague of outline in the dark. The ice floe had swept over the limit of vision. He wondered if it had struck the base of the berg. Then all at once the heap of cloudy white swayed forth and back before his eyes. For a moment it was like a gigantic curtain waving in the wind. It vanished of a sudden. A mountain of broken water shot up in its place--as high as its topmost pinnacle had been; and, following close upon its fall, another berg, with a worn outline, reared itself, dripping streams of water. Thus far there had been no sound; but the sound beat its way against the wind, at last, and it was a thunderous noise--"like the growlin' of a million dogs," the captain said afterwards. The growler had capsized. "Look!" the boy cried, overcome. "Turned turtle, ain't she?" remarked the skipper, calmly. "The pack might have carried us near it!" "Oh," said the captain, lightly, "but it didn't. She's a good ship, the _Dictator_. What's more," he added, "she's makin' her way right through the pack." Another berg had taken form over the port quarter. The captain shaped a course for it, eyeing it carefully as he drew near. It was low--not higher than the ship's spars--and broad, with the impression of stability strong upon it. "See that berg, b'y?" said the captain. "Well," decisively, "we'll lie in the lee o' that in half an hour. You see, b'y," he went on, "the wind makes small bother for a solid berg. It whips the pan ice along, easy enough, but the bergs float their own way, quiet as you please. In the lee of every big fellow like that, there's open water. We'll lie there, tied up, till mornin'." In half an hour, the ship broke from the ice into the lee of the berg. The floe raced past under the force of the gale, which left the lee air and water untouched by its violence. Skillful seamanship brought the vessel broadside to the ice. A wild commotion ensued: orders roared from the bridge, signal bells, the shouts of the line men, the hiss of steam, and the churning of the screw. Archie saw young Billy Topsail scramble to the ice like a cat, with the first line in his hand: then Bill o' Burnt Bay and half a dozen others, with axes and hooks. In twenty minutes the engines were at rest, the ship was lying like a log in a mill pond, the watch paced the deck in solitude, and Archibald Armstrong was asleep in his berth in the captain's cabin--dreaming that the mate was wrong and the captain right: that the gale had abated in the night, and the morning had broken sunny. CHAPTER XXX _In Which Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail Have an Exciting Encounter with a Big Dog Hood, and, at the Sound of Alarm, Leave the Issue in Doubt, While the Ice Goes Abroad and the Enemy Goes Swimming_ HAIR seals, which come out of the north with the ice in the early spring, and drift in great herds past the rugged Newfoundland coast, returning in April, have no close, soft fur next the skin, such as the South Sea and Alaskan seals have. Hence, they are valued only for their blubber, which is ground and steamed into oil, and for their skin, which is turned into leather. They are of two kinds, the harp which is doubtless indigenous to the great inland sea and the waters above, and the hood, which inhabits the harsher regions of the farther north and east. The harp is timid, gentle, gregarious, and takes in packs to the flat, newly frozen, landward pans; the hood is fierce, quarrelsome and solitary, grimly riding the rough glacier ice at the edge of the open sea. Thus the _Dictator_ lay through the night with hood ice all about the sheltering berg. "Hi, b'y! Get yarry (wide awake)!" cried the captain, in the morning. Archie Armstrong was "yarry" on the instant, and he rolled out of his berth in hot haste, not at all sure that it was not time to leave a sinking ship in the boats. The hairy face of the old sealer, a broad, kindly grin upon it, peered at him from the door. "Morning, skipper!" "Mornin' t' you, sir. An' a fine mornin' 'tis," said the captain. "Sure a finer I never saw." "What's become of the gale?" "The gale's miles t' the sou'east--an' out o' sight o' these latitudes. We're packed in the lee o' the berg, an' fast till the wind changes. There's a family o' hoods, quarter mile t' starboard. Up, now, b'y! an' you'll go after them with a crew after breakfast." When Archie reached the deck, the air was limpid, frosty and still. There was a blue sky overhead, stretching from horizon to horizon. A waste of ice lay all about--rough, close-packed, glistening in the sun. With the falling away of the wind the floe had lost its headway, and had crept softly in upon the open water. The ship was held in the grip of the pack, and must perforce remain for a time in the shadow of the berg, where shelter from the gale of the night had been sought. Save for the watch of that hour, the men were below, at breakfast. The "great white silence" possessed the sea. For the boy, this silence, vast and heavy, and the immeasurable area of broken ice, with its pent-up, treacherous might, was as awe-impelling as the gale and the night. "What d'ye think, Mr. Ackell?" said the captain to the mate, when the two came up. Ackell looked to the northeast. "We'll have wind by noon," he replied. "'Tis what I think," the captain agreed. "Archie, b'y, you'll have a couple of hours, afore the ice goes abroad. Bowsprit 'll take the crew, an' you'll do what he tells you." Ebenezer Bowsprit, with half a dozen cronies of his own choosing, led the way over the side, in high good humour. In the group on the deck stood Billy Topsail. He eyed Archie with frank envy as the lad prepared to descend to the ice; for to participate in the first hunt, generally regarded as pure sport, was a thing greatly to be desired. He was perceived by Archie, who was at once taken with a wish for company of his own age. "Captain," the boy whispered, "let the other kid come along, won't you?" "Topsail," the captain ordered, "get a gaff, an' cut along with the rest." In five minutes, the boys had broken the ice of diffidence, and were chatting like sociable magpies, as they crawled, jumped, climbed, over the uneven pack. They were Newfoundlanders both: the same in strength, feeling, spirit, and, indeed, experience. The one was of the remote outports, where children are reared to toil and peril, which, with hunger, is their heritage, and must ever be; the other was of the city, son of the well-to-do, who, following sport for sport's sake, had made the same ventures and become used to the same toil and peril. "'Tis barb'rous hard walkin'," said Billy. "Sure," replied the other. "And they're getting away ahead of us." Ebenezer Bowsprit and his fellows, with the lust of the chase strong upon them, were making great strides towards three black objects some hundred yards away. It was a race; for it is a tradition that he who strikes the first blow of the voyage will have "luck" the season through. The boys were hopelessly behind, and they stopped to look about them. It was then that Billy Topsail spied a patch of open water, to the left, half hidden by the surrounding ice. It was a triangular hole in the floe, formed by three heavy blocks, which had withstood the pressure of the pack. "Look!" he cried. A head, small and alert, raised upon a thick, supple neck, appeared. A moment later, a second head popped out of the water. They were hoods. The young one, the pup, must lie near. The boys stood stock still until the seals had clambered to the pack. Then they advanced swiftly. Billy Topsail was armed with a gaff, which is a pole shod with iron at one end and having a hook at the other; and Archie was provided with a sealing club. They came upon the dog hood before he could escape to the water. Perceiving this, and only on this account, he turned, snarling, to give fight. "I'll take him!" cried Billy. The hood was as big as an ox--a massive, flabby, vicious beast. He was furiously aroused, and he would now fight to the death, with no thought of retreat. He raised himself on his flippers and reared his head to the length of his long neck, as the boy, stepping cautiously, gaff poised, drew near. [Illustration: THEN HE ADVANCED UPON THE BOY.] "Get behind him," Billy shouted to Archie. Billy advanced fearlessly, steadily, never for a moment taking his eyes from the hood's head. Upon that head, from the nose to the back of the neck, the tough, bladder-like "hood" was now inflated. It was a perfect protection; the boy might strike blow after blow without effect. The stroke must be thrust at the throat; and it must be a stroke swiftly, cunningly, strongly delivered. A furious hood, excited past fear, is a match for three men. The odds were against the lad. He had been carried away by his own daring. But Billy made the thrust, and the seal received the point of the gaff on his hood, as upon a shield: then advanced on his flippers, by jerky jumps, snapping viciously. Archie cried out. But Billy had skipped out of harm's way, and had faced about, laughing. He returned to the attack, undismayed, though the seal reared to meet him, with bared teeth. "Strike!" screamed Archie. Teeth and flippers were to be feared, and Billy had drawn nearly within reach of both. He paused, waiting his opportunity. Archie could not contain his excitement. "Strike!" he cried again. Billy struck; but the blow had no force, for he slipped, overreached, lost his footing, and fell sprawling, almost within reach of his adversary's teeth. The seal snarled and drew back, startled. Then he advanced upon the boy, who had had no time to recover, much less to scramble out of his desperate situation. It was for Archie to act. He leaped forward from his position behind the seal, struck the animal with full force upon the tail, and darted out of reach. The hood snorted, and turned in a rage to face his new assailant. Billy leaped to his feet, gaff in hand, and faced about, panting, but ready. He was preparing to attack again, when-- "What's that?" Archie cried in alarm. It was the boom of the ship's gun, followed by an ominous, hollow crackling, which ran into the distance like a long peal of thunder. The floe seemed to be turning. "'Tis goin' abroad!" Billy shouted. "Quick, b'y! T' the ship!" The boys had been out of sight of the ship, hidden by a shoulder of the berg. They had not seen the flag of recall, which had been flying for ten minutes. Again they heard the report of the gun; and they saw Ebenezer Bowsprit and his men making shipwards with all speed. Billy was fully aware of the danger. With another warning cry to Archie, he started off on a run, turning from time to time to make sure that his companion was following. The ice was nauseatingly unstable, grinding and shifting; but no open water had as yet appeared, though, at any moment, a lane might open up and cut off the retreat. The floe was feeling the force of a wind in the north, and was stirring itself from edge to edge. It would soon be shaken into its separate parts. But with Billy Topsail leading, the boys ran steadily over the heaving foothold, and in good time came to the ship, which the rest of the hunting party had already boarded. Billy Topsail was laughing. "I don't feel that way," said Archie, "we were in a good deal of danger." Billy laughed louder. "Well, we _were_, weren't we?" Archie demanded. "Maybe," said Billy; "but you'll get used t' _that_!" They were not a moment too soon, however; for the pack very quickly fell apart--thus opening a way for the escape of the _Dictator_. And meantime, the gallant old dog hood had followed the retreating figures with his eyes: after which, well satisfied with himself, he slipped into the water and went fishing. CHAPTER XXXI _The Dictator Charges an Ice Pan and Loses a Main Topmast_ "CAST loose!" was the order from the bridge. The men scrambled to the berg and released the lines and ice-hooks. The pack was still loosening under the rising breeze. To the east, separating the sky from the ice, lay a long black streak--the water of the open sea; a clear way to the broad, white fields. Once free of the floe, the ship would speed northward to the Yellow Islands and Cape William coasts. In a day and a night, the weather continuing propitious, it would be, "Ho! for the ice. Ho! for the seals." A lane of water opened up. "Go ahead," was the signal from the master on the bridge, and the ship moved forward, with her nose turned to the sea. "Ha, Mr. Ackell!" exclaimed the captain, rubbing his horny hands. "Looks t' be a fine time, man. We'll make the Yellow Islands at dawn t'-morrow, if all goes well." When the _Dictator_ had followed the lane to within one hundred yards of free water, the advance was blocked by a great pan of ice, tight jammed in the pack on either side. So fast and vagrantly was the floe shifting its formation that what had been a clear path was now crossed by a mighty barrier. Here was no slob ice to be forged through at full steam, but a solid mass, like a bar of iron, lying across the path. The ship was taken to the edge of the obstruction, and the captain and mate went forward to the bow to gauge the strength of it. When they came back to the bridge, the former had his teeth set. "It's stiff work for the old ship," said the mate. The captain growled as he pulled the signal lever for full speed astern. "Take half a day to cut a way through," he said. "We'll ram it. Here, b'y," to Archie, "get off the bridge. You're in the way." Archie joined Billy Topsail on the forward deck. Neither had yet experienced a charge on a pan of ice; but both had listened, open eyed, to the sealing tales of daring that had brought disaster. "I feel queer," Archie remarked. "Cap'n Hand," said Billy, as though trying to revive his faith in the old skipper, "he's a clever one. 'Tis all right." "Make fast below," the captain shouted over the bridge rail. The word was passed in a lively fashion. Tackle, boats, and all things loose, were lashed in their places, as if for a great gale. "Stop!" was the next signal. Then: "Full speed ahead!" The blow had been launched! A moment later, the _Dictator_ was ploughing forward, charging the pan, which she must strike like a battering ram, and shiver to pieces. She was of solid oak, this good ship, and builded for such attacks; steel plates would buckle and spring under such shocks as she had many times triumphantly sustained. The men were silent while they awaited the event. There was not a sound save the hiss of the water at the ship's prows, and the _chug-chug_ of the engines. Archie caught his breath. His eyes were fixed on the fast vanishing space of water. The thrill of the adventure was manifest in Billy Topsail's sharp, quick breathing, and in his blue eyes, which were as though about to pop out of their sockets. "Stop!" The engines abruptly ceased their labour. Only a fathom or two of water lay ahead. The ship was about to strike. There was a long drawn instant of suspense. Then came the blow! It was a fearful shock. The vessel quivered, crushed her way on for a space, and stopped dead, quivering still. A groan ran over her, from stem to stern, as though she had been racked in every part. The main topmast snapped and fell forward on the rigging with a crash. A volley of cracks sounded from the ice, like the discharge of a thousand rifles, slowly subsiding. Dead silence fell and continued for a moment. Then the screw churned the water, and the ship backed off, sound, but beaten; for the pan of ice lay, unbroken and unchanged, in its place, with but a jagged bruise, where the blow had been struck. "Aloft, there, some o' you, an' cut away that spar!" the captain shouted. "Bill, get below, an' see if she's tight. Here, you, Dickson, call the watch t' make sail. Mr. Girth," to the second mate, "take a crew t' the ice. Blast that pan in three places. Lively, now, every man o' you!" Roaring subordinates, answering "Ay, ay, sirs!" rattling blocks and chains, the fall of hurried feet, cries of warning and encouragement, the engine's gasps: these sounds confounded the confusion, and continued it, while the ship, snorting like a frightened horse, was backed to her first position. "He'll try it again," Archie gleefully observed to Billy. The captain was pacing the bridge. Try it again? He was in a fever of impatience to be at it! It was as though the pan of ice were a foe needing only another and a heavier blow to be beaten down. "Sure," said Billy, after a glance to the bridge, "he'll hit that pan till he smashes it, if it takes till Tibb's Eve!" "Tibb's Eve?" "Sure, b'y. Does you not know what that is? 'Tis till the end o' the world." The ship was again to be launched against the pan. The second mate took the blasting crew to the ice in the quarter boat; and he lost no time about it, as the captain made sure. Up aloft went other hands to cut away the broken spar and loose the canvas. Work was carried on under the spur of the captain's harshened voice; for the captain was in a passion to prove the quality of his ship. The ice picks were plied as fast as arms could swing them. Soon the mines were laid and fired. And when the dust of ice had fallen, and the noise of the explosion had gone rumbling into the distance, three gaping holes marked the pan at regular intervals from edge to edge. "She's all tight below, sir," was the carpenter's report. "Now, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, grimly, "in ten minutes we'll be free o' the ice, or----" They made all sail. After a quiet word or two of command, forth the ship shot, heeling to the breeze, wind now allied with steam. Her course was laid straight for the jagged bruise in the pan. There was no stopping her now. The ice was cracked and shivered into a thousand pieces. The ship forged on, grinding the cakes to fragments, heaping them up, riding them down. She quivered when she struck, and strained and creaked as she crushed her way forward, but she crept on, invincible, adding inch to inch, foot to foot, until she swept out into the unclogged water. Then she shook the ice from her screw, and ran grandly into the swelling sea. "Hurrah!" the stout hearts roared. "Hem--hem! Mr. Ackell," said the captain, with some emotion, "'tis a great ship!" * * * * * It occurred to Archie that night, while he sat munching hard biscuit with the captain before turning in, to ask a few questions about Tim Tuttle. What was the matter with the man? Why did he go about with a sneer or a frown forever on his face? Why was he not like all the rest of the crew? Why did the crew seem to expect him to "do" something? Why did the captain flush and bristle when Tuttle came near? "Oh," the captain replied, with a laugh, "Tuttle had a fallin' out with me when we was young. I think," he added, gravely, "that he wronged me. But that's neither here nor there. I forgave him. The point is--an' I've often run across the same thing in my life--that he won't forgive _me_ for forgivin' _him_. That's odd, isn't it? But it's true. An' he's aboard here t' make trouble; an' the men know that that's just what he came for." "But what did you ship him for, captain, if you knew that?" The captain paused. "Well," he said, "because I'm only a man, I s'pose. I couldn't help knockin' the chip off his shoulder." "Do you think he _can_ make trouble?" "I'd like t' see him try!" the captain burst out, wrathfully. Tuttle's opportunity occurred the next day. CHAPTER XXXII _In Which Seals are Sighted and Archie Armstrong has a Narrow Chance in the Crow's-Nest._ AT peep o' dawn the _Dictator_ made the Groais Island sealing grounds. The day broke late and dull. The sky was a dead gray, hanging heavily over a dark, fretful sea; and there was a threat of wind and snow in the air. "Ice, sir!" said the mate, poking his head into the captain's cabin, his ceremony lost in his elation. "Take her 'longside," cried the captain, jumping out of his berth. "What's it like?" "Looks like a big field o' seal ice, sir." "Hear that, b'y?" the captain shouted to Archie, who was sitting up in his berth, still rubbing his eyes. "A field o' ice! There'll be a hunt t'-day. Mr. Ackell, tell the cook t' send the breakfast up here. What's the weather?" "Promisin' thick, sir." When the captain and the boy went on deck, the ice was in plain sight--many vast fields, rising over the horizon continually, so that there seemed to be no end to it. From the crow's-nest it had been reported to the mate, who reported to the captain, that the spars of a three-masted ship were visible, and that the vessel was apparently lying near the ice. That was considered bad news--and worse news yet, when it was reported from the crow's-nest that she was flying the house-flag of Alexander Bryan & Company, the only considerable rival of the firm of Armstrong and Son. "Oh, well," said the captain, making the best of it in a generous way, "there'll be 25,000 seals in that pack, an' out o' that we ought t' bag enough t' pay both of us for the day's work." Archie caught sight of Billy Topsail, who was standing on the forward deck, gazing wistfully at him; so he went forward, and the two found much to say to each other, while the ship made for the ice under full steam. They fought the fight with the dog hood over again; and when Billy had acknowledged a debt to Archie's quick thought, and Archie had repudiated it with some heat, they agreed that the old seal had been a mighty fellow, and a game one, deserving his escape from continued attack. Then they abandoned the subject. "Pretty hard work on the ice," Archie observed, sagely. "Sure!" Billy exclaimed; for that had been clear to him all his life. "'Tis fearful dangerous, too. When my father was young, he was to the ice in a schooner, an' they got caught with the fleet in raftin' ice[7] offshore, up Englee way. He saw six schooners nipped; an' they were all crushed like an egg, an' went down when the ice went abroad. His was the only one o' all the fleet that stood the crush." "Think you'll share with the crew, Billy?" "I want to," Billy said with a laugh. Then, soberly: "I want to, for I want t' get a skiff for lobster-fishin' in New Bay. They's lots o' lobsters there, an' they's no one trappin' down that way. 'Tis a great chance," with a sigh. The captain beckoned Archie to the upper deck. "Tell me, now," he said, when the boy reached his side, "can you go aloft?" "Yes," Archie answered, laughing scornfully. "I'm no landsman!" "True word, if you're son of your father! Then get up with the bar'l man, an' take a trick at swatchin'. 'Tis cold work, but great sport." "Swatching" is merely the convenient form for "seal watching." It appeared to Archie that to swatch with the barrel man must be a highly diverting occupation. He was not slow to mount the rope ladder to the masthead, and slip into the cask with the swatcher, who chanced to be Bill o' Burnt Bay and vociferously made him welcome. "See anything yet?" asked the boy. "I'll show you them swiles (seals) in a minute or two," Bill replied confidently. Archie was closely muffled in wool and fur; but the wind, which was bitter and blowing hard, searched out the unprotected places, and in five minutes he was crouching in the cask for shelter, only too glad to find an excuse in the swatcher's advice. "H-h-h-how l-l-long you been h-h-here?" he chattered. "Sure, b'y," said Bill, with no suspicion of a shiver in his voice, "'tis goin' on two hours, now." "P-p-pretty cold, i-i-isn't it?" Bill o' Burnt Bay did not reply. His eye was glued to the telescope, which fairly shook in his hands. Then he leaned over the rim of the cask, altogether disregarding its instability. "Seals ho!" he roared. A cheer went up. Looking down, Archie saw the men swarming to the deck. "Take a look at them harps, b'y," said Bill, excitedly. "No! Starboard the glass. There! See them?" Archie made out a myriad of moving specks--black dots, small and great, shifting about over a broad white surface. They were like many insects. He saw Alexander Bryan & Company's vessel, too; and it appeared to him that the men were just landing on the ice to attack the pack. "That's the _Lucky Star_," Bill explained. "She's a smaller ship than we, an' she've got about a hundred men, I s'pose. Never fear, lad, we'll be up in time t' get our share o' the swiles." "I-I-I-I g-g-guess I'll g-g-go down, now," said Archie. Half an hour of exposure in the crow's-nest had chilled the lad to numbness. His blood was running sluggishly; he was shivering; his legs were stiff, and his hands were cold and uncertain in their grip. He climbed out of the cask, and cleverly enough made good his footing on the platform of the nest. It was when he essayed the descent that he erred and faltered. He had a full, two-handed grip on the topmast backstays, and was secure in searching with his foot for the rope ladder lashed thereto. But when his foot struck, he released his left hand from the stays, without pausing to make sure that his foot was firm-fixed on the rung. His foot missed the rung altogether, and found no place to rest. In a flash, he had rolled over, and hung suspended by one hand, which, numb though it was, had unexpectedly to bear the weight of his whole body. "Be careful goin' down, b'y," he heard Bill o' Burnt Bay say. The voice seemed to come out of a great distance. Archie knew, in a dim way, that the attention of the man was fixed elsewhere--doubtless on the herd of harps. Then he fell into a stupefaction of terror. It seemed to him, in his panic, that Bill would never discover his situation; that he must hang there, with his grip loosening, instant by instant--until he fell. He was speechless, incapable of action, when, by chance, Bill o' Burnt Bay looked down. The sealer quietly reached over the cask and caught him by the collar; then lifted him to the platform, and there held him fast. Each looked silently, tensely, into the other's eyes. "'Tis a cold day," said Bill, dryly. Archie gasped. "Tough on tender hands, b'y," said Bill. "Yes," gasped the lad, in a hoarse whisper. There was a long silence, through which the swatcher looked Archie in the eye, holding him tight all the while. "'Tis not wise t' be in a hurry, sometimes," he observed, at last. The boy waited until he could view the necessity of descent with composure. Then, with extreme caution, he made his way to the deck, and went to the cabin, where he warmed himself over the stove. Apparently, the incident had passed unnoticed from the deck. He said nothing about it to the captain, nor to any one else; nor did Bill o' Burnt Bay, who had an adequate conception of the sensitiveness of lads in respect to such narrow chances. FOOTNOTE: [7] A floe of pans so forcibly driven by the wind as to be crowded into layers. CHAPTER XXXIII _The Ice Runs Red, and, in Storm and Dusk, Tim Tuttle Brews a Pot o' Trouble for Captain Hand, While Billy Topsail Observes the Operation_ MEANTIME the ship drew near the ice. When Archie came again on deck, his nerves quite composed, she was being driven in and out through the fields to a point as near to the first seal pack as she could be taken--a mile distant, at the least. During this tedious search for a landing place, the crew's eager excitement passed the bounds of discipline. The men could see the crew from Alexander Bryan & Company's _Lucky Star_ at work; and that excited them the more: they were mad to reach the ice before their rivals could molest the pack for which they were bound. When, at last, the engines were stopped, a party of sixty was formed in a haphazard fashion; the boats were lowered in haste, and the men leaped and tumbled into them, crowding them down to the gunwales. In one of the boats were Archie and Billy, the former in the care of Bill o' Burnt Bay, to whom the "nursing" was not altogether agreeable, under the circumstances; the latter in charge of himself, a lenient guardian, but a wise one. "Don't get into trouble with the crew o' the _Lucky Star_," had been the captain's last command. The men landed, hurrahing, and at once organized into half a dozen separate expeditions. The direction to be taken by each was determined by the leaders, and they set off at a dog trot upon their diverging paths over the ice to the widely distributed seal pack. Meantime, the boats were taken back to the ship and hoisted in; and the ship steamed off to land another party on another field, thence to land the last party near a third pack. The boys trotted in Bill's wake. Two pennant bearers, carrying flags to mark the heaps of "fat," as they should be formed, led the file. One of these men--it happened by chance, to all appearances--was the captain's enemy, Tim Tuttle. Their work was particularly important on that day, with the crew of the _Lucky Star_ working so near at hand; for the flags were to mark the ownership of the mounds of "fat," and any tampering with these "brands" would be likely to precipitate a violent encounter between the men of the rival ships. "I'm thinkin' 'twill snow afore night," Bill panted, as they ran along; and, indeed, it appeared that it would. The advance soon had to be made with caution. The hunters were so near the pack that the whines of the white coats could be heard. Archie could make out not only the harps, but the blow-holes beside which they lay in family groups. At this point the men formed in twos and threes, and dispersed. In a few minutes more, they rushed upon the prey, striking right and left. The ice was soon strewn with dead seals. It was harvest time for these impoverished Newfoundlanders. Lives of seals for lives of men and women! Bill o' Burnt Bay had ten "kids" at home, and he was merciless and mighty in destruction. Archie and Billy came upon a family of four, lying at some distance from their blow-hole--two grown harps, a "jar," which is a one year old seal, and a ranger, which is three years old and spotted like a leopard. Billy attacked the ranger without hesitation. Archie raised his gaff above the fluffy little jar, which was fanning itself with its flipper, and whining. "I can't do it!" he exclaimed, lowering his club, and turning away, faint at heart; then "Look, Billy!" he cried, in half amused wonderment. The old seals had wriggled off to the blow-hole, moving upon their flippers, in short jumps, as fast as a man could walk. Apparently they had reached the hole at the same instant, which was not wide enough to admit them both. Neither would give way to the other. They were stuck fast, their heads below, their fat bodies above. Their selfish haste was their undoing. Billy was not loath to take advantage of their predicament. Thus, everywhere, the men were at work. There was no friction with the crew of the _Lucky Star_; the whole party worked amicably, and almost side by side. When they had dispersed the pack, the "sculping" knives were drawn, and the labour of skinning was vigorously prosecuted. The skins, with the blubber adhering, were piled in heaps of six or more, according to the strength of the men who were to "tow" them to the edge of the field, where the ship was to return in the evening; and every "tow" was marked with an Armstrong and Son flag. The _Lucky Star's_ recall gun surprised the men before the work was finished. They looked up to find that the dusk was upon them, and that the snow was falling--falling ever more thickly, and drifting with the wind. The men of the _Lucky Star_ stopped work, hurriedly saw to it that their heaps of pelt were all marked, and started on a run for the ship; for, on the ice fields, the command of the recall gun is never disregarded. "There goes the _Dictator's_ gun," shouted one of the men. A second boom added force to the warning. The captain was evidently anxious to have his men safe out of the storm; the "fat" could be taken aboard in the morning. So Bill o' Burnt Bay, who was in tacit command of the party, called his men about him, and led the return. It was a mile over the ice to the _Dictator_, which lay waiting, with the second and third parties aboard. He was in haste; moreover, he had Sir Archibald Armstrong's son in his care: perhaps, that is why he did not stop to count the _Dictator's_ heaps of pelt before he started. "Come, now, Tuttle, don't lag!" he shouted, ambitious to have his party return with no delay. But Tuttle still lagged--or, rather, ran from heap to heap of pelt, as though to make sure that each was marked. He busied himself, indeed, until the party was well in advance--until, as he thought, there was no eye to see what he did under cover of the driving snow. Then he quickly snatched _Lucky Star_ flags from half a dozen heaps of "fat," cast them away, and planted _Dictator_ flags in their stead--a dishonourable duty which the house-flag of Armstrong & Son had never before been made to do. Quite sure, now, that he had shot an arrow that would sorely wound Captain Hand and the firm of Armstrong & Son, Tuttle ran after his party. When he was yet some distance behind, he turned about, and saw a small figure following him. He stopped dead--and waited until that small figure came up. "Topsail," he demanded, "what you been doin' back there?" Billy was very much frightened; but he was a truthful boy, and he now told the truth. "Been sculpin' an' pilin' me swiles, sir," he stammered. "Has you been touchin' them flags?" "N-n-no, sir. I didn't have no time. I was afeared I'd get lost in the snow." Tuttle caught the boy by the shoulders, and stared fiercely into his eyes. "Did you see what I done?" he demanded. Billy was strongly tempted to choose the easier way; but, as I have said, he was a truthful lad, and a brave lad, too. The temptation passed in a moment, and he fearlessly returned Tuttle's stare. "Yes, sir," he said. "If you tells Cap'n Hand what you saw," said Tuttle, tightening his grip, and bringing his face close to the lad's, "I'll----" He did not complete the threat. Billy Topsail's imagination, as he knew, would conceive the most terrible revenge. "Yes, sir," Billy gasped, vacantly; for he was more frightened than he had ever before been in his short life. That was all. They ran at full speed after their party, and soon joined it. Tuttle kept at Billy's side while they were getting aboard the ship, kept at his side while supper was served in the forecastle, kept at his side through the short evening; kept at his side all the time, in a haunting, threatening way that frightened Billy as nothing else could, until the lad, tired out and utterly discouraged as to the purpose he had formed, turned in, no less to escape Tuttle, who had now grown hateful to him, than to rest. "Oh," he thought, "if Archie had on'y come t' the fo'c's'le this night, I might 'a' told him; but now--I thinks--I'll be afeared, in the mornin'." CHAPTER XXXIV _In Which Tim Tuttle's Shaft Flies Straight for the Mark. The Crews of the Dictator and Lucky Star Declare War, and Captain Hand is Threatened with the Shame of Dishonour, While Young Billy Topsail, Who Has the Solution of the Difficulty, is in the Hold of the Ship_ TIM TUTTLE'S design against the honour of Captain Hand and of the firm of Armstrong & Son promised well. The following day broke fine; and, early in the morning, the crew of the _Dictator_ was turned out to load the "fat" which had been left on the floe over night. About one hundred men were sent to the ice; the rest were kept on the ship to stow away the "tows" as they came aboard. Among the latter was young Billy Topsail, who was ordered to the hold the moment he appeared on deck. The party under Bill o' Burnt Bay was first on the ground. Presently, the men from the _Lucky Star_ arrived. For a time, pleasant words passed between the crews. Soon, however, a group of _Lucky Star_ hunters gathered out of hearing of the _Dictator's_ crew. Their voices, which had been low at first, rose angrily, and to such a pitch that the attention of Bill o' Burnt Bay was attracted. He observed their suspicious glances, their wrathful faces, their threatening gestures; and he promptly surmised that trouble of a familiar kind was brewing. It was evident that there was to be a dispute over the possession of certain of the "tows." The rights of that dispute Bill was not in a position to determine. So far as he knew--and he was bound to stand squarely upon his own knowledge--there had been no wrong-doing on the part of his men; and, being a man who never failed in his duty to the firm, he resolved that not an ounce of "fat" which then lay under a flag of Armstrong & Son should be yielded to the _Lucky Star_ until a higher authority than he gave the word. Needless to say, that is precisely what Tuttle expected of him. Moving quietly, lest he should provoke the dispute, Bill warned his men to be on the alert. And it was not long before the crew of the _Lucky Star_, with a stout fellow at their head, advanced threateningly. "Look here, you, Bill o' Burnt Bay," shouted the leader, "some o' your men have been stealin' our tows." "Oh, come, now, Johnny Tott," Bill replied, good-humouredly, "that ain't our way o' gettin' a cargo." The men of the _Dictator_ gathered behind Bill. Bill would have been better pleased had they gathered with less haste, had there been less of the battle-light in their eyes, had they held their gaffs less tightly--but all that, of course, was beyond his control; he could only make sure to have them there to defend the rights of the firm. "You can't scare _me_!" Johnny Tott flashed, angered by what he understood to be a display of force, but still trying to keep his temper. "We left twenty-two tows here last night, an' we find sixteen this mornin'. Who took the odd six?" Bill was bent on having the question referred to the captains of the ships. _They_ might settle it as they would. As for him--knowing from experience how quickly such encounters might come, and how violent they might be--all he desired was peaceably to protect the interests of his employers, and of the men, who had a percentage interest in every seal killed. "I don't want t' scare you, Johnny Tott," he replied, quietly. "I thinks you've counted your flags wrong. Now, why can't we just----" Then came an unfortunate interruption. It was a long, derisive cat-call from one of Bill's men--none other than Tim Tuttle. That was more than could be borne by men who were confident of their rights. "Thieves!" half a dozen of the crew of the _Lucky Star_ retorted. "A pack o' thieves!" It was a critical moment. The _Dictator's_ men, too, believed themselves to be in the right; and there was a limit to what they, too, could suffer. To be called thieves was perilously near that limit, already provoked, as they were, by what they thought a bold attempt to rob them of their seals. Bill turned quickly on his own men. "Stand back!" he cried, knowing well that a rush impended. "Thieves! Thieves!" taunted the crew of the _Lucky Star_. "Keep your men quiet!" Bill roared to Johnny Tott. "There'll be trouble if you don't." The _Lucky Star_ men were outnumbered; but not so far outnumbered that their case would be hopeless in a hand-to-hand fight. Nevertheless, it was the part of wisdom for Johnny Tott, who was himself animated by the best motives, to keep them quiet. He faced them, berated them roundly, and threatened to "knock the first man down" who should dare to continue the disturbance. Thus encouraged, Bill o' Burnt Bay addressed his crew briefly and to the point. "No nonsense, men!" he growled. "We wants no bloodshed here. The first man that passes me," he added, in such a way that not a man of them doubted he would make good his word, "may get hurt, an' badly hurt, afore he knows it." It was no time for gentle dealing. Bill had strong, angry men to deal with; and the responsibility of keeping them from wronging themselves and their fellows sat heavily upon him. Confident, however, that he had them in check, he advanced to parley with Tott. All would doubtless have gone smoothly had there not been a designing man on Bill's side. That man was Tuttle, to whom the course of events was not pleasing. Perceiving, now, that an encounter was likely to be warded off, he determined to precipitate it. "Who called me a thief?" he burst out. Then he broke away from his fellows, and ran towards the crew of the _Lucky Star_, with his gaff upraised. But Bill o' Burnt Bay was quick as a flash to intercept him. He tripped Tuttle up with his gaff, fairly leaped upon the prostrate form, caught the man by the collar, dragged him back and flung him at the feet of the crew. And, meantime, the _Lucky Star_ men, who had instantly prepared to meet Tuttle, laughed uproariously. That hearty laugh lightened the situation perceptibly. "An' here comes Cap'n Black!" shouted one of the men. Captain Hand of the _Dictator_, too, was on his way over the ice. Both skippers had observed the cessation of the work and the separation of the men into two hostile parties. Familiar as they were with such disputes, they needed no message to tell them that their presence was urgently needed on the floe. They came over the ice at full speed, at the same time trying to get at the merits of the quarrel from the men who ran to meet them; and, being fat sea-captains, both of them, and altogether unused to hurried locomotion afoot, they were quite out of breath when they met. The skipper of the _Lucky Star_ was a florid, peppery little man, much given to standing upon his dignity. "Cap'n Hand," he puffed, "this is--an out--rage, sir! Is this the way----" "'Scuse me--Cap'n B-Black--sir," the skipper of the _Dictator_ panted, his little red eyes almost hidden by his bushy brows; "but--I'm wonder--ful s'prised--that----" Captain Black drew a long breath, and proceeded more easily, but still with magnificent dignity. "_I'm_ wonderful surprised t' know, sir," he said, "that _this_ is the way Cap'n Hand makes a good v'y'ge of it every year. I never knew how before, sir." "I'd have you t' know, sir," returned Captain Hand, bristling ominously, "that I 'lows no man t' call me a thief." "I'd have you t' know, sir, that your men have stolen my fat." "An' I'll have you t' know, sir, that that's t' be proved." "Cap'n Hand, sir," declared Captain Black, swelling like a pouter-pigeon the meanwhile, "you whole crew outnumbers mine nigh two t' one, or I'd load every pound o' fat on the ice on my ship. But I tells you now, sir, that I'll have the law o' you at St. John's. If you touch them six tows I'll have you sent t' coolie for a thief, sir, if there's an honest jury in the land! Mark my words, sir, I'll do it!" The upshot of it all was, when both captains had cut a ridiculous figure for a considerable time (and had found it out), that the crews were withdrawn to the ships, ostensibly for dinner, but really that they might be kept apart while their blood was heated. A conference was appointed for three o'clock in the afternoon; and in the interval the captains were more fully and more accurately to inform themselves by examining their respective crews. This was a very sensible agreement. So far as it went, Captain Hand was content; but, being a wise and experienced man, he foresaw that an amicable settlement of the difficulty was extremely doubtful. "I hopes, anyhow, that 'twill not come t' blows," he told Archie, as they trudged along, for his position made it impossible for him to confide in anybody else. "'Twill be a dreadful disgrace if it comes t' blows. An' maybe 'twill be something worse." When the men reached the _Dictator_, Billy Topsail was waiting on deck, keen as the rest of them to know what had happened on the ice. He had a wholesome conscience, and a reasonable courage; he had fully determined to do his duty, and was about to attract Archie Armstrong's attention--Archie was to be his first confidant--when Tuttle slipped quietly to his side, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Billy had no need to look up; he knew whose hand that was, and what the firm, increasing pressure meant. "You better go t' the fo'c's'le, lad," Tuttle whispered in his ear. CHAPTER XXXV _In Which the Issue is Determined_ BILLY Topsail went to the forecastle as he was bid. With Tuttle so near, he seemed not to have the will to carry out his purpose. He passed Archie on the way forward, even responded to his nod and merry greeting with a wistful smile; but said nothing, for he felt that Tuttle's cold gray eyes were fixed upon him. Archie marked that strange smile, and thought--it was just a fleeting thought--that Billy must be in trouble; he was about to stop, but put the solicitous question off--until another time. Aboard the _Lucky Star_, Captain Black called Johnny Tott to his cabin. It was a serious moment for both, as both knew. The hunter realized that the captain would act upon his statement, and that there would be no return, once the course was taken. Moreover, he knew that he would have to take oath, and support that oath with evidence, in the court-room at St. John's. "Now, John, I wants just the plainest kind o' truth," the captain began, for, shorn of his exaggerated dignity, he was a fair, honest-hearted man. "I've been friends with Cap'n Hand ever since we was young, an' I've liked him every hour o' that time, an' I've believed in him every minute; so I'm in no humour t' have a fallin' out with him. It'll go hard with the man who wrongfully leads me into _that_. Come, now, what's the _truth_ o' all this?" "The truth, sir," Johnny replied, slowly, "is this: We left twenty-two tows on the ice last night, every one with a Bryan & Company flag flyin' over it, an' we found but sixteen this mornin'. That's all I knows about it." "Did you make the count alone?" "No, sir. They was three others, which," most importantly, "I can pro-dooce any minute." "All right, Johnny," said the captain, striking the table with his fist. "I believe you. You won't find Cap'n Black go back on his crew. I'll have that fat, if I have t' fight for it!" While this was passing, Captain Hand had summoned Bill o' Burnt Bay, Ebenezer Bowsprit and two or three other trustworthy men to _his_ cabin, and requested Archie Armstrong (the good captain seemed to consider the lad in some measure a representative of the firm) to hear the interview. One and all, for themselves and for the crew, they earnestly denied knowledge of any trickery. They regretted, they said, that the incident had occurred; but they believed that the seals were the property of the ship, and they hoped that the captain would not "see them robbed." "But, Bill," said the captain, hopelessly, "you didn't _count_ the tows?" "No, sir," Bill answered, promptly, "I'm bound t' say I didn't. After your two recall guns, sir, we was in a hurry t' get aboard. 'Twas a fault, I knows, sir, but it can't be helped now. I don't _know_ that anybody changed the flags. I hasn't any reason t' _think_ so. So I _believe_ that the fat's ours." "Well, men," the captain concluded, "that's just my position. I _knows_ nothin' t' the contrary; so I got t' believe that the fat's ours. You'll tell the crew that I'll stand by them. We'll take that fat, whatever they tries t' do, an' we'll let the courts decide afterwards. That's all." There was fret and uncertainty for the captain after the men trooped out. He was an honest man, seeking the right, but not sure that he was right. It seemed to him that, whatever the outcome, his reputation and that of the firm would be tarnished. In a trial at law, the crew of the _Lucky Star_ and the firm of Alexander Bryan & Company would appear as the aggrieved parties. Men would say--yes, men would even publicly take oath to it--that Captain Hand was a thief, and that the firm of Armstrong & Son abused its power and wealth in sustaining him. Not everybody would believe _that_, of course; but many would--and the odium of the charge would never disappear, let the verdict of the jury be what it might. "B'y," he said to Archie, in great distress, "'tis a tryin' place t' be in. I wants t' wrong nobody. 'Twould wound me sore t' wrong Cap'n Black, who's always been my friend. But I got t' have that fat. A sealin' skipper that goes back on his crew is not fit for command. I _must_ stand by the men. If I had an enemy, b'y," he added, "an' that enemy wanted t' ruin me, he couldn't choose a better----" Captain Hand stopped dead and stared at the table--stared, and gaped, until his appearance was altogether out of the common. "What's the matter, cap'n?" asked Archie, alarmed. At that moment, however, there was a knock at the door. Billy Topsail came in, pale and wide-eyed; but the sight of Archie seemed to compose him. "I got t' tell you about Tim Tuttle," he began, hurriedly. "I hears there's goin' t' be a fight, an'--an'--I got t' tell you that I seed him change the flags on the tows." "What!" shouted the captain, jumping out of his chair. And so it all came out. At the end of the talk, Billy Topsail was assured by the smiling captain that he need not fear Tim Tuttle after a word or two had been spoken with him. Bill o' Burnt Bay was summoned, and corroborated Billy's statement that Tuttle was the last man to leave the tows. And Tuttle was the captain's enemy! Everybody knew it. The difficulties were thus all brushed away. The crew would accept the explanation and be content. Tuttle would be ridiculed until he was well punished for the trick that had so nearly succeeded. It was a good ending to the affair--a far better outcome than any man aboard had dared hope for. "Bill," said the captain, with an odd little smile, "send Tim Tuttle t' Cap'n Black, with my compliments; an' will Cap'n Black be so kind as t' accept my apology, and have a friendly cup o' tea with me immediate?" * * * * * Later, when Tuttle left the captain's cabin, after the "word or two" had been spoken, he was not grateful for the generous treatment he had received. He meditated further mischief; but before the second opportunity offered, there happened something which put animosity out of the hearts of all the crew. CHAPTER XXXVI _It Appears That the Courage and Strength of the Son of a Colonial Knight are to be Tried. The Hunters are Caught in a Great Storm_ THE _Lucky Star_ and the _Dictator_ parted company the next day--the former bound for the Labrador coast, the latter in a southerly direction to White Bay. For several days, the _Dictator_ ran here and there among the great floes, attacking small herds; and at the end of a week she had ten thousand seals in her hold. But that cargo did not by any means content Captain Hand. Indeed, he began to fear the voyage would be little better than a failure. Nothing less than twenty thousands pelts would be a profitable "haul" for a vessel of the _Dictator's_ tonnage to carry back to St. John's. For that reason, perhaps, both the captain and the men were willing to take some risk, when, late one morning, a large herd was sighted on a floe near the coast in the southwest. The danger lay in the weather: it was an unpromising day--cold and dull, and threatening snow and storm. For a time the captain hesitated; but, at last, he determined to land his men in three parties, caution them to be watchful and quick, and himself try to keep the _Dictator_ within easy reach of them all. It really did not appear to be necessary to waste the day merely because the sky was dark over the coast. Bill o' Burnt Bay's party was landed first. Billy Topsail and Tim Tuttle were members of it; and, as usual, Archie Armstrong attached himself to it. As the _Dictator_ steamed away to land the second crew, and, thence, still further away to land the third, Bill led his men on a trot for the pack, which lay about a mile from the water's edge. "'Tis a queer day, this," Bill observed to the boys, who trotted in his wake. "Sure, why?" asked Billy. "Is it t' snow, or is it not? Can you answer me that? Sure, I most always can tell that little thing, but t'-day I can't." "'Tis like snow," Billy replied, puzzled, "an' again 'tisn't. 'Tis queer, that!" "I hopes the captain keeps the ship at hand," said Bill. "'Tis not t' my taste t' spend a night on the floe in a storm." To be lost in a blizzard is a dreaded danger, and not at all an uncommon experience. Many crews, lost from the ship in a blinding storm, have been carried out to sea with the floe, and never heard of afterwards. Bill o' Burnt Bay lost his own father in that way, and himself had had two narrow escapes from the same fate. So he scanned the sky anxiously, not only as he ran along at the head of his sixty men, but from time to time through the day, until the excitement of the hunt put all else out of his head. [Illustration: "LASH YOUR TOWS, B'YS," SAID BILL. "LEAVE THE REST GO."] It was a profitable hunt. The men laboured diligently and rapidly. So intent on the work in hand were they that none observed the darkening sky and the gusts of wind that broke from behind the rocky coast. Thus, towards evening, when the work was over save the sculping and lashing, dusk caught them unaware. Bill o' Burnt Bay looked up to find that the snow was flying, that it was black as ink in the northeast, and that the wind was blowing in long, angry gusts. "Men," he cried, "did you ever see a sky like that?" The men watched the heavy clouds in the northeast rise and swiftly spread. "Sure, it looks bad," muttered one. "Make haste with the sculpin'," Bill ordered. "They's wonderful heavy weather comin' up. I mind me a time when a blizzard come out of a sky like that." The dusk grew deeper, the snow fell thicker, the wind rose; and all this Bill observed while he worked. Groups of men lashed their tows and started off for the edge of the floe where the steamer was to return for them. "Lash your tows, b'ys," shouted Bill, to the rest of the men. "Leave the rest go. 'Tis too late t' sculp any more." There was some complaint; but Bill silenced the growlers with a sharp word or two. The whole party set off in a straggling line, dragging their tows; it was Bill who brought up the rear, for he wanted to make sure that his company would come entire to the landing-place. Strong, stinging blasts of wind were then sweeping out of the northeast, and the snow was fast narrowing the view. "Faster, b'ys!" cried Bill. "The storm's comin' wonderful quick." The storm came faster than, with all his experience, Bill o' Burnt Bay had before believed possible. When he had given the order to abandon the unskinned seals, he thought that there was time and to spare; but, now, with less than half the distance to the landing-place covered, the men were already staggering, the wind was blowing a gale, and the blinding snow almost hid the flags at the water's edge. When he realized this, and that the ship was not yet in sight, "Drop everything, an' run for it!" was the order he sent up the line. "Archie, b'y," he then shouted, catching the lad by the arm and drawing him nearer, "we got t' run for the landing-place. Stick close t' me. When you're done out, I'll carry you. Is you afraid, b'y?" Archie looked up, but did not deign to reply to the humiliating question. "All right, lad," said Bill, understanding. "Is you ready?" Archie knew that his strength and courage were to be tried. He was tired, and cold, and almost hopeless; but, then and there, he resolved to prove his blood and breeding--to prove to these men, who had been unfailingly kind to him, but yet had naturally looked with good-natured contempt upon his fine clothes and white hands, that fortitude was not incompatible with a neat cravat and nice manners. Beyond all that, however, it was his aim to prove that Sir Archibald Armstrong's son was the son of his own father. "Lead on, Bill," he said. "Good lad!" Bill muttered. Archie bent to the blast. CHAPTER XXXVII _In Which the Men are Lost, the Dictator is Nipped and Captain Hand Sobs, "Poor Sir Archibald!"_ WHEN the last party of hunters had been landed from the _Dictator_, the ship was taken off the ice field; and there she hung, in idleness, awaiting the end of the hunt. It was then long past noon. The darkening sky in the northeast promised storm and an early night more surely than ever. It fretted the captain. He was accountable to the women and children of Green Bay for the lives of the men; so he kept to the deck, with an eye on the weather: and while the gloom deepened and spread, a storm of anxiety gathered in his heart--and, at last, broke in action. "Call the watch, Mr. Ackell!" he cried, sharply. "We'll wait no longer." He ran to the bridge, signalled "Stand by!" to the engine-room, and ordered the firing of the recall gun. The men of the last party were within ear of the report. It brought all work on the ice to a close. The men waited only to pile the dead seals in heaps and mark possession with flags. "Again, mate!" shouted the captain. "They're long about comin', it seems t' me." A second discharge brought the men on a run to the edge of the ice. It was evident that some danger threatened. They ran at full speed, crowded aboard the waiting boats, and were embarked as quickly as might be. Then the ship steamed off to the second field, five miles distant, to pick up the second party. When she came within hearing distance, three signal guns were fired, with the result that, when she came to, the men were waiting for the boats. It was a run of six miles to the field upon which the first party had been landed--part of the way in and out among the pans. The storm had now taken form and was advancing swiftly, and the fields in the northeast were hidden in a spreading darkness. The wind had risen to half a gale, and it was beginning to snow. A run of six miles! The captain's heart sank. When he looked at the black clouds rising from behind the coast, he doubted that the _Dictator_ could do it in time. An appalling fortune seemed to be descending on the men on the ice. "But we may make it, mate," said the captain, "if----" "Ay, sir?" "If they's no ice comin' with the gale." The ship had been riding the open sea, skirting the floe. Now she came to the mouth of a broad lane, which wound through the fields. It was the course; along that lane, at all hazards, she must thread her way. The danger was extreme. The wind, blowing a gale, might force the great fields together. Or, if ice came with the wind, the lanes might be choked up. In either event, what chance would there be for the men? In the first event, which was almost inevitable, what chance would there be for the _Dictator_ herself? "Cap'n Hand, sir," the mate began, nervously, "is you goin'----" The captain looked up in amazement when the mate stammered and stopped. "Well, sir?" he said. "Is you goin' inside the ice, sir?" "Is I goin' WHAT?" roared the captain, turning upon him. "Is I goin' WHAT, sir?" It was sufficient. The captain _was_ going among the fields. The mate needed no plainer answer to his question. "Beg pardon, sir," he muttered meekly. "I thought you was." "Huh!" growled the captain. When the ship passed into the lane, the storm burst overhead. The scunner in the foretop was near blinded by the driven snow. His voice was swept hither and thither by the wind. Directions came to the bridge in broken sentences. The captain dared not longer drive the vessel at full speed. "Half speed!" he signalled. The ship crept along. For half an hour, while the night drew on, not a word was spoken, save the captain's quiet "Port!" and "Starboard!" into the wheelhouse tube. Then the mate heard the old man mutter: "Poor b'y! Poor Sir Archibald!" No other reference was made to the boy. In the captain's mind, thereafter, for all the mate knew, young Archibald Armstrong, the owner's son, was merely one of a crew of sixty men, lost on the floe. "Ice ahead!" screamed the lookout in the bow. The ship was brought to a stop. The lane she had been following had closed before her. The mate went forward. "Heavy ice, sir," he reported. Broken ice, then, had come down with the wind. It had been carried into the channels, choking them. "Does you see water beyond, b'y?" the captain shouted. "'Tis too thick t' tell, sir." The captain signalled "Go ahead!" The chance must be taken. To be caught between two fields in a great storm was a fearful situation. So the ship pushed into the ice, moving at a snail's pace, labouring hard, and complaining of the pressure upon her ribs. Soon she made no progress whatever. The screw was turning noisily; the vessel throbbed with the labour of the engines; but she was at a standstill. "Stuck, sir!" exclaimed the mate. "Ay, mate," the captain said, blankly, "stuck." The ship struggled bravely to force her way on; but the ice, wedged all about her, was too heavy. "God help the men!" said the captain, as he signalled for the stopping of the engines. "We're stuck!" "An' God help us," the mate added, in the same spirit, "if the fields come together!" Conceive the situation of the _Dictator_. She lay between two of many vast, shifting fields, all of immeasurable mass. The captain had deliberately subjected her to the chances in an effort to rescue the men for whom he was accountable to the women and children of Green Bay. She was caught; and if the wind should drive the fields together, her case would be desperate, indeed. The slow, mighty pressure exerted by such masses is irresistible. The ship would either be crushed to splinters, or--a slender chance--she would be lifted out of danger for the time. Had there been no broken ice about her, destruction would have been inevitable. Her hope now lay in that ice; for, with the narrowing of the space in which it floated, it would in part be forced deep into the water, and in part be crowded out of it. If it should get under the ship's bottom, it would exert an increasing upward pressure; and that pressure might be strong enough to lift the vessel clear of the fields. The captain had known of such cases; but now he smiled when he called them to mind. "Take a week's rations an' four boats t' the ice, mate," he directed, "an' be quick about it. We'll sure have t' leave the ship." While the mate went about this work, the captain paced the bridge, regardless of the cold and storm. It was dark, the wind was bitter and strong, the snow was driving past; but still he paced the bridge, now and then turning towards the darkness of that place, far off on the floe, where his men, and the young charge he had been given, were lost. The women of Green Bay would not forgive him for lives lost thus; of that he was sure. And the lad--that tender lad---- "Poor little b'y!" he thought. "Poor Sir Archibald!" For relief from this torturing thought, he went among the men. He found most of them gathered in groups, gravely discussing the situation of the ship. In the forecastle, some were holding a "prayer-meeting"; the skipper paused to listen to the singing and to the solemn words that followed it. Here and there, as he went along, he spoke an encouraging word; here and there dropped a word of advice, as, "Timothy, b'y, you got too much on your back; 'tis not wise t' load yourself down when you takes t' the ice," and the like; here and there, in a smile or a glance, he found the comforting assurance that the men knew he had tried to do his duty. "Cap'n John Hand," he thought, when he returned to the bridge, "you hasn't got a coward aboard!" The mate came up to report. "We've the boats on the ice, sir," he said, "an' I've warned the crew t' make ready." "Very well, Mr. Ackell; they's nothin' more t' be done." "Hark, sir!" The ice about the ship seemed to be stirring. Beyond--from far off in the distance to windward--the noise of grinding, breaking ice-pans could be heard. There was no mistaking the warning. The moment of peril was at hand. "The fields is comin' together, sir." "Call the crew, Mr. Ackell," said the captain, quietly. The men gathered on deck. They were silent while they waited. The only sounds came from the ice--and from overhead, where the wind was screaming through the rigging. "'Tis comin', sir," said the mate. "Ay." "God help us!" "'Twill soon be over, Mr. Ackell," observed the captain. He awaited the event with a calm spirit. CHAPTER XXXVIII _And Last: In Which Wind and Snow and Cold Have Their Way and Death Lands on the Floe. Billy Topsail Gives Himself to a Gust of Wind, and Archie Armstrong Finds Peril and Hardship Stern Teachers. Concerning, also, a New Sloop, a Fore-an'-After and a Tailor's Lay-Figure_ BILL o' Burnt Bay did not lead a race for the landing place. When he looked up, a thick curtain of snow hid the flags. It was then apparent to him that he and his men must pass the night on the ice. In a blizzard of such force and blinding density, no help could reach them from the ship, even if she managed to reach the place where the men were to be taken aboard. Nothing was visible but the space immediately roundabout; and the wind had risen to such terrific strength that sound could make small way against it. Thus, neither lights nor signal guns could be perceived--not though the ship should beat her way to within one hundred yards of where the group stood huddled. There was nothing for it but to seek the shelter of an ice hummock, and there await the passing of the storm. "B'ys," he said to the few men who had gathered about him, and he shouted at the top of his voice, for the wind whisked low-spoken words away, "they's a hummock somewheres handy. Leave us get t' the lee of it." "No, no!" several men exclaimed. "Leave us get on t' the rest o' the crew. 'Tis no use stayin' here." "The path is lost, men," Bill cried. "You'll lose your way--you'll lose your lives!" But they would not listen. They hurried forward, and were soon swallowed up by the night and snow. Bill o' Burnt Bay was left alone with Billy and Archie and a man named Osmond, who was a dull, heavy fellow. "They's a hummock within a hundred yards o' here," Bill shouted. "I marked it afore the snow got thick. We must find it. 'Tis----" "'Tis t' the left; 'tis over there," said Billy, pointing to the left. "I marked it well." "Ay 'tis somewheres t' the left. Our only chance is t' find it. Now, listen well t' what I says. We must spread out. I'll start off. Archie, you follow me; keep sight o' me--keep just sight o' me, an' no more; but don't lose me, b'y, for your life. Osmond, you'll follow the b'y; an' be sure you watch him well. Billy, b'y, you'll follow Osmond. When we gets in line, we'll face t' the left an' go for'ard. The first t' see the hummock will signal the next man, an' he'll pass the word." The three nodded their heads to signify their understanding of these directions. "Osmond, don't lose sight o' this b'y," said Bill, impressively, placing his hand on Archie's shoulder. "D'you mind? Men," he went on, "if one loses sight o' the others, 'tis all up with us. Leave your pelt go. I'll take mine." Shelter from that frosty wind was imperative in Archie's case. He made no complaint, for it was not in his nature to complain; but, strong to endure as he was, and stout as his spirit was, the cold, striking through the fur and wool about him, was having its inevitable effect. When Bill moved off, dragging his burden of pelt, the boy calmly waited until the stalwart figure had been reduced to an outline; then, with heavy steps, but fixed purpose to acquit himself like a man, he followed, keeping his distance. Osmond came next. Young Billy had the exposed position--a station of honour in which he exulted--at the other end of the line. Bill gave the signal, which was passed along by Archie to Osmond and by him to Billy, and they faced about and moved forward in the direction in which the hummock lay. Archie searched the gloom for the gray shape of the hummock. It was a shelter--a mere relief. But how despairingly he searched for a sight of that formless heap of ice! Soon he began to stumble painfully. Once he lost sight of Bill o' Burnt Bay. Then he faltered, fell and could not rise. It was the watchful Bill who picked him up. "What's this, b'y?" Bill asked, his voice shaking. "I fell down," Archie answered, sharply. "That's all." "I'll carry you, b'y," Bill began. "I'll carry you, if----" Archie roughly pushed the man away. Then he stumbled forward, keeping his head up. At that moment, Osmond, who was like a shadow to the right, gave the signal. So Bill knew that Billy, whom he could not see, had chanced upon the hummock. He caught Archie up in his arms, against the boy's protests and struggles, and ran with him to Osmond, and thence to Billy, all the time dragging his "tow." When they reached the lee of the ice, Archie lay quietly in Bill's arms. He was about to fall asleep, as Bill perceived. "Unlash the tow," Bill said, quickly, to Osmond, "an' start a fire." With the help of Billy, Osmond took a pelt from the pack, and spread it on the ice. "They's no wood," he said, stupidly. "Take the cross-bar o' the tow line, dunderhead!" cried Billy. "Here! Leave me do it." While Billy released the slender bar of wood from the end of the line, stuck it in the blubber and prepared to set fire to it, Bill was dealing with Archie's drowsiness. He shook the lad with all his strength, slapped him, shook him again, ran him hither and thither, and, at last, roused him to a sense of peril. The boy fought desperately to restore his circulation. "'Tis ready t' light," Billy said to Bill. "Leave me do it," Bill answered. "Keep movin', b'y," he cautioned Archie. "Don't you give up." Give up? Not he! And Archie said so--mumbled it scornfully to Bill, and repeated it again and again to himself, until he was sick of the monotony of the words, but could not stop repeating them. Neither Osmond nor Billy had matches, but Bill had a box in his waistcoat pocket. He shielded the contents from the wind and snow while he took one match out. Then he closed the box and handed it to Osmond to hold. It was well that he did not return it to his own pocket. Archie was stumbling back and forth over the twenty yards of sheltered space. He had a great, shadowy realization of two duties: he must keep in motion, and he must keep out of the wind. All else had passed from his consciousness. At every turn, however, he unwittingly ventured further past the end of the hummock. Twice the wind, the full force of which he could not resist, almost caught him. Then came a time when he had to summon his whole strength to tear himself from its clutch. He told himself he must not again pass beyond the lee of the ice. But, before he returned to that point, he had forgotten the danger. A mighty gust laid hold on him, carried him off his feet, and swept him far out into the darkness.[8] It chanced that Billy Topsail, who had kept an eye on Archie, caught sight of him as he fell. "Archie!" the boy screamed. "Archie?" cried Bill, looking up. "What----" Archie had even then been carried out of sight. Billy leaped to his feet and followed. He gave himself to the same gust of wind, and, with difficulty keeping himself upright, was carried along with it. Bill grasped the situation in a flash. He, too, leaped up, and ran into the storm. "Archie, b'y!" he cried. "Where is you? Oh, where is you, lad?" It was the first time in many years that heart's agony had wrung a cry from old Bill o' Burnt Bay. Billy Topsail was carried swiftly along by the wind. It was clear to him that, should he diverge from the path of the gust, not only would he be unable to find the lost boy, but he himself would be in hopeless case. The wind swept him close upon Archie's track, but, as its force wasted, ever more slowly. He soon tripped over an obstruction, and plunged forward on his face. He recovered, and crawled back. There he came upon Archie, lying in a heap, half covered by a drift of snow. "B'y," Billy shouted, "is you dead?" Archie opened his eyes. Billy Topsail looked close, but could see no light of intelligence in them. He shook the boy violently. "Wake up!" he cried. "Wake up!" "What?" Archie responded, faintly. Billy lifted him to his feet, but there was no strength in the lad's legs; he was limp as a drunken man. But this exertion restored Billy Topsail; he felt his own strength returning--a strength which the arduous toil of the coast had mightily developed. "Stand up, b'y!" he shouted in Archie's ear. "Put your arm on my shoulder. I'll help you along." "No," Archie muttered. But despite this protest he was lifted up; then he said: "Give me your hand. I'm all right." Billy wasted no words. He locked his arms about Archie's middle, lifted him, and staggered forward against the wind. The wind had fallen somewhat, and he made some progress. But the burden was heavy, and twice he fell. Then he heard Bill o' Burnt Bay's voice, and he shouted a response, but the wind carried the words away. He could hear Bill, who was to windward, but Bill could not hear him. So when the call came again, he marked the location and staggered in that direction. "Oh, Billy! Oh, Archie!" The voice was nearer--and to the left. Billy Topsail changed his course. The next cry came from the right again. Was the wind deceiving him? Or was Bill changing his place? Then came a ringing cry near at hand. "Bill!" screamed Billy Topsail. "Here! Where is you?" Bill's great body emerged from the darkness. He cried out joyfully as he rushed forward, took Archie from Billy's arms, and slung him over his shoulder. "Praise God!" he muttered tremulously, when he felt life stirring in the small body. He put his face close to Billy Topsail's and looked steadily into the boy's eyes for an instant; and no words were needed to say what he meant. [Illustration: "WE'RE SAVED!" SAID BILL.] But where was the hummock? Bill looked about. "'Tis there," said Billy, pointing ahead. Bill shook his head. His homing instinct, to which he had trusted his life in many a fog and night, told him otherwise. Reason entered into his decision not at all; he merely waited until he was persuaded that his face was turned in the right direction. Then he started off unhesitatingly. He had found the harbour entrance thus in many a thick summer night when his fishing punt rode a trackless sea. "Take hold o' me jacket, b'y," he said to Billy. "Mind you stick close by me." For some time they wandered without seeing any sign of the hummock. Bill's heart sank lower and lower; for he knew that if they did not soon find shelter, Archie would die in his arms. At last Bill caught sight of a light--a dull, glowing light. "Is that a fire?" he asked. "'Tis the hummock!" Billy cried. "'Tis Osmond with the fire goin'. 'Tis he! 'Tis he!" "We're saved," said Bill. Once in the lee of the hummock, they roused Archie from his stupor, and warmed him over the fire, which Osmond, after many failures, had succeeded in lighting. They broke the cross-piece of the tow line in two, took another pelt from the pack, and made two fires. The wood was like the wick in a candle; it blazed in the blubber, and was not consumed. Between the fires they huddled together, with Archie in the middle. Their bodies warmed the lad, and he slumbered snugly, quietly, through the night. Billy Topsail, more sturdy of body, if not of spirit, kept awake, and had a part in the talk with which each tried to cheer the others through the fearful, dragging hours. "'Tis the day," said Bill, at last, pointing to the east. The wind abated as the dawn advanced, and the snow ceased to fall. Light crept over the field, and men appeared from behind clumpers of ice. Group signalled to group. All made their way to the place where the ship had landed them, a dozen men were already clustered--a gaunt, haggard, frost-bitten crowd. The terrors of the night still oppressed them, and, through weeks, would haunt their dreams. They counted their number. Fifty-nine living men were there; and there was one dead body--that of Tim Tuttle of Raggles Island, who had strayed away from his fellows and been lost. And thus they awaited the full break of day, while eyes were strained into the departing night. Where was the ship? Had she survived? These were the questions they asked one another. "What's that patch o' black?" Bill o' Burnt Bay asked. "Due west, lads--a mile or more off?" "Sure, it looks like the ship," some of the men agreed. As the light increased, the storm passed on. A burst of sunshine at last revealed the _Dictator_, lying on the ice, listed far to port. The broken ice in which she had been caught, they learned afterwards, had been forced under her, and she had been lifted out of danger when the fields that nipped her came together. When it is said that old Captain Hand welcomed his crew with open arms, and embraced Archie--the meanwhile searching through all his pockets for a handkerchief, which he could not find--there remains little to be told. He was more haggard than the rescued men. What depths his brave spirit sounded on that long night are not to be described. "Well, b'y," was what he said to Archie, "you're back, is you?" "Safe and sound, cap'n," the boy replied, wearily, "and hungry." "Send the cook for'ard with the scoff!" roared the captain. Before noon, all the men were safe aboard, and the ice was breaking up. When the _Dictator_ settled softly into the water, at the parting of the fields, the pelt was stowed away. She had no difficulty in making the open sea; and thence she set forth in search of other floes and other seal packs. * * * * * The _Dictator_ made Long Tom Harbour without mishap. There it was made known that the name of Billy Topsail of Ruddy Cove was "on the books," and not a man grumbled because the lad was to share with the rest. There, too, old John Roth, to whom two "white coats" had been promised, claimed the gift of Archie, and was not disappointed. And there Archie said good-bye to Billy for the time. "I'll see you this summer," he said. "Don't forget, Billy. I'll spend a week of vacation time with you at Ruddy Cove." "No," Billy replied. "You'll spend it at New Bay. Sure, me name is on the books, an' I'm goin' after lobsters with me own skiff in July." "I'll go with you, if you'll take me," said Archie. "And I can never, never forget that you----" "Sure," Billy Topsail interrupted, flushing, "you'll go with me t' New Bay. An' times we'll have of it!" "Good-bye!" "Good-bye, b'y!" And so they parted on terms of perfect equality. * * * * * That summer, Billy Topsail went to New Bay. But it was not in a skiff; it was in a swift little sloop, especially made to be sailed by a crew of one. It came North, mysteriously, from St. John's, to the wonder of all Green Bay; and its name was _Rescue_. And a letter came North for Bill o' Burnt Bay: which, when he read it, stirred him to the profoundest depth of his rugged old heart, for he roared in a most unmannerly fashion that he'd "be busted if he'd take a thing for standin' by such a lad!" In reply to a second letter, however, Bill said he would "be willin' t' take it on credit, if he'd be 'lowed t' pay for it as he could." So that is how Bill o' Burnt Bay came to sail to the Labrador in his own fore-and-after, when the fish were running. And, once, Sir Archibald Armstrong turned to his son. "Well, my boy," he said, slowly, "I've been wanting to ask you a question. What do you think of your shipmates?" "I think they're heroes, every one!" Archie answered. "Do you think you now know the difference between a man and a tailor's lay-figure?" "Oh, sir," Archie laughed, "I'll never forget _that_!" Billy Topsail had never needed to learn. FOOTNOTE: [8] It is related by the survivors of the steamship _Greenland_ disaster, of some years ago, in which sixty lives were lost, that one man was in this way carried half a mile over the ice. When he was found, he had gone mad. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. Page 49, "cost" changed to "coast" (a rocky sea-coast) Page 142, "peninsular" changed to "peninsula" (bleak peninsula to the) Page 216, "Landside" changed to "Landslide" (Landslide at Little Tickle) Page 274, the anchor for the footnote after "raftin' ice" was added to the text. Page 328, "handkerckief" changed to "handkerchief" (pockets for a handkerchief) 
47253	----	SPORT IN VANCOUVER AND NEWFOUNDLAND [Illustration: THE MOUTH OF THE CAMPBELL RIVER. [_Frontispiece._] SPORT IN VANCOUVER AND NEWFOUNDLAND BY SIR JOHN ROGERS K.C.M.G., D.S.O., F.R.G.S. _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS BY THE AUTHOR AND REPRODUCTIONS OF PHOTOGRAPHS_ LONDON CHAPMAN AND HALL, LTD. 1912 RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. TO MY WIFE THE COMPANION OF MANY WANDERINGS IN STRANGE LANDS PREFACE The following pages are simply a transcription of my rough diary of two autumn holidays in Vancouver Island and Newfoundland in search of sport--should they prove of any use to those who may follow in my steps, I shall feel amply rewarded. J. G. R. CONTENTS BOOK I CHAP. PAGE I TO VANCOUVER ISLAND 1 II VANCOUVER TO THE CAMPBELL RIVER 15 III THE FISH AT THE CAMPBELL RIVER 29 IV SPORT AT CAMPBELL RIVER 39 V FISHING-TACKLE 61 VI TO ALERT BAY 75 VII IN THE FOREST 87 VIII IN THE WAPITI COUNTRY 107 IX OUT OF THE FOREST 119 X AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND 131 BOOK II I TO NEWFOUNDLAND 157 II TO LONG HARBOUR 173 III TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS 187 IV HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND 195 V TO KOSK[=A]CODDE 215 VI SPORT ON KEPSKAIG 233 VII TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY 245 VIII HOMEWARD BOUND 257 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VANCOUVER ORIGINAL DRAWINGS _To face page_ THE MOUTH OF THE CAMPBELL RIVER _Frontispiece_ MORNING MISTS, MT. KINGCOME 138 CAMP ON MT. KINGCOME 140 PHOTOS THE INDIAN CEMETERY, CAMPBELL RIVER 41 A MORNING'S CATCH 41 TWO GOOD FISH 50 A 60 LB. FISH 50 "DICK" 80 TOTEM POLES, ALERT BAY 80 THE HEAD OF NIMQUISH LAKE 92 DRIFTWOOD ON THE BEACH OF LAKE NIMQUISH, "DICK" IN THE FOREGROUND 92 THE VANCOUVER FOREST, SHOWING UNDERGROWTH THROUGH WHICH WE HAD TO MAKE OUR WAY 110 LAKE NO. 1 110 PACKING OUT 121 THE WAPITI, 13 POINTS 126 THE SHORE OF LAKE NIMQUISH 126 A ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT 141 THE GOAT COUNTRY 141 NEWFOUNDLAND ORIGINAL DRAWINGS _To face page_ NOT GOOD ENOUGH 159 STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF 226 STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP 226 THE CLEARING OF THE STORM, SHOE HILL RIDGE 247 A VIEW IN LONG HARBOUR 263 PHOTOS JOHN DENNY AND STEVE BERNARD 197 A NEWFOUNDLAND POND 197 STEVE SPYING, SANDY POND 217 CAMP, WEST END SANDY POND 217 THE THREE-HORNED STAG 225 "BAD WATER" 225 A THIRTY-FOUR POINT CARIBOU 238 STEVE SKINNING THE HEAD OF THE THIRTY-FOUR POINTER 238 LUNCH ON THE BAIE DU NORD RIVER 256 MY CAMP, SHOE HILL DROKE 256 UP THE TWO-MILE BROOK, HOMEWARD BOUND 261 A BROOK IN FLOOD 261 MAPS SKETCH MAP OF VANCOUVER ISLAND 3 SKETCH MAP OF NEWFOUNDLAND 159 TO VANCOUVER ISLAND [Illustration: VANCOUVER SKETCH-MAP OF VANCOUVER ISLAND [_To face page 3._] CHAPTER I TO VANCOUVER ISLAND From the day I read in the _Field_ Sir Richard Musgrave's article, "A seventy-pound salmon with rod and line," and located the river as the Campbell River, I determined that should the opportunity arise, I, too, would try my luck in those waters. Subsequent articles in the _Field_, which appeared from time to time, only increased my desire, and the summer of 1908 found me in a position to start on the trip to which I had so long looked forward. Living in Egypt, the land of eternal glare and sunshine, I counted the days till I could rest my eyes on the ever-green forests of Vancouver Island. My intention was to arrive in Vancouver about the end of July, spend the month of August, when the great tyee salmon run, at the Campbell River, and pass September, when the shooting season begins, in hunting for wapiti in the primeval forests which clothe the north of Vancouver Island. I also hoped, should time permit, to have a try for a Rocky Mountain goat, and possibly a bear on the Mainland. I sailed from Southampton on July 10, on the _Deutschland_, the magnificent steamer of the Hamburg-American Line, and never did I travel in greater luxury. The voyage across the Atlantic is always dull and monotonous; it was therefore with great relief that, having passed Sandy Hook in the early morning, I found myself approaching New York on the 16th. Here I was to have a new experience. I am, I hope, a modest man, and never dreamt that I was worthy of becoming the prey of the American interviewer. The fact of being a Pasha in Egypt, a rank which I attained when serving in the Egyptian Army, was my undoing. A kind German friend who had used his good offices on my behalf with the Board of the Hamburg-American Line, gave the show away, for I found myself on the printed passenger list figuring as Sir John Rogers Pasha. To the American interviewer, a Pasha was, I presume, a novelty, and the opportunity of torturing one not to be forgone, for as soon as we came alongside the quay at Hoboken, a pleasant and well-spoken individual came up to me and, raising his hat, remarked, "The Pasha I believe. Welcome to America." I then realized what I was in for. Had I been a witness in the box, I could not have undergone a more merciless cross-examination. It was almost on a par with a declaration I had to make for the Immigration Authorities--giving my age, where I was born, who were my father and mother, when did they die, what was the colour of my hair and eyes, and lastly, had I ever been in prison, and if so, for what offence? I really think New York might spare its visitors this ordeal. Wriggle as I could, my interviewer was determined to obtain copy, and though I insisted that the title of "Pasha" had been entered on the passenger list by mistake, and that it was one not intended for exportation, he was not to be satisfied. Giving as few details as possible as to how I had obtained my exalted title, I eventually shook off my persecutor. No sooner had I moved a few steps away, than if possible a more plausible person expressed the great pleasure it gave him to welcome me to New York, and endeavoured to impress on me that it was a duty I owed to myself and to the American nation, not only to explain what a "Pasha" was and how I became a Pasha, but also to allow my photograph to be taken, which he guaranteed would appear the following day in his paper--naturally the leading journal of New York. On my point-blank refusal to accord any more interviewers an audience or to be immortalized in his paper, he sadly expressed his astonishment that I should refuse the celebrity he wished to confer on me. Had not Mr. Kingdon Gould allowed himself to be photographed?--then why not I? Other interviewers gave me up as a bad job, but just before landing I was leaning over the side of the steamer when some one shouted, "I have got you!" and I saw that one of my persecutors had taken a snapshot, which I am glad to say must have been a failure, for I did not appear in the New York papers the next day. I acknowledge that one of my interviewers to whom I had refused any information heaped coals of fire on my head, by rendering me valuable assistance in getting my luggage through the Customs. I had often heard of the difficulties of the New York Customs, but I must say I never met with greater civility, and there was no delay in passing all my baggage, fishing-rods, guns, rifles, no duty being charged. New York possessed few attractions for me, and the call of the Campbell River was strong--so July 17th found me starting for Montreal, where I arrived the same night and put up at the excellent Windsor Hotel. Only a top sleeping berth on the Trans-Continental Express was available for the following night, and, as I desired a section--that is two berths, upper and lower--I had to wait till the evening of Sunday, the 19th, before I could start for Vancouver. Leaving Montreal at 10.15 p.m., I arrived at Vancouver about noon on the 24th, having travelled straight through. The Canadian Pacific Railway is probably the most extensively advertised line in the world. I cannot say it complied with modern requirements as regards convenience and comfort. Every one knows the much-vaunted Pullman Car system of America--men and women in the same carriage, the only privacy being offered by drawing the curtains across the berths which are arranged in two long rows on either side of the car. If you have a section of two berths, which is essential to comfort, you can stand upright in the lower berth to dress and undress, and put away your clothes where you can. If you have only a single berth, you have to dress and undress as best you can, sitting in your berth. On my first trip to Canada, I was only going as far as Mattawa, one night in the train, so contented myself with a single lower berth. The upper berth was occupied by a very stout lady, who in descending in the morning, gave me an exhibition of understandings as unexpected by me as it was unintentional on her part. The real advantage of a section, in taking the long Trans-Continental journey, is that when the berths are put up in the day-time, one has a nice compartment to oneself; that is, if the black porter does not condescend sometimes to occupy one of the seats, and only to move, on being politely requested to do so. The sporting pamphlets of the Canadian Pacific Railway make a sportsman's mouth water. Here we have the paradise of the fisherman--there the Mecca of the sportsman. It was certainly then disappointing, to say the least of it, to find in the Restaurant Car, that though passing through the paradise of the fisherman, two days out from Montreal, we were eating stale mackerel, and on the return journey when the sporting season was in full swing and duck and prairie hens were being brought in abundance to the car for sale--they were only purchased by the black porters for re-sale at Montreal at a handsome profit. None of them appeared at our table. The food was indifferent and dear. Everything was "à la carte," and to dine moderately cost 1½ to 2 dollars, while a tiny glass of whisky, served in a specially constructed bottle of infinitesimal proportions, was charged at an exorbitant price. Food in the car, without wine, beer or spirits, may be put down at 5 to 6 dollars a day, and I would recommend any one making the trip to stow away a bottle of good whisky in his suit-case, from which to fill his own flask for meals. Travelling for six days and five nights continuously, one would have thought that some simple bathing arrangements would have been provided. A douche even would have been welcome. The lavatory and smoking-room were one and the same--five to six persons could find sitting accommodation, and four basins had to meet the washing requirements of the entire car. I do not wish to be over critical, but I am glad to say I have met many Canadians who agree with me that the arrangements for the comfort of the passengers on the Canadian Pacific Railway are capable of improvement. Very different, I was told, was the comfort to be found on the American Trans-Continental Line from Seattle via Chicago to New York. The train is provided with a bathroom, library and a barber's shop, while an American friend who recommended me to return by the American Express, assured me that the food left nothing to be desired. When competition arises between the two Trans-Continental lines in Canada, the second of which is now being constructed, some improvements may be hoped for. The scenery of the Rocky Mountains has so often been described, that I will not inflict my impressions at any length on my readers. It is certainly fine, but no part of it can in my opinion compare with that of the line from Lucerne to Milan via the St. Gothard, and what a difference in the engineering of the line and the speed of the trains. Accidents by derailing of ballast trains seemed fairly common. We saw one on our way across, and two engines which had toppled over the embankment marked the site of at least one other. As regards the Rockies, it must be admitted that the effect of their real height is taken away by the gradual rise in level as one crosses the plains. Calgary, where the mountains are first approached, stands at 3,428 feet above sea-level. All things come to an end, and the morning of July 24th found us steaming into the city of Vancouver, glad that the weary journey was at last over. The town of Vancouver is beautifully situated on the Mainland overlooking the Straits of Georgia. I am glad, after my criticisms of the Canadian Pacific Railway, to testify to the comfort and moderate charges of the Canadian Pacific Railway Hotel at Vancouver. A charming bedroom with bathroom attached cost only 5 dollars, all meals included. Excellent beer, locally brewed, was cheap, and a bottle of Californian Chianti, quite a drinkable wine, cost only a dollar, so there was nothing to complain of. My waiter happened to be an Irishman, and he took quite a personal interest in my comfort, whispering into my ear in the most confidential manner the dishes of the day that he recommended as the best. On a day's acquaintance, claiming me as a countryman, he confided to me his story. His father had been manager of a bank in Ireland, and he was sent abroad to settle in Canada. Starting on a farm, and, according to his own story, doing well, a fire destroyed his house and farm implements. Drifting through various stages, he arrived at his present position, with which he seemed quite content. He was married, and lived outside the hotel. Fishing was his passion, and every spare moment was devoted to it. He was really a most entertaining companion, with a keen sense of humour, and he made the meal-time pass very pleasantly, for he never ceased chatting. A run by steamer to Seattle to see some friends, gave me a glimpse of Victoria and the exquisite scenery of the trip from Vancouver to Seattle. At Vancouver I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr. Bryan Williams, the Provincial Game Warden of British Columbia, with whom I had been already in correspondence, and to whom I was indebted for much valuable assistance and advice. A true sportsman, his heart is in his job, and if he only be given a free hand and adequate funds, the preservation of game in British Columbia will be in safe hands. The licence, 100 dollars, is not a heavy one, but I think it might with justice be graduated, fixing one sum, say 50 dollars, for Vancouver Island, where only wapiti, an occasional bear and deer are found, and imposing the higher licence for the Mainland, to include moose, mountain sheep, goat, caribou and grizzly bear. One would have thought that in the city of Vancouver, the centre of a great angling country, every requirement of the fisherman would have been found. The contrary was the case. Fortunately I had brought my own fishing-tackle, for in the best sporting shop in the town I could not obtain a suitable spare fishing-line. Rods, reels, lines, flies and baits were inferior in workmanship as compared to what one is accustomed at home. I therefore strongly recommend any fisherman to bring all his tackle from home. In the case of rods, reels and lines, New York may have better, as I shall show when I come to discuss the question of tackle later on. From the manager of the Bank of Montreal, to whom I had a letter of introduction, I met with great courtesy financially as well as socially, and I became free of the excellent Vancouver Club, so charmingly situated, and only regretted that my short stay prevented my availing myself more of its hospitality. VANCOUVER TO THE CAMPBELL RIVER CHAPTER II VANCOUVER TO THE CAMPBELL RIVER The morning of July 29th found me on board the _Queen City_, the small but most comfortable steamer of the Canadian Pacific Railway running north to the Campbell River and beyond. The Captain was a delightful companion, patriotic to a degree, and regretting what he considered the neglect shown by the Old Country to the Dominion of Canada, when American and Canadian interests were at issue. The steamer was well found and well managed, while the Captain's skill in approaching our various stopping-places, often dangerous coves with no lights, at any time of the night and in any weather, was to me a continual source of admiration. I travelled with him three times, and never wish for a more charming host or a Captain that inspired more confidence as a navigator. We arrived at the Campbell River Pier at the unearthly hour of 1 a.m. The proprietor, however, was on the pier waiting with lanterns to show us the way up to the Willows Hotel, where I was to spend a happy month. The Willows Hotel, beautifully situated on the Valdez Straits within a few yards of the sea, is all that a sportsman could desire. Clean, well-furnished bedrooms, a bathroom and quite a decent table, all for the moderate sum of 2 dollars a day. The proprietor did not quite realize the fact that the majority of the guests came for the fishing, and not for the food. The lady who directed the establishment seemed to think the latter the more important. The breakfast bell rang at 6 a.m., and breakfast was served from 6 to 8 a.m. Lunch or dinner from 12 to 2 p.m., and supper from 6 to 8 p.m. Woe betide the guest who broke the rules of the house as regards the hours, for he was expected to lose his meal. In those glorious autumn evenings when it was light up to 10 o'clock, the manageress forgot that a keen fisherman might stay out till 9 or even 10, if the fish were taking. Dinner he could not expect, but a cold supper, if ordered beforehand, might have been laid out in the dining-room. Nor could attendance be looked for; servants were few and overworked, and it was but natural they should like to go to bed at 10 o'clock, or be free to wander in the woods or along the foreshore with the special young man of the moment. By making love to the manageress and the Chinese cook, I generally succeeded in finding something to eat if I was late, but I often had to forage for myself in the kitchen, and on one occasion came back to find a plate of very indifferent sandwiches laid out for supper. Morning tea in one's bedroom was prohibited. I should therefore advise any one addicted to the habit of early morning tea, to provide himself with a "Thermos" bottle, and fill it overnight--besides which, if very enthusiastic, a start might sometimes be made at 4 a.m., when a cup of hot tea and a biscuit make all the difference to one's feelings of comfort. The hotel was a strange mixture of civilization and discomfort. We had written menus of which I give a specimen below, but I had to grease my own boots and wash my own clothes, until I found an Indian squaw in the adjoining village who for an exorbitant charge relieved me of my washing, though I greased my boots till the end of my stay. THE WILLOWS HOTEL. MENU. DINNER. _Soup._ Purée of Split Pea. _Fish._ Baked Salmon (Spanish). Boiled Cod. Lobster Sauce. _Entrées._ Beef Hot Pot. Pig's Head à la Printanière. Macaroni au Gratin. _Boiled._ Boiled Ox Tongue. Kipper Sauce. Boiled Ham. _Roast._ Roast Beef. Horse-radish. Roast Pork. Apple Sauce. Roast Mutton. Jelly. _Salad._ Sliced Beets. Fish Salad. _Vegetables._ Boiled Mashed Potatoes. Green Peas. _Dessert._ Snow Pudding. Peach Pie. Apple Pie. Stewed Rhubarb. The drawback to the hotel was the logging camp in the neighbourhood. The bar of the hotel was about fifty yards from the hotel itself, in a separate building, and on Saturday night many of the loggers came dropping in to waste the earnings of the week. Drunkenness on these occasions was far too common, and till the small hours of the morning the sound of revelry from the bar was not conducive to a good night's rest. Some of the characters who frequented the bar were weird in the extreme, and when fairly "full"--as the local expression was--the hotel was not inviolate to them. One who particularly interested me might have been taken out of one of Fenimore Cooper's novels. My acquaintance with him was made on the hotel verandah. With a friendly feeling born of much whisky, he placed his arm on my shoulder, and assured me that although if he had his rights he would be a Lord, he did not disdain the acquaintanceship of a commoner like myself; in fact, that he had seldom seen a man to whom he had taken such a fancy, or with whom he would more willingly tramp the woods, if I would only give him the pleasure of my company in his trapper's hut some few miles inland. His suggestion that our friendship should be cemented by an adjournment to the bar did not meet with the ready acceptance he expected, which evidently disappointed him, for he could not grasp the fact that any one living could refuse a drink. Poor "Lord B.," as he was called, was only his own enemy. As I always addressed him "My Lord," which he took quite seriously, we became quite pals. A trapper and prospector by profession, he had a fair education, and when sober was a shrewd man of the local world, which confined itself to prospecting for minerals and cruising timber claims. Persistently drunk for two or three days at a time, he would suddenly sober down, put a pack on his back which few men could carry, and disappear into the woods to his lonely log cabin, only to return in a few days ready for a fresh spree. At least, this was his life while I stayed at the hotel, for in one month he appeared three times. No doubt during the winter, when occupied with his traps, he could neither afford the time nor the money for an hotel visit. He was wizened in appearance and lightly built, but as hard as nails. Dishevelled to look at when on the spree, as soon as it was all over he became a different character, appearing in neat, clean clothes, and full of reminiscences of backwoods life. He was always a subject of interest to me, and, poor fellow, like many others on the west coast, only his own enemy. Another frequenter of the bar had been on the Variety stage in London, and his step-dancing when fairly primed with whisky was something to see and remember. We were a pleasant party at the hotel. Some came only for the fishing, some _en route_ for Alaska or elsewhere on the Mainland for the coming shooting season, others returning from sporting expeditions in far lands. We had J. G. Millais, the well-known naturalist and author of the most charming book ever written on Newfoundland, bound for Alaska in search of record moose and caribou. Colonel Atherton, who, starting from India, had recently crossed Central Asia and obtained some splendid trophies, the photographs of which made us all envious. F. Grey Griswold from New York, of tarpon fame, come to try his luck with the tyee salmon, and good luck it was, which such a good sportsman deserved. Mr. Daggett, an enthusiastic angler from Salt Lake City, who took plaster casts of his fish, and was apparently an old habitué of the hotel. Powell and a young undergraduate friend Stern, also bound for Alaska, just starting on the glorious life of sport, with little experience--that was to come--but who with the tyee salmon were as good as any of us, and whose keenness spoke well for the future. It was curious that in such a small community three of us, the Colonel, Millais and I, had fished in Iceland, and many interesting chats we had about the sport in that fascinating island. As the sun went down, the boats began to come in, and all interest was concentrated on the beach, where the fish were brought to be weighed on the very inaccurate steelyard set up on a shaky tripod by the hotel proprietor. Any one reading Sir Richard Musgrave's article in the _Field_, would be led to believe that the fishing was in the Campbell River itself. Whatever it may have been in his time, the river is now practically useless from the fisherman's point of view. This is due to the logging camp in the vicinity, for the river for about a mile from its mouth is practically blocked with great rafts of enormous logs. The logs are discharged into the river with a roar and a crash, enough to frighten every fish out of the water; the rafts when formed are towed down to Vancouver. The river no doubt was a fine one till the logging business was established, and it is possible that late in the autumn fish may run up to spawn--but during the entire month of August, I personally never saw a salmon of any kind in the river itself. Flowing out of the Campbell lake a few miles away, its course is very rapid, and it falls into the sea about one and a half miles north of the hotel. The falls, impassable for fish, can be visited in a long day's walk from the hotel. The distance is not great, but the impenetrable character of the Vancouver forest makes the walk a very fatiguing one. It is most regrettable that no track has been cleared along the banks, to enable the water to be fished and to give access to the falls, which I am told are very beautiful. I endeavoured to reach them by the river, but spent most of the day up to my waist in water, hauling my boat through the rapids, and then only got half-way and saw no fish. Below the falls, there is a fine deep pool in which Mr. Layard, who described his trip in the _Field_, states he saw the great tyee salmon "in droves." He does not say at what time of the year he visited the falls or whether the logging camp then existed. It must have been late in the season, for he describes the swarms of duck and wild geese, the seals that were a perfect plague, the sea-lions that were seen several times, and the bear, panther (cougar), deer and willow grouse in the immediate vicinity of the hotel. I can only give my personal experiences during the month of August. Forgetting that the shooting season did not begin till September 1st, I took with me 300 cartridges and never fired a shot, nor did I see anything to shoot at. A few duck were occasionally seen flying down the Straits between Vancouver and Valdez Island, but the seals, sea-lions and other game described by Mr. Layard were conspicuous by their absence in the month of August. No doubt later on, in September and October, different conditions may prevail, but August is the month _par excellence_ for the fisherman and he may leave his gun behind. The tide runs up the river for about 800 yards from the mouth, where there was some water free from logs and rafts. Some good sport with the cut-throat trout was to be had, more especially at spring tides. My best catch was fourteen weighing 16½ lb. The water was intensely clear; careful wading, long casting and very fine tackle were necessary to obtain any sport. The cut-throat trout appeared to me to resemble the sea trout in its habits, hanging about the mouth of the river and running up with the tide, many falling back on the turn of the tide, but a certain number running up and remaining in the upper reaches. The largest I killed, 5 lb., was immediately in front of the hotel, in the sea itself, one and a half miles from the river, and he took a spoon intended for a tyee salmon. They were most sporting fish and were excellent eating, differing in this respect from the salmon. I only regretted I did not give more time to them, but we all suffered from the same disease, that desire to get the 70 lb. fish, or at least something bigger than any yet brought to the gaff. I started with the best intentions, and talked over with Mr. Williams at Vancouver the possibility of inducing the tyee salmon to take the fly, denouncing, as all true fishermen must do, the monotony of trolling for big fish with a colossal spoon and a six-ounce lead, which takes away half the pleasure of the sport. All the same I found myself sacrificing my principles to the hope of the monster fish which never came, but was always a possibility. The Straits between Vancouver Island and Valdez Island are about two miles broad, and through them runs a tide against which it is almost impossible to row a boat. The favourite fishing-ground was about 300 yards north and south of the mouth of the river, and tides had to be seriously considered in getting on to the water. Another good spot neglected by most of us, except the Salt Lake City angler, was just opposite the Indian Cemetery about a mile from the hotel. Here, in one morning, I killed three large fish on my way back to the hotel from the more favourite ground which I had fished all the morning in vain. South of the hotel and down to the Cape Mudge Lighthouse, about four miles away, a few tyee salmon were to be met with, but in the water all along Valdez Island and near the lighthouse, the cohoe salmon were in abundance, and it was the favourite spot for the Indian fishermen who were fishing for the salmon cannery at Quatiaski. THE FISH AT THE CAMPBELL RIVER CHAPTER III THE FISH AT THE CAMPBELL RIVER Different names have been given by different sportsmen to the salmon found on the Pacific Coast. Sir R. Musgrave talks of spring salmon of 53 lb. and silver salmon of 16 and 8 lb. I inquired carefully from the manager of the Cannery Factory in Quatiaski Cove, and believe the following to be the correct nomenclature. The tyee or King salmon, running from 28 lb. to 60 and upwards. The spring salmon, which appeared to me to be the young tyee, having the same relation to the big tyee as the grilse has to the salmon, from 15 to 20 lb. The cohoe, which run from 7 to 12 lb.; and lastly the blue back, generally termed cohoe, averaging about 6 lb. These latter most of us called cohoe, and were the fish being caught on my arrival at the hotel. The run of tyee had not regularly set in, though a few odd ones were being caught. Later on, when making a trip on the Cannery steamer which collects fish daily from various stations up and down the coast, the manager of the factory, who was on board, pointed out to me amongst the hundreds of fish we collected, the difference between the blue back and the real cohoe. The former runs much earlier than the latter, and is seldom over 6 lb. in weight; the latter were, he stated, just beginning to run--then the middle of August--and the largest on board weighed 14 lb. It was not, however, till my return from Vancouver that I came across the volume on _Salmon and Trout_ of the American Sportsman's Library, edited by Caspar Whitman, and there found recorded all that is known about the salmon and trout of the Pacific Coast. To begin with, the Pacific salmon does not belong to the genus "Salmo," but to the genus "Oncorhynchus," which, according to Messrs. C. H. Townsend and H. W. Smith, the authors of the most interesting chapters on the Pacific salmon in the above-mentioned book, is peculiar to the Pacific Coast. One peculiarity of the Pacific salmon seems to be that they invariably die after spawning, and never return to the sea. In the case of the humpback, I saw this for myself later on in the season, when every stream was literally a mass of moving fish all pushing up to the head-waters, and there dying in vast numbers. The tyee salmon, "Oncorhynchus tschawytscha," has many names. It is known to the Indians as "Chinook," "tyee" and "quinnat," to others as the Columbia salmon, the Sacramento and King salmon. It appears to range from Monterey Bay, California, as far north as Alaska. Messrs. Townsend and Smith state that in the Yukon and Norton Sounds it attains a weight of 110 lb., and in the Columbia 80 lb. The largest I saw caught at Campbell River weighed close on 70 lb. The largest fish brought to the hotel by any of us was about 60 lb. The blue back salmon, "Oncorhynchus Nerka," is stated by the same authorities to run up to 15 lb., and the average to be under 5 lb. This would appear from its description to correspond with the fish pointed out to me by the Cannery manager as blue back--though I cannot quite reconcile its other names: red fish, red salmon, Fraser River salmon and Sockeye--for the fishermen at Campbell River spoke of the Sockeye as quite a different fish, running at a different season of the year. No doubt, however, the scientists are right. I only wish I had known of this valuable book before instead of after my visit. Another of the "Oncorhynchi" is the humpback, "Oncorhynchus Gorbuscha," averaging about 5 lb. I only saw one caught on the rod at Campbell River. At the mouth of the Oyster River, some miles south, I saw them one evening in incredible numbers, and though right in the middle of immense shoals, I could not get them to look at fly or spoon. A few yards up the river they were said sometimes to take the fly. The silver salmon, "Oncorhynchus Kisutch," known also as "Kisutch," "Skowitz," Hoopid and lastly Cohoe, is stated to attain a weight of 30 lb.--the average weight being about 8 lb. As stated before, the largest I saw was 14 lb. and the largest I caught 12 lb. The above being the fish I met with at Campbell River, I need not enter into the other varieties. One interesting fact mentioned in the book to which I am indebted for all the above information is that the steel-head salmon is one of the "Salmonidæ." "Salmo Gairdnerii" differs from all other Pacific salmon, in that it alone returns to the sea after spawning, thus following the habits of the true "Salmonidæ." The only trout I came across at Campbell River or throughout my trip was that known as the cut-throat, so called from the red slash on the throat. On turning to Mr. Wilson's article on "The Trout of America," I was surprised to find that there were thirteen varieties of this fish, but so far as I could identify those I caught, they must come under the heading of "Salmo Clarkii," the cut-throat or Columbia River trout. After many inquiries and after having visited the aquarium at New York, I was led to believe that my fish was the "Salmo Clarkii Pleuriticus," but as those I caught had no lateral red band they must have been the "Salmo Clarkii." The largest I caught weighed 5 lb., and, as I have mentioned before, it was caught in the sea on a large spoon one and a half miles from the river, when trolling for tyee. The number of fish which frequent the Campbell River waters is almost incredible. When it is realized that between one and two thousand salmon of the various kinds are collected daily by the Cannery launch, and that all these have been caught with rod and hand-line--the great majority with hand-line--some idea may be formed of their numbers. No one fishing at the Campbell River should miss the trip, which through the courtesy of the manager at Quatiaski Cove is always possible, of going with the Cannery steam-launch on its daily round collecting fish at the various stations, north and south. Starting from Quatiaski early in the morning, the run is down to Cape Mudge, where perhaps thirty or forty boats, mostly Indian, have been working their hand-lines the evening before. From Cape Mudge up to the Seymour Narrows, about seven miles, many calls are made. Picturesque Indian camps are numerous all along the shore, and at each of these a stop is made. The canoes come crowding alongside, and the fish are checked as they are thrown into the deep well in the centre of the launch. Each Indian has a book in which is entered to his credit the number of his fish, and the launch passes on to the next collecting station, to which single canoes from all sides are gathering. On the return the boats of the successful hotel fishermen stop the launch and hand over their catch, for the fish caught are the perquisites of the men who row the boats. On the day I made the trip we collected about 1,500 salmon. The business of the Cannery must be a profitable one. So far as I could gather there were but two prices: 50 cents for a tyee, no matter what his weight was, and 10 cents for each smaller fish. Associated with the Cannery is a general store kept by the Cannery owners, and payment is partly made in goods, so the Cannery has the double profit, first on the fish and then on the goods bartered in exchange. SPORT AT CAMPBELL RIVER [Illustration: THE INDIAN CEMETERY, CAMPBELL RIVER] [Illustration: A MORNING'S CATCH. 10 lb., 46 lb., 47 lb., 58 lb. [_To face page 41._] CHAPTER IV SPORT AT CAMPBELL RIVER July 30th I looked forward to as a red-letter day in my life, for was I not to have my first chance for that 70 lb. fish, about which I had dreamt for so many years? The early morning (we were all up at 6 a.m.) was spent in getting my tackle ship-shape, and, most important of all, in engaging the services of a good boatman--for on his strength and willingness to "buck the tide," as they happily term rowing against the strong tidal currents, depends largely the chance of success. The man I selected was a fine boatman. Keen on getting fish--jealous of all others of his craft, and with a capacity for bucking about himself, and what he had done and could do, which I have seldom seen equalled. His command of strong and even highly flavoured language was remarkable, but a little of it went a long way. When I asked his name, he replied, "Every one calls me Billy." No one on the West coast seems to have a surname, so "Billy" he was to me for all my fishing days. Billy was, I should say, about twenty-three years of age, slightly built, but extraordinarily strong with an oar. His temper was not of the best, and when I lost a fish he always considered that I was to blame, and resented the unfortunate fact as if it were a personal insult to his own powers as a boatman. I don't believe he ever thought of the Cannery or of the sum which under happier auspices would have stood to his credit. His pay was three dollars a day (12_s._) plus the value of the fish. His appetite corresponded with his pay, which was large. He was willing to row all day long with suitable intervals for his meals--but any attempt to keep him on the water at meal-time was somewhat sulkily resented. We fished together for some thirty days, more or less harmoniously, and there was only one great explosion which threatened to sever our connection. Through his gross stupidity my boat, which was being towed behind the Cannery launch, was upset, and I had the pleasure of seeing all my fishing-tackle, fly-books, the companions of years--all my pet flies, spoons, spring balance--sunk in sixty feet of water--£20 worth of tackle gone in a moment. Fortunately I had taken my rod and camera on board the launch, or they, too, would have been lost. It was _infra dig._ that he should express any regret, and very unreasonable from his point of view that I should show any annoyance, which I did in what I considered very moderate terms, considering the provocation. On landing, he suggested that I did not seem satisfied with him, which was quite true, and that "Joe," a hated rival, was disengaged and available. I very nearly took him at his word and "fired him out"--but we made it up somehow, and he remained my boatman, though I never quite forgave the loss of so much valuable tackle. Fortunately I had only a few more fishing days left and had some spare tackle to replace what was gone. Our opening day was simply glorious, a bright sun and a crispness in the air which made one feel that it was good to be alive. The scenery was exquisite. The sea calm as a mill-pond, only broken by the oily swirls of the rushing tide, and then there was the possibility of that long-hoped-for big fish, who did not come that day, though every pull from a cohoe might have been him. Billy was positively polite, as it was his first day. Why many of these West coast men should imagine that politeness means servility, while roughness and rudeness only show equality and independence of character, I never could understand. It was not long before I was in a fish, but as he was only a 5½ lb. cohoe, he was hauled in with scant ceremony and was soon in the net. As I shall have something to say about tackle later on, I would only now mention that I was fishing with a fourteen-foot Deeside spinning rod, made by Blacklaw of Kincardine. I had a large Nottingham reel with 200 yards of tarpon line, purchased in England, not, alas! in New York; a heavy gut trace with large brass swivels which would have frightened any but a Vancouver salmon; a 4 oz. lead, I afterwards came to a 6 oz., and one of Farlow's spoons specially made for the tastes of Vancouver salmon. My bag that day, fishing morning and evening, was only six cohoe, weighing 3O½ lb. and one cod about 5 lb. I never had a pull from a tyee. The row home that evening compensated for everything. The sun was setting behind the snow-covered peaks of the Vancouver Mountains, bare and cold below the snow-line, but gradually clothed with foliage down the slopes till the dense pine forest of the plain between the mountains and the sea was reached, from which the evening mists were beginning to rise. In the foreground, the sea, like molten glass, reflected the exquisite colouring of the northern sunset, its surface broken by the eddies of the making tide, or the occasional splash of a leaping salmon. Across the Straits on the Mainland, the tops of the great mountains clothed with eternal snow were lit up a rose-pink by the rays of the setting sun. I have seldom seen a more beautiful scene, or one which gave such a deep sense of peace. There was a grandeur and immensity about it which satisfied one's very soul, it amply justified the realization of the call of the wild which had brought me so many thousand miles to those distant shores. The morning of the 31st found me late in starting, as I had to interview Cecil Smith, who was to be my guide, companion and friend on my hunting trip in September. On that morning, I got only two cohoes of 5½ and 4½ lb., one spring salmon of 9 lb., and as there was evidently no take on, I went up the river for a short time. I saw no salmon, but landed three cut-throat trout weighing 3½ lb., one a good fish of 2 lb. On the way home to luncheon I killed a 20 lb. fish--a small tyee, and going out for half-an-hour in the evening after dinner lost a heavy fish. Bad luck as regards the big fish still pursued me. It was true the big run of tyee had not yet begun, but a few were being taken from day to day. On the morning of August 1st I hooked a heavy fish, but in his second big race, the line slipped over the drum of the Nottingham reel and the inevitable break came. My catch that day was only three cohoes and three cut-throat trout. A very high north wind blowing against the tide raised a heavy swell, and fishing was impossible in the afternoon. August 2nd, I fished all the morning without getting a pull, so decided to try to go up the river to the falls, which attempt, as previously described, was not a success. Returning to the sea in the afternoon I found Griswold with three fine fish, of 59, 45 and 40 lb. I landed a small tyee of 30½ lb. and four cohoe weighing 20 lb. On August 3rd, I got my first good fish of 53 lb. and another of 42 lb. The tide was running strong and the 53 lb. fish took out about 120 yards of line, but eventually I got him in hand, when he made two wild runs--threw himself clean out of the water each time and then went to the bottom like a stone and sulked. It took me just under an hour to kill that fish, and I found that he was foul hooked on the side of the head. The 42 lb. fish was a lively one and tired himself out by repeated runs--he never got to the bottom and in about fifteen minutes he came to the gaff. In addition to the two tyee, I had seven cohoe weighing 46½ lb., so luck was beginning to turn. August 4th was a great day. Four tyee, 45, 44½, 42½ and 35 lb.; one cohoe, 6 lb.; one cut-throat trout, 5 lb., a picture of a fish; one sea trout, 2 lb., and one cod, 5 lb.; all before two o'clock. There was a big take in the evening, and I missed it by getting out too late. Griswold had five tyee, the largest 47 lb.; I came in for the tail end of the take and only picked up eight cohoe, weighing 43½ lb., and one spring salmon, 13 lb. Total weight for the day: 240½ lb. August 5th. I had two tyee, 45 and 37 lb., and sixteen cohoe averaging about 6 lb., and so on day after day, with varying luck and always hoping for that 70 lb. fish which never came. On August 10th, I got my second biggest fish. The spring tides were racing up and down the Straits and it was impossible to hold a boat, much less row it against the tide. By this time from a study of the bottom, at low water, I had a fair idea of how the fish ran up and down with the tide. I accordingly anchored my boat off a point I knew the fish were bound to pass. The anchor was fixed on to a log of wood to which the boat was moored by a running knot. It was Billy's duty to cast off the moment I was in a fish. The greatest race of the tide was at about half flood, and the current was so strong that the heavy spoon and 6 oz. lead were swept away like a cork. Letting out about thirty yards of line and giving Billy the rod to hold, I began casting with the fly, using a fourteen-foot Castleconnell rod, fine tackle and a two-inch silver doctor. I soon had a sea trout, 2½ lb., and two cohoe, besides many rises, and grand sport these fish gave in the racing tide on a light rod. I had just killed my last fish when the scream of the reel on the rod which Billy was holding told me we were in a big fish. Taking the rod from Billy, I told him to cast off. The fish was racing up with the tide some 150 yards away, but the rope was fouled, or Billy bungled, and the result was a smash. Hardly had I got out another spoon when I was in another fish. I was evidently lying in their track. This time we got away, and how that fish raced! Before I knew where I was we were up about a mile, being literally towed by him on the flowing tide before I could get him in hand. I eventually killed him, almost opposite the hotel, one and a half miles from where I had hooked him: weight, 59 lb. In the evening I got two tyee of 47 and 46 lb. The big fish's measurements were: length, 47½ inches; greatest girth, 31½ inches, and girth round the anal fin, 22 inches. The well-known formula for estimating the weight of a fish from measurement is as follows-- girth^2 × length = weight. ________________ 800 Applying this formula, the weight worked out just 59 lb., which the scales corroborated. The weighing machine, an old rusty steelyard, set up on the beach in front of the hotel, left a good deal to be desired; but I had a spring balance weighing up to 60 lb., which I tested at the local store and found to be quite accurate. On August 24th heavy clouds were piling up, and a break in the glorious weather we had enjoyed from the beginning of August seemed imminent. On August 26th, my last day at the hotel, I started to fish in a heavy gale from the south-east, the worst wind one could have in these waters. Though leaving that night and having all my packing to do, I determined to have one last try for the big fish which had so far evaded me. There was a heavy sea on and it was almost impossible to hold the boat, but Billy was on his mettle for the last day's fishing and really did wonders. On the way down to the mouth of the river, I got a 10 lb. cohoe, and on arriving at the best ground I put on a big brass spoon, which Mr. Daggett had kindly lent me, about twice as long as the Farlow spoon. I was letting out the spoon when I got a tremendous pull and a very short run, which apparently took the fish to the bottom or into some kelp. There he remained and simply sulked without taking out a yard of line. The rod was bent double and I put on all the strain possible, but it was a full three-quarters of an hour before I could see my lead coming up to the surface, and my arms and back were aching. How the rod did not break I cannot understand, for the fish came up gradually from straight under the boat; but at last I had the gaff in the biggest but least sporting fish I had killed during the month. He weighed 59½ lb. at the hotel, having lost a good deal of blood, and must have been over 60 lb. when he came out of the water. The brass spoon was either bitten or broken in half. [Illustration: TWO GOOD FISH. 53 lb., 42 lb.] [Illustration: A 60 lb. FISH [_To face page 50._] Having killed forty-one tyee, fished steadily for a month, and seen most of the fish that were caught, I do not think many fish over 60 lb. are killed. One fish caught by a hand-line and small spoon by a young settler named Pidcock, I weighed, and he must have been close on 70 lb. My spring balance went down with a rush to its limit of 60 lb., and I heard afterwards that when weighed at the Cannery it scaled 68 lb., so when fresh must have been close on 70 lb. This was the biggest fish I saw on the coast. Farther north there are other fishing grounds well worth a visit, where the fish are said to run up to 100 lb.--such are the Kitimaat River and McCallister's Bay at the entrance to Gardner Canal, about four hundred miles north of Campbell River. A steamer runs direct to Kitimaat and Hartley Bay once a month. Accommodation can be had at Kitimaat, but a camp is necessary at McCallister's Bay. Fish run as early as May. Campbell River is getting too well known, and there are too many boats on the water. The following amusing description of an evening's fishing is from the clever pen of J. G. Millais, and was published in _Country Life_. I venture to reproduce it-- "Amidst gorgeous sunset hues we went to fish the usual beat opposite the Indian village on August 11th. The sun had already set, when of a sudden a suppressed excitement ran through the boats. A fresh run of tyee were in and had begun to take. Three or four Indians were 'fast' at once, and yells for help came down the line. In a moment, while close to the beacon stake at the mouth of the river, Mr. Powell, Sir John Rogers and I were 'into' fish at the same moment. "Then the circus began. 'Look out there; don't you see I'm fast?' 'Confound you; get up your line, or I'll be over you.' 'Gangway, gangway,' 'Where the devil are you coming to!' 'Mind your oars,' 'He's off to the tide. Hurry' (Mac or Bill, as the case might be); 'row like blazes,' were a few of the cries that broke from excited anglers, while even phlegmatic Indians grinned or yelled 'tyee, tyee' in sympathetic encouragement. We all cleared each other somehow. I do not quite know how. Sir John was whisked straight out to sea, and was a quarter of a mile off in no time. Mr. Powell broke, while my fish, to my horror, went straight for the beacon. I lugged at him to steer clear, and he took the hint so forcibly that he burnt my finger on the line with the rush he made for the deep water. It was like poor Dan Leno's hunting song, 'Away, away and away. I don't know where we're going to, but away and away and away.' We could hear men laughing and joking in the darkness behind, and then in a moment we were out of it all in the silence of the boiling tide. Mac was a good boatman, and the way he followed that tyee in the eight-knot current did him credit. This was the strongest fish I have ever hooked. He seemed to do with us just what he chose, and we, like sheep, had to follow. If he had carried out his first laudable intention of a visit to Queen Charlotte Islands he might have defeated us, but seemingly he altered his plan and made a fierce hundred yards' run for the curl of the current at the mouth of the Campbell River. Here there were nasty lumps of floating kelp, and the two anglers fishing there received our return landwards with shouts of warning. In the gloom I could see by their attitudes that they were intensely interested in our welfare, for the next best thing to playing a fish yourself is to watch another at the game. Then began a series of 'magnificent cruises.' It is part of the interest in salmon-fishing that the fish you have 'on' is infinitely larger than anything previously hooked. Generally it is a pleasant delusion; but sometimes it is true, and then the conflicting emotions of the play and the thrill of subsequent capture are something to live for. "My fish was, I knew, the biggest I had ever hooked, so one had to follow the same old ways of playing him, coupled with such extra force as that stout tackle warranted. After every great circuit of the boat I resorted to all sorts of devices for tiring my antagonist, but he refused to give in or to allow me to shorten the line. But my fish was as gallant a fighter as ever was hatched, and the better the fighter the quicker he kills himself. Half-an-hour has elapsed and I see the lead six feet up the line for the first time. Soon we shall see back and tail. Yes, there they are, and what a monster. He must be 60 lb. at least. At last he shows side, and that is the beginning of the end. Mac, an indifferent gaffer under the most favourable circumstances, now surpasses himself in the fields of incompetence. He makes one or two feeble shots, and then, getting the gaff well home, attempts to lift the fish as I throw my weight on to the reverse side of the light boat to prevent an upset. He heaves with both hands, and a great head appears, when crack goes the steel, and Mac sits down heavily in the boat, looking supremely foolish. I was not distressed, however, as that brief view of the fish's head had shown me the hook well placed; moreover, I knew that somewhere under the thwarts we possessed a goodly club. Mac, after a few moments' search, produced the truncheon, and, at the first attempt, stunned the salmon with a well-directed blow, and lifting it with his hand drew it into the boat. Ha! this is a fish indeed; one of the best of the season, we flatter ourselves, and 60 lb. for certain. But no; those cruel scales blast our hopes by 3 lb. Still, a fifty-seven-pounder is something to be proud of, and we rowed home that night at peace with the world. This, then, is Campbell River fishing for the great tyee salmon. If you wish to collect records you can do so by sitting all day in your boat for a month and using a tarpon-rod, which kills the biggest fish in two minutes, and a Vom Hofe reel, which carries a drag that would stop a buffalo." If there are many Indians out the rod has not much chance, for their canoes cross and recross in every direction, and as they fish with a short hand-line, a long line let out from the rod is apt to get fouled. Fortunately, their favourite ground is by Cape Mudge Lighthouse, where the cohoe abound. I only tried this water once, and was so jostled by Indian canoes that I determined to stick to the tyee and the mouth of the Campbell River. The large majority of the salmon were really sporting fish. The cohoe had no chance with the strong tackle necessary for the tyee, but still were wonderfully lively, and when caught with light tackle on the fly, gave great sport. In one respect they were all a hopeless failure--they were quite unfit to eat. Why it should be so I cannot say. Perfect to look at, as good as any Atlantic fish, the flesh was like cotton wool, dry and devoid of all flavour. On the other hand, the cut-throat trout were excellent eating. During the entire month of August we had little or no rain. The climate was absolutely ideal and the eye never tired of the exquisite scenery, varying in colouring and effect every day. The row of one and a half miles from the hotel to the best fishing ground, if the tide was not favourable, was a drawback, and personally I should prefer to pitch a camp on one of the many excellent sites at the mouth of the Campbell River, so one would be independent of the hotel hours and meals. When the tide is not favourable, a good plan is to leave the boat at the mouth of the river and walk home along the shore to the hotel for meals. The fish generally took best at the turn of the tide, and about half water. Many enthusiasts were out at 3 and 4 a.m. and in some cases struck a good rise, but these early mornings without a cup of tea, I fear, did not often appeal to me. The following table shows my bag day by day-- --------+-----------+--------+-----------+-----------+---------------- | | Spring | | | Sea Date. | Tyee. | Salmon.| Cohoe. |Cut-throat.| Trout. --------+-----------+--------+-----------+-----------+---------------- | No. W. | No. W.| No. W. | No. W. | No. W. July 30| -- -- | -- -- | 6 30 | -- -- | -- -- " 31| 1 20 | 1 9 | 2 10 | 3 2 | -- -- Aug. 1 | -- -- | -- -- | 3 15 | -- -- | -- -- " 2 | 1 31½ | -- -- | 4 20 | 3 2 | -- -- " 3 | 2 53 | -- -- | 7 47½ | -- -- | -- -- | -- 42 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 4 | 4 45 | 1 13 | 9 47½ | 1 5 | 1 2 | -- 44½ | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 42½ | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 35 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 5 | 2 45 | -- -- | 16 98 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 37 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 6 | 3 45 | 1 10 | 5 36 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 42½ | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 40 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- Aug. 8 | 3 42 | -- -- | 1 6 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 41 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 32 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 9 | -- -- | 1 8 | 4 24 | -- -- | -- -- " 10 | 3 58 | 1 10 | 2 1 | -- -- | 1 2½ | -- 46 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 47 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 11 | 2 47 | -- -- | 3 16 | -- -- | -- -- " 12 | 1 45 | 3 34 | 2 10 | -- -- | -- -- " 13 | 1 35 | -- -- | 4 20 | 14 16½ | -- -- " 14 | -- -- | 1 9 | 1 6 | 12 8½ | -- -- " 15 | 1 32 | -- -- | 1 7 | 1 1 | -- -- " 16 | 2 37 | -- -- | 9 56 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 30 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 17 | 2 46 | -- -- | 1 7 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 44 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 18 | 3 49 | 2 21 | 4 25 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 48 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- 40 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 19 | 2 40 | 1 21 | 6 48 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 32 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 20 | -- -- | -- -- | 4 24 | -- -- | -- -- " 21 | 2 45 | 1 8 | 5 38 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 43 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 22 | 2 45 | -- -- | 8 49 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 35 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 23 | 2 56 | -- -- | 16 98 | -- -- | -- -- | -- 37 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 24 | 1 26 | -- -- | 3 24 | -- -- | -- -- " 25 | -- -- | 1 21 | -- -- | -- -- | -- -- " 26 | 1 60 | -- -- | 1 10 | -- -- | -- -- --------+-----------+--------+-----------+-----------+---------------- 41 1738 15 274 126 772 37 38 2 4½ So the last day had come and the fishing was to be a memory of the past. Our pleasant party was broken up--Millais and his young undergraduate friends, Powell and Stern, had gone north to Wrangel to start on their hunting trip in Alaska; Griswold back to New York, planning the construction of a special boat and the adding of the great tuna to his many trophies of big sea fish. Daggett alone remained, seated daily in the comfortable armchair he had rigged up in his boat, still intent on that 70 lb. fish we had all hoped for, but failed to secure. The pleasant days of friendly intercourse had come to an end. No more the quiet row home in the gloaming after a successful or moderately successful day. No more the nightly gathering on the beach and the weighing of the great fish. The weather itself looked despondent, and was making up its mind to break. The certainty of the past was over, the uncertainty of the future before me, and it was with a sad heart I bade farewell to the Willows Hotel, and to the fishing days that were now no more. The depressing hour of 1 a.m. found me sitting on the end of the pier waiting for the arrival of the _Queen City_, which was only an hour late, and once more I was bound for the unknown. FISHING-TACKLE CHAPTER V FISHING-TACKLE As regards tackle, one rule only must be followed: everything must be of the best, and the best is to be obtained either in England or New York. The choice of a rod is a difficult matter, and depends altogether on the individual idea of what constitutes sport. If by sport is meant the taking of the greatest number of fish in the shortest possible time, in fact the making of a record--no rod is necessary. Follow the Indian method of fishing with a strong hand-line and no trace, the spoon being fastened on to the line direct. The moment the fish is on, if a small one, he is hauled hand over hand up to the canoe and jerked in--if a tyee, he is played by hand. I have never seen one allowed to make a race, and when fairly done he is hauled alongside the canoe, the line held short with the left hand, while a sharp blow on the head is administered with a wooden club, and he is then done for and lifted into the boat--no gaff being used. It is astonishing how quick the Indians are in killing even a large tyee by this method. The hand playing apparently takes all the life out of the fish, and the strong tackle does the rest. I have seen many white men follow this system--but they were all fishing for business and the Cannery. Only one white man from the hotel fished in this way, and I don't think any of us envied him his so-called sport. The take comes on quite unexpectedly--boats will be rowing backwards and forwards without a pull. Suddenly the take comes on and nearly every boat may be in a fish. He, therefore, who can kill his fish quickest will make the biggest bag, if record breaking be his object. I have seen one Indian canoe bring in over one hundred fish in a day's fishing--but is this sport? I think all true fishermen will say it is not. After the hand-line comes the rod, and again, if the object be to catch as many fish as possible while the take is on, a small tarpon rod with a Vom Hofe multiplying reel and an 18-thread tarpon line, practically unbreakable, may be used. One American tarpon fisher, Mr. Griswold, a true sportsman too, followed this method and naturally defended it. I do not in any way criticize his methods, I only felt they did not appeal to me. It is true I have seen him kill three fish while I was killing one, but I did not feel at all envious. Generous to a degree, he more than once offered to fit me out and instruct me in the art of "pumping" fish, but though much tempted, I did not fall. Had I succumbed, I much fear I should have become an ardent advocate of tarpon methods applied to tyee salmon. On the other hand, to fish for tyee with a highly finished 18-foot split cane, or other make of rod, seemed to me out of place. There were some who did it and gloried in the fact that they had caught a great tyee on an ordinary home salmon rod. It seemed to me a waste of good material, for the rod was likely to be broken or permanently strained in the process of lifting a great fish from the depths of the sea--for after one or two rushes taking out 100 to 150 yards of line, the tyee will often go straight down to the bottom, stand on his head and sulk, and then you want that power to bring him up which only a very stiff rod possesses. One of our number who had killed many a salmon at home, fished with an ordinary 18-foot rod. The fish seemed to do what it liked with him, and it generally ended in the rod being lowered till the tip touched the water, and the boat disappearing in tow of the fish, up or down the Straits with the racing tide. In fact the fish was being played on the line from the reel without the power of a hand-line. To give him the butt would have inevitably resulted in breaking the rod. Yet this good sportsman sometimes got his fish and came back triumphant, having had him on for a couple of hours. The local rods, whether those to be obtained in Vancouver or at the store on the pier at Campbell River, seemed to me most inferior in quality and workmanship, and the same applies to all other tackle, except possibly the leads, which are too heavy to carry about and which can be purchased locally. As stated before, I used a three-piece Deeside spinning rod, twelve feet long, built by Blacklaw of Kincardine--but I must confess that twice my tip was broken by the strain of the weight of a big fish which had to be brought up to the gaff from the bottom of the sea. Many a time was this little rod bent double, till I wondered how it ever bore the strain. On it I had killed all my tyee and most of my cohoe, but it suffered in the process, and the middle and top joints had to be replaced on my return home. If I were going again, I should feel inclined to take a 10-foot rod built on the same lines and of the very best material and workmanship. Such a rod would give more power and stiffness than the 12-foot rod. Besides the 12-foot rod, I had a 14-foot three-piece Castleconnell rod, an old friend. This I used for fishing for cohoe with the fly, and grand sport they gave in the racing tide on a rod which played its fish right down to the reel. An ordinary 12-foot trout rod for the cut-throat trout completed my rod equipment. _Reels and Lines._--I started with a large Nottingham reel, but soon gave it up. It had the advantage, of course, of not rusting, but the workmanship could not stand the rush of a heavy fish. I lost big fish by the line slipping over the drum and jamming, though I had fixed up the usual guard improvised out of the brass wire handle of a tin can purchased locally. I then came to my largest bronze salmon reel, after which I had no more trouble--though the salt water caused rusting of the screws. The reel should take 200 yards of tarpon line and be of the very best and strongest make. The Vom Hofe multiplying reels are perfect specimens of workmanship, and the attached leather drag worked by pressure with the thumb is an excellent device. In fact, for the big fish, from tyee to tarpon, I think the American tackle makers beat us as regards reels and lines. I purchased two tarpon lines in London; who the maker was I cannot say. One did good service, the other seemed of inferior quality, for it broke without any special reason. I should recommend 200 yards of 18 or 21 Vom Hofe tarpon line, which now can be purchased in England at Messrs. Farlow & Son's, or in New York. One great advantage of this line is that it need neither be washed in fresh water after use in the sea nor dried. It can remain on the reel wet without rotting. _Gaff._--Farlow makes a specially strong gaff lashed into a long ash or hazel handle. I found this quite satisfactory. On the other hand, the American fishermen use quite a short gaff, but fishing with a six or seven foot tarpon rod they can bring the fish much closer up to the side of the boat. A good strong landing net capable of taking a fish up of eight or ten pounds is most useful, and saves gaffing the smaller salmon. _Flies._--I started with the idea that the ordinary trout fly on No. 11 or 13 hook should be as good in Vancouver as it was in Scotland. I had very soon to acknowledge my mistake--the trout preferred a small salmon fly on No. 8 hook; silver grey, silver doctor, Wilkinson and Jock Scott, I found the best patterns. The cohoe took a 2-inch silver doctor and rose steadily to the fly. _Spoons and Minnows._--Spoons can be obtained locally, either in Vancouver or in the Campbell River Store, but I should recommend their being purchased in England. The spoon specially made by Farlow is three inches long, silver on both sides, with a hook attached to the end of the spoon by a strong wire loop. Local tastes varied, and in the local store there were many varieties of spoons. One year dull lead spoons were supposed to be most killing--another year it would be brass. Each fisherman had his special fancy. Mr. Griswold had a silver spoon invented by a friend of his, or himself, for which a patent was about to be applied. He naturally, therefore, did not wish to give away the secret. It certainly was a most killing bait, and Mr. Griswold, between his special spoon and his tarpon methods, killed more fish than any of us for the time he remained at the Campbell River. He most generously lent me one of his pet spoons on a day he was hauling in fish and I was getting nothing. I was promptly in a big fish which broke me, owing to the line jamming round the Nottingham reel, and away went the patent spoon. I did not feel justified in examining the spoon too closely or taking a drawing of it. It seemed longer than the Farlow spoon. The hook was suspended by a chain and the bait seemed to wobble rather than spin. The material was metal with bright silver plating. An ordinary large-sized silver Devon Minnow spun from the boat, or at Cape Mudge from the shore, will take cohoe, and good sport can be obtained in this way. A Tacomah spoon is deadly for cut-throat trout, but I preferred the fly. _Traces._--I took out some specially strong gut spinning traces made by Farlow, but I do not think any traces are necessary. The line is quite as invisible as the trace, and a few feet can be made into a trace by fixing two or three swivels--bronze, if possible, instead of bright brass--about two feet apart. For fly fishing, good stout loch casting lines which will land a five or seven pound fish are sufficient. Very fine trout casts are unnecessary, except for trout in the river. _Leads._--These can be purchased locally, and one is saved the trouble of adding to the weight of baggage. The method of fastening the lead on to the line all depends on whether it is decided to lose the lead when the fish is hooked or to fix it permanently on the line. A six-ounce lead when the fish is being played takes away considerably from the pleasure, owing to the dead weight on the rod. On the other hand, if it be decided to lose the lead each time a fish is hooked, a couple of hundred leads may be required. In the former case, two methods can be adopted: loop up the line about twenty feet from the spoon with a piece of thread, on which is hung the lead; when the strike comes the thread is broken and the lead slips off--or, as described by Mr. Whitney: Tie two swivels on the line, nine inches apart; a small ring is soldered to one end of the lead, join the two swivels by a piece of weak cotton, thread the cotton through the ring of the lead and shorten it to four inches, which loops up the line, and when the strike comes the lead is released. In the latter case, which I adopted, I found the simplest way was to cut the line about ten feet from the spoon and fasten the lead by two split rings and two swivels. Starting with a four-ounce lead I soon came to a six ounce, which I believe to be the most suitable, certainly in spring tides. _Odds and Ends._--One must carry out all one's own repairs, therefore an ample supply of repairing material and spare tackle must be taken. Strong silk for splicing breakages, cobbler's wax, seccotine or liquid glue, rod varnish, spare hooks, split rings, bronze single and double swivels, fine copper wire, snake rod rings, and screws for reels. A small portable case of tools, such as the "Bonsa," is invaluable, and with this and a sharp clasp knife most current repairs can be made. Two good spring balances are advisable, one weighing up to seventy or eighty pounds, and one up to fifteen pounds. Both should be tested, which avoids any dispute afterwards as to their accuracy. TO ALERT BAY CHAPTER VI TO ALERT BAY The morning of the 27th fulfilled the promise of the previous day. The weather had at last broken, and it was in a dense wetting mist that we crept north, bound for Alert Bay. We had no delay at the Seymour Narrows, which can only be navigated at a certain state of the tide. The whole force of the Pacific runs through these narrows--not more than half-a-mile broad--and the eddies and whirlpools that are formed are terrifying. There is one great rock in the middle of the passage--a special source of danger. I had visited these narrows in a steam launch from the hotel, and had there seen the water at its worst--a wonderful sight; but the tide was now suitable, and as the _Queen City_ passed through there was only a strong current. The best guides and hunters are always snapped up early in the season, and before I left England, Mr. Bryan Williams had secured for me the services of Cecil Smith--better known in the local sporting world as "Cougar" Smith, from the number of cougars he had shot. As he lived at Quatiaski Cove, immediately opposite the Willows Hotel, I had frequently met him and discussed our plans together. We had arranged to go from Alert Bay up the Nimquish River to the Nimquish Lake, from which we were to strike in north-west to some valleys in the interior where wapiti were reported as fairly plentiful. Cecil Smith did not know the ground personally, but his brother Eustace, who had been in that part of the country several times, was to meet us at Alert Bay and act as head guide. Unfortunately for us, at the last moment he was unable to come, and we had to find our way as best we could in an unknown and unmapped country. I had to find a man to replace Eustace Smith, and was fortunate in picking up Joe Thomson at Campbell River, and two better men than Smith and Thomson I could not have had. Smith was to act as head hunter and guide and Thomson more particularly look after the cooking and camp generally. Thomson came on board with me and we picked up Smith at Quitiaski Cove at about 4 a.m. Two other members of the party were even of more interest to me than the men. They were "Dick" and "Nigger," the latter generally known as "Satan." "Dick," who belonged to Smith, was a most adorable dog and celebrated throughout Vancouver for treeing cougars; indeed, as Smith himself acknowledged, he owed his reputation as a cougar hunter to Dick, who did everything except the actual shooting. It was difficult to say what Dick's breed was. He looked like a cross between a spaniel and a retriever. He was one of the most fascinating dog characters I have ever met. He adored his master, who returned his worship, but ingratiated himself with every one; soon discovering that I had a warm corner in my heart for all dogs, we at once became fast friends. "Nigger," the property of Thomson, was a powerful, black, evil-looking bull terrier, but like many of his kind his character belied his looks, for he really was a soft-hearted, affectionate beast with a special ability for making himself comfortable under any circumstances. Thomson asserted that if there was no food, "Nigger" subsisted on berries, and he was an adept at catching fish for himself in the river. He had had some trouble with the authorities at Comox in a matter of sheep, and so a temporary absence from his native town was desirable, and he became, to his great joy, one of our party. At 2 p.m. on the 27th we arrived at Alert Bay, which is situated on an island opposite where the Nimquish River discharges itself into the sea. Alert Bay is an important settlement of the Siwash Indians, and the village possesses one of the most remarkable collections of Totem Poles on the coast. The question was, where to put up--hotels there were none. Mr. Chambers, the local merchant, had in the most generous manner built an annexe to his charming house, containing several bedrooms, but they were all occupied. Fortunately, I had been introduced to Mr. Halliday, the Alert Bay Indian Agent, at Campbell River, and he most kindly offered me a shakedown on a sofa in his drawing-room, which I gratefully accepted. I found Mr. Halliday was devoted to music, but seldom could find an accompanist--while to accompany was a pleasure to me, and we passed the evening going through many songs I had not heard for years, which recalled the Old Country and days long gone by. Eustace Smith met us here and gave a rough sketch map to his brother Cecil, and indeed pointed out to us the peak on Vancouver Island under which we were to camp, and which only looked about fifteen miles off as the crow flies, and yet what difficulty we had afterwards to find our way through the impenetrable forest! [Illustration: "DICK"] [Illustration: TOTEM POLES, ALERT BAY [_To face page 80._] The morning of the 28th was spent in sorting out the kit we could take with us, which, as packing was our only means of transport, had to be cut down to nothing. Mine consisted of two flannel shirts, one change of underclothing, two pairs of socks, one sweater, one spare pair of boots, a few handkerchiefs, sponge, soap and towel. One Hudson Bay blanket, for it was not yet cold in the woods, and one waterproof ground sheet in which the pack was made up, completed my outfit. The men had a single fly to sleep under. My tent, which Mr. Williams had kindly ordered for me in Vancouver, was of the lean-to pattern, made with a flap which let down in front in bad weather, completely closing the tent. Being made of so-called silk, it weighed only five pounds. It measured 7 feet × 6 feet, was about 7 feet high in front and sloped back to about 2 feet high behind. It was most comfortable so long as one slept on the ground, but was not high enough behind to take even a small camp bedstead. It was quite waterproof, but should a spark from the fire fall on it, a hole was burnt rapidly. I understand that the following renders the silk almost fire-proof-- Dissolve half-a-pound of powdered alum in a bucket of soft boiling water. In another bucket half-a-pound sugar of lead; when dissolved and clear, pour first the alum solution, then the sugar of lead, into another vessel; after several hours pour off the water, letting any thick sediment remain, and soak the tent, kneading it well: wring out and hang up to dry. Camp furniture I had none. A tin plate, knife, fork and spoon for each man; a nest of cooking pots which Thomson provided, a small tin basin in which we washed and which also served to mix our bread, and lastly the invaluable portable tin baker which will roast or bake anything. It was strange that the Hudson Bay Stores at Vancouver could not provide light cooking utensils suitable for packing. They had excellent blankets, waterproof sheets and the larger articles of camp equipment, but light cooking utensils there were none. Mr. Williams took infinite trouble to get a nest of cooking pots made for me, but on their arrival at Campbell River they were found impossible owing to their weight, so I made them a present to Smith. We fitted out as regards provisions at Mr. Chambers' Store: the usual articles of food--bacon, pork, beans, tea, sugar, flour, baking powder, oatmeal, dried apples and peaches, a couple of tins of meat, a couple of tins of jam--one of which only sufficed for a meal--some butter as a great treat, and a few potatoes and onions on which I insisted. No liquor could be purchased in Alert Bay; the sale was prohibited on account of the Indian Settlement. Fortunately, I had secured two bottles of rum from the _Queen City_, or otherwise I should have fared badly--as it was, I had to be content with about a dessertspoonful of rum each night before turning in. It is said that the Indians will do anything for liquor, and once they get hold of any, drink without any self-restraint. At Campbell River I had more than once seen an Indian lying on the side of the road hopelessly drunk and insensible. It is therefore a wise provision that the sale of liquor should be prohibited at Alert Bay. The settlement was full of Indians and their squaws, and a very unattractive lot the squaws were. Once having seen them, it was difficult to believe in the immorality with which they are credited. These Siwashes seemed a degraded race, and one heard of men who deliberately took their wives to logging camps to live on their earnings. The provisions we laid in were supposed to last three men for twenty days, and I was assured we would be helped out with game, an occasional deer, ruffled grouse and plenty of fish once we got into the forest. A man cannot carry a pack weighing more than eighty pounds in the country we had to traverse, and, having cut down everything to the absolute necessaries of life, we still had to make double trips to get our stuff into camp, wasting a day each time. We got away in the afternoon and crossed the Straits to the mouth of the Nimquish River in an Indian canoe. About a mile up the river was the comfortable log house of B. Lansdown, a settler. We were lucky enough to find him at home and he agreed to be the third man of our party. At first the idea was that he should help to pack in about three marches to where we proposed to make a permanent camp, and then return; but subsequent events compelled us to keep him the whole time. He was a fourth mouth to feed and at all times had a most excellent appetite. Having arranged with two Siwash Indians to take us up to the lake, a distance of about seven miles, the following morning, we accepted Lansdown's invitation to put up at his house, where we were most hospitably entertained. After some food at 5 o'clock I had my first experience of a Vancouver forest. A cougar had been killing cattle in the immediate neighbourhood, and Smith's and Dick's services were requisitioned to bring him to book. Crossing the river, we were soon in the densest and most impenetrable undergrowth I ever attempted to crawl through. We were shown the spot where the last kill had taken place, and though we spent till dusk scrambling over and under fallen trees and through a tangle of undergrowth, unable to see five yards ahead, Dick could find no trace of the cougar. It had been raining in the morning, so we were all wet to the skin, as forcing our way through the undergrowth was like taking a shower bath. Hunting the cougar is, in my opinion, unworthy of the name of sport. Success depends on having a good dog to follow up the cougar by scent and to drive him up a tree, when the hunter comes up and pots him. Why such a powerful animal--for he is as big as a panther--should be such a coward, I cannot understand. I never heard while on the coast of a single case where the cougar attacked a man. The dog he sometimes goes for, and Dick had been once severely mauled. I confess my first attempt at hunting in the Vancouver forest was most disappointing, as I had formed no idea of the nature of the forest we were to hunt in. Several people at the Campbell River Hotel had asked me if I knew what I was "up against" in deciding to try for a wapiti. Some, including my men, took a brighter view, and assured me that the dense undergrowth was only on the coast, and that as one got inland the forest became more open. Had I known what I was really "up against," I think I would have turned back, for never have I endured greater discomfort. IN THE FOREST CHAPTER VII IN THE FOREST The morning of the 29th was fine and the river was looking lovely in the brilliant sunshine. Just before the Indians with their canoes arrived, a doe deer came down on to the shingle across the river. As we required meat, neither sex nor season was taken into consideration. My rifle was not ready, so Smith had a shot at about 120 yards and missed. I then had a try and missed the deer, which stood without moving, but with a second shot I brought her down. In a moment "Nigger" was into the river and across worrying the carcass--what for I could not understand, for the poor beast was stone dead. It was lucky we secured this meat, for it was the last we saw for many days; but we afterwards regretted our generosity in leaving half the carcass behind as a present to our host's family. On the arrival of the big Siwash canoe, with two Indians to pole, we loaded up our kit and at last were off on our trip. Smith went on through the forest on the chance of seeing any game, when he was to communicate with me. Lansdown and Thomson went up in Lansdown's canoe, but spent most of their time in the water hauling it over the many rapids. My Indians were splendid boatmen and poled up all but one of the rapids. The river has a considerable fall from the lake, and heavy rapids and miniature cataracts alternate with deep pools--an ideal fishing water. Without stopping to fish, I trailed a small Tacomah spoon behind the canoe and got twelve cut-throat trout, weighing 9 lb., by the time we entered the lake. The scenery, as pure river scenery, was superb the whole way, the banks being clothed with dense forest through which the river rushed and tumbled on its short course to the sea. It reminded me very much of the scenery on the Kippewa River in Eastern Canada. The river opened out as we approached the lake, and the scenery as we entered the lake was, if possible, more beautiful than that we had passed through. To the south extended the Nimquish Lake as far as the eye could see. The perennial snow of the Vancouver Mountains formed an impressive background, while a dense forest clothed the sides of the steep hills, which in some places fell almost perpendicularly down to the lake. The evening was lovely, the lake without a ripple, mountain and forest reflected as in a mirror. The whole scene gave a feeling of peace which can only be found in communion with nature. Camp and dinner took our thoughts away in a more practical direction, and leaving Smith and Thomson to pitch camp, Lansdown and I started for the lake end of the river to secure a few more trout for the pot. There was the most extraordinary collection of driftwood on the beach--colossal trees lying packed across one another, showing how high the lake must rise when the torrents descend from the precipitous mountains. On our return, we found Smith and Thomson had pitched camp in the forest near the lake, but the ground was sodden and covered with a thick moss. No drier spot could be found, so we had to make the best of it. The mosquitoes were troublesome till sunset, when they disappeared. I had the same experience during the entire trip. Very often unbearable the hour before sunset, they disappeared as night closed in, and I never had occasion to use a mosquito curtain. The nights were cold, which perhaps accounted for it. I could not help contrasting the camp and its arrangements with my camping experience in Eastern Canada, some seven years before. There we had ideal camping grounds, on the bank of some river or lake, dry sandy soil, a fairly open forest with undergrowth only in parts, and lovely views from the tent door over rushing river or placid lake. I had French Canadians for companions and guides and they have a perfect genius for making comfortable and even luxurious camps; unlimited supplies, for we travelled with two canoes, and most of our way was over lakes or rivers with short portages; a comfortable tent, and if we were to camp for two or three days, my men soon ran up a dining-table and bench under a birch bark shelter. The table was always laid with a clean napkin, and an excellent dinner of soup, fish, stuffed ruffled grouse, deliciously cooked, was served. We had plenty of knives, forks, plates and drinking cups--in fact, all the comfort which two canoes allow. Here, we had only once a decent camp, and that was on Lake Keogh. The edges of the lake were generally swamps and piled up with driftwood. Our camps had to be pitched in the forest, a short distance from the shore of the lake, or on the bank of the river on the most level bit of land we could find. The ground was always sodden, and a few branches of damp hemlock with a waterproof sheet spread over them was my bed. We each had a tin plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon. We all ate together, sitting on the damp ground in front of the camp fire. Lastly, the comforting tot of whisky at or after dinner had to be abandoned, for we had only two bottles of rum in case of illness. [Illustration: THE HEAD OF NIMQUISH LAKE] [Illustration: DRIFTWOOD ON THE BEACH OF LAKE NIMQUISH, "DICK" IN THE FOREGROUND [_To face page 92._] At the first camp we fared quite luxuriously, for we had the venison we had brought along and the trout I had caught _en route_--but later on, the daily fare of bacon and beans became, to say the least, monotonous. In one thing we were lucky: Thomson baked the most delicious bread; so we were certain of good bread and tea. The morning of the 30th broke fine and we got away about 8.30 a.m., but before long the rain came down and we plodded along through the forest for some seven hours, during which we did not cover much more than three miles. The undergrowth was nearly everywhere dense, consisting of wine-berries and that curse of the forest, the thorny devil-club. The trees rose from one to two hundred feet in height over our heads. Windfalls of timber were numerous, adding to the difficulty of the march. Of animal life we could see nothing. Deer marks were plentiful, and in the early morning before starting we heard the melancholy howling of two wolves. Game might have been in abundance, but what was the good when it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. I began to have serious misgivings as to what stalking a wapiti would be like in such a country. The wapiti country was, however, far away and we had still to get there. About 4 o'clock we pitched camp, if possible on a worse ground than that of the day before. Packs for two men had been left behind to be brought on next day, which meant that I had to remain in camp on the 31st with nothing to do, for there was neither game nor fish in the neighbourhood. Smith went on to find the way for next day's march, and the other two men went back to bring up the loads left behind. They turned up about 7 p.m. Smith got back in the afternoon, having found Kitsewa River, which was to be our objective the next day. About 5 p.m. the rain came down in torrents and continued all night. Fortunately my little tent was quite waterproof. One great advantage of a camp in the forest is that there is no wind to drive the rain through the tent. I doubt whether my tent would have kept out such rain if the camp had been in the open. September 1st. The rain stopped about 5 a.m. but the trees and undergrowth were dripping and a bad wet march was before us. Getting away about 8.30 a.m.--it was always difficult to get the men to make an earlier start--we were soon wet to the skin. Smith, having got the compass bearings of the river, tried to find a better route than that he had taken the day before; but towards the end of the march we hit on a very bad windfall on the slope of a steep hill. Giant trees lay in a dense tangle, over, under and across which we had to make our way. It was timber crawling at its worst, and the trunks of the trees being covered with damp, slippery moss made the going really dangerous at times. Unfortunately I was wearing a pair of strong shooting boots with Scafe's patent rubber studs instead of nails. They had no hold on the slippery trunks of the trees we had to cross; the result was a bad fall and a sprained knee which caused me great pain and discomfort for the rest of the trip. I shall never forget the end of that march, for my knee kept giving way, and I stumbled and tumbled about till I was covered with bruises. We made the Kitsewa River after six hours' march, and as the rain again set in, we camped at a disused trapper's hut on a high bank overlooking the river. The river here was about thirty yards broad and full of humpbacked salmon, but apparently no trout. We had seen many tracks of deer, wolves and one cougar on the march, but the undergrowth was so dense that shooting was impossible. September 2nd. The men had again to go back to bring up the packs left behind. These double journeys were most annoying, and yet I do not see how they could have been avoided. We certainly only had the bare necessaries of life--more packers would have meant more mouths to feed and more provisions to carry--yet each double journey meant a lost day. My knee was so swollen and painful I could not move from the tent, so Smith decided to go on and hunt for the Keogh Lake--where his brother Eustace had on a previous trip left the material for a rough raft; where the Keogh Lake was, he was not quite certain, but it had to be found. Left alone in camp I could not help thinking what would have happened had I broken my leg. Putting the question to the men they said, "Oh! it would have been all right--we would have packed in food to you." In fact I would have had to lie in my tent till I recovered or died, for it is impossible to move a sick or injured man through the Vancouver forest. With nothing to read and obliged to lie on my back, the day was long in passing, and I find the following entry in my diary: "Knee very painful, am quite unable to walk and miserable at the idea that my entire trip may be spoiled and that I may have to turn back. Am black and blue with bruises from the many falls I had yesterday after I injured my knee." Smith had succeeded in getting one willow grouse, shooting it with a pistol, but he missed two others close to the camp. The men returned about 4 o'clock, having made good time, as we had blazed our track of yesterday. Smith got in about 7 p.m., utterly exhausted, and having failed to find Lake Keogh. Here was a man, certainly one of the best woodsmen in the island, defeated by the difficulties of the Vancouver forest. It must be remembered the northern portions of the Island are unsurveyed, so marching was all compass work. There had probably been some slight error in the bearings given him by his brother, but the fact remained, that Keogh Lake had still to be hunted for. Dick had found a cougar and Smith shot him--a fine specimen of a male. Smith's appearance with the skin fastened over his shoulder was certainly dramatic, rendered more so by his throwing himself on the ground in a state of utter exhaustion. Here the rum came in useful, and after a good tot and some food, he was quite himself again. I think he felt bitterly that he had failed to find the lake, but he had done his best, and no man can do more. September 3rd. My knee was still painful and I was quite unfit to march. It was useless to start without knowing where we were going, so after consultation we decided that Smith and Thomson should go ahead and try to find the lake. As it turned out Smith had gone too far east the previous day. Lansdown and "Nigger" remained in camp, but Dick, who must have been pretty tired after yesterday's work, refused to leave his master. Cutting a strong stick--my daily companion for the rest of the trip--I hobbled down to the river to try and get some fish for ourselves and the dogs. There were shoals of humpbacked salmon in the pools, but they were hideous to look at, as the spawning season was coming on. They would not look at a fly or minnow, so I had resort to the worst form of poaching: "sniggering." I soon had five on the bank and could as easily have had fifty. To us the fish were quite uneatable, but the dogs thoroughly enjoyed them. I could see no sign of trout of any size or in any number. I only caught one tiny cut-throat. Dead humpbacks were lying in all the pools, and along the banks of the river; there were tracks of a big bear close to camp and many deer tracks, but the dense undergrowth destroyed any chance of a shot. Returning to camp about 6 p.m. I set out for a grassy hollow, fairly open and close to the river where Lansdown said deer were certain to come out to feed in the evening. I stood the mosquitoes for about five minutes when I had to retire ignominiously, as they were simply in clouds. Night fell and there was no sign of Smith or Thomson. Fortunately the weather had been quite perfect and a bivouac in the woods would be no great hardship. "Nigger" was a source of continual amusement to me that day. He was a dog of great character and had become much attached to me. He liked the camp fire and never was so happy as when sitting on his haunches as close as he could get to it and blinking with intense joy. His master, I fear, often drove him away, but he always crept back a few minutes after. He loved, too, to crawl under the fly of my tent and curl up for the night at the foot of my blanket. I spent a portion of the day cleaning and skinning the paws of the cougar, and as I finished each paw, threw it away some distance from the camp. "Nigger" carefully watched my proceedings, and when he thought I was not looking, slunk away and had soon retrieved each paw, and carefully buried it for future use. Poor beast! I expect he had experienced many a hungry day and instinct had taught him to make provision for the future. September 4th. Smith and Thomson had not returned, which meant another wasted day. Here we were the sixth day out from the lake, but we had only made two marches and were not yet in our hunting ground. Eustace Smith had said it was only a two or three days' march at the outside--but he probably travelled alone, very light, and knew his way. The two men turned up about 3 p.m., pretty well tired out, as they had been walking all the day before and from 6 o'clock in the morning. They reported the country ahead very bad going, but they had found a river which must have had its source in the Keogh Lake; the lake itself they had not reached. I had caught about a dozen salmon parr, so had a poor fry as an addition to the never varying menu of bacon and beans. September 5th. We did not yet get away till 9.30, as the men were tired after their two days' tramp. We followed the bed of the Kitsewa River, crossing and recrossing the stream several times, which was very tiring. Fortunately the water was only above our knees, but a slip with his pack gave Lansdown a real ducking. Though the going was bad over rough boulders, still it was a relief after the struggle through the undergrowth of the forest. The packs were heavy, as we were now packing everything, so our progress was somewhat slow. We had cachéd some provisions in the trapper's hut and had got through six days' supplies, still the packs were as heavy as the men could well manage and a rest every fifteen minutes was necessary. Leaving the river after about two miles, we again struck some bad country, and at 4 p.m. arrived at the stream supposed to flow out of Lake Keogh. The men were pretty well done from the extra heavy packs, so a halt was decided on and we pitched camp as best as could on the side of a precipitous hill. My knee was very painful; marching was anything but a pleasure and I was glad of an early rest. Smith went ahead and came back reporting the lake only half-a-mile away, so it was a pity we had not gone on a little further. He had also seen the track of a big bull wapiti and a fresh bear track, which news cheered us all up. September 6th. Starting early we were soon on the shore of the lake--a lovely sheet of water about two miles long, surrounded by steep forest-clad hills a few hundred feet high. The growth round the shore was so thick, and the rocks in parts so precipitous, we decided it would save time to build a raft to get to the end of the lake. We found some logs with which Eustace Smith had made a raft and soon put them together, and had a rough raft on which we paddled slowly to the north end of the lake. We pitched camp on the first decent camping ground we had found. The men were in shelter under an enormous cedar-tree, of great age and quite hollow in the middle. My tent was pitched on an open bit of ground running out to the lake, over which I had a beautiful view. Misfortune was still to pursue us--Smith had had a bad fall two days before, but did not attach much importance to it. He now felt very ill and complained of great pain and tenderness in his side. On examining him, it appeared to me that one of his ribs was cracked if not broken. He was not a very strong man physically, though as hard as nails. All we could do was to foment his side with one of our flannel shirts and let him lie in his blankets near the fire, which had been lit at the base of the cedar-tree. There were some open glades at the end of the lake and the country looked more gamelike. I went out in the afternoon to have a look round. The country was more open and I found a two-day-old track of a big bull, so game was in the neighbourhood--there were also fresh bear tracks and bear droppings close to camp. I returned to try for a dish of trout while Thomson went out to lie in wait for deer coming out to feed at sunset--a form of sport I did not appreciate. The question of food was now becoming serious, as the men had calculated on plenty of deer and grouse, and we had had no fresh meat since the deer I shot the day we started up the Nimquish River. Fishing from the shore and from our raft I caught six cut-throat trout, the largest about half-a-pound, with the fly. The lake was very deep and peaty--no doubt there were bigger fish in it, but they would not rise freely; it was late in the season and possibly my flies were not big enough. Thomson returned, having wounded a deer--I don't think he was a crack shot, but like all the men I met on the coast, very fond of loosing off. He also reported having met a bear which he missed clean, but doubt was expressed in camp as to the bear. September 7th. The rain was coming down in torrents and the camp most uncomfortable, while to move on was impossible, as Smith was feverish and in considerable pain, quite unfit to carry a pack. I had, therefore, most reluctantly to decide to remain where we were. Thomson took "Nigger" out to find the wounded deer and returned in the evening successful. The deer was a young doe. There was great joy in camp at the prospect of a meat meal at last, for we had had no fresh meat since August 29th. During the night we had an alarm. The men had pitched their fly under a very old cedar-tree and the camp fire was lit against the tree, which was hollow. About midnight there was a sound of an explosion and a roar of flames. Jumping out of bed, a most extraordinary sight presented itself; the entire tree was in flames from the base to the summit. The fire had evidently crept up the hollow trunk till the whole tree was ablaze. Pulling down the fly, the men saved everything from being burnt, but morning found the tree still a roaring pillar of fire. In Eastern Canada in the fall of the year such an occurrence might have set the whole country ablaze and resulted in one of those tracts of burnt country called "brulés" so common through that country. While on the Campbell River we heard of great forest fires taking place on the Mainland, but in the north of Vancouver Island I saw no sign of a burnt forest, for it was too saturated to burn. IN THE WAPITI COUNTRY CHAPTER VIII IN THE WAPITI COUNTRY September 8th. We got away in fine weather through the most open country we had yet met. Our objective was a lake about three miles away, for having found Keogh Lake, Eustace Smith's rough-sketch map now came in useful. The country looked more promising for game, for we came across many well-beaten wapiti tracks and at least two fresh tracks of good bulls. We got into camp fairly early and selected the most level piece of ground to be found some twenty yards from the lake; the edge of the lake itself was swampy. The lake was about a mile long by a quarter of a mile broad. It was the first of a chain of lakes connected by a narrow stream with a rough rocky bed running to the west. The sides were clothed with dense forest and the tops of the surrounding hills were even now covered with snow. The view in the morning was most beautiful --the mist floating up the forest-clad ravines to the distant hill-tops all reflected in the glassy surface of the lake. At sunset it was equally lovely. This lake we called No. 1, as we understood the chain consisted of three lakes extending westward down the valley which was to be our future hunting ground. Smith suggested he should go out, look quietly round, examine the country and search for fresh tracks, so that we could begin our regular hunting the next day. Being now in the game country I had given strict orders that no one was to shoot at anything, but to come back and report what he had seen--I was therefore somewhat astounded to hear a single shot at no great distance as I was catching a dish of trout for dinner. Smith soon came back looking very dejected. He said he had come on fresh tracks of a good bull, and in following them up saw something brown in the undergrowth which he thought was a small deer, and as we wanted meat in camp he took a snapshot at it, and then found it was the bull and he feared he had wounded it. I had to accept this story, improbable as it was, for there was no mistaking a great bull wapiti for a small deer. [Illustration: THE VANCOUVER FOREST, SHOWING UNDERGROWTH THROUGH WHICH WE HAD TO MAKE OUR WAY] [Illustration: LAKE NO. 1 [_To face page 110._] What was done was done, and there was no use making a fuss. If I were making such a trip again, I would ask the men to leave their rifles behind, for they cannot resist shooting at anything that comes their way. He had come back at once to tell me, and begged of me to go out with him and take up the track, which was only about a mile away. The rain was again falling and we had only a couple of hours of daylight, but still I decided to see for myself the tracks and ascertain, if possible, whether the bull had been wounded and where. Taking Thomson with us, we started and were soon as usual wet through. We found the spot where Smith had come on the bull and fired. There were a few traces of blood, but they were all high up on the bushes, and from the pace the wapiti was travelling, it was evident he was none the worse for the light bullet of Smith's Winchester rifle. We followed the track till dusk and had a weary tramp back to camp in the dark. I had again ricked my knee and was in considerable pain. Everything seemed to have gone wrong, first my accident, then Smith's, and now a wounded wapiti that we might never find. The prospect of the morrow's work with a swollen and painful knee was not very cheering, and I think we were all rather sad when we turned in that night. September 9th. It had rained all night and was still pelting when we started. I had to walk with a stick and was unable to carry my own rifle. In a couple of hours we came to the spot where we had left the track the previous evening. Smith was a fine tracker, I have seldom seen a better. The bull was going strong and well. We soon came to where he had rested for the night, but there was no pool of blood, so the wound was evidently not serious. In the early morning he had fed down the valley. After about three hours' tracking we came on to the shore of another lake (Lake No. 2), and thought the bull had taken to the water--to the edge of which he had gone down through heavy swampy ground covered with coarse grass. Taking a cast round, we found, however, that he had turned right back and gone up the valley we had just come down, but on the other side of the river connecting the two lakes. Following up the track we suddenly heard a crash right ahead, but I could see nothing. Smith dashed on and I heard a shout at the top of his voice, "Come on, Sir John. Quick!" It was all very well "come on quick," but with a bad knee, getting through a mass of fallen timber up a fairly steep though fortunately short hill was no easy matter. How I did it I cannot even now understand, but the pain in the knee was forgotten, my stick thrown away, the rifle, which was of course loaded, snatched out of Thomson's hand, and I found myself on the crest of the hill looking down into a valley overgrown with dense salmon-berry through which some great beast was crashing his way. I am quite blind without a telescope sight and there was no time to fix it. I could just make out the tips of the bull's horns moving quickly through the undergrowth. I could only guess where the body was, but fortunately the body of a wapiti is a pretty big mark. Taking a snapshot as I would at a snipe I heard the welcome thud of the bullet. The bull stood for a moment, which gave me time for a second shot, on which I saw the great antlers sink out of sight in the undergrowth and I knew that the trophy I had come so far to obtain was mine. I confess to an anxious moment as to what the head would turn out to be. The tracks were those of a big bull, but I had only seen the tips of the horn; the spread looked good, but whether he was a six or a sixteen points I could not say. Going down to where he lay we found him stone dead, a good thirteen-pointer, which the men naturally declared to be above the average. Somehow, I was disappointed, as I expected a bigger head, but after all getting him at all was a pure chance, and having now experienced what hunting the wapiti in these dense forests meant, I was, I think, on the whole very lucky. He looked an enormous beast as he lay. What his weight was I could not guess, but he must have stood about sixteen hands at the shoulder. It took the three of us all we could do to turn him over to examine the wounds. Both of my shots were fatal. We found that Smith's bullet had inflicted a flesh wound high up in the rump, and would have done no harm. Wet to the skin, but happy, I got under a giant cedar which gave shelter from the heavy rain, and lighting a big fire, stripped to the skin to dry my soaking clothes, while the men were removing the head and getting some meat. We soon had wapiti steaks frizzling on the fire, and a brew of hot tea made us all comfortable and happy. The worst of the whole business was the waste of meat and the impossibility of taking away the splendid skin. The head alone was one man's load and to carry out a green skin was quite impossible. Packing as much of the meat as we could carry, we made for the camp. The creek flowing down the valley was coming down in heavy spate and we had to cross and recross it many times--no easy matter--before we got home. September 10th. It was still raining. Smith was feeling pretty bad, his side causing him much pain, and he was, I think, beginning to feel anxious about himself. My knee was anything but comfortable. Neither of us were up to another day in the forest, so I spent my day fishing and caught about forty small cut-throat trout, the biggest about 3 oz. I saw one fish about 2 lb. throw himself in the lake, but he would not rise when I put a fly over him; it was possibly too late in the season. This lake had practically never been fished, and I was much disappointed to find that the sport was so poor. Lansdown had gone back to bring up a small pack left at Keogh Lake. He returned in the evening, reporting that he had come face to face with a ten-pointer bull who simply looked at him and walked away. Such is luck. Happily he had not a rifle, or most certainly he would have loosed off. September 11th. Our future plans had now to be discussed and decided on. Instead of two or three days' march, we had owing to a chapter of accidents taken ten days to get into the wapiti country. Provisions were running short. Smith was practically _hors de combat_ and feeling worse every day, and yet viewing the fact that we were now in the wapiti country, and by spending another few days we might reasonably expect to get another bull, I was extremely unwilling to turn back. On the other hand, further exposure in the vile weather we were experiencing might have resulted in Smith's serious illness. Not liking to assume the responsibility, I left it to him. He reluctantly decided for home. I feel sure he was even more disappointed than I was, for he was a keen sportsman, but in his present condition he was quite unfit to carry a pack, while serious illness might have resulted from exposure to pouring rain. The decision was the only one that could be come to, so there was no use in repining. We accordingly sent Thomson and Lansdown back to Keogh Lake with the wapiti head and one pack. Smith and I started out on our last chance of finding another wapiti. It was for a wonder a lovely morning, and I felt bitterly the hard luck which had pursued us all the way, and which now compelled us to turn back just as we had reached a game country. We went up a fine valley running from the east of the lake--the most open forest we had yet come to. It was timbered with magnificent spruce-trees, some of which I should say were at least 180 feet in height. There was but little undergrowth, it was the first ideal hunting ground we had struck. We worked all the morning without finding anything but two-day-old tracks. After lunch we suddenly came on quite fresh tracks of a good bull, possibly the one Lansdown had seen the day before. Taking up the tracks, we followed steadily on and must have come close enough to disturb him, though we neither heard nor saw anything. We came, however, on the spot where he had been lying down and had jumped up and gone off at a gallop. We tracked that bull till dusk and never came up with him. Fortunately he took us down the valley to the lake where we were camped, and we got home at nightfall. OUT OF THE FOREST [Illustration: PACKING OUT [_To face page 121._] CHAPTER IX OUT OF THE FOREST September 12th was a lovely crisp morning with a touch of frost in the air. The lake was looking perfect as we turned our backs on it, leaving the game country and all the chances of another wapiti behind. It was hard luck and I think we were all more or less depressed. We made a good march down the Spruce valley till we struck Keogh Lake in the early afternoon. This was the route by which we should have come in, as it was fairly open, more so than any other portion of the forest we had gone through. The timber was very fine. A small creek ran down the valley, and along it there were many beaver dams. Beavers are still protected by law throughout the island. We saw a large one swimming across Keogh Lake when in camp on our way in, and at night more than once heard the curious noise the beaver makes striking the water with his tail as he dives when frightened. Needless to say, regardless of all game laws, the men had several shots at the beaver without doing him any harm. Arriving at our old camp at Keogh Lake we found the cedar still smouldering. Having made a new raft we reached camp at the south end of the lake, just as the sky clouded up, evidently preparing for another downpour. The shores of the Lake were swampy and it was with difficulty we found a place to camp. It rained that night as if it had never rained before. Lansdown now jacked up and I find the following note in my diary:-- "Smith still ill and Lansdown now sick and very sorry for himself--query, too much wapiti meat--we are a sorry crew, but my knee is free from pain for the first time since the accident occurred." In all the discomforts I was to be "up against," none of my friends had mentioned the possibility of bad weather in September. August at the Campbell River had been simply an ideal climate, but from August 30th to September 26th, it had rained fifteen days out of the twenty-eight, and by rain I don't mean showers, which were common and did not count, but a steady downpour which lasted all day, and made marching through the undergrowth, alike on fine or wet days, like going under a continual shower bath. September 13th. It was still raining heavily and the men were not very keen on starting. Carrying a pack in wet weather is hard work and apt to chafe the back. On the other hand, I had no prospect of more sport and did not care to pay my men 13½ dollars a day that they should rest in camp till the weather cleared. I determined, therefore, to move on, but it was noon before I could get a move on the men, and it required some determination to effect this. It was certainly a miserable march, steady rain the whole time. About 3 o'clock the men gave up and said they could pack no further in such weather. We had struck the Kitsewa, which was rushing down in heavy flood, so camped on its bank. Thomson was now feeling seedy, and every one was out of sorts and a bit out of temper at the vile weather. September 14th. The river was down about a foot but still very full. After crossing and recrossing it about ten times and getting wet through, we arrived at our old camp at the trapper's hut about 1 p.m.; a short but fatiguing march owing to the state of the river. We had intended pushing on further after our midday meal, but once more torrential rains had set in and we decided to remain where we were for the day. The river was now simply alive with humpbacked salmon and dozens were lying dead on the banks. Bear marks were numerous, but the dense undergrowth rendered any chance of seeing one remote. "Nigger" was revelling in his pursuit of fish and repeatedly dashed into the shallows which were boiling with salmon struggling up stream, bringing out a fish each time, one must have been about six pounds. On the march "Dick" had come on the fresh track of two wolves and promptly started after them. He gave us some anxiety for the half-hour he was away, for with all his pluck, he would have had a poor chance if he had come up with them. I suppose it was the deserted hut which recalled to Lansdown's mind a grim tale of a trapper's fate. The man had started out from civilization on his usual winter expedition. Spring came and he failed to return, but this did not cause any anxiety as trappers lead a nomadic life, and it was thought he might have pushed further than he intended or found some specially good hunting ground. Two years passed and his existence had been practically forgotten, when a party cruising the woods for timber came on a log hut in a lonely part of the forest. Inside they found a man's skeleton lying on the little shelf which constituted the bed. By the side was a rifle and the bony hand still grasped a twig attached to the trigger, a shattered skull told the rest of the tale. On a bench beside the bed were the tin plates, a cup and the mouldy remains of what once had been food. What a tragedy! One could picture illness coming on and the struggle against it. Too weak to pack out, he eventually had to take to bed--at first possibly able to get up and cook a little food while provisions lasted--then his strength gradually declined, the lonely nights thinking of the inevitable end, and then the final decision possibly hastened by hearing the howling of wolves round the log cabin. After all, his best friend was his rifle and that was close to hand. Who can blame him for the decision he had the courage to carry out? Lansdown was one of the men sent out to bury the remains. September 15th. The morning was fine and we got away about 8.30. Thomson announced that the provisions had practically run out--no more flour or sugar and we were two days from the lake. We had actually left some flour and other provisions behind in order to lighten the packs. Improvidence seems to characterize these men of the west. So long as provisions are plentiful there is no thought of the future. Three spoonfuls of sugar will be put in a cup of tea and a two-pound tin of jam will disappear at a meal--treated as if it were stewed fruit, but the future is forgotten. To-day the poor dogs had no food at all. We ourselves did not fare brilliantly, but a short march on the morrow should bring us to the Nimquish Lake. We might indeed with an effort have made it in the day. September 16th. A two hours' march took us to the lake and our last meal was taken on its shores. It was neither luxurious nor plentiful--a few crusts of yesterday's bread fried in some bacon fat which remained on the pan, and a cup of weak tea, for tea too had run out. I hunted for and found a portion of the skin of the deer I had shot on the first day in and which I had thrown into the lake. "Dick" and "Nigger" devoured it ravenously. Poor doggies, they had been two days without a meal. More faithful or longsuffering companions a man never had. They seemed to understand we could not give them what we had not, and while they looked at us eating with anxious eyes, when no scraps were thrown they resigned themselves to hunger and curled up to sleep. [Illustration: THE WAPITI. 13 POINTS] [Illustration: THE SHORE OF LAKE NIMQUISH [_To face page 126._] I reserve for ever a warm corner in my heart for "Dick" and "Nigger." How "Dick" found his way in the forest was always a mystery to me. Of the keenest sporting instinct, he considered it his duty to pursue any track he came across. Wolf, bear or deer were all the same to him. I fear even a wapiti would not have been sacred, but in the wapiti country, we always tied him up in camp. Over and over again he went away giving tongue loudly till distance drowned his barks. He had no idea in what direction we were marching. Sometimes he would be away for an hour and we began to fear something had happened to him but he invariably turned up wagging his tail, having found our tracks and followed them. I have seldom met a more intelligent dog. Coming out of the dense forest and suddenly striking the open lake bathed in brilliant sunshine, the effect was dazzling and our eyes were almost blinded. Fortunately we saw a Siwash canoe across the lake, and were lucky enough to find that Mr. Dickenson, one of the Directors of a timber company, was up on a tour of inspection. He most kindly offered to take me down the river in his canoe, and we decided to fish a little on the way down. In the first pool where the river left the lake I got a couple of nice cut-throat trout, one about 2 lb., on the fly. The pool was simply alive with cohoe salmon, which could be seen on all sides swimming about in the clear water. Mr. Dickenson trolling with a spoon was soon in a nice fish of about 7 lb., which gave really good sport on a light trout rod before it was landed. Shooting the rapids in great form we were very soon opposite Lansdown's house, where I landed. And so ended my hunting trip in the Vancouver forests. I cannot say much in its favour. It was timber crawling pure and simple from beginning to end--no real stalking, only a snapshot which fortunately got me my wapiti. The weather had been all against us--the camping grounds, with the exception of that on Keogh Lake, most uncomfortable. Food was indifferent owing to difficulty of finding any game; deer there were in numbers, judging by the tracks, but one seldom saw them. There were ruffled grouse, but Smith was not very successful with his pistol, and we only got two or three the whole trip. With the fishing I was very much disappointed. The trout in the lakes in the interior were tiny things, hardly worth catching or eating. So long as one has to pack, I do not see how a really comfortable trip can be made. Discomfort to a certain extent I don't mind, but we had a little too much of it. I had added one more experience to a life of varied sport, but I mentally resolved that I never again would be tempted to hunt the wapiti in the Vancouver forest, or indeed, to go on any hunting trip which depended on packing for transport. Who knows whether I shall keep that resolve? That night we put up at Lansdown's, and never in the best restaurants of Paris or London have I enjoyed a meal more than that which Mrs. Lansdown with true hospitality placed before us, abundance of food--mutton, potatoes, and other fresh vegetables, eggs, milk and cream. I fear we all ate far too much. AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND CHAPTER X AFTER GOAT ON THE MAINLAND Having still a few days to spare, I decided to try for a Rocky Mountain goat on the Mainland. Lansdown had lived for some years at the head of Kingcome Inlet, one of the great inlets running in to the Mainland, just behind the island on which the town of Alert Bay is situated. He stated that goats were plentiful but that one would have to climb up to the tops of the mountains at this season of the year. He also pretended to an intimate knowledge of every turn and bend of the inlet, and the best campgrounds. I accordingly engaged him and his sixteen-feet rowing and sailing boat for the trip. September 17th. We started early for Alert Bay and were fortunate in getting a tow across from the timber company's steam launch, and arrived at Alert Bay in the early forenoon. We laid in ample supplies of provisions at Mr. Chambers' store and with some difficulty I got the men to start at 3 p.m. My two bottles of rum had long since been exhausted though only taken in homoeopathic doses. The difficulty was to get more. No spirits were allowed to be sold in Alert Bay, a passing steamer was the only chance, and fortunately one was due before we started. My friend Mr. Halliday saved the situation. He as a magistrate gave me a certificate that the rum was required on medical grounds, without which the Captain of the steamer would have refused to part with any. I was the envy of the entire Indian population as I left the steamer's side with a bottle of rum sticking out of each of my coat pockets. It was a lovely evening and though Mr. Chambers had offered us a tow with his steam launch, which runs to the head of the inlet once a fortnight, if we would wait two days, I preferred to get away rather than kick my heels about Alert Bay. Rowing up to the mouth of the inlet with a flowing tide we made about seven miles, and camped at 6 o'clock on a rocky islet where we found an ideal camping ground, near which some Siwash Indians had settled for the summer fishing. The scenery was superb. A background of the snow-covered mountains of the Mainland, in the middle distance many islands clad with wood down to the foreshore, a sea like glass in which mountains, islands and forests were reflected and the surface only broken by the eddies of the flowing tide. The sunset was glorious and the colouring indescribable. That evening, we saw a remarkable sight. Pilot whales in schools were common at the Campbell River, but here came a great whale all alone ploughing his way up the inlet and coming up every few minutes to blow--once he threw his entire body many feet out of the water and came down with a crash which echoed through the surrounding islands. September 18th. After a hearty breakfast we got away about 9 a.m., but by 12.45 the appetites of the men called for a halt. Noon never passed without a spell for food being proposed. Trolling with a spoon and a hand line, for I had left my rod at Alert Bay, I got a nice cohoe of about ten pounds, and strange to say quite good eating. At 4 o'clock a halt for the night was suggested, but I would not have it, and as Lansdown said there was a good camping ground some four miles away, we pushed on. The sides of the inlet were so steep that it was only in certain places that ground where a tent could be pitched was to be found. Lansdown had lived twelve years on the inlet, but his bump of locality was sadly deficient, for it took us three and a half hours to cover that four miles which must have been nearer nine, and I had to take the oar for the last two hours. At last we reached the cove with a shelving sandy beach, but it was pitch dark and the rain was coming down, so I fear I was rather short with poor Lansdown, who had kept promising the camping ground a few yards round every point we passed. September 19th. The camping ground as seen in the daylight was an ideal one. There was no undergrowth, and a grassy glade in the shelter of the great trees was a perfect site for the tents. A head wind had got up and the rain was still pouring down, so the prospects were not very encouraging, but still by tacking and rowing we made about seven miles when we were picked up by Mr. Chambers' launch and taken on to the head of the inlet where the Kingcome River falls into the sea. The scenery all up the inlet was very fine. The hills got more and more perpendicular as the head of the inlet was approached, and were clothed with dense forest down to the water's edge. Down the ravines from the hill-tops 3,000 feet high poured great waterfalls, and rain-clouds and mist swept over the tops of the hills, giving from time to time a glimpse of distant snow-covered peaks some 6,000 feet high. The evening was fine and by 6 o'clock we were anchored in the river opposite a few settlers' houses. We found Lansdown's old house, somewhat dilapidated but habitable. There was abundance of sweet hay and it was a luxury to spread my blanket on a hay-strewn dry wooden floor with a rainproof roof over my head. Most of the settlers, including Lansdown's strapping brother, came round to have a chat and to hear the news from the outside world. They seem to have a fairly easy time chiefly raising cattle, for the delta formed by the washed-down detritus from the hills was a rich white soil on which a fine crop of grass was raised. There were a good number of wild duck about, and the settlers were a sporting lot, so they amused themselves with the evening flighting and with occasional trips up Mount Kingcome, which overshadowed the valley, after goat, deer and bear. September 20th. It was a fine morning and the snow-covered peaks of Mount Kingcome about 6,000 feet above us, where we hoped to find our goats, were glistening in the morning sun. Smith was _hors de combat_--I had offered to send him home from Alert Bay, but he said he was quite fit to go on. I think he was a bit nervous when he saw the climb before him, for carrying a pack up the steep mountain was no joke. I was fortunate enough to secure the services of Harry Kirby, one of the settlers who knew the country well and he was willing to take Smith's place; a better man after goat I could not wish to have. He was very deaf and somewhat outspoken. Looking me over he said, "You are too stout for goat," which I rather felt to be true, though the trip after wapiti had fined me down considerably. I was, however, in hard condition by this time, and half-way up when we stopped for a midday meal, he quietly remarked, "I think after all you will do," and so my character as a prospective goat-hunter was restored. [Illustration: MORNING MISTS ON MOUNT KINGCOME [_To face page 138._] Quite a good track was blazed and cleared for about half-way up the hill, and the path though very steep was not bad, only hard on the men carrying the packs, so spells for rest were fairly frequent. The last half where the track had not been cleared was real bad going. A great torrent swept down the bottom of the steep ravine we were ascending, and it had to be crossed many times, which meant a wetting. The undergrowth was a dense tangle, fallen trees blocked the path and never had we met the accursed devil-club in such abundance. All things must come to an end, and by 5 o'clock we were clear of the forest and entered a fairly open valley, shut in on all sides by steep cliffs. At the end of the valley rose the snow-covered summit of Mount Kingcome about three miles away. We had been marching since 9.30 and had ascended about 4,000 feet. We pitched camp in the last clump of wood in the valley, and on the side of the hill. Though the forest ceased, there were dense masses of impenetrable cover, consisting of salmon-berry, wine-berry and devil-club, for about a mile up the valley, after which the ground was quite open. Large patches of snow were lying on the bare hills just above the cover--and while selecting our camping ground, I suddenly saw a black object moving across a snow patch about half-a-mile across the valley. Leaving Kirby and Lansdown to pitch the camp I took Thomson with me, and getting within about 500 yards of the snow patch, saw what looked like a small bear, but as Thomson said, "I never saw a bear with a long tail." The animal was moving quickly over the snow and getting closer every minute to a patch of dense cover. No doubt it was a wolverine. I had a long shot at about 400 yards and knocked up the snow under his belly. In a moment he was in the cover and we never saw him again. Further up towards the head of the valley we saw a bear moving across a patch of snow, but he, too, disappeared in the cover. Evening was now closing in, so we turned towards camp. About a mile away, just opposite the camp and on some almost precipitous rocks a goat suddenly came into view round a corner of the rock. He must have been lying down all the time out of sight, and it was bad luck not having seen him before, for though to climb the face of the cliff was impossible, we might have got a long shot from below; as it was, by the time we had got up to the foot of the cliff, it was too dark to shoot, so we decide to leave him till next day. [Illustration: CAMP ON MOUNT KINGCOME. [_To face page 140._] [Illustration: A ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT] [Illustration: THE GOAT COUNTRY [_To face page 141._] At last I had reached a game country, having seen a wolverine, a bear and goat in one afternoon. September 21st. It had rained all night but cleared up in the morning. Before I had turned out, Kirby reported the wolverine crossing the same patch of snow opposite the camp about half-a-mile away. Slipping on a pair of boots, I rushed out in my sleeping clothes. Getting the glass on to the beast, I found that this time it was a bear making tracks for the valley we had come up, and no doubt after the salmon which were rotting in thousands on the bank of the river below. He was into the cover before anything could be done in the way of a stalk, and did not appear again. Examining the ground, I found the valley extended up to the base of Mount Kingcome for about one and a half miles. The sides were precipitous cliffs quite impossible to climb. The slope up to their base was clothed with dense undergrowth, while a creek fed by the melting snow and the rain from the surrounding hills was tumbling noisily down below our camp. The head of the valley narrowed rapidly until completely shut in by the mountains, the tops of which were covered with snow. Large patches of snow lay in the hollows of the hills all round, never melting even in the summer months. The air was cold, but bracing, just the day for a stalk. Spying the valley carefully, I soon found a goat high up on the cliff to the right. I think it must have been our friend of last evening, who had fed along the side of the hill to his present position up in the valley. The ground did not look impossible, but Kirby pronounced against it as too dangerous. Higher up on a hill-top at the far end and just on the edge of the snow, I picked up with the glass two more goats and we decided to go for them. It was easy going to the foot of the hill where the valley ended, but a really stiff climb of about one and a half hours to get up to the patch of snow close to which we had seen them, above the line of cover; the hill-side was covered with a sort of heather growing between the rocks and it was very slippery going. As we arrived at the spot and were looking everywhere for the goats, I saw two goats, a nanny and a kid, moving away about 400 yards off and climbing steadily up the face of the cliff. We both thought they were the two we were after, who had seen us or got our wind. We were now 6,000 feet up and it was quite cold enough without a blizzard which suddenly set in with a bitter wind, which drove the snow and sleet almost through one. We were huddled under a sloping rock, trying to get a little shelter, when it struck me to send Kirby up and see if by any chance the goats were still where we had seen them first, as possibly the two we saw moving away were another lot. It was lucky I did so, for he was back in a few minutes with the good news that our goats were feeding quietly in a hollow behind a ridge not a hundred yards above us. I never was so cold in my life, but leaving Kirby behind, I crawled up to the top of the ridge, and looking over saw to my delight a good billy and two nannies feeding a hundred yards away. Getting into position for a careful shot, I proceeded to remove the caps of my telescope sight, which I had kept on up to the last moment on account of the rain and the snow. At the critical moment the front cap jammed, and with my half-frozen hands it took me a couple of minutes, which seemed hours, to get it off. Peering over I saw the goats moving off, they may have got our wind, for heavy gales were eddying round the top of the hill. The two nannies fortunately went first, the billy was moving on pretty quickly behind. I had just time to get a shot, another moment and he would have disappeared behind some rocks, and I heard the welcome thud of the bullet; he stood for a moment, and as the extraordinary vitality of the mountain goat had been impressed on me by Kirby, I gave him a second shot, and he came rolling down the hill like a rabbit, stone dead. Had it not been for the jamming of the cap I would certainly have got one of the nannies as well. He was a fine beast, much heavier and bigger than I had expected. The snow was still falling and we were both shivering with cold. While still undecided what to do a momentary break showed us two more goats, one a fine billy right across the valley and a little higher up, and as the day was young we decided to have a try for them. Climbing about 500 feet up, we arrived practically at the summit and were spying as to the best way to try a stalk, for the valley was now disturbed and the goats were on the alert and looking about in every direction. Unfortunately, the snow set in worse than ever and blotted out any view of the hill. To attempt a stalk on such dangerous ground would have been madness, so we turned back and went down to where we had left the dead goat. The cold was now so intense we could not remain to skin the goat, so made straight for camp. The going on the way down was as bad as it could be. The newly-fallen snow lying on the heather had made it very slippery and almost dangerous. I had many a slip but generally landed sitting down, and arrived at the foot of the hill bruised but thankful, for after all I had got my goat. This was real sport: to find your game, mark him down and then an honest stalk, ending in a kill; but it was stiff work and a little too much for a man of my age. We had come down about 2,000 feet, and the snow had turned into rain, which felt quite warm and comforting after the blizzard on the hill-top. Kirby was so cold, he asked leave to go ahead, and I soon saw him running down the valley and skipping like a goat from rock to rock. Taking it easier, I got to camp about 5 o'clock, fairly tired out. September 22nd. It rained and snowed all night, and for the first time the little tent was not waterproof. The weather cleared about 8 a.m., and the morning sun broke through the rain clouds and mists which were sweeping away from the hill-tops; the effect was most beautiful. The hills where we had been stalking yesterday were entirely covered with snow, and patches were lying far down in the valley. I sent Kirby and Lansdown up to skin the goat and bring in the head and skin, while I made preparations for striking the camp and going down the mountain on their return. They returned about noon, and we were just preparing to start when I saw a bear--probably the same one we had seen before, moving rapidly up the valley at the foot of the cliff and across one of the numerous patches of snow. Seizing the rifle I dashed down, followed by Thomson, to try and get a shot. I left my coat, in which I always carried spare cartridges, behind. By the time I had crossed the creek, the bear was well ahead and looked about 300 yards away. Putting up the 300 yards sight, I knelt down, rather breathless and shaky from my run, and fired. The bullet knocked up the snow in a good line but short. This started him off at a run and he was getting farther and farther away as I fired two more shots, which also struck low. My last chance was another shot before he reached the thick cover, and, aiming right over his back, I hit him, where I could not say. He must have been 400 yards away when I fired. On being hit, he stumbled forward and turned right down hill into some dense undergrowth which extended right down to the creek. Having only one cartridge left, I sent Thomson back to camp for cartridges, and sat down behind the rock from which I had fired to await events. My impression was that he was badly hit and that we would have to follow him up in the cover. To my surprise, I suddenly saw him come out of the cover and come down to the creek. He was not more than 150 yards away and passing between a lot of big boulders, and it looked as if he were heading up the valley. Thinking it was my last chance, I fired and saw the bullet hit a rock just over his back. To my horror, I then realized I had left the telescope sight screwed up to 300 yards. Worse luck was to follow, for the shot turned him and he came down the creek towards me, very slowly and looking very sick. There was I without a cartridge and a wounded bear apparently walking on top of me. I lay quite quietly behind my rock, and had the pleasure of seeing him come within thirty yards, when he turned slowly and, crossing the creek, entered the dense undergrowth on the other side just as Thomson came up with the cartridges. It was as bad a moment as I have ever experienced in my sporting life. At first we could trace his movements by the shaking of the bushes, and at one time, this ceasing, he apparently lay down. I knew it was hopeless following him in such undergrowth, for not only was there the danger of being charged, but if even I could have made my way through the tangle, it would have been impossible to put the rifle to my shoulder. Thomson would not give him up, but begged I would lend him my rifle and he would follow him up. I returned to camp utterly disgusted, and in about one hour Thomson returned, saying he had crawled through the cover, found lots of blood, saw the bear once in the distance, but could not get a shot. The worst of it was, it was now too late to start, and to make matters more depressing, rain and sleet fell all the afternoon and night. September 23rd. The rain had now turned to snow, which was lying as low down as the level of the camp. Everything was sodden, and a wet march was before us. We got away by 9 o'clock, and had a hard march as the creek was now a roaring torrent, which we had to cross and recross several times. Going on the rough boulders, over and round which the flood was pouring, was as bad as it well could be, and we were all wet through by the time we reached the cleared track. Our last view of the valley, before we entered the forest, was superb. The rain had cleared away, a bright sun was breaking through the heavy clouds, which were being swept away from the summits of the snow-clad hills and from the slopes of the valley, now dazzling white in the morning sun, while looking back through the forest we were just entering the trees stood out in black silhouette against a background of snow. It was with deep regret I turned my back on the Goat Valley, where I had seen more game in two days than in all the rest of my trip. By 3 o'clock we reached the Kingcome River, but it was too late to make a start that night. September 24th. We got away at 8.15. The morning was fine, and the inlet and snow-covered peaks behind looked very beautiful. The current always runs down this inlet irrespective of the tide, though it is, of course, stronger with the ebb. We made only one halt for lunch, and by 7.15 p.m. reached Quiesden--a deserted Indian village thirty miles from the head of the inlet; not a bad performance, as we had to row the whole way. Here we found an empty mission house, and Lansdown somewhat burglariously effected an entrance through a window and opened the door from inside. We soon had a fire going in the dilapidated stove, and settled down comfortably for the night on the bare boards. They were at least dry and we had a roof over our heads. The walls of the sitting-room were mostly decorated with texts, but a coloured illustration representing a young naval officer making violent love to an extremely pretty girl showed that even missionaries have a human side to their nature. The village was entirely deserted, all the inhabitants being away fishing. There were some fine totem poles, and the woods all round were the cemetery of the neighbourhood--the bodies of many departed Siwashes, packed in boxes or bundles, being slung up in the forks of the trees--the Siwash method of burial. September 25th. Leaving Quiesden at 8.15, we had a fine sailing breeze which before night had increased to half a gale, and on arrival at Alert Bay, about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Chambers most hospitably put me up till my old friend the _Queen City_, due at 1 a.m., should arrive. September 26th. The _Queen City_ did not arrive till noon, and bidding good-bye to my kind friends at Alert Bay and to Lansdown, who was returning to his farm on the Nimquish, we were soon on our way to Vancouver. Accounts had to be made up and good-bye said to Smith and Thomson and my dear friends "Dick" and "Nigger," for they were all to be landed at some unearthly hour in the morning at Quatiaski Cove. All the roughing was over, and the comforts of civilization were before me, yet it was with sincere regret that I saw the last of my friends and companions. The discomforts were forgotten, the sodden forest, the rain, the indifferent food, and the poor sport, but the impressive scenery of the vast Vancouver forest, the still lakes and rushing creeks, and the beauty of the Kingcome inlet, with its setting of snow-covered mountains, will remain indelibly impressed on my memory, and as the prospect of future trips becomes more remote, the recollections of those days will always be with me. The call of the wild may be as strong as ever, but the capacity to respond to it must diminish as years roll on. The man who has not a love for the solitudes of nature and the simple life in camp, misses experiences which to me at least have been amongst the keenest enjoyments of my life. September 27th. We arrived at Vancouver about 5 p.m. That day I saw Mr. Williams, just returned from inspection and sport in the Kootenay district. He reported game plentiful and brought back two fine sheep heads which he had secured after hard work and stiff climbing. I left Vancouver on the 29th and, changing trains at Winnipeg, arrived at Toronto on October 3rd--four hours late from Winnipeg. Leaving Toronto the next morning, I spent that evening and the following day at Niagara Falls, arriving in New York in the early morning of the 6th. Through the kindness of Mr. Griswold, I had been made an honorary member of the Knickerbocker and Union Clubs. More luxurious and better-managed clubs could not be found in any capital of Europe. At 10 a.m. I was once more steaming out of New York on the _Blücher_, one of the slower steamers of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, and after a most comfortable voyage, with charming fellow-passengers, I disembarked at Southampton on the 17th--just three months and seven days from leaving England. NEWFOUNDLAND, 1910 TO NEWFOUNDLAND [Illustration: NEWFOUNDLAND] [Illustration: SKETCH-MAP OF NEWFOUNDLAND [_To face page 159._] [Illustration: NOT GOOD ENOUGH. [_To face page 159._] CHAPTER I TO NEWFOUNDLAND Notwithstanding my resolve that the Vancouver trip should be my last one, the call of the wild was once more too strong, and the summer of 1910 found me planning an expedition to Newfoundland. I think J. G. Millais' charming book _Newfoundland and its Untrodden Ways_, as well as the description he personally gave me of the country, were largely responsible for my decision. I sailed from Southampton on August 5th by the _Cincinnati_, of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, bound for St. John's, Newfoundland, via New York. The ship was crowded and the voyage as monotonous as all Atlantic voyages are, while being a slow boat we only arrived at New York on the morning of the 14th. The heat of New York was intense, and I was not sorry to leave it at midnight for Boston, and straight on via St. John's, New Brunswick, to Sydney, where I took the _Bruce_, which runs between Sydney and Port aux Basques, Newfoundland, a distance of a hundred miles. I would recommend any one who is taking this route, and is not a total abstainer, to provide himself with a bottle of whisky, for Maine, through which a good portion of the journey lies, is a teetotal state, and even on board the _Bruce_ not a drop of any form of liquor, even beer, was allowed to be served until the steamer was under way. Getting away at eleven o'clock, and after a rather rough passage, for the _Bruce_ is only about 800 tons, we arrived at Port aux Basques at 7 a.m. on the 17th. It was a lovely morning, and the rocky shores of Newfoundland looked particularly wild and attractive in the bright sunshine. Port aux Basques is a small settlement, and so far as I could ascertain does not contain an hotel, but no doubt some form of lodging-house exists, where, as throughout the island, the visitor would be given a warm welcome and whatever was going, be it little or much. The train was waiting for the steamer. The line is a narrow-gauge one, but the cars were quite comfortable, and the prospect of seeing a new country is always attractive. But how we did bump over that line; whether it was the fault of the laying of the permanent way or the driving I cannot say, but in a long experience of railway travelling I never have been so jolted, the driver seeming to take a special pleasure in pulling up with a jerk sufficient to knock over any one standing up, and then to start, if possible, in a rougher manner. However, no one seemed to mind, and after all passengers should be grateful for having a line at all. My mouth watered at accounts I heard of sea trout fishing, about three hours by launch from Port aux Basques. I was told that a few days previously three rods got 110 sea trout, averaging three pounds, in the Garia River, in a few hours. Getting away at 8.15 we passed all along the west coast, through a most beautiful country, teeming with salmon rivers, most of them I fear much over-fished, for the west coast rivers are the favourite haunts of the American angler, being easily reached from New York and Boston. Thompson's Hotel, prettily situated on the Little Codroy River, looked particularly attractive, and two American anglers got off there. I was told there was a late run of big fish in August, an exception, for as a rule all the Newfoundland rivers are early ones. At Crabbes a local guide, on the look-out for a job, deeply deplored the fact that Crabbes should be neglected for the better-known Little and Big Codroy Rivers. He assured me there were two rivers, the one ten minutes, the other about two minutes, from the station, "crawling" of course with fish, and that a thirty-five pound salmon had been caught by a local angler a few days before. No doubt he was crying up his own wares. There was neither hotel nor boarding-house at Crabbes--camping out was necessary, but the country is a lovely one, and what could be more enjoyable than a comfortable camp on the banks of the river if only the fish were there and the water in fishing trim. Black flies and mosquitoes must not, however, be lightly put aside, for they are the curse of the island in the summer months. As we slowly bumped our way north, the scenery became more and more beautiful, until it culminated in the views as the train skirted the Humber River, then along Deer Lake, gradually rising towards the barrens of the centre of the island. All along the sides of the railway the ground was carpeted with wild flowers, a perfect blaze of colour. Nightfall found us at the north end of the Grand Lake, where is situated "The Bungalow," a sporting hotel recently established, which from the train looked most comfortable. The food in the dining-car was quite good, but by no means cheap. Why one should pay 40 cents, about 1_s._ 8_d._, for a slice of fried cod in the very home of the cod, when a whole fish can be purchased for half the money, I could not understand, and although Newfoundland abounds in fish neither trout nor salmon were once served in the restaurant car. On Thursday the 18th I arrived at St. John's at 12.30, having travelled without a stop from the previous Sunday at midnight. It is much to be regretted that the direct Allan Line from Liverpool to St. John's, which only takes seven days, should not have larger and more up-to-date steamers. The largest boat is under 5,000 tons; not very comfortable for crossing the Atlantic. As the Allan Line run excellent boats to Quebec, there must be some good reason for the local service to St. John's not being better served. Leaving England on August 5th, and travelling continuously, I did not reach St. John's till the 18th. It is true I took a slow boat and came by New York. A better route would have been by one of the larger steamers to Quebec or Rimouski, and then back by rail to Sydney, and so on to Port aux Basques. If the large steamers which pass so close to Newfoundland would only make a call at St. John's, to disembark passengers, I feel sure many more tourists would be tempted to visit the island. I was met at the station by Mr. Blair, Jr., whose firm were to provide all my outfit except camp equipment, which I had sent ahead from England. I was much indebted to him for valuable information and advice. I was, I must confess, very disappointed with St. John's, which is not worthy to be the capital of England's oldest colony, and the less said about hotel accommodation the better. The best hotel was really only an indifferent boarding-house, and could not compare in comfort with the hotel of any small provincial town at home. St. John's possessing few attractions for me, I decided to get away as soon as possible. When I left England the steamer _Glencoe_, which sails from Placentia to Port aux Basques, all along the south coast, was timed to leave every Saturday, but the sailing had been altered to Wednesday, leaving me with some idle days, which I could not face in St. John's. I had heard of sea trout fishing and possible salmon in the south-east arm of Placentia, where good accommodation was to be had at a fishing inn, known as Fulford's. Wiring to Mr. Fulford to know if the sea trout were running, the answer came back that they were all in the ponds, which I did not quite understand at the time, but anything was better than five days in St. John's, so on Saturday, August 20th, I started by the morning train for Placentia and Fulford's. The rain came down in torrents as we left St. John's at 8.45 a.m. and lasted till we arrived at Placentia at 1.45--eighty miles in five hours. These Newfoundland trains are certainly not flyers. Placentia is very beautifully situated at the junction of the two arms of the sea, known as the south-east and the north-east arms. The main town is on a spit of land which extends out into the sea, making the one entrance to either arm a very narrow channel, and through this the full force of the tide races, causing whirlpools and eddies which looked anything but safe. The foreshore was composed of large round stones, not pebbles, and the roar of these as they washed up and down the beach by the waves is one of the characteristics of Placentia. They say the people of Placentia talk louder than any one else in the island on account of this. I was met at the station by George Kelly from Fulford's, who told me he had a buggy waiting for me across the ferry; but food was first necessary, and I got a mess of meat at the local hotel for 35 cents. On asking for a glass of beer or a whisky-and-soda, I was told they only kept "sober drinks," an expression which I heard for the first time. The traveller in Newfoundland must reconcile himself to teetotalism and tea, unless he can carry his own liquor along. Even at the hotel in St. John's only very indifferent beer was obtainable with meals; for anything else one had to go round the corner to a second-rate public-house. Now all this seems very unnecessary, for it would appear to me that there is much greater chance of a man getting drunk if he finds himself set down in a public-house after dinner than if he could obtain what he reasonably required in his hotel. But all Newfoundland drinks tea, and the sensible traveller will adapt himself to the local customs, as well as to the midday dinner and the light early tea or supper. The ferry was only a couple of hundred yards across, and George and I were soon on our way to Fulford's. The drive was a lovely one, the road winding high up over the south-east arm. The weather had cleared up, the sun was shining brightly, the hills were glistening in the sunshine after the heavy rain, and every little stream had become a roaring torrent, which George said promised well for the fishing. After a five-mile drive we arrived at Fulford's and I was warmly welcomed by Mr. Fulford and his wife, really charming people. The house was scrupulously clean. Fortunately for me, I was the only guest, and I can only say Mrs. Fulford gave me the best food I had in Newfoundland, while her terms were even more than moderate. The situation of the house was very beautiful, overlooking the mouth of the river, which was about a mile away. I naturally inquired first about the fishing. It seemed I was too late for the sea trout in the river itself, at least in its lower reaches. The sea trout run about July 14th, in great numbers, but only for a short time. The salmon run earlier. In the season Fulford's is crammed, anglers sleeping anywhere all over the house, and struggling with each other for the best water. The river, after a run of about four miles, falls out of what are locally termed ponds--what we would call lochs--and at this season of the year all the fish were in these lochs. At certain distances they are connected one with the other by short runs of a few yards, and here the fish lie. These are known as the four-mile, five-mile, six-mile and seven-mile pools. Starting off about 4 o'clock, I drove up to the four-mile pool. The road was fairly good, winding along above the river through the wood, and the drive was most enjoyable. As we gradually ascended, the view, looking back over the south-east arm, was very beautiful, reminding me very much of Scotch scenery in Sutherland. The entire country was saturated from the morning rain, and we started in our waders, as George said we had swampy ground to pass through before reaching the pool. Hitching up the horse where a pathway branched off, we plunged through a very wet swamp for a few hundred yards down to the pool. The water was pouring down from the upper loch, the pool was full of fish all on the move for the run up to the higher waters, the evening was closing in--the black flies and mosquitoes were troublesome. Though I cast over many fish I never got a rise. Getting home at dusk I found an excellent dinner of roast fowl and wild raspberries and cream awaiting me. The next morning we started early for the seven-mile pool. The going was pretty rough but the scenery very beautiful. We gradually emerged from the woods on to the higher and more open ground. A half-mile walk through a very wet marsh brought us to the bank of the stream between the two lochs, which was in perfect order. It was only a few yards wide and I could cover the entire fishable water with my fourteen-foot Castleconnell rod. I rose several fish, killed three who gave good sport, and lost a fly in another. As the water was about fished out we went down to the six-mile pool, where I killed one and lost another, but the fish were all small, 5½, 4½, 4, 3½ lb. The following day we again tried the seven-mile pool, but the water had run down and there was little or no stream between the two lochs. I got one fish of 4 lb., and never saw another. As there was little chance of more salmon I asked my host if there were any trout in the neighbourhood. He strongly advised me trying a loch nine miles up the road, where he and a friend had got twenty-seven dozen mud trout (? char) in one day's fishing the previous year. After a rough drive over a very bad road for the last three miles we found the loch, but it was so overgrown with water-lilies that there was not a square yard of water on which to cast a fly. Whether they had grown up since his visit and whether they died down later on in the season I cannot say, but we had wasted our day. I could not understand the river; thousands of sea trout run up but I never saw or rose one. It was hardly a river, but a series of lochs with connecting streams. There were no boats on the lochs, but I had hoped to find sea trout in the tail of the streams. Not one, however, did I even see rise. There are a number of lochs about nine miles up. Whether they contained fish or not I cannot say. I think it would well repay Mr. Fulford, who is the fish warden of the district, to investigate the habits of the sea trout and find out where they eventually lie, presumably in the upper lochs, and put boats on. The salmon I got were in good condition and excellent eating. Driving home in the evening about sunset, we generally saw quite a number of Nova Scotia hares, locally called rabbits, sitting out on the road. I saw no other game of any description, though there are plenty of partridges (ruffled grouse) in the neighbourhood. The steamer was due to sail from Placentia on the 24th inst., at 3 p.m., so I left Fulford's with much regret at 10.30 a.m. and drove into Placentia, where I found she would not sail till midnight owing to the amount of cargo. Going into the Post Office to inquire for letters, I was told I must see the Communion Plate of the Protestant Church, which was kept in the Post Office. It was a very handsome service of plate presented by Prince William Henry, who as a young naval officer passed a winter in Placentia, then I believe the capital of the island. It was weary work getting through the day till the steamer sailed. Every berth was taken, so I had a shakedown in the corridor, which was much more airy than any cabin. TO LONG HARBOUR CHAPTER II TO LONG HARBOUR In planning my trip I had the benefit of J. G. Millais' advice. He first recommended me to try the country at the head of the La Poile River on the south coast near Port aux Basques. On inquiry I found out that canoes could not be used. Everything would have to be packed, and it would take six men to pack to the hunting grounds. With the memory of my Vancouver trip before me, I decided against the La Poile country and packing, and chose the ground Millais had hunted with such success in 1906. He had gone in by the Long Harbour River, struck off to the north-west to Kesoquit and Shoe Hill Ridge and the Mount Sylvester region. But the Long Harbour River was very rough, and his canoes being at Hungry Grove Pond, where a series of ponds led up to Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake, its more modern name, I finally decided on this route, which would bring me quite close to Shoe Hill Ridge and Mount Sylvester. Millais himself had not travelled over this ground, so the map published in his book only gave an approximate idea of the country and its waterways. I had secured the services of Steve Bernard, Millais' head man, and he was to meet me with two other Indians at the head of Long Harbour when I would send a wire. My route was to be Placentia to Belleoram by the _Glencoe_. At Belleoram Mr. Ryan, who is in charge of the telegraph station at the head of Long Harbour, was to meet me in his sailing schooner the _Caribou_, and from Long Harbour we were to pack in to Hungry Grove Pond, where the canoes were to be ready. We did not get away from Placentia till 1 a.m., and crossing Placentia Bay arrived at Burin the following morning in a thick fog, which occasionally lifted, showing a fine, wild coast with rocky headlands on all sides. Burin was a pretty spot, and I saw it better on my return when there was no fog. We arrived at Grand Bank, a big fishing town, in the evening, but the fog outside was so thick that the Captain decided to anchor till 2 a.m. and then cross Fortune Bay to Belleoram. Grand Bank was responsible for the change in the sailing date of the _Glencoe_. Leaving Placentia on Saturday she was due at Grand Bank on Sunday. The inhabitants being very religious objected to loading and unloading on Sunday, so the sailing was changed to Wednesday, and their consciences were satisfied. They forgot, however, that they made some smaller port of call further west break the Sabbath, but being one of the most important shipping centres in the cod season their views had to be met. We arrived at Belleoram at 6 a.m. on the 26th, feeling our way along the coast with our foghorn. I and my belongings were turned out on the pier and I felt my trip had at last begun. The _Caribou_ was in harbour and a boat put off with Steve Bernard, who had come down to meet me and help Mr. Ryan, who was laid up on board with a bad leg. I at once went out to call on Mr. Ryan, as I wanted to get away as soon as possible. I found a sturdy Irishman of about sixty, full of go and energy, and in the cheeriest spirits, only extremely annoyed at the bad leg, which made him pretend to lie up, for lie up he never did, his restless nature would not allow it, and he was always on the move. His illness began with a boil, but he _would_ go off into the woods after caribou and so irritated it, that the boil had developed into a large sloughing ulcer with considerable inflammation. He did not seem to mind it much and insisted on hobbling about the deck. There was only one place at which I was recommended to put up in case I had to stay in Belleoram, so I went up to call on Mrs. Cluett and incidentally forage for breakfast. I received a courteous welcome and had plenty of eggs, bread and butter, and tea. Getting back to the _Caribou_ I persuaded Ryan to make a start. There was a thick fog and it was blowing hard; however, away we went in grand style, steering for the different points which loomed through the fog. As soon as we got into the open and had to cross some twelve or fourteen miles of open sea, an ancient and dilapidated compass was produced from the confusion of below, for the _Caribou_ was not altogether a tidy boat; the compass gave a certain moral support, but the needle refused to point in any direction steadily for more than five minutes. Ryan would give it a smack, "Sure I think she's only about five points out now," and in a few minutes, "She's gone all wrong again." I was entrusted with the steering, which may account for our sighting land about four miles north of the entrance to Long Harbour. It was a pretty rough crossing, but the old _Caribou_ was a seaworthy and dry boat. The weather was what one expects of Newfoundland, wild and foggy, and the mountains looming up out of the fog looked bigger and grander than they really were. We had a rattling following breeze, and notwithstanding Ryan's assertion that there would be no fog at his house, we ran up the fourteen miles of Long Harbour and arrived there about 4 o'clock in the afternoon in a dense fog, having left Belleoram at 10 a.m. Here I found waiting my two other Indians, John Denny Jeddore and Steve Joe. My party consisted then of Steve Bernard, head man and hunter, John Denny Jeddore, generally known as John Denny, and Steve Joe, who had to become Joe. John Denny at once told me he had signed on as cook, but added quaintly: "I have never cooked for gentles." All the same he was an excellent plain cook, ready to learn anything, scrupulously clean in all his cooking, and a first-rate fellow. Joe was general utility man and always cheery. Steve Bernard was a pure bred Micmac, his father having been chief of the Micmac tribe, and the other two were half-breeds. John Denny's mother was a Frenchwoman, which perhaps accounted for his extraordinarily nice manners. My men were somewhat shy and reserved at first, but we soon became great friends, and I can only say I never wish for better men or comrades on a hunting expedition. We never had a word of difference. They were always bright and willing, and under the most uncomfortable circumstances never uttered a word of complaint. I think I may say we parted with mutual regret. They all spoke English, but Steve Bernard was the most fluent. Amongst themselves they chattered in their own soft Micmac language, and they never seemed to stop talking. All Newfoundlanders have a specially charming accent, which is neither Irish nor Canadian, and certainly not American. It is very soft and mellifluous. "All right," pronounced as if it were "aal," is the most common expression, and seems to be used on every possible occasion. All my men, instead of dropping their "h's" in the Cockney fashion, seemed to aspirate almost every word beginning with a vowel, for instance they always spoke of h'oil, h'oar, h'eat, and h'arm, and so with many other words. The Micmacs are Catholics, and their headquarters in Canada are at Restigouche. Their settlement in Newfoundland is on the Conne River. A priest from Restigouche visits Conne River from time to time and preaches in Micmac. At Restigouche are published the Bible, Catechism and other books in Micmac, which has the same character as English but only sixteen letters. A Micmac paper is also published at Restigouche and received once a month at Conne River. Steve was very amusing over the raising of funds for the construction of a new church at Conne River. Apparently a sort of bazaar was held at which the chief feature was a "Wheel of Fortune." Steve felt rather sore that he had gambled fifteen dollars and won nothing. All the Micmac colony, however, seemed to have enjoyed themselves hugely, gambling, dancing, and eating; they provided the food and afterwards paid for each meal--good for the church! Ryan's niece kept house for him at Long Harbour--a lonely spot with only one other settler within twelve miles, and I received from uncle and niece the warm welcome which every traveller in Newfoundland is sure to meet with. The morning of the 27th was exquisite, the fog had cleared away, the sun was shining brightly, and the placid head-waters of Long Harbour lay without a ripple at our feet. The hills were not high but beautiful in colour and outline, and I might easily have imagined myself in a Scotch deer forest. Cases of stores had to be unpacked, tent and camp equipment looked out, and the morning was spent in making up the loads. I had brought an 11-feet square fly for the three men, two tents for myself, both of the lean-to pattern, one heavier and stronger tent of green canvas 7 feet × 7 feet, the other the 6 feet × 7 feet silk tent I had used in Vancouver, and which weighed only 5 lb, my idea being to use it for short trips from the main camp. One pair of Hudson Bay blankets made into a sleeping bag, a pillow, the usual cooking tins in nests, and the folding baker completed my outfit. This latter is simply invaluable; I purchased one locally in St. John's. Camp furniture I had none, but as experience had taught me that the comfort of a bed of balsam on the ground was somewhat overrated, I had brought a sheet of strong canvas 7 feet × 2 feet 9 inches, with gussets on either side, and eyelet holes at the top and bottom. Into the gussets were slipped strong poles and these laid on two logs at the head and foot in which notches were cut to receive them, and then the poles were nailed down with one 3-inch nail at each end, and the canvas at the head and foot laced round the logs. A more comfortable camp bed it was impossible to have and it took about ten minutes to construct. With men such as I had, skilful with their axes, to bring camp furniture was unnecessary: tables, benches, poles for hanging clothes, rifle and gun rests, can easily be made, and one day in a permanent camp is sufficient to have all a hunter can want. My men were as good as, if not better than the French Canadians I employed when hunting moose in Canada some nine years before. They introduced me to a bench or camp seat I had never seen before. A suitable tree with outstanding branches is cut down, a short section chosen, on which, on one side at least, there are four branches to form the legs; this is split in two and an excellent camp stool is the result. I found we had eight loads, which meant double journeys as far as Hungry Grove Pond, so I started off Joe and John Denny with two packs, while Steve and I took a light camp up to Mitchell's Point, where the river ran into the head of the Long Harbour and from which I was assured I could get some good sea trout fishing. We had camp pitched and our midday meal over by 3 o'clock, so started up the river for the sea trout on which we depended for dinner. It was a rough journey along the river bank or in its bed, and although all the water looked tempting it was 5 o'clock before we reached the pool in which the fish were supposed to be. Long Harbour River is one of the biggest rivers in the south and in the early summer a large number of salmon and sea trout run up, but like most Newfoundland rivers that I saw, the pools alternated with long shallow runs, where no fish would lie. There were certainly some beautiful pools, so it was a disappointment, more especially as regards dinner, that I only rose one fish and hooked another which broke away. Steve unfortunately cut his foot with the small axe in making camp. It looked nothing, but on his way up the river the wound opened and bled rather freely. I fixed him up with a pad and a bandage, and dressed it on our return to camp with 1/1000 corrosive sublimate solution made from tabloids, without which I never travel. We had only about half-an-hour to fish if we would get back to camp, some four miles away, before dark, so we really did not give the water a fair chance. We did not get into camp till about 8.30. Steve declared he was first-rate at slapjacks, so while I prepared a square of Lazenby's soup he set to work on the slapjacks. After using half a tin of butter he produced a sodden mass of dough, on which and the soup we made a poor meal. The flies and mosquitoes were very troublesome, but Farlow's "dope" was fairly successful. Our camping ground was too near the river and on rather low ground. A very heavy dew fell during the night and everything was soaking in the morning. As the fishing was not likely to prove a success we decided to return to Ryan's and push on after our men. Getting away about 12 o'clock, for I had sent Steve back to Ryan's on foot to borrow their dory which brought our camp up, we stopped to boil the kettle and have lunch near a settler's place just beyond the mouth of the river. He was a hardy old man, by name Joe Riggs, and though he had recently undergone several operations in the hospital at St. John's to remove some diseased ribs, he was working away all alone getting in his hay. He was very lonely and sad for he had only recently lost his wife, and the way he spoke about her was very touching. In winter, however, he went down to Anderson's Cove, a small settlement at the mouth of Long Harbour, where a married daughter lived. Among the solitary settlers I met, of whom Joe Riggs was a type, it was remarkable how the spot they had selected for settling on was the very finest to be found, and to poor old Joe, Long Harbour was a sort of earthly Paradise which he would not exchange for any other part of Newfoundland. On reaching Ryan's, where I was ashamed to trespass once more on his hospitality for the night, I found John Denny and Joe had taken two packs on about eleven miles, to a spot about three miles from Hungry Grove Pond and returned for more loads. I took another Indian, Micky John by name, to help and the three men started off about 3 o'clock. Two were to return the next day, while John Denny was to make a double trip down to Hungry Grove Pond. TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS CHAPTER III TO THE HUNTING GROUNDS The following day, the 29th, I had to wait for the men to come back, so did not start till 10.30. The track led up the steep hill behind Ryan's house. It was rough going, but nothing in daylight, and the air that morning made one feel glad to be alive. After a steady rise of about two miles we came on to a great wild plateau with hardly a tree to be seen, and I had my first experience of the great barrens of Newfoundland. The colouring was exquisite, and though desolate in the extreme the scenery had a great charm of its own, chiefly due to effects of light and shade. Deep shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds overhead fell on ridges far away and gave an idea of immensity and distance without which the view might have been monotonous. The air was extraordinarily clear: a ridge which looked a couple of miles away was pointed out to me as six-mile ridge, the head of the divide, from which the ground sloped away to our destination, Hungry Grove Pond. It took us till 3 o'clock to reach the top of the ridge, which at first sight looked so near. The rise the whole way was very gradual, in fact hardly perceptible. The whole country was undulating, low ridges alternating with little valleys, and in each bottom was a small pond from which issued a noisy stream. Dwarf balsam was scattered in patches. A bright yellow grass showed where the marshes, locally called "mishes," which we had to cross, lay, and though there had been a spell of dry weather, very wet and boggy some of these "mishes" were. When we reached the six-mile ridge we caught our first glimpse of the top of Mount Sylvester, just showing a pale blue on the sky-line, while far down below in a valley lay Hungry Grove Pond. I calculated we had come eight miles, for the six-mile ridge had been measured from the old Telegraph Office instead of the new. Dark clouds were now coming up from the coast, and it looked as if we were in for a bad night. I asked Steve if he were certain he had brought the pack with my blankets and waterproof sheet. On examining the packs we found that this, the most important to me at least, had been left behind. Here was a pleasant position. Heavy rain coming up with a cold driving wind and no bedding for the night. But Steve was equal to the occasion and showed me what a first-rate man he was. Our camp was three miles ahead, Ryan's house eight miles behind, and it was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Steve quietly said, "My fault, I go back and fetch up the pack." None of the others offered to go in his place, so laying down his own pack, for which I was to send back from camp, away went Steve at a trot. We pushed on to camp, which John had pitched in a small droke, and just as we got in, down came the rain in torrents. Getting a tent pitched in heavy rain is poor fun, but camp was soon comfortable and a roaring fire going. I had shot three grouse with my little rook rifle on the march, out of season I may say, but when it is a question of food I fear game laws are apt to be disregarded in the wilds. I soon had a good stew of grouse, potatoes and onions cooking, which was pronounced excellent later on. John was shy of showing his own abilities as a chef and sat humbly at my feet as a learner. After dinner we were talking of poor Steve's bad luck and how wet and uncomfortable he must be, and discussing when we should send one of the men back with a lantern to meet him. It was then quite dark, about 7.30 p.m., when Steve walked quietly into the camp with his pack and simply remarked: "Don't think I made bad time." I should think not. He had covered nineteen miles, eleven of them carrying a pack, in four and a half hours--a fine performance. He well deserved the tot of rum which I served out to him. I heard afterwards that in June he had left Ryan's house at 4 a.m. with a light pack and arrived at Conne River, his home, a distance of forty-eight miles, at 8 o'clock the same evening. I had gathered from Millais' book that Steve was rather addicted to rum, which was confirmed by a letter from him to Mr. Blair, saying, "Don't forget some rum, for you know how fond I am of it." I rather chaffed him about this letter and he assured me that it was a mistake--he could not write himself and some girl in his settlement had written for him and put the passage in without his knowledge. I can only say that I had no difficulty with Steve or any of the others over the question of liquor. I kept the whisky and rum locked up in a box, but I think I might have left it open. I had only six bottles of whisky and three of rum, and on opening the box one of the latter was found broken. I spread this amount over our entire trip till I got back to St. John's. John told me he did not care for rum. Joe acknowledged he liked it, but Steve more than once refused a tot, even after a hard day. It was a cold camp that night, the ground was saturated, the balsam bedding dripping, and the cold and damp struck up through the thick waterproof sheet and two blankets. The following morning was perfect, a bright sun shining and a cold nip in the air. John had packed two loads down to the Pond the previous day, so we started together carrying four loads. Track down to the Pond there was none, and the ground after last night's rain was soaking. The swamps were full of water and the going very hard, but we had only three miles to cover. On the way I stalked a lot of geese, but only got a shot with the rook rifle at about 150 yards and the bullet fell short. Once at the lake all troubles were over and I had to look forward to a comfortable trip in the two Peterborough canoes lying ready. Micky John was sent home. We had seen a doe caribou on the way and he announced his intention of having a try for venison. Joe was sent back to Ryan's for the last light load, and Steve and John to bring up the two remaining loads from last night's camp. I pitched my tent and made things generally shipshape till the men came back. The camp was an ideal one, situated on a wooded spit of land which separated the main pond from the smaller arm. The ground was sandy and dry, firewood abundant, and a brilliant sun was shining over the glassy lake, the shores of which were densely wooded. Packing was done with for the time, two canoes, which enabled us to travel in comfort, were lying pulled up on the sandy beach, and the caribou grounds were a couple of days ahead. What more could a hunter's heart desire. No more letters would be received, no news from the outside world for at least a month, only the joy of solitude in communion with nature, a joy which once experienced can never be forgotten. In the rush and turmoil of life which was to come, when my holiday was over, I could at least have the memories of the happy time now before me to look back on. The men all turned up in good time in the afternoon, so I tried the lake and got three trout about half-a-pound each on the minnow. After an excellent dinner we were soon sleeping the sleep of the just, with roaring fires in front of my tent and the men's fly. HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND [Illustration: JOHN DENNY AND STEVE BERNARD] [Illustration: A NEWFOUNDLAND POND [_To face page 197._] CHAPTER IV HUNGRY GROVE POND TO SANDY POND The morning of the 31st was bright and cold, though rain had fallen in the night, and we got away about 9 o'clock. One hour's steady paddling and rowing, for the larger canoe had oars, took us to the north end of Hungry Grove Pond, about three miles I should say, from which issued a brook communicating with Red Hill Pond. The water was very low and the men spent most of their time in the water dragging the canoes over the rocky shallows. I strolled along the bank and saw many old tracks of caribou, but nothing fresh. We had one portage of about half-a-mile, to pass some bad rapids. The brook was about two miles long and owing to the bad water and portage it took us some two hours to get down to Red Hill Pond. We named the brook the Two Mile Brook. Millais had shown a communication between Hungry Grove Pond and Red Hill Pond in his map of the district, but never having travelled over the line we were taking he could not show details. Red Hill Pond takes its name from a rocky reddish bluff, which rises a couple of hundred feet on the east side of the pond. The country is said to be a good one for bear, but we did not even see fresh tracks. The pond is only about a mile long, and we got to the end about lunch-time. I had brought rod rings with me, and had rigged up a rough trolling rod at our first camp, to which I lashed a spare reel. I made it a rule to have this primitive rod and my twelve-foot trout rod trolling over every lake and pond we crossed. I generally put a Devon minnow on one rod, and a blue phantom on the other. I used the fly exclusively when we came to any streams. I got one trout, a lively fish of 1½ lb., in crossing Red Hill Pond and two in Hungry Grove Pond. There was a rapid and a nice pool at the north end of the pond where we halted for lunch, and putting on a small silver doctor in a few minutes I had six nice trout, some of 1½ lb., ready for lunch. John Denny said they were all onannaniche or landlocked salmon. I had never seen them before; they were just like sea trout, and played in the same way, jumping out of the water even more frequently than sea trout. They were strong, game fish, and better still, excellent eating. Here I got my first mud trout, which I take to be char. They were more flabby and not in such good condition as the onannaniche; their flesh was a bright red, and they were good eating. From Red Hill Pond, after a portage over the short rapid where I had fished, we entered a long weedy pond where fishing was impossible; then came shallow streams with just a perceptible current and three more large ponds, till we reached our camping ground at 4.30 at the head of a rough brook, over which we had to portage next day. I calculated we had come about fourteen miles. The steadies required careful navigation, for there were masses of sharp rocks, some just submerged, others showing well above the water. The bow paddler had to keep a sharp look-out, for very little will knock a hole in a Peterborough canoe. We were now getting rather anxious for meat, for it is simply impossible to carry tinned provisions in sufficient quantity to satisfy the appetites of four hungry men. The wind had been north-east all day, and fell to a dead calm as Steve and I quietly paddled out, skirting the lake shore, with the hope of seeing game. We went about a mile and landed on a sandy beach where there were one or two fresh tracks, and then on about half-a-mile inland to a rocky knoll from which we could spy the surrounding country, which was mostly marsh with patches of dense wood scattered all over the plain and becoming thicker down by the lake's edge. At this season of the year all the stags spend their days in the woods, and only come out morning and evening to feed. There was not a breath of air and the mosquitoes and black fly were out in force; towards sunset we saw a small stag with a poor head come out of a wood about a mile away, and feed down towards us. We had visions of caribou steak and liver and bacon before us, when suddenly the wind veered right round; at the same time a fox on the shore of the lake, who had seen us, kept barking persistently. Whether it was the wind or the fox I can't say, but the stag put up his head, turned right round and walked straight away--alas, the hopes of meat were gone. It was getting dusk, so we made for the canoe. On the way we saw a very small doe, but the wind was again wrong and she was off in a moment. We got back to camp in the dark. Steve swore we must have meat and asked for my Rigby Mauser that he might go out at daybreak and shoot anything eatable. I offered him the little rook rifle, so it was decided he would be out before daybreak for meat. I was only hunting heads, but all the Indians had strong opinions on the subject of meat. On September 1st Steve was out at daybreak with the small rifle and came back about seven o'clock triumphant, having shot a young stag in good condition. He had crawled within about fifty yards and killed the beast with one shot. I was simply astonished, for I never could have believed that the little rifle, one of Rigby's rook rifles, could have killed an animal bigger than an ordinary red deer. Steve had brought in the liver and kidneys and left the meat to be picked up on our march, for fortunately it was close to a pond we had to pass through. How we all revelled in a good breakfast of kidneys and liver and bacon. Every one was in good humour, for we now had ample meat. The brook was about three-quarters of a mile long and everything had to be portaged. It looked ideal fishing water, and while the men were portaging I fished every pool. I got two onannaniche and two mud trout above the first pool, and then never a rise, though the pools looked perfect. Where the brook fell into the next lake looked the best water, but I could move nothing. Why, I could not understand, unless it was that the season was late for these waters. When the portage was over Steve and John went across the pond for the meat, and Joe and I pushed on in the big canoe about a mile across the pond to another rapid, fortunately only about thirty yards long, where we again had to portage. The day had turned bitterly cold and heavy rain clouds were coming up. I had got very warm walking and fishing along the brook, and though I put on a thick jersey the wind seemed to cut like a knife and I got a bad cold which gave me some trouble for days after. Poor old Joe had spent most of the day up to his waist in water getting the empty canoes down the creek and was looking very miserable. The men wore nothing but their cotton shirts and coats, cotton trousers and moccasins--they were never dry, but never seemed to catch cold. It was just the occasion for a tot of rum. Whether it went to Joe's head or not I cannot say--he certainly became extra cheerful, and when the other men returned and all the men were carrying the loads across the rapid, Joe tumbled twice right into the water and got a thorough ducking. I only made a gesture of taking a tot, when I thought these simple folk would never stop laughing. It was a joke which lasted them the rest of the trip, and in Indian circles no doubt I have the reputation of being a great wit. Joe laughed if possible more heartily than the others, and though soaked to the skin was quite happy for the rest of the day. Just as we were loading up the canoes John pointed to the sky-line about half-a-mile away and quietly said, "That good stag, I think." Sure enough there was a heavy beast, the first big stag I had seen, quietly feeding along the crest of the ridge. The wind was right, so we decided to cross the pond, land, and have a closer look at him. His head looked massive, but I could not make out the points. I certainly never had an easier stalk, as the ground was perfect for stalking, and this holds good all over the island. We walked quietly up in perfect shelter to within about 150 yards of where we had last seen the stag, and presently saw the tops of his horns sticking up from behind a low bush. Leaving Steve behind, I crawled up to within about seventy yards and got my telescope on to count the points. The horns were in velvet, but just stripping--and as the frontal tines were interlocked it was difficult to count the exact number. Beckoning Steve up we spent some time counting the points, for the poor beast was lying sound asleep with his head nodding. Steve could make out thirty points, but said we would get many better heads. We had almost determined to leave him, when I thought after all here was a certainty, so resting my rifle in the branch of a tree in front of me, I shot him through the neck. It was rather murder, for no skill either in the stalk or shot was necessary. However, he knew nothing, but rolled over stone dead. When we got up to him we could only make out twenty-nine points, but the head was quite a pretty one. The body was very big, but not in good condition. Calling up the men, we soon had the head and meat down to the canoes and boiled the kettle before starting on. We now had enough meat for some days, though it is astonishing what a quantity of meat an Indian can get through; so we could afford to look for that extra good head--which as it happened we never came across. We went on through some shallow and very rocky steadies, and after about a mile came to the last portage into Sandy Pond or Jubilee Lake. We had to carry the canoes over this and were soon crossing to the north shore of Sandy Pond, where we were to make our permanent camp. There was a fine following wind which helped us along, and by sunset we had covered the four miles of lake and arrived at one of Steve's trapping camps, which was to be our headquarters. Sandy Pond is a lovely sheet of water studded with innumerable islands, some densely wooded, some quite bare. In the early mornings and evenings in fair weather the view was exquisite, and I was never tired of the changing effects on the lake. One day there would not be a ripple, another day would come a gale and driving rain, and such a sea that the canoes could not be launched, but as a rule for three weeks we had perfect weather. In crossing Sandy Pond I caught four nice trout, the two largest about 1½ lb. each, so the day's bag was two deer and eight trout. The licence only allows the shooting of three stags, but to shoot meat for food is, I think, an unwritten law of the island, and I feel sure the authorities themselves would not insist on a too strict application of the licence. It is simply impossible to carry enough tinned meat to keep four men going, and with meat at the door when it is urgently needed it is not human nature to resist the temptation. On the entire trip we shot only what was absolutely necessary for food, but with no meat in camp I used to send Steve out with the small rifle to shoot a barren doe for the pot, and not a pound of meat was wasted. Our camp was pitched in a dense wood, for after the great forests of Vancouver the Newfoundland timber looks insignificant and only worthy of the name of wood. A good clearing had already been made by Steve on his trapping expeditions, and poles for pitching the fly were lying ready. We soon had a most comfortable camp pitched, and with plenty of food and a tot of rum to mark the occasion of arriving in our permanent camp, we passed a happy evening, smoking our pipes in front of a glorious camp fire and discussing the plans and the prospects for the future. We decided to make this our main camp, leaving here most of our stores, and to make flying trips, at first west into the thickly wooded country where the stags were most likely to be found at this time of year, and later north-east up to the barrens and Shoe Hill Ridge. This was Steve's advice and I naturally decided to follow it. I had originally thought of working north by Mount Sylvester, striking the higher waters of the Terra Nova River and so down to the railway at Terra Nova, which would have been a shorter way back to St. John's; but Steve told me that last season he had been with a party of Americans who came in from Terra Nova, and that the country had been shot out, as they never saw a decent stag till they came on to the barrens hear Shoe Hill Ridge, where they could only stay for two days, during which they secured two good stags. The morning of September 2nd was exquisite, all the clouds of yesterday had cleared away and a bright sun was shining in a cloudless sky. I had passed rather a bad night coughing, owing to the chill caught the day before, but in the climate of Newfoundland one never felt ill. After an early breakfast we started off in the big canoe to explore the shores of the lake and look for signs. Stags we could not expect to see, for they were bound to be in the woods, and the whole of the northern shore of Sandy Pond is densely wooded. About a mile west of the camp was the brook connecting Sandy Pond with the large lake of Kaegudeck to the north. Here, I thought, must be the ideal spot for trout, but though I fished for an hour I never got a rise. The brook is only about ten yards wide and quite unnavigable for canoes. We found plenty of fresh marks of deer on the sandy beaches of the lake, but saw nothing. Returning to camp we pottered around getting the camp shipshape--including the making of my patent bed, which was a tremendous success. Poles for hanging clothes, rests for rifles and fishing-rods, shelves in my tent, and even tables were run up by the men, and the camp was soon all that could be desired in the way of comfort. About 4 o'clock we took the canoe and went east about a mile, passing another brook quite as big as that running from Kaegudeck and which takes its rise in Shoe Hill Lake. Landing, we went up to a look-out hill about half-a-mile away, from which we had a splendid view of the country to the east. The ground, rugged and intersected with small watercourses, rose gradually to a ridge about three miles away, beyond which, Steve said, lay an open plain leading on to Shoe Hill Ridge. The hills looked about 400 feet high and from our look-out we could spy the entire face for some miles; to the south-east lay Square Box Hill crowning the ridge. There were many clumps of timber lining the sides of the watercourses and numerous small ponds lay in the hollows. It looked an ideal caribou country, over which later on in the season all the caribou from the south and west cross to gain the barrens. Many well-worn caribou tracks led upwards. It was a lovely evening. We could look over Sandy Pond with its wooded islands and its forest-clothed shores standing out dark against the setting sun and reflected in the placid waters of the lake. Just as the sun went down in a blaze of colour we saw five deer come out of different patches of wood, but only one was a stag, and the head being poor we left him, though to get a shot would have been a very easy stalk. In the short row home I picked up five trout, two being over a pound. I found that just half-an-hour before and half-an-hour after sunset was the best time for trolling, and I could always pick up enough fish for the camp coming home in the canoe after a day's stalking. Next morning, September 3rd, we were up for an early breakfast and got away at 7 a.m. Here I first used the rucksack, which was most convenient, as in it we carried our midday meal, an oilskin, if it looked like rain, and a kettle for tea. The lake was dead calm and the morning mists were clearing away as we started. Our plan was to work up to the top of the ridge we had seen the evening before, hunt the face of the hill and see if there were any signs of stags on the barrens. Unfortunately our chances of deer on the way up were spoiled by a south-west wind which got up about eight o'clock, and blew steadily from behind us the whole way up. We saw four does on one of the islands in the lake, but the whole face of the ridge was devoid of stags. It was only about three miles to the crest of the ridge, and the country being dry the going was good. There were many small swamps and ponds along the side of the hill with small drokes in the hollows, altogether ideal ground for stags. There were not many fresh tracks, though the deep ruts cut by the hoofs of innumerable herds of deer showed what numbers must pass later on in the season. On reaching the top of the ridge we looked over a vast undulating tract of country, the true barrens. There were only three drokes in sight. One about four miles away, which Steve pointed out to me as Shoe Hill Droke, where Millais camped and from which he got such fine heads in October; nearer still another droke where Captain Legge had camped two years before and from which he got a forty-pointer; in fact, I was looking over historic ground from a sporting point of view, and there seemed no reasons why I should not be as successful as those who had gone before me. There were neither stags nor does in sight, and no fresh tracks. Steve said they would not move up to the barrens before the 15th or 20th of September. It made me bitterly regret I was so cramped for time, and that I had to be back to catch the _Glencoe_ at Belleoram on September 26th. It is the greatest mistake being tied down to time on any hunting trip; a week extra might have made all the difference in my sport, but steamers did not fit in, and I was bound to be in New York to sail for home on October 8th. We had a splendid view of the entire country from the look-out hill on the top of the ridge. To the north lay Mount Sylvester about four hours' march away; to the north-west Lake Kaegudeck, buried in dense woods; behind Kaegudeck lay the hills over the Gander. To the east the view was bounded by Shoe Hill Ridge with its droke standing up against the clear sky. To the west was the country we had just come through sloping down to Sandy Pond, while far behind to the west lay Kepskaig Hill, which we were to visit later on. After spending some time spying the entire country, we boiled the kettle, had lunch and strolled leisurely down to the lake. Meanwhile the placid lake of the morning had changed and the south-west wind, now blowing half a gale, was rolling up big breakers on the shore. We had sent the canoe home in the morning and it was too rough for Joe to fetch us, so we went back to the look-out of the first evening and spied the whole country till dark. We saw two stags up on the sky-line near Square Box Hill, but it was too late to go after them; one looked a heavy beast. The wind went down with the setting sun and Joe was able to come across for us, but the lake was still too rough for fishing. On September 4th the glass had fallen badly, a gale was blowing and heavy rain clouds were coming up from the south-west. Notwithstanding the prospect of bad weather we decided to go up to Square Box Hill and have a look for the stag we had seen the previous evening. It was a five miles' walk, up hill the whole way, but the ascent was gradual. We had just reached the top of the ridge within about half-a-mile of the hill when the rain came down in sheets. Spying was impossible, so we took shelter in a droke, lit a good fire, boiled the kettle and had lunch. We waited till about two o'clock, but there was no sign of clearing, so we plodded back to camp, getting well soaked through. Just as we got to camp the rain cleared off, and after a change of clothing we started to fish about five o'clock. We picked up five nice fish, all on the minnow--one about 2 lb. Just at dusk a doe came swimming out from one of the islands as if to have a look at us. Meat was not over abundant in camp, so I gave Steve permission to shoot her with the rook rifle. Steve rather prided himself on being a good shot, but he was shooting from a wobbly canoe and missed clean with the first shot, but hit her with the second, and landing, killed her stone dead. By the time the doe was gralloched and in the canoe a heavy fog had come up and it was dark before we reached camp. On this trip I was introduced to two great delicacies. One roast doe's head, and the other roast breast-bone of stag. John was an adept at these dishes, and anything more delicious and tender I have never tasted. The head was only skinned, put in the baker and roasted whole for about six hours, the great advantage of the baker being that the heat can be regulated by the distance it is kept from the fire. In the evening we had a long discussion as to what we had better do. There were no stags to speak of in the country we were in. So a move was necessary, and Steve decided we would take all the outfit to the west end of Sandy Pond, there make our main camp, and with a small camp work down to Kepskaig, all through a wooded country where he maintained the stags were now to be found. So we decided to make a start the following morning. Our camp was simply infested with grey jays, generally known as robber-birds; there were at least a dozen who made the camp their home. No sooner was a bit of meat hung up in the open than they descended on it and began picking it to pieces. It was very interesting watching them, for they were so tame that Joe caught one with his hand. They appeared to be ravenous, and stuffed themselves with meat and then flew away, but Steve explained they only went a short distance to store the meat for the bad winter days to come, hiding it in crevices in the bark of the surrounding trees. They worked hard from morning to night and must have laid by a good store, for I left a good lump of venison hanging in the open for their special benefit, the rest of the meat being protected from the flies and the jays by my mosquito net, which I had turned into a meat safe. TO KOSK[=A]CODDE [Illustration: STEVE SPYING, SANDY POND] [Illustration: CAMP, WEST END SANDY POND [_To face page 217._] CHAPTER V TO KOSK[=A]CODDE September 5th was a lovely morning, not a breath of wind and a cloudless sky, so different from yesterday. Getting away at 9.30 we made a good four miles an hour, reaching our camping ground at the west end of the lake at 11.30. Steve, Joe and I were in the big canoe and John, a fine boatman, in the small canoe which skirted the shores of the lake. We disturbed a small stag which was feeding along the shore and which at once disappeared in the woods. The camp was simply perfect, fairly open yet with sufficient shelter from the surrounding woods. Behind it rose a hill about 100 feet high, a fine look-out over the entire country. The tents were pitched on a spur of land just where the Baie du Nord River, or rather its head-waters, left the lake in a tumbling torrent with intervening deep pools, an ideal salmon river to look at, but unfortunately no salmon can pass Smoky Falls, many miles away to the south of Lake Meddonagonax. I had caught two trout crossing the lake, but could not resist the first really good fly-fishing water I had come to, so a few minutes after arrival I was on the bank of the river fishing an ideal pool. There was about a quarter of a mile of fishing water, after which was a small lake and then more rapids below. In an hour I had landed twelve trout and char, weighing 10½ lb. The trout were all onannaniche and played like sea trout--more often out of the water than in. The largest was 2¼ lb., and the two largest char weighed 2¾ lb. In the heavy rapid water they gave grand sport. What an ideal camp it was! The best of fishing at the door of the tent, a glorious view over the lake, with its many wood-clad islands to the south, while across the lake the ground was open and sloped gradually upwards, and here Steve said he had more than once seen good stags. The whole ground could be spied from the rocky hill behind the camp, from which, too, we could look over all the woodland marshes to north and west and could see the river winding away to distant Kosk[=a]codde, and in the further distance Kepskaig Hill and the country we were to hunt later on. After lunch, about 3 o'clock, Steve and I started for the look-outs. There were three in all, behind and to the north of our camp. We decided to go straight to the one farthest north, a mile away, and from which we could command all the open ground near the lake and the numerous glades and marshes lying around us. Our only chance was to see a stag coming out to feed about sunset. The country was undulating, and on the north side of the lake gradually rose to hills about 200 feet high. Dense woods clothed the ravines running up to the higher ground, while between the woods and the surrounding numerous small ponds were fairly open glades interspersed with marshes. The track worn by the feet of many caribou and cleared in parts by Steve, who trapped this country in the winter, was quite good going and we were on the top of our hill long before sunset. The view was a fine one; as we looked right over the entire lake and away to the south we could see the river winding down through the woods to Lake Kosk[=a]codde, only about four miles away as the crow flies. Kosk[=a]codde is the Indian for the Mackle bird, or Little Gull Pond. On our way up we saw the first sign of a stag cleaning his antlers, and the fresh rubbing showed that he had been on the ground quite recently. Having spied the entire country on both sides and nothing being in sight, we decided to return to camp. About half-a-mile from camp we suddenly saw a big stag come out of the woods and feed along a ridge just above the shores of the lake. He was not more than 400 yards away and was walking rapidly as he fed up wind and towards the camp. Waiting until he had crossed the ridge and was out of sight, we pushed on across a small dip between us and the ridge, and so to the top of the ridge where he had disappeared. It could hardly be dignified by the name of a stalk, for on looking over there he was standing about a hundred yards away, feeding quietly. On the side towards me the frontals and middles were good, the tops poor, but stags were scarce, and hoping for the best I dropped him with one shot. It was the usual story, the two sides were not alike and the horn next to me was the best one. This is one of the great difficulties of judging heads; on one side may be a fine frontal of seven or eight points concealing the other frontal, which may be a single spike. He was a very heavy stag, in good condition and quite clean, but I should say the head was going back. In one respect it was remarkable--there were three distinct horns, the third with two points growing out of the orbital ridge and completely separated from the horn on the same side. Steve said he had never seen one like it. The next morning I sent Steve out early to spy the country. He came back having seen only one very small stag and three does. Joe was dispatched to cut up yesterday's stag, and bring in the head and meat, while I decided to fish the river down and go out again in the evening on the chance of another stag. Taking Steve with me, I fished down for about two miles. There was some lovely water, but all the fish were lying in the pools and none in the streams. In the lowest pool I reached I got a fine fish of 3 lb. and five other good ones. By lunch I had twenty-one trout and five char, weighing 19 lb.; a number of small ones I had put back. The trout were all onannaniche and as game a fish for its size as I ever want to catch; in the heavy water they gave grand sport. Coming back to camp we saw two old geese and a fine lot of young ones feeding in a marsh across a small lake. Seeing us they kept cackling and moving higher up into the reeds. We both went back to camp to fetch the rook rifle, so making a great mistake, for had one of us remained where we were we certainly would have got a shot, for they would not have left the marsh so long as some one was in sight, guarding the narrow mouth of the river by which they were bound to pass. When we got back with the rifle they had disappeared. In the afternoon we went out to the second look-out, and waited till sunset. It was a wonderful evening, not a breath of wind, and the mosquitoes and flies were out in force even on the top of our little hill. In a small pond below us half-a-dozen black duck were swimming about through the reeds, while the hundreds of rings on the water showed that the pond was well stocked with trout, but Steve said they were all very small and not worth catching; the pond must have been simply alive with them judging from the number of rises. Presently we saw a barren doe come out of the woods and feed towards where we had shot yesterday's stag. The sound of chopping wood in camp was quite distinct in the still air, and whether it was hearing this or whether she had winded where the dead stag had lain, she turned back and swam straight out into the lake for about 300 yards, then turned north and swam at least a mile to a jutting out wooded point where she landed, shook herself like a dog and disappeared in the woods. She swam very high in the water with her scut straight up. It was a pretty sight, as I could watch her all the way with my glasses. I was not very satisfied with the system of hunting we were obliged to follow. Sitting waiting on the top of a look-out on the chance of something turning up did not appeal to me, but Steve assured me it was much too early to go up to the barrens and that our only chance was in the woods, and I have no doubt he was right. The stags do not move up to the high ground much before September 20th, though I believe the Shoe Hill country and right away east holds stags permanently, but the big stags who have summered in the woods do not begin to move much before the 20th. The season closing on October 1st, there is not much time for good stags. The close time is from October 1st to 20th, when shooting is again allowed. I have a shrewd suspicion that men who go in about October 5th, to be in time for the second season, are not very particular about dates. I feel I should be sadly tempted myself were I to see a forty-five pointer, say October 16th. But when the rutting season is on, between October 1st and 20th, the stags are easily approachable and the sport cannot be good. We discussed our plans at length--there were not many big stags about, and though the camp was an ideal one I decided, on Steve's recommendation, to move down south to Lake Kosk[=a]codde and Kepskaig, where, though the country was fairly wooded, Steve said we should have a chance of a good stag. On September 7th the weather looked like breaking. Steve was out at daybreak and spied two stags down the river where we proposed to go. We decided to leave Joe in camp and take a light camp and provisions for a week in the big canoe and explore the country to the south. Joe was rather sad at being left behind, but though he had a good tent, lots of meat and provisions, the enforced solitude did not appeal to him. While Steve and John were packing the canoe I went down to the river and soon had ten trout and char, 8½ lb., the two biggest being over 2 lb. each. The canoe was let down the rapids with a rope, the kit being portaged to the bottom of the rapids, only about 400 yards, where the river fell into a small lake or Podopsk, a generic term for all the small ponds in the course of a river. After crossing this we had a navigable stream with occasional rapids, all of which we were able to negotiate without unloading. Having started at 9 a.m. we reached a rapid at the entrance to Kosk[=a]codde about 1.15. Here we had to portage about fifty yards. I slipped on the rocks and took an involuntary bath, which was rather annoying. However, a change of clothes was at hand and I was none the worse for my dip. Just as we got into the new lake I saw a deer make off on the far side, having seen us. I could not make out whether it was a stag or a hind, as I only saw its rump disappearing in the trees. At the same moment John saw a stag feeding quietly away on our side of the lake. We soon got close enough to see that the head was a poor one. I tried to take a snapshot with the camera, but when I got within fifty yards he saw me and was off. He was a fine big-bodied beast, and may have been one of the stags Steve had seen in the morning. We pushed on about one mile, and camped on a promontory stretching out into the lake. There was a nice sandy shelving beach and a perfect camping ground all ready, as it had been cleared by some other party the previous year, and only the undergrowth had to be cut away. [Illustration: THE THREE-HORNED STAG] [Illustration: "BAD WATER" [_To face page 225._] In the afternoon, taking the canoe, we paddled quietly along the shore, and after about two miles landed on a sandy beach to look for signs. A fringe of wood clothed the south shore of the lake, beyond which was a fairly open country. There were plenty of signs, and we were strolling quietly along the beach when Steve seized me by the arm and whispered, "Deer coming through wood." I confess I could hear nothing, but Steve's hearing was marvellously acute. Sitting down on a big rock, I got the rifle ready and laid it across my knees. Presently I heard a crackling and breaking of branches quite close by, when a noble-looking stag walked out into the open and without looking round or ahead crossed the sandy beach down to the edge of the lake not thirty yards away. We were both in full view, but alas, though his body looked enormous his head was a very poor one, not more than twenty points. He never saw me but bent his head, had a long drink, then looked round for a couple of minutes and walked quietly back into the wood. What would I not have given for my camera!--a more perfect picture could not be imagined. Though a gentle breeze was blowing, fortunately in the right direction, there was not a ripple on the waters of the sandy bay, which was sheltered by the wood, and as he stood with his head up and every line of his body reflected in the water below, it was a noble sight, such as one could but rarely hope to see. [Illustration: STEVE JOE DRIES HIMSELF.] [Illustration: STEVE BERNARD IN CAMP. [_To face page 226._] Allowing some ten minutes to elapse we followed him through the wood, more out of curiosity than anything else. Coming out on to an open grassy plain, there he was feeding quietly about 200 yards away. Looking round to my left I suddenly saw a second stag not 150 yards away. The horns of the first stag were clean. The second stag had a better head, but the velvet was peeling off and the frontal tines, and indeed most of the horn, were crimson with blood. It was difficult to determine the points, owing to the bits of velvet hanging all about, but getting the glass on to him I saw that though the frontals were good the rest of the head was very indifferent, so he had too to be passed. We whistled to move the second stag but he took not the slightest notice of us, and it was not until we gave him, and incidentally the first stag, our wind that they both went away over the plain at a slinging trot. Coming home in the gloaming we saw another stag come out of the wood and walk along the shore. We got within fifty yards of him, but the head was, if possible, inferior to the other two. This was bad luck! We had seen four stags in one day and not one worth shooting. September 8th. We got away at 6 a.m., crossed the lake in the canoe and made for the top of a small hill about a mile away. The country was undulating. Numerous ponds lay in the hollows. Clumps of wood (drokes), in which the stags rested during the day, were scattered over the plain; altogether a likely looking ground. We soon saw a big stag about two miles away feeding across a swamp. The head looked a good one but it was impossible to make out the points at such a distance, so we decided to get nearer. As we moved on we saw another stag coming out of a hollow on our left, but the head was a poor one. Within four minutes we saw a third stag on our right, but the glass soon showed that he too was not of the right sort. All these were big-bodied animals, but carrying poor heads. Following on after the first stag, we saw him enter a small wood. As soon as we got close outside the wood I decided to send Steve round and give the stag his wind. I took a position commanding both sides of the wood, on one of which, if Steve's drive were successful, the stag must come out. After about half-an-hour's wait a crash in the wood just in front of me told me that our plan had succeeded, and out burst a fine stag and stood looking back into the wood and within twenty yards of me. Alas, his horns were in velvet, and although the tops were good he had only one indifferent frontal and a spike for the other. So he too had to go unharmed. Again I reproached myself for not having brought the camera. I had missed yesterday and to-day two chances of snapshots such as seldom occur. On getting back to camp John reported having seen a small stag crossing the end of the lake, so at least there were plenty of caribou in the country, though unfortunately no big heads. In the afternoon the light breeze dropped to a dead calm, so starting at 2.30 we made for the far west end of the lake, about five miles away, where a long steady ran up for about three miles, and which Steve said was a good country for deer. Landing a few hundred yards up the steady, we made for the top of a ridge about a hundred feet high, up which led one of the deepest deer tracks I had yet seen. It was at least two feet deep, cut right into the side of the hill, and there were fresh signs everywhere. Unfortunately it was one of those dead calm evenings when the stags come out very late, and as we were a good way from camp we could only wait till just after sunset, and saw nothing. On our way home just at the mouth of the steady we saw a barren hind standing in the water. As we wanted meat I sent Steve ashore with the rook rifle to get her, which he did after bungling one or two shots. As we were getting the carcass into the canoe, out came another hind, and just behind her a small stag, on the point we had just left, but the head was no good. We got to camp well after dark, but it was a lovely, calm night without a ripple on the lake. September 9th. We were up at daybreak and across the lake to spy the ground where we had seen the three stags yesterday. Nothing was in sight, but we saw for a moment one stag behind our camp on the high open ground; he was just disappearing into a small droke, so we could not make out the head. However, we went after him, but when we had crossed the pond and got up to where he had disappeared, there was nothing in sight, so we decided to get back to camp and move on if possible. Just as we reached the camp, looking back for a moment I saw him on the sky-line about a quarter of a mile away, but, getting the glass on, I found the head was no good. As we were making for camp we saw another stag on the shore where we had landed in the morning, but he was like all the rest, unshootable. He both got our wind and saw us and went off at a real gallop instead of the ordinary long slinging trot. We certainly had seen plenty of stags, but as luck would have it not one good head. All the country round Kosk[=a]codde was very good for deer. We had been extraordinarily lucky so far in our weather, the "mishes" were all dry but rather fatiguing going, just like walking over a thick bed of dry sponges. The fine weather could not be expected to last for ever, and the chances were that when we most wanted it, on the Shoe Hill Ridge, it would break. SPORT ON KEPSKAIG CHAPTER VI SPORT ON KEPSKAIG Though the wind was almost blowing a gale against us we decided to start, and crept along under the shelter of the shore. Heavy seas were breaking over the numerous sunken rocks and we shipped a good deal of water. I was not sorry to reach a point about three miles off, where the lake turned round to the north and where we had a following wind, and though the waves were still high they were behind us, and we soon reached a short rapid leading into Kepskaig Lake. We had covered the distance from our last camp in three and a half hours. Unloading the canoe, we got her over the rapid and camped immediately below. In front of the camp, at the bottom of the short rapid, was a nice pool, and while the men were pitching camp and cooking dinner I fished the pool, and in one and a half hours I got twenty-one trout and char; the biggest about 1½ lb. Although the gale was a strong one the rain had so far kept off, but the clouds were now piling up for heavy rain, and the glass was falling rapidly. We were lucky to have got across, for the wind was now too high to have attempted the lake. We were in a good, dry camp, plenty of fish assured, and we could afford to ignore the weather. Kepskaig was a short and somewhat narrow lake, not more than one and a half miles long; from it two steadies led out into Meddonagonax Lake. The shores were thickly wooded, but at the far end were some fairly open marshes with two good look-out hills, from which we could spy the entire country. We started about 4.30 for the far end of the lake, but landed half-way to spy the shores for any feeding stag that might come out. We soon saw a stag with a good-looking head feeding on the shore opposite to us, and were just about to start after him when Steve saw another stag feeding across one of the marshes at the far end of the lake. The tops of the horns looked very good, so we decided to go after him first. Pushing on in the canoe to the end of the lake, we were soon on the top of one of the small hills, and could see him feeding on towards us and moving very quickly. The glass showed that though he had good tops, both middles and frontals were very poor, so we decided to leave him and go back to the first stag. It was nearly dark when we got to the place we had last seen him, but fortunately he was there still feeding amongst some big boulders on the shore of the lake. A high wind was blowing and he was not more than eighty yards away, so hidden by the rocks and long grass I could not make out his frontals, but tops and middles were good, and waiting, what seemed an indefinite time, to get a broadside shot, at last he began feeding away with his rump straight on to me. I could now hardly see the telescope sight, but fortunately he gave a half turn and as I fired I heard the bullet go home. He galloped madly right into the lake, and stood some 150 yards away among some big rocks from which I could hardly distinguish him. Taking the best sight I could I fired again and he dropped stone dead in the water. Getting him ashore, we found he was a nice thirty-four pointer, the best head we had yet seen, and as it happened the best head we saw the whole trip. He was in poor condition, having been badly wounded in the body at some time. Abscesses had formed round the wounds and Steve pronounced his flesh uneatable. It was too dark to do more than pull him out of the water and gralloch him, and we had a hard paddle back to camp in the dark. The rain was now falling heavily and a roaring fire and cosy camp were more than welcome. The following morning it was still raining, but more like a thick Scotch mist. We went over to fetch the head, and found that the first bullet had gone in just behind the ribs and raked him through lungs and heart, so the second shot was unnecessary. We saw a hind and calf swimming in the lake, and tried to overtake them to get a snapshot, but hard as we both paddled I only succeeded in getting within about thirty yards, too far for a good photo--the light too was bad, and the result was not a success. I spent the morning sketching and photoing the head, and then Steve set to work to skin and clean it. After breakfast there was great excitement, as four otters came swimming up to the rapid, possibly with the idea of going up into the lake above. Regardless of season and game laws, Steve had a shot with the small rifle and missed, but turned them back. Going out to fish I could not get a rise, the otters had evidently scared all the fish out of the pool. The clouds now cleared away and a brilliant sun came out, while hardly a ripple stirred the surface of the lake. In the afternoon we went down again to the end of the lake, climbed the highest look-out hill and stayed there till sunset. The views on all sides were very beautiful and we looked right over Meddonagonax with its numerous wooded islands, but saw no stags. We paddled down one of the steadies leading into Meddonagonax and so into the lake, hoping to see some feeding stag on its shores, but without success. [Illustration: A THIRTY-FOUR POINT CARIBOU] [Illustration: STEVE SKINNING THE HEAD OF THE THIRTY-FOUR POINTER [_To face page 238._] It was a wonderful night, the moonlight made it almost as bright as day. The following morning was bright and cold and the mists hanging over the lake were soon dispelled by the morning sun. We got away about 6.30 a.m. and went down to the far end of the lake, but only saw one unshootable stag. Coming back for breakfast we decided to take a trip to the far end of Meddonagonax, where Steve said there was good fishing just where the river left the lake. It only took us one and a half hours of a steady row and paddle to get to the end of the lake where the Baie du Nord River leaves it. We ran down a few hundred yards of rapids and hauled up the canoe, leaving John to prepare lunch. It was an ideal-looking river and Steve said he had caught many large trout in it. The pools were perfect to look at, but somehow fish were comparatively few and not in very good condition. I fished down about a mile to where the river fell into a small lake, and caught eighteen trout weighing about nine pounds. Steve said it was only a good day's march from where we were to where the river runs into the sea. About half-way down there is a big fall called Smoky Falls, above which salmon cannot run, but he said salmon were numerous below the falls. In the water we had fished he had caught many big trout in July, so possibly we were too late. Leaving at 5 o'clock I trolled all the way home but never got a pull nor did we see a stag. As we had apparently exhausted the ground, we decided to start back in the morning of the 12th and camp in a steady at the west end of Kosk[=a]codde. While John was packing up we had an early morning prowl round the shores in the canoe, but saw nothing. While the packing was being finished I fished the pool at the camp and got thirteen trout weighing 7½ lb.--the largest about 1½ lb. It was a blazing hot day, we got to our new camping ground shortly after midday, and only caught one trout on the way. Going out in the evening we crossed some ideal-looking caribou ground, but saw only one stag with a poor head and a couple of hinds. All our hopes were now centred on the Shoe Hill Ridge country, for though we had seen many stags we were most unfortunate as regards heads. This was the seventh day away from the main camp, and we had seen fourteen stags. I cannot help thinking it was a bad year for heads, or surely we should have seen something better. I sent Steve out early on the morning of the 13th to spy, but he came back and reported nothing in sight. We got away about 9.30, and with a favourable wind were soon passing our old camp on Kosk[=a]codde. Joe had been uneasy about us, or lonely, and we met him tramping down the river, and, incidentally, disturbing the whole country. He reported a stag (of course a colossal one) which had passed quite close to our old camp. It was lucky no gun was left behind, for he most certainly would have had a shot. About dinner-time we reached a small lake from which the river ran out in a sluggish stream. Steve said it was a favourite spot for trout and suggested I should try it while lunch was being got ready. There was a deep hole just above the stream and a light wind was rippling the water. The trout was there in numbers and greedy for the fly. At every cast I rose one or two, and in an hour and a half I had forty trout weighing 19½ lb., the biggest about 2 lb. I lost one which must have been at least 3 lb., and put back at least a dozen small ones. I never saw trout in such numbers or so eager to take the fly. It was nice to get back to the cheery camp on Sandy Grove Pond, and to my comfortable camp bed, but Joe had spoiled all chance of stags. We saw a good covey of grouse close to the camp, but they were very wild. I thought Joe would never go to sleep he had so much to say to his pals, and his stag grew bigger and bigger as the evening wore on, perhaps due to a tot of rum which was served out to celebrate our meeting. The morning of the 14th broke grey with a light rain, and the glass was falling, but there was no wind. I went down to fish the river for the last time while the men were packing up. In my favourite pool I took eleven fine trout, weighing 14 lb., four others in the smaller streams, 2 lb., and seven in crossing the lake, 5 lb.--a total for the day of twenty-two trout, 21 lb. I lost a fly in a good trout in the big pool. I fished the streams down till Steve came to say that all was ready for a start. As we passed the pool I chaffingly said, "I must get that trout which broke me." At the first cast I hooked a 2-lb. fish, and on landing him Steve quietly remarked, "Quite right, here is your fly," and sure enough there it was! Crossing the lake we saw two stags and landed to look at them, but again the heads were no good. The wind was rising and the rain coming down ere we reached our main camp on Sandy Grove Pond about 2.30 p.m. Time was now getting short, so we decided to push on to the Shoe Hill Ridge and there hope for a big stag as the deer began moving out of the woods. The evening was wild and wet, so we stayed in camp making arrangements for the morrow's march inland. TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY [Illustration: THE CLEARING OF THE STORM, SHOE HILL RIDGE [_To face page 247._] CHAPTER VII TO THE SHOE HILL COUNTRY The morning of the 15th was grey, and though the glass was falling, the weather looked like clearing. The men dawdled about and it was 11 before we all got away. Our plans were to take three good packs up to Shoe Hill Ridge and then send Joe back for what we wanted from time to time. We had kippered all the big trout and very excellent they were later on, for no fish were to be had on the barrens. We reached the top of the ridge about 1 o'clock, when heavy rain set in. As I could not walk in an oilskin, there was nothing for it but to get wet through, and very soon I was literally wet to the skin. We were all shivering with cold as a bitter wind was blowing over the open barrens, so at 2 o'clock we halted to boil the kettle under the shelter of a big rock. Though wet through, the men were as cheery as ever, and Steve challenged Joe to race him to the top of a small hill which was Millais' look-out when he was camped in the Shoe Hill Droke. They came back having seen nothing. We plodded along, a sorry crew, in the pouring rain, but somewhat refreshed by the hot tea. As we came in sight of a big lake lying south of the Shoe Hill Droke for which we were bound, we saw a good stag lying on the far side of the lake. The head certainly looked the biggest I had seen, but it was hard to use the telescope in the rain and I could not make out the points. However, both Steve and I saw that he had very big frontals, though I could only make out two points on the tops. The wind was all wrong and to get a stalk meant going right round the lake, about three miles. The other two men would have had to wait in the rain, and as we were all feeling pretty wretched, we decided to leave him and push on to camp. The decision was mine and I shall always regret it, for I believe he carried the best head we saw on the trip, but I thought as we were to hunt for a week on the Shoe Hill Ridge we had a fair chance of coming on him again, so we passed on to camp. He got our wind at least a mile away and cleared out over a ridge and never was seen again. We got to camp about 5 o'clock and were soon warming and drying ourselves before a roaring fire. We were now in the Shoe Hill Droke, and in the centre of what Millais described as the finest caribou country he had seen in Newfoundland. There was, however, one great difference. He had been there the end of October, when all the stags had moved up. It was now only the 15th September, and it remained to be seen what our luck would be. While getting everything shipshape I found my telescope sight was missing. Steve always carried it slung over his shoulder and must have left it behind at one of our halts. He assured me it would be "all right" and that he would go out at daybreak and bring it in, which he did. This was the first really uncomfortable day we had had--but our troubles were soon forgotten, and over a roaring camp fire and with a tot of rum each, we looked forward hopefully to our prospects for the next few days. The morning of the 16th was fine, the sun was shining brightly, the glass was rising, a fresh north-east wind was blowing, altogether a perfect stalking day. The Shoe Hill Droke lay on a slight rise above the Shoe Hill Lake. The droke was a general camping ground for shooting and trapping parties, and the remains of many camps were scattered through the wood. To the north lay Mount Sylvester, some seven miles away, with a fine open country between; to the south the view was bounded by a ridge about three miles away. A similar ridge lay about the same distance to the east, while to the west lay the country we had crossed the day before. The whole country was undulating and there were scattered clumps of wood affording nice shelter for stags. We could hunt in every direction and could not possibly have been in a better centre. The ground was hard and dry, and it was certainly the best walking in the island. We started north about 9 a.m., and covered a lot of ground, walking continuously until 6 p.m., with an hour's rest for a midday meal. We saw four stags that day, and though two looked shootable, yet after a long tramp in each case we found the horns no good, which was a great disappointment, for we had worked really hard. We also saw for the first time two bands of hinds, one of six with two small very young stags and one of four. We came on the spot where Millais had shot his forty-nine pointer and Steve pointed with pride to the bones still lying about, also to the scene of Captain Lumsden's thirty-seven pointer, but it was a poor satisfaction to me to know my predecessors on the ground had got such fine trophies if I could not find a shootable beast. Millais, Captain Lumsden, Captain Legge and Mr. Littledale had all shot this country with Steve, who certainly knew every inch of it, but October is the month for the Shoe Hill Ridge, when the sport must be grand, for all the stags from the north as well as those from the wooded country all round come up to these barrens in the late autumn. The country was cut up with deep trails, showing where the stags passed on their annual migration south. For pleasure I should choose the early season, up to October 1st; the weather is finer and some fishing is to be had, but for good heads the late season is certainly the best, for all the stags are out in the open during and after the rut. In the end of October the weather is sometimes fine, but sometimes very broken, and Steve told me that he had more than once hunted in heavy snow in that month. On our return to camp everything was most comfortable--benches, tables, shelves in the tent, rests for the rifles; only the big stag was wanted to make the Shoe Hill Droke a hunter's earthly paradise. On the morning of the 17th we struck east and crossed two ridges till we got to a valley between Shoe Hill Ridge and the hill on which was the Kesoquit Droke, where Millais had camped on his way up from the Long Harbour River. Looking down into the valley, we saw a good stag as regards body and two smaller ones. The head was a pretty open one, but the middles and frontals were poor, so we left him alone. I picked up a single horn with eighteen good points close by. We saw two more stags a long way off and went after them, but the distance was much greater than I thought. On our way we saw another small stag come out of a droke and walk quietly up a slight rise, where he was joined by a still smaller one from the far side of the ridge. Neither had shootable heads. They both went in for what Steve called their "standing sleep," stuck their legs out and remained perfectly motionless with the head drooping till it almost touched the ground; occasionally they woke up with a start, but were soon sound asleep again. It was a most comical sight and lasted for about a quarter of an hour. I crawled up within about sixty yards without any difficulty and could easily have shot them both. The little stag woke up first, but it was not till we showed ourselves that the bigger stag moved away in a most dignified manner, giving two or three most beautiful chances before he went out of sight. While Steve was boiling the kettle I went on to a little hillock to spy the ground, and saw the two stags we were first after, but again the heads were no good. I heard a rustle behind me and, thinking it was Steve coming up to call me to dinner, turned round and saw a hind feeding beside me, not five yards away. She started when she saw me, but moved away quite quietly. While eating our midday meal two more hinds fed quietly up to within a few yards and passed by without showing any signs of fear. This country was certainly full of deer, but none of the right sort. When we stopped for dinner we were within one and a half miles of the Kesoquit Droke, which is only about four miles from the head-waters of the Long Harbour River. From a small hillock we could see the entire country and the hills over Long Harbour, while away to the east was the conical hill known as the "Tolt." The ground looked very much the same as far as the eye could reach and should be a grand hunting country in October. We could also see the waters of the Maelpeg Lake, about three miles away. Returning to camp, we saw a black fox in the distance, which made Steve's mouth water, as he said he could sell a good skin for two hundred and forty dollars. Altogether the day had been a very interesting one. We had seen seven stags and a number of does, but unfortunately no good heads. On the 18th the weather broke badly, the glass fell 7/10ths, a gale of wind and heavy driving rain made stalking impossible and kept us in camp all day. Towards evening the wind went round and the rain stopped, and then we saw a wonderful sunset, the heavy rain clouds drifting away across a golden red setting sun. We saw a stag on the sky-line about two miles away, but too late to go after him. On the 19th the wind had come round to the north, and it was a bright, lovely morning. We took the ground to the north-west, working round by where we had seen the stag the previous evening. We covered a lot of ground and altogether stalked four separate stags, only to find, on getting up to them, that the heads were no good. We must have walked over fifteen miles, but in the bracing air of the barrens fatigue was unknown. We saw another black fox to-day a long way off, and Steve said he would be back trapping in three weeks and hoped to get the two black foxes. I picked up a single horn with twenty-two points, very short and thick. There were eight points on the top just like a frontal tine. The morning of the 20th was very cold and grey, but we hoped it would clear up, so started away over the ridge to the south-west. On topping the ridge, we looked down on a great marshy plain with a few scattered drokes. Nothing was in sight, so we walked quietly on towards one of the drokes, from behind which suddenly burst out five hinds pursued by what looked like a good stag, who was grunting as he followed the hinds--the first rutting stag we had seen. They paid so little attention to us that they were almost on top of us before they saw us. Unfortunately, the head was poor, as he gave an easy shot. Almost immediately after two herds of hinds passed us, while in the distance two more stags were seen feeding about three miles away. We went on towards them, when the rain set in and we had to find shelter for lunch. There was no sign of the weather clearing and stalking was impossible in the heavy rain and mist, so we plodded wearily back to camp, which we reached after dark, wet to the skin. This valley was full of grouse; we saw seven good coveys and I shot three birds for the pot with the small rifle. The rain continued all night, but stopped about 7 a.m. on the morning of the 21st. We had come up to Shoe Hill Ridge on the 15th in heavy rain. It had rained on the 18th and again on the 20th, so three days out of six were spoiled. The whole country was now soaked with the rain, little rivulets had become torrents, and the marshes were knee deep in water. It seemed useless to remain on, as it meant my missing my steamer in New York, so we decided to pack up and get out. Looking back, I think this was a mistake. I might have spent another week in this grand country and taken a later boat home. Some big stags might have come up from the woods. On the other hand, the weather was broken and even Steve was in favour of moving. All along he regretted that I had not come in for the October shooting, when, he said, I was bound to have got good heads. He was just as keen as I was and sorry to leave. [Illustration: LUNCH ON THE BAIE DU NORD RIVER] [Illustration: MY CAMP, SHOE HILL DROKE [_To face page 256._] HOMEWARD BOUND CHAPTER VIII HOMEWARD BOUND Just as we had packed up a fearful thunderstorm came on which lasted over an hour, and we did not get away till 11.45, arriving at Sandy Pond at 3 o'clock, wet through. The water was pouring down the hill sides, every deep deer track was a torrent, and it was heavy going through the marshes. We had a meal and a change of clothes, and, packing the canoes, reached the portage into Sandy Pond at dusk. The evening was fine; we pitched camp in a nice droke and over a good hot supper at 9 o'clock the discomforts of the day were soon forgotten. By the aneroid the Shoe Hill Droke was 370 feet above the level of Sandy Grove Pond. There was just a last chance of a stag, as Steve said there was some good ground in the direction of where I had shot the first stag. I sent him out at daybreak on the 22nd, and he came back reporting three stags about half-a-mile away, one of which he thought was a good one. We started away and found them feeding in an open marsh without any cover but three great boulders about 800 yards from where they were. The biggest stag had a very pretty head, but careful examination with the glass decided me to let him go. Steve said, "Pity that not forty-pointer." The position looked so impossible that I told Steve we never could have got a stalk or a shot. "I drive him," said Steve. Wishing to see how he would manage it I told him to go ahead, while I lay behind the big boulder; meanwhile the stags lay down. He took a tremendous round and presently I saw him about a mile on the other side of the stags, who at the moment got his wind, rose and began to trot away, but not towards me. Suddenly I saw Steve trotting along to turn them, which he did most successfully, for the three stags came along at a swinging trot, the big one behind, and passed in the open about 150 yards from me. The shot was such a sporting one I could not resist it, and as the thud of the bullet came back to me the stag dashed forward at a gallop and rolled over stone dead, shot through the heart. My last stalk and shot of the trip. I cannot pretend that stalking caribou is a high form of sport. If the wind is right and there are not too many hinds about one can take any liberties. Of all the animals I have shot the caribou seems to me the most stupid and the easiest to bag under ordinary circumstances. [Illustration: UP THE TWO-MILE BROOK, HOMEWARD BOUND] [Illustration: A BROOK IN FLOOD [_To face page 261._] I had a special permit to shoot five stags, but only shot four, not counting the deer we had to shoot for meat, generally hinds. We soon had the meat in the canoes. The brooks and shallow steadies were now full up from the heavy rains, so we poled where we had to portage coming in. The rain was falling in torrents. We saw our last stag as we came up to Red Hill Pond, but he had no head to speak of. By 4.30 we reached Red Hill Pond, which was up over two feet. The rain was so bad we decided to camp, and soon had a fire as big as a house going, before which we dried ourselves; the men just as cheerful as if it had been bright sunshine. It was an awful night, a gale tearing through the tops of the trees, and the rain coming down in sheets; but the morning of the 23rd was fine, as the wind had come round to the north, and we made an early start as we hoped to reach Ryan's by nightfall. I had had bad luck; I had seen and stalked forty-two stags and never saw one really good head. I think it must have been a bad year for heads, or Millais, Lumsden, Legge and Littledale had cleared the best stags off the ground. A party of Americans had come over from the east the previous year, but spent only two days on the Shoe Hill Ridge and got two good stags. Steve now regretted that we had not gone back by the Terra Nova river and lake. He said we could have shot every rapid without unloading and would have reached St. John's much quicker than by going back to Belleoram. With a gale of wind behind us, but no rain, we made good time. The two-mile brook was in heavy flood and we poled the canoe up and reached the old camp on Hungry Grove Pond by 11. Here I left all the provisions that were left over, the fly for the men and the kit I was giving them as a present, and we started for a fifteen-mile tramp to Ryan's at 11.45. The ground was saturated and we only reached the top of the hill above Ryan's at dark. It was awful going down the hill in the dark, and the men fell with their packs more than once. We simply waded and stumbled along till we saw the welcome lights of the house at 7.30 p.m.--a real hard day's work. I shot five grouse on the way. By the aneroid the top of the six-mile hill was 800 feet above the sea-level at Ryan's. Ryan was away, but I received a hearty welcome from his niece. The question now was what was to be done? There was no schooner or sailing boat of any kind; however, as usual, Steve and John were not to be defeated, but said they would row me down to Anderson's Cove in the fishing dory. [Illustration: A VIEW IN LONG HARBOUR. [_To face page 263._] The morning of the 24th was lovely and calm, but a wind sprang up just as we got away and it was soon blowing a gale in our teeth and we were shipping heavy seas. Steve and John struggled gallantly on, but at 2 o'clock we had to halt, as we could make no way. After about two hours, when we were considering how we could pass the night, the wind dropped as suddenly as it rose and we reached John Saunders' house just at dark. Anderson's Cove was two miles farther on. Saunders was a fine specimen of the old settler, and his house was a picture of cleanliness and neatness. The sails of his schooner were unbent, so we decided to go on to the Cove where the leading trader, Mr. Thornhill, lived, and Steve said he had a sailing boat and could put us across next morning. There was a slight difficulty about this, as one of the hands wanted a guarantee of so many dollars a day should he be detained in Belleoram. I cut matters short by sending a wire to Saunders to bend his sails and come over as early as he could in the morning. I think my friends at Anderson's Cove were a bit disappointed when Saunders and his smart boat came across with a spanking breeze and picked us up about 9 a.m. We had all slept on the floor at Thornhill's, but had an excellent supper of a whole cod boiled with potatoes. We had a lovely sail across to Belleoram--Saunders and a fine strapping son being the crew. The boat was as smart and clean as a yacht, and the two Saunders were the best type I had yet met of the Newfoundland settlers. Steve and John came for the trip as cheery as ever, though their badly blistered hands showed the work of yesterday. By 12.30 I was at Belleoram, and by 1 o'clock the men were on their way back to Long Harbour. As Steve said good-bye it was really quite touching. "You treat us very well, you very good man. Come again, and God bless you." I certainly never parted with men with such regret and never want better friends or hunting comrades. Being Sunday, Belleoram was very quiet. Mrs. Cluett gave me an excellent dinner and a delightful bedroom, for I had to stay the night, as my steamer was not due till next day. In the evening I went to the service in the big church on the hill. The congregation were mostly men who "go down to the sea in ships and occupy their business in great waters," while the special prayer for their protection against the perils of cod fishing struck a note that was new to me. There was quite a nice little organ and the whole congregation joined devoutly in the hymns; altogether the service was most impressive. The _Glencoe_ turned up at 1 o'clock on the 26th and the next afternoon we reached Placentia, where the train was waiting. We got away about 5.30, but did not reach St. John's (80 miles) till 2 a.m. the following morning, a very poor performance. The engine could not pull us up the inclines. We made a rush and each time stuck half-way and had to run back a couple of miles to make a fresh try. However, it seemed a usual occurrence, for every one on board took it quite philosophically, many recounting their reminiscences of when they had to stop all night in the train. In the train was Mr. Job, just returning from a good grouse shoot. He told me he had in his office a sixty-four pointer caribou stag shot by an Indian and bought by his brother. He very kindly allowed me to see it the next day, and a very remarkable head it was; I could make out at least sixty points. I left St. John's at 6 p.m. on the 29th and as we reached Gaff Topsails, about the highest point of the railway, sleet and light snow were falling and a bitter wind was blowing across the open barrens. Descending to the Humber Valley the climate became milder and the autumn tints made the scenery, if possible, more beautiful than when I had passed it before. I had to spend Saturday night in Halifax, Nova Scotia, but got away by the Sunday night express and reached New York early on Tuesday morning. It was still hot and muggy and I was glad to leave on the _Deutschland_ on Saturday, October 8th, arriving in Plymouth early on October 14th. The route I had chosen involved great loss of time, the weekly sailing of the _Glencoe_ on the south coast being a great drawback. If one steamer be missed a week is lost. I might just as well have gone from Port aux Basques to Belleoram by steamer and returned from Belleoram to Port aux Basques, thus avoiding the tiresome railway journey of twenty-nine hours, but I had to outfit at St. John's and wished also to see the scenery of the island. The heads I got did not make up for a somewhat expensive trip, but, on the other hand, I had seen a great deal of very beautiful country in fair comfort and enjoyed some excellent trout fishing which I would not have got had I gone in from the railway. I had the Mount Sylvester country all to myself and it was simply bad luck that I saw no good heads. I can honestly say, however, that I never enjoyed a hunting trip more, and only wish I could look forward to another visit to the island, when with my present experiences I could, I think, make better arrangements to avoid loss of time in reaching the hunting grounds. The game laws of Newfoundland are sufficiently liberal. A licence of $50 (£10) gives the visitor the right to shoot three caribou stags. The true sportsman should be content with this limit and will carefully pick his heads. The Newfoundlander, whether white man or Indian, is not charged the $50. The Indian certainly shoots what he wants and is not particular about a close time. Accustomed as he has been from time immemorial to range the island and shoot for food and clothing, it is difficult to get him to understand the principle underlying game laws, and to accept a game limit to which he has never been accustomed and the necessity for which he does not understand. When the fishing laws come to be considered there seems to me great room for improvement. The Newfoundland Government prides itself on all the rivers being open to every one. For the first time, in 1910, a fishing licence of $10 was imposed on the visitor, and this gave him the right to fish any river in the island. The practical result is, that many of the best-known rivers, such as the Codroy and Harry's Brook, are overfished. All the rivers on the west coast are very accessible to the angler from the United States, and suffer most from overcrowding. I met an English angler who had been fishing the Codroy; he said it was one continual struggle as to who would get on to the water first. I heard the same story at the south-east arm, Placentia. The Government absolutely refuses to lease a river or even to limit the number of rods, and I think this policy is entirely wrong. In practice one may decide on a season in Newfoundland. Having carefully selected a somewhat inaccessible river and made all one's arrangements for camping out, it would certainly be disappointing on arrival to find two or three other parties settled on the river and one's trip spoiled, yet this is quite possible. I was told in St. John's, no Government would dare to change the existing law and the policy of the open door in fishing. This I cannot understand, for what has been done in Canada, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia can surely be done in Newfoundland. The application of the law is carried to the extreme. An official of the Fishery Board told me of a case where an American offered a liberal rent for a remote river on the Labrador Coast. There was but one settler on the river and the American guaranteed that he would take him into his service. He proposed to build a fishing lodge and so put capital into the country. His application was refused. The Government professes to be most anxious to encourage the tourist and sportsman to visit the island, but I venture to think they are not going the right way about it, at least as regards the angler. They do not seem to recognize the advantage to the country of leasing any of the many rivers. First the lessee would see that the river was carefully preserved, he would give employment to watchers, he would probably build a house and in any case would spend money in the country, while at the same time his rent goes to increase the revenue. A double object is thus attained--the preservation of fish and game, and an increase in revenue. If, however, such a policy be impossible the least the Government can do is to limit the number of rods on each river and to have some means of knowing which rivers are being fished and by how many rods. In this way the angler contemplating a trip to Newfoundland could apply for all information to the existing Fishery Board, who would advise him where to go with the least chance of being crowded out. Given some such organization, Newfoundland should become the favourite resort of the British angler. A hunting trip may be cheap or expensive, chiefly depending on the route selected, the number of Indians employed and the means of transport in the island. The cheapest route is by the direct steamers to St. John's. Two Indians are sufficient, but a third adds greatly to one's comfort. Their pay is--Headman, 2½ to 3 dollars a day; other men, 2 dollars. If a waterway into the interior be selected, two canoes are a luxury, one large one a necessity; with two canoes all the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life can be enjoyed; the same cannot be said of packing, as my Vancouver experiences have shown. It is to say the least a nuisance to have the necessaries cut down; the luxuries, by which I mean preserved milk, butter, jam, oatmeal, and a small amount of whisky or rum, one can do without, but why not be comfortable, if comfort can be found, by the better mode of transport which canoes afford. They can be ordered from Canada through Mr. Blair and sold on leaving the island. I give in an appendix my list of stores, but I had far too much. One and a half stone of flour is ample for four men for one week, the amount taken will then depend on the length of the trip. The cost as paid in St. John's is given. I had many stores over, for we had abundance of venison and fish. Fish need never be wasted; the trout split, salted and hung up over or near the camp fire make excellent kippers, and when up on the Shoe Hill Ridge, where no fresh fish were obtainable, I thoroughly enjoyed the kippered trout from Sandy Grove Pond. NEWFOUNDLAND LIST OF STORES TAKEN APPENDIX I cents. $ 7 stones Flour 65 4.55 50 lb. Bacon 35 17.50 2 3-lb. tins Lard 70 1.40 7 lb. Tea 60 4.20 2 lb. Coffee 48 .96 40 lb. Sugar 8 3.20 15 tins St. Charles Cream 15 2.25 8 gals. Potatoes 25 2.00 7 lb. Patna Rice 8 .56 15 lb. Lima Beans 8 1.20 6 bags Salt 3 .18 3 lb. Dried Apples 20 .60 4 lb. Peaches 25 1.00 3 lb. Apricots 25 .75 16 ¼-lb. tins Baking Powder 16 2.56 3 1-lb. tins Marmalade 24 .72 3 1-lb. tins Apricot Jam 28 .84 3 lb. Cooking Butter 38 1.14 9 lb. Eating Butter 48 4.05 15 lb. Onions 6 .90 2 tins White Pepper 8 .16 6 tins Corned Beef 22 1.32 1 5-lb. tin Alum 15 .75 7 yards Grey Calico 12 .84 1 Nest tin boxes for Stores .90 4 lb. Scotch Oatmeal 8 .32 2 bottles Worcester Sauce 25 .50 1 bottle Vinegar .25 2 tins Mustard 10 .20 6 tins Potted Meat 15 .90 1 Dutch Oven 4.00 2 tins Dubbin 15 .30 1 Frying Pan made to order 1.20 2 American Axes 1.10 2.20 1 Hatchet .75 1 ball Twine .18 6 fathom Bank Line .25 3 Sail Needles 2 .06 1 slip Sail Twine .25 6 yards 12-oz. Duck 25 1.50 ½ lb. ½" Copper Tacks 50 .25 1 2-lb. tin Grey Paint .80 2 doz. ½" Brass Screws 6 .12 1 lb. 3" Iron Nails .06 6 lb. Smoking Tobacco 80 4.80 3 bottles Rum 90 2.70 8 bottles Whisky 1.30 10.40 1 packet Toilet Paper .10 6 cakes Soap 8 .48 1 doz. Sea Dog Matches .10 2 doz. Wax Matches 20 .40 1 packet Sulphur Matches .20 3 lb. Price's Candles 20 .60 1 Candle Lantern .75 1 Oil Stove .35 1 small bottle Oil .25 2 tin Basins 15 .30 1 iron Spoon .15 1 tin Flash .20 2 tins Sardines 20 .40 2 1-lb. tins Lunch Tongue 45 .90 1 tin Apricots .30 1 tin Cocoa and Milk .25 3 sets Knives and Forks 17 .51 14 lb. Hard Bread 6 .84 1 Can Opener .20 3 tin Camp Cups 20 .60 1 Enamel Mug 20 .20 4 tin Plates 8 .32 1 iron Fork .20 1 iron Spoon .18 5 Boxes and Packing 4.00 Freight to Belleoram 2.71 8 Grey Calico Bags 2.00 1 Gridiron .30 1 Lock for Box .15 1 set Hinges .10 1 Hasp and Staple .10 ------- Total $104.66 ======= RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. Transcriber's Notes Obvious punctuation errors repaired. In "Kosk[=a]codde", the symbols "[=a]" represent an "a" with a macron diacritic. p. 220: the horn next me -> the horn next to me. p. 266: Belleroram -> Belleoram. 
41166	----	_By William S. Thomas_ Hunting Big Game with Gun and with Kodak Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London [Illustration: Mother 'Possum and her Family] TRAILS AND TRAMPS IN ALASKA AND NEWFOUNDLAND By WILLIAM S. THOMAS AUTHOR OF "HUNTING BIG GAME WITH GUN AND KODAK" WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPHS G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1913 COPYRIGHT, 1913 BY WILLIAM S. THOMAS The Knickerbocker Press, New York To MY WIFE WHO SHARED NONE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE TRAIL AND BORE ALL THE ANXIETIES FOR MY RETURN. PREFACE The matter here submitted has been accumulated upon several hunting trips in the wilderness, and many excursions from time to time into the woods and fields about home. The author has for some years kept more or less extensive field notes, and has taken numerous photographs of objects, scenes, or incidents by the way. Not all of the narrative is concerned with the chase, but all has to do with, or is in some way attributable to, the wanderlust that from boyhood days has cast its spell over the author at uncertain intervals, and from time to time, has compelled a pilgrimage nearer or farther into the regions of that freedom found only where man is not. If in the heart of the reader it sets vibrating again some chord once sounded by the breath of the forest, or stirs to harmony some strings hitherto not attuned to the music of the great outdoors, the mission of this volume will not have been vain, for it will then have assisted in a modest way the interpretation of that medium of expression of which Bryant has said, "To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A varied language." W. S. T. PITTSBURGH, PA., _March, 1913_. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA 1 II OBSERVATIONS ON KODIAK ISLAND 64 III HUNTING BIG GAME ON THE KENAI PENINSULA 123 IV A TRIP TO NEWFOUNDLAND 181 V HUNTING WITH A FERRET 222 VI A NIGHT HUNT 238 VII IN THE SPRINGTIME 247 VIII A PLEA FOR PROTECTION 305 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE MOTHER 'POSSUM AND HER FAMILY _Frontispiece_ KETCHIKAN 3 MYRIADS OF SALMON 5 "FATHER" DUNCAN 7 METLAKATLA 8 GUEST HOUSE 9 "FATHER" DUNCAN'S CHURCH 10 WHERE THE INDIANS ROAMED 11 STREET SCENE IN METLAKATLA 12 METLAKATLA BELLES 13 INDIANS CHEERING THE SECRETARY 15 TOTEMS AT SITKA 18 INDIAN WAR CANOE 20 PETERSBURG 22 STREAMS OF CRYSTAL WATER 23 LIGHTHOUSE NEAR DIXON'S ENTRANCE 26 SITKA 27 PRIESTS OF THE GREEK CHURCH AT SITKA 28 FAIRWEATHER RANGE 30 UPPER ICE FIELDS 31 THE AUTHOR LOOKING INTO A CREVASSE 33 NATIVE WOMEN TRADING 35 MOTHER AND BABE 36 PLAYING IN THE SAND 37 NATIVE BOYS OUT GUNNING 38 SUNSET NEAR ST. ELIAS 39 CAPE ST. ELIAS 41 HINCHINBROOK ISLAND 44 VALDEZ AFTER THE FLOOD 45 BRUIN IN A STEEL TRAP 46 SALMON RUNNING UP STREAM TO SPAWN 49 KILLING FISH WITH A CLUB 50 GULLS FEEDING ON SALMON 51 A GOOD FISHERMAN 52 DOGS FISHING FOR SALMON 53 INDIAN HUT 55 INDIAN GRAVES 56 INDIAN WOMEN REPAIRING THE BIDARKA 57 SUNRISE 60 OUR PERMANENT CAMP 61 AN ISLAND NEAR VALDEZ 65 SEA LION ROCKS 67 SEWARD 68 SELDOVIA 69 TURBULENT SHELLICOFF 71 THE RAVENS 72 KODIAK 79 GULL ISLAND 80 FORGET-ME-NOTS 81 CROW'S NEST AND YOUNG 82 NESTS OF EAGLE AND MAGPIE 83 EAGLE WATCHING FOR PREY 85 EAGLE'S NEST AND YOUNG 86 FIRST SIGHT OF DAY 88 SEA PARROT INCUBATING 90 SEA PARROT'S NEST AND EGG 91 CHARACTERISTIC NEST OF "GYGIS" 93 NEST AND EGGS OF HERRING GULL 94 OUR CAMP AMONG THE COTTONWOODS 97 AN EXTINCT CRATER WHERE THE BEAR HIBERNATE 101 WHERE HE FELL 103 STRETCHED BEAR SKINS 105 INDIAN BARABARA 108 KODIAK ISLAND PINKS 109 KENAI RIVER 129 LINING THE BOAT 133 MID-DAY ON THE KENAI 137 "PORKY" 141 THE TONSORIAL ARTIST AT WORK 144 READY FOR THE START 147 APPROACHING THE LOW PASS 149 HOME OF THE WHITE SHEEP 151 SEEKING A FORD 155 PTARMIGAN 167 A BATH IN LAKE SKILAK 174 BAY OF ISLANDS 185 CONSTRUCTING A RAFT 186 ONE TOOK TO THE WOODS 187 ONE OF THE OTHERS 188 TRAILING ARBUTUS 190 SPOTTED SANDPIPER'S NEST 192 MERGANSER'S NEST 194 NEST OF WILSON'S THRUSH 195 LEARNING TO SWIM 199 OUT FOR THEMSELVES 200 LEARNING TO WALK 201 REFLECTIONS 202 RADIANT SPLENDOR 206 WHISKEY JACK 208 NEST AND EGGS OF THE WHITE-THROATED SPARROW 209 BUNCHBERRIES 213 THE "STEADY" 215 SOLITUDE 217 BREAKFAST HEAD ON THE HUMBER RIVER 219 COLOR BLENDING 224 PUTTING IN THE FERRET 226 HIS LAST NIBBLE 229 IN HOT PURSUIT 230 PICKED UP 231 DOWN THE OLD FENCE 233 THE DOG LISTENING TO THE LAST SOUND 235 DID HE COME OUT? 236 THE HUNTING PARTY 239 DOG AND COON IN THE MIX-UP 244 HOME OF THE CARDINAL 249 CARDINAL'S NEST AND EGGS 252 WINTER IN THE NORTH 254 INDIGO BUNTING'S NEST WITH COWBIRD'S EGG 256 THE YOUNG INTERLOPER 258 A WELL-CONSTRUCTED HOME 259 MADAM VIREO AT HOME 260 THE USURPER 262 YOUNG FLICKERS 265 NEST AND EGGS OF TANAGER 267 LITTLE GREEN HERON'S NEST 268 LITTLE GREEN HERON'S NEST 269 LEAVING THE NEST 270 NEST AND EGGS OF GROSBEAK 272 NESTLINGS 273 FLEDGLINGS 274 TOM AT THE NEST 275 NEST AND EGGS OF BLUE-GRAY GNAT-CATCHER 276 NEST AND YOUNG OF GOLDFINCH 277 RED-SPOTTED PURPLE BUTTERFLY ON QUEEN ANNE'S LACE 278 YOUNG GOLDFINCH 280 NEST OF RED-WING BLACKBIRD 282 YOUNG RED-WING BLACKBIRDS 283 HOMES OF THE CLIFF SWALLOWS 285 NEST OF THE SONG SPARROW 287 A TRAGEDY IN NATURE 288 WOOD-THRUSH 289 NEST AND EGGS OF WOOD-THRUSH 290 UP A STUMP 291 WOOD-THRUSH'S NEST WITH YOUNG 292 NEST AND EGGS OF AMERICAN REDSTART 294 LADY REDSTART AND HER HOME 295 NEST AND EGGS OF BLUE-WINGED WARBLER 296 YOUNG WOODPECKERS FORAGING 297 NEST AND EGGS OF THE THRASHER 299 ON NIGHT TURN 300 YOUNG THRASHER 301 A DELIGHTFUL PLACE 306 CAUGHT 307 NEST AND EGGS OF RUFFED GROUSE 313 NOT CERTAIN 315 A SURE POINT 317 ORCHARD NEST OF MOURNING DOVE 318 TWO LITTLE TURTLE-DOVES 320 Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland CHAPTER I CRUISING AND HUNTING IN SOUTHEASTERN ALASKA In the midst of the rustling and bustling on the pier, the creaking of the block and tackle, and the hoisting of the duffel, could be heard the loud, clear voice of the mate resounding in the evening twilight, "Heave to!" "That's well," and similar expressions, all preparatory to our departure for the far-away North, the land of glaciers, gold, and fish. In the crowd were many sorts and conditions of men--and not the least in evidence were the sturdy Norseman and the Scottish clansman,--some on pleasure bent, some in search of the mighty beasts of the forest, still others seeking their fortune in the vast gold-fields stretching on and on into the great unknown beyond the Arctic Circle. Among the ever-changing groups of humanity, my attention was attracted to one, the center of which was a young man about one and twenty. As the time drew near for our departure, around him gathered four or five young ladies, who to all appearances were in sore distress. An only brother, perhaps, was about to leave home and friends to seek his fortune in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The old father, grizzled and gray, stood by with dejected countenance and folded hands, the very picture of despair. Presently one of the girls--the boy's sweetheart, as I afterwards learned,--unable longer to stand the strain, threw her arms about her lover and wept bitterly. What expressions of sadness upon the faces of those left behind as the lamplight casts its pallid rays over them! And now one staggers and falls into the arms of a friend. Then what a look of grief upon the face of the young man peering over the ship's rail! Such is the pathos of life at every turn, could we but see it. [Illustration: Ketchikan] On board the steamer was the Hon. Walter L. Fisher, Secretary of the Interior, and his party, consisting of his son Walter, Alfred H. Brooks, of the Geological Surveys Committee, Governor W. E. Clark of Alaska, and reporters of various newspapers. Their mission was to investigate the condition and wants of the people of Alaska. The genial and pleasant old sea-dog, Captain Michael Jansen, was at the helm as the steamer wedged her way towards the north. For some two hundred miles we skirted the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, lined to the water's edge with hemlock, spruce, and cedar, through which occasionally bluish-white streaks of water came tumbling down the mountain-side, each adding its own particular charm to the scenery. The English Government has erected along the coast many lighthouses for the protection of navigation, but after we passed through Dixon's Entrance into Uncle Sam's domain, very few of these were to be seen. Our Government seems to have given too little attention to this matter. [Illustration: Myriads of Salmon] The first stop on the way north was Ketchikan, a little village nestled snugly at the foothills, with its hospital, saloons, and all the usual adjuncts of a mining town. It has a population of some five hundred souls, whose principal occupation consists of fishing and mining. The most interesting thing to sightseers was a stroll up the boardwalk laid along a narrow winding stream that has its origin in the snow-capped mountains. Pitching, tossing, and foaming it hurried down the narrow gulch, seeking its level in the briny deep. It was alive with myriads of salmon, jumping and leaping in their mad rush to the spawning ground. * * * * * In the dawn of the following morning the boat plowed its way through the green waters of the Strait toward Annette Island, a strip of land covered to the water's edge with fir and cedar trees. The island is some six miles long, and at the extreme end, on a small, gently sloping plateau, is the little town of Metlakatla, which boasts a population of about a thousand persons. It has its own canneries, saw-mills, and other industries, and the people seem to be happy and contented. At the head of the colony is Rev. William Duncan, who has done much for the uplift of the many tribes of Indians in this locality. [Illustration: Father Duncan] "Father" Duncan relates that more than half a century ago, when a young man of twenty-five, he was living in England. Upon his ordination as a minister of the Established Church, Alaska was assigned him as the field of his future life-work. His passage was paid and he arrived at Victoria after a nine-months trip. The old man was very much agitated in relating his early experience. On reaching Victoria, he of course desired to enter at once upon his active duties, but the head official of the town and the captain of the boat used every means in their power to persuade him from going among the Indians, urging that they were bloodthirsty savages and would surely kill him. He told them that he was assigned to the field by the Board and could not think of changing his plan without an order from his superiors, to procure which would require at least two years. He must get to his labor of love right away. However, he made one request of the officer in charge of the fort, and it was this: he would like to spend about nine months with them in the stockade, and wished they would send for the brightest young man of the most powerful tribe, so that he might learn the language before going among the savages. They granted his request, and in nine months he was ready to deliver his first sermon. [Illustration: Metlakatla] [Illustration: Guest House] The Indians were divided into various tribes, each at war with the other. He thought if he could succeed in getting the chiefs together and could tell them the Word of God in their own language, he would more readily win their confidence and esteem. So he requested his interpreter to call together all the chiefs to one central point, where he would deliver his first sermon. "But oh!" he said, "when I saw before me the assembled braves, decorated in all the colors of the rainbow, my courage left me, and turning to my teacher, I begged of him to deliver the message I had so carefully prepared to the gathered tribesmen. But he positively refused, and told me his intrusion might cause a war, for the tribes were very jealous of the power and influence of their neighbors. Then I took courage and when I had spoken, oh! what an effect it had upon them! Bodies were rigid and eyes seemed as though they would pierce me through and through. The results were striking. They gathered around in little groups, earnestly discussing the truths made known to them and wondering who could be and whence came this strange white man who spoke their own tongue. [Illustration: "Father" Duncan's Church] "From that day I became absorbed in my work. For thirty years I labored among them at Old Metlakatla, when one day I was told that the natives did not own the land and that the title was vested in the Queen of England. The Indians could not understand how a sovereign whom they had never seen could own the land over which they and their ancestors had roamed for centuries, fishing, hunting, and trapping. [Illustration: Where the Indians Roamed] * * * * * [Illustration: Street Scene in Metlakatla] "I went down to Vancouver to examine into the matter, and the Premier and Attorney-General advised me that such was the case. I was fearful lest when the Indians learned this fact they would go on the war-path and kill every white man in the country. I wrote a long letter to them explaining conditions and saying that I would be back home to Old Metlakatla as soon as I could. Shortly afterwards, much to my surprise, a committee came to Vancouver to confer with me. When I saw them I was greatly excited for fear they had decided upon war. When I inquired of them what had been done at the meeting, they refused to tell me, so that I was considerably worried over the matter. Although it was late in the evening, I went immediately to the Attorney-General's home to advise him of the situation. I told him I would give him all the information I had that evening, but to-morrow, after I had learned the action taken, I could not divulge a single word. I did not sleep much that night, and in the morning, when I met the committee, imagine my relief when they told me they had decided to leave English territory and seek a new home under the Stars and Stripes. Shortly after that I went to Washington to arrange matters, if possible, for a new location. I finally succeeded; the United States Government gave Annette Island to my people for their home, and here we have built the new Metlakatla." [Illustration: Metlakatla Belles] * * * * * "Father" Duncan does not believe in educating the Indian children as they are taught at Carlisle and similar institutions. Once while he was visiting Carlisle at Commencement time, the orator of the day advised a graduating class to go out among the white people and do as the whites did. Speaking of the occasion, he remarked: "I thought as I listened, 'Oh, what a mistake for them to leave their fathers and mothers, now too old to work, and become worthless and idle, unfitted for the duties of life!'" With deep emotion the old man pointed across the woods toward the cemetery, and said: "Over yonder lie the remains of about thirty young men, the pick of their tribe, who attended such schools, adopted the white man's mode of living, and contracted tuberculosis, to which they fall ready victims. They are by nature so constituted that they require outdoor life and outdoor exercise." While "Father" Duncan was talking, the Secretary of the Interior came out of the Town Hall, where he had been holding a conference with the Town Council, and he and "Father" Duncan walked down the boardwalk toward the cannery and from there to the boat. As the steamer was about to depart, the passengers gave three rousing cheers for the grand old man who had spent fifty-five years of useful life among these simple children of nature. Scarcely had the echo of the last cheer resounded from the hills about the bay, when, as the steamer left the wharf, the Indians gave three mightier cheers for the Secretary and another three for Governor Clark. [Illustration: Indians Cheering the Secretary] About midnight of the third day the fog-horn began to blow, repeating the blast every ten minutes or more, and the engine bells tinkled, tinkled all through the night. Sleep being out of the question, we were up early the next morning, and to our great surprise were informed by the pilot that the _Wizard of the Northern Sea_ had been caught in the fog and had traveled scarcely a mile; in fact, we were obliged to return from the Narrows and wait for the fog to lift. As the old pilot expressed it: "Great Golly! it was a bad night, without a place to throw the anchor and the current running miles an hour." The old sea-dog had a fine face, carved with stern lines. As he related with his Danish accent the stories of how two men-of-war and several other vessels had met their doom in those waters, hundreds on board going down, the little group was all attention. Even as he talked, he pointed out the partly concealed rocks where the men-of-war had met their fate, and over which the water now broke in innocent-looking ripples. After thirteen hours waiting for flood tide and the lifting of the fog, we steamed slowly through Wrangel Narrows. What a sight as the sun dispelled the fog! I have seen at night in a puddling mill a ball of molten metal on its way from the furnace to the "squeezers" and, when "soused" with water, emitting a blue flame and vapor. The sun at Wrangel Narrows was such a ball of molten metal, while the fog clinging to the leeward side of the mountain peaks was the vapor, and the peaks and crags with heads towering far above the clouds were the stacks and beams of a monster mill. Occasionally as we glide along, aquatic birds soar through the air in search of their morning meal; blackfish sport in the water, their fins cutting the surface as they disappear into the depths; and now a little snipe, flying around and around, trying to alight on the vessel, causes a stir among the passengers. A short distance away appears the head of a seal, evidently in search of its prey, and the leaping fish tell the rest of the story. How many things appeal to the lover of nature! On account of the swift current and concealed rocks, the Narrows can be navigated with safety only in daylight, and I learned that the policy issued by marine insurance companies contains a clause under which no recovery can be had in event of accident to a steamer while passing through the Narrows by night. Here and there lay an old hull cast high and dry on the rocks, after being tossed and pitched about in the powerful currents until it was battered and broken out of all resemblance to a boat. The old _Portland_ was pointed out in the distance, not yet a complete wreck, her mast erect, hull submerged, and the breakers booming and splashing over her. A feeling of sadness came over at least one of the party at the pleasant recollections of a former hunting trip made on the _Portland_ with the big-hearted and greatly beloved Captain Moore, who has since passed over the Great Divide. [Illustration: Totems at Sitka] [Illustration: Indian War Canoe] Wrangel, the next port of entry, was reached in due time. To the tourists the most noteworthy objects are the totem-poles. Indian totem-poles are erected in even the smallest Indian settlements along the coast as far north as Sitka. Visitors are always interested in their picturesque carving. All kinds of grotesque figures of birds, animals, and fish are cut into the smooth surface of trees after the bark is removed. Contrary to what seems to be a very general belief, the natives do not worship totem-poles as idols, but regard them as a sort of family register. When a great event takes place, in order that it may be commemorated, they erect a totem; a successful hunter in the tribe becomes well known for his deeds of valor,--straightway he selects a family crest and up goes his totem, tinted with all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes the poles illustrate legends handed down from generation to generation,--the stories and traditions of this simple-minded people. Ages ago, according to "Father" Duncan, the Indians adopted totems or crests to distinguish the social clans into which the race is said to be divided, and each clan is represented symbolically by some character, such as the finback whale, the grizzly bear, the frog, the eagle, etc. All Indian children take the crest of their mother and they do not regard the members of their father's family as relatives. Therefore a man's heir or his successor is not his own son, but his sister's son. Not often can an Indian be persuaded to rehearse to a stranger the story represented by the carvings on a pole. Here is a legend which is told of one totem-pole: A very long time ago an old chief with his wife and two small children pitched his wigwam at the mouth of a stream when the salmon were running to spawn. The old squaw, in order to get some spruce boughs with which to gather salmon eggs, pushed her _bidarka_, or sealskin boat, into the water, and telling her two little papooses to get into the boat, paddled them across the stream. As she pulled the _bidarka_ up on the other shore she instructed the children to remain in the boat till she returned. She came back in a short time with her load, only to discover that the children were gone. Many times she called to them, but always they answered to her from the woods with the voices of crows, and when she tried to follow them they would keep calling to her from some other direction. She returned to the boat again, gave up the children for lost, and going back to the wigwam reported to the chief that an old white trapper with a big beard had carried away the two little children. To commemorate this event they had a totem-pole carved to show the beard of the white trapper, and frequently point it out as an example to refractory children. * * * * * Our next stop was at Petersburg, a typical Alaskan town, with its cannery, saw-mill, and myriads of herring gulls on the wing and on the water. The old totem-poles which had stood for many, many years, worn almost smooth by the constant beating of the elements, excited a great deal of curiosity, and made one wish for some occult power wherewith to read the mysteries of the past. At one pole the party, consisting of several doctors, was much absorbed, and after considerable study deciphered the figure of an old witch doctor carved on the top and below it what seemed to be a squaw, which they interpreted as very suggestive of the operation of laparotomy. [Illustration: Petersburg] A few miles from Petersburg we saw the first ice floe with its deep marine coloring, floating slowly towards the open sea. Two days and nights of continual rain were very oppressive and trying on sociability, but when the welcome sun reappeared, how enjoyable was the contrast! The mountain-sides in the foreground, clad with verdure from the base half way to the snowy summit, had for a background the arched dome of the heavens, filled with vari-colored clouds. Here and there streams of crystal water coursed down the mountain-side, whence each took a final leap over the rocks into the boiling and seething maelstrom, throwing spray in every direction. [Illustration: Streams of Crystal Water] An interesting visit was had to the Treadwell mine, where the voice of man could not be heard above the noise of the many stamp mills pounding away, crushing the low-grade ores. At six o'clock the day shift is leaving the mines and the night force entering. As the up cage discharges its load of human freight the down cage is ready, packed so tightly that it would be almost impossible for a passenger to turn sideways. Down into the perpendicular shaft for several hundred feet the miners descended, and from there they scattered through the entries drifted out underneath the bay, where the best paying rock is to be found. Juneau, the capital of Alaska, almost directly across from the mines, was our next stopping-place. The deck hands, at the command of the first officer, threw out the gang-plank. Before it was rightly adjusted, the crowd was waiting eagerly to get ashore. The dock was wet and slippery, for it was raining as usual, the low-hanging clouds shutting out the view of the snow-covered mountain-tops in the background. All hunters in the party made straightway for the Governor's office to secure licenses at fifty dollars apiece, which entitled each one to shoot two bull moose. But in order that a trophy may be brought out of Alaska, the Act of Congress makes it obligatory to pay an additional fee of one hundred and fifty dollars. It seems to me absurd to permit the killing of moose and to encourage leaving the trophies where they fall. A subsequent experience on the Kenai River bore out this conclusion very forcibly. On the river we came across a party of hunters from Texas who had killed a very large moose having a noble spread of horn. The body was left to rot on the shore. One of our party who did not care to shoot would gladly have taken the trophy home to decorate his den, but the one hundred and fifty dollars was strictly prohibitory. I am satisfied this party killed several moose and left them because the trophies would not justify the additional cost of bringing them out. We spent several hours in Juneau sending cablegrams and watching a black bear chained in the middle of the main street. He was walking around and around, as though guarding the entrance to the town. Every person passing kept a safe distance, but occasionally a visitor unawares approached too near and afforded fun for the onlookers when he made a desperate get-away. [Illustration: Lighthouse near Dixon's Entrance] [Illustration: Sitka] Leaving Juneau the boat turned south quite a distance in order to reach Sitka. Some time was lost waiting for high tide before we could get through the Narrows, full tide being about eleven o'clock P.M. The night was very dark and the fog thick, making it difficult to keep the boat in the channel. As the old Dane afterwards said, we could keep our course only by noting the echo of the fog-horn as it reverberated among the distant hills; but with great skill we were taken safely through, and when morning dawned clear and bright, we found we were fast approaching Sitka. Many interesting things were to be seen from the deck as we glided over the water. The reflection of the mountains was beautiful and one could scarcely distinguish the real shore line. Here and there an old bald eagle (_Haliætus leucocephalus_) stood sentinel on some dead tree-top, while the great blue heron (_Ardea herodias_) waded along the edge of the water in search of something to eat. Thus we were entertained for hours as we neared Sitka. About noon the shrill blast of the whistle reminded us that the town was in sight. Just as soon as the gang-plank was lowered there was a rush for shore, and every person was on his way to see the sights of Sitka. [Illustration: Priests of the Greek Church at Sitka] The town was founded in 1799 by Governor Baranoff, a Russian explorer, and is beautifully situated on Baranoff Island. The old Russian Greek church stood there just as it did a hundred years before, with the exception of a new coat of paint, and the priests were in their church garb as of yore. Tourists always visit the old church to see the magnificent Madonna and other paintings brought over from Russia in the last century. On the main street stands the old log-cabin erected many years ago by the Hudson Bay Company and used as a trading post. The Government has set aside a reservation for a public park, and many totem-poles have been set up all along the roadway. Indian squaws were squatted on the dock selling their little trinkets, such as miniature totem-poles, sealskin moccasins, and vases carved in many forms. While leaving Sitka the picturesque snow-crowned Mount Edgecumbe serrated the horizon on the left, and on the right the sky-line was much the same. Both shores were advancing nearer and nearer, and it looked as though we were in a cul-de-sac. Presently we passed through Icy Straits, so named because of the many icebergs which, broken from a neighboring glacier, find their way hither. [Illustration: Fairweather Range] As we reached the open ocean, "Gony," as the sailors call the black-footed albatross (_Diomedea nigripes_), followed in the wake of the steamer, porpoise raced with us, rushing and dodging alongside the boat, occasionally turning their silver bellies skyward and flaunting their tails to show how easy it was for them to keep up with us. The race continued at intervals for more than an hour before they disappeared, and by that time the long swells of the water rocking the steamer had taken effect and many of the passengers disappeared from the decks. Many miles to the right the purple foothills of the Fairweather range could be seen. Muir Glacier glittering in the distance added to the fascination of the scenery. Along the coast wild strawberries, with their delicate flowers, their fruit sought alike by man, beast, and fowl, grew very abundantly. The weather was just fine and the conditions right (something unusual in this neighborhood) to see the great Mount St. Elias, at least a hundred and fifty miles due north, and her English cousin, Mount St. Logan, farther off across the border line. The Fairweather range extends for many miles along the coast. The white ice fields glitter in the sunshine and at sunset a halo of many colors hangs over the mountains. [Illustration: Upper Ice Fields] [Illustration: The Author Looking into a Crevasse] Alaska seems to be a chosen land for glaciers. The warm Japan stream washes the coast line, the topography of which is well adapted to fashion glaciers out of the heavy snowfall precipitated by the cooling of the humid air as it strikes the mountains. When the lofty summits and surrounding fields have accumulated more snow than they are able to retain, it gradually advances toward the valleys. When it leaves the summit it is soft and flaky, but alternate thawing and freezing gradually change its condition into a granulated form of ice. The pressure of the great body of snow above, the change of the atmospheric conditions, assisted by gravity, are the causes which enter into the formation of the solid glacier ice. These conditions may be increased or diminished by earthquakes and mild winters. Like a great river it advances toward the mouth of the valley, and as the immense body of ice moves downward, it brings with it by erosion huge pieces of rock, earth, and trees. This debris thrown upon the ice is called moraine, and where the moraine gathers the thickest it protects the ice. When the hot summer sun thaws the unprotected ice, tiny streamlets flow from here and there. These gradually increase in number and size, and as they grow larger and larger cut their way down into the ice, forming deep crevasses, and finally reach bedrock. The interior color of the crevasses is a deep blue and this changes to a light blue at the outer edge where exposed to light. Standing on the brink one can throw a huge boulder into the opening and hear it rumbling for some time before it reaches the bottom. A glacier that is receding slowly is known locally as a dead glacier, and one advancing as a live glacier. However, a live glacier may become a dead one, and _vice versa_. A dead glacier has frequently readvanced after years of inactivity, carrying with it trees which had grown up in its course. Columbia glacier in Prince William Sound is an example of this type. A tiny snowflake falls on the mountain-top, is covered in turn by many others, and disappears for many years. Gradually the whole mass, by its own weight, is pushed down into the valley and solidified. Not a ray of light can penetrate through the thick glacier ice; the little snowflake has been completely immured. After years, perhaps centuries, it finally reappears at sea level, with myriads of others of its kind congealed into one solid mass, which breaks off and floats seaward, clothed in beautiful blue. But it is such a cold, heartless beauty, for until melted away the little snowflake is part of a tremendous mass, whose weight and silent progress are a constant and dreaded menace to human life; many a steamer has been sunk by striking an iceberg. At the head of Yakutat Bay is situated the Indian village of Yakutat. It has its cannery and saw-mill and village church, in which last is a large and very interesting totem carved out of the butt of a tree. I have heard it said that these poles are not found north of Sitka. This one is several hundred miles farther north. There is only the one, and it may have been a trophy or a gift. I was unable to get any account of its past or any interpretation of its symbolic carvings. [Illustration: Native Women Trading] Before we landed we noticed the natives coming from every possible direction; some in their canoes, others walking, but all loaded down with their trinkets to sell to the passengers on the steamer. When we landed on the dock the women were squatting on the floor, all in a row, displaying their goods. When a kodak was pointed at them they concealed their faces and demanded "two bits" as the price of a shot. There was among them a young mother with her babe whom I was anxious to photograph, but her price was higher and I was required to raise the amount to "eight bits" before she would step out into the sun for a snap-shot. I was afraid to take a time picture for fear she would "shy" before I got it. [Illustration: Mother and Babe] [Illustration: Playing in the Sand] The old village, up the shore about a mile, was reached by a narrow walk along the coast line. The walk through the sparsely-growing spruce and cottonwood was delightful. Ravens flew about here and there, hoarsely calling as we passed by. The undergrowth consisted principally of berry bushes--salmon-berries, blueberries, and red raspberries--and as we walked along we gathered handfuls of the luscious fruit from each in turn as our taste inclined. When we reached the village with its wide beach--for the tide was out--our attention was attracted toward a couple of the native belles, who were sitting tracing on the sand with their fingers images of fish, birds, and animals. We approached suddenly, cutting off their retreat. Being naturally shy and timid they ceased writing, and when they saw us point the camera toward them, turned their backs. I suggested to my friend that he walk around to the opposite side, take out his kodak as though to photograph them, and when they turned around I would take a snap, which ruse worked admirably. [Illustration: Native Boys out Gunning] Abandoning the party at this point, I took a stroll through the woods. There I happened upon half a dozen native boys shooting at a mark with guns. They were not aware of my presence until one of the boys standing apart from the others noticed what I was doing. Before he got away, however, I had his image on the film. I walked away a few steps and sat down on a log to put in a new film. When I lifted my head, to my surprise every last one of the little rascals had me covered with his gun. One emphatic sentence from me wilted their timid spirits and they skulked away. [Illustration: Sunset near St. Elias] The attractive feature of Yakutat is a favorable view of Mt. St. Elias. When we were going up the bay the heavy clouds shrouded the mountain, obstructing our view, and how disappointed were the passengers as the boat steamed on toward the head of the bay, where the nearer peaks would shut off our view of St. Elias, even if other conditions had been favorable! But when we were leaving the harbor the same day the atmospheric conditions were just right to array the scene in all its splendor. The air was filled with low floating clouds fringed with the most brilliant colors from the setting sun, and as the clouds lifted, the purple foothills added splendor and enchantment to the slope that extended its snow-capped peak eighteen thousand feet into the blue concave of the heavens. Up to this time aboard our ship peace, happiness, and sociability reigned supreme, but when the open waters of the Pacific were reached and the "woollies," as the fierce blasts from the icy ranges are called by the sailors, struck us, tossing the spray over the pitching, rocking, and quivering steamer, sociability disappeared and peace and happiness left the faces of all the passengers, while the pallor of death overspread blooming countenances. Thereupon the fishes became alert and the herring gulls, gracefully soaring in the wake of the steamer, uttered their hungry call of expectation. Surely 'tis an ill wind that blows no good. [Illustration: Cape St. Elias] The steamer belched forth the smoke from its stack as we moved slowly along the coast toward Katella harbor, the next port of entry. For fifty miles on the right of us could be seen the terminal edge of the famous Malaspina glacier, looking like the white crest of breakers crashing against a rocky coast. Ahead of us appeared Cape St. Elias, one of the most picturesque promontories of Alaska. Its divided point projected a long way into the ocean and the captain gave it a wide berth. * * * * * On reaching Controller Bay the good ship anchored in the poor harbor. Presently a boat, hailing from the revenue cutter _Tahoma_, pulled by eight sturdy seamen dressed in their clean, picturesque suits of blue and white, drew near the side of the steamer, and the officer in charge, tall and erect, a fine specimen of manhood, came up the rope ladder and made straight toward Secretary Fisher. In a short time one of the seamen was on the top deck gesticulating with hat and handkerchief to the cutter in the distance. On the cutter could be seen against the sky-line an ensign going through similar signs in answer to the instructions given. The Secretary and his party left the steamer very quietly without a cheer, and as he arrived on the cutter the booming of the cannon, repeated nineteen times, signaled the reception of the party. Controller Bay is not a natural harbor and the problem it presents is whether an engineer can construct at a reasonable cost an artificial harbor that will protect vessels from the terrific gales that sweep the coast during the winter months. Engineers differ on this matter; some say that the solution of the problem is a great dike constructed of concrete, and others think that a wall could not be built strong enough to withstand the powerful currents and massive ice floes of Controller Bay, and for this reason it is believed that the only terminal facilities for the Behring coal fields are at Cordova, by water some hundred miles farther north. At the present time a railroad is being built up the Copper River valley, which is the natural gateway to the great coal and copper deposits of the interior and the rich Tanana Valley. In constructing a railroad up this valley serious difficulties must be overcome. The question of labor is very important. Because of the continual rains and the short open season the highest wages must be paid. To get up the valley, it is necessary to cross the Copper River between two glaciers, and the topography of the country is such that it is a difficult engineering feat to construct a roadbed that will not be carried away by the spring freshets and the glaciers, which are continually changing. Miles and Childs glaciers vary in their movements, at times receding and again advancing, controlled by forces which are not fully understood. * * * * * [Illustration: Hinchinbrook Island] [Illustration: Valdez after the Flood] [Illustration: Bruin in a Steel Trap] Leaving Katella we soon pass Cape Hinchinbrook, where several steamers have been cast ashore and wrecked upon the rocky coast. Entering Prince William Sound we find the water smoother and a pleasant run is made to Cordova, the present terminus of the Copper River Railroad. Our next stop was Valdez, with its land-locked harbor. The town is built practically on the moraine of a glacier. Sometimes the channel of a glacier stream changes; in the year 1911 such a change took place and carried away about half of the town. In order to prevent a similar accident in the future, the citizens turned out and constructed a levee of logs, rocks, and sand. Valdez glacier extends down from the summit a distance of twenty miles, the foot being about five miles from the town. During the winter of 1898 gold was first discovered near Center City in the interior. The excitement was great at Valdez, some seven thousand men gathering from all parts of the States to seek their fortunes. So great was the rush for the gold-fields that one continuous procession of prospectors, carrying all kinds of outfits, passed northward over the glacier. The following year many perished on their way out. My guide carried the mail that year, and on one trip found seven men who had frozen to death, having been caught in a storm on the glacier. The whole party were very weak on account of scurvy and unable to reach Valdez. When found, two were lashed to sleds and one was sitting on a piece of ice, his head resting on his hands. On the same trip my guide came upon an old miner frozen to death, still holding to the handle of his dog sleigh, while the dog lay curled up in a ball, still alive and still in the harness. After spending several days at Valdez, arrangements were made with the captain of the _Hammond_ for a small boat to take us about fifty miles south into Gravenna Bay. Our little skiff was towed behind all day, and at five o'clock in the evening we were informed by the captain that he was afraid to go up the bay any farther for fear of striking a rock. Consequently our camping outfit had to be piled into our dory in a pouring rain, and after the captain gave two gongs, as the pilot shouted, "Great luck, boys!" the tug left us and disappeared around the cape in the distance. And here we were, fifty miles from human habitation, dependent for our return to civilization upon making connections with this same little tug at its next visit a month later. Prepared for the rain with rubber boots and oilcoats, we pulled towards the head of the bay, before the wind and on a flowing tide, so that our little craft fairly glided over the water. About twilight we pitched camp in a drenching rain. If there is one thing more than another which dampens the enthusiasm for the wild, it is making camp with everything soaked. But by perseverance in due time we were getting our supper, snugly housed in our eight by ten tent, and happier than kings in a royal palace. To the music of the rain I soon fell asleep. In the morning consciousness was restored by the "quack, quack" of the ducks and the splash of the salmon running to their spawning ground,--the occasional wriggling splash of an old "humpback" who had run up the shore too far and was trying to get back into deeper water, the loud splash of the high jumper, and the faint swish of the thousands on their way to fresh water. After breakfast I donned my hunting outfit and strolled along the beach until I reached the mouth of a small creek which flowed into the bay. I was amazed at the number of humpback salmon (_Oncorhynchus gorbuscha_) ascending the stream to spawn, some green and fresh from the briny deep, others changed to a dark lead color by contact with the fresh water, and others, struggle-worn, almost without scales or skin to cover their bodies. They were running upstream by the thousands. [Illustration: Salmon Running Up Stream to Spawn] * * * * * [Illustration: Killing Fish with a Club] [Illustration: Gulls Feeding on Salmon] [Illustration: A Good Fisherman] [Illustration: Dogs Fishing for Salmon] There was a flock of red-breasted mergansers (_Merganser serrator_) on a pool nearby. I crept quietly to the brink, and, hat off, peeped over. After the shot was fired it was interesting to see the flock trying to dive; the fish were so thickly massed that the ducks could not get below the surface of the water. This disturbance caused a rush of the fish and they madly churned the water in their efforts to get away from an imaginary enemy. In shallow riffles the fish were so crowded that it was almost impossible to wade across the stream without being thrown by tramping upon them or tripped by others trying to get away. Closer observation showed them in pairs, rooting their noses into the sand and gravel to make a hole; in this the female deposited the eggs and the male covered them with a milky substance, both turning sideways at the same time and both flapping their tails in covering the spawn. Frequently I could see two males or two females fighting each other, striking with their tails and biting like dogs, trying to get possession of a hole in the sand in which the spawn might be deposited. Looking at the horde all tattered and torn, I could not but admire their pluck and perseverance in ascending the stream over stones and other obstacles, with scarcely enough water to cover half their bodies, in order that the laws of nature might be obeyed and the species propagated. When the tide went out many were caught high and dry on the shore, and became a prey for birds and beasts. Thousands of gulls gathered daily, feeding on the dead fish, and almost invariably picking out the eyes first, these being the choicest morsels, according to their taste. I have frequently come across fish still alive, though robbed of their eyes. Our first method of getting fish was to arm ourselves with clubs, walk into the shallow riffles, select some just fresh from the salt water and hit them with our clubs. We abandoned this method because several were killed before we got one that was fresh. We then tied a halibut hook on the end of a pole and, sitting on a rock, waited until a fresh fish appeared. As we caught sight of him some distance away we would gradually move the hook into position and land him. It rained for several days and nights, causing the water in the creek to rise very high and run with considerable current. At this time the shore was salmon-colored with eggs uncovered by the swift water. All the fresh streams near camp were so polluted with dead fish that the water could not be used, and we were obliged to go above for some distance to get pure water. * * * * * Before leaving Valdez we had taken a little walk out from town, and came across a small stream of pure ice-cold water that had its source in the snow of the mountain. Occasionally could be seen salmon returning to their spawning ground. I have no doubt that before Valdez was built the stream was famous for the annual hordes of fish that returned to spawn (and, as is believed by some, to die), but I was told that the number is getting less and less and now only a very few frequent the stream. While watching them our attention was drawn to a dog jumping into the water and others splashing about, dashing first in one direction and then another, trying to catch the fish. How amusing to see the fish dart between the legs of their would-be captors, out of the shallows and into deeper water! Occasionally the dogs would catch them and bring them to shore. Had we had the dogs with us at Gravenna Bay, what sport we might have had! [Illustration: Indian Hut] While writing my notes one evening I smelled something burning, and on turning around saw our bed all ablaze, caught by a spark from the wood fire. If the fire had caught in our absence it would have been a very serious matter. Imagine our predicament to have been without food and shelter, many miles from civilization. [Illustration: Indian Graves] On one of our side trips we happened upon an Indian and his family, living in a little hut constructed of logs and other materials. He could talk no English and we could not understand him. After exchanging several grunts and shaking hands we started to go, when we noticed his small boy coming towards us, holding out a paper in his hand. Opening it, we found the following written in a legible hand: "To all to whom these presents come: This is to notify all miners and trappers that there are bear traps set in these diggings." My guide was always more or less uneasy for fear of stepping into a steel trap set on a game trail along the stream. [Illustration: Indian Woman Repairing the Bidarka] The vegetation along the banks of the creek was almost tropical in its density, and when the fish were spawning, bear frequented the place to catch their prey, which they carried to the bank and devoured. Often we could see the remains of fish left partly consumed, indicating that the bears had been disturbed at their meal. Doubtless they had heard the commotion of the fish trying to get away from us as we ascended the stream. One day while paddling our little boat along the water's edge, my guide called attention to an object in the distance which I was unable to make out for some time, but which the experienced eye of the hunter had observed a long way off, though he was unable to determine exactly what it was. Finally, as we approached nearer, he exclaimed, "Caught his own dog!" and sure enough, there was the Indian's dog caught in the steel trap set for bear. The poor fellow was whining from pain, as though pleading with us to release him. I wanted the guide to take him out, but he said the dog might bite him and we had better notify the owner, for even if released the dog could never reach home in his present condition. While coming along he told the following story: "Several years ago there were two white men trapping on a little stream that emptied into the Copper River, and one of them was caught in a steel trap. The bones between the knee and the ankle were crushed where the huge iron jaws came together. After being in the trap for a long time, by almost superhuman efforts he succeeded in extricating his leg. Fortunately he was not far from his boat, and dragging himself over and under fallen trees he reached the dory, almost exhausted. Taking the oars he pulled several miles to reach his cabin. A day or two afterwards I happened along and found the man suffering great pain, and saw that unless the leg were taken off he would lose his life. We were a hundred miles from a doctor, and before aid could reach him he would have died. After talking the matter over with his partner, it was agreed that I was to cut the leg off in order to save his life, if possible. All the tools we had were a hunting knife and an old rusty saw which had hung in the cabin for several years. We boiled water to clean the tools as well as possible, inserted the end of the old saw in the fire to take off the rust, retempered the teeth in bear oil, got deer sinews ready to tie the arteries, and with these tools I cut the leg off. During the time I was at work the injured man frequently advised us what to do. He recovered from the operation in due time and is now alive and well." My guide afterwards pointed the man out to me. [Illustration: Sunrise] In this location we spent about a week. We had no difficulty in killing all the teal (_Nettium carolinensis_) and Canada geese (_Branta canadensis_) that we cared to eat, and, when the tide was down, in gathering all the clams desired. During the month that we spent in this part of the country it rained continually, night and day, with the exception of three days, which I spent in photographing. The sun would burst through the clouds like a huge search-light, casting its rays upon the tropical luxuriance of the underbrush, reflecting back a sparkling radiance from myriads of tiny rain-drops. We changed our camp occasionally for new grounds, and one evening we had pitched our tent without pinning it down. It was raining, as usual, and after eating a scanty meal we threw our blankets on the ground and retired early. Some time in the night I heard the crackling of the rank grass. My first impression was that there was a porcupine skulking near, but as we listened my guide said, "There's a bear outside!" We had thrown down on the grass at the edge of the tent what was left of a side of bacon, and Mr. Bruin was trying to get it from under the canvas. I immediately jumped up, grabbed my "405," and started towards the flap of the tent, but about the time I reached it there came two loud "woofs," accompanied by the sound of crashing bushes, and that was the last we heard of Old Bruin. [Illustration: Our Permanent Camp] At the head of one of the fiords in the neighborhood, there was a glacier of considerable size, and on looking over the desolation I half expected to find a glacier bear (_Ursus emmonsi_). Comparatively little is known about the habits of this animal. The only one in captivity is in the public park at Seattle. It is a fine specimen, and as it walks up and down behind the bars its wild nature seems to predominate in every movement. In the adjoining cages are black and grizzly bears, but they seem to be satisfied in captivity, while the glacier bear reminds one of a hyena as it paces from end to end, occasionally throwing its head into the air. The fur is a bluish black beneath, with outer grayish tips. In the early morning I started alone in the direction of the dead glacier, crossed the glacier stream easily to the opposite side, which looked more inviting of access, working my way up over the lateral moraine, searching among the crevasses, and now and again getting into a "pocket," from which I had to retrace my steps. Towards evening I turned homeward. When I reached the stream, I thought I had located the ford where I had previously crossed, but on making the attempt, I found the water too deep and swift. Many times I tried to cross at different points, thinking each time I had found the ford. I would wade out into the ice-cold stream until I felt the swift current almost lifting me off my feet, and then would make a hasty return. It was beginning to get dark and I was anxious to get home, so I lifted a large stone in my arm to give me additional weight and started toward a little eddy, cautiously feeling my way. When I reached the eddy I felt my feet sinking in the sand. My first thought was of a quick-sand, and I shall never forget the sensation as I hurriedly dropped the stone and made a mad rush for shore. However, I finally succeeded in reaching the other side safely. Before arriving at camp I heard the report of a gun from the direction of home, for the guide had grown uneasy and thought I was lost. A few more days' experience in the rain, among the glaciers, then we broke camp at high tide and drifted with the ebb flow out along the shore until we reached the outermost projection of rocks, and there awaited the return of the tug which would take us back to Valdez. CHAPTER II OBSERVATIONS ON KODIAK ISLAND [Illustration: An Island near Valdez] In the following spring, about the middle of May, we purchased an outfit at Valdez for a trip westward along the Alaskan peninsula. After being bottled up two days in the port of Valdez, we were anxious to get started. The steamer approached the narrow entrance to the harbor, with Fort Liscom, a Government post, on the left, and on the right glaciers and wooded foothills. As we neared the neck it looked as though the stopper was in the bottle and our exit barred by an island; but an abrupt curve at the entrance took us into Prince William Sound, and in due time along Knight's Island and Latouche Island, where copper is found in paying quantities. And here is the most beautiful glacier of Alaska, the Columbia, with its palisades at times advancing into the forest and at times receding. A large flock of phalaropes (_Phalaropus lobatus_) darting back and forth over the surface of the water, formed geometric figures in the most graceful manner; occasionally the gray back most conspicuous and then the silvery underside shining, each little plume helping to make one perfect reflection in the water as they move in regular form, without any disarranging of the original positions, until they alight gracefully on the water. The greater scaup-duck (_Aythya marila nearctica_), with its white spots so noticeable as it takes its occasional upward flight from the water, is always interesting. However, it prefers diving out of sight for a place of safety as the steamer approaches, coming to the surface from time to time until the boat is quite near, when, after a last long dive, it is off on the wing as fast as possible out of harm's way. In the distance to the westward as we entered Resurrection Bay, loomed up the majestic Cathedral Rock, towering skyward a thousand feet, with the Government survey cross on the top, and the roaring breakers washing its foot, filling the coast line with make-believe soap-suds. Near the water's edge the rocks were white with gulls mating for the nesting-time. With the consent of the captain a shot was fired in that direction, which struck the water some distance from the rock, and myriads of gulls took to wing with their wild cry of alarm. Some person shouted, "There's a whale!" and all were anxiously waiting for his reappearance, but his huge tail had disappeared to us for the last time. About this time a gull soared gracefully over the steamer and a fellow-passenger, rifle in hand, pointed the muzzle at the bird, and pulled the trigger, bringing down a feather from its wing. At the same time the first officer shouted, "Here, here! Don't shoot that gull! You'll bring us bad luck." There is a well founded superstition among the "old sea-dogs" that to kill a gull will bring bad luck. [Illustration: Sea Lion Rocks] About dusk, as we steamed westward, our attention was called to Sea Lion Rocks, and the genial Captain Jansen steered the ship within five hundred yards of the island in order that we might see the lions. The rocks were covered with the large animals, and they made such an uproar as we passed that they could be heard a long distance off above the noise of the breakers. Along the coast of Kenai Peninsula the mountains are covered with spruce, hemlock, and birch, until we enter Resurrection Bay, at the head of which Seward is built. The first time I visited Seward it was practically abandoned. It was the terminus of a new railroad in process of construction across the peninsula, having as its objective point the placer mines of the Susitna Valley. Like a great many other projects of this kind, there was not sufficient money subscribed to finish the undertaking, and the company was forced into the hands of a receiver. [Illustration: Seward] [Illustration: Seldovia] The next stop on our way west was Seldovia. The old Russian church where we attended services was built on a little knoll that overlooked the harbor, and from it we could see the native burial ground with its dilapidated grave marks. When we entered the church the natives did not seem to be much interested in us. While the sermon is being delivered the women occupy one side of the house and the men the other. During the services they paid close attention to what was going on. There were no seats in the church and all the parties stood during the entire time of worship. When the incense was being burned, filling the room with sweet fragrance, the expression on the features of the worshipers manifested a devout frame of mind and spirit not often in evidence. In the harbor were hundreds of gulls, floating leisurely on the surface of the water or standing on the logs that drifted with the tide. Among the passengers on the steamer was a delicate little lady with her three-year-old child, who was on the way to meet her husband at Iliamnia, some sixty miles across the bay. I remember how indignant the passengers were when they learned there was no person present to meet her when she arrived, and no prospect of her getting across Cook's Inlet for more than a week. A purse was raised among the passengers, all contributing, and with the aid of the captain of the revenue cutter, who in ordinary cases would take no passengers, the little lady was started on her trip across the Inlet the following morning, happy in the expectation of meeting her husband. [Illustration: Turbulent Shellicoff] [Illustration: The Ravens] While crossing the entrance to Shellicoff Straits we encountered a very rough sea and the steamer tossed and pitched among the billows. That evening, as we steamed towards Kodiak Island, the clouds were fringed with pink and purple and through a rift the sun illuminated sky and water with all the splendor and brilliance of those northwestern sunsets. Passing to the left of Afognak Island, we entered the harbor at Kodiak. The village, with its Greek church similar in structure to the old chapel at Sitka, is built on a plateau and surrounded with sloping, verdure-clad hills. The population consists of about four hundred, a few of them whites, the rest Aliutes and Creoles. The ravens (_Corvus corax principalis_) were very plentiful, and their croaking could be heard in all directions. One old fellow continually perched on the top of a shanty used as the district jail. Two of the prisoners were permitted to wander around, cut firewood for the warden, plant seed and the like. Once when the planter was putting in seed at one end of the row and the raven picking it out at the other, we heard the former call out, "Shoo, shoo, _you'll_ be put in jail for stealing next." We arrived in Kodiak on the morning of May 26th, and immediately began our preparations for the hunt. On our way up we became acquainted with the United States Marshal, who kindly invited us to stop at his home until we could arrange matters to go farther westward on the island, where we expected to hunt. My guide was a man who had spent his early life on the plains as a cow-puncher and trapper. One day he told me that he and a friend left their mountain camp to sell their winter's catch. It was getting less and less each year because of the slow but sure disappearance of wild life, as the white hunters and trappers increased and the demand for furs grew. He was in love with a daughter of the plains and had returned in the spring with the results of his winter's work, intending to lay his all at the feet of his lady love. The season had been against him in his search for furs. The heavy snows had kept the fox and lynx from making extensive forages from their dens, and the low temperature before the snow came froze the creeks so solid that the mink, otter, and beaver were forced to remain indoors the greater part of the time. The winter had been long and severe, the catch was poor, and he left his traps late in the spring when the pelts were beginning to look hairless. Thus he left his occupation in the solitude of the wilds with a heavy heart, for the previous fall when he bade adieu to his fair fiancée, full of hope and expectation, with the promise of a large yield, he was sure of sufficient funds to purchase a meager home. When he reached the frontier town he could not muster up courage enough to see her, but disposed of his stock, sold his outfit and all his belongings, and made a bee-line for California; thence he took the first steamer for the Yukon. About this time a strike was made at Nome and hundreds of gold seekers had gathered. There was a great demand for fresh meat, so he conceived the idea of constructing a raft in the upper waters, loading it with moose meat, and then floating the flat to Nome and getting rich quick. About the time he was ready to start with a full load, Congress passed an act making it unlawful to sell or have in possession any wild game. On his way down he was stopped at the Government fort, put under arrest, and his load confiscated. He argued his own case well, for he got off without imprisonment. After spending several years there he returned to Seattle, and sent for his little girl from Montana; they were united for better or worse, and together they left Seattle and landed on the Alaskan Peninsula, where they spent three years hunting and trapping. I visited their clean, tidy home in Seattle, was very much delighted, and spent many pleasant hours listening to the wife's stories of her experiences. Among other things she said: "My husband shot during the three years over one hundred of the big brown bear for the hides. My part was to assist him with the skinning and do the general housework. On one occasion he had shot a big bear and had placed his gun a short distance away while he proceeded to skin the animal. About the time the steel entered the skin the bear jumped up, uttered a hair-raising growl, and as I ran away, Grant grabbed his gun and finished the bear. I tell you that was exciting. For a whole year we did not see a soul at camp, and when we wanted provisions, Grant would make a trip across Akuton Pass to Unalaska to do the buying. One day he left me in the morning with a large Malamuth dog for my sole companion, saying he would return on the morrow. When the morrow dawned it brought with it one of the worst storms that had swept the coast for years, so bad that even one of the large steamers could not live it out, and was destroyed on the rocks nearby. The storm kept up for four days, and just imagine me alone during those four long, weary days, wondering if Grant had been lost, and what I would do if such were the case. "The dawning of the fifth day found me looking in the direction of Unalaska, hoping and praying that he might return safely. A little black speck in the blue distance caught my eye. At first I thought it was a bird skimming over the water, but as I looked again and again it seemed to float on the surface. My spirits rose, and the longer I looked the more certain I was that it was the little boat. Oh! what was my joy as the tiny object increased in size as it advanced nearer and nearer until I recognized the little dory and the frantic waving of hat and hands of Grant as he approached closer and closer! The climax came when I recognized his whoop, as he saw me standing on the beach with arms open to receive him, and woman-like, I proceeded to swoon away. "The very next trip I determined to go with him. We set sail in our little schooner with a strong fair wind, but before long a fierce gale struck us and was carrying us toward sure destruction on the reef, where the angry sea would have made kindling wood of our frail craft. We cast the anchor, but it dragged, dragged, and would not take hold, and all the while we were drifting nearer and nearer the reef. Grant had given up all hope, and said: 'Mollie, dear, it's all up! We're lost!' I encouraged him, saying that there was still hope, when, much to our relief, the anchor took hold and the bow turned to windward on the very verge of destruction. It held fast all night. As the dawn began to appear the wind shifted, and hoisting our little sail we tacked back and forth to Unalaska. We started on our return trip, but luck was against us; we were blown far out to sea, and for four long days and nights we drifted, we knew not where. Almost the entire time Grant had his head up through the hatchway, around his neck a canvas spread over the hatchway, to keep the breakers from filling the boat, and many, many times I cheered him with a cup of strong tea. Grant had given up all hope of reaching land, when gradually the wind shifted, blew from the opposite direction, and took us straight to shore." On one of their hunting trips to Knight's Island, Grant prospected a little on the side and staked a copper claim which "panned out" very well, but which eventually cost the life of a partner, who was caught in a snow slide the following spring. I bade her good-bye as we left Seattle, when she said: "Oh! how I long to return to Alaska! Before I went there I was a very delicate girl and had very poor health; in fact, the opinion of the family physician was that I did not have long to live; but roughing it in the open air seemed to be a tonic and built me right up. Is it any wonder I love Alaska and long for its wild free life?" * * * * * [Illustration: Kodiak] Kodiak is a charming little village. The natives are lazy and spend most of their time in fishing and hunting. We hired a couple of Aliutes, who owned a schooner, to take our equipment to the camping ground. Our course lay around the northeastern end of Kodiak Island, thence westward. After starting, we were becalmed for some time to leeward of the rocky coast. Along came a couple of natives, who towed us out a few hundred feet from behind the island, and presently the sails began to fill. As though it were human, the schooner responded to the gentle breezes and away we went toward the open seas. We had to round a distant point in order to get into another bay. With a fair southeast wind we dropped anchor at six o'clock some thirty miles west of Kodiak. We followed the shore line with its picturesque scenery of snow-clad hills covered with scrubby trees, mostly cottonwood and spruce. Here and there the tundra, like a great meadow fringed with alder, added charm and interest to the surroundings. The waters of Shellicoff Straits threw their breakers far up on the beach, and an occasional whale would spout in the distance. We passed an island covered with different species of gulls nesting on the rocks; it was just the beginning of the nesting season for aquatic birds. [Illustration: Gull Island] [Illustration: Forget-me-nots] After several days of these interesting sights, the sailboat entered a beautiful little fiord, where we cast anchor for the night. On the following day we landed our equipment, dismissed the Indians with their boat, and pitched our tent in a little sheltered nook among the cottonwoods, where we expected to spend several weeks in hunting and photographing the great Kadiak bear (_Ursus middendorff_). The snow had disappeared for about a third of the way up the mountain, visible beyond foothills densely overgrown with alder, elder, and other bushes. The rocky shore, treeless, save for a stunted cottonwood here and there, was covered with many varieties of beautiful spring flowers. A cluster of fragrant forget-me-nots among the mosses, another of crowfoot, with the long dry grass of the previous year for a background, and a bunch of pinks with a similar setting added life and color to the rugged surroundings. * * * * * [Illustration: Crow's Nest and Young] [Illustration: Nests of Eagle and Magpie] While climbing for a specially beautiful bunch of forget-me-nots I came across a crow's nest (_Corvus americanus_) under a ledge of rocks. In the nest were several young crows waiting for the mother bird to return to appease their hunger. The bald eagles (_Haliætus leucocephalus_) were very plentiful and there were several nests built in the vicinity. Never having had any experience with eagles rearing their young, I suggested to my guide that I would climb one of the trees to the nest and see what effect it would have upon the birds. He insisted that it was dangerous to climb the tree, but could not persuade me to forego the experience. At my request he stood guard near the foot of the cottonwood, with instructions to shoot the birds if they came too close. Taking off my shoes, coat, and hat, I started to climb the tree as the old birds were soaring quite a distance above. As I climbed higher and higher the birds came nearer and nearer, and when I was about half way up the guide tried to persuade me to come down, for the birds were getting dangerously close. When I had covered about two-thirds of the climb, one of the birds came so near that I could feel the wind from his wing, when "crack" went the gun and down went the bird. I remonstrated with him for shooting the bird, for it was not close enough to do any harm. He again insisted that I come down, saying that the other bird would strike me and knock me off the tree, but I still persisted in going higher, with the male coming nearer and nearer. On one of its circlings it struck me lightly on the head with the tip of its wing. The guide said, "Is that close enough?" and threw his gun up as though to shoot the bird, but I insisted that he should wait a little. All the time my eyes were fixed on the eagle. As he made the next swoop, if I had not dodged behind a limb he would surely have knocked me off with his wing. Again the gun cracked, the bird pitched head-on and, meteor-like, dropped to the ground with a thud. [Illustration: Eagle Watching for Prey] Climbing up to the nest, I found it was built of sticks. Some on the margin of the nest were as large as one's wrist, those nearer the center were smaller, while the nest proper was lined with grass. The nest over all had a diameter of about six feet. In it were three little eaglets, possibly two days old, and around the nest were the remains of several species of birds, such as ducks, ptarmigan, and kingfishers, also pieces of fish, to feed the young. When I saw the destruction of life I felt, in common with the guide, that eagles should not receive too much consideration at the hands of the Nimrod. He was anxious to shoot every eagle in sight, as he said many a nice piece of fur caught in his traps had been destroyed by them. Knowing that both the parent birds were dead, I thought it a pity to leave the young to die of starvation. Pulling my bandanna handkerchief out of my pocket, I carefully stowed away the little birds in the pack, swung it over my arm, and slid down to the ground. [Illustration: Eagle's Nest and Young] On the lower branches of the same tree a pair of magpies (_Pica pica hudsonica_) had built their nest in the usual way, covered over to the depth of at least a foot with limbs and sticks, its small entrance at the side, evidently in pursuance of the natural instinct of the birds for the protection of their nest and young. It occurred to me as strange that both of these birds, carnivorous and well known as destroyers of eggs and nests, seemed to live happily together, though the eagle, if it so desired, could have destroyed the nest of the magpie with one grip of its powerful talons. We took the young eagles to camp, fed them for several days, and the amount they could devour of fresh codfish, cut up in large chunks, was surprising. They would fill their craws so full that they looked like pouter pigeons. [Illustration: First Sight of Day] For several days we observed with the field-glass that a bald eagle had built its nest away up among the crags at the end of a projection on one of the peaks. We noticed that the old bird spent a great deal of time on the nest, and we knew she was hatching. After discussing the matter, we decided to take the young eagles and put them in the nest to be reared by the foster-mother. About dawn we started for the eyrie on the cliffs, with our kodak, gun, and the young eaglets. After climbing three or four hours we reached a point above the rocks, and then by advancing cautiously, sliding and crawling, we safely reached the nest. I had given the guide positive instructions that he was under no circumstances to kill the old birds, but scare them away by shooting into the air occasionally. He took a position a little above where he could command a good view of the birds and keep guard over me while I was photographing the nest. There were two pale buff eggs (size 2.75 � 2.10) in the nest, and while I was arranging my camera an occasional report from the gun in the hands of the guide kept the eagles at a respectful distance. While setting up the kodak I heard the "peep, peep" of the little eaglets in the eggs trying to get the first sight of day, and about the time everything was ready to take the picture the egg cracked, with the result that I obtained a picture of the little bird just coming out. We left our two little eagles with the others, worked our way down the mountain-side, and since then I have often wondered if the foster-mother reared the young. [Illustration: Sea Parrot Incubating] We decided to change our camping-ground into the adjoining fiord. Taking the twenty-foot tide at flood, as we thought, we were a little slow in starting, had some difficulty getting out, and before we reached deep water were caught and left high and dry on a shoal, where we were obliged to remain for several hours, waiting for the return of the tide. During the interim we waded to shore and scoured the neighboring hills in search of some evidence of Bruin. We found none, and by the time we came back to the water's edge, the tide had set in so far that we were forced to wade for a quarter of a mile to our boat. The latter was heavily loaded, but as the current caught it, it moved gently at first, then at last cleared the sandbar. With a strong wind blowing, we were carried out to the promontory just about the time the tide was turning and the flood tide carried us up to the head of the adjoining bay. The breakers were running high on the point and it was with the greatest difficulty that we were able to get around with our dory. Frequently the wind blew the spray all over us, and by the time we reached the return tide on the other side I was greatly exhausted and gave a sigh of relief, for conditions were such that we were afraid our little dory could not stand much more of the kind of sea that was running. Once around on the other side the wind changed, and with the inflow of the tide and our little leg-of-mutton sail, we were carried with race-horse speed to the head of the bay. We steered for a small island, and as we approached, many gulls, sea-parrots, and ducks were flying around the bay. We landed the dory on the beach, and climbed the rocks while the birds hovered about us by the thousands, uttering their shrill cries of alarm as we gathered a few fresh eggs for breakfast on the morrow. Sea-parrots (_Fratercula arctica_) were quite numerous, and many left their holes in the rocks, startled no doubt by the warning given by the gulls. Peeping down into one of the crevices I discovered a sea-parrot's nest with the female sitting on it. In order to get in to the nest it was necessary to pass horizontally between the rocks and drop vertically about five feet into a small, cavern-like space. Being anxious to photograph the nest, I discarded a part of my clothing, entered the hole feet first, with the guide holding on to me until my feet reached solid ground. Having a pair of buckskin gloves on my hands I caught the parrot, and at the same time the parrot caught me with its powerful beak, and if it had not been for the gloves I would have received an ugly bite. I handed the bird and her one dull-white-and-lilac-marked egg to the guide, who placed the bird in my kodak box until he helped me out. I had considerable difficulty in getting out at the hole by which I had entered, for to do so it was necessary for my body as it emerged to be at right angles with the wall rock. When I did succeed in getting out, with the aid of my guide pulling and tugging, I was minus considerable clothing. [Illustration: Sea Parrot's Nest and Egg] * * * * * A little farther down the rocks we came to a white tern's nest (_Gygis alba kittlitzi_), viz, an egg laid upon the bare rock without a vestige of any structure. In color it was bluish white, with large liver-colored spots. It is said of these birds that are very reckless in laying their eggs, at times selecting a bare limb, and how they succeed in incubating under certain conditions is remarkable. [Illustration: Characteristic Nest of _Gygis_] [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Herring Gull] We passed about two weeks in this location in the most ideal weather, without pitching tent, sleeping on the ground rolled in our blankets, our canopy the heavens glittering with myriads of stars overhead. The days were long and we spent most of our time from two o'clock in the morning until eleven at night where the bear love to roam. They were just coming out of hibernation and had not yet started to feed. During my brief experience I observed from the tracks in the snow that the bear do not eat anything for the first two or three days, then gradually descend toward the snow-line and begin to nip the new grass. While the salmon run their principal diet is fish. With the glasses we could see several trails of Old Ephraim where he came over the very highest peaks of the snow-capped range, quartering down and again returning to the higher altitudes, where he evidently spent his time at this season of the year. On one occasion we pitched camp about dusk, ten o'clock, and having gathered a good supply of last year's ferns for bedding, rolled ourselves up in our blankets and forgot we were tired until five o'clock the next morning. A good hot breakfast limbered up our stiff joints considerably, and in about an hour we were starting for the trails in the snow of the summit. Up we went, steadily and slowly, at an angle of forty-five degrees until we reached the snow-line, when we struck the bear trail where he first had descended the mountain. A part of the time he had come down on his tail, judging from the slides we found occasionally. He had circled around quite a distance and ascended again without even nipping a blade of grass, although in the snow-slides the grass was beginning to grow. Taking the trail we started after him up the mountain, but a more difficult task one could not well imagine. Part of the time the wet snow was up to our waists and all the time over boot-tops. Up and up we went on the trail until we reached the drift snow of the side summit, where we were obliged to crawl on hands and knees in order to get over. Then our task was easy for some time and we found many old trails on the top. We were satisfied that the bears were not yet feeding. * * * * * Returning along the mountains we saw quite a few small snow-slides. On one occasion while crossing between two ridges my companion startled me by shouting, "Run, for Heaven's sake!" At the same time he made a dash towards the ridge. My first thought was, "A bear!" But almost instantly I realized our danger, as a snow-slide that had started above from some unknown cause, came thundering down, almost upon us. (It is said that under certain conditions the report of a gun may start a slide.) As it descended, gathering speed and bulk and as the loose snow slid over the hard crust, it sounded like a strong wind roaring through the trees. In speaking about his long experience in Alaska, my guide informed me that he was more afraid of a snow-slide than of all the grizzlies in the country. He said that in the spring of '98, in what was known as the Sheep Creek slide on the Chillcoot Pass, he helped to dig out of the snow fifty-two dead bodies of gold-seekers who were caught on the trail in a big snow-slide, among them being one woman. [Illustration: Our Camp among the Cottonwoods] The next morning, just as soon as the regular routine of getting breakfast was over, we again started up the mountains in search of the quarry. The hunting was the hardest I have ever experienced, the mountains being a series of peaks and hollows, at the base covered with a dense growth of alder and underbrush, the rocks and crevices hidden beneath moss, dry ferns, and leaves. As we ascended we found less moss and alder and more long grass. The snow had packed the latter flat on the earth and it was as slippery as ice. At each step we were sure to slide if the greatest effort and care were not taken. When we reached the snowy top, as far as the eye could see, peak after peak pushed its head above the clouds, looking like huge sentries, standing guard over an untrodden domain. We scrutinized every suspicious-looking object with the field-glasses in the hope of descrying a bear. Working our way down over the snow, occasionally sliding "hunker" fashion or dropping into a hole between the rocks, greeting with a quiet "damn" an alder switch in the eye or a devil's club jagger in the hand, we finally reached the valley. Along the shore of the stream I observed the beaten paths that the bear had worn to a depth of twenty inches at places, evidently where they had been travelling up and down the stream fishing for many years. Each morning as soon as we opened our eyes we reached for the field-glasses and carefully scanned the mountain-sides for fresh signs. One morning the guide, after looking long and carefully, called my attention to three bears circling up the mountain. We watched them climb higher and higher until they finally disappeared over the backbone of the ridge just about the time we were ready to follow. The foothills were covered at least a third of the way with dense alder and other tangled underbrush that made it very difficult to get through. By the time we reached the snow-line we were tired out and stopped a short time for a rest. Occasionally a ptarmigan would start up, uttering its plaintive, croaking notes as it took to wing. Some were all white in their winter coats, others were partly in their brown summer plumage. Again we plowed our way up through the soft snow, sinking deeper and deeper as we ascended the mountain, a hot sun adding to our discomfort. The guide was in advance and I followed, stepping in his tracks. Even with our snow glasses it was almost impossible to see. The glitter of the snow affected the eyes, though the eyelids, heavy and red, were almost closed and the tears trickled down our cheeks. Half the time I could not see at all. Sometimes the guide would go into the snow up to his knees and again to his waist into a crevice, which could then be avoided by his follower. Plodding along we reached almost the top of the snowy peak, now enveloped in a canopy of fog, and there we were in the midst of a snowstorm that was so dense we could scarcely see, and all that I could distinguish was a black object about three feet in advance. Finally the guide called out that it was foolishness for us to track the bear under present conditions, and suggested that we circle around the peak and catch their trail on the other side. In a short time we were out of the snowstorm and, tramping around the cone of the mountain, struck the trail, which went straight down the other side toward the valley. Occasionally one of the bear would take a notion to sit down and slide many yards. This habit rubs the hair off rapidly, and if they are not killed shortly after they leave winter quarters the hide is practically ruined. When we got down below the snow-line the bear took to the alder, where we found it was much more difficult to follow the trail. About noon we took off our shoes, wrung out our socks, now soaking wet with snow water, and hung them up to dry while we slept for about three hours on the bare ground. Then we took the trail again across the opposite mountain, but finally had to give up, for we were unable to overtake the game. [Illustration: An Extinct Crater where the Bear Hibernate] Two days afterwards we started up the valley, when the guide happened to look back and pointed out a large bear ascending the mountain about half a mile behind us. Through the field-glasses we watched him climbing; frequently he would look back,--evidently he had gotten a whiff of us as we passed him in the valley below. Occasionally he would disappear behind a little knoll and again appear, at the same time gradually ascending the mountain. Finally he went out of sight behind a knoll and we waited for about twenty minutes to see if he would show himself again before we started after him. We concluded that he had lain down on the knoll, and after fixing the location as best we could, we started to climb the mountain, first through the thick alder until we reached the snow-line, then plowing our way through the snow, using the guns for alpenstocks, as the climbing was very difficult. When we reached the knoll where the bear was concealed we advanced cautiously, puffing like "wind-jammers"--full of excitement at the thought of the quarry being so near. [Illustration: Where He Fell] The guide was just pointing out to me the back track in the snow beyond, when old Bruin raised up on his hind quarters, opened his mouth, and let out two of the most awful growls one could imagine. At the same time the guide exclaimed, "Get to him, there he is!"--only his language was a little more forcible. With that the bear dropped on all fours, head advanced as though he was going to charge. Before I had time to take a shot he wheeled, disappeared for a second in a little depression beyond, reappeared on the other side at a distance of about forty yards, going down the mountain at a rapid gait. I fired my first shot from a "405," but there was no indication that I had touched the mark. I pumped in another shell and fired again, with no better results; again I threw the gun to my shoulder, pulled the trigger, but there was no explosion. I must have been a little excited, for I did not push the lever far enough, consequently it did not throw the shell into the chamber. My guide by this time was very much excited and insisted upon taking a shot, while I demanded one more chance. All this time the bear was going down the mountain-side at a rapid pace. By the time he was a hundred yards away I fired the last shot and he made one headlong plunge into the snow. Much to my surprise, although I had frequently heard of the remarkable vitality of the grizzly, we found upon examination that the first shot had passed through the heart and through the entire body, as indicated by the hole on the other side. The second time I fired I overshot and the last charge quartered through the lungs and came out at the left shoulder. Thus he had run at least fifty yards after receiving his death wound, and I have no doubt would have run a long way if it had not been for the last shot that brought him down. We left the bear where he fell in order to get a photograph, and it was necessary to make a special trip back with the kodak, which we did the following day. [Illustration: Stretched Bear Skins] Working our way down the mountain trail to the valley we ate our lunch, and took a nap. On awakening we advanced toward the head of a beautiful little lake artistically located in a basin of half snow-clad hills. The silence, save for the crackling cry of the ptarmigan (_Lagopus lagopus_) as they left their snowy bed in great alarm, was awe-inspiring. A little beyond the head of the lake we were confronted with a mountain stream which to me looked impassable owing to the swiftness of the current. In a few seconds the guide stepped into the ice-cold water, at the same time commanding me to get on his back, and in this way he ferried me across with the water almost carrying him off his feet. Later in the afternoon our progress was again checked by a torrent, the sight of which caused me to say, "It's impossible for us to cross this stream, we'll have to go back the way we came." My companion followed the stream up and down a short way until finally he came to a cottonwood tree about two feet in diameter. Taking his coat off and reaching for the small axe in his belt, in a short time he felled the tree right across the creek, and by this footbridge we passed over without any difficulty. About ten o'clock in the evening, as we worked our way down the precipitous chasm, we came upon an obstacle that we could not overcome. The gorge was perhaps ten feet wide and we were working our way along on the left of the stream. As we rounded a curve we found that just ahead the course of the torrent was deflected by a boulder on the right, so that it rushed to the left and point blank against a projecting rock directly in our path, effectually cutting off our progress. It was quite an undertaking to get out of the pocket we were in, and it required the alternate assistance of each to accomplish the undertaking. With occasionally a boost and then a pull, and so on, we finally climbed pretty well up to the top, where we could start anew down to the shore a little beyond the canyon. By this time the shadows cast by the midnight sun were lengthening fast. We began to realize our position, tired and hungry, without food, waiting around the camp fire for six hours for the ebb tide that we might get over to our boat. The guide could not content himself very long and started to work his way around a rock projection. In the undertaking he fell into the water, and instead of trying to get out, made a bold dash across the stream and pulled himself up on the rocks on the opposite side like a half-drowned rat. In a short time he returned with the boat and ferried your humble servant across. By this time it was getting quite cold and he was threatened with chills, so to keep up the circulation he applied the oars furiously to reach our tent, which fortunately was not far away. Hurriedly changing his clothing and wrapping himself up in blankets, he brought on the reaction about the time I had a pot of strong hot tea ready to administer. On our wanderings around the island we frequently came upon an abandoned winter home of the natives. They fish and trap principally, for a livelihood. Early in the fall they take their families into some remote nook, build a _barabara_ out of logs, thatch the entire outside surface with native red-top hay to keep out the cold, and pile large logs all over the hay to keep it from blowing away. They dry salmon, cod, and flounders for their winter supply. When the fur becomes prime they set their traps for fox, ermine, and land otter, and in this way eke out a miserable existence. It is said of them that in their early days they were honest to a fault, theft being punished by death, but on associating with the whites they acquired all the faults of the latter with none of the good. [Illustration: Indian Barabara] [Illustration: Kodiak Island Pinks] The dawn of another day brought a hazy sky and the indications foretold wet weather. True to our expectations it rained the greater portion of the day. In the afternoon it cleared up somewhat and towards evening the sun came out bright. We then visited Gull Island to get a few fresh eggs for breakfast. The Arctic tern (_Sterna paradisæa_) had a large community on the rocky island. When we approached they hovered over us in great numbers. The kittiwakes (_Rissa tridactyla_) also had a colony. In many nests on the island, the eggs were blotched and streaked in various shades. They were about the size of an ordinary hen egg, were palatable, and we used quite a number to make pancakes. After photographing several nests with eggs and a few wild flowers that grew very abundantly on the rocks near the water's edge, we returned to camp, had supper, consisting of eggs, bear steak, etc., after which we retired for the night about ten o'clock, it being still almost daylight, for during June the days are twenty-two hours long. We again desired to change our camp into the adjoining bay, so we pulled stakes and started for a fifteen-mile trip. The tide was in our favor, but with a head wind we pulled our little dory down to the turning point, where tide and wind helped us on our way. When we were about half-way up we came upon a camp of Italian fishermen who had just arrived from "Frisco" to fish for salmon during the season's run. We turned our boat towards shore and landed to meet our neighbors. They were a villainous-looking lot, about two dozen in all, and could speak no English, except the foreman, and we could understand him only with difficulty. We succeeded in letting him know we were anxious to have a few fish for supper, and soon several of the men were making a haul with the seine for our special benefit, so we had all the fish we wanted. After exchanging compliments, our little sail was hoisted, and as the boat sped over the water we waved a good-bye to the "bunch," although we understood they wanted us to spend the night with them. Before we had gone very far the wind died down to a gentle breeze, and much to our disappointment we had to take down our sail, for it flapped around like a wounded bird, here, there, and everywhere, without wind enough to make it taut. We took the oars about seven o'clock and before long the water became so calm that the snow-capped mountains reflected their peaks on the waters of the bay, seeming to use the smooth surface for a mirror, as they stood majestic in their garments of white. We rode along in silence, hour after hour, past the huge mountains of granite, slate, and sandstone, with here and there a stringer of quartz. I could not but wonder what a force must have been at work to have caused such an upheaval. Beautiful clusters of pink, yellow, and purple flowers were clinging to the perpendicular face of the rocks, and relieved much of the severity of outline. As we advanced toward the head of the bay, the eagles, in their solitude perching here and there on the topmost pinnacles, eyed us with suspicion. Now and again one would leave the cliff, soar round and round overhead until we passed out of sight, doubtless wondering what strange creatures these were. We arrived at the head of the bay about midnight in this land of twilight, and soon had a good wood fire alongside a big cottonwood tree, where with "spuds" and flounders, hard tack and a tin of hot "Old English Breakfast," we were quite contented. After a corncob pipe and a short story or two, we threw our blankets on the beach and were quickly in the Land of Nod. The next morning we were up about the time the sun was casting his rays over the eastern snow-capped peaks. What a picture for an artist! If painted true to nature almost any person would say, "Overdrawn, overdrawn!" yet with the deep blue sky for a background, the white mountains in bold relief, pushing their tops into the blue, and the green foothills and the placid waters of the bay in the foreground, how could the scene be overdrawn? In that dawn of morning the flight of ducks to and from the feeding grounds was numerous, the most conspicuous of them all being the harlequin duck (_Histrionicus histrionicus_) because of the prominent black and white stripes. It builds its nest along the mountain stream which dashes and tosses down the gorge, and when the young are hatched leads them to the sea. Just as soon as we got a bite to eat, with our rifles and field-glasses we started for our daily hunt. On our way up the mountain a little brown body streaked with black fluttered out from beneath a tuft of grass underneath the pussy willows. Stooping and separating the dry grass, we exposed the four whitish eggs of the white-crowned sparrow (_Zonotrichia leucophrys_). In about an hour we saw a large bear traveling at a rapid gait--at times running--along the mountain just at the snow-line. We sat down and watched him through the glasses, hoping he would soon find a place to his liking to take a little snooze. After paralleling the entire base of the mountain he passed behind a small group of rocks and emerged on the other side against the snow, where we could see him very plainly as he turned back toward the rocks. We were quite sure he had found a bed that would suit his purpose. We knew if he once lay down he was more than likely to stay for a long nap. In about twenty minutes we started after Old Bruin in earnest. Into alder and elder we plunged, plodding along just as fast as we could, bringing out the perspiration in beads on our red faces. The sun was very hot and our tramp was difficult,--over rocks, under limbs, using the toes of our guns as alpenstocks, we puffed and blew, going higher and higher. "Oh, how deceiving!" often I thought as we climbed each little knoll, only to find on arriving at the top that our objective point was still in the distance. To be sure, we rested many times before we reached the place. The uncertainty of the wind annoyed us greatly, and often the only way we could tell how it was blowing was by tossing a few crushed leaves into the air. After two hours' hard work we arrived at the place best suited for us to get a shot at Mr. Bear, when he should leave the thickest of the alder. We maneuvered around the top a considerable time, found his trail following a ravine up the mountain, and in this way he reached the opening of an extinct crater. At the very time when we were expecting a shot at any minute, he must have been on the other side of the mountain. Wearily we slipped, slid, and tramped our way down. By the time we reached camp, hungry and tired, it was well along in the afternoon. After getting something to eat we took a couple of hours' nap, and again watched the foothills in the hope of discovering the object of our search, but in vain. We had several beautiful days; in fact, the middle of the day was too hot to hunt with any comfort. If you had been watching, you might have seen a solitary pair wending their way up along the river flat; one tall and well built in proportion, with a broad-brimmed western hat on his head, the other small in stature, with a small slouch hat set on the back of his head, one carrying a Winchester and the other an Eastman kodak. If you had observed closely, you would have noticed that both hats were constantly turning in a semicircle from side to side, as the eyes were busy scanning every direction, expecting that the quarry would put in an appearance somehow, somewhere; for we had arrived at the conclusion that we would have to work harder in order to get a big specimen of the Kodiak bear. We followed the river valley for ten miles without seeing any fresh signs. About noon we ate our lunch, stretched out in the warm sun, and slept peacefully for several hours, then turned towards camp, hunting on our way back. Up to this time the bear seemed to live up on the very tops of the mountains and occasionally to come down about the snow-line and again return. We had several wild-goose chases after them, only to discover that they were somewhere else. Now we noticed they were beginning to feed on the grass and come down into the valley. The leaves were pretty well developed by this time. Hunting big bear in the alder is very dangerous sport, for at any minute a big she with her cubs might rise up close by and make a charge. If our guns should catch in the brush, the jig would be all up, for the bear are large and hard to stop at close range. My guide said that not many men will hunt them in this way and told me he had had several narrow escapes himself. On one occasion he dropped a big fellow right at his feet. They vary in size; the largest skin in the picture on page 105 measured eleven by nine feet. They also vary in color from a dark brown to yellow. The specimens I have seen have a tawny crescent just back of the neck. The natives do not hunt the bear by following them through the brush, and have a wholesome fear of stalking them afoot. I have been told that the only way they will hunt is to follow the coast line in a _bidarka_, and when the bear come out to feed on the fish along some stream they kill them. My guide, who has had a great deal of experience with the natives of the peninsula, told me that he could sell all the bear intestines to the natives, getting a good price for them. Out of these intestines they make water-proof coats, called _kamlaykas_. In the early spring they examine the intestines very carefully. They consider that in bear killed as soon as they come out of hibernation the intestines are useless, for they believe the bear retire to their winter quarters in the fall gorged with fish. The fish bones perforate the intestines and it takes several weeks for them to heal enough to make the best water-proof coats. We worked our way up to the snow-line and hunted until ten o'clock without getting a sight of one, although we trailed a large bear a long way through the grass. They are great tramps and will travel many miles without stopping. Where this one crossed the creek the water was not yet dried on the leaves when we came up. For four days the weather was fine and as it was not necessary to put our tent up, a great deal of time could be saved in this way. On our wandering about the island, about five o'clock one evening the fishermen's camp was reached and they treated us royally, gave us a square meal of candle fish, some tobacco, sugar and tea, and sent us on our way rejoicing. We pulled along all day without any incident of much interest. Once two bald eagles soared over our heads, and my guide could not resist the temptation. Up went his rifle and three times in succession the shot brought some feathers out of the wings, while the fourth brought the bird pitching headlong into the bay. At one point we watched an eagle in the air with two crows after him. It was evident the crows had their nest nearby and the eagle had ventured too near. The crows seemed to have the best of the fight, for they would take turns in darting down on their foe, while the eagle seemed to be helpless in the air, for the crows would strike and be away before he could harm them. Now our thoughts turned homeward, but we realized that it would take some time to pull with oars seventy or eighty miles in a dory to Kodiak. Breaking camp one morning about two o'clock, we tried to get out with the tide, but unfortunately we were caught on the flats and were forced to spend six hours until the tide returned. Being anxious to get home as soon as possible, we were using every effort to gain time, and one little experience we had I shall not forget as long as I live. The wind had been blowing a gale all day, and about nine o'clock in the evening, after making slow progress, we came to a point which would require us either to lie by for the balance of the night, then follow the shore line for about ten miles, or cross directly over a distance of about three miles to the other side of the bay. The wind had died down considerably and was blowing toward us from the other shore; we were anxious to cross and discussed the advisability of trying it, finally deciding that we could do so safely. With both at the oars, the dory loaded to within three or four inches of the water, and the breakers running, we started across and got along fairly well until we were about midway over. We naturally expected the whitecaps would diminish in size and the wind would be going down, when to our dismay the wind rose, the waves grew more boisterous, and about every seventh wave would toss part of its volume clear over us. Occasionally I would ship the oars, grab the tomato can, and bail frantically until the water was almost all out,--then to the oars again to assist in keeping the boat under control. My companion was skillful in handling the boat, and while I was bailing out the craft he had to make desperate efforts to keep the bow cutting the rollers diagonally; but gradually the wind seemed to get the boat out of its safest course, and then I had to take up the oars and help to right her again. To say the least, I realized the predicament we were in. At the time, I had almost given up the idea of reaching the shore in safety, and one who has never had a similar experience cannot understand the feeling of hope that rose within us as we advanced nearer the other side. While we were still battling with wind and wave, I promised myself that if we reached safety I would never again risk a similar experience, and yet on the following day we pulled the boat fourteen miles across the mouth of another such bay, with the water as smooth as glass all the way over. Knowing the rapidity with which the wind can rise over those treacherous straits and the risk we were taking after the experience of the previous day, neither of us spoke more than half a dozen words during the entire time until we landed safely. Returning at last to Kodiak, we caught a boat for Valdez, whence we engaged passage on the homeward cruise. Taking the outside route from Valdez to Seattle, we experienced a rough voyage. At the captain's table were seated about a dozen passengers, all in high spirits in anticipation of reaching home, and thankful that we had not taken passage on the _Valentia_, the preceding steamer, which was wrecked on the rocks before it got rightly started. One by one the members of the party would fail to put in an appearance on account of seasickness. One day the captain complimented the author on being such a good sailor, but in answer I suggested that he wait a little. I felt it coming on, and sure enough the captain had the table to himself at the very next meal. One night while lying in my bunk I was aroused from a doze by a shout from the occupant of the under bunk: "There's a rat in your bed! There's a rat in your bed!" I looked out to see my informant standing on a chair. In a short time we had a light, and in the bunk we found a Mother Carey's chick that had been attracted by the light on the boat and entered the room. We caught the little bird and kept it until morning. It seemed not to be disturbed by our attentions, indeed was content to cuddle down in our hands. Its apparent tameness was probably due to the fact that its habits are partly nocturnal. After three or four stormy days, with the sea running high and breaking in whitecaps over the deck, not a thing to be seen save the sailors and the albatross following in the wake of the steamer, we reached the port of Seattle. The vision and the sensation of the tossing and pitching waters remained with us, and on landing we found that our "sea legs" made walking on terra firma a very awkward process. CHAPTER III HUNTING BIG GAME ON THE KENAI PENINSULA We arrived at Seldovia, on Cook's Inlet, on the evening of August 28th. Between the steamer landing and the town, a creek, unbridged as yet, enters the bay, and except at ebb tide the passengers are compelled to cross the arm of the bay by rowboat. The tide being then at flood, it was necessary to get a dory before we could reach the village. One of the natives who hailed from the cannery nearby was the proud owner of an old dugout. We knew the water was quite shallow across the arm of the fiord, yet some of the party were fearful of the craft. We all got into the boat, and how quickly the inexperienced displayed their awkwardness. Instead of stepping carefully to the center they landed on the side, causing the dugout to ship water. After righting matters we started across, when "Clumsy," in trying to make himself comfortable, rocked the craft and "Timid" gave peremptory commands to return, which we did. Two of the party got out and the rest were landed safely on the other shore. In a few hours we were all aboard a home-made tug of six tons burden, called the _Bydarky_, and on our way up the inlet some sixty miles to Kenai. We retired to our bunks shortly after the boat got under way, and when we awoke in the morning we were lying at anchor near the beach at Kenai. The captain of the boat, being very anxious to get out on the tide, asked us to unload our duffel as quickly as possible, so that he might start at once. In our haste we overlooked Doc's hand satchel but did not discover this until too late. Kenai is a little village built on a plateau overlooking the inlet, a sixty-foot sand embankment down to the water's edge, lending it the appearance of a fortified town. We ascended the road, entered the post-office and store, and began to make inquiries about guides, boats, and equipment. We soon learned that we could get white guides for ten dollars per day and "keep," and natives for five dollars; white packers for five dollars per day and "keep," natives for three dollars. After scouring the village we found two licensed native guides and two packers and gave them instructions to get our boats and provisions ready as quickly as possible, so that we could leave on the next flood tide for the Kenai River. In selecting guides and packers, I think it is a mistake to take natives, as they are naturally indolent, lack the interest the white man has in his work, are over-sensitive about their treatment, and sulk upon the least provocation; and then one never can impress upon them the eagerness of the party to secure, in the limited time at its disposal, photographs of big game in its natural haunts, or a desirable trophy. Time is the only object to them when they are out with a party at five dollars a day. To illustrate, on this occasion we had made an agreement with the head guide that the packers would go with us for three dollars a day and "keep," but we were not out more than a three days' "line" of the river until they demanded three fifty, and when refused began to sulk and lag behind with their work, and for fear they would leave us before we got up the river we were obliged to grant their demand. Indeed, they will sometimes purposely lead parties away from the best game country in order to keep them out as long as possible. The evening before we arrived at Kenai, two miners had come to town for provisions and had sold their dust. They then started out for a good time, landed in a "joint," consumed all the "houch," after which they proceeded to "paint the town red." They succeeded fairly well, ended up with broken heads and limbs, and with a bullet in the breast of one. In the village was a doctor, some eighty years of age, who had long been in the habit of locating for the summer at Kenai to practice medicine. When the old man learned that there was a doctor in our party he looked us up and invited a consultation. Doc accepted the invitation, and on examination found the lead had entered the side, glanced around the ribs, and embedded itself in the muscles. He was very much surprised to find that the patient was wrapped in an extremely dirty towel, and everything was filthy. He said to the local physician, "Are you not afraid of the wound becoming infected?" Whereupon the latter informed him that no pus ever formed in wounds in that country and that infection was unknown. Our doctor made considerable inquiry about the matter, for he was very much interested, and learned that this was true. The man who did the shooting was arrested and placed in the custody of the town bailiff, but was permitted to roam over the country at will. The authorities well know, and so do the prisoners, that it would be suicide of the worst form for the guilty to try to escape to the woods, for it means death of the most horrible sort--by exposure and starvation. The only avenue of escape was by boat that left twice a week. Inquiring about the case on our return trip, we learned that the commissioner had arrived, a day was fixed for hearing, the testimony was beyond a doubt conclusive against the prisoner, and he was held without bail for trial at Valdez, whither he was taken by the commissioner. However, the injured man recovered and the gallows was again defrauded. Our party consisted of four, and for brevity's sake we will call them "Doc," "Old Sourdough," "Cheechalker," and "Esau." The provisions had all been purchased at Seattle and packed carefully in water-proof bags and cans. Many and varied were the suggestions made by the party as to what should be taken along. Doc suggested talcum powder, frostilene, and vaseline, with pills of various colors, red, white, and blue. He had a special satchel well filled with antiseptics, anodynes, astringents, styptics, and bactericides, but unfortunately for his peace of mind he discovered, too late, that the precious satchel had been left on the _Bydarky_, the little boat that brought us over from Seldovia to Kenai, and there were no immediate prospects of recovering the important parcel. Doc looked wistfully after the little boat disappearing in the distance as it plowed its way through the tide-rifts, and submitted with such grace as he could command to the chaffing of his companions. By way of firearms Cheechalker (northern name for "tenderfoot") had quite an assortment,--a ten-gauge shotgun with five hundred rounds of ammunition, one Springfield army rifle, model of 1909, a Winchester .30-.30, and several others. Cheechalker insisted upon his tin bathtub, but Old Sourdough finally pacified him with a description of a bath _à la Wilderness_. This is accomplished by erecting a tepee, like that the Indians build, around a fire in a small depression filled with stones, then, when the bather is ready, removing the fire and pouring water on the stones, thus producing steam enough to open the pores of the skin, after which a good rubbing at the hands of an Indian valet completes the ablution. In this way one might get along for a few weeks at least without his tub. For this substitute Cheechalker finally consented to give up the useful article. [Illustration: Kenai River] Esau carefully selected a prospector's pick, gold pan, and shovel to do a little prospecting on the side. In his telescope he had his toothbrush, comb, hair-brush, manicure set, etc., which he considered absolutely necessary for his personal comfort. He also carried his own knife and fork, tin cup, and tin plate, each artistically marked with his own symbol. Old Sourdough watched these arrangements with an expression of disgust. He carried a red bandanna handkerchief dangling from his belt, containing his change of socks, some smoking tobacco, and matches. Later he improvised a very serviceable pipe by fitting a shot cartridge shell with a split willow stem, artistically wrapped with thread. After the packing was completed we embarked upon the Kenai River in two twenty-foot dories, with the tide in our favor. The river meandered like a wriggling snake for about a mile through the marshy flats; beyond, the shore was lined to the water's edge with cottonwood, birch, and spruce. On our way, ducks, geese, and many other water-fowl were flushed by the noise of the oars in the locks and the splash of the blades as they dipped into the water. The guides were making all haste, being anxious to get as far up the river as possible, knowing it was no mean task to pull, line, and pole the mile or more to the head of tide water without the aid of full tide. When we reached our first camp the flies and mosquitoes were very plentiful. The boys were loud in their forceful expressions against the songsters and their near cousins, the black flies. All hands were busy, some erecting the tents, others cutting spruce boughs for a good bed, and the rest getting something to eat for the hungry party. Pitching camp very quickly developed the inexperience of Cheechalker. Always willing to lend a helping hand, he started the fire on the windward side, filling our eyes with smoke. The site he selected for the tent showed plenty of roots, well calculated to furnish an uneasy experience for the night. When he pointed it out to us, we soon overruled him. The duffel was hardly unloaded until Doc was ransacking the outfit for his .22 rifle to shoot some Canada grouse (_Dendragapus canadensis_). They are very plentiful in the spruce timber and when flushed will fly to a limb, where they sit and crane their necks at the hunter, who, if he is wise enough to pick off the lowest bird at each shot, may, if he so desires, clean out the entire covey. In the meantime one of the party had shot a red squirrel, and at the suggestion of Old Sourdough it was nailed to the limb of a tree in anticipation of a little fun at Doc's expense. On his return the old Indian said in his guttural voice (pointing at the squirrel), "Look! look! him big squirrel, shoot!!" Old Sourdough, meanwhile helping the fun along by craning his neck in every direction, said, "Where? where?" In the meantime Doc was making a mad rush for his .35 Winchester; crack went the gun, off went the ears of Mr. Squirrel, and he gently swayed on the nail; once more the gun cracked, and this time the body fell to the ground in fragments. Then the woods rang again and again with the shouts of the party, while Doc threatened dire vengeance on those who perpetrated the joke. After dinner, a smoke, and a few stories, the Indians departed to their tent and we all stretched out in a row for our night's sleep. But too soon, for one fellow pulled the blanket from his neighbor. Then there was a "rough house," and after that duels to the death with mosquitoes, all punctuated with such a variety of exclamations that the vocabulary of each was exhausted before quiet was restored. [Illustration: Lining the Boat] On the way out next morning the hunters were boasting about the number of fine trophies they were going to take home, for all reports indicated plenty of sheep and moose. About that time one of the party remembered we had forgotten to bring salt along for curing the "fine trophies;" then a call was sent out for a meeting to discuss ways and means to procure the necessary salt. At the caucus it was decided to send the packers back to Kenai with a boat, and a halt was called until the following day, when the return of the packers was expected. They arrived in good time with a bushel of coarse salt. Kenai River is very swift and cannot be ascended in a dory pulled with oars, so the boat must be "lined" along the shore. There is no beach along the river and the shore is almost impassable by foot on account of trees growing at every conceivable angle and hanging over and under the water. In the morning we started, two natives and two hunters to a boat, the leader with his two-hundred-foot line well in advance, carefully keeping the rope on the river side of all obstructions. Doc selected the position of captain (steersman) of one of the dories. Cheechalker took hold of the rope, but before long he was panting for breath, being quite fleshy and tipping the scales at two hundred pounds. He soon found that carrying his weight on the many ups and downs over fallen timbers, with the washouts along the bank and the alder growing thick at places along the shore, was not a joy ride over a macadamized road in an auto, nor was it conducive to easy respiration. The advantage a man of experience has over the inexperienced individual, in making his way over and under logs and overcoming other difficulties with the least resistance, is wonderful. For instance, experience has taught the veteran that he must not step on a slanting stick, a slime-covered stone, or grass concealing a washout in the bank. He likewise learns to avoid many other little indiscretions that cause heavy falls and bruising of the limbs and body, which will wear out the vitality of the strongest. Before long Cheechalker, who had had several tumbles into the water, had to have assistance to get out. He was soon lagging behind, and ere the first lap of the journey was completed he was begging us to let him get into the boat. Travel was delayed long enough for him to don dry clothing, and when we started he refused to walk any more, saying it was out of the question,--he was completely "tuckered out." It was then that one of the natives hesitated for some time before he would consent to go on, for it required all the red men's strength and skill on the line to get the boat along without this additional load of two hundred pounds. Cheechalker, with his red face, looked for all the world like a lobster, so Old Sourdough took pity on him and had a heart-to-heart talk with the natives. His argument was, "Him sick, heap sick,--like turtle, no walk!" This and similar logic was used for a period of about five minutes, whereupon the two natives looked at each other, emitted a few grunts, and started up the river. At the end of the first day's work we had made about eight miles and built our camp-fire for the night. Nothing unusual happened that evening, but the inevitable "no-see-ims" and mosquitoes had sufficient time to gather and kept us busy moving at short intervals from place to place, following the smudge smoke. Cheechalker, although naturally sluggish on account of his avoirdupois, was quite active now, first to windward and then to leeward of the smudge, between periods of relief from smoke and "no-see-ims." Doc complained at frequent intervals about the "pesky critters," donned his veil, and with hands in his pockets strutted around, restless and impatient. [Illustration: Mid-day on the Kenai] Old Sourdough, without any modern frills, sat quietly smoking his makeshift pipe, evidently enjoying his smoke, but occasionally disturbed and raising his hand to chase an importunate pest out of his eye or ear. A fallen spruce furnished boughs for a temporary bed for the tired campers after a day's lining, pulling, and wading. Each man opened his pack, spread his rubber blanket on the boughs, and one long tarpaulin was laid over all. Then each one lay down wrapped in his blanket, and another tarpaulin was drawn over all four in a row. Thus settled, we enjoyed the sweet but restless sleep of the weary. Toward morning when the ice was forming on the water in the camp pails, there was a tug of war going on most of the time between the two end men for the control of the upper canvas, and as the middle man expressed it later, "it had made three round trips during the night," for he felt it "sawing its way across" under his nose. Ever to our ears through the night came the roar of the river, here two hundred yards wide, rushing day and night to the sea, grand and powerful, glistening here and there in the morning twilight as the raging waters boiled and seethed over the hidden bowlders that threw the water as though some huge monster were trying to "buck" the current. As soon as breakfast was over every man went to his task, the blankets were rolled in separate bundles, the entire equipment packed carefully, the guns tied fast for fear of the boat capsizing in the strong current. The leader started with the rope, two others followed, each taking a hold in turn, and the captain steered. The leader in advance put the rope on the river side of all trees, rocks, and debris; the other two, climbing out on the trees that extended over the water, assisted in pulling and keeping the rope clear. Occasionally we struck rapids, where the current was swift and caused much trouble to the boats by driving one or the other against a hidden bowlder, where it would hang as on a pivot, swinging backward and forward until one of the Indians would wade out in the ice-cold water up to his waist and release it. The mania to kill was very strong in the hunters and at dawn the most bloodthirsty was astir, exhorting the cook to build a fire in the Yukon stove and hustling the packers to get ready for our up-river trip by loading the boats with the duffel. Across the beautiful river, sparkling with the silt of the glaciers, aglow with the morning sun, stood a solitary, snow-white herring gull, breakfasting upon a king salmon that had been cast by the swift current into an eddy and gently washed ashore. The passion for wilful destruction was uppermost in the heart of the gunner, and as quickly as possible he had a leaden missile on its way across the water. With the field-glasses could be seen the white bird with its graceful wings spread helplessly over the water and the beautiful white feathers crimsoned with its life blood, slowly moving with the current to the sea. In a short time stakes were pulled, duffel packed, lines adjusted, and we were on our way. There was a little commotion at the head of the line when Simeon, one of the Indians, spied a large porcupine plodding his way deeper into the forest. Letting go of the rope he made a rush for the "porky," caught it by the tail, held on till he got a club nearby, and proceeded to pound it over the head. The natives are very fond of "porky," and when we pitched camp in the evening Simeon was very busy singeing the hair over the fire before boiling. [Illustration: "Porky"] On our way up the river we were agreeably surprised to see a stranger walk into camp. Tall, erect, with clean-cut features, he looked the very picture of health. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with the garb of a hunter. Lunch was about ready, and on invitation he dined with us. In conversation we soon learned that he was a college man, a graduate of one of the leading colleges in the East, and had come from our own eastern city some fourteen years before. He told us that for several years he had corresponded with relatives and friends, but finally quit writing because he had not yet made his stake. However, he now had many encouraging prospects, and before long expected to make good and return east. It was surprising to us how an educated man could spend fourteen of the best years of his life in his little tent, with mosquitoes and "no-see-ims" as his only companions, dreaming, dreaming of the find that never came, and with his pan, pick, and shovel digging every here and there, with color, color everywhere, but not in paying quantities. On our way down we found him as usual, dreaming of the prospects he had staked, and when we left him a sack of flour and a few other necessaries of life he was very grateful, showing that a warm heart beat beneath the rough exterior. We bid him good-bye, and a large tear coursed down his cheek as he said: "I wish I were going with you, boys; but not yet; soon, I hope." Is it any wonder that the steamers on their return trips carry so many insane men to the States? The entire river has been prospected and staked; the blazed trees and indelible pencil marks are about the only method of indicating that a claim has been staked. About half-way up the river we came to the deserted tent of the fellows who had participated in the shooting at Kenai. In order to have a pleasant time on a trip of this sort it is very essential to have companions accustomed to "roughing it." Every man in the party must sacrifice individual comfort for the benefit of the camp as a whole. I have in mind a trip taken to Alaska with another party where one individual was so selfish that every action was for his own comfort and enjoyment. For instance, he was always first to eat and managed to get a double portion of everything, cooked and uncooked. If there was one duck, one grouse, or one trout, he managed to cook the one and gorge himself and eat all to his own satisfaction. In the morning he was always first up and ready for breakfast, taking care of his individual interests and paying no attention to others. In fact, he would even permit the destruction of goods not his own without showing the least interest. In the same party was another character in many ways the opposite, always last to the table and never looking out for his own things; going around growling about this, that, and the other thing,--never in time for breakfast, lunch, or supper. There is no better opportunity to find out the good qualities of a companion than to go camping with him in the wilds. A selfish disposition soon becomes unbearable, and many a good outing has been spoiled by having such a fellow in the party. Few men are so constituted that they can stand "roughing it" very long under trying circumstances without showing the "yellow streak." [Illustration: The Tonsorial Artist at Work] After seven days' hard work we reached Lake Skilak. The sun was just setting, casting a mellow crimson reflection over the placid waters. The beautiful lake was hemmed in on all sides by verdured slopes and snow-capped peaks, the dark green of the spruce intermingling with patches of cottonwood clothed in autumnal colors, "the sear, the yellow leaf" predominating. On the surface of the water, idling away the time, were little flocks of ducks, and in the air were black cormorants heavy in their flight. This serene panorama filled the nature-lovers in the party with joy and delight, and they felt themselves well repaid for all the hardship of the week. The Indians wanted to make camp at once, and showed their displeasure when they learned that we desired to take advantage of a strong fair wind and hoist our sail regardless of their wishes. We made elegant time to an island, on which we camped for the night. The next day we reached the head of the lake, where we expected to spend several weeks. The party had decided to make a try after white sheep on the mountain beyond the divide. By this time Cheechalker had had enough of tramping and quietly informed us that we might count him out; he was perfectly satisfied, he said, to remain with the cook at the permanent camp. This was located at the mouth of a little stream which entered the lake after a precipitous course from the glacier at the summit, down the mountain canyon, through the narrow gulch of the upper foothills to the wooded valley, chasing and tumbling under and over moss-grown and decayed trees, fallen giants of other years. The under foliage had been destroyed by a fire which was still smoldering here and there among the moss, and the sun, entering the opening between the trees, shimmered and fluttered on the spray-moistened bowlders like fantastic rays of Aladdin's lamp. Here we pitched our tent among the stately birches, intending to make this our headquarters for some time. Taking a stroll a little way up the beach we were agreeably surprised to find we had neighbors, and were interested to know who they were and what they were doing. One suggested prospectors, another hunters; in the meantime, while we were looking at their outfit for a suggestion, a collection of stones in the niche of a tree, the skull of a rodent, an insect or two, answered the question beyond the shadow of a doubt,--a naturalist in pursuit of data that the world might be benefited by his researches. The following day his packer came into camp with a beautiful specimen of Dall's sheep (_Ovis dalli nelson_). We then learned that it was Mr. Bell, from the University of Minneapolis. [Illustration: Ready for the Start] We left camp for the top of the mountain, every man with his pack. The tramp along the trail was interesting, leading as it did through spruce, birch, and cottonwood until we reached the end, where we were obliged to push through low alder and "devil's clubs." The latter average about one inch in thickness, and in this locality grow as high as a man's head. They are usually straight and branchless, of a yellowish-green color, and are thickly covered with slender sharp spines that readily penetrate the clothing and cause great discomfort to one who undertakes to pass through a thicket. The ascent was very steep from this point until we reached the altitude of "little sticks." One of the Nimrods was in advance a short distance, and so anxious was he to reach the sheep country that he went off the trail and had to be recalled. But his aggressiveness was short-lived, and long before midday he was shouting at the top of his voice from the rear end of the string of packs, "Wait! Wait! You're going too d---- fast!" In a short time we ran into a bees' nest, and you should have seen the party scatter to get out of raiding distance of the nest, every man for himself, packs bouncing, hats waving, all shouting until we reached a safe distance. [Illustration: Approaching the Low Pass] As we ascended the mountain the mosquitoes grew scarcer and scarcer. About the "land of little sticks" we stopped for a light lunch. Looking in the direction indicated by the guide we saw a large moose feeding in a little swale. Doc could not see him, try as he would. The Indian endeavored to assist him by locating the animal with reference to a good-sized rock, but his untrained eye, even with the aid of field-glasses, could not make out the outline and we had to give up in despair, although he was very keen to see it. Blueberries were quite plentiful all around us and after we ate our lunch we filled up with them as a dessert. We came to a little pond of crystal water at the foot of a small glacier, and as soon as we reached the margin some twenty-five or thirty ptarmigan took flight in all directions. They were still in their moulting plumage. By this time the largest man in the party was unable to keep the pace, and lagging behind kept the entire party back. In starting up the canyon the ambitious member turned up the right side, but erelong came to a place that was impassable and began to shout, "I can't go any farther along here." One of the others answered, "Slide, slide!" and the mighty Nimrod took the suggestion and slid down the shale to the bottom and then began the ascent from another point on the opposite side, where he found traveling much easier. This is the common experience of the over-zealous tenderfoot. [Illustration: Home of the White Sheep] There was a low pass over the mountain and we had to wind our way up, down, and around in order to make it, for it was only accessible by way of an almost perpendicular rock. The leaders reached the top and were required to wait for the rear-guard, but the tail end, before he could get up, had to have the assistance of a rope tied around his body. What with pulling and tugging by the guides on the upper end of the rope, the big fellow was gently and carefully landed in safety. When he reached us he was puffing and blowing like a wind-broken horse and insisted we must camp right there, for he could go no farther. And although we had intended to reach the valley some five miles beyond, where we could get wood and water, we were forced, out of sympathy for a big-hearted, congenial companion, to camp just where we were, he being completely tired out from his trying experience. After a restless night, with visions of sheep and photographs galore, we were up and ready to start about the time the ptarmigan were clucking their announcement of the rosy dawn. The country was cut into gently-sloping valleys clothed with verdure, between long ridges of mountains partly covered with snow. Through the glasses a dozen or more white specks on the mountain-side could be distinguished as sheep moving slowly as they grazed. We were too far away to tell whether there were any big rams in the flock. Considering the topographical conditions, the wind and the method of approach, we mapped out our _modus operandi_ and started up the ridge of the mountain on the right. It was a long, hard pull and by the time we reached the summit all were wearied, especially my companion, who kept shouting a request not to go so fast. Several hours after we spied the sheep we were crawling stealthily over the backbone of the ridge where we expected to find the flock, but were sadly disappointed. The photographer threw his kodak back into the case with a quiet "d----"; the other pushed his "safety" on, threw his gun over his shoulder, and turned back with a shaking of the head that was more expressive than language. After examining carefully every likely place, all that we could find of the flock was one lonely little lamb looking at us as though in disgust. Presently it went away down into the valley and we watched it as it ascended the opposite side and disappeared as a little speck over the divide. When we left camp in the morning the tenderfoot was still in bed and on our return we were surprised to see how happy he was. Pointing to the carcass of a little lamb, and beating his breast with his good right hand, he said: "I've got my sheep. No more tramping those d---- mountains for me. I'm going back to camp." We were very much disgusted to think he would travel six thousand miles and spend so much money to hunt one half-day and then turn "quitter." We used every argument in our power and as tactfully as possible tried to persuade him not to turn back, but of no avail. Turning to us he retorted: "You old Sourdoughs, I wouldn't follow you over those mountains for ten thousand dollars." So with a packer he started around the mountain towards camp, happy as a lark, promising us he would send the packer back with flour and other provisions. Little did we suspect that he would try to starve us out of the camp and thereby force us to return to headquarters. According to prearranged plan, we intended to move down the valley and select a camp site where we could get wood. About the time we started the wind blew a gale, bringing rain and sleet. For four hours we tramped through the wet underbrush with the elements pelting and lashing us in their fury. We were drenched to the skin. As soon as our camp site was selected, we threw off our packs in a drizzling rain and each man turned to his task. Two arranged the canvas under a spreading scrub hemlock, for we needed the protection from the wind. Soon a huge fire was going, dispensing its cheerful warmth through the gloom, driving away the blues of my companion, who was beginning to complain a great deal. Disrobing, we hung our wet clothing over the surrounding limbs, where it was soon steaming away, while the hunters were toasting their shins as they waited for dry clothes and liquid refreshment, for by this time the teapot was trying to quench the little side fire and the sizzling lamb chops were about done to a finish. After a while my friend began to thaw out; turning to me, he said: "Billy, I wonder what our friends would say if they saw us now. I have no doubt they would suggest a committee of the person," and I answered: "But this is only one side of it. We enjoy life by contrast. When we get into our dry clothing, how we will enjoy it, and when the sun shines to-morrow, how it will fill our hearts with gladness! Every thorn has its rose, the darkest cloud its silver lining." [Illustration: Seeking a Ford] After a good night's rest and something to eat, we divided into two parties. My companion and his guide going toward the north, I started westward up Benjamin Creek with the intention of crossing, but the current was so swift that it was impossible to find a ford. Although the guide, with me on his back, waded into the ice-cold water several times, he was forced to return for fear of being carried off his feet. On the opposite side of the creek could be seen a great many sheep, some feeding, others lying down on rocky points from which they could command a good view of the surrounding valley. They are very quick to distinguish any strange object a long way off, and before you can get at all near they take to the summit and disappear beyond. In the flock there was not a single head that could be considered a trophy worthy of the chase, even to a tenderfoot. I am sorry I did not have a telephoto lens, for I could have secured a fairly good picture of the group. My friend, George Shiras, III., got many good pictures in this same location with a telephoto lens. In ecstasy I followed the stream, reveling in the solitude of the rocky fastnesses, where the right of eminent domain is granted by the Creator to none save the cloven-hoofed creatures who have roamed there unmolested from time immemorial. But now they are being taught a new lesson. The modern gun in hands controlled by steady nerves and unerring eye sounds the death knell of the species, unless they are given protection. They are learning slowly and by bitter experience that even at any distance they are in imminent danger from the rifle. Away yonder on the uppermost crag stood His Majesty, as though chiseled out of and forming a part of the very rock itself. A little below stood his companion, another big ram. Selecting the lower sheep for a trophy, I elevated the sights for six hundred yards. I instructed the guide to watch with the field-glasses where the lead struck the rock. A loud report, a great recoil, and a thud carried the message of danger to the curious, though unsuspecting, sheep. The guide said, "A little too high." In the meantime the rams were nervous and undecided what to do, seeming uncertain as to the exact location of the enemy. Another thud on the rocks, this time below, and then away they went out of sight over the crest. We did not see them again, and they offered the only desirable trophies of their kind that we found on the trip. In the fall the big rams roam together a great deal in the most remote and inaccessible places, the ewes generally flocking by themselves. It seems to be the popular belief in that country that the large rams separate from the flocks and withdraw by themselves at that season. We saw several flocks, an average of seventy-five sheep a day, but there were no big rams among them. Our attention is attracted by a movement on the ground, a glimpse of a marmot, as, making a bolt along its well-worn path, it disappears into a hole, reappears, and again disappears,--a caper which is characteristic of the little animal, as though he were curious to know something definite about the invaders of his domain. This habit frequently gives the hunter a shot, but their tenacity of life is so great that they usually get back into the hole and one seldom recovers the body. Their flesh is quite a delicacy among the natives, as well as to the hunter when hungry. He is conscious of their presence at all times, for their whistling can be heard continually in every direction. The ptarmigan are plentiful, some partly concealed among the rocks, and some walking about craning their necks, all beautiful in their moulting plumage. Each is in a different stage of transformation from the handsome brown of summer to the more beautiful winter dress of snow-white. How wonderful are the ways of the Creator for the preservation of the species! If the summer plumage were to remain until the whole land is covered with snow, how easy it would be for the ptarmigan hawk, occasionally seen soaring in the air, to distinguish the bird, make a dart, pick it up for his evening meal--and thus bring about the speedy extermination of this beautiful species! They are so tame you could kill with stones all you would eat. The manner in which nature provides protection for the inhabitants of the snow peaks is illustrated again in the case of the sheep, which are white. We saw many beautiful little flowers, the bluebell always in evidence, daisies, a bunch of forget-me-nots, and what fascinated me beyond description,--several bunches of violets away above the snow-line. They took me back to the springtime in the Middle States. The wild geraniums were in bloom, varying in color from a delicate purple to a faded hue, with leaves colored from green to scarlet. When we left the main camp provisions enough to last two days were packed. It was our intention to keep a packer going between camps carrying our supplies; thus we could move from place to place as light as possible. When Doc returned from the last camp to headquarters with his lamb and a packer to show him the way, he promised faithfully to send the Indian back to us with a good supply of provisions. We suggested writing down the articles desired, but he thought this was not necessary,--that a good supply would be forthcoming. Thus we separated. My companion was uneasy for fear of the Indian not being able to find our camp, for our supplies were getting low. I had no fear from this source, knowing well the natural instinct of a child of the forest for taking our trail, which was so pronounced that even a novice could follow us. You may imagine the chagrin of the party when he returned on the following day with no flour and only bread enough to last one meal. We then came to the conclusion that Doc was tired of the hunt and had adopted this means of forcing us by starvation to return to the provision camp. We hunted all that day with only one small biscuit apiece. It was raining, and in the evening, when we returned to camp wet and hungry, a large fire was built and our wet clothing dried. A tin cup full of boiling hot tea soon revived our depressed spirits. This, with a few ptarmigan roasted on a spit, enabled us to retire in good condition. By this time my comrade could not stand the hardships any longer and wanted to return to the lake. He insisted that there were no big trophies in the country. I succeeded in getting him to stay a day or two longer by telling him I had seen a large ram. The last day we hunted together we came upon a prospector's cache. On top of a large stone we noticed a pile of small stones arranged in a way that at first sight indicated the hand of man. Examining the pile we found beans, flour, and dried fruits. Although we had been living on porcupine for two days, the natives refused to touch the cache. There is an unwritten law among prospectors and hunters that is never violated in this far-away land. The cache is never disturbed, for they know full well that some fellow-man is depending upon the provisions to reach civilization, and to disturb it may cost the life of the owner. However, if one in a starving condition helps himself, he leaves his name and the owner considers it an act of humanity. Those only who have been in a similar situation can appreciate what it means. One of the guides insisted it was cached by the owner, who had gone back to civilization and left it in the hope that some person in great need might find it. How we longed to have a mess of those navy beans, but we had not yet reached the condition where we could help ourselves, for we were only one day's march from plenty. Finally my companion had his way, and in the morning, though the weather looked threatening, we started, two of the packers towards camp with the outfit, and the hunters for the summit once more. While resting a little before we made the ascent of a high mountain, my guide pointed out a large moose, with huge palmated horns. He was feeding peacefully in the distance, occasionally looking around as though always on the alert for foes. One horn was still in the velvet, and on the other the velvet was dangling down just ready to drop off, with the red corpuscles on the antlers glittering in the rain. By and by the clouds began to form on the mountain-tops, and gradually lowered until they enveloped the entire mountains and valleys. Again the rain commenced, and continued a steady downpour for the remainder of the day. The fates were against us in respect to the weather, but we did not have to go hungry, for the marmots were plentiful, whistling here and there, as though a kind Providence had provided a good supper for the camp. After walking all day in a cold, drizzling rain that was almost sleet, we overtook our packers, who had been traveling since morning in order to reach a camping place where there were both wood and water. We finally reached the foothills, where we found water and scrub spruce in abundance. One of the guides, while "rustling" sticks for fire, ran onto a large porcupine, and between marmot soup and porcupine roast we had an abundance to satisfy the inner man. After the Indians had eaten their fill,--and the amount they could eat was surprising,--the one that got the brisket had picked it clean and started to twirl it in the air, uttering some chanting words each time he tossed it, until it fell with the narrow side up, then he turned to his companions laughing and shaking his head. Then another went through the same motions. I subsequently learned that if the narrow side turned up frequently this indicated they would have another "porky" on the morrow. Porcupine they prefer to any other kind of meat. The intestines seem to be considered the choice morsels. Our guide would take hold of the intestine with one hand and with the other would strip it of its contents in the various stages of digestion. Then to each man would be allotted his _pro rata_ share,--and each was careful to see that he got his full portion of the delicacy. Next they would string the sections on sticks and gather round the fire on their "hunkers," singeing the tidbits more or less, each according to his taste. Upon our inquiring why they did not wash the dainties, they explained that washing spoiled the flavor. There was a great deal of humor about them and they frequently tried to play simple jokes on each other. Occasionally one would reach for the field-glasses, look long and earnestly, then point in the direction of the mountain to some rocks and shout "Mushee"[1] (meaning "Sheep"), and when another member of the party would hurriedly reach for the glasses and shout "No mushee," all would have a laugh at his expense. They are great tea drinkers and when in camp the teapot is always on the fire getting hot for the next cup. If for any reason they were compelled to do without it, they would sulk until they got it. [Footnote 1: The term for mountain sheep in the language of the British Columbian Indians is "Scoulaps."] It rained all night and we did not rest well, although very tired after our trip over long stretches of mountain-side covered with loose stones of all sizes and forms thrown down by the elements from the mountain-top. The bed was hard; the tent was pitched under a scrub hemlock to get protection from the strong wind that was blowing down the pass. The wind moaned and groaned all the fore part of the night, then subsided, but the rain continued till morning. The Nimrods huddled together in a small depression on the ground, with no bed but the rubber blankets and very scanty covering. Our hip bones would get sore, and one would turn and then the other, continually. We were glad to see the dawn of another day. All night long, "drip, drip, drip" in different parts of the tent the rain could be heard. The hunting shoe of my companion, standing upright under one of the largest leaks, proved an opportune receptacle, consequently in the morning his shoe was about half full of rain water. After a breakfast of porcupine stewed with a spoonful of evaporated potatoes and washed down with a cup of tea, we folded our tent and plodded our weary way towards camp. Blueberries and salmon-berries were very plentiful. We found at the higher elevations an abundance of a species of blueberry, the woody plants of which grew less than three inches in height. They were laden with a small berry, very sweet to the taste, and so plentiful that they could be stripped off by the handful. Among them grew another species as heavily laden with red fruit, which I think was a species of partridge-berry. The two grew about the same height. The Indians preferred the red berries and seemed fond of them. As for myself, I was not partial to them, but ate liberally of the blue. Among the berries we came upon a covey of ptarmigan feeding. Doc, murderously inclined, fired some ten shots at one of them before it flew. Indeed, so recklessly did he scatter his leaden pellets as the birds rose, that old Shanghai, one of our Indians, called to me: "Hey, Billy, Billy! Come on! Damn! Him make bullets whiz by head!" As we reached lower levels, the blueberries gave way to salmon-berries. They resemble raspberries in growth and appearance, but have a peculiar tart flavor. They were in great abundance, and were much relished by our party. We arrived at camp in due time, tired and hungry, but none the worse for our experience, and after a short rest, quite ready for another tramp through the enchanting forest of birch, Cottonwood, and hemlock. [Illustration: Ptarmigan] On our way through the woods the Indians gathered for snuff-making a great many fungi growing on the birch trees. In preparing the snuff, they first take a birch limb of sufficient size and with a pocket-knife cut out a round hole about two inches in diameter and an inch and a half deep; this is the mortar. The fungi are then placed in the hot coals of a birch-wood fire until they are charred through and through, when they are broken into the mortar with a like amount of tobacco leaves. Then with another piece of birch wood about three feet long for a pestle the mixture is ground in the mortar until it becomes of the color and consistency of a moist snuff. This the Indians continually chew and rub in their teeth. Of the many uses of the noble birch surely this is the most unique. From the seedling to the giant tree the life history of the birch is one of usefulness to the inhabitants of the wild. The hardwood ridge over yonder looks like the woods in the vicinity of a beaver community, only over a much larger area. Acres and acres of birch trees averaging two inches in diameter are broken off a couple of feet from the ground by the giant moose, which straddle a sapling and bend it down to browse upon the boughs and tender twigs of the top. An old-timer in the country told us that once after a hard winter he came upon several "moose yards" in the spring and found many bodies of moose that had starved to death. He also told us that he had saved the lives of quite a number by cutting down trees where they could feed and thus tide themselves over a severe spell of bad weather. The birch-buds nourish the grouse during the winter. Birch-bark starts the fire and birch-wood furnishes the fuel. Birch-bark supplies the natives raw material from which to manufacture canoes and various utensils and trinkets. Taking it all in all I do not know of any other tree of the forest that is put to so many uses. An interesting instance of its application to the culinary art comes to mind. According to a tradition in our family, some of whom were pioneers in the Huron district of Canada, the Indians taught them to make a very fair substitute for baking powder out of a compound of the ashes of birch and hickory wood. I am sorry I never learned the formula. Around the camp fire we gathered just before retiring. The night was dark. The doleful cry of the solitary great northern diver (_Urinator imperator_) came through the stillness of the invigorating atmosphere, and scarcely would the echo die away in the distant hills until the call was repeated. The bird may have been floating on the surface of the lake, or flying in the air, calling, as it frequently does while in flight. The native Indians, like the sailors, do not take kindly to the laughing of the loon, for there is a superstition among them that it forebodes bad weather or some misfortune. The camp-fire was burning brightly, cutting a luminous hemisphere out of the inky darkness. In the north the aurora borealis was throwing its weird light in streamers stretched in a semicircle over the horizon. While I was admiring these the moon pushing up over the black hilltop across the lake, looked cherry-red. It seemed as though I was under a spell. In my fancy I could see a great boat approaching over the dark water, with a huge search-light just rotating into view and sweeping the northern heavens with its rays. But even as I gazed the full moon appeared in all its northern splendor, the vision dissolved, and I realized that the northern lights and Old Luna had played a prank on me. The next day we packed our belongings and shifted camp some four miles farther south on the same lake. As soon as the bow of our little boat struck the shore we hopped out and began a reconnoiter for a camp site. A well-worn path across the narrow neck of land separating one little fiord from another attracted our attention. A stroll in that direction disclosed a camp which had lately been occupied by some unknown party. On a tree we found the card of our fellow townsman, George Shiras, III., who had recently left the camp for the sheep country. It was like receiving a letter from home. How pleasant the surprise had we been so fortunate as to meet him! The "few days in camp together," suggested by his invitation of long standing, would have been realized by a strange coincidence. While he left civilization from Seward, we departed by way of Kenai, several hundred miles distant, yet both arrived at the same place, he by way of the upper Kenai and we by the lower. A hurried pitching of camp in anticipation of rain, which had been incessant for the past four days, with only brief intervals of relief from the downpour, put us in excellent shape, with plenty of spruce boughs for bedding, before the rain began to patter, patter on the stretched canvas. To me a most interesting experience is that of being lulled into dreamland under such conditions. It may be due to the effect of the ozone and to the fact that in the woods one is always tired when night comes. On the following morning we divided the parties and left camp in different directions. After tramping many miles alone I came to a swamp country. Crossing over one arm of the swamp, wading up to my knees in water, I came upon a path worn almost a foot deep by moose traveling from one place to another. I was unable to figure out why they traveled backward and forward along this particular route. After returning home I learned from Mr. Shiras that not far from this point was a salt lick and the path was the regular route to and from the lick. The path led through a little depression in a ridge that projected into the swamp. Mounting an elevation in the center of the ridge, I could see on every side little lakes and ponds, surrounded with alders and acres of yellow swamp grass, an ideal home for moose. Taking my field-glass, I looked in every direction for game, and finally my eye rested on a yellowish-brown object, then another and another, which proved to be cow moose feeding among the birches. While resting, there came to my ears from another direction the snapping of bushes. I knew it was a moose feeding, a cow, to be sure. I at once started in the direction whence the sound came, and happened upon three cows feeding and resting. They did not seem to be wild, for on seeing me they threw their ears back and hair forward, just like mules, then walked off a short distance and stopped. In fact, they appeared to be very tame and evidently knew that the law protected their sex. While looking in the finder of my camera I noticed that their curiosity seemed to be aroused and that they were advancing towards me a little too closely for safety. I hurriedly set down my kodak and raised my gun for fear the foremost would take a notion to charge. Just at this moment she wheeled straight around and with a trotting motion, took to the closest cover. Before I returned to camp my intention had been to come back the next day, but I found the entire party had decided to turn homeward the next morning. What an opportunity I missed to get some photographs of big bull moose! The party saw at least ten cow moose that day. Without a doubt, when the rutting season arrived in about ten days, the large bulls, now in the high timber, would be scouring the forests in search of their mates, bellowing in answer to the call of their lady-loves. As soon as he reached the camp that evening Cheechalker began to inquire about his bath, and his equilibrium was greatly disturbed when the Indians refused to erect a tepee for a sweat box and give him a bath. The guide, pointing to the crystal water of the lake, said, "Him good water, make good wash." Now Cheechalker took as kindly to the crystal water as fish take to the land. Finally the party went for a bath, each performing his ablution in installments, and while they were sunning themselves, Old Sourdough took a header into the lake as an example that they might follow. This was too strenuous for the balance of the party and they were satisfied to look on. [Illustration: A Bath in Lake Skilak] Doc took a stroll along the beach with his shotgun and returned with a brace of snipe. The white crescent over the eye was very conspicuous between the black bill and slaty-black feathers of the crown. Pulling stakes after our breakfast was over next morning, we were soon on our way homeward. We were just one day going down the river. The current was very swift and save for a few stops we made excellent time. At two of the worst rapids we all got out and the Indians ran the rapids. Before we pulled into Kenai we were told the _Bydarky_ had left for Seldovia and would not make another trip for three days, which, if true, would be too late for us to catch the last boat of the season from Seldovia to Seattle. After arriving at Kenai we had about completed arrangements for a little schooner to take us up the inlet to Sunrise, on Turnagain Bay, where we expected to get a train for Seward, in time for the steamer, when, much to our pleasant surprise, the belated _Bydarky_ came into port on her way to Seldovia. We had been misinformed. We quickly transferred our outfit, much relieved that we would not have to miss the last boat of the season. At two o'clock in the afternoon the boat left Kenai under full steam for the westward. The waters of the inlet were as smooth as glass and we were making good headway. Not even a gentle breeze was blowing as the sun disappeared behind the snow-covered peaks of Iliamna and Redoubt. The afterglow, reflected from the snowy cap, and the steam bursting from the side of old Redoubt gave it a weird appearance. All the passengers had retired except Doc and myself, who had been left without a bunk. We first thought we would throw our blankets on the floor of the combination cabin, kitchen, and dining-room. A strong breeze began to blow and we decided to go into the hold for the night, coil ourselves up in our duffel, and go to sleep. The wind increased to a hurricane. What a night we spent down in the hold of that old tub! She was carrying little freight, had no ballast, and could make no time. The tide caught us, and between the outgoing and the incoming tide-rifts the boat was tossed about at the mercy of the elements. When she pitched forward the propeller was out of the water and spun like a button on a barn door. The engine throbbed and beat, stopped and started, with jerks and bounds, and the climax came when it broke. We were in the most treacherous water of the Pacific, rolling and tumbling in the trough and on the ridge of the high seas. The boat was drifting out of the charted course and toward a coast bristling with unknown rocks, upon which we were sure of being lost. The instant the engine broke, the engineer came down the hatchway like a meteor. The boat made a plunge and he landed in a heap on top of the doctor, who was so sick that in his misery he did not care whether the craft went down or floated. Righting himself, the engineer made a dash for the engine-room to repair the damage. In the storm the poop deck went to windward over the stern. The repair-men were at work; above the din of the hammer and chisel could be heard the cargo shifting from side to side with the billows. Oh! how I longed to hear again the vibrating of the engine and smell the stench of the fuel oil, which before the storm had made our condition almost unbearable. The doctor lying on the broad of his back lifted his head and stared through the now open poop deck and asked, "Where are those sparks coming from?" I looked up and thought the stack was belching sparks from its fiery bowels. A second look, however, sufficed to show that what seemed to be sparks were the stars as they passed back and forth over the hatch with the rocking of the boat. The illusion was much more realistic than the narration of it would indicate. I mustered up enough courage to crawl to the ladder, climbed up, looked out,--and what a night! The stars seemed large and brilliant enough for planets, the moon almost large and bright enough for the sun. How it danced on the foamy crests of the tide-rifts when the whitecaps broke, throwing the silvery spray all around the heaving, plunging, tossing boat. Iliamna and Redoubt stood in their majesty, silent onlookers at the battle that was waging between the little boat and the powerful elements,--wondering who was going to be the victor. I dropped bade into the hold half believing it was all a dream, when I heard the captain shouting to the pilot, "Keep her head on, head on!" For fear of drifting upon the rocks they were obliged to run many miles out to sea before they dared make the turn for the harbor. I heard him shout to the man at the wheel, "Head her into the harbor as quickly as possible when she is in the next trough!" We had now reached the critical moment,--would they select the right time to make the turn? When the boat was turned halfway to leeward and on the crest, the turbine without resistance spun around at a fearful rate, then the engine stopped for a moment and the breakers struck the side a terrific blow, causing the hull to creak and groan as though it were human and about ready to collapse. The water in the cabin overhead swished back and forth and the pots and kettles, as they beat against the walls, kept time with the rolling and plunging of the boat. The old tub righted herself, we had crossed the danger line, and were heading straight for the harbor. When we reached quiet water the old-timers shook their heads and vowed that was their last trip in the _Bydarky_. What happened in the bunks no one would tell, though at least one of the party said that during the night he had offered many a silent prayer for the safety of the craft. There was a foot of water on the cabin floor, the pots and pans were drifting about amid a flotsam and jetsam of pork and beans, vegetables, and what not. Thus we reached Seldovia and learned that the steamer _Portland_ was about due on her last trip for the season. Coming home by way of the inside passage, we had a pleasant trip, full of interest in a hundred ways. On one occasion, while many miles from land, a curious little bird came fluttering from mast to mast. Evidently on its way south it had become exhausted in the long flight from some northern point and had taken a short cut across the water. Finally one of the passengers caught the little fellow and it proved to be a crossbill. The mandibles of this species are considerably crossed to assist in picking seeds from the pine cones of the northern land. It stayed with us all day and seemed to be perfectly contented and satisfied to be caressed in the open hand, but just as soon as the boat neared land it took to wing and with a graceful flight reached the timber safely. So the days passed until in due time we arrived at Seattle, where we took the train for the East. CHAPTER IV A TRIP TO NEWFOUNDLAND In the spring I had made all preparations for a trip to Newfoundland, and arrived at North Sidney to take the steamer _Bruce_ for Port aux Basques. Walking into the offices of the company upon the dock to make arrangements for my passage, my attention was attracted to a little group of men. I learned that the Government doctor was vaccinating every passenger before allowing him to enter Newfoundland, because at this time Sidney had an epidemic of smallpox. One of the officers shouted to me: "Here you, going over? Bare your arm." I answered, "Not for me," knowing it would be useless to go into the woods with a punctured arm. Just a little while before the boat cleared I slipped aboard, heard the officer shout "Cast away!" and we were off for Port aux Basques. The sea was rough and in the morning all the "landlubbers" were "pale behind the gills." On landing, every person called upon the customs officer to have his baggage cleared, and I was required to leave a deposit of fifty dollars for the return of my Auto Graflex camera. The train was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and all the passengers were aboard waiting for more than an hour, wondering what was delaying the start. Inquiry developed the fact that the trainmen were waiting for the wind to subside before they would venture across the viaduct over a swamp a few miles out. It seems that the train had been blown off the track several times by a strong wind. We finally crossed in safety. Among the passengers were several fishing parties, and they were bubbling over with good fellowship in anticipation of the excellent sport they were going to have in pursuit of their favorite pastime. I believe every person should have a hobby of some kind to divert his mind from his burdens and petty cares. A chance to do something that we like fills us with pleasant thoughts, both in anticipation and realization. Several of the fishermen returned on the same train with me; they looked much better and were quite talkative about "whipping the stream," their "wonderful casts," and the "big fellows" they didn't get. Their hearty appearance confirmed my theory. Passing through the country, as far as the eye could reach we looked out over barrens covered with moss. Here and there a small body of blue water, like a jewel, broke the monotony. Perhaps a solitary duck floated peacefully on its glossy surface, waiting for the little brood soon to appear. Away over yonder on the opposite shore of one of the lakes stood a sentinel, the sandhill crane (_Grus mexicana_), knee-deep in the water, sedate and motionless, waiting an opportunity to catch some unsuspecting fish that might fortunately pass his way. The countless herds of caribou had returned to the north and were scattered all through the woodland hills, attending to their domestic duties. Towards evening the fishing parties began to drop off, one by one, at Middle Brook, Fischel's Brook, and Harry's River, all ideal streams for salmon and trout. They seemed scarcely able to restrain themselves until the morrow, when they could joint their rods, wade the crystal water, and cast the Jock Scott or Silver Doctor into the riffles again and again in anticipation of a strike. Arriving at Bay of Islands in due time, we found it a very interesting place, sloping gently up from the water's edge, with here and there a two-story frame house on its few acres of clearing. The inhabitants live almost wholly by fishing. Each had his own salmon net stretched out at some little projection of rocks in the bay, for the salmon were just beginning to run. A guide employed, we made a trip up a long valley by the old "Twitchen" road, used years ago and grown up with alder, fir, and balsam so as to be almost closed; up the old caribou path, worn at some places three feet deep in the moss and soft black mire by countless herds of caribou that had passed beyond. To one looking backward before crossing over the divide, as far as the eye could see extended the blue waters of the bay, with the snow-capped mountains in the distance, and in the foreground the park-like lowlands where the stately caribou roamed at will. [Illustration: Bay of Islands] [Illustration: Constructing a Raft] [Illustration: One Took to the Woods] Our objective point was a small lake nestled somewhere in the direction we were going, among the pine, birch, and spruce, but on the way we missed the location and got lost in the undertaking. My guide climbed a tree in order to get a peep of the lake, but without success. While wandering about we heard from afar the doleful "who, who, hum, hee" of the loon. We had considerable difficulty determining the direction of the sound, but finally made a bee-line for the lake. No sooner had we put in an appearance than from a small grassy island in the middle of the lake a dozen or more herring gulls (_Larus argentatus smithsonianus_) rose into the air, uttering their distressed, plaintive cries as they soared round and round. After getting a cup of tea and a bite to eat, we cut down four or five old tree stubs, bone dry from years and years of exposure to the elements. Lashing them together with redwood twisted into a "gad" and propelling the impromptu raft with a pole, we landed safely on the island. Our appearance startled from their island home three little birds, whose whitish down was covered with irregular dusky spots. In their excitement one took to the woods, and when requested to pose for its picture displayed all the resentment and fierceness charged to the American herring gulls. The others took to the water. I am almost sure this was their first experience in the water, and how the little flesh-covered palmated feet churned it in their desperate efforts to lend the enchantment of distance to the view of their unwelcome visitors. The colony had almost deserted its annual nesting-ground, but here and there a tardy mother bird had not completed incubation, and the little chicks were about due and calling to be released from their prison. At the point of the island, just at the water-line, we found a loon's nest (_Urinator imber_). Its two big olive-brown eggs (size 3.50" � 2.25"), marked with dark brown spots, were lying on the bare, wet ground, with a few rootlets scattered here and there. The old pair floated gracefully on the surface of the water some three hundred yards in the distance, without uttering a sound. What a contrast between the gull and the loon in this respect,--the gulls soaring in the air above us with great excitement and noise, the loons quiet and apparently resting peacefully in the blue distance! The water in the lake was higher than usual. A family of beaver (_Castor canadensis Kuhl_) had dammed the entrance and had taken possession by building their home close at hand. Occasionally from the fortifications came across the lake a report almost as loud as a gun, the smack of the beaver's flat tail on the water as he disappeared when alarmed by the intruders. [Illustration: One of the Others] After taking several photographs we boarded our raft, crossed over to mainland, and returned homeward in the dead stillness of the evening. Softly we make our way through the forest, our feet sinking deep into the moss, turning over with our toes the evergreen oval-shaped leaves of the trailing arbutus (_Epigæa repens_), exposing to the light of day the beautiful delicate flower that loves sylvan seclusion. Again and again I plucked a cluster which filled the air with a fragrant perfume that mingled with the odor of the pine; then I thought of the lines, "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." [Illustration: Trailing Arbutus] On the following day we took the train for the head of Deer Lake, some thirty miles away. After leaving the train we pulled our boat across the lake and pitched our tent on an island at the mouth of the Upper Humber River. The day was beautiful, and the sun hot enough that the eggs of the mosquito, deposited at dawn, were wigglers by noon. All day long the black flies made our lives miserable, and as night approached the "nippers" took their place. Our tent was brand-new and erected with the most painstaking care, but we were unable to keep them out. We made ourselves busy before retiring for the evening by killing everything in sight, black flies, mosquitoes, and spiders, and then we tucked ourselves away on the balsam fir bed for a night's rest. But no sooner were we fixed nicely than the music began, and they seemed to come from every direction, so the fight was renewed again and again until we had exhausted ourselves and our "dope," and fell asleep from sheer weariness. Their favorite point of attack seemed to be behind the ears, and the singing still continued, adding considerably to the torment. In the morning our brand-new tent looked like a slaughter house, all blotched over with red, each mark indicating the death of one of the vicious little pests. [Illustration: Spotted Sandpiper's Nest] The weather turned cold,--and how glad we were to find relief! After breakfast we started out in search of anything of interest, and while walking down the beach we noticed many little fine tracks on the sand; three toes in front cleft to the base indicated immediately that the maker belonged to the order of waders (_Limicolæ_), and was about the size of the little spotted sandpiper (_Actitis macularia_), which builds its nest just along the edge of sparsely-clustered bushes. Taking the trail, we followed, scanning carefully every likely place, and when we were within a few feet of her the little hen bird left in great excitement, twittering and flapping her wings as she fluttered along the ground, evidently trying to feign a crippled condition to draw our attention from the nest. This was built on the sand; just a very shallow hole and a few small sticks and pieces of bark; the four little cream-colored eggs with their liver-colored spots rested in the center of the nest, with a bunch of green leaves for the background. [Illustration: Merganser's Nest] Going a little farther down the beach we found the footprints of another bird on the sands. The trail was scarcely deeper, but quite different. At first sight we recognized the track as made by a member of the order of swimmers (_Lamellirostres_), for the full palmated feet left their plain imprint, with the three toes pressed a little deeper in the sand than was the web, and with the lobate toe leaving its delicate touch. We followed the trail to a large white birch which was partly undermined by the spring freshet, leaving its mass of roots hanging down to the sand. Getting down on my knees and looking closely I saw a few feathers, and by a long and careful straining of the eye could make out the mother bird on the nest. She was so well concealed it was absolutely impossible to get a photograph of her in occupation of the nest, so we proceeded to pull some of the roots away and even touched her in doing so; still she did not move from her position; but before we got the picture she left the nest with a "quack, quack," her neck extended and wings beating the sand. The nest belonged to a family of red-breasted mergansers (_Merganser serrator_), and contained seven plain cream-colored eggs (size 2.50" � 1.70"); it was built of a few small sticks and lined with down from the breast of the duck. We visited the nest several times afterwards, but believe it was abandoned. At the upper end of the island we pitched our tent, possibly half a mile from the nest, intending to make a midnight visit for the purpose of getting a flash-light picture if possible. Before evening the birds could be seen a long way off taking in the situation from the distance, but as the evening approached they drew nearer and nearer and then darkness enshrouded the landscape. Although we could not see their flight over our tent, we could frequently hear the whirr of their wings long into the night as they passed up and down, frightened and unable to settle peacefully under the roots of the old birch. The instinct for the protection of her young is very strongly developed in the merganser, and she will resort to every possible ruse to conceal them, coaxing them into good cover, and, when once they are concealed, leading you away in another direction. [Illustration: Nest of Wilson's Thrush] In the early dawn, when the dew was glistening on the vegetation and wild life was full of activity, from underfoot glided a Wilson's thrush (_Hylocichla fuscescens_). As I looked carefully in the direction whence it came, a small opening in a clump of sticks and grass disclosed a beautifully constructed nest of moss lined with rootlets and coarser grass, embedded in a small hillock. In the nest were three delicate greenish-blue eggs (0.90" � 0.65"). We spent a great deal of time making the acquaintance of the mother bird, while the old man perched on a distant limb, and at our approach seemed to give warning by calling "chip, chip," so that, no matter how stealthily we drew near, the female was aware of our approach and had left the nest before we were in sight. That she had only just gone was apparent from the warmth of the eggs. We visited the nest many times until finally she became very tame. What a contrast to the nervous, excited titlark which had built its nest on the ground near a stump! The more we visited the nest of the latter the wilder she became, and after many attempts to photograph her we had to give up in despair. By the time evening came we were quite well acquainted, and when night set in we tried to take a flash-light picture of the thrush, using an electric lamp to attract attention until the flash went off. The instant of the flash she would glide gently out of the nest, to return again in a few minutes after we left. We made the attempt many times, and finally she became so accustomed to it that she would not leave the nest when the flash went off. The following day we heard a whistling noise overhead,--a female American golden-eye (_Glaucionetta clangula americana_) was in full flight, disturbing the air with her laboring short wings. Away over yonder in a burned clearing stood an old birch tree stump, gaunt and white with the constant beating of the weather against it. Some thirty feet from the ground was a large hole in the stump, and as the duck passed by we noticed that she hesitated as though about to enter, but at the same instant she must have seen us, for she continued her vigorous flight up the river as far as we could see. We decided she had her nest in the old tree-top, and by concealing ourselves, gave her to believe we had gone. In a short time we saw the duck return and pitch into the hole. When she was once in her protected home it was impossible to get her out. We hammered the tree with stones and logs and threw many stones into the opening; in fact, we did everything we could to make her come out, but to no avail. We then cut two long trees and leaned them against the top of the stump, and my guide proceeded to make rungs by binding rope around them until he had a fairly good ladder to the top. Then he climbed up and looked into the hole, but could not see the duck; she had built her nest in the hollow branch and not in the main trunk. The old stump began to sway from a breeze that sprang up, so the guide became nervous and hastened down for fear it would fall. Taking his ax he decided to cut the tree down, but when he was half way through I persuaded him that the mother and young would be killed by the fall, and at my suggestion he let the old stump stand. [Illustration: Learning to Swim] Several days later the young were transported to the water by the old ducks, and about the time the last duckling was placed on the water, we arrived on the scene.[2] It was very interesting to see them trying to dive; they were only able to stick their heads under the water, exposing their white under tail-coverts. As our little boat advanced quietly over the water, the mother bird, in her excited efforts to get them concealed, swam now this way, now that way, and made many attempts at turning into an apparent shelter, only to come out again. After many such zig-zag efforts she decided to take to the open water with her brood. In the meantime we were approaching nearer and nearer and when we separated them the mother disappeared in the direction of the open lake and the ducklings were forced towards the sandy beach. Thus separated we were able to guide them up and down the shore according to our liking, being careful to keep them along the sandy beach where they could not find any cover to conceal themselves. We followed them for several hours. [Footnote 2: Some authorities say that the mother duck carries the young to the water in her bill. Whether this or some other means is adopted, seems to be as yet a mooted question.] [Illustration: Out for Themselves] [Illustration: Learning to Walk] This little family had not received many lessons in the way of providing for itself, and when we cut the ducklings off from their mother, fear was uppermost in all their actions. The instinct of fear gradually left them and in its place the instinct of hunger evidently gained the ascendancy. In the beginning they would swim and paddle over the water in great alarm, calling with a faint "quack, quack," trying to dive and distance their pursuers. Occasionally they would walk a little on the shore and then take to the water again. We followed them up and down until they finally seemed to pay little attention to us, and how interesting it was to watch them diving in the water for bugs and minnows to satisfy their hunger! Several times we saw them bring their prey, small minnows or mollusca, to the surface and swallow it. When we first met in the morning they could scarcely dive under the surface of the water. In the afternoon they would disappear for quite a while at a time, and as each in turn would appear and disappear they kept us guessing as to the duration and depth of their dives. Thus we left them. [Illustration: Reflections] As we floated leisurely along, the trees skirting the edge of the forest cast upon the surface of the lake their long reflections of green, mingled with the red, blue, and purple of the sun's rays. We heard the harsh notes of the kingfisher (_Ceryle alcyon_) as it skimmed gracefully over the water and, ascending with a quick movement, perched on an old dead limb. With the field-glasses could be distinctly seen her belted markings of white, her ashy blue and rufous color, and her elevated occipital crest. She remained for some time motionless, according to her characteristic habit, when like a flash, with a rapid movement of her long, pointed wings, she made a plunge, disappeared for an instant, and then with a small fish made a graceful flight to her sylvan retreat. Here she delights to build her nest in a perpendicular bank washed at the base by a swift current, a protection from intruders. Quietly the canoe entered the mouth of a little creek and at an abrupt bend there was almost a collision between the man in the boat and the kingfisher returning to its home. With a series of rattles, backing of pedals, and evolutions in the air, the frightened bird, naturally timid and of secluded habits, hastened away. The gnarled and picturesque old birch, with its smooth white-spotted bark twisting and curling in every direction, covered with ages of moss and lichen, spread its drooping limbs gracefully over the water. Among the slender twigs, with their long-pointed, triangular, saw-toothed leaves, were many redpolls (_Acanthis linaria_) feeding on the brown buds, clinging in all conceivable positions, like boys picking cherries. The day was hot, and late in the afternoon a warmer stratum of air saturated with vapor was being driven up the mountain-side. We knew by the uniform gray tint that a nimbus cloud was forming and we could expect a heavy rain erelong. As we glided over the smooth water of the lake, looking anxiously for a good temporary camp site, large drops of rain, spreading a silvery spray over the surface as they struck it, hastened our progress. Heading our craft direct for shore, the oarsman plied the oars with full force, expecting to make a jump to beach as the bow neared shore, but just about the time he straightened up the boat struck a rock and away he went, head first, over the duffel and into the water. A hearty laugh, and we were tugging away at the boat, doing our utmost to get out the tent and save harmless our bed and board. Fortunately on the edge of the bank was a grassy spot large enough to spread a small wall tent. Having our tent-poles with us, already cut, we formed a crotch by tying ropes around the ends. The center pole was thrown into the crotch, and while I steadied the frame Charley slashed four pins out of young saplings, the four corners of the tent were staked down, and in less time than it takes to write it we had a good shelter for the outfit. The rain was increasing while we rustled the outfit to cover. With the woods appetite we hastened the frying pan onto the fire as the resinous smoke curled in rings gracefully away from the tent, and by the time the pan was hot and the solid chunks were aglow, speckled beauties, fresh from the riffles, were curling and drawing, but the rain-drops, sizzling and sputtering, marred their symmetry by making them stick to the pan. In the meantime the forked pole was punched into the soft soil until it leaned at an angle above the fire, and the coffee-pot was soon boiling over, adding its sweet aroma to the already fragrant atmosphere. [Illustration: Radiant Splendor] It was evident that the weather was clearing up. Looking toward the purple foothills the air was rapidly taking up the vapor and mist, and the sun peeped out from its concealment, illuminating the lake with radiant splendor. We walked up the old lumber road, abandoned many years and almost covered with underbrush, to a deserted cabin, with its tumble-down roof and moss-grown sides. A small stream of pure, cold water gurgled as it disappeared under a decayed and broken corduroy bridge,--an ideal spot to cast for trout. A little beyond, the jack pines towered their heads high in the air, each vying with the other for supremacy over the light and sun. Close by stood a beautiful birch, which, after the manner of those who wear a band of black crape around the arm in respect for the memory of some dear one, wore a band of crape encircling its very trunk, in token of its own premature death. The work of a novice or the spirit of destruction was plainly evident, for the living cambium had been destroyed and pulled off with the bark. The wilful destruction of trees casts a sadness over me when I think how easy it is in a few moments to destroy that which it has taken the wise Creator years to develop. No wonder the spirit of conservation is spreading over the country! A short cut through the woods disclosed timber in every stage of decay, from the tall, stately birch, frayed at the very top, like a bald-headed man, to the giant lying prostrate on the ground, uprooted by the wind years before and covered with moss and decaying leaves. As you step upon the moss, down you go to your knees into the rotten trunk, and it seems to say, "Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return." When we arrived at camp several Canada jays (_Perisoreus canadensis_) were in evidence, examining every nook and corner and exercising their well-known powerful instinct in this respect; in fact, their curiosity is so overpowering that they have no fear of man and in a short time become very tame. They are well-known camp robbers, and carry away everything that strikes their fancy. In this instance they were busy toting away into an old tree-top remnants of trout, both cooked and uncooked. [Illustration: Whiskey Jack] [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of the White-Throated Sparrow] Towards evening, a dead stillness pervaded the air, broken occasionally by the "hoot, hoot" of an owl and the sharp smack of the beaver's tail on the water as he was disturbed in his night prowlings. Through the stillness came to us the sweet notes of the white-throated sparrow (_Zonotrichia albicollis_) roosting among the fragrant boughs of the balsam fir. His song may have been inspired by the changed and refreshing atmosphere, or perhaps he was inquiring about the welfare of his little mate as she brooded over her four wee brown-speckled eggs carefully laid in the small arched house on a cushion of moss lined with fine grass and rootlets. Arranging our bed of balsam boughs, we were just about ready to blow out the light, when my half-breed guide, who held the candle in his hand, suggested that he offer up a little prayer. I assented to his desire and he knelt on the boughs with the candle in his hand, while with face upturned he remained silent in this suppliant attitude for some time. The mellow light of the candle on his swarthy, upturned face, amidst the quiet solemnity of the night, was very impressive and turned my earnest thought to the higher things of life. It touched me very deeply. I thought if this simple child of the forest had so much to be thankful for, how much more we, a happy, prosperous people. Just as the half-risen sun kissed the tips of the mountains, we pushed our little craft from the shore. Gently the current caught the stern, and like a magnet drew the boat towards the head of the Lower Humber,--gently at first, but faster and faster as we neared the rapids. The woodman with his ax had been at work. Floating silently with the current were two large tree-trunks felled by the ax of the lumberman. The one, with grayish-brown bark, is known as the white spruce (_Picea canadensis_), a tree until recently of no value, its foliage nasty smelling, its wood soft and brittle. When burned it cracks and throws off sparks that eat holes in the wearing apparel of the camper-out. The other, with its white resinous bark, was the canoe birch (_Betula papyrifera_), which has given pleasure to man from time immemorial, and is used in so many ways by both Indian and white hunters. On the latter three white gulls, with their mantles of black, were standing with heads bowed, as though respectful mourners at the funeral of the noble birch that was moving faster and faster towards the rapids. About the time the log reached the brink of the boiling and seething waters the mourners left it to its fate. The current tossed and pitched it in every conceivable direction, and at last plunged it into the billows head-on, where it disappeared, and after being lost to sight for some time finally floated gracefully into an eddy not much the worse for wear and tear, turning around like an animate being, while the little voices of the forest seemed to unite in praise of their hero. The old spruce with its soft substance appeared tattered and torn--"unwept, unhonored, and unsung" by any except the new man--the pulp manufacturer. At the head of the rapids we made a landing and walked through a beautiful strip of woods to select a camping-site. When we reached the foot of the rapids we found a place to our liking. I suggested to the half-breed that while he prepared a dwelling-place I would go and shoot the rapids with the boat. He positively refused to let me go, and in fact would not allow me to get in the boat for fear we should capsize, saying that several of those who had tried to run the river at this point had lost their lives. When I saw our little craft float the rapids like a duck and swing gracefully into the haven of safety, I naturally felt relieved. We pitched our tent on a grassy bank above the water where it surged back into an eddy, as though it was tired after its swift and tumultuous passage over the bowlders, and longed to tarry for a short time to enjoy the quiet and peaceful pool. We spent several days in this locality, roaming among the spruce and pines. Under the secluded spruce the bunchberries (_Cornus canadensis_) love to grow and blossom. After the flowers fade, from the whorls come clusters of red berries that, mingling with the moss, work out fantastic patterns on the beautiful natural carpet. [Illustration: Bunchberries] Into the pool were brought many insects, larvæ, and frogs, which invited schools of speckled trout to enjoy the quiet waters where we took advantage of the natural haven for our little craft. Toward evening a colony of tree swallows (_Tachycineta bicolor_) invaded the surrounding valley, feeding on the numerous insects. As we watched their flight the under white plumage looked like silver streaks. So rapid were their movements that the wings were scarcely perceptible, and when they skimmed the surface of the meadow and rose gracefully over the willows below us, the beautiful cerulean of their upper plumage so harmonized with the deep blue of a rainbow which spanned the heavens at that moment, that the air seemed to shimmer and sparkle with light and motion. The tiger swallow-tail butterflies (_Papilio turnus_) were very plentiful. The cook had thrown on the shore the heads and entrails of fish and by some unknown method the butterflies were able to ascertain its location. During the afternoon some twenty-four butterflies actually collected around the refuse and with their antennæ sensed the dainties--shall I say?--that seemed to appeal to their taste. When one approached too close, all would take wing and the air was filled with yellow fancies as they scattered in all directions. They soon returned and seemed to bring their friends and neighbors with them, for at each flush they were more numerous than before. [Illustration: The "Steady"] The Humber looked calm and peaceful in the big "steady." How serene and beautiful the mountain appeared in Nature's mirror! How charmingly all the natural colors were reproduced in the reflection on the placid lake! Even the purple foothills displayed their beauty as they clung to the weeping willows along the shore-line. Here and there the water was broken occasionally by the jumping of the salmon and trout on the way to the spawning-waters. The little brook, now full, came tossing, plunging, and pitching with a great noise down the mountain, and at its mouth, gracefully idling away the time, were thousands of trout jumping and splashing in the spray, waiting to strike and dart away with any larvæ or bug that was caught by the onrush of the water. Under such conditions the angler could gather a rich harvest, for the trout takes the bait just as soon as it touches the water, and darts away, making the line "sizz" as it cuts through, breaking again and again until after a desperate struggle he gives up to the inevitable and is landed safely in the boat. Man is not the only creature familiar with this condition and the feeding habits of the fish. At the mouth of every stream the merganser loiters with her family to take toll; the kingfisher makes its morning call along the route; the loon, swimming gracefully around the projecting willows that quiver in the gentle current, disappears like a flash, and another is added to the tally; the osprey soaring through the air takes a dive beneath the surface and brings up one of the finny tribe, then makes a true line to the top of the old dead tree stump, where the young are waiting with stretched necks and open mouths to receive their allotment. [Illustration: Solitude] While we anchored to an old snag that had drifted with the current into an eddy, there appeared from the depths the head of a muskrat, moving gracefully around in a semicircle and throwing off little wavelets that broadened as they approached the shore. The cast of the fly frightened His Majesty, and with a "whack" of his tail on the water he disappeared, but erelong again came to the surface. What a contrast in the disposition of the muskrat and its cousin, the beaver! The latter loves solitude and builds its lodge in the most inaccessible places that can be found in the fastness of the uninhabited mountains and along some stream where the foot of man seldom treads. The other colonizes near civilization in some old dam or waterway thrown up by man. Under the protection of the law, beaver are becoming more plentiful, and occasionally at the mouths of little creeks can be seen limbs of birch and willow freshly peeled; if the winding course of the stream is followed, you are sure to come upon a dam, lately completed by a pair that have of their own accord left the old lodge to seek their fortune in a new home. The dam is usually constructed first and then the lodge a short distance above, and wonderful in the building of the dam and lodge is the skill of this little animal, known as the King of the Rodents. [Illustration: Breakfast Head on the Humber River] A little way below, the waters separated around an acreage of island that afforded protection for the homes of numerous gulls and fish ducks. The undergrowth was very dense out to the edge of the perpendicular wall rock. The mergansers constructed on the ledge their shallow nests encircled with a ring of down. When approached they sailed gracefully along a descending plain a hundred yards beyond, closed their wings, skimmed elegantly over the water several yards and then floated about, perfect pictures of grace, beauty, and ease combined. Seal Cove loomed up in the distance with its two sides of perpendicular reddish sandstone. The gently sloping water front was the breeding-ground for quite a few harbor seals. They are naturally gregarious, and as we approached them one by one they slid into the water. In a few seconds, noiselessly a shiny black object resembling the head of a dog would come in sight some distance away, and scarcely a ripple of the displaced water marked the spot where the seal emerged. Again and again it appeared and disappeared until a mere speck in the distance. Climbing the rocks we saw remnants of numerous white woolly suits discarded by the newly-born baby seals before they took to the water, where with their brand-new spotted sealskin coats they could be seen sporting and playing before the big bulging, affectionate eyes of the mother. Seals love to spend a great deal of their time resting, sleeping, and sunning themselves on the rocks. Their hearing is not very acute and they can be approached easily by stalking. They are very tenacious of life and when shot must be killed instantly or they will slide into the water and disappear. My Indian guide shot a large bull around the region of the heart, and it would have reached the water although mortally wounded if the Indian had not caught hold of its flippers and pulled back with all his strength. All the time the bull was snapping viciously at him just like a dog. The northern seal is much prized by the natives for its economic value, its flesh, fat, and skin being in great demand. Seal hunting in these waters has been a great industry for years. The Newfoundlanders are a hardy race, and when hunting seal on the ice floes must endure great privations. While at Bay of Islands an old sailer came into port with a young man aboard, penniless and very sick. He lived in the interior and the captain was trying to raise money to send him on the train to his home. The lad knew he was going to die and was anxious to reach home to make amends to his old father and mother for seeking, against their wishes, a life on the seas. Passengers contributed the money and sent word to the captain, but before the train arrived the poor boy died. The train pulled in, not in due time, but several hours late. The conductor shouted "All aboard!" and as it slowly left the bay my thoughts turned homeward. It is then I begin to feel anxious about the folks at home and wonder if all is well. CHAPTER V HUNTING WITH A FERRET Having many times tried with indifferent success to photograph the rabbit in his native fields and woods, I cast about for a means of stalking him at close range, and had for some time cherished the idea of taking a hunt with my kodak in a good tracking snow. Thus intent, I jumped from a passenger coach one day in the late fall, equipped with an Eastman twelve-shooter and ammunition enough to make a big bag. I had left the station scarcely more than a couple of hundred yards behind along the public road, when I leaped a stake and rider fence, crossed a stubble field, bound for the bottom land. A field covered with tall, dry grass, right at the edge of a brier patch, looked a very likely place for cottontail. Just as I reached the little creek covered with ice, save where here and there the rippling water crossed the shallow, pebbly places, I struck a fresh trail. Carefully examining the footprints in the snow, which had fallen early the preceding day, I reached the conclusion, from the trodden condition of the ground and the little round brownish excrement lying here and there on the surface of the snow, that this was his playground and I must look elsewhere for the quarry. So I began a large circle around the brier patch to catch the trail to his bed. After passing several times around the thicket, I finally discovered the latest trail out. Bunny usually travels by long jumps from the time he makes up his mind to retire for the day. The trail followed what seemed the most cautious route--under an old fallen tree, then two long jumps and into an abandoned ground-hog hole. I cut a pole with the intention, if possible, of routing Bunny from his quarters. About the time the pole was half way in, out he popped from an unexpected direction like a flash, made a dash for a brush heap nearby, and disappeared even before I could get the camera into action. When a rabbit is once driven out of a hole, it seldom re-enters unless hard pressed by the dogs. I have trailed them in the snow for hours, reading the story from the footprints as they ran, now hopping along leisurely, now doubling and following old tracks under, through, and over logs. In one instance Br'er Rabbit showed considerable ingenuity in making a long side jump to a board fence and squatting where the color of fence and rabbit was almost the same, by this simple ruse eluding his pursuers. [Illustration: Color Blending] Later I accidentally came upon some fellows who had put a ferret into a hole. In a short time he stuck his nose out, sniffing the air for the scent of the quarry, circling the open for the lost trail. When the owner made a slight movement towards him he instantly disappeared into the hole. For fully an hour the men tried in vain to catch him as he appeared alternately at either end of the tunnel. Grass had grown around the entrance, and the ferret was busy trying to carry enough into the hole to make a comfortable bed and take up his abode there, unceremoniously abandoning the snug quarters in his master's pocket. Several times they almost succeeded in getting hold of him by taking a bunch of grass and poking it towards him. This he would grab, hold until his owner had pulled him out almost far enough to catch him, then let go, sniffing as he scurried back out of reach. Finally they were obliged to try a new scheme, and one of them was sent to a neighboring house for a piece of fresh meat. They tied a string to the meat and lowered it into the hole; whereupon the ferret instantly snatched it, and forgetting his late resolve, held on so tenaciously that the hunter soon had him back into the bag. [Illustration: Putting in the Ferret] On the second day out, the snow was fast disappearing from the open under the influence of a bright sunshine, though it was still quite deep in the woods and on the northerly slopes of the high hills. While looking for tracks I succeeded in gaining the confidence of another party of rabbit hunters who had a good dog and a "long pole," as they called it, and directly I obtained an invitation to accompany them as they hunted for signs of the little cottontail. I accepted with some hesitation, determined to take a few observations of the operations of modern "game hogs." Soon we heard the short, sharp bark of the old hound, indicating that a start had been made; and about the same time a shout rent the air, "Here he goes!" as the little white tail dodged in and out from one cover to another, disappearing in the distance with the old hound in hot pursuit and baying at every jump. Presently, in the language of the coon-hunter, the dogs tongued "Treed," which in the dialect of the rabbit hunter is "Holed," and erelong the law breakers gathered around the hole at the root of the tree. I was hoping the tree was hollow and that the little rabbit who had made such a good long run for his life had climbed the tree and would be safe from the ferret, but my hopes soon vanished when I heard the rumbling noise, first faint in the depths, then coming nearer and nearer as he approached the opening. A hasty scramble by the man on his knees, a muffled "d----", a wish expressed that he had used his net, and the little rabbit was away again in a race for his life, minus a tail taken by the ferret and a patch of skin and hair taken from his back by the big fellow at the hole. Then follows a long chase during which the old dog overleaps a little bunch of gray as it squats in the grass. For, knowing that the enemy is fleet of foot and is likely to pass hurriedly by, overlooking in his haste the clod of color that blends with the dry grass, he crouches low and gains an opportunity to double on his tracks. His ruse misleads the pursuer for a short time at least and requires a halt in the chase, which gives the fugitive an opportunity to reach some oft-frequented harbor of refuge. Again he is tracked to his hiding-place, and again the little bloodthirsty creature is turned loose to drive him from cover. Bunny, always on the alert, makes a bolt for his life with the ferret at his back and the old hound waiting at the other end of the hole to crush his life out. He stops a moment at the entrance as the dog makes a vicious snap at him, returns to meet his arch enemy, lets out a pitiful squeal, and meekly allows his life blood to be sucked without further resistance. His courage and dash are gone and he quietly submits to his cruel fate at the hands of the lawless "game hogs." After the entrance is dug out a long arm is extended into the hole and Bunny is slowly dragged forth with the ferret hanging on like grim death. Again the biggest "game hog" of the party could be heard shouting to the dogs, "Whoop her up, Dan," urging them on the trail of another innocent little rabbit that has a slim chance for life. While hunting for fresh signs we ran across a little cottontail hanging by his head, caught in a snare set by another type of hunters who bag their game by means of knife, twine, and apple. A nibble at the apple, the trap is sprung, and the noose tightens around his neck, dangling little cottontail in the air just low enough for his hind feet to touch the ground, and slow strangulation continues until life is extinct. In the morning when the trapper reaches his snare he finds the rabbit frozen stiff, with tongue protruding and eyes bulging from their sockets. Surely he is not without a pang of conscience as he gathers up his catch. [Illustration: His Last Nibble] I was startled out of my contemplation by the sound of the old dog giving tongue, and the bang of the musket echoing in the tree-tops. Listening, I could hear the dogs baying on the trail some distance from where the shot was fired,--plainly a clean miss. In a short time the language of the hound again announced "Holed," and the gathering of the heartless around the spot told the same old story. At my suggestion, "Give the rabbit a chance," the dog was removed from the hole, when out popped the rabbit. The dog in hot pursuit soon overtook him, but failed to pick him up. Twice the little fellow fooled the dog, but the third time his doom was sealed. The dog returned with the rabbit kicking in his mouth, and laid it at the feet of his master as a trophy worthy of the chase, occasionally nosing it to see if any life remained. Truly this cannot be sport. [Illustration: In Hot Pursuit] [Illustration: Picked Up] Crossing the hill we caught a view from the distance of a beautiful meadow flanked on one side by an old orchard, which long needed pruning and was grown up with blackberry briers. On the other side was a thicket of locust, sumac, and elder, which had been cleared several years before and the debris piled on the stone heaps ready for the match that had never been applied. Here and there were stretches of stake and rider fence; in fact, it was an old farm neglected for many years owing to the death of the owner and continued litigation among the heirs for the possession of the land,--an ideal home for the cottontail. Crossing the meadow the dogs started a rabbit which had been basking in the sun, coiled up in a bed built in the middle of a bunch of dry swamp grass. The little fellow had remained perfectly quiet, although one of the party passed within two feet without seeing him, so well did his color harmonize with the surroundings. He remained unobserved until one of the dogs passing by started him and warned the other dogs, whereupon away they went in full chase. Through the orchard, down along the old fence, sped the fugitive, the dogs close behind, tonguing at every jump. Into the thicket he plunged, safe for the time being. The dogs began to circle, caught the trail on the opposite side, and followed it into another cover, where Bunny squatted and presently we saw him returning on his own trail. I made a run to head him off so that I could get a snap-shot, but observing me he stopped in the middle of a wheat field. In the meantime the dogs had gathered enough information and were working their way back over the track until the leader came on to him, and away they went. The quarry returned towards the other dogs and was picked up before cover could be reached. [Illustration: Down the Old Fence] Again the dogs were urged to hunt the old orchard. A start was made and away went a rabbit across the meadow on the far side of which he darted into a burrow. The ferret was put into a hole and out popped three rabbits, one on the heels of the other. Each dog followed one, but soon returned, evidently unable to keep the trails, for they all crisscrossed around the orchard. In the meantime every effort was made to get the ferret, without success, when finally one of the unfeeling suggested shooting a bird. I protested against shooting a song bird and suggested an English sparrow, whereupon he promised to go down to the barn for a sparrow. However, upon returning he handed over a song sparrow (_Melospiza fasciata_), with its long tail and brownish-streaked body beautiful even in death. Charity impels me to believe the man was ignorant rather than willful. Pulling a piece of twine from his hunting-coat pocket, he tied fast the bird, a double hitch after hitch, so that the ferret could not loose the bait and carry it into the hole. When properly secured the bird was thrown to the ferret, and instantly seized. Each began to pull, when off went the head into the hole. Returning promptly for the body the ferret made another grab and was finally coaxed out of the hole and caught by the owner. [Illustration: The Dog Listening to the Last Sound] The dogs began to work the trails and again had a rabbit crossing the meadow for dear life, they following close behind. He went into a hole among the roots of an old tree, to escape from his enemies, as he hoped, but alas, only to a cruel fate! "Put in the long pole," said one of the boys kneeling at the hole. The other started the ferret on its death-dealing mission. In a few minutes we could hear the smothered "Wah, wah, wah" of cottontail, and a curse from the heartless, not out of sympathy for poor little bunny, but because he knew the rabbit would not make another attempt to reach the opening and the ferret would stay there for days. Fainter and fainter grew the pitiful moans, until finally they ceased forever. One of the men went for an ax to cut a way down to the ferret. The hole took a downward course into an old root, and by cutting through they found the hole, reached in and pulled out the dead rabbit. It was sickening to see the condition of its head. The owner of the ferret had a cruel heart, but even it was softened a little at the sight, for he threw the murderous creature away from him. Instantly the big dog made a jump, grabbed the ferret, and tossed him into the air several feet before his master could interfere. A feeling of satisfaction came over me when I saw the toss, and I said to myself, "That was your last kill." But landing on his feet he humped his back and at the same time hissing through his teeth made several vicious snaps at the dog and sought protection by running towards his master. Fortunately for him his master had the sack open and the ferret hastened into it to safety. [Illustration: Did He Come Out?] When I boarded the train for home that evening I felt as though I had spent a day in the shambles. Such slaughter seems to me to be utterly unjustifiable, even in the name of sport. CHAPTER VI A NIGHT HUNT A coon hunt is always interesting to me. Just as soon as night approaches and you call old Stump, who has lost the tip of his tail in a battle royal, he pricks up his ears, begins to whine, and seems to know that the boys are out for a coon hunt. As you approach to loosen the snap that ties him to the kennel he begins to wag what is left of his tail and seems to say, "Boys, I'm happy to be with you to-night!" The wrinkles in his face twitch as the excitement grows. His face and head indicate that he has been in many a coon fight. On one occasion he tracked a ground-hog into its hole underneath an uprooted tree. Being then of tender years and lacking experience, as the ground-hog came out, Stump made a grab and at the same time the ground-hog snapped Stump by the nose and held on like grim death. It took the combined efforts of men and dogs to separate them. Finally in the mix-up Stump made one desperate struggle to get away and lost the tip of his nose. Thus with the two tips gone Stump entered the arena as a full-fledged--shall we say?--and experienced coon dog. [Illustration: The Hunting Party] We gather at the country farm, boys and girls ready for the outing. Stump, Fan, and Towser all are anxious for a night out working the ravines and watercourses. Lanterns and "pit-lamps" are shining brightly as we start across the meadow. The dogs disappear in the darkness. The fireflies flash here and there as though to light our way across the fields. One of the party, and by the way a fair one, steps into a pool of running water and the night air is pierced--in fact, sadly rent--by the shrill screams of the miss, for this is her first experience "trekking" in the dark. As we approach the woods the weirdness of the scene is enchanting. Shadows play on the trees and leaves, as though in imagination one were transplanted into some fairy-land. Away off among the timber the great horned owl can be heard calling to its mate, "Waugh ho! waugh ho!" just before it makes an excursion into the fields in search of some hapless rabbit or bird. The crickets are fiddling away, making music for their mates while they gather blades of grass for their burrow. Presently our eager ears catch the low grunt of a dog as he gets the first whiff of the trail, not fresh, but spent. By the reflected light we see Towser wag his tail, slowly at first, but as the scent gets warmer the tail wags more vigorously. Soon one long, loud wail resounds in the stillness of the night and ere the echo dies away in the distance it is repeated, and we know the chase is on. Everybody runs toward the sound. The quarry has taken to the tree and the dogs bay up, but before the party reaches the scene of action the dogs are off again. They find the trail where the coon has followed a grapevine for some distance, taken the ground again, and "put one over" on the old dog. After considerable delay the dog finds his mistake, picks up the scent and away he goes, and directly, on the other side of the ridge, bays up. Then the party goes pell-mell in that direction. And so the hunt proceeds, now here, now there, up hill and across ravine, until at last the coon is treed, and the dogs by their change of voice tell the news and summon the party, which arrives in installments, out of breath, at the foot of the tree where the dogs are panting after their long chase. Every one is eager for the finish. The tree-climber of the party takes off his coat, hat, and shoes and begins the ascent to shake Mister Coon from the tree. A shout comes from the tree-top, "Here he is; look out below!" then follows a shake or two and a large house cat disappears into the darkness before the dogs can take hold. When the cat came down it alighted on all fours near the girls, and what with the girls screaming, the dogs barking, and the cat spitting, night was made hideous. We soon called the dogs off and "hied" them on for a fresh trail. By and by the dogs took another hot scent. Down the hill, clambering over a stake and rider fence,--a ruse which for a moment confused the dogs,--then across a cornfield to the creek went the coon with the dogs in hot pursuit; he followed the course of the creek for several rods, then dashed through at the shallows and bid fair to make good his escape to the woods beyond. But old Stump had been through that maneuver before; the rest of the dogs knew it and followed him over to the other bank, up the hill, under the cliff, and erelong bayed up. Following as fast as possible over and under dead trees, a jump of several feet over an embankment, a slide of several feet more, a brief climb and we reached the dogs, who, excitedly voicing their triumph, formed a circle around the tree as though appealing to us for action. The night was dark and just such a night as was well suited for "shining" the eyes of the coon. Lying flat on the ground and staring into every part of the tree, I finally descried two objects shining like stars near together in the zenith. We knew they were the eyes of the treed coon. Calling the dogs we prepared to photograph them and the coon in the mix-up. Setting up the kodak about twenty feet from the spot where we figured the coon would drop from the tree, we fixed the pan for the flash, loading it with an ounce of flash-light powder. One of the party held the dogs and another lighted Roman candles and shot them towards the coon. Thus we had the artist at the kodak, the man in charge of the flash at the pan, the coon hunters holding the dogs, and one of Payne's pyrotechnic men setting off the fireworks. The combination was too much for the coon. About that time the big dog began to jerk at his chain, and the pit-lamp in the hands of the man who held him registered on the exposed sensitive film a sort of stylographic record of the efforts of the dog to get at the coon as soon as the latter landed on the ground. As the coon dropped we set the flash off, and caught both the dog and coon about the time they came together at the very spot on which we had focused the lens. The chase ended, the quarry caught, we straggled back over the hills to the distant trolley line, as Orion rose high toward the zenith. A few hours more, and the eastern sky would grow gray. Tired, but happy, we jogged along, most of us in silence, for about that time in the morning after a coon hunt, the songs and jokes of the early evening are stale, and our spirits, with the night, are on the wane. Like an exploded skyrocket, we are getting back again to earth as fast as we can after our excursion into the realm of darkness. [Illustration: Dog and Coon in the Mix-up Note the forefoot of the coon between the dog's hind legs; his banded tail to the right of the dog's right forefoot. The zig-zag line in front of the man at the left indicates the movement of his hand in which was a pit-lamp and the end of the dog's chain just prior to the flash.] Another denizen of the woods is frequently interrupted in his night prowlings by the dogs hunting for coon. I refer to the oppossum, who is himself frequently the object of the quest. In the Southern States the negroes are very fond of hunting for 'possum. A successful hunt means a good dinner, the _pièce-de-résistance_ being the trophy of the chase stuffed with sweet potatoes. Roasted and served as only an old "mammy" can roast and serve it, 'possum defies comparison. Perhaps roast suckling-pig comes the nearest, but even this lacks the flavor of the woods. We are used to thinking of the 'possum as a lethargic animal, but that is only when he is "playing 'possum." He is really quite agile, and when treed by the dogs, furnishes no end of excitement by climbing, not into the tops of the trees, as does the coon, but merely far enough to be safe from his pursuers. I have yet in anticipation the pleasure of obtaining a flash-light of the hounds on their hind legs, pawing and clawing at a tree on which, just beyond their reach, the 'possum lies stretched indifferently on a horizontal limb. One really ought to have a dictagraph, so that when the picture is thrown on the screen, it may be with the appropriate accompaniment of the baying and barking of the hounds and the shouts of the hunters. The little animal is very prolific and rears several families in a season. How interesting it is to watch the antics of the young clinging to the mother when disturbed! I have known cases where an old 'possum, presumably alone, was shaken out of a tree, and as she fell, strange, plaintive cries were heard on all sides. The rays of the lantern disclosed perhaps a dozen young 'possums, who had been ruthlessly dislodged from the pouch or marsupium of the mother as she struck the ground. On such an occasion, if the parent is allowed an opportunity, she will gather up the young and hunt cover. There is something quite comfortable and clinging about the young 'possums and their mother (Frontispiece). The little fellows are very roguish in their ways, and I have no doubt would in time become friendly. The 'possum has very sharp teeth, and can do good execution upon occasion, but as a general rule he may be said to have a "retiring" disposition. CHAPTER VII IN THE SPRINGTIME As soon as the first harbingers of spring arrive we take to the forest. Life is just awakening in the northern woods. The winter has been long and severe. Following the course of the creek we see large cakes of ice thrown topsy-turvy all over the meadow, where they have been carried by the spring freshet. In the gorge block after block is piled; they are lying in every conceivable position. The spring sun is busy undoing what the hard winter has accomplished. The cakes of crystal ice are fast losing their deep blue color, becoming "rotten" and breaking off in huge chunks with a report that fairly startles one. The newly-exposed ice-prisms glisten in the sun like so many jewels. To add to the attractions of the landscape, the creek is lined with stately sycamores,--here and there a lonely buttonball clings by a slender stem to the parent tree, as though loath to break away. Or perhaps it is hopeful that by some imaginary elixir of life it may renew its youth and live the spring and summer over again, forgetful that on the verge of inaugurating a new cycle of existence,--the birth of another generation,--it has before it the great consummation of all life. Where the hills furnish a dark background the old tree stands out, weird and majestic, its limbs white and naked after shedding their cinnamon-like bark. It glistens in the sunlight almost as much as the ice-prisms. The high water is busy undermining the bank of the stream and an occasional cave-in appears, as though some muskrat surprised in his foraging were making a hasty departure for his tunnelled home. [Illustration: Home of the Cardinal] The woods are ringing with the song of the cardinals (_Cardinalis cardinalis cardinalis_), and just as soon as you enter their "beat" they seem to take notice and are ready to fight any intruder. It is a noteworthy fact that the "sphere of influence" of a particular cock is limited to a portion of a tract of woodland as well defined as though surrounded by a fence. If you can conceal yourself in his zone and imitate his call, the bird will approach very near. In my younger days many were the cardinals I trapped in the following manner: In the mating season we would take a caged bird into the woods, the cage covered from the time we left home until we reached the woods. Selecting a likely place, we set our net, and attached a rope which led to a blind constructed of boughs put together as naturally as possible. Then when all was ready we lifted the cover of the cage. The sudden emergence from darkness to light seemed to fill the very soul of the caged bird with gladness, and even before we could conceal ourselves behind the blind it would break forth into the sweetest melodies, filling the woods with its songs, as though once again free in its erstwhile haunts. Ere the first notes die away in the distance, like an echo comes the answer from the proprietary lord of that particular section of woodland, as though he seemed to say: "Some miscreant has entered my shady bowers to entice my fair one away, so I'll teach him a lesson and drive him out of my domain." Again the voice of the caged bird peals forth in a loud, clear whistling call, but I have no doubt the notes are not so sweet to the suspicious wild bird, for he is answering in an angry tone. In the meantime the wild bird is cautiously advancing, flitting from limb to limb. If he comes from the direction of the blind, he may be so near that you can distinctly see the bristled rictus and black mask on his face, the crested top, and glowing red body. Presently he sees the captive bird, makes a dive for it, and hangs onto the wires, trying to get hold of the intruder, picking and striking through the narrow openings so excitedly that he does not notice the net being pulled over him. What loyalty to his mate we see in this little bird! Thus many cardinals are caught. If the other bird does not encroach on their beat they will not answer to the call, but by shifting the cage even fifty feet or less, it may enter the domain of another and then he will show fight even to the death. The piping of the cardinal is shrill at times, again soft, mellow, and soothing to the ear. He is a perfect vocalist and is known as one of the best whistlers among the feathery tribes; indeed, by some he is called the American nightingale. At times when he ends up his song with "Pretty, pretty, pretty," I repeat the words, agreeing absolutely with him. [Illustration: Cardinal's Nest and Eggs] He shows some strange antics occasionally. Once we found a nest built in a crab tree about three feet from the ground. When we first found it there were four light blue eggs blotched with liver-colored spots, laid in a loosely-built nest of rootlets, grass, and grapevine bark. About a week later when we visited it the nest was empty. Looking toward the ground by chance, I saw a little bird "in the down" apparently without life. Lifting it up in my hand, by close observation I noticed that it still breathed. We put the bird into the nest, went away, and returned in about thirty minutes, when to our surprise we found the nestling was gone again! Query, did the mother bird carry away its offspring to some place of safety where it would not be disturbed? On another occasion we found a nest in the top of a grapevine. We drew down the vine, photographed the nest, and restored the nest to its original position. Calling the following week I found the mother bird had incubated the brood as though nothing had happened, but the young were taken from the nest as soon as they could be moved and some days before they would ordinarily have been allowed to leave home. Although the cardinal is naturally shy and retiring, at times he will permit one to get very close. I am glad to think that in many of the States this beautiful bird is increasing under the protection of the law. While sitting on a moss-covered log enjoying the balmy breezes of spring, the "dee, dee, dee" notes of the tufted titmouse (_Parus bicolor_) came to my ear. What hardy little birds they are! The coldest winter of the north does not affect them. They are fearless of man at times, and if you keep quiet they will flit about from place to place, alternately disclosing to you now their ashy blue backs, now their dull white, russet-flanked under-parts, as they swing from twig to twig, scanning each little crevice for a choice morsel of insect life. [Illustration: Winter in the North] When the first warm rays hatch the winged insects, the tragedy of the woods begins. A little cream-colored butterfly just out of its winter garb is on the wing, floating gracefully in the air among the leafless trees. The titmouse, with his bright eye ever on the alert, spies the insect, makes a sprightly dart, and seldom misses his mark. Then he perches on a limb with the fly and, like a bird of prey, takes hold with bill and feet and tears his victim apart, and as the remnants of the little wings float slowly to the ground, he feeds on the body. The indigo bunting (_Passerina cyanea_) with its exquisite lay makes its abode very attractive to bird fanciers. In the mating season he can be seen perched on the topmost twig of one of the graceful drooping limbs of the elm bush, a little blue ball of feathers, throat expanded, pouring forth sweet music. If an instrument could be invented to record and reproduce the melody as he delivers it in the stillness of the morning when the little songster is at his best, it would become a very popular air. The indigo is frequently kept in captivity, but loses all the sweetness of song and the little male soon drops his beautiful livery and dons a distasteful shabby color, lacking even the somber luster of the female. During the period of mating, the cock-bird can be trapped very easily by using a trap cage with a bird in the lower compartment. As a boy, I have placed a trap cage on my head, walked under the tree where the wild bird was singing, with my mouth made a few kissing sounds, whereupon the bird would fly down into the cage and try to get through the wires to the captive. If some wheat grains were placed on the "paddle," the wild bird would invariably light on it first, and picking up the grains would spring the trap and be caught while the cage was on my head. [Illustration: Indigo Bunting's Nest with Cowbird's Egg] [Illustration: The Young Interloper (He sits on one and crowds the other out.)] In constructing their nest they usually select a dense thicket and frequently build near the ground, where they deposit four or five bluish-white eggs not much bigger than a large pea. The cowbird (_Molothrus ater_), which is a sort of parasite, does not build a nest of its own, but lays its eggs in the nest of some other bird. In this respect it shows its wonderful instinct by selecting a smaller bird as foster-mother for its offspring. By experience they have been taught that the larger birds invariably dispose of the eggs by removing them from the nest. It frequently selects the bunting's nest in which to deposit its brown spotted eggs, which are much larger. The cowbird, being of a larger species, grows much faster, and before long the foundling fills the little nest, forcing the rightful owners out of home and board. On one occasion I visited a nest and found it almost upset, with the "big cow" filling the whole nest. On the upper edge perched one little bunting, almost featherless, shivering in the cold. From underneath the "parasite" could be seen the head of the other, panting for breath and nearly stifled. We removed the cowbird, straightened up the nest, replaced the rightful owners of the house, and perched the cowbird nearby on a bush. We then went off a short distance and watched developments, and to our surprise the little male bunting fed the cowbird first. It was strange to see the youngster, as large as his foster parent, open his mouth so wide you could imagine he was getting ready to swallow the old bird,--indeed he looked as though he could, rapacious pirate offspring that he was. On telling the story to a friend, he remarked, "Well, how do you account for the foolish old man neglecting his own offspring and feeding the cowbird first?" I cannot answer that, unless the old fellow was proud of his big son. [Illustration: A Well-Constructed Home (Note the Cowbird's egg in nest.)] [Illustration: Madam Vireo at Home] The red-eyed vireo (_Vireosylva olivacea_) loves solitude. During the nesting season it seeks some dense thicket, selects a fork on a drooping limb, and constructs its wonderful basket-shaped, pensile nest. Intertwining about the fork a silky material for the basis of the structure, they put together with grasses, lichens, and plant fibres a wonderful little home for their progeny. When working away at building they are very cheerful, almost continually singing a sweet, pleasant warble, as though haranguing the dwellers of the silent places, hence their pseudonym, "preacher." Very frequently in the dense foliage nearby skulks another member of the feathery tribe, watching every movement of the industrious pair, and now she gloats over them when, their work of art complete, they flit from limb to limb, closely observing the masterpiece and softly twittering their satisfaction, as though to say, "Well done." Tired and hungry after their labors they wander away in search of food, singing cheerily as they twitch their heads now this way, now that, seeking a worm or insect. When they have gone, the somber-gowned, parasitic mate of a polygamist makes a bee-line for the nest, hastily drops a large speckled egg in the neat little basket, then quits the thicket and returns afield to the flock from which she came, leaving her ignominious progeny to be hatched and reared by the foster parents. When the vireos return, imagine the little red eyes looking with surprise at the egg that almost fills the cradle. They have not the strength, even if it occurred to them, to tumble the egg overboard, and unlike the yellow warblers, who sometimes build another nest on top of the egg, they resignedly proceed with the family duties. [Illustration: The Usurper] The cowbird is a parasite of the worst kind; it lays its egg, not on the doorstep, like some foundlings, but in the bedchamber. The period of incubation being shorter than with most other birds, the egg is hatched sooner, the bird grows more rapidly, and consequently young _molothrus_ frequently stifles the rightful owners of the home. One by one the vireo fledglings die and are carried from the nest by the mourning parents, and so the survivor flourishes and grows fat, rocked in the cradle by the gentle breezes and under the care and protection of the little red-eyed vireos. The vireos are noted as good providers and protectors. During incubation they are fearless and loath to leave their eggs,--at times indeed, will permit you to approach the nest within two feet and photograph. We made several attempts to get the picture on page 260 but without success, until with a hand-mirror as a reflector we threw the rays of the sun on the bird. The light seemed to bewilder her and had the same effect as a "flash-light" has on a moose or deer in the stillness of a dark night. Thus we were able to take a photograph by time-exposure. It is very seldom that a mixed family is raised. Usually the children of the home perish, and then how the young cowbird does continually call to the foster parents, "hungry, hungry, I'm hungry," and how the little birds must work to satisfy the fast-growing changeling. At last one day the parents find their darling has disappeared; their summer's work is finished; four cunning little vireo nestlings have met an untimely fate, and one arrogant young cowbird is well started upon his infamous career. Despite his careful rearing his blood will tell just as surely as if he were human. Over yonder, a stone's throw from my sleeping-porch, stands the stump of a hardwood tree, now soft from years of exposure to the elements. First the slender twigs decaying dropped one by one, then limb after limb, until all that remained of the noble tree, the growth of years, was this stump, where one bright morning in March I heard from my bed the familiar tapping sound characteristic of the woodpecker family. It was a flicker (_Colaptes auratus luteus_). The mating season was due, the ardent lovers were busy making holes here and there, as is customary, until finally they accomplished one to their liking and began their domestic duties in earnest. Some weeks later, in answer to my tapping on the stump, a head appeared at the door looking from side to side for the cause of the noise. It was the father of the family who reconnoitered the situation. The characteristic broad streaks of black throat feathers, commonly referred to as his "dark mustache," served to identify him. For some time we had suspected the young were soon to leave their home. Tom climbed the tree in search of "data," for the accumulation of which he is quite eager, but before he got half way up, shouted, "There goes one of the kids,--there goes another." While their intentions were good, through lack of training "the kids" soon came to the ground. It is said of the flicker family that the parents coax and coax the young birds to leave the hole, but the latter are very reluctant to do so, and at times the parents are constrained to resort to starving or practically kicking them out. In the hole three were left. Tom brought them out and took them to a slanting tree. It was interesting to watch them. Like all climbers, they have two toes in front and two behind and in climbing are assisted by their rigid tail feathers. Tom was kept busy trying to arrange them within focus of the camera. For some time it was impossible to make them stay "posed"; they insisted on climbing the tree. After a while they got tired and then posed nicely for their picture. During the whole time they called in plaintive tone and the parent birds answered as they hovered around. After being photographed the birds were returned to their home, where they seemed well satisfied to remain. [Illustration: Young Flickers] This member of the woodpecker family has some individuality. While the other woodpeckers stay in the trees, he spends a great deal of his time on the ground, some of it in feeding, and some of it certainly in amusement. He finds the latter on tree and ground alike. I have seen them going through various contortions and maneuvers, some of which closely resembled the figures in a minuet. On one occasion I witnessed a fight between two males on the ground. How they parried, juked, and dodged to avoid the sally of the adversary, until finally one got the better of the other and the vanquished took to flight. Every spring for several years a flicker takes up his abode near the home of a friend of mine, who relates with a great deal of interest how the bird attracts attention by visiting at frequent intervals a tin box on top of an arc-light pole, where he takes much delight in spending considerable time drumming away, as though the musician of the regiment were practicing his favorite tattoo. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Tanager] Of all the birds of Pennsylvania the male scarlet tanager (_Piranga erythromelas_) is the most beautifully and attractively colored. Seldom seen by the occasional visitor to the woods, like a "Will o' the wisp" he flits through the thick foliage, uttering his peculiar "chirp churr." I remember well finding my first nest of the tanager after several years of search. On a horizontal limb of an elm tree about ten feet from the ground I noticed a few twigs and roots placed on the limb. So frail was the structure that even the sunlight shone through. Although I saw the female fluttering around considerably disturbed, I did not give it much thought, but left the location, only to return again to investigate. Imagine my agreeable surprise when, on climbing the tree, I saw four handsome bluish-green speckled eggs in the frail structure of twigs and rootlets. I have no doubt the scanty nest is a protection, for it requires a close observer to distinguish it as the living habitation of a bird. [Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest] [Illustration: Little Green Heron's Nest (Note frog legs to left of young bird.)] [Illustration: Leaving the Nest] The green heron (_Butorides virescens_) dwells in colonies at times, and frequently in solitary pairs along creeks and ponds. They build their nests on small trees and bushes. The same birds will build in one locality for years if unmolested, and even if disturbed will probably find a site nearby the following year. I remember finding a nest built on a small black-haw bush about ten feet from the ground. We visited the nest frequently until five bluish-green eggs were laid in the frail-looking platform of twigs. Its fragile appearance is deceptive, however, for the nest is realty strongly constructed amongst the limbs upon which it rests. An egg collector found the nest and removed two of the eggs, but the mother bird continued to incubate. We cut the limb off and removed the nest to the ground to photograph, then returned it, made it fast as before, and the bird hatched out a brood successfully from the three remaining eggs. One day upon visiting the nest I found one of the occupants in the act of swallowing a frog. All that remained of the frog was a leg sticking out of the nestling's mouth. It was not long before the bird disgorged the legs, or all that was undigested of them. About a week later I visited the nest, and looking up saw three long necks and three heads sticking up over the edge. Before long they started one by one to leave the nest, stepping rather ceremoniously along the limbs towards the foliage at the top. Occasionally one would miss his foothold and partially lose his balance, but by the use of wings and beak would right himself. Often when in distress and hastening to get away, the young herons will use their heads and necks as a parrot does its beak, "chinning" themselves upon a limb and drawing up the body by main strength. These birds when frightened disgorge partially digested food; and because of their predilection to the generous distribution of ornithological whitewash at frequent intervals as they fly, they well deserve the name of "chalk-line." While climbing the trees on several occasions when visiting the homes of these birds, I found to my sorrow that "discretion is the better part of valor." Although they seem to be extremely shy, they will return from time to time to the neighborhood of their nests. They do not often approach closely, however, while a visitor is near, and on such occasions remain at some distance craning their necks curiously in every direction. They seldom utter a sound unless startled, when with a hoarse "quawk" and a shrilly harsh cry, they hastily fly away. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Grosbeak] [Illustration: Nestlings] The rose-breasted grosbeak (_Zamelodia ludoviciana_) is one of the handsomest of the finch family, and also one of the most useful to the farmer. The grosbeak's chief diet is bugs and other insects, the potato bug being a favorite morsel in their menu. They usually build their nest on a bush and are very devoted to their home, so much so that when eggs are removed they continue to lay and incubate the remaining eggs. On one occasion in photographing a nest containing two eggs it was necessary to pull the slendor bush over and tie it within range of the camera. The cord snapped, releasing the sapling and the eggs were thrown out and destroyed, much to our annoyance. On the following week when we returned we found the mother bird had laid two more eggs in the nest. The birds raised their small brood as though nothing had happened. I have visited many grosbeaks' nests, and excepting on one or two occasions I have not seen the female incubating. This duty seems to be performed more often by the male. [Illustration: Fledglings] [Illustration: Tom at the Nest] The blue-gray gnat-catchers (_Polioptila cærulea_) are among the birds who build their nests early. When building is on, the nests are very easy to find, but ere the young are hatched out the foliage affords effective concealment. Their squeaky voices attract your attention, and looking towards the very top of the tree you can see them flitting from limb to limb. Before long, one or the other draws nearer and nearer the nest; then a quick flight, and there it is in the partly constructed home. Watching with the field-glass you can see them constructing the most beautiful nest in all bird architecture, save possibly that of the ruby-throated hummingbird, which builds a similar home. They usually select an elm tree, and at a height of thirty to fifty feet saddle the nest on the under or horizontal branch of a fork. Thus the branching system of the elm is peculiarly adapted to their style of architecture. It furnishes a shelter from storm and hawk overhead, and prowling boy or bird of prey in the brush underneath. The nest in the illustration accompanying the text was taken upon an oak, which my experience leads me to believe is an unusual site. How interesting to watch both male and female building their nest in the crotch! After several days' work the structure begins to take shape and the master touches are being put to the little cup of lichens, moss, and grass. Alighting in it the builders crane their necks and with their long bills tuck in the moss and lichens all around, much as a mother tucks the clothing around her sleeping babe in the cradle. When all is complete the five little speckled eggs are deposited and incubation begins. The parent is quite plucky and resents any intrusion upon the sanctity of her home. On one occasion I saw a downy woodpecker come too close to a gnat-catcher's nest. Like a streak of light she shot out, a mix-up followed, and the downy made haste to get away. Another time a redstart was taught the lesson that it did not pay to "hang around" this little bird's home. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of the Blue-gray Gnat-catcher] [Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Nest and Young of Goldfinch] [Illustration: Red-spotted Purple Butterfly on Queen Anne's Lace] In the early spring we hear a concert of sweet voices coming from a flock of songsters in the summit of the elm, their favorite tree. Their period of love-making is long, as all their brothers and sisters of the same order have with very few exceptions finished their family duties before the American goldfinch (_Astragalinus tristis_) looks about and selects for his nest the fork of a bush or tree handy to some thistly field. Here the family of three to six young is reared. From his fondness for thistle seeds he gets his common name, "thistle-bird." As the thistles ripen he can be seen picking away as he clings to the burr in every conceivable position, releasing the "witches" that float gracefully off with the gentle breezes over the field; regardless is he of the bees that tend the rose-purple flower-heads scattered here and there among the ripe thistle-tops. Over yonder a colony of the delicate blossoms of the "Queen Anne's lace" is quite conspicuous. Hovering around are many flies and bees. A red-spotted purple butterfly lights gracefully on the plant, folding and unfolding its beautifully colored wings. He is safe from any molestation on the part of the goldfinch, who is essentially a seed-eater. Thus it is that these two highly-decorated creatures may often be seen gathering food side by side in the meadow. There are some advantages in late building, and especially to the thistle-birds. They get rid of the parasite cowbird, whose season for propagation must needs be earlier in order to afford sufficient time for development; for the young cowbird is more phlegmatic in temperament and slower in growth, nor does he stay with us so late as the young goldfinch. Again, the thistle-birds, being seed-eaters, find a more bountiful supply of food as the July days approach. [Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Goldfinch] In the air they are readily distinguished by their undulatory flight. Frequently repeating their bubbling, laughter-like call, they pass overhead, describing circle after circle as though compelled thus to work off some of the buoyancy of their nature. The essence of cleanliness, they love to bathe in the purling waters of the brook where the pebbles lend their smoothness to the ever-rippling streamlet; there in some secluded spot during the sweltering weather of July and August the little birds delight to splash the crystal waters over their lemon-colored plumage. In my earlier days I have often caught them in the following manner: We would thrust a branch into the ground at one of the bathing places, and on the side of the stream from which by prior observation it was ascertained that the birds usually approached. They would alight on this branch as they came to the water, and after a while would become accustomed to linger on it before descending to the bath. In a few days we would cut pliant tips of the willow, smear them with bird-lime, and by means of slits cut in the branch would arrange the besmeared twigs high enough that when the bird alighted the limed twigs stuck to his breast feathers and swung around underneath, sticking the wing fast to his side so that the bird could not move. Invariably it would fall to the ground, unable in the case of the smaller birds either to walk or fly, and thus became an easy prey. Of course this was a boyhood prank, and my love to have the songster with me at home led me to place him in captivity. My ideas have changed and to-day I love the birds best in their natural haunts among the environments in which they sing the sweetest, their plumage is the finest, and where liberty of flight adds to their grace and charm. [Illustration: Nest of Red-wing Blackbird] In selecting the place to trap the birds where they go to bathe, one must bear in mind that some birds will frequent one place, some birds another. We would set out a line of traps some distance apart. In going from place to place we gave the birds time to visit in our absence. If perchance a bird disturbed the twigs, we always knew it, for we kept the number of the smeared twigs set on each branch. If a twig were missing and no bird in sight, on looking around we were sure to find the bird, if small, somewhere near the branch, or in case of larger birds, some distance away, for while the smaller birds were hopelessly entangled, the larger ones could walk but could not fly, and frequently got away by going through the grass and working rid of the small willow twig. [Illustration: Young Red-wing Blackbirds] Among the first harbingers of spring the red-wing blackbirds (_Agelaius phoeniceus_) are conspicuous among the swamps and meadows, where they gather in flocks. The birds build their nests among the cat-tails, willows, and small bushes along the margin of swamps and meadows. As you approach they warn you of their disapproval in anxious tones. In a short time, however, they cease their noise and fly from point to point, lighting on the slender top of cat-tail, limb or weed, gracefully swaying backward and forward with the gentle breezes. It is thus they show their beautiful wings to the best advantage. Among the cat-tails they love to build their nest from one to three feet above the water. A coarse grass is used to bind the nest to the stock and within this is constructed a bulky basket of weeds and grass, in which they deposit four or five whitish, bluish, or greenish eggs, fantastically marked with dots, scrawls, and blotches, resembling some of the illegible hieroglyphics of the past ages. [Illustration: Homes of the Cliff Swallows] My opportunity to study the ways of the cliff swallow (_Petrochelidon lunifrons_) has been very limited. My young friend Tom wrote me the birds were at work, a colony being busy building their odd-shaped nests on the rafters of a cow barn. When I visited the place I found the nests were built quite close to each other. How the birds did scold when we approached, darting around and around at first, but, gradually quieting down, they disappeared! In the meantime we were trying to get a snap-shot of a bird entering the neck of the nest. The nests were constructed of small pellets of mud, and were gourd-shaped, lined with grass and feathers. There they laid their four or five white speckled eggs. I understood this was the second year in succession they had built in this barn, but the following year they selected a barn some distance away. How conspicuous the rufous rump appeared when they entered the nest! They never remained long, but were off again, always on the wing. They entered the frail structures like fairies, touching the opening lightly, entering easily, then reappearing, to be off again on the wing. Sometimes they stopped for a moment at the mouth, clogging the entrance entirely with the body. As some writer has said, the bird is known by its "crescent-shaped frontlet shining like a moon," hence its specific Latin name "lunifrons,"--moon-brow. One need not draw far on his imagination to think that the moon on her brow dispenses light for the mother bird to see the little mouths as she feeds her young in the "darksome cave." [Illustration: Nest of the Song Sparrow] The song sparrow (_Melospiza melodia_) is among the first to return to its summer home. What a cheerful, fascinating little fellow he is as he perches on the fence post, or "any old place," pouring forth his lightsome, varied songs! Clothed in his somber brown suit, he is instantly recognized by the dark throat patch. There is no regularity in what they do, or how, where, or when they do it. They build nests on the ground and in bushes, bulky or sparse, lined with horse hairs or otherwise, and lay eggs irregularly speckled. They begin to build their nests about the time the trillium is peeping through the ground, and the brood are ready to leave their home when the trillium is in full blossom. How delighted the children are when, if perchance out gathering flowers, they see the hasty flight of the mother bird as she quits her carefully concealed nest, and parting the leaves, there they find a family of fledglings, mouths wide open, waiting for the return of the mother with food to satisfy their wants! One day I found a song sparrow's nest in a small catalpa tree. On closer examination I noticed a young bird hanging by the neck, dead. I have no doubt that when the bird was ready to leave the nest it became entangled in the horse hair, for a loop was found around its neck, and when the little youngster, in its endeavors to release itself, tumbled overboard, it was strangled to death. [Illustration: A Tragedy in Nature] A large percentage of the nests of the wood thrush (_Hylocichla mustelina_) are destroyed or abandoned from various causes. When incubation is begun the mother bird is very loath to leave the nest and will permit you to come very near. The accompanying photograph was obtained after many failures. Day by day we approached nearer and nearer until finally the bird allowed us to set the kodak within two feet of the nest, and the click of the shutter did not disturb her, although she seemed to quiver as if in great fear. [Illustration: Wood-Thrush] These birds love solitude, and how charming to listen to their sweet melodies coming from the depths of the woodland! Often in building their nest they select some limb or fork of a sapling near a path frequented by lovers of the woods. The place, method, and material chosen by them make it quite easy to find their home. It is built of coarse grass, which usually streams down over the limb, while paper is frequently used in the formation of the lower and outer part of the nest, rendering it quite conspicuous. Various causes, such as hawks, owls, and snakes, contribute to the destruction of a large proportion of these nests. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Wood-Thrush] [Illustration: Up a Stump] [Illustration: Wood-Thrush's Nest with Young] One day we were walking through a strip of woods that lay along a babbling brook, wending our way towards a wood thrush's nest which on the occasion of our last visit contained several eggs. When we came to the nest we found the eggs had been removed, and we left, wondering what agency was responsible. A short distance from the nest we saw a large black snake gliding through the grass toward a rotten stump about ten feet high. I set after him and he climbed a big locust tree, on which he paused for a moment at a height of some six feet from the ground. Then when disturbed he slipped over to a hollow stump, which had grown alongside from the same base, and to our surprise proceeded to enter a knothole that seemed far too small for him. Not to be outdone, we pried the stump from the main trunk and found the snake coiled like a watch spring tightly against the inner walls of the hollow base. From this position he had to be pried, inch by inch, while I pulled him out by the tail and dragged him into an open field nearby, where he could be photographed. We placed a limb in the ground at an angle, but although we tried many times, the snake refused to crawl up. Finally we got the original stump, placed it in the ground, started Mr. Snake toward it, and he, immediately recognizing his former retreat, gracefully crawled up the tree. The wood thrush builds its nest anywhere from two to twelve feet from the ground and on almost any kind of bush or tree. They are not over-sensitive if one disturbs the nest. In order to get the accompanying photograph it was necessary to remove the nest from its lofty position some twelve feet above the ground to a limb about two feet high. After taking the picture of the nest with the four eggs, we returned it to its original place. The following week we called and found three of the eggs hatched. We removed the nest and after photographing returned it, and the birds remained until full-fledged, as though nothing had happened to their childhood home. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of American Redstart] How elegantly dressed the American redstart (_Setophaga ruticilla_) appears on his arrival from his winter home! The costume of his wife is not so flaming, but is nevertheless very attractive. How active they seem, flitting from place to place, at times having all the characteristics of the flycatcher and again all the marks of the sylvan warblers they are! Proud as a peacock, he spreads his pretty tail as much as to say to his woodland neighbors, "You can't match me for grace and beauty." And well may he be proud of his graceful elegance and his achievements in procuring his food, for he is one of the most charming and energetic of the insectivorous birds. He is a creature of action, always on the move, lively and alert, getting all that is coming to him in quick succession. The nest is built in the fork of a tree or on some horizontal limb, and is constructed of rootlets and twigs in a skillful manner. Often plant-down and vegetable-silks are woven into the cup much after the fashion of the vireo's idea. It is frequently adorned on the outside with lichens and other substances tending toward obliterative coloration. If approached, the birds flit from limb to limb in a nervous manner, much excited, and at times appearing as though ready to strike an intruder. When frightened from the nest they will return if one stands off at some distance. [Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Lady Redstart and Her Home] [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Blue-winged Warbler] Down on the edge of a group of dead trees a pair of red-headed woodpeckers (_Melanerpes erythrocephalus_) were working away at a height of about twenty feet, getting ready for their anticipated brood. Tom, a boy of fourteen years, came along and noticed the couple at work. They were taking their turns methodically at intervals of twenty minutes or thereabouts. Later the birds completed the excavated cavity and the female had proceeded fairly well with her maternal duties. Tom climbed the tree to see how she was getting along. He found two eggs in the nest. Because of this intrusion or some other reason, the birds abandoned the nest and eggs and selected another stump not far from the first, where they proceeded along the same lines until they had excavated another hole to their liking, and the mother bird laid three pearly-white eggs which in due time she hatched. [Illustration: Young Woodpeckers Foraging] Now the birds were busy gathering insects to feed their progeny. A short distance from their home was an abandoned tennis-court, grown up with grass. This seemed to be the favorite feeding-ground of the male parent. For hours we watched him coming and going, always alighting on the net-post where he kept a lookout for insects. Every few minutes he would take a rapid flight to the ground and again return to the post with food, then by an easy course to the young. To follow him with the eye in flight conveyed the idea of one continuous line of red, white, and blue. One day while we were watching the tree stump a flicker alighted on it near the hole. Like a flash came the parent bird from some place nearby, made a dart at the flicker, and soon put him to rout. [Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. Nest and Eggs of the Thrasher] The brown thrasher (_Harporhynchus rufus_) is an interesting member of the feathery tribe who dwells in the solitude of some thicket, where he is at home among the underbrush. In order to see the inhabitants of the woods, one should avoid light or conspicuous clothing, dress as nearly as may be in harmony with the surroundings, and step about as gently as possible. You may go through a clump of woods talking with a companion and rarely see much that is happening; but go alone, gently, with eyes and ears open, and Nature begins to unfold some of her secrets. In the early morn the thrashers delight in perching on a tree-top and filling the surrounding glen with delightful melodies. In nesting-time they become very seclusive, and an occasional glimpse is all that we can get of this handsome bird as he flits from limb to limb, jerking and wagging his tail. Sometimes they build their nest on the ground, but more frequently on some bush or small tree. It is characteristic of the female when incubating to let you get very close before she will leave the nest. On one occasion while walking through an open woods I became conscious of a bright eye fixed upon me. The gleam of an orange iris accentuated its size, and in a second it dawned upon me that a thrasher sitting on its nest in a brush heap was the owner of the eye. I proceeded to arrange my tripod for a picture, but before I secured it she left the nest with a graceful flight. She flew around and around, making an angry noise, and continued her scolding for some time. [Illustration: Photo by E. W. Arthur. On Night Turn (Note the protective obliteration.)] [Illustration: Photo by C. H. Brown. Young Thrasher] A friend of mine found a nest with eggs on the ground among some mandrakes. Selecting a dark night he visited the nest and, by keeping the bird bewildered under the rays of a pocket flash-light, was able to set up his camera at a distance of perhaps ten feet, arrange a reflector and touch off a flash powder, by the light of which he succeeded in getting a flash-light of the bird while incubating. She seemed to be unconcerned, and in fact did not leave the nest. The intruder decamped and left the serenity of her domestic life undisturbed. The young of the thrasher are instantly recognized, for they have all the family characteristics of the parent birds so well defined. Frequently as late as the month of August, and long after most birds have turned their attention to other matters, the thrasher devotes its time to domestic duties. Indeed after the song season of many birds has passed, I have found in the Ohio Valley region the nests of thrashers and chewinks with eggs and young. Measured by the birds and their customs, the springtime may extend, as we have seen, far into the calendar summer. We begin paying our devotions to the goddess while yet the snow is on the ground, and we are still doing homage at the shrine when the mercury hovers about the ninety-five-in-the-shade mark, but the change has come so gradually that from one day to another we have hardly noticed it. If to our worship we brought receptive hearts, stimulated by keen vision and hearing, we have learned much of practical economic value. Without ever having opened the craw of one of the feathered tribe, observation with a good glass has taught us a multitude of things in regard to the feeding of the different species and their economic worth to the human race. From a commanding position by the nest of the yellow-billed cuckoo (_Coccyzus americanus_), we have learned that this bird is an invaluable ally in the war against the tent caterpillar. The grosbeak is the arch enemy of the potato bug; young bobwhites devour untold numbers of the eggs of the Hessian fly, that great ravager of the western grainfields; the woodpeckers save many an orchard and lawn tree from early death as a victim of one or another of the borers. Indeed, the tons of destruction, if we may apply the term, devoured by our birds in a single summer day, if it could be estimated, would make an appalling figure. But beyond all the mass of facts gathered, which go to make up the sum total of the world's knowledge, is that oxygenation of spirit, that freshness of vigor, bodily and mental, which we derive from having left behind the busy world for these hours of devotion at the shrine. I have always thought that there was a more spiritual quality in the religion of the Druids than in that of most ancient heathen faiths, due probably to the fact that their rites and ceremonies were performed in the woods and forests, and that in their seeking after a Force beyond that which they saw, they received some measure of the revelation which comes to every one who loves the woods and fields. To us who have the light of other revelation, the contact with Nature brings a closer touch and keener sympathy with the great scheme of the Author of all creation. And who can contemplate this without gaining dignity in the contemplation? CHAPTER VIII A PLEA FOR PROTECTION [Illustration: A Delightful Place] As I loiter along the banks of a sylvan stream about the first of April, looking for the return of some of the feathery tribe, there falls upon my ears a sound, hoarse and grating as described by ornithologists, but to my ears most pleasant, for it tells me that a fine bird, the belted kingfisher (_Ceryle alcyon_), has arrived for the season. With his crest plainly visible, in strong flight he is following the course of the winding creek. This highly original character is the only member of the kingfisher family in our part of the country. Yet there is little or no protection extended to him by law. It would be a calamity indeed if he were eliminated from the scenery of the wooded banks, the tossing rapids, and the still pool at the foot of the falls. Here the silvery spray contributes a weird touch to the scene as the "lone fisherman" hovers for an instant, then with a spiral sweep makes a plunge, disappears for a second, comes up with his finny prey, and takes his rapid flight to some old limb, where he consumes the fish at leisure. I have never heard a word against this striking bird, except on one occasion when a friend, who is the proud owner of a lily pond, complained about one of them making visits to poach on his goldfish. The legislation permitting their slaughter was passed, I presume, in the sole interest of the fisherman. Surely this stately bird should not be exterminated; its chief diet is minnows and small fry, fish rejected by the angler except for use as bait. To my mind the species is at present in serious danger of becoming extinct and should be protected. [Illustration: Caught (Note the minnow in his beak.)] I was quite anxious to get a few pictures before he passed into history. So one bright summer day, selecting a pool previously observed to be much frequented, I constructed a blind out of boughs and weeds on the bank three or four feet away from an old root where I had seen the birds alight as they patrolled up and down the stream. Truly "the watched pot never boils." After waiting three or four hours I heard a rattling call, a splash, and through my peephole saw his lordship perched, dripping wet, on the very spot on which I had trained the camera. The shutter clicked, but it might as well have "clacked" for he was instantly alert; I was discovered, and away went the kingfisher, rattling as though in defiance. In the short instant of his sojourn, however, my purpose was accomplished. Only the person who has had this or a similar hobby can appreciate my delight when I developed the film and found it had caught the fisherman with the small fry in his beak. In building their nest Mr. and Mrs. Ceryle select some high embankment where they excavate a small tunnel from three to six feet long, widened at the far end into a chamber perhaps fourteen inches in diameter. Here the silvery-white eggs are deposited usually on the bare floor. They frequently build their nest in a bank whose base is washed by the waters of a stream. On one occasion we opened a hole about half its length and could see eggs in the chamber. Bridging over the excavation with sticks and leaves, we returned in about a week, opened it up, and found the old bird on the eggs incubating. We replaced the sticks and leaves without disturbing the bird, and the following week the young were hatched. We thought our opportunity to photograph a kingfisher family had arrived. As the birds were too small to remove from the nest, we left them until the next week, when they were still too young to pose well. Upon our visit a week later, the nest was to all appearances undisturbed as we had left it, but an examination disclosed that it was empty save for the partly decomposed body of a half-fledged young bird. Whether the rest of the brood had fared forth into the world and this one, a weakling or cripple perhaps, had been put to death or deserted, or whether some dire fate had fallen upon the entire household, remains to us an unsolved mystery. Another bird that is unprotected by our law makers is the green heron (_Butorides virescens_). For weeks we had been studying the habits of one of these birds and had about decided on the location of a blind or ambush for photographing. One day we saw our little friend rise from the pool where we had so often found him, and take to wing with neck stretched forward and legs backward, in one continuous line. He disappeared around a bend in the stream and presently we heard the report of a shotgun. I thought, perhaps audibly, "Good-bye, little heron, good-bye!" Sure enough, in a few minutes we met a party of three or four coming towards us with their guns, and a little later came to the place where the shots had been fired. There was the object of our study floating lifeless on the surface of the water, with wings spread out, not in flight, but in death. I deplored the untimely end of the little bird. While looking at his lifeless form I was startled by the appearance of a stranger, who seemed more than casually interested. As I talked with him about the death of the heron we heard the report of a gun several times, and I have no doubt each report rang out the death knell of one of our feathered friends. The stranger proved to be an officer of the law. I was anxious to have him prosecute the person who killed the heron, but he pulled out a copy of the statute that specifically permitted the deed. I was sorry to learn that such an act had been passed. As with the kingfisher so with the heron; it is of economic value in that it devours a great number of destructive insects, as well as crayfish, small water fry, and frogs. Of the game birds, the ruffed grouse (_Bonasa umbellus_) is far superior to all others and well able to take care of itself against its most deadly foe--the breech-loading shotgun in the hands of a crack shot. He is more than a match for all comers. He outwits the most carefully trained setters, and only the old dogs after years of experience can take him unawares. At times, when flushed, grouse will alight on a limb of a tall tree, squatting near the trunk, where they remain unobserved, and this ruse frequently accounts for the dogs being unable to find the bird again. An "educated" bird will ofttimes "jump" from cover, make a bee-line for a tree, pass around it and continue its flight, thus hidden from sight until beyond gun reach. I have had a staunch point along a stake and rider fence--a flush, a whirr, leaves flying in every direction, and lo! the bird in flight passes between two rails of the fence and continues on the wing up the other side until out of sight. At times I have been fairly successful, occasionally making a "double," then again, obliged to return home after a hard day's hunt without a single bird. Hunting grouse in western Pennsylvania is a noble sport, one that requires strong endurance, a good dog, and skillful shooting to out-general the cunning, crafty fowl, who is a problem for most hunters. How it stirs one's admiration to see the old dog, after "rhoding" backward and forward, take a trail, follow carefully, head erect, nostrils expanded, and every nerve at its highest tension in anticipation of a point! But the bird is running and ere the point is made, a whirr at the crest of the hill draws the eye, and behold! he is a-wing, sailing over the ravine to the other ridge. [Illustration: Nest and Eggs of Ruffed Grouse] In the month of April the drumming of an old cock-bird can be heard a long way off, like the muffled beating of a bass drum, beginning soft and slow, then louder and faster until it reaches the highest pitch, and, receding, gradually dies away in the distance. He continues his love call, as some think it, for a considerable time, and if you approach carefully you may see him on an old log, strutting about like a pea-fowl, his tail expanded, erect, and in a semicircle, his head thrown back and his glossy black ruffs spread to their full extent, like the crimped and fluted adornment of the days of "Queen Bess." About the middle of May he does not drum so much, for the courtship is over and his lady is "sitting" on the nest beside some old log, where she lays as many as fifteen creamy-white eggs in a little depression lined with a few dried leaves and grass. Their color harmonizes so nicely with the surroundings that it is almost impossible to see them. Grouse seem to understand the law of protective coloration, and will not flush from the nest until they are sure they have been discovered. Whether deliberately, I do not pretend to say, but frequently, as she rises from the nest, the hen grouse with her wings stirs the leaves so that they fall upon and partly conceal the eggs. When once disturbed she will not let you get so close again. As soon as the young are hatched they will run to hide, while the mother bird is feigning all kinds of decrepitude to attract your attention from the cute little brownish fluffs of feather scampering here and there for cover. I once knew a farmer boy who found a nest, took the eggs home, and put them under a hen. In due time they hatched out. How pretty, cute, and interesting were the little birds, and how the foster-mother strutted about, undoubtedly proud of her chicks! But ere long the little creatures, wild by nature, died for want of proper food and the maternal care required by their kind. Quite different from the grouse in many respects is the other member of the same family, the bobwhite (_Colinus virginianus_), the first a woodland bird, the other a dweller in the fields. It is fascinating to follow a well trained dog as he jumps the rail fence, and if the wind is not favorable, slowly and carefully follows the fence line for fear of flushing the covey. When he gets to windward he increases his gait and "rhodes" backward and forward through the stubble until he gets a whiff of the odor so familiar to the experienced dog; then according to the strength of the scent he puts on the brakes. I have seen old Fan stop so suddenly that she turned a somersault, then recover herself sheepishly, if that term may be applied by way of accommodation to as brave a hunter as she. [Illustration: Not Certain] Quail are easy marks for the hunter. Usually they "roost" in a stubble field in a circle, heads outward, and thus they keep warmer during the cold weather. I have known pot-hunters to shoot into a covey in the early morning before they began to feed, killing almost every one. [Illustration: Photo by W. S. Bell. A Sure Point] It is rare sport to start out with the dogs on a November morning after a fall of snow, light, but sufficient to show the footprints--three toes in front, one behind. By this time the birds are strong of flight and at their best. After "heeling" the dogs, the trail is followed. The birds will separate and run hither and thither, always, however, coming together again so that their tracks cross and recross each other over the field. Snow always makes the birds wild, and invariably when feeding they will take to flight long before the dogs are near enough to make a point. A good dog takes the stubble field with the wind in his favor. Getting a fresh scent as the birds are feeding he throws his head and tail in the air and "rhodes" on. Occasionally the bird will run a short distance before taking to wing; then the dog shows his lack of training by running helter-skelter as the hunter shouts, "Steady, steady, old girl!" or "old boy"; or if well trained, the noble fellow returns with his tail between his legs, as much as to say to his master: "It was not my fault they wouldn't lie to cover; it wasn't my fault; give me another chance!" The humane master cautions his dog to be careful; the brute probably kicks his dog unmercifully, and all because of lack of knowledge on his part. If he had understood his dog he would have known from its actions that the birds were feeding in the cornfield where there was not much shelter, and that if time had been given them they would have found cover and the old dog would have made a beautiful point. The birds in the beginning of the open season will not make a long flight, but pitch abruptly over handy cover, such as an old fence grown with briars, elder, and grass. The dogs follow the windward side with nostrils dilated and the delicate membrane of their olfactory nerves detects the whereabouts of the little feathered creature concealed in a tuft of grass or a bunch of leaves. When the briars are real thick occasionally the little bird does not take to wing easily, but in great alarm runs about, neck extended, tail expanded, and crest erect, calling "peep, peep," as though loath to leave cover. [Illustration: Orchard Nest of Mourning Dove] Frequently when the dogs are working a stubble field they put to flight small flocks of turtle doves (_Zenaidura macroura_). Although these are scarcely gregarious, they like to mingle together in the fall. They visit the fields to glean a few grains of corn or wheat left after the harvest. On taking to wing they make a whistling noise similar to that of a flight of American golden-eye ducks, and beat a hurried course to the top limb of some old dead tree, where they spread their fan-like tails just before lighting, then meekly turn their heads to take in the situation. Many of the birds are shot over the dogs in this way. Their flesh is considered a great delicacy by some would-be sportsmen. In the nesting time they separate in pairs through the woods, fields, and orchards, building in every conceivable place according to fancy. Measured by the usual standards, their flimsy nests are several sizes too small for the owner. When you approach their home the bird drops to the ground and feigns a crippled condition to entice you away, always careful, however, to keep just beyond your reach. [Illustration: Two Little Turtle-Doves] The nest shown in the accompanying photograph was happily located upon a broad slab of bark that had fallen from a locust tree and was curiously lodged some feet off the ground among the branches of undergrowth. Here a few straggling pieces of dried grass, sufficient merely to prevent the eggs from rolling off, formed the nest. To one coming up the hill after inspection of a beautifully constructed vireo's nest in the woods below, the first impression would be that this crude affair could not be the handiwork of so neat and orderly-looking a bird as the dove on the tree nearby; but alas! fine feathers do not make fine birds, nor do good clothes make good housekeepers. No better illustration of this is needed than the sight of a dove's nest with the eggs or young in it. Thus in our rambles from the opening of spring until the winter snows, we come upon a great variety of feathered friends--some esteemed for their beauty, some for their flesh, some esteemed little or not at all, and yet each one has its place in the general system of creation, each one has its individuality and its own peculiar characteristics so well adapted to the sphere in which it moves. The question often comes to us: Is it for man to say that any of these birds shall be deprived of the law's protection merely because their habits of life do not appeal to him? A brief study of the question from an economic point of view, aside from the æsthetic, leads us to hope that the time is not far distant when the several States will afford a uniform protection to all of the native fowls of the air, regardless of whether they be game birds, song birds, or "other" birds, at least until such time as a long-continued investigation will prove beyond a doubt that the restriction of the numbers of any species is of substantive value from an economic standpoint. POSTSCRIPT With the hope that it may be the means of increasing the love of nature, and thereby adding to the joys of life, this little book is given to the public. Laws for the preservation of birds and animals, more than any others, need behind them a sensitive public opinion. With this, the law itself is almost forgotten in its general observance, while without this support a breach of the law comes in time to take on something of virtue instead of crime. Whatever tends to spread the knowledge of nature, and consequently the love of it, makes it harder for the man who _kills_, either for the mere zest of it, for vanity or for purely commercial reasons, and thus each convert becomes, in a limited sense at least, a game warden. To the lover of Nature, the whole animal and plant world is the quest. Unlimited time can be spent in photographing insects, birds' nests and birds, endeavoring to catch and display the butterfly on the particular plant from which it loves to extract the nectar, the bird's nest in the tree or the bush in its natural surroundings, the old setter on a staunch point among the stubble; thus by pictorial notes reproducing various events in natural history and creating an interest in the study of botany, entomology, and ornithology--in fact, preserving all the conditions that make up the attraction for outdoor recreation, which the American people so much need. By this indirect method many come to be so instructed in the rudiments of nature that they are led to see in life a myriad of interesting things which they could not otherwise enjoy, and the book of Nature, hitherto sealed to the hurrying multitude, becomes an open volume to those who, turning aside from the rush of modern life, bring to its reading a sympathetic mind and an ear attuned to catch the melodious voices, and so, "This our life, exempt from public haunts, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything." INDEX A Afognak Island, 72 Akuton Pass, 76 Anecdotes: Father Duncan's story, 9 Indian legend of totem, 20 Primitive surgery, 58 Annette Island, 6 Aurora Borealis, 170 B Barabara, Indian, 107 Baranoff Island, 28 Bath à la Wilderness, 128, 173, 174 Bay of Islands, 184, 221 Bear feeding, 57 at camp, 61 catching, 102 glacier, 62 grizzly, vitality of, 104 Kadiak, 81 size of, 116 trailing, 95, 98, 114, 117 Beaver, 189, 209, 217 Bee's nest, 148 Bell, Mr., 146 Benjamin Creek, 156 Berries, 30 blueberries, 150, 165 bunchberries, 212 partridge berries, 166 salmon-berries, 165 strawberries, 3, 30 Bidarka, 21, 116 Birch, 167, 203, 206, 211 Bird lime, 281 Birds: albatross, black-footed, 29 American golden-eye, 197, 319 American goldfinch, 277 American redstart, 278, 293-296 belted kingfisher, 305-309 blue-gray gnat-catchers, 274 bobwhite, 303, 314 brown thrasher, 298 Canada geese, 59 Canada jays, 207 cardinals, 248, 250 chewinks, 302 cliff swallows, 284 cormorants, 144 cowbird, 257, 261, 279 crane, sandhill, 183 crossbill, 179, 180 crows, 82, 118 cuckoo, yellow-billed, 303 eagles, 27, 82, 88, 111, 118 fish ducks, 50 flickers, 264, 298 "gony," 29 great horned owl, 240 great northern diver, 169 greater scaup-duck, 65 grouse, 169, 310, 313 Canada, 131 gulls, 52, 66, 70, 80, 140, 186, 218 harlequin ducks, 112 heron, great blue, 27 green, 268, 310 herring gulls, 94, 186 indigo bunting, 255 kingfisher, 203-216, 305, 310 kittiwakes, 109 loon, 170, 186, 188, 216 magpies, 86 merganser, 193, 216, 218 red-breasted, 50 Mother Carey's chick, 121 osprey, 216 phalaropes, 64 ptarmigan, 99, 104, 152, 158, 166 hawk, 159 quail, 314-316 ravens, 72 red-eyed vireo, 259-320 redpolls, 204 red-wing blackbird, 283 rose-breasted grosbeak, 271, 303 ruby-throated hummingbird, 275 ruffed grouse, 310-313 scarlet tanager, 266 sea-parrot, 91 snipe, 174 sparrow, song, 234, 286-288 white-crowned, 113 white-throated, 209 spotted sandpiper, 192 teal, 59 tern, Arctic, 109 white, 92 thistle-bird, 279 thrush, wood, 288 Wilson's, 196 titlark, 196 tree swallows, 213 tufted titmouse, 254 turtle doves, 318-320 whisky jack, 208 woodpeckers, downy, 277 red-headed, 296, 303 Birds, aquatic, 17 protection of, 321 Black flies, 190 Black snake, 291 Brooks, Alfred H., 2 Bruce, the Steamer, 181 Butterflies: red-spotted purple, 279 tiger swallow-tail, 214 Bydarky, The, 175 C Cache, 161 Camera, Auto Graflex, 182 Camp afire, 55 Camping under difficulties, 48, 154, 165, 204 Cape Hinchinbrook, 43 Cape St. Elias, 41 Carlisle Institution, 14 Caribou, 183 Cathedral Rock, 66 Cat hunt, 241 Cheechalker, 127, 128, 131, 145, 173 Church, Russian, 68 Clark, W. E., Governor of Alaska, 3, 15 Columbia glacier, 64 Controller Bay, 41, 42 Cook's Inlet, 176 Coon hunt, 238 Cordova, 44 Creoles, 72 Crevasses, 33 Crossing the stream, 106 Crow's nest, 82, 118 D Dall's sheep, 146 Deer Lake, 190 Devil's clubs, 146 Dixon's Entrance, 4 Dogs: catching fish, 52 caught in trap, 58 catching salmon, 53 in action, 226, 232, 240 Duncan, Rev. William, 6-19 E Economic value of birds, 303 Edgecumbe, Mount, 29 Esau, 127, 130 F Fairweather Range, 30 Fellow townsman's camp, 171 Ferrets, 224, 226, 234 Fish, black, 17 Fisher, Hon. Walter L., 2 Fishing parties, 182 Flashlight hunting, 197, 243 Flowers: bluebells, 159 crow's foot, 81 daisies, 159 forget-me-nots, 81, 159 pinks, 82 trailing arbutus, 189 trillium, 286 violets, 159 wild geranium, 159 Fort Liscom, 64 G Glacier, formation of, 32, 34 Columbia, 34, 64 Malaspina, 41 Muir, 30 Valdez, 44 Gravenna Bay, 47 Greek Church, Russian, 28, 72 Greek priests, 28 Ground hog, 238 Guides, natives as, 125 Gull Island, 109 Gun, modern, 157 H Hessian fly, 303 Hudson Bay Company, 29 Humber, Lower, 210 Humber River, 190, 214 Humor of Indian guides, 164 I Ice fields, 32 floe, 22 Icy Straits, 29 Iliamnia, 70 crater of, 176 Indians, 107 barabara, 107 chanting, 163 family, 56 feeding on "porky," 163 how they live, 107 humor of, 164 legend of totems, 20 making snuff, 167 superstitions, 170 tuberculosis among, 14 Infection unknown in Alaska, 126 Italians' camp, 110, 117 J Jansen, Capt. Michael, 4, 67 Juneau, 24 K Kadiak bear, 81 Kamlaykas, 117 Katella, 41, 43 Kenai, 124, 175 "hot time" at, 126 Kenai Mountains, 152 Kenai Peninsula, 67 Kenai River, 25, 130, 134 killing moose on, 25 Ketchikan, 4 Knight's Island, 64, 78 Kodak, Eastman, 115 Kodiak Island, 72, 73 village of, 72, 79, 120 L Lake Skilak, 144 Lighthouses, 4 M Madonna, picture of, 28 Mandrakes, 301 Marmot, 158, 162 Metlakatla, 6 Moon, illusion of, 170 Moore, Capt., 18 Moose, 148 feeding, 172 in velvet, 162 yards, 168 Moraine, 62 Mosquitos, 131, 132, 136, 191 Mount Edgecumbe, 29 St. Elias, 30-39 St. Logan, 30 "Mushee"--sheep, 164 Muskrat, 216 N Native boys, 38 Newfoundland, 181 "Nippers," 191 North Sydney, 181 O Obliterative coloration, 295 Old Twitchen road, 184 Opossum, 244, 245 P Papooses, 21 Petersburg, 21 Photographing natives, 36-38 Pine trees, 206 Porcupine, 163 "Porky," 140 Port aux Basques, 181 Portland, Steamer, 18 Postscript, 322 Pot hunters, 315 Preservation of species, 159 Prince William Sound, 43 Protection of birds, 321 Protective coloration, 313 Q Quicksand, experience in, 63 R Rabbits, hunting, 223-235 Raccoon hunt, 241, 242 Raft, constructing, 187 Redoubt crater, 176 Resurrection Bay, 66, 67 S Salmon, 48 catching, 53, 54 eggs of, 54 feeding, 215 gulls picking out eyes of, 53 hordes of, 50 humpback, 48 spawning, 51 Salt lick, 172 Seal, 17 Seal Cove, 218 Sea Lion Rocks, 67 Seals, baby, 220 breeding grounds, 220 characteristics of, 220 Seldovia, 68, 123, 173, 179 Seward, 68 Shanghai, 166 Sheep, 152 Dall's, 157 Sheep Creek, 96 Shellicoff Straits, 71 Shiras, George III, 156 Sitka, 27, 29 Slaughter of game, 25 Snow-slide, 96 Snow storm, 100 Snuff making, 167 "Sourdough," 127, 130, 153 Stranger in camp, 140 Sycamores, 247 T Tenderfoot, 123, 131, 132, 153 Tom, 296 after flickers, 264 Totem poles, 19, 35 family register, 19 laparotomy, 22 legend of, 19 symbolical of, 19 witch doctor, 22 Treadwell Mines, 24 Trees, balsam, 184 birch, 146 cottonwood, 146 fir, 184 pine, 206 spruce, 146 white, value of, 211 sycamores, 247 Trout, as food, 205, 216 food of, 213, 215 Turnagain Bay, 175 U Unalaska, 76 V Vaccination, 181 Valdez, 44 flood at, 44, 64 leaving, 54 Vancouver Island, 4 W Whale, 66 White sheep, 152, 156, 157 Wrangel Narrows, 16, 17, 26 port of, 18 Y Yakutat, 34 * * * * * _A Selection from the Catalogue of_ G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Complete Catalogue sent on application The Log of the North Shore Club Paddle and Portage on the Hundred Trout Rivers of Lake Superior By Kirkland B. Alexander _With over 40 Illustrations. 16mo. $1.25 net_ (_By mail $1.40_) The land that lies to the north of Lake Superior, where the great god Naniboujou rules over mile upon mile of unreclaimed wilderness, has long been a favorite retreat of the fisher and camper, who finds in the hush of its gaunt forests and on the twinkling ripples of its inland lakes a secure haven from the busy din of the cities. In Kirkland B. Alexander's "Log of the North Shore Club," the primeval beauty of this region is described by one who is an alert and appreciative student of nature. Mr. Alexander tells of his camping and fishing experiences along these sequestered waters and of the amusing happenings that seasoned his trips, undertaken with companions after his own heart. The book, which is well illustrated, is written in a sprightly vein and is decidedly entertaining reading. G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London _Written in a vein that enchants not only the sportsman and naturalist, but the general reader as well._ Recreations of a Sportsman on the Pacific Coast By Charles Frederick Holder Author of "Life in the Open," etc. _8vo. With 80 Full-page Illustrations. Net, $2.00_ _By mail, 2.20_ Mr. Holder has fished in the deep sea of the Pacific and in the mountain streams that are hidden away in the high Sierras and Cascades, protected from the rude intrusions of the crowd and accessible only to the seasoned mountaineer. The tussles he has had with game fish, retold in the dramatic style of which Mr. Holder is the master, will thrill the most phlegmatic reader, while the descriptions of nature which the author presents will fill the reader with a yearning for the spacious country of mountain, desert, sea, and air, with whose unfrequented trails and remote recesses the author is so familiar. The book is copiously illustrated with pictures of game, sporting incidents, and natural scenery. G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London _Sporting Books by Theodore Roosevelt_ Hunting Trips of a Ranchman Sketches of Sport on the Northern Cattle Plains =Standard Library Edition.= With numerous engravings from designs by Frost, Gifford, Beard, and Sandham. 8^o. $2.50. =Alleghany Edition.= Printed on high-grade Old Chester-Laid, containing many rare old Western views and portraits, secured and especially engraved for this edition. 8^o. Full buckram, gilt top. $5.00. =Dakota Edition.= 2 vols. Crown 8^o, with frontispieces. Cloth, gilt top, full gilt back. Each, $1.50. =Sagamore Edition.= 2 vols., with frontispieces. Cloth, 16^o. Each, 50 cents. "One of those distinctively American books which ought to be welcomed as contributing to raise the literary prestige of the country all over the world."--_N. Y. Tribune._ "One of the rare books which sportsmen will be glad to add to their libraries.... Mr. Roosevelt may rank with Scrope, Lloyd, Harris, St. John, and half a dozen others, whose books will always be among the sporting classics."--_London Saturday Review._ The Wilderness Hunter With an Account of the Big Game of the United States and its Chase with Horse, Hound, and Rifle =Standard Library Edition.= With illustrations by Remington, Frost, Sandham, Eaton, Beard, and others. 8^o. $2.50. =Alleghany Edition.= Printed on high-grade Old Chester-Laid, containing many rare old Western views and portraits, secured and specially engraved for this edition. 8^o. Full buckram, gilt top, $5.00. =Dakota Edition.= 2 vols. Crown 8^o, with frontispieces. Cloth, gilt top, full gilt back. Each, $1.50. =Sagamore Edition.= 2 vols., with frontispieces. Cloth, 16^o. Each, 50 cents. "A book which breathes the spirit of the wilderness and presents a vivid picture of the phase of American life which is rapidly passing away, with clear, incisive force."--_New York Literary News._ "For one who intends to go a-hunting in the West this book is invaluable. One may rely upon its information. But it has better qualities. It is good reading for anybody, and people who never hunt and never will are sure to derive pleasure from its account of that part of the United States, relatively small, which is still a wilderness."--_New York Times._ G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London "A thoroughly enjoyable sportsman's book." _N. Y. Sun_ Hunting Big Game with Gun and with Kodak A Record of Personal Experience in the United States, Canada, and Old Mexico By William S. Thomas Author of Trails and Tramps in Alaska and Newfoundland _Octavo, 240 pages. With 70 Illustrations from Original Photographs by the Author. Net, $2.00. By mail, $2.20_ The author makes a sportsmanlike plea for the use of a camera rather than rifle in the quest of big game. The appeal cannot fail to reach the hearts of all those who are interested in preserving the life of wild animals rather than unmercifully slaughtering them with modern firearms. Mr. Thomas procures as much pleasure from his humane method of hunting as does the so-called "sportsman" whose chief desire is to kill. The territory covered in the book is not only remarkable for its extent, but also for the vivid and picturesque descriptions of every locality visited. The remarkable kodak pictures give one interesting glimpses of large game in their native haunts from Canada to Mexico. "=Every chapter is lively, diverting, and full of good things. The illustrations are as interesting as they are varied in scope.="--_Pittsburg Times._ G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London * * * * * TRANSCRIBER NOTES: Words contained within underscores (i.e. _March, 1913_) indicated words in italics in the original. Words contained within equal symbols (i.e. =Every chapter=) indicate words in bold in the original. Archaic, alternate and misspellings of words have been retained to match the original work with the exception of those listed below. Missing punctuation has been added and obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. Page 309: "examinanation" changed to "examination" (but an examination disclosed that it was empty). Page 335: "willderness" changed to "wilderness" (which is still a wilderness). 
18636	----	Roots (http://www.nosracines.ca/e/index.aspx) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 18636-h.htm or 18636-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/6/3/18636/18636-h/18636-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/6/3/18636/18636-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Our Roots. See http://www.nosracines.ca/e/toc.aspx?id=1319 +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Spelling and hyphenation inconsistencies from the original | | document have been preserved. | | | | A number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected | | in this text. For a complete list, please see the end of | | this document. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ THE STORY OF NEWFOUNDLAND by THE RIGHT HON. THE LORD BIRKENHEAD Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain Honorary Fellow of Wadham and Merton Colleges, Oxford New and Enlarged Edition London Horace Marshall & Son Temple House And 125 Fleet Street, E.C. 1920 Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh PREFACE Twenty-two years ago the enterprise of Horace Marshall & Son produced a series of small books known as "The Story of the Empire Series." These volumes rendered a great service in bringing home to the citizens of the Empire in a simple and intelligible form their community of interest, and the romantic history of the development of the British Empire. I was asked more than twenty-one years ago to write the volume which dealt with Newfoundland. I did so. The little book which was the result has been for many years out of print. I have been asked by my friends in Newfoundland and elsewhere to bring it up to date for the purpose of a Second Edition. The publishers assented to this proposal, and this volume is the result. The book, of course, never pretended to be anything but a slight sketch. An attempt has been made--while errors have been corrected and the subject matter has been brought up to date--to maintain such character as it ever possessed. I shall be well rewarded for any trouble I have taken if it is recognized by my friends in Newfoundland that the reproduction of this little book places on record an admiration for, and an interest in, our oldest colony which has endured for considerably more than twenty-one years. BIRKENHEAD. HOUSE OF LORDS, _May_ 1920. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. THE LAND AND ITS PEOPLE 7 II. THE AGE OF DISCOVERY 22 III. EARLY HISTORY 45 IV. EARLY HISTORY (_continued_) 64 V. THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE 81 VI. THE ENGLISH COLONIAL SYSTEM AND ITS RESULTS 95 VII. SELF-GOVERNMENT 114 VIII. MODERN NEWFOUNDLAND 126 IX. THE REID CONTRACT--AND AFTER 143 X. THE FRENCH SHORE QUESTION 171 MAPS-- NEWFOUNDLAND AND LABRADOR 6 NEWFOUNDLAND IN RELATION TO WESTERN EUROPE 33 INDEX 188 [Illustration: NEWFOUNDLAND and LABRADOR] THE STORY OF NEWFOUNDLAND CHAPTER I THE LAND AND ITS PEOPLE The island of Newfoundland, which is the tenth largest in the world, is about 1640 miles distant from Ireland, and of all the American coast is the nearest point to the Old World. Its relative position in the northern hemisphere may well be indicated by saying that the most northern point at Belle Isle Strait is in the same latitude as that of Edinburgh, whilst St. John's, near the southern extremity, lies in the same latitude as that of Paris. Strategically it forms the key to British North America. St. John's lies about half-way between Liverpool and New York, so that it offers a haven of refuge for needy craft plying between England and the American metropolis. The adjacent part of the coast is also the landing-place for most of the Transatlantic cables: it was at St. John's, too, that the first wireless ocean signals were received. From the sentimental point of view Newfoundland is the oldest of the English colonies, for our brave fishermen were familiar with its banks at a time when Virginia and New England were given over to solitude and the Redskin. Commercially it is the centre of the most bountiful fishing industry in the world, and the great potential wealth of its mines is now beyond question. On all these grounds the story of the colony is one with which every citizen of Greater Britain should be familiar. The historians of the island have been capable and in the main judicious, and to the works of Reeves, Bonnycastle, Pedley, Hatton, Harvey, and above all Chief Justice Prowse, and more recently to J.D. Rogers,[1] every writer on Newfoundland must owe much. Of such elaborate work a writer in the present series may say with Virgil's shepherd, "Non invideo, miror magis"; for such a one is committed only to a sketch, made lighter by their labours, of the chief stages in the story of Newfoundland. To understand that story a short account must be given at the outset of the situation and character of the island. But for the north-eastern side of the country, which is indented by deep and wide inlets, its shape might be roughly described as that of an equilateral triangle. Its area is nearly 43,000 square miles, so that it is larger than Scotland and considerably greater than Ireland, the area of which is 31,760 square miles. Compared to some of the smaller states of Europe, it is found to be twice as large as Denmark, and three times as large as Holland. There is only a mile difference between its greatest length, which from Cape Ray, the south-west point, to Cape Norman, the northern point, is 317 miles, and its greatest breadth, from west to east, 316 miles from Cape Spear to Cape Anguille. Its dependency, Labrador, an undefined strip of maritime territory, extends from Cape Chidley, where the Hudson's Straits begin in the north, to Blanc Sablon in the south, and includes the most easterly point of the mainland. The boundaries between Quebec and Labrador have been a matter of keen dispute. The inhabitants are for the most part Eskimos, engaged in fishing and hunting. There are no towns, but there are a few Moravian mission stations. The ruggedness of the coast of Newfoundland, and the occasional inclemency of the climate in winter, led to unfavourable reports, against which at least one early traveller raised his voice in protest. Captain Hayes, who accompanied Gilbert to Newfoundland in 1583, wrote on his return: "The common opinion that is had of intemperation and extreme cold that should be in this country, as of some part it may be verified, namely the north, where I grant it is more colde than in countries of Europe, which are under the same elevation; even so it cannot stand with reason, and nature of the clime, that the south parts should be so intemperate as the bruit has gone." Notwithstanding the chill seas in which it lies, Newfoundland is not in fact a cold country. The Arctic current lowers the temperature of the east coast, but the Gulf Stream, whilst producing fogs, moderates the cold. The thermometer seldom or never sinks below zero in winter, and in summer extreme heat is unknown. Nor is its northerly detachment without compensation, for at times the _Aurora borealis_ illumines the sky with a brilliancy unknown further south. A misconception appears to prevail that the island is in summer wrapped in fog, and its shores in winter engirt by ice. In the interior the climate is very much like that of Canada, but is not so severe as that of western Canada or even of Ontario and Quebec. The sky is bright and the weather clear, and the salubrity is shown by the healthy appearance of the population. The natural advantages of the country are very great, though for centuries many of them were strangely overlooked. Whitbourne, it is true, wrote with quaint enthusiasm, in the early sixteenth century: "I am loth to weary thee (good reader) in acquainting thee thus to those famous, faire, and profitable rivers, and likewise to those delightful large and inestimable woods, and also with those fruitful and enticing lulls and delightful vallies." In fact, in the interior the valleys are almost as numerous as Whitbourne's adjectives, and their fertility promises a great future for agriculture when the railway has done its work. The rivers, though "famous, faire, and profitable," are not overpoweringly majestic. The largest are the Exploits River, 200 miles long and navigable for some 30 miles, and the Gander, 100 miles long, which--owing to the contour of the island--flows to the eastern bays. The deficiency, however, if it amounts to one, is little felt, for Newfoundland excels other lands in the splendour of its bays, which not uncommonly pierce the land as far as sixty miles. The length of the coast-line has been calculated at about 6000 miles--one of the longest of all countries of the world relatively to the area. Another noteworthy physical feature is the great number of lakes and ponds; more than a third of the area is occupied by water. The largest lake is Grand Lake, 56 miles long, 5 broad, with an area of nearly 200 square miles. The longest mountain range in the island is about the same length as the longest river, 200 miles; and the highest peaks do not very greatly exceed 2000 feet. The cliffs, which form a brown, bleak and rugged barrier round the coasts of Newfoundland, varying in height from 300 to 400 feet, must have seemed grim enough to the first discoverers; in fact, they give little indication of the charming natural beauties which lie behind them. The island is exuberantly rich in woodland, and its long penetrating bays, running in some cases eighty to ninety miles inland, and fringed to the water's edge, vividly recall the more familiar attractiveness of Norwegian scenery. Nor has any custom staled its infinite variety, for as a place of resort it has been singularly free from vogue. This is a little hard to understand, for the summer climate is by common consent delightful, and the interior still retains much of the glamour of the imperfectly explored. The cascades of Rocky River, of the Exploits River, and, in particular, the Grand Falls, might in themselves be considered a sufficient excuse for a voyage which barely exceeds a week. Newfoundland is rich in mineral promise. Its history in this respect goes back only about sixty years: in 1857 a copper deposit was discovered at Tilt Cove, a small fishing village in Notre Dame Bay, where seven years later the Union Mine was opened. It is now clear that copper ore is to be found in quantities almost as inexhaustible as the supply of codfish. There are few better known copper mines in the world than Bett's Cove Mine and Little Bay Mine; and there are copper deposits also at Hare Bay and Tilt Cove. In 1905-6 the copper ore exported from these mines was valued at more than 375,000 dollars, in 1910-11 at over 445,000 dollars. The value of the iron ore produced in the latter period was 3,768,000 dollars. It is claimed that the iron deposits--red hematite ore--are among the richest in the world. In Newfoundland, as elsewhere, geology taught capital where to strike, and when the interior is more perfectly explored it is likely that fresh discoveries will be made. In the meantime gold, lead, zinc, silver, talc, antimony, and coal have also been worked at various places. A more particular account must be given of the great fish industry, on which Newfoundland so largely depends, and which forms about 80 per cent. of the total exports. For centuries a homely variant of Lord Rosebery's Egyptian epigram would have been substantially true: Newfoundland is the codfish and the codfish is Newfoundland. Many, indeed, are the uses to which this versatile fish may be put. Enormous quantities of dried cod are exported each year for the human larder, a hygienic but disagreeable oil is extracted from the liver to try the endurance of invalids; while the refuse of the carcase is in repute as a stimulating manure. The cod fisheries of Newfoundland are much larger than those of any other country in the world; and the average annual export has been equal to that of Canada and Norway put together. The predominance of the fishing industry, and its ubiquitous influence in the colony are vividly emphasised by Mr Rogers[2] in the following passage, though his first sentence involves an exaggerated restriction so far as modern conditions are concerned: "Newfoundlanders are men of one idea, and that idea is fish. Their lives are devoted to the sea and its produce, and their language mirrors their lives; thus the chief streets in their chief towns are named Water Street, guides are called pilots, and visits cruises. Conversely, land words have sea meanings, and a 'planter,' which meant in the eighteenth century a fishing settler as opposed to a fishing visitor, meant in the nineteenth century--when fishing visitors ceased to come from England--a shipowner or skipper. The very animals catch the infection, and dogs, cows, and bears eat fish. Fish manures the fields. Fish, too, is the main-spring of the history of Newfoundland, and split and dried fish, or what was called in the fifteenth century stock-fish, has always been its staple, and in Newfoundland fish means cod." The principal home of the cod is the Grand Newfoundland Bank, an immense submarine island 600 miles in length and 200 in breadth, which in earlier history probably formed part of North America. Year by year the demand for codfish grows greater, and the supply--unaffected by centuries of exaction--continues to satisfy the demand. This happy result is produced by the marvellous fertility of the cod, for naturalists tell us that the roe of a single female--accounting, perhaps, for half the whole weight of the fish--commonly contains as many as five millions of ova. In the year 1912-13 the value of the exported dried codfish alone was 7,987,389 dollars, and in 1917 the total output of the bank and shore cod fishery was valued at 13,680,000 dollars; and at a time when it was incomparably less, Pitt had thundered in his best style that he would not surrender the Newfoundland fisheries though the enemy were masters of the Tower of London. So the great Bacon, at a time when the wealth of the Incas was being revealed to the dazzled eyes of the Old World, declared, with an admirable sense of proportion, that the fishing banks of Newfoundland were richer far than the mines of Mexico and Peru. Along the coasts of Norfolk and Suffolk the codfish is commonly caught with hook and line, and the same primitive method is still largely used by colonial fishermen. More elaborate contrivances are growing in favour, and will inevitably swell each year's returns. Nor is there cause to apprehend exhaustion in the supply. The ravages of man are as nothing to the ravages and exactions of marine nature, and both count for little in the immense populousness of the ocean. Fishing on a large scale is most effectively carried on by the Baltow system or one of its modifications. Each vessel carries thousands of fathoms of rope, baited and trailed at measured intervals. Thousands of hooks thus distributed over many miles, and the whole suitably moored. After a night's interval the catch is examined. In 1890 a Fisheries Commission was established for the purpose of conducting the fisheries more efficiently than had been the case before. Modern methods were introduced, and the artificial propagation of cod and also of lobsters was begun. In 1898 a Department of Marine and Fisheries was set up, and with the minister in charge of it an advisory Fisheries Board was associated. Though the cod-fishery is the largest and the most important of the Newfoundland fisheries, the seal, lobster, herring, whale and salmon fisheries are also considerable, and yield high returns. As to all these fisheries, the right to make regulations has been placed more effectively in the hands of Great Britain by the Hague arbitration award, which was published in September 1910, and which satisfied British claims to a very large extent. A pathetic chapter in the history of colonization might be written upon the fate of native races. A great English authority on international law (Phillimore) has dealt with their claims to the proprietorship of American soil in a very summary way. "The North American Indians," he says, "would have been entitled to have excluded the British fur-traders from their hunting-grounds; and not having done so, the latter must be considered as having been admitted to a joint occupation of the territory, and thus to have become invested with a similar right of excluding strangers from such portions of the country as their own industrial operations covered." It is better to say frankly that the highest good of humanity required the dispossession of savages; and it is permissible to regret that the morals and humanity of the pioneers of civilization have not always been worthy of their errand. It rarely happens that the native, as in South Africa, has shown sufficient tenacity and stamina to resist the tide of the white aggression: more often the invaders have gradually thinned their numbers. The Spanish adventurers worked to death the soft inhabitants of the American islands. Many perished by the sword, many in a species of national decline, the wonders of civilization, for good and for bad, working an obsession in their childish imaginations which in time reacted upon the physique of the race. Sebastian Cabot has left a record of his standard of morality in dealing with the natives. When he was Grand Pilot of England it fell to his lot to give instructions to that brave Northern explorer, Sir Hugh Willoughby: "The natives of strange countries," he advises, "are to be enticed aboard and made drunk with your beer and wine, for then you shall know the secrets of their hearts." A further practice which may have caused resentment in the minds of a sensitive people, was that of kidnapping the natives to be exhibited as specimens in Europe. The natives of Newfoundland were known distinctively as Boeothics or Beothuks (a name probably meaning red men), who are supposed to have formed a branch of the great Algonquin tribe of North American Indians, a warlike race that occupied the north-eastern portion of the American continent. Cabot saw them dressed in skins like the ancient Britons, but painted with red ochre instead of blue woad. Cartier, the pioneer of Canadian adventure, who visited the island in 1534, speaks of their stature and their feather ornaments. Hayes says in one place: "In the south parts we found no inhabitants, which by all likelihood have abandoned these coasts, the same being so much frequented by Christians. But in the north are savages altogether harmless." Whitbourne, forty years later, gives the natives an equally good character: "These savage people being politikely and gently handled, much good might be wrought upon them: for I have had apparant proofes of their ingenuous and subtle dispositions, and that they are a people full of quicke and lively apprehensions. "By a plantation" [in Newfoundland] "and by that means only, the poore mis-beleeving inhabitants of that country may be reduced from barbarism to the knowledge of God, and the light of his truth, and to a civill and regular kinde of life and government." The plantation came, but it must be admitted that the policy of the planters was not, at first sight, of a kind to secure the admirable objects indicated above by King James's correspondent. In fact, for hundreds of years, and with the occasional interruptions of humanity or curiosity, the Boeothics were hunted to extinction and perversely disappeared, without, it must be supposed, having attained to the "civill and regular kinde of life" which was to date from the plantation. As lately as 1819 a "specimen" was procured in the following way. A party of furriers met three natives--two male, one female--on the frozen Red Indian Lake. It appeared later that one of the males was the husband of the female. The latter was seized; her companions had the assurance to resist, and were both shot. The woman was taken to St. John's, and given the name of May March; next winter she was escorted back to her tribe, but died on the way. These attempts to gain the confidence of the natives were, perhaps, a little brusque, and from this point of view liable to misconstruction by an apprehensive tribe. Ironically enough, the object of the attempt just described was to win a Government reward of £100, offered to any person bringing about a friendly understanding with the Red Indians. Another native woman, Shanandithit, was brought to St. John's in 1823 and lived there till her death in 1829. She is supposed to have been the last survivor. Sir Richard Bonnycastle, who has an interesting chapter on this subject, saw her miniature, which, he says, "without being handsome, shows a pleasing countenance." * * * * * Before closing this introductory chapter a few figures may be usefully given for reference to illustrate the present condition of the island.[3] At the end of 1917 the population, including that of Labrador, was 256,500, of whom 81,200 were Roman Catholics and 78,000 members of the Church of England. The estimated public revenue for the year 1917-18 was 5,700,000 dollars; the estimated expenditure was 5,450,000 dollars. In the same year the public debt was about 35,450,000 dollars. The estimated revenue for 1918-19 was 6,500,000 dollars; expenditure, 5,400,000 dollars. In 1898 the imports from the United Kingdom amounted to £466,925, and the exports to the United Kingdom to £524,367. In the year 1917-18 the distribution of trade was mainly as follows: imports from the United Kingdom, 2,248,781 dollars; from Canada, 11,107,642 dollars; from the United States, 12,244,746 dollars; exports to the United Kingdom, 3,822,931 dollars; to Canada, 2,750,990 dollars; to the United States, 7,110,322 dollars. The principal imports in 1916-17 were flour, hardware, textiles, provisions, coal, and machinery; the chief exports were dried cod, pulp and paper, iron and copper ore, cod and seal oil, herrings, sealskins, and tinned lobsters. In 1917 there were 888 miles of railway open, of which 841 were Government-owned; and there are over 4600 miles of telegraph line. The tonnage of vessels entered and cleared at Newfoundland ports in 1916-17 was 2,191,006 tons, of which 1,818,016 tons were British. The number of sailing and steam vessels registered on December 31st, 1917, was 3496. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [1] "A Historical Geography of the British Colonies." Vol. v. Part 4. Newfoundland. (Oxford, 1911.) [2] _Op. cit._, p. 192. [3] In view of the nature and object of the present book, only a few figures can be given here; fuller information can easily be obtained in several of the works referred to herein, and more particularly in the various accessible Year Books. CHAPTER II THE AGE OF DISCOVERY (1497-1502) "If this should be lost," said Sir Walter Raleigh of Newfoundland, "it would be the greatest blow that was ever given to England." The observation was marked by much political insight. Two centuries later, indeed, the countrymen of Raleigh experienced and outlived a shock far more paralyzing than that of which he was considering the possible effects; but when the American colonies were lost the world destiny of England had already been definitely asserted, and the American loyalists were able to resume the allegiance of their birth by merely crossing the Canadian frontier. When Raleigh wrote, Newfoundland was the one outward and visible sign of that Greater England in whose future he was a passionate believer. Therefore, inasmuch as Newfoundland, being the oldest of all the English colonies, stood for the Empire which was to be, the moral effects of its loss in infancy would have been irretrievably grave. How nearly it was lost will appear in the following pages. Newfoundland, as was fitting for one of the largest islands in the world, and an island, too, drawing strategic importance from its position, was often conspicuous in that titanic struggle between England and France for sea power, and therefore for the mastery of the world, which dwarfs every other feature of the eighteenth century. Nor did she come out of the struggle quite unscathed. Ill-informed or indifferent politicians in the Mother Country neglected to push home the fruits of victory on behalf of the colony which the struggle had convulsed, and the direct consequence of this neglect may be seen in the French fishery claims, which long distracted the occasional leisure of the Colonial Office. Newfoundland has indeed been hardened by centuries of trial. For years its growth was arrested by the interested jealousy of English merchants; and its maturity was vexed by French exactions, against which Canada or Australia would long ago have procured redress. Newfoundland has been the patient Griselda of the Empire, and the story of her triumph over moral and material difficulties--over famine, sword, fire, and internal dissension--fills a striking chapter in the history of British expansion. That keen zest for geographical discovery, which was one of the most brilliant products of the Renaissance, was slow in making its appearance in England. Nor are the explanations far to seek. The bull (1494) of a notorious Pope (Alexander VI.)--lavish, as befits one who bestows a thing which he cannot enjoy himself, and of which he has no right to dispose--had allocated the shadowy world over the sea to Spain and Portugal, upon a fine bold principle of division; and immediately afterwards these two Powers readjusted their boundaries in the unknown world by the Treaty of Tordesillas (1494), which could not, however, be considered as binding third parties. The line of longitude herein adopted was commonly held to have assigned Newfoundland to Portugal, but the view was incorrect. England was still a Catholic country, and for all its independence of the Pope in matters temporal, the effects of such a bull must have been very considerable. Nor did the personal character of Henry VII. incline him to the path of adventure; and on the few occasions when he was goaded to enterprise, almost in spite of himself, we are able to admire the prudence of a prince who was careful to insert two clauses in his charter of adventure: the first protecting himself against liability for the cost, the second stipulating for a share of the profits. It is to the robust insight of Henry VIII. into the conditions of our national existence that the beginnings of the English Navy are to be ascribed, and it was under this stubborn prince that English trade began to depend upon English bottoms. But the real explanation of Anglo-Saxon backwardness lies somewhat deeper. Foreign adventure and the planting of settlements must proceed, if they are to be successful, from an exuberant State; neither in resources, nor in population, nor, perhaps it must be added, in the spirit of adventure, was the England of King Henry VII. sufficiently equipped. Hence it happened that foreign vessels sailed up the Thames, or anchored by the quays of Bideford in the service of English trade, at a time when the spirit of Prince Henry the Navigator had breathed into the Portuguese service, when Diaz was discovering the Cape, and the tiny vessels of Da Gama were adventuring the immense voyage to Cathay. It is now clearly established that the earliest adventurers in America were men of Norse stock. More than a thousand years ago Greenland was explored by Vikings from Iceland, and a hundred years later Leif Ericsson discovered a land--Markland, the land of woods--which is plausibly identified with Newfoundland. Still keeping a southern course, the adventurer came to a country where grew vines, and where the climate was strangely mild; it is likely enough that this landfall was in Massachusetts or Virginia. The name Vinland was given to the newly-discovered country. The later voyages of Thorwald Ericsson, of Thorlstein Ericsson--both brothers of Leif--and of Thorfinn Karlsefne, are recounted in the Sagas. The story of these early colonists or "builders," as they called themselves, is weakened by an infusion of fable, such as the tale of the fast-running one-legged people; but with all allowances, the fact of Viking adventure on the American mainland is unquestioned and unquestionable, though we may say of these brave sailors, with Professor Goldwin Smith, that nothing more came of their visit, or in that age could come, than of the visit of a flock of seagulls. It has been asserted by some writers that Basque navigators discovered the American continent a century before Cabot or Columbus; but evidence in support of such claims is either wanting or unconvincing. "Ingenious and romantic theories," says a critic of these views, "have been propounded concerning discoveries of America by Basque sailors before Columbus. The whale fishery of that period and long afterwards was in the hands of the Basques, and it is asserted that, in following the whales, as they became scarcer, farther and farther out in the western ocean, they came upon the coasts of Newfoundland a hundred years before Columbus and Cabot. No solid foundation can be found for these assertions. The records of the Basque maritime cities contain nothing to confirm them, and these assertions are mixed up with so much that is absurd--such as a statement that the Newfoundland Indians spoke Basque--that the whole hypothesis is incredible."[4] The question has been much discussed whether Columbus or Cabot in later days rediscovered the American mainland. It does not, perhaps, much matter whether the honour belongs to an Italian employed by Spain or an Italian employed by England; and it is the less necessary to ask whether Cabot explored the mainland before Columbus touched at Paria, that in any event the real credit of the adventure belongs to the great Spanish sailor. It is well known that Columbus thought, as Cabot thought after him, that he was discovering a new and short route to India by the west. Hence was given the name West Indies to the islands which Columbus discovered; hence the company which administered the affairs of Hindostan was distinguished as the East India Company. Hence, too, the spiritual welfare of the Great Khan engaged the attention of both Columbus and Cabot, whereas, in fact, this potentate (if, indeed, he existed) was secluded from their disinterested zeal by a vast continent, and thousands of miles of ocean. These misconceptions were based on a strange underestimate of the circumference of the world, but they add, if possible, to our wonder at the courage of Columbus. Sailing day after day into the unknown, with tiny ships and malcontent crews, he never faltered in his purpose, and never lost faith in his theory. When he landed at Guanahana (Watling's Island) he saw in the Bahamas the Golden Cyclades, and bethought him how he might convey to the Great Khan the letters of his Royal patron. He saw in the west coast of Juana the mainland of Cathay, and in the waters which wash the shores of Cuba he sought patiently, but vainly, for the Golden Chersonese and the storied land of the Ganges. John Cabot inherited both the truth and the error of Columbus. His career is one of those irritating mysteries which baffle the most patient inquiry. Born at Genoa, and naturalized in 1476 at Venice after fifteen years' residence, he seems to have settled in England eight or nine years before the close of the fifteenth century. Already his life had been an adventurous one. We catch glimpses of him at long intervals: now at Mecca, pushing curious inquiries into the region whence came the spice caravans; now in Spain, under the spell, perhaps, of the novel speculations of Toscanelli and Columbus; now plying his trade as a maker of charts in Bristol or on the Continent. The confusion between John Cabot and his son Sebastian adds to the uncertainty. Those who impute to Sebastian Cabot a cuckoo-like appropriation of his father's glory are able to support their opinion with weighty evidence. The most astounding feature of all is that the main incidents of a voyage which attracted as much attention as the first voyage of John Cabot should so soon have passed into oblivion. Marking the boundary as clearly as possible between what is certain and what is probable, we find that on March 5th, 1496, Henry VII. granted a charter in the following terms: "Be it known to all that we have given and granted to our well-beloved John Cabot, citizen of Venice, and to Lewis, Sebastian, and Sanctus, sons of the said John, and to their heirs and deputies ... authority to sail to all parts, countries, and seas of the East, of the West, and of the North, under our banner and ensigns, with five ships, and to set up our banner on any new found land, as our vassals and lieutenants, upon their own proper costs and charges to seek out and discover whatsoever isles ... of the heathen and infidels, which before the time have been unknown to all Christians...." No sooner was the patent granted than the vigilant Spanish ambassador in London wrote to his master King Ferdinand, that a second Columbus was about to achieve for the English sovereign what Columbus had achieved for the Spanish, but "without prejudice to Spain or Portugal." In reply to this communication Ferdinand directed his informer to warn King Henry that the project was a snare laid by the King of France to divest him from greater and more profitable enterprises, and that in any case the rights of the signatory parties under the Treaty of Tordesillas would thereby be invaded. However, the voyage contemplated in the charter was begun in 1497, in defiance of the Spanish warning and arrogant pretensions. It will be noticed that the charter extends its privileges to the sons of John Cabot. It is better, with Mr Justice Prowse, to see in this circumstance a proof of the prudence of the adventurer, who prolonged the duration of his charter by the inclusion of his infant sons, than to infer in the absence of evidence that any of them was his companion. According to one often quoted authority, Sebastian Cabot claimed in later life not merely to have taken part in the expedition, but to have been its commander,[5] and placed it after his father's death. Against this claim, if it was ever made, we must notice that in the Royal licence for the second voyage the newly found land is said to have been discovered by John Cabotto. It is impossible to say with certainty how many ships took part in Cabot's voyage. An old tradition, depending upon an unreliable manuscript,[6] says that Cabot's own ship was called the _Matthew_, a vessel of about fifty tons burden, and manned by sixteen Bristol seamen and one Burgundian. It is probable that the voyage began early in May, and it is certain that Cabot was back in England by August 10th, for on that date we find the following entry in the Privy Purse expenses of Henry VII., revealing a particularly stingy recognition of the discoverer's splendid service, which, however, was soon afterwards recognized less unhandsomely: "1497, Aug. 10th.--To hym that found the New Isle, £10."[7] The only reliable contemporary authorities on the subject of John Cabot's first voyage are the family letters of Lorenzo Pasqualigo, a Venetian merchant resident in London, to his brother, and the official correspondence of Raimondo di Raimondi, Archpriest of Soncino. The latter's account is somewhat vague. He says, in his letters to Duke Sforza of Milan, August 24th, and December 18th, 1497, that Cabot, "passing Ibernia on the west, and then standing towards the north, began to navigate the eastern ocean, leaving in a few days the north star on the right hand, and having wandered a good deal he came at last to firm land.... This Messor Zoanni Caboto," he proceeds, "has the description of the world in a chart, and also in a solid globe which he has made, and he shows where he landed." Raimondo adds that Cabot discovered two islands, one of which he gave to his barber and the other to a Burgundian friend, who called themselves Counts, whilst the commander assumed the airs of a prince.[8] We have from the Venetian, Pasqualigo, a letter, dated August 23rd, 1497, which was probably a fortnight or three weeks after the return of Cabot. According to this authority, Cabot discovered land 700 leagues away, the said land being the territory of the Great Khan (the "Gram cham"). He coasted along this land for 300 leagues, and on the homeward voyage sighted two islands, on which, after taking possession of them, he hoisted the Venetian as well as the English flag. "He calls himself the grand admiral, walks abroad in silk attire, and Englishmen run after him like madmen."[9] It is easy to overrate the reliability of such letters as those of Pasqualigo and Raimondo, and Pasqualigo's statement that Cabot sailed from Bristol to this new land, coasted for 300 leagues along it, and returned within a period of three months, is impossible to accept. At the same time, the accounts given by these writers occur, one in the frank intimacy of family correspondence, the other in the official reports of a diplomatic representative to his chief. They are both unquestionably disinterested, and are very much more valuable than the later tittle-tattle of Peter Martyr and Ramusio, which has plainly filtered through what Mr Beazley would call Sebastianized channels. [Illustration: NEWFOUNDLAND in Relation to WESTERN EUROPE] A keen controversy has raged as to the exact landfall of John Cabot in his 1497 voyage, and it cannot be said that a decisive conclusion has followed. A long tradition (fondly repeated by Mr Justice Prowse) finds the landfall in Cape Bonavista, Newfoundland. It is difficult to say more than that it may have been so; it may too have been in Cape Breton Island, or even some part of the coast of Labrador. In any case, whether or not Cabot found his landfall in Newfoundland, he must have sighted it in the course of his voyage. It may be mentioned here by way of caution that the name Newfoundland was specialized in later times so as to apply to the island alone, and that it was at first used indifferently to describe all the territories discovered by Cabot. As no true citizen of Newfoundland will surrender the belief that Cape Bonavista was in fact the landfall of Cabot, it seems proper to insert in the story of the island, for what they are worth, the nearest contemporary accounts of Cabot's voyage. They are more fully collected in Mr Beazley's monograph,[10] to which I am indebted for the translations which follow. The first account is contained, as has already been pointed out, in a letter written by Raimondo di Raimondi to the Duke of Milan: "Most illustrious and excellent my Lord,--Perhaps among your Excellency's many occupations, you may not be displeased to learn how His Majesty here has won a part of Asia without a stroke of the sword. There is in this kingdom a Venetian fellow, Master John Cabot by name, of a fine mind, greatly skilled in navigation, who, seeing that those most serene kings, first he of Portugal, and then the one of Spain, have occupied unknown islands, determined to make a like acquisition for His Majesty aforesaid. And having obtained Royal grants that he should have the usufruct of all that he should discover, provided that the ownership of the same is reserved to the Crown, with a small ship and eighteen persons he committed himself to fortune. And having set out from Bristol, a western port of this kingdom, and passed the western limits of Hibernia, and then standing to the northward, he began to steer eastwards [meaning westwards], leaving, after a few days, the North Star on his right hand. And having wandered about considerably, at last he fell in with _terra firma_, where, having planted the Royal banner and taken possession in the behalf of this King; and having taken several tokens, he has returned thence. The said Master John, as being foreign-born and poor, would not be believed, if his comrades, who are almost all Englishmen and from Bristol, did not testify that what he says is true. "This Master John has the description of the world in a chart, and also in a solid globe which he has made, and he [or it] shows where he landed, and that going toward the east [again for west] he passed considerably beyond the country of the Tansis. And they say that it is a very good and temperate country, and they think that Brazil wood and silks grow there; and they affirm that that sea is covered with fishes, which are caught not only with the net but with baskets, a stone being tied to them in order that the baskets may sink in the water. And this I heard the said Master John relate, and the aforesaid Englishmen, his comrades, say that they will bring so many fish, that this kingdom will no longer have need of Iceland, from which country there comes a very great store of fish called stock-fish ('stockfissi'). But Master John has set his mind on something greater; for he expects to go further on towards the east [again for west] from that place already occupied, constantly hugging the shore, until he shall be over against [or on the other side of] an island, by him called Cimpango, situated in the equinoctial region, where he thinks all the spices of the world and also the precious stones originate. And he says that in former times he was at Mecca, whither spices are brought by caravans from distant countries, and these [caravans] again say that they are brought to them from other remote regions. And he argues thus--that if the Orientals affirmed to the Southerners that these things come from a distance from them, and so from hand to hand, presupposing the rotundity of the earth, it must be that the last ones get them at the north, toward the west. And he said it in such a way that, having nothing to gain or lose by it, I too believe it; and, what is more, the King here, who is wise and not lavish, likewise puts some faith in him; for, since his return he has made good provision for him, as the same Master John tells me. And it is said that in the spring His Majesty aforenamed will fit out some ships and will besides give him all the convicts, and they will go to that country to make a colony, by means of which they hope to establish in London a greater storehouse of spices than there is in Alexandria, and the chief men of the enterprise are of Bristol, great sailors, who, now that they know where to go, say that it is not a voyage of more than fifteen days, nor do they ever have storms after they get away from Hibernia. I have also talked with a Burgundian, a comrade of Master John's, who confirms everything, and wishes to return thither because the Admiral (for so Master John already entitles himself) has given him an island; and he has given another one to a barber of his from Castiglione, of Genoa, and both of them regard themselves as Counts, nor does my Lord the Admiral esteem himself anything less than a prince. I think that with this expedition will go several poor Italian monks, who have all been promised bishoprics. And as I have become a friend of the Admiral's, if I wished to go thither, I should get an Archbishopric. But I have thought that the benefices which your Excellency has in store for me are a surer thing." To those who, in the teeth of contemporary evidence, prefer the claims of Sebastian, the following extracts may be offered; the first from Peter Martyr d'Anghiera, who wrote in the early sixteenth century, the second from Ramusio. Martyr writes: "These north seas have been searched by one Sebastian Cabot, a Venetian born, whom, being yet but in matter an infant, his parents carried with them into England, having occasion to resort thither for trade of merchandises, as is the manner of the Venetians to leave no part of the world unsearched to obtain riches. He therefore furnished two ships in England at his own charges; and, first, with 300 men, directed his course so far towards the North Pole, that even in the month of July he found monstrous heaps of ice swimming in the sea, and in manner continual daylight, yet saw he the land in that tract free from ice, which had been molten by heat of the sun. Thus, seeing such heaps of ice before him, he was enforced to turn his sails and follow the west, so coasting still by the shore he was thereby brought so far into the south, by reason of the land bending so much southward, that it was there almost equal in latitude with the sea called Fretum Herculeum [Straits of Gibraltar], having the North Pole elevate in manner in the same degree. He sailed likewise in this tract so far toward the west that he had the Island of Cuba [on] his left hand in manner in the same degree of longitude. As he travelled by the coasts of this great land, which he named Baccallaos [cod-fish country], he saith that he found the like course of the water towards the west [_i.e._ as before described by Martyr], but the same to run more softly and gently than the swift waters which the Spaniards found in their navigation southward.... Sebastian Cabot himself named those lands Baccallaos, because that in the seas thereabout he found so great multitudes of certain big fish much like unto tunnies (which the inhabitants called Baccallaos) that they sometimes stayed his ships. He found also the people of those regions covered with beasts' skins, yet not without the use of reason. He saith also that there is great plenty of bears in those regions, which used to eat fish. For, plunging themselves into the water where they perceive a multitude of those fish to lie, they fasten their claws in their scales, and so draw them to land and eat them. So that, as he saith, the bears being thus satisfied with fish, are not noisome to men." Ramusio represents Sebastian Cabot as making the following statement: "When my father departed from Venice many years since to dwell in England, to follow the trade of merchandises, he took me with him to the city of London while I was very young, yet having nevertheless some knowledge of letters, of humanity, and of the sphere. And when my father died, in that time when news were brought that Don Christopher Colombus, the Genoese, had discovered the coasts of India, whereof was great talk in all the Court of King Henry the Seventh, who then reigned; in so much that all men, with great admiration, affirmed it to be a thing more divine than human to sail by the west into the east, where spices grow, by a way that was never known before; by which fame and report there increased in my heart a great flame of desire to attempt some notable thing. And understanding by reason of the sphere that if I should sail by way of the north-west wind I should by a shorter track come to India, I thereupon caused the King to be advertised of my device, who immediately commanded two caravels to be furnished with all things appertaining to the voyage, which was, as far as I remember, in the year 1496 in the beginning of summer. Beginning therefore to sail toward north-west, nor thinking to find any other land than that of Cathay, and from thence to turn towards India, after certain days I found that the land ran toward the north, which was to me a great displeasure. Nevertheless, sailing along by the coast to see if I could find any gulf that turned, I found the land still continent to the 56th degree under our Pole. And seeing that there the coast turned toward the east, despairing to find the passage, I turned back again and sailed down by the coast of that land toward the equinoctial (ever with intent to find the said passage to India) and came to that part of this firm land which is now called Florida; where, my victuals failing, I departed from thence and returned into England, where I found great tumults among the people and preparation for the war to be carried into Scotland; by reason whereof there was no more consideration had to this voyage."[11] The discoveries of Cabot were appreciated by Henry VII., a prince who rarely indulged in unprovoked benefactions, for on December 13th, 1497, we find a grant of an annual pension to Cabot of £20 a year, worth between £200 and £300 in modern money (a pension that was drawn twice): "We let you wit that we for certain considerations as specially moving, have given and granted unto our well-beloved John Cabot, of the parts of Venice, an annuity or annual rent of £20 sterling."[12] It is material to notice that Sebastian, so considerable a figure in the later accounts, is not mentioned in this grant. So it has been observed that John Cabot is mentioned alone in the charter for the second voyage; the authority is given explicitly to "our well-beloved John Kabotto, Venetian." Apparently the second voyage was begun in May, 1498, but a cloud of obscurity besets the attempt to determine its results. It is noted in the Records under 1498 that Sebastian Gaboto, "a Genoa's son," obtained from the King a vessel "to search for an island which he knew to be replenished with rich commodities." It is likely enough that Sebastian Cabot took part in this voyage, as indeed he may have done in the earlier one; but it is clear that John Sebastian was present in person, for Raimondo describes an interview in which John unfolds his scheme for proceeding from China (which he imagined himself to have discovered) to Japan. This brief account of the Cabots, so far as their voyages relate particularly to Newfoundland, may be closed by some further citations from the Privy Purse expenses of Henry VII.: "1498, March 24th.--To Lanslot Thirkill of London, upon a prest for his shipp going towards the New Ilande, £20. "April 1st.--To Thomas Bradley and Lanslot Thirkill, going to the New Isle, £30. "1503, Sept. 30th.--To the merchants of Bristoll that have been in the Newfounde Lande, £20. "1504, Oct. 17th.--To one that brought hawkes from the Newfounded Island, £1. "1505. Aug. 25th.--To Clays goying to Richemount, with wylde catts and popynjays of the Newfound Island, for his costs 13s. 4d."[13] * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [4] Stanford's "Compendium of Geography and Travel" (New Issue). North America, vol. i. Canada and Newfoundland. Edited by H.M. Ami (London, 1915), p. 1007. [5] See the excellent contribution of Mr Raymond Beazley to the "Builders of Greater Britain" Series--"John and Sebastian Cabot." [6] The Fust MSS., Mill Court, Gloucestershire. [7] S. Bentley, "Excerpts Historica" (1831), p. 113. [8] These letters, together with other relative documents, are given in the publication of the Italian Columbian Royal Commission: "Reale Commissione Colombiana: Raccolta di Documenti e Studi" (Rome, 1893), Part 3, vol. i., pp. 196-198. [9] "Reale Commissione Colombiana: Raccolta di Documenti e Studi" (Rome, 1893), Part 3, vol. ii., p. 109: "Calendar of State Papers," Venetian Series, vol. i., p. 262. [10] The more authoritative Italian source has already been indicated. [11] The testimony of both Peter Martyr and Ramusio, and of others, like Gomara and Fabyan, who support the claims of Sebastian as against John Cabot, does not now find favour; _cf._ Rogers, _op. cit._, p. 14. [12] Custom's Roll of the Port of Bristol, 1496-9, edited by E. Scott, A.E. Hudd, etc. (1897). [13] See Hakluyt Society Publications (1850), vol. vii., p. lxii. Bentley, _op. cit._, pp. 126, 129, 131. CHAPTER III EARLY HISTORY. AGE OF IMPERFECT COLONIZATION The motives and projects of the early English colonizers are thus aptly described by a recent writer already referred to:[14] "The colonizers were actuated by three different kinds of definite ideas, and definite colonization was threefold in its character. In the first place, there were men who were saturated in the old illusions and ideas, and intended colonization as a means to an end, the end being the gold and silver and spices of Asia. Secondly, there were fishermen, who went to Newfoundland for its own sake, in order to catch fish for the European market, who were without illusions or ideas or any wish to settle, and who belonged to many nations, and thwarted but also paved the way for more serious colonizers. Thirdly, there were idealists who wished to colonize for colonization's sake and to make England great; but in order to make England great they thought it necessary to humble Spain in the dust, and their ideas were destructive as well as creative. All these colonizers had their special projects, and each project, being inspired by imperfect ideals, failed more or less, or changed its character from time to time. The first and third projects were at one time guided by the same hand; but the first project gradually cast off its colonizing slough, and resolved itself once more into discovery for discovery's sake; and the third project ceased to be a plan of campaign, and resolved itself into sober and peaceful schemes for settling in the land. Even the second project, which was unled, uninspired, unnational, and almost unconscious, and which began and continued as though in obedience to some irresistible and unchangeable natural and economic law, assumed different shapes and semblances, as it blended or refused to blend with the patriotic projects of the idealists. These three types of colonization..., though they tended on different directions, ... were hardly distinguishable in the earlier phases of their history. Perhaps a fourth type should be added, but this fourth type was what naturalists call an aberrant type, and only comprised two colonizers, Rut and Hore, whose aims were indistinct, and who had no clear idea where they meant to go, or what they meant to do when they got there." After the first discovery of Newfoundland and the adjoining coast, English official interest in the island declined, and English traders were occupied for the time being with their intercourse with Iceland, whence they obtained all the codfish they had need of. The new field of exploration and enterprise was thus left for some twenty years to others. At the beginning of the sixteenth century Gaspar Cortereal, a brave Portuguese sailor, having obtained a commission from the King of Portugal, made two voyages (in 1500 and 1501) with the object of discovering a north-west passage to Asia, explored the coasts of Greenland, Labrador, and Newfoundland, and finally lost his life on the coast of Labrador (1501).[15] On the ground of these discoveries, reinforced by the title conferred by the bull of Alexander VI., the Portuguese asserted their claim to Newfoundland. Henceforward Portuguese fishermen began to share the dangers and profits of the cod fishery with the hardy folk of Normandy and Brittany, and with Spaniards and Basques, who had followed fast in the footsteps of the earliest discoverers. Hence we find that many names of places and the east coast of the island are corruptions of Portuguese words, whilst names on the south coast show a French or a Basque origin.[16] In a sense it is true that Newfoundland has owed everything to its fisheries, but it is unfortunately also true that a sharp dissidence between the interests of alien fisheries and the policy of local development did much to retard the days of permanent settlement. That the more southern races of Europe took a large part in the development of the fisheries was only natural, inasmuch as the principal markets for the dried and salted codfish were in the Catholic countries of Europe. Continuously from the beginning of the sixteenth century the opening of each season brought vessels of many nationalities to a harvest which sufficed for all. We cannot say that at this time any primacy was claimed for English vessels, but there is no reason to doubt that Englishmen soon played a conspicuous part in opening up the trade. By the time of Henry VIII. the Newfoundland industry was sufficiently well known to be included with the Scotch and Irish Fisheries in an exception clause to a statute which forbade the importation of foreign fish. This statute is sufficiently noteworthy as an economic curiosity to be set forth _in extenso_. "ACT 33 HENRY VIII., c. xi. "The Bill conceryning bying of fisshe upon the see. "Whereas many and dyvers townes and portes by the see side have in tymes past bene in great welthe and prosperitie well buylded by using and exercysing the crafts and feate of fisshing by the whiche practise it was not onelie great strengthe to this Realme by reason of bringing up and encreasing of Maryners whensoever the King's Grace had neede of them but also a great welthe to the Realme and habundance of suche wherebie oure sovereigne Lorde the King the Lords Gentilmen and Comons were alwais well served of fisshe in Market townes of a reasonable price and also by reason of the same fisshing many men were made and grewe riche and many poure Men and women had therebie there convenyent lyving--to the strengthe encreasing and welthe of this realme. "And whereas many and dyvers of the saide fissherman for their singular lucre and advantage doe leve the said crafte of fisshing and be confederate w Pycardes Flemynghes Norman and Frenche-men and sometyme sayle over into the costes of Pycardie and Flaunders and sometyme doo meete the said Pycardes and Flemynghes half the see over. "Penalty on subjects bying fishe in Flaunders &c., or at sea to be sold in England, £10. "And be it furder enacted by the auctoritie aforesaide that it shall be lawful to all and every fissher estraunger to come and to sell. "Provided furthermore that this Act or any thing therein conteyned shall not extende to any person whiche shall bye eny fisshe in any parties of Iseland, Scotlands, Orkeney, Shotlande, Ireland, or Newland [Newfoundland]." The caution, however, suggested above must be borne in mind in noticing the earliest mention of Newfoundland; the name was indiscriminately applied to the island itself and to the neighbouring coasts, so that it is for some time impossible to be sure whether it is employed in the wide or narrow sense. It is certain, however, that the island was becoming well known. Its position as the nearest point to Europe made it familiar to the band of Northerly explorers. Verrazzano, a Florentine, in the service of France, determined to discover a western way to Cathay, sailed along America northward from North Carolina, and placed the French flag on the territory lying between New Spain and Newfoundland, which newly acquired territory was thenceforth designated Norumbega or New France. All such original annexations, whether pretended or real, were in the circumstances extremely ill-defined; and maps of the time were frequently vague, confusing, and contradictory. Cartier, on his way to sow the seeds of a French Empire in North America, sailed past the coast (1534), and on his second voyage (1535) foregathered with Roberval in the roadstead of St. John's. Still earlier, in 1527, a voyage was made to the island by John Rut, with the countenance of Henry VIII. and encouragement of Cardinal Wolsey, but the authorities for this voyage are late and unreliable. Purchas reproduces a valuable letter from John Rut (who was a better sailor than scholar) to the King, from which it appears that he found in the harbour of St. John's "eleven saile of Normans and one Brittaine, and two Portugall barks, and all a fishing," as well as two English trade-ships.[17] The later adventure--"voyage of discovery"--of Master Hore, in 1536, which was undertaken "by the King's favour," is inimitably told by Hakluyt. His co-adventurers are described as "many gentlemen of the Inns of Court and of the Chancerie"; there were also a number of east-country merchants. After missing their proper course, and almost starving, they were succoured by a French vessel off the coast of Newfoundland. The gentlemen of the long robe had been out of their element up to this encounter, but Judge Prowse notes with proper professional pride the tribute of Hakluyt: "Such was the policie of the English that they became masters of [the French ship], and changing ships and vittailing them, they set sail to come into England." The extremities to which these adventurers were reduced before their relief is horribly illustrated by the narrative of Hakluyt: "Whilst they lay there they were in great want of provision and they found small relief, more than that they had from the nest of an osprey (or eagle) that brought hourly to her young great plenty of divers sorts of fishes. But such was the famine amongst them that they were forced to eat raw herbs and roots, which they sought for in the maine. But the relief of herbs being not sufficient to satisfie their craving appetites, when in the deserts in search of herbage, the fellow killed his mate while hee stouped to take up a root, and cutting out pieces of his body whom he had murthered, broyled the same on the coals and greedily devoured them. By this means the company decreased and the officers knew not what was become of them."[18] For many years we must be content with the knowledge that the fishing resources of Newfoundland were growing in reputation and popularity. Now and then the curtain is lifted, and we catch a glimpse of life on the island. Thus Anthony Parkhurst, a Bristol merchant, who had made the voyage himself four times, notes in 1578, in a letter written to Hakluyt containing a report of the true state and commodities of Newfoundland, that "there were generally more than 100 sail of Spaniards taking cod, and from 20 to 30 killing whales; 50 sail of Portuguese; 150 sail of French and Bretons ... but of English only 50 sail. Nevertheless, the English are commonly lords of the harbours where they fish, and use all strangers' help in fishing, if need require, according to an old custom of the country."[19] Clearer still is our information when the ill-fated Sir Humphrey Gilbert, the half-brother of Raleigh, visited the island in 1583. Already in 1574 Gilbert, together with Sir Richard Grenville, Sir George Peckham and Christopher Carleill, applied for a patent with a view to colonizing "the northern parts of America"; but, though a sum of money was raised in Bristol for this object, the scheme fell through. Gilbert's perseverance, however, was by no means checked. For in 1577 he submitted a project to Lord Burleigh, asking for authority to discover and colonize strange lands, and incidentally to seize Spanish prizes and establish English supremacy over the seas. The following year he received a patent to discover, colonize, fortify, own and rule territories not in the possession of friendly Christian Powers--subject to the prerogation of the Crown and the claims of the Crown to a fifth part of the gold and silver obtained. His settlements were to be made within a period of six years. Having obtained the support of such men as Sir George Peckham, Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Philip Sidney, Richard Hakluyt, Thomas Aldworth, as well as of Sir Francis Walsingham, the anti-Spanish minister, and of Bristol merchants,[20] Gilbert set sail on June 11th, 1583, from Plymouth with five vessels--the _Raleigh_ (200 tons) which was equipped by Sir W. Raleigh, acting as vice-admiral, the _Delight_ (120 tons) on which was Gilbert, as admiral, the _Swallow_ (40 tons) the _Golden Hind_ (40 tons), and the _Squirrel_ (10 tons). Two days later the _Raleigh_ returned on the ground, it seems, that her captain and many of her men had fallen sick. The entire crew consisted of 260 men, including shipwrights, masons, carpenters, smiths, miners, and refiners. They took with them a good variety of music "for solace of our people, and allurement of the savages"; a number of toys, "as morris dancers, hobby horsse, and many like conceits to delight the savage people, whom we intended to winne by all faire meanes possible"; and also a stock of haberdashery wares for the purpose of barter. Gilbert reached St. John's on August 3rd, 1583, with his four vessels, and found in the harbour twenty Spanish and Portuguese ships and sixteen English ships. The latter made ready to give battle to the newcomers; but as soon as the English vessels were informed of the mission, "they caused to be discharged all the great ordnance of their fleet in welcome," and soon afterwards entertained their guests at their "summer garden." The great importance of the errand was recognized, for it had no less an object than to take possession of the island in the name of Queen Elizabeth, by virtue of Cabot's discoveries, and the later acts of occupation. Even then the small town of St. John's was not without pretension to the amenities of social life. One, Edward Haie (or Hayes), who was present--indeed he was the captain and owner of the _Golden Hind_--and who has left us an account of the expedition,[21] speaks of it as a populous and frequented place. According to the same account, possession was taken of the territory on August 5th: "Munday following, the General had his tent set up, who being accompanied with his own followers, sommoned the marchants and masters, both English and strangers to be present at his taking possession of those countries. Before whom openly was read and interpreted unto the strangers of his commission: by vertue whereof he tooke possession in the same harbour of S. John, and 200 leagues every way, invested the Queenes Majestie with the tith and dignitie thereof, had delivered unto him (after the custome of England) a rod and a turffe of the same soile, entring possession also for him, his heires and assignes for ever: and signified unto al men, that from that time forward, they should take the same land as a territorie appertaining to the Queene of England, and himself authorized under her majestie to possesse and enjoy it. And to ordaine lawes for the government thereof, agreeable (so neere as conveniently might be) unto the lawes of England: under which all people comming thither hereafter, either to inhabite, or by way of traffique, should be subjected and governed." Gilbert's authority was not seriously questioned; by virtue of his commission he "ordained and established three lawes to begin with." They are given by Hayes as follows: 1. Establishment of the Church of England. 2. Any attempt prejudicial to Her Majesty's rights in the territory to be punished as in a case of High Treason. 3. Anyone uttering words of dishonour to Her Majesty should lose his ears and have his goods and ship confiscated. "To be brief," concludes the same authority, "Gilbert dyd lette, sette, give, and dispose of many things as absolute Governor there by virtue of Her Majesty's letter patent." The passage in which Captain Hayes describes the Newfoundland of his day must be of such interest to its present inhabitants that it is worth while to set it out in full: "That which we doe call the Newfoundland, and the Frenchmen Bacalaos, is an island, or rather (after the opinion of some) it consisteth of sundry islands and broken lands, situate in the north regions of America, upon the gulph and entrance of the great river called S. Laurence in Canada. Into the which navigation may be made both on the south and north side of this island. The land lyeth south and north, containing in length betweene three and 400 miles, accounting from Cape Race (which is in 46 degrees 25 minuts) unto the Grand Bay in 52 degrees of septentrionall latitude. The iland round about hath very many goodly bayes and harbors, safe roads for ships, the like not to be found in any part of the knowen world. "The common opinion that is had of intemperature and extreme cold that should be in this countrey, as of some part it may be verified, namely the north, where I grant it is more colde than in countries of Europe, which are under the same elevation: even so it cannot stand with reason and nature of the clime that the south parts should be so intemperate as the bruit hath gone. For as the same doe lie under the climats of Briton, Aniou, Poictou, in France, between 46 and 49 degrees, so can they not so much differ from the temperature of those countries: unless upon the out coasts lying open unto the ocean and sharpe winds, it must in neede be subject to more colde, then further within the lande, where the mountaines are interposed, as walles and bulwarkes, to defende and to resiste the asperitie and rigor of the sea and weather. Some hold opinion, that the Newfoundland might be the more subject to cold, by how much it lyeth high and neere unto the middle region. I grant that not in Newfoundland alone, but in Germany, Italy, and Afrike, even under the Equinoctiall line, the mountaines are extreme cold, and seeldome uncovred of snow, in their culme and highest tops, which commeth to passe by the same reason that they are extended towards the middle region: yet in the countries lying beneth them, it is found quite contrary. Even so all hils having their discents, the valleis also and low grounds must be likewise hot or temperate, as the clime doeth give in Newfoundland, though I am of opinion that the sunnes reflection is much cooled, and cannot be so forcible in the Newfoundland nor generally throughout America, as in Europe or Afrike: by how much the sunne in his diurnall course from east to west passeth over (for the most part) dry land and sandy countries, before he arriveth at the West of Europe or Afrike, whereby his motion increaseth heate, with little or no qualification by moyst vapours, where on the contraire, he passeth from Europe and Africa unto America over the ocean, from whence it draweth and carrieth with him abundance of moyst vapours, which doe qualifie and infeeble greatly the sunne's reverberation upon this countrey chiefly of Newfoundland, being so much to the northward. Neverthelesse (as I sayd before) the cold cannot be so intollerable under the latitude of 46, 47, and 48, especiall within land, that it should be unhabitable, as some doe suppose, seeing also there are very many people more to the north by a great deale. And in these south partes there be certain beastes, ounces or leopards, and birdes in like manner which in the sommer we have seene, not heard of in countries of extreme and vehement coldnesse. Besides, as in the monethes of June, July, August, and September, the heate is somewhat more than in England at those seasons: so men remaining upon the south parts neere unto Cape Rece, until after Hollandtide, have not found the cold so extreme, nor much differing from the temperature of England. Those which have arrived there after November and December have found the snow exceeding deepe, whereat no marvaile, considering the ground upon the coast is rough and uneven, and the snow is driven into the places most declyning, as the like is to be seen with us. The like depth of snow happily shall not be found within land upon the playner countries, which also are defended by the mountaines, breaking off the violence of the winds and weather. But admitting extraordinary cold in these south parts, above that with us here: it cannot be so great as that in Swedland, much less in Muscovia or Russia; yet are the same countries very populous, and the rigor of cold is dispensed with by the commoditie of stoves, warme clothing, meats and drinkes; all which neede not to be wanting in the Newfoundland, if we had intent there to inhabite. "In the south parts we found no inhabitants, which by all likelihood have abandoned those coastes, the same being so much frequented by Christians: but in the north are savages altogether harmlesse. Touching the commodities of this countrie, serving either for sustentation of inhabitants, or for maintenance of traffique, there are and may be made; so and it seemeth Nature hath recompensed that only defect and incommoditie of some sharpe cold, by many benefits: viz., with incredible quantitie and no less varietie of kindes of fish in the sea and fresh waters, as trouts, salmons, and other fish to us unknowen: also cod, which alone draweth many nations thither, and is become the most famous fishing of the world. Abundance of whales, for which also is a very great trade in the bayes of Placentia, and the Grand Bay, where is made trane oiles of the whale. Herring, the largest that have been heard of, and exceeding the alstrond herring of Norway: but hitherto was never benefit taken of the herring fishery. There are sundry other fish very delicate, namely the bonits, lobsters, turbut, with others infinite not sought after: oysters having pearle but not orient in colour: I took it by reason they were not gathered in season. "Concerning the inland commodities as wel to be drawen from this land, as from the exceeding large countries adioyning; there is nothing which our east and northerly countries doe yeelde, but the like also may be made in them as plentifully by time and industrie: namely, rosen, pitch, tarre, sope, ashes, deel boord, mastes for ships, hides, furres, flaxe, hempe, corne, cables, cordage, linnen-cloth, mettals, and many more. All which the countries will aford, and the soyle is apt to yeelde. "The trees for the most in those south parts, are firre trees, pine and cypresse, all yielding gumme and turpentine. Cherrie trees bearing fruit no bigger than a small pease. Also peare trees, but fruitlesse. Other trees of some sorts to us unknowen. "The soyle along the coast is not deepe of earth, bringing foorth abundantly peason, small, yet good feeding for cattel. Roses, passing sweet, like unto our mucke roses in forme, raspases, a berry which we call harts, good and holesome to eat. The grasse and herbe doth fat sheepe in very short space, proved by English marchants which have caried sheepe thither for fresh victuall, and had them raised exceeding fat in lesse than three weekes. Peason which our countrey-men have sowen in the time of May, have come up faire, and bene gathered in the beginning of August, of which our generall had a present acceptable for the rarenesse, being the first fruits coming up by art and industrie, in that desolate and dishabited land. "We could not observe the hundredth part of these creatures in those unhabited lands: but these mentioned may induce us to glorifie the magnificent God, who hath superabundantly replenished the earth with creatures serving for the use of man, though man hath not used the fift part of the same, which the more doth aggravate the fault and foolish slouth in many of our nation, chusing rather to live indirectly, and very miserably to live and die within this realme pestered with inhabitants, then to adventure as becommeth men, to obtaine an habitation in those remote lands, in which Nature very prodigally doth minister unto mens endeavours, and for art to worke upon." The story of Gilbert's disastrous expedition and voyage home is well known; how some of his men sailed off in a stolen vessel, some ran away into the woods, and others falling sick were sent home in the _Swallow_; how he set sail on August 20th (that is, after a stay on the island of only a fortnight) with his three remaining vessels, overloaded and under-manned as they were; how his vessels, after the wreck of the _Delight_ off Sabre Island, were reduced to the _Golden Hind_ and the _Squirrel_; how in a prodigious hurricane he refused to transfer himself from the tiny _Squirrel_ to the larger vessel; and how he died encouraging his ill-fated company--"We are as near heaven by sea as by land." Though the expedition ended in disaster, and the intention to found a settlement failed utterly, the bold enterprise could not but exert a salutary influence on the hearts and souls of other adventurers and promotors of colonization. As has been well said:[22] "a halo of real enthusiasm illumines this foolish founder of the greatest colonial empire in the world, and where a hero leads, even though it be to ruin, others are apt to follow with enthusiasm, for tragedies such as these attract by their dignity more than they deter." More particularly, Gilbert's voyage is of great interest, because we may reasonably associate him with the colonial ideas of his greater half-brother, Sir Walter Raleigh. The slow and difficult process was beginning which was to make Newfoundland a permanent settlement instead of the occasional resort of migratory fishermen. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [14] Rogers, _op. cit._, pp. 18-19. [15] The name Labrador is derived from the Portuguese word "llavrador," which means a yeoman farmer. The name was at first given to Greenland, and was afterwards transferred to the peninsula on the assumption that it was part of the same territory as Greenland. The origin of the name itself is due to the fact that the first announcement of having seen Greenland was a farmer ("llavrador") from the Azores. [16] Compare such names of places as Frenchman's Arm, Harbour Breton, Cape Breton, Spaniard's Bay, Biscay Bay, Portugal Cove, Cape Race, Port-aux-Basques, etc. [17] _Cf._ Purchas, "Pilgrims," vol. xiv. pp. 304-5. [18] Hakluyt, "Principal Navigations," vol. viii. p. 3. [19] Hakluyt, _op. cit._, vol. iii. [20] _Cf._ J. Latimer, "History of the Society of Merchant Venturers of Bristol" (1903). [21] "A report of the voyage and successe thereof, attempted in the yeere of our Lord 1583 by Sir Humfrey Gilbert Knight, with other gentlemen assisting him in that action, intended to discover and to plant Christian inhabitants in place convenient, upon those large and ample countreys extended Northward from the cape of Florida, lying under very temperate climes, esteemed fertile and rich in minerals, yet not in the actuall possession of any Christian prince, written by M. Edward Haie gentleman, and principall actour in the same voyage, who alone continued unto the end, and by God's speciall assistance returned home with his retinue safe and entire." See Hakluyt (ed. 1904), vol. viii. pp. 34 seq. [22] Rogers, _op. cit._, p. 40. CHAPTER IV EARLY HISTORY (_continued_). BEGINNING OF A PERFECT ENGLISH COLONY We have seen that many nations shared in the profits of the Newfoundland trade, but the English and French soon distanced all other competitors. The explanation lies in the conflicting interests which these two great and diffusive Powers were gradually establishing on the American mainland. It is worth while anticipating a little in order to gain some landmarks. In 1609 the colonization of Virginia began in earnest; a few years later sailed the Pilgrim Fathers in the _Mayflower_, to found New England. In 1632 Lord Baltimore founded Maryland, to be a refuge for English Roman Catholics. Meanwhile, France had not been idle in the great northern continent. The intrepid Champlain trod boldly in the perilous footsteps of Cartier, and Port Royal was founded in 1604, Quebec in 1608. Later still came the splendid adventure of La Salle, who forced his way--a seventeenth century Marchand--from the sources of the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, thus threatening to cut off the English settlers from expansion to the west. A glance at the map will reveal the immense strategic importance of Newfoundland to two Powers with the possessions and claims indicated above. No doubt a consciousness of deeper differences underlay the keenness of commercial rivalry. The hardy sailors, mainly from the west country, who carried on the trade for England, came when the season began, and sailed away with its close, returning in the following year to the portion of the beach which each crew had pegged out for its own operations. A feeling of proprietorship soon sprang from uninterrupted user, and signs of jealousy appeared of any attempt at permanent settlement. This local feeling, combining with interested influence at home, did much to stunt the growth of the colony; the old colonization theory inherited from Spain was still powerful, for the American Revolution had not yet revealed the handwriting on the wall. In 1585 English vessels and sailors were seized in Spanish waters under the pretext of a general arrest. Accordingly, by way of reprisal Gilbert's plan of 1577 (which has already been referred to) was revived by Walsingham, and Sir Walter Raleigh, then vice-admiral of the western counties, was instructed to despatch vessels for the purpose of intercepting Spanish fishermen proceeding to the Newfoundland waters. A flotilla under the command of Sir Barnard Drake (cousin of Sir Francis) sailed to Newfoundland, and took a considerable number of Spanish and Portuguese prizes and prisoners. The disaster to the Spanish Armada in 1588 was a drastic blow to Spanish power at sea, a signal for England's maritime ascendancy, and an impetus to more rational, consistent, and practical methods of colonization, in which great Companies and great fleets participated--fleets that prepared the way for the establishment and development of our incomparable Navy, the mighty bulwark of our Empire. The turning-point at the close of the sixteenth century is thus indicated by Mr Rogers: "Large creative ideals, the usual delusions about Cathay, gold, and silver, and a desire to retaliate against Spain, inspired both Raleigh's and Gilbert's efforts; and after their failures the history of colonization turned over a new leaf. There were no more colonies founded in anger, the old delusions about Cathay and gold and silver melted into thin air, and the large Elizabethan ideals were accompanied by small projects, which after a time dimmed and obscured them."[23] With James I. and the wise influence of Bacon came an increased interest in the "plantations," and God's silly vassal (as a justly irritated divine called the King to his face) does not suffer in this respect from a comparison with his contemporaries. After the colonization of Virginia and Maine had begun, Sir John Popham, who had done much to set on foot the schemes relative to these American settlements, recollecting the attempts that had been made to colonize Newfoundland, suggested to the merchant adventurers of Bristol that they should make new efforts to establish colonies on the island. The King's support having been promised, funds were raised, and a royal charter was granted to a company on April 27th, 1610, designated "The Treasurer and the Company of Adventurers and Planters of the City of London and Bristol for the Colony or Plantations in Newfoundland." London and the West of England were thus associated, as they had been in the Virginian Company of 1606. There were forty-six members, including the Earl of Northampton, Sir Francis Bacon, Thomas Aldworth, Mayor of Bristol, John Guy and Philip Guy of Bristol; and the territory granted to them comprised the lands from Cape St. Mary to Cape Bonavista. The same year John Guy, the first Governor, led out the first colony to Newfoundland, landed at Conception Bay, and selected for his capital Cuper's Cove (Port de Grave). Guy and his companions then built a fort, a dwelling-house, a workshop, and a boat, sowed corn, and made preparations for the winter. Next fishing ordinances were issued by the Governor. "That struck the first note of a conflict which was to last for 150 years, and of which the echoes may yet be heard. The fishermen, merchants, and seamen who flocked to the coast for the fishing season vehemently resented anything which might seem to threaten their turbulent lawlessness, and the great merchants in England, who were profiting by the fisheries, were jealous lest the planters should in some way interfere with their operations; but, for a time, the planters had sufficient influence through the patentees in England to maintain themselves."[24] After a sojourn of six summers--though only three winters--in Newfoundland, Guy returned to Bristol, and spent the remainder of his life there in his aldermanic dignity. He was succeeded (1615) in the Governorship by Captain John Mason who, together with Sir Ferdinando Gorges, founded New Hampshire and Maine. Mason stayed six years in the island; he explored it, prepared a map of it, encouraged the growth of corn successfully, and with less success endeavoured to establish commercial intercourse with the Red Indians. In 1618 appeared the "Briefe discourse of the New-found-land by Captain John Mason." After a discerning account of the attractions of his theme, the writer concludes: "I might hear further discourse of our discoveries ... but these may suffice as _verbum sapienti_; being of sufficient trueth to remouve errours ... also to take away malicious and scandelous speeches of maligne persons, who out of envy to God and good actions (instructed by their father the Devill) have sought to despoil it of the dewe and blamish the good name thereof." Disorders having occurred after Mason's arrival, Sir Richard Whitbourne, an Exmouth sea-captain who had had many years fishing experience in the Newfoundland waters, was despatched to investigate the disputes between the settlers and the fishermen. He reported that 250 sail of English fishermen, and 400 of "French, Portugals, and Biscaines" resorted to the coast. His mission failed, owing to the dilatory nature of the inquiry and the difficulties in getting the contesting parties to attend, as they were in scattered places. Then the merchants, having an eye to their own profit, proceeded to divide the occupied territory into a number of shares, which the recipients afterwards resold.[25] "The colony from time to time shed portions of itself, division led to sub-division, and new characters appeared upon the scene."[26] Other companies were thus formed, charters granted, and settlements made, most of which were confined to the peninsula of Avalon. With these enterprises several distinguished names were connected: for example, Sir William Vaughan, who sent out colonists in 1617 and 1618: Henry Cary, Lord Falkland, who bought land on the east coast, called it South Falkland, despatched a number of emigrants, but did not himself visit the island; Sir George Calvert, a leading Roman Catholic, who took out co-religionists. In 1627 Sir George Calvert, better known as Lord Baltimore, was granted by charter the fancifully named Province of Avalon (after Avalon in Somersetshire), which embraced a considerable portion of the island's area. Calvert established himself at Ferryland--the name being a corruption of Verulam, so called after the great Chancellor--and stayed only long enough to infuse a tenacious Roman Catholic strain into the island. Finding the climate too cold, however, he applied for a more southerly colony for himself and forty companions. In reply, the King said that the climate was not too cold, but that Sir George Calvert was too soft, and had better return home. But he had in the meantime transferred himself and his forty followers to the milder climes of the south, and there established Maryland, whose capital, Baltimore, was named after the founder's family title. Perhaps the turbulence of his surroundings, and the troubles with the French, were not to his taste. Law and order were indeed far to seek, and there were neither civil tribunals nor military forces. We may suppose that the "Fishing Admirals," authorized by the Star Chamber and confirmed in their authority by 10 and 11 William III., c. 25, had already asserted a _de facto_ jurisdiction on the spot, for it is hardly credible that the mere wantonness of legislative invention can have produced such a tribunal. To anticipate for a moment: the Act provided that the master of the first ship arriving from England with the season should be admiral of the harbour; to the masters of the second and third in order were given the titles of vice-admiral and rear-admiral. To this tribunal were committed fishing disputes in general, and the maintenance of peace among sailors and fishermen. It may be supposed that these rough sailors were both corrupt and inefficient. "I must be a pretty sort of a judge if I could not do justice to myself," said one west country sailor, when charged with delivering an interested judgment. At the close of the season the judges disappeared, together with their cargoes of blubber and cod. In spite of all these drawbacks the island was gradually increasing in reputation. Writers, as well as returned "planters" and visitors, did much to make it known. Thus Sir Richard Whitbourne, to whom reference has already been made, wrote in his "Discourse of Newfoundland" (1622): "Divers worshipful citizens of the City of Bristol have undertaken to plant a large circuit of that country, and they have maintained a Colony of his Majesties subjects there any time those five years who have builded there faire houses, and done many other good services, who live there very pleasantly, and they are well pleased to entertaine upon fit conditions such as wilbe Adventurers with them." And he quotes from a letter from Captain Wynne of August 17th, 1622: "At the Bristow Plantation there is as goodly rye now growing as can be in any part of England; they are also well furnished with swine, and a large breed of goates, fairer by farre than those that were sent over at the first." In 1628 Robert Hayman, who accompanied the above-mentioned expedition of 1610, published a book entitled "Quodlibels, lately come over from New Britaniola, Old Newfound-Land," etc. Among the "epigrams" are a number of verses, in which he pays a tribute to leading North American colonizers, sets out the advantages offered by the new colony, and makes many apt and wise observations regarding colonization. The reader will no doubt welcome a few passages, which he may regard--to use Livy's phrase--as "deverticula amoena" in this account of our subject. _To the Worshippful Captaine John Mason, who did wisely and worthily governe there divers yeeres._ The aire in Newfound-land is wholesome, good; The fire, as sweet as any made of wood; The waters, very rich, both salt and fresh; The earth more rich, you know it is no lesse Where all are good, fire, water, earth, and aire, What man made of these foure would not live there? _To all those worthy women, who have any desire to live in Newfound-land._ Sweet creatures, did you truely understand The pleasant life you'd live in Newfound-land, You would with teares desire to be brought thither: I wish you, when you goe, faire wind, faire weather: For if you with the passage can dispence [= bear] When you are there, I know you'll ne'r come thence. _In praise of my Newfound-land._ Did some know what contentment I found there, Alwayes enough, most times somewhat to spare. With little paines, lesse toyle, and lesser care, Exempt from tanings, ill newes, lawing, feare.... _To the first Planters of Newfound-land._ What ayme you at in your plantation? Sought you the honour of our nation? Or did you hope to raise your owne renowne? Or else to adde a kingdome to a crowne? Or Christ's true doctrine for to propagate? Or drawe salvages to a blessed state? Or our o're peopled kingdome to relieve? Or shew poore men where they may richly live? Or poore mens children godly to maintaine? Or aym'd you at your owne sweete private gaine? _To some discreet people who thinke anybody good enough for a plantation._ When you doe see an idle, lewd, young man, You say hee's fit for our plantation. Knowing your selfe to be riche, sober, wise You set your owne worth at an higher price. I say, such men as you are, were more fit, And most convenient for first peopling it: Such men as you would quickly profit here: Lewd, lazy lubbers, want wit, grace, and care. _To the famous, wise and learned sisters, the two Universities of England, Oxford and Cambridge._ Send forth your sons unto our new plantation; Yet send such as are holy, wise, and able. The same writer submitted to Charles I. a remarkable "proposition of profitt and honour," in which he unsuccessfully called for the King's help and patronage in regard to the colonization of the island.[27] In 1637 the Commissioners of Foreign Plantations, who had been appointed three years before, resolved that the old colonial grants had lapsed, and transferred them to new patentees, prescribing, under the new fishing rules made by the Star Chamber (1634), one system and area of control for settlers, and another for fishermen, and restricting their respective activities. The first Governor under this régime was Sir David Kirke, who established himself at Ferryland (1638) with a number of settlers variously estimated at from thirty to one hundred persons. His charter was a liberal one, embracing the whole island, and was the reward of his gallantry in the capture of Quebec. He introduced the practice of levying rent, imposing licence fees, and exacting an excise of 5 per 120 fish on alien fishermen. The convulsions of the Civil War were felt even in Newfoundland, and Kirke paid for his Royalism by the loss, under the Commonwealth, of his noble possession (1651). What has been described as a period of repression in the history of Newfoundland began with the reign of Charles I. and continued to the end of the eighteenth century. As a recent writer observes: "In the fairy story it is the youngest sister, but the eldest sister is the Cinderella of colonial history. If Newfoundland had experienced only the healthful neglect under which the other colonies prospered, she too would have grown into vigorous life. But a strong and influential class in England was interested in harassing the settlers, in depreciating the resources of the island, and in throwing every obstacle in the way of permanent settlement. This policy came in with Charles I. and continued down to the very commencement of the nineteenth century. Captain Mason, Sir William Vaughan, and Captain Whitbourne had written favourably of the island; but from their day down to 1842, when Sir Richard Bonnycastle wrote his book, every writer described it as barren; in summer gloomy with perpetual fog, and in winter given over to excessive cold and blinding snowstorms. The west country people of England, generation after generation, drew from the fisheries of Newfoundland enormous profits, upon which prosperous mercantile establishments and noble families were built up and sustained in England. They considered and called them 'their' fisheries, and their interests required that there should be no resident population to compete in their monopoly, to share the best fishing rooms, and to grow up to be dangerous rivals in foreign markets. The influence of this class upon the government was incessantly exercised in framing regulations and laws to choke the growth of the colony. "The confused annals of this period can only be understood by remembering the existence of two antagonistic parties, the 'planters' and inhabitants on the one hand, who, being settled there, needed the protection of a government and police, with administration of justice; and the 'adventurers' or merchants on the other, who, originally carrying on the fishery from England, and visiting the island only for the season, needed no such protection for themselves, and had various reasons for preventing its being afforded to the others. "If the Mother Country had only forgotten the island it would have prospered; but in 1633 the English merchants succeeded in procuring from the Star Chamber rules and regulations drawn solely to advance their own private interests, and these rules were supplemented always in the same direction, by the same oppressive agency."[28] At this time the resident population of the island cannot have exceeded a few hundreds, and every step was adopted which a vicious political economy could suggest to keep the numbers down. It was made penal for a settler to dwell within six miles of the shore, for a planter to cut down wood or plant within six miles from the shore, for any planter or inhabitant to take up the best positions in the harbours before the arrival of the fishing-fleet in the spring; and every master who sailed with a crew to Newfoundland was under bond--lest here and there a permanent settler should filter through--to return with his exact complement of hands. Their Lordships of the Committee of Trade and Plantations were not superior to the prejudices of the day, and they resolved in 1675, "That all plantations in Newfoundland should be discouraged ... or that the western charter should from time to time be put in execution; by which charter all planters were forbid to inhabit within six miles of the shore from Cape Race to Cape Bonavista." Equally considerate and attentive were the efforts of the home country to cope with crime in the island. The Star Chamber ingeniously provided that persons charged with homicide, or with stealing to the value of 40s., should be brought home and submitted to the judicial experience of the Mayors of Southampton, Weymouth, and other specified towns. The discrimination may also be admired which prohibited stealing _from the fishing nets_. It must be supposed that time hung heavily on the hands of the settlers in the intervals of the fishing, for we find at the period much time and industry wasted on petitions to the Committee of Trade, who possibly treated them as Grenville's predecessors are said to have treated the American despatches. The Board of Trade, which inherited the duties and the incompetence of the Committee, proved more complaisant, and was indeed prepared to tolerate permanent settlers to the number of one thousand. A struggle was imminent, if only they had known it, when the presence of a few thousand resolute settlers in Newfoundland would be of high moment to the interests of England. The life of such as were allowed to remain must have been wild and strange, alternating between the populous alacrity of the fishing season and the hand to mouth struggle of the long winter months. Perhaps the amenities of life were not missed because they can hardly have been known; but the restrictions on building and the absence of local authority must early have given rise to bitterness and discontent. Certainly we must admire the constancy of men who were content to live, a solitary cluster, on the coast, with an unexplored interior and savage inhabitants behind them, and with no more secure prospect of material progress than a process of undetected squatting on the forbidden ground. * * * * * With regard to the plantations that have just been mentioned, reference may be conveniently made here by way of parenthesis to the survival in Newfoundland of certain terminology and customs, which form an interesting connecting-link between the early enterprises and modern usage and practice. In the words of a writer[29] fully conversant with the present conditions of the island: "Because of its early 'plantations,' the word 'planter' is still current in the insular vocabulary, and the 'supplying system' still prevails, the solitary links which connect with these bygone days. A 'planter' in Newfoundland parlance is a fish trader on a moderate scale, the middleman between the merchant, who ships the cod to market and the toiler who hauls it from the water. 'Plantations' are yet interwoven with local tradition, and show on ancient maps and charts. The tenure of some has never been broken; the names and locations of others are perpetuated in the existing fishing hamlets which dot the shore line. Under the 'supplying system' the merchants and planters 'supply' the fisherfolk each spring with all the essentials for their adequate prosecution of the industry, and when the season ends, take over their produce against the advances, made them six months before. The 'merchants' are the descendants of the early 'merchant adventurers' who exploited the new-found Colony." * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [23] _Op. cit._, p. 42. [24] Stanford's "Compendium of Geography and Travel" (new issue): North America: vol. i. Canada and Newfoundland. Edited by H.M. Ami (London, 1915), p. 1009. [25] See Rogers, _op. cit._, pp. 59 _seq._ [26] _Ibid._, p. 59. [27] See article by G.C. Moore Smith, in "English Historical Review," vol. xxxiii. (1918), pp. 31 _seq._ [28] Stanford's "Compendium," pp. 1010, 1011. [29] P.T. M'Grath, "Newfoundland in 1911" (London, 1911), p. 46. CHAPTER V THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE In the reign of Charles I. a duty of five per cent. had been imposed on the produce of all foreign vessels engaged in the Newfoundland trade. Twenty-five years later the French under Du Mont, then proceeding to Quebec with a contingent of soldiers and colonists, established a settlement at Placentia, on the southern coast, fortified it, and made it the seat of a resident Governor. They continued, however, to pay the duty in recognition of English sovereignty. Charles II. abolished the duty to oblige his French patron, and with the abolition began the history of French aggression. Very soon after their establishment the French settlers repudiated England's sovereignty over the south parts of Newfoundland, and from time to time strengthened their colony by bringing over bands of French immigrants. It was clear to many that the extension of French power in Canada and Newfoundland was a serious menace to the English fisheries and settlements: leading statesmen, however, refused to recognize the danger, and believed that if any really existed, the system of convoys would obviate it. The convoy-captains, enlarging the sphere of their regular activities, saved the colony, and during their intermittent visits took upon themselves the functions of governors, and effectually prevented the diffusion of anarchy. The Governors of the French colony made their presence felt more than the English settlers could tolerate; they interfered with them unduly, engaged in privateering expeditions and land forays against them, destroyed their property, and burned down their houses. Indeed, more than one French Governor conceived the notion, with the sanction of the King of France, of putting an end entirely to English colonization in the island. "The encroachments of the French," said William III., in his Declaration of War, "on His Majesty's subjects trading and fishing there, had been more like the invasions of an enemy than becoming friends, who enjoyed the advantages of that trade only by permission." With the outbreak of war came in sharp succession the attacks of Chevalier Vesmond, and of Burrill, beneath the latter of which all the island but Bonavista and Carbonier succumbed. The Treaty of Ryswick in 1697 was signed before the French had been dislodged. Under its terms the invaders surrendered their conquests and retired to the territory in the south-west, of which they were in occupation when the war began. The anomaly of their claims, passed over in silence by the Treaty, was certain to be the source of mischief. In the language of Mr Pedley, "Over a territory of some 200 miles in extent, belonging to the British sovereignty, they had built up imperceptibly an almost undisputed dominion." Five years after the Peace of Ryswick war broke out again. An English squadron under Admiral Sir John Leake destroyed a number of French fishing-vessels between St. Pierre and Trepassey (1702), and in the following year Admiral Graydon failed to reduce Placentia, owing to sickness, bad weather, as well as want of resolution. In January 1705 the French in retaliation surprised and captured St. John's. From this point they overran the English settlements, Carbonier once again weathering the storm, and abandoned themselves to depredation and devastation, as they had done in the conflict a few years before. The Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 found the French still in possession. The provisions of this Treaty require careful consideration. Full sovereignty over the whole of Newfoundland and the neighbouring islands was declared to belong to England. Placentia was to be handed over. Article XIII. of the Treaty contains the following provisions: "Nor shall the most Christian King, his heir and successors or any of their subjects, at any time hereafter lay claim to any right to the said island.... Moreover, it shall not be lawful for the subjects of France to fortify any place in the said island of Newfoundland, or to erect any buildings there, besides _stages made of boards, and huts necessary and useful for drying of fish_, or to resort to the said island beyond the time necessary for fishing and drying of fish. But it shall be allowed to the subjects of France to catch fish and to dry them on land in that part only which stretches ... from Cape Bonavista to the northern part of the said island from thence by the western side as far as Cape Riche." The fishing concession to France herein contained was wholly inexcusable. The latter country was in no position to refuse terms, and an absolute reservation of all fishing rights should have been insisted on in the interests of the colony. A culpable Ministry, short-sightedly regarding Newfoundland as little more than a fishing-station, chose rather to make a graceful concession, and we inherited the consequences in our Newfoundland Fisheries controversy with France, which lasted for nearly two centuries. However, the half century following the Treaty of Utrecht--an important turning-point in the history of the colony--marks a period of progress; and after another Anglo-French conflict, from which the English emerged victorious, we find in the ensuing half century the establishment of a definite policy of colonial permanence. The abuses connected with the admirals' jurisdiction had been partially corrected by the authority, on appeal from them, of the King's commanders stationed off the island. Still, the evils were very real, and extorted recognition even from the gang of west country monopolists who strangled for so long the growth of the island. We find a recommendation offered by them to the Board of Trade with astounding assurance, that the 3000 odd men, women, and children, who by this time composed the population of Newfoundland, "should be encouraged to settle in Nova Scotia--as they might be of service there, where inhabitants were wanted." The colonists themselves had other and better remedies. A spontaneously elected Assembly passed ordinances which attest the sincerity of the general desire for reform. In 1728 the informing zeal of Lord Vere Beauclerk elicited a decisive step from the Board of Trade, and Captain Henry Osborne was appointed the first Governor of Newfoundland (1729), with authority to appoint justices of the peace. Even at such a moment the cloven hoof of prejudice peeped through, and Osborne and his justices were explicitly warned to interfere in no way with the privileges of the admirals, as defined by 10 and 11 William III. Governor Osborne addressed himself to his duties with great energy. He appointed justices and constables, carved the island into districts, and erected prisons and stocks. His influence was weakened by his departure when the season ended, for till the nineteenth century the governors, like the fish, were migratory. A tedious quarrel followed between the justices and the admirals as to the limits of their respective jurisdictions; the admirals, whose wits seem to have been sharpened by judicial practice, insisting that their own authority was derived from statute, whereas that of the justices merely rested upon an Order in Council. In 1749 the great sailor Rodney, then a commander in the Navy, was appointed Governor. He distinguished himself by a humane consideration for the interests of the fishing servants. His answer to a petition from the merchants for permission to lower the contract rate of wages, in view of the badness of the season, has often been quoted, and is pleasant to read: "Mr Drake and myself would be glad to ease the merchants in all that lay in our power, but we are by no means capable of acting as desired, to serve any people whatever. I have only one question to ask, namely: 'Had the season been good in proportion as it has proved bad, would the merchants or boat-keepers have raised the men's wages?'" In 1750 came another advance. Commissioners of Oyer and Terminer were appointed for the island; that is to say, persons authorized to "hear and determine" on capital felonies committed in Newfoundland. This change ended the costly farce by which such persons were sent to England for trial. Seven years of development followed, to be broken by the long struggle between England and France, which the splendid genius of Pitt inspired and directed. He not only "conquered America in Europe" by the prodigal carelessness with which he poured subsidies into the treasury of Prussia, but he conceived and delivered in America itself a death-blow to French ambition. In 1758 Amherst and Wolfe, with a fleet of 150 vessels, were sent to attack Cape Breton, and after assaulting Louisbourg, the capital, received the submission of the island. In 1759 came General Wolfe's night assault on Quebec, and the unforgettable battle in which he lost his life. The only French success was gained at the expense of Newfoundland, for St. John's surrendered to an adventurous French expedition under Count d'Haussonville in June 1762. Admiral Lord Graves, the Governor, who was on his voyage from England, received the news in time to prevent him from landing. He vigorously concerted a plan of attack with Admiral Lord Colville, who was in command at Halifax, and after a lively investment the French garrison, numbering 700 or 800 strong surrendered on terms (September 20th, 1762), but the French Navy managed to escape, thanks to a fog. The Treaty of Paris in 1763 brought the war to an end. Its course had afforded one more opportunity of simplifying the condition of the fishing industry. The English Ministry, under the nerveless guidance of Lord Bute, omitted to seize it, and the Newfoundland clauses of the Treaty of Utrecht (which had granted to the French fishery and drying rights on the coasts between Cape Bonavista and Point Rich) were confirmed, notwithstanding the fact that the English settlers had extended their occupation as far north as Twillingate, and French fishermen had not for three decades previously been further south than Fleur-de-Lys and White Bay. One clear, protesting voice was heard. "I contended several times in vain," said Pitt, "for the whole exclusive fishery, but I was overruled--I repeat, I was overruled, not by the foreign enemy, but by another enemy." The House of Commons, under George III., was a corrupt and discredited body; and the Treaty of Paris was affirmed by 319 votes to 65. It had fallen to the lot of Governor Palliser--a fine reactionary in the view he took of his charge--to frame local orders for carrying out the provisions of the Treaty of Paris. His orders were clear and unambiguous. The French right of fishing within the permitted area was declared to be concurrent. The English jurisdiction was affirmed except in disputes between French subjects. Between the capture of French America and the revolt of the older English colonies a few years of peace intervened. Cook, the great discoverer, who had served under Lord Graves in Newfoundland in 1762, spent the four years from 1763 to 1767 in an invaluable survey of the island, wherein he showed for the first time its correct shape, and glancing inland foretold for it a great mining future. The annexation of Labrador, affected by the proclamation of October 7th, 1763, added to the area and importance of the colony. It would be unreasonable to look for religious enlightenment in the early history of Newfoundland. "Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt": there was little tolerance in the England of the eighteenth century, and even the New England settlers had shamed their faith by outrages on the Quakers. In Newfoundland religious feeling ran high, as it has so often done when Roman Catholics and Protestants live side by side. The Roman Catholic element in Newfoundland, though a minority, was considerable in numbers: for the sorrows of Ireland had brought many of her children from one sorely tried island to another. The Protestant majority, forgetting the tradition of Lord Baltimore, abused their supremacy. Heavy fines were inflicted on priests for holding services, and the scenes of their ministrations were burned to the ground. Mr Pedley quotes a letter, written by Governor Dorrell, to a bench of magistrates in 1762: "Whereas I am informed that a Roman Catholic priest is at this time in Harbour Grace, and that he publicly read Mass, which is contrary to law, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King; you are hereby required and directed, on the receipt of this, to cause the said priest to be taken into custody, and sent round to this place. In this you are not to fail." Mr Pedley quotes a letter from Governor Bonfoy to certain justices, which grimly illustrates the prevalence of crime in the eighteenth century: "Whereas I think, for the good of this island in general, that gallows should be erected in the several districts, in order to deter from their robberies a parcel of villains, who think that they can do what they please with impunity.... You are, therefore, hereby required and directed to cause gallows to be erected in the most public places in your several districts, and cause all such persons as are guilty of robbery, felony, or the like crimes, to be sent round to this place in order to take their trial at the annual assizes held here, as I am determined to proceed against all such with the utmost severity of the law. Given under my hand at St. John's, the 12th of October, 1754." Newfoundland was naturally affected by the rebellion of the American colonies. Of these Montcalm, in 1758, had written with rare insight: "The several advices I daily receive assure me England will one day lose her colonies. As to the English colonies, one essential point should be known: it is, that they are never taxed. The Mother Country should have taxed them from the foundation; I have certain advice that all the colonies would take fire at being taxed now."[30] The expulsion of the French from America had already lessened the dependence of the colonies upon the home country, when the House of Commons directed its corrupt and blighting attention to the English colonial system. The Stamp Act was passed in 1764, and repealed in 1766. In 1768 came Charles Townshend's mischievous duty on tea; and the American Congress met at Lexington in 1774. At this time the resident population of Newfoundland amounted to over 12,000[31] and it was soon realized that the colony would be gravely affected by the outbreak of war. Congress at once prohibited all trade with the English colonies. The seriousness of this blow was extreme, for Newfoundland was largely dependent upon the American trade for the necessaries of life. Want and tempest worked together for ill, and the year 1775 is one of the blackest in the history of the colony. The treaty with France in 1778 brought to the American colonists a success which their resources and, it must be added, their resolution could hardly have won alone, and once more exposed Newfoundland to European attacks. It was protected by the energy and resource of Governor Montague. In 1775 came the very important Act known as Palliser's Act. This statute was based on the old selfish and restrictive view that Newfoundland should be a training ground for the Navy, and a place of trade, not a permanent settlement. Bounties were given to the fishing industry, and stringent measures were provided to ensure that masters trading to the island should return with undiminished crews. The privilege of drying fish was to be enjoyed only by such of the King's subjects as sailed to Newfoundland from Great Britain, or from one of the British dominions in Europe. An interesting light upon the economic condition of the colony is thrown by the following figures: Estimate of the sums necessary to pay the salaries of the Governor and Civil Officers in the Island of Newfoundland from April 1st, 1787, to April 1st, 1788: £ s. d. Salary of the Governor 500 0 0 The Governor's Secretary 182 10 0 The Judge of the Admiralty 200 0 0 The Naval Officer 100 0 0 The Agent 100 0 0 On Account, for Fees on Receipt and Audit 100 0 0 £1,182 10 0 It will be of interest to give here a few figures as to the growth of the English population in order to show that colonial developments were proceeding in the right direction. "Residents grew apace, as the increase of women and children from 612 in 1710 to 1,356 in 1738, and to 2,508 in 1754 attested. Heads of families accounted for a third more, so that in round numbers permanent residents were 800 in 1710, 1,800 in 1738, and 3,400 in 1754. The ship's crews of English ships, for whose sake the older theorists taught that the fisheries primarily existed, numbered 3,600 in 1738 and 4,500 in 1754, so that they outnumbered residents, in the strictest sense of the word residents. But if residents included all those who wintered on the island, they outnumbered ship's crews during this half-century. On the other hand, if passengers were added to ships' crews, the visitors outnumbered the settlers, except when there were war scares....[32] Between 1764 and 1774 residents for the first time continuously outnumbered visitors. During these years the winter residents, including male hangers-on as well as settlers, averaged 12,340; and visitors, including 'passengers' as well as ships' crews, averaged 11,876; or excluding male hangers-on from the one side and passengers from the other side, residents averaged 5,660 and visitors 5,435. Figures no longer yielded an uncertain sound. The Rubicon was only just crossed, but was indisputably and irrevocably crossed. Thenceforth the living-rooms were larger than the corridors, and political arithmetic pointed at the permanent occupants as the men of destiny. In 1764 the new tilt of the balance struck the law officers of the Crown, who wrote that it was 'disgraceful to suffer' the Act of 1699 'to remain in the Statute Book' as circumstances had so much changed. This disproportion increased; and the 12,000 inhabitants of 1764-74 swelled to 17,000 in 1792, 20,000 in 1804, and 52,000 in 1822, without any corresponding increase on the part of those who appeared every spring and faded away every autumn, like leaves or flowers."[33] * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [30] Quoted in Egerton's "History of British Colonial Policy." [31] But see the end of the present chapter in regard to the character and fluctuations of the population. [32] For example, in 1745, 1746, 1757. [33] Rogers, _op. cit._, pp. 122-123, 137-138. CHAPTER VI THE ENGLISH COLONIAL SYSTEM AND ITS RESULTS The War of American Independence forms a convenient point at which to examine for a moment in passing the English colonial system, of which Newfoundland was in some sense a victim. It may then at once be stated that in the English view, as in the Spanish view, a "plantation" was expected, directly or indirectly, to contribute to the wealth of the Mother Country. If it contributed much, it was a good colony; if little, its consequence was less. Hence the English legislation throttling colonial manufacturers in the supposed interests of English merchants, and confining colonial trade to English channels. Hence the disregard, persistent and unashamed, of Adam Smith's immortal saying: "To prohibit a great people from making all that they can of every part of their own produce, or from employing their stock and industry in the way that they judge most advantageous to themselves, is a manifest violation of the most sacred rights of mankind." Long before Smith, the wisest of Englishmen had sounded a clear note of warning far in advance of his age. Bacon wrote in his essay on plantations: "Let there be freedom from custom, till the plantation be of strength: and not only freedom from custom, but freedom to carry their commodities where they make their best of them, except there be some special cause of caution." Any stick has been thought good enough to beat those who lost America, but we must not suppress the little that may be urged on their behalf. Here again may be cited the dispassionate opinion of Adam Smith: "Though the policy of Great Britain with regard to the trade of her colonies has been dictated by the same mercantile spirit as that of other nations, it has, upon the whole, been less illiberal and oppressive than that of any of them." To the same effect Mr Lecky: "It is a gross ... misrepresentation to describe the commercial policy of England as exceptionally tyrannical." In fact, the expense of protecting Newfoundland and America against French attacks was serious and constant. That the colonies owed contribution to that defence is clear, for it would be involved in any other view that an American enjoyed a natural right to be protected against France at the charges of a Londoner. In the face of all this the colonies were conspicuously and notoriously unable to agree upon any principle of allocating grants. In this respect Newfoundland was no better than the American colonies. "We should be extremely concerned," wrote a merchant officially consulted on the point, "to see any species of taxes introduced into this island which would inevitably be burdensome and inconvenient to the trade and fishing in general, and we trust that in the wisdom of His Majesty's Ministers no such innovation will take place." The attempt, then, to tax from home was defensible, and Chatham was clearly wrong in denying its legality. On the other hand, to persevere in the attempt was the folly of weakness, mistaking obstinacy for strength. It must be remembered, as a partial extenuation of English selfishness in Newfoundland, that the long arm of England was ever extended for the colony's protection, and that the charges therefor were defrayed by the English taxpayer. Hence the view followed, naturally but unfortunately, that the island was an asset to be exploited commercially in the interests of the home country. In 1783 the Treaty of Versailles revised the French rights conferred by the Treaty of Utrecht. The French boundary was contracted from Cape Bonavista to Cape St. John on the east coast, and was extended from Point Riche to Cape Ray on the west. The whole subject of the French claims will be examined in a separate chapter,[34] but a very important undertaking set forth in the Treaty of Versailles must not be omitted: "His Britannic Majesty ... that the fishermen of the two nations may not give cause for daily quarrels, was pleased to engage that he would take the most positive measures for preventing his subjects from interrupting in any measure by their competition, the fishing of the French during the temporary exercise thereof which is granted to them upon the coasts of the island of Newfoundland, and that he would for that purpose cause the permanent settlements which should be formed there to be removed, and that he would give orders that the French fishermen should not be incommoded in the cutting of wood, necessary for the repair of their scaffolds, huts, and fishing boats." In the time of Governor Milbanke, in 1791, an Act of Parliament tardily created "the Court of Civil Jurisdiction of our Lord the King at St. John's in the island of Newfoundland," which Court was empowered to try all civil cases except those relating to land, and which usually began actions by the peremptory procedure of arresting the defendant and attaching his goods. The following year a supreme Court of Civil and Criminal Judicature was instituted which superseded the Court erected the previous year, put an end to the authority of the "fishing-admirals," of the Courts held in summer by surrogates (naval commanders visiting the island) and of the Courts of Session held in winter by local justices of the peace, and was empowered to try all persons charged with criminal offences and determine civil suits, including those relating to land, and to make arrest and attachment in civil suits discretionary and alternative. The jurisdiction of the Court was renewed annually, then triennially; and John Reeves, to whose history all writers on Newfoundland owe so much, was appointed the first Chief Justice; but he remained in the island only till 1792, when he was succeeded by ex-surgeons, collectors of customs, and merchants. In 1809 a perpetual Act was passed, which purported to abolish definitely the diverse and sporadic jurisdictions; but such is the force of old customs and practices that it was not till 1824 that the old Session Courts, Courts of Surrogates and of fishing-admirals were finally extinguished, and at the same time two assistant judges were appointed to aid the Chief Justice, and all three judges were to be English or Irish barristers. A Court of Civil Jurisdiction was also created for Labrador. We may recall here the observations of Chief Justice Reeves on the fishing-admirals: "They are ever the servants of the merchants. Justice was not to be expected from them; and a poor planter or inhabitant, who was considered little better than a law-breaker in being such, had but a small chance of justice in opposition to any great west-country merchant. They considered that Newfoundland was theirs, and that all the planters were to be spoiled and devoured at their pleasure." It must be recorded that this most just and necessary reform in judicial administration was vainly but bitterly opposed by the merchants at home. In 1793 came the war with revolutionary France, and Newfoundland was once again in a bustle of defensive preparation. The Governor, Vice-Admiral King, took possession of St. Pierre. The French, under Admiral Richery, threatened St. John's, but desisted in face of the vigour of the new Governor, Admiral Sir Richard Wallace (1796), who raised volunteers, strengthened the forts, and prepared new batteries. In 1797 the mutiny at the Nore broke out, provoked by real grievances. As far off as Newfoundland the spirit of disaffection spread, and an outbreak occurred on H.M.S. _Latona_, then lying in the harbour of St. John's. It was quelled by the resolution of Captain Sothern; and Governor Waldegrave (1797-1800), afterwards Lord Radstock, summoned the mutineers before him and addressed them in the presence of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, whom they had tried to affect with sedition. "I may venture to say," the Governor writes home, "my speech was of much service." It was certainly of much vigour. "If I am to judge from your conduct," he said, "I must think that the majority of you are either villains or cowards. If the greater number of you are against your officers, ... I have a right to say that you are traitors.... If there are only a few bad men among you, which you pretend to be the case, I maintain that you are a set of dastardly cowards, for suffering yourselves to be bullied by a few villains, who wish for nothing better than to see us become the slaves of France.... You were all eager for news and newspapers to see how your great delegate, Parker"--the ringleader at the Nore--"was going on. I thank God I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is hanged.... You looked up to him as an example whilst he was in his glory. I recommend you to look to his end as an example also.... I have now to tell you that I have given orders to all your officers, that in case any further signs of mutiny should appear among you, they are not to think of confining the ringleaders, but to put them to death instantly; and, what is still more, I have given orders to the officers commanding the batteries, to burn the _Latona_ with red-hot shot, in case you drive me ... to that extremity. I know in this case the officers must perish with you; but there is not one of them but is ready to sacrifice himself for the good of his country.... And now go to church, and pray God to inspire you with such sentiments as may acquire you the respect and love of your countrymen in this world and eternal happiness in the next." This speech, which was rescued from oblivion by the industry of Mr Pedley, came clearly from a man of energy and resolution. In fact, Governor Waldegrave proved himself to possess unusual resource and vigour. He was the creator of the Newfoundland system of poor relief, and he busied himself actively in the interests of religion. On the latter subject it is pleasant to note a spirit of growing breadth in the island. In particular, the loyal labours of the Roman Catholic Bishop O'Donnell opened up a new era of tolerance for his followers. To this Bishop was due the discovery, in 1802, of a plot among the locally enlisted Royal Newfoundland Regiment, to loot St. John's and then fly to the United States. The ringleaders were executed, and the mutinous regiment was replaced by one from Halifax. The war with France was for the time being terminated by the Peace of Amiens (1802), whereby the conquered territory was to be restored--so that St. Pierre and Miguelon were returned to France; and her fishing rights were renewed on the same basis as was laid down in the Treaty of Utrecht. In 1802, by which time the population of the island amounted to about twenty thousand persons, Governor Gambier (1802-1803), who was in advance of his age in his views on government, as well as on the education of the settlers, and the civilization of the Beothics, proposed to Lord Hobart the establishment of a legislative power in Newfoundland, similar to that which has been found necessary to the prosperity and good government of other parts of the British dominions. The suggestion was treated as premature, and probably was so in fact. That it should have been made at all shows how far we have travelled from the swaddling clothes of monopoly. However this may be, two important civilizing agencies were introduced in 1805 and 1806--a regular post office, and a newspaper (the _Royal Gazette_). In 1810 began Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Duckworth's period of office, which soon revealed a Governor of energy and intelligence. He journeyed to the northern settlements and Labrador to learn the condition and needs of the population; he tried to secure friendly relations with the Red Indians of the country, and set up a hospital in St. John's. Amongst other reforms he procured the passing of a statute in 1811 (51 George III.) authorizing him to grant leases of certain ships' rooms at St. John's then in public occupation. Following up in this way the useful work of Governor Gower (1804-1807), he used his leasing power to promote the building of warehouses and wharves. The idea that the inhabitants of St. John's had a right to make it habitable was slowly gaining ground. Duckworth was an able and far-seeing man, and his report on the condition of the island, furnished to the home authorities at the end of his governorship, was a lucid and memorable document. His condemnation of the building restrictions paved the way for the fearless agitation of Dr. William Carson. A distinguished medical graduate of Edinburgh, Carson incurred the dislike of Governor Duckworth, and his successor, Governor Keats, by his outspoken pamphlets. Indeed, there was nothing equivocal in Carson's views: "The only remedy against the evils flowing from the present system will be found in giving to the people, what they most ardently wish, a civil Government, consisting of a resident Governor, a Senate House, and House of Assembly." Hitherto the population had possessed no voice in the administration of their own affairs. The Governors exercised an absolute power, which to progressive minds appeared to be an indifferent and unnecessary despotism. So far as Newfoundland affairs were concerned they almost invariably adopted an ultra-conservative attitude, and were hostile to proposals for amelioration called for in the changing circumstances of the colony. Thus the demand for self-government became more and more general. The Anglo-American War which began in 1812 ushered in a period of great prosperity to Newfoundland. Fish were plentiful, prices good beyond precedent, and wages high in proportion. The Great European War was terminated by the Battle of Waterloo on 1815, and peace was restored by the Treaty of Paris. Under the latter the French regained the right of fishing on the banks and shores of Newfoundland. The privileges of Americans to fish in British waters were also enlarged. In favour of their own fishermen, both the French and American governments then established a system of bounties, and by imposing high duties prevented the importation of Newfoundland fish into their own markets. Thus the Newfoundland fishermen were obliged to compete with their rivals on very unequal terms. Governor Pickmore, who succeeded Governor Keats in 1816, was confronted with a very difficult state of things. The high prices which had ruled from 1812 to 1815 had attracted emigrants in large and undesirable numbers. The commercial reaction and foreign competition, aided by the bounties, hit the merchants hard, and in 1815 bankruptcy trod fast on the heels of bankruptcy. In the following winter actual starvation menaced the residents, and many owed their lives to the generosity and energy of Captain David Buchan, commander of H.M.S. _Pike_, who put his men on short rations for the relief of the inhabitants. In an address of thanks, which was presented to him when the crisis was past, his services were gratefully recorded: "At this distressing crisis you afforded us from His Majesty's store a supply in aid of our then alarming and terrible wants. You then, with patriotic feeling, placed the company of the ship which you command on reduced allowance, and yielded to the public distress every alleviation which such means afforded." The lean years were still further saddened by the terrible fire of 1817, which left more than a thousand persons houseless, in the full severity of winter. The wooden houses and narrow streets of St. John's made resistance hopeless, when the flames had once gained a hold. It was estimated that the fire caused a loss of £125,000. The wealthier inhabitants and the home Government gave what relief was possible, and in 1818 the crisis yielded before brighter prospects. Pickmore was the first Governor to reside continuously in the island (where he also died), for his predecessors had sailed away with the fishermen in October to reappear with the beginning of summer. In 1817 a Select Committee of the House of Commons was specially appointed to consider the situation of Newfoundland. The merchants, full as ever of vicious political economy, had two remedies to propose for the admitted distresses. One was the concession of bounties to place them on a level with French and American competition; the other was the removal of the population (then numbering 17,000) to Nova Scotia or Canada. Determined to omit nothing which might make them the derision of history, they added an emphatic opinion that agriculture could never thrive on the island. On the appointment of Governor Pickmore, Lord Bathurst had given him the following instructions: "As the colony has of late years, from the rapid increase of the population, assumed a character totally different from that under which it had been usual previously to consider it, I am most desirious of receiving from you your opinion as to the propriety of introducing any and what change into the system of government which has heretofore prevailed." The seeds sown by Carson were beginning to bear fruit, and from 1821 onwards the desire for local government in the island grew continuously stronger. As against the arguments of the opposition, it was urged that all the British colonies, even the small Bermuda, had a local government; that Nova Scotia was granted it as far back as the middle of the eighteenth century; that the older American colonies had always enjoyed self-government; and that the time had now come for the extension of the same privilege to Newfoundland. The authority of Governor Cochrane, who was appointed in 1825, and whose term of office lasted till 1834, was limited by the appointment of a Council, consisting of the Chief Justice, the two assistant Judges, and the Military Commander at St. John's. Under this Governor roads were for the first time laid out in the island. The irritation of the merchants at home was intense, and the name of Peter Ougier, a west country merchant, ought to go down to posterity. In his evidence before the committee, he protested with real emotion: "They are making roads in Newfoundland: next thing they will be having carriages and driving about." Sir Thomas Cochrane was regarded as the best Governor ever sent to Newfoundland. He was "the first real administrator and ruler of the colony. An eminently practical man, he not only organized improvements, he personally superintended their execution. His activity was unbounded; in the early mornings he was out on horseback inspecting the roads, directing his workmen, laying out the grounds at Virginia, having interviews with the farmers, giving them practical hints about agriculture; everywhere he impressed his strong personality on colonial affairs. He was very sociable, and his hospitality was unstinted." Indeed, the historian of the island can point to only one mistake committed by the Governor, the bad taste shown in the erection of Government House, which "looks more like a prison than the Vice-regal residence ... it is a huge pile of unredeemed ugliness."[35] In England, in the early thirties, reform was in the air. The blow was struck at the right time, and in 1832--the year of the great Reform Bill--Parliament passed a measure creating in Newfoundland a representative assembly. The island was divided into nine electoral divisions, each of which was to have one or more representatives, according to population. There were, in fact, fifteen members. The first election passed off quietly in the autumn of the same year. Dr. Carson, the father of Home Rule, stood for St. John's, and Mr Justice Prowse has usefully noted that he was defeated. The fickleness and ingratitude of the people were never more dramatically illustrated. "He had been the pioneer of the new movement, had suffered in the people's cause, and yet the public, 'that many-headed monster thing--the mob,' were the first to cast aside their leader in the fight for Home Rule, and to give their votes and support to a new and untried man." It was said, however, that the defeat was due to an electioneering trick, whereby a false report was spread as to the attitude of the veteran in the liberal cause.[36] "The House of Assembly of 1833 was the youngest constituent body in America, but it was not one whit behind any of them in stately parliamentary pageant and grandiloquent language. H.B. (Doyle) in London caricatured it as the 'Bow-wow Parliament' with a big Newfoundland dog in wig and bands as Speaker putting the motion: 'As many as are of that opinion say--bow; of the contrary--wow; the bows have it.'"[37] A nominated Legislative Council had been provided by the Constitution of the Colony. The relations of the Chambers have always been delicate in the British colonies, and in Newfoundland friction soon arose. The Legislative Council, under Chief Justice Boulton--who improperly called himself the Speaker instead of the President--set itself to thwart and discredit the popular Chamber. On both sides the controversies were petty, and were conducted in a petty spirit. The popular assembly described itself as "the Commons House of Assembly in Parliament assembled"; whereupon it was ordered forthwith to strike out the word "Parliament." The Legislative Council appears to have been the more cantankerous, and the less prone to compromise. At last matters reached an _impasse_, for the Council began to throw out Supply and Revenue Bills. In the first year of the Queen's reign, when Canada was already full of trouble, delegates from the Newfoundland House of Assembly arrived in London. Their mission was in the main successful. The Council was recommended to adopt the Appropriation Bill, and Chief Justice Boulton was summarily dismissed. "Boulton," says Mr Justice Prowse, "had undoubted ability, but he was the worst possible selection for both the Council and the Bench. His views, both of law and legislation, were most illiberal; as a technical lawyer he was mostly right and sublimely independent, but his harsh sentences, his indecent party spirit, and his personal manners caused him to be hated as no one else was ever hated in this colony."[38] In 1838 occurred the Kielly affair, which has added a leading case to English constitutional law. Dr. Kielly assaulted, or was said to have assaulted, Mr John Kent, who was a member of the Assembly. Mr Kent brought the matter before the Assembly as a breach of privilege. The House refused to hear witnesses on Kielly's behalf, treated the charge as proved, and demanded that he should apologize at the bar of the House. Kielly refused, adding that Kent was a liar and a coward. Then followed an interlude of comic opera. Kielly was committed, whereupon Mr Justice Lilly granted a writ of _habeas corpus_. This was not to be borne by the imperious Assembly, and the Speaker promptly issued his warrant for the re-arrest of Kielly, the arrest of the High Sheriff, and of Judge Lilly. Nothing like it had been seen since the heyday of the Wilkes litigation in England, when the House of Commons committed the Sheriff of Middlesex to prison for carrying out the orders of the Court of King's Bench. In the unruffled atmosphere of the Privy Council the legal question found its decision.[39] It was laid down that the Crown, by its prerogative, can create a Legislative Assembly in a settled colony, with the government of its inhabitants: but that it is highly doubtful whether the Crown could, if it wished, bestow upon such an Assembly an authority, such as that of committing for contempt, not incidental to it by law. "The House of Assembly of Newfoundland," said Chief Baron Parke, "have not, what they erroneously supposed themselves to possess, the same exclusive privileges which the ancient law of England has annexed to the Houses of Parliament." In 1838 the members of the Assembly were elected for four years, and this term has continued ever since. The colony was destined to pass now through bitter trials. Having secured freedom, after much suffering and oppression, it soon learnt that freedom without common sense and moderation degenerates into licence, and becomes a menace and a terror. The election of representatives was accompanied by scenes of turbulence and disorder: the sense of toleration and compromise was absent. Half of the population were Roman Catholics of Irish descent, in whom rankled memories of ancient wrongs; the other half were Protestants of English descent, long used to ascendency, who were headed by a wealthy commercial class. With the introduction of the new régime old distrusts and hostilities were rekindled, and an unscrupulous press fanned the flames. Religion became mixed up with the political contention; and the evil passions that were aroused, and the outrages that were committed held back for some time the progress of the community and the political development of the colony. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [34] See _infra_, chap. x. [35] D.W. Prowse, "History of Newfoundland," second edition (London, 1896), pp. 424, 425, 426. [36] Prowse, _op. cit._, pp. 429, 430. [37] _Ibid._, p. 431. [38] Prowse, _op. cit._, p. 434. [39] Kielly _v._ Carson (1842), Moore's Privy Council Cases, vol. iv., pp. 63, 88. CHAPTER VII SELF-GOVERNMENT The political faculty in Newfoundland was so rudimentary at this period that from 1841 to 1843 it became necessary to suspend the Constitution. In the autumn of 1840 an election riot at Carbonear occurred, which was of such a serious character that the sympathies of the British ministry with Newfoundland affairs were alienated, and the Governor was ordered to dissolve the Legislature. He did this on April 26th, 1841, and in his speech pointed out the reason for such drastic action: "As a Committee of the House of Commons has been appointed to enquire into the state of Newfoundland, before which Committee I shall have to appear, I will on the present occasion confine myself to the expression of my regret that such a proceeding should have become indispensably necessary to the tranquillity and welfare of the colony." Until 1849 the government was carried on by a General Assembly--a makeshift Assembly--in which members of the House of Assembly sat side by side with members of the Council, the latter losing their distinctive functions. Under Governor Prescott (1834) and Governor Harvey (1841) began organized attempts to foster the agricultural interest. Liberal grants of land were made to poor settlers, and considerable sums voted for the construction of roads. This was indeed a period of healthy activity, for the development of the seal fishery added in a variety of ways to the prosperity of the island, and the invention of steam, together with the establishment of a regular mail service, brought Newfoundland very much nearer to the home country. On June 9th, 1846, came the last great fire but one which has ravaged the colony. By great misfortune it broke out when a high wind was blowing, and spread with fatal rapidity all over the town. Buildings, public and private, wooden and stone, were involved in a common destruction, and the last touch of horror came when the large oil vats fringing the harbour caught fire. The Custom House, the Church of St. John's, the Courts and Gaol, the Theatre, the Bank of British North America, the Colonial Treasurer's Office, and the Savings Bank, were all destroyed. It was estimated that the aggregate amount of damage done was £1,000,000, and that upwards of 12,000 persons lost their homes. In this crushing affliction the spirit shown by all classes, from Governor Harvey downwards, was admirable. At a representative meeting of the citizens convened by the Governor it was resolved: "That this meeting is aware that the well-established credit and stability of the trade of St. John's, coupled with the natural and inexhaustible resources of its fisheries, will speedily enable it to recover its usual current, but that in the meantime it is necessary that publicity should be given to the demand for provisions and building materials which at present exists in this market." Help from Canada was quickly forthcoming and a grant of £30,000 from the home country combined with private efforts to meet the most pressing needs of the moment. The building of wider streets, the proscription of wooden houses, and the provision of an ampler water supply, showed that the lessons of the past had not been thrown away. That year, 1846, was to be an _annus mirabilis_, for a storm, fiercer than the wildest within living memory, wrought havoc among the shipping in St. John's Harbour, and overwhelmed many substantial buildings inland. It seemed as if the malice of destiny had sent the gale to destroy the little that had escaped the fire; for Natives' Hall, which was being used to shelter the houseless, was blown to the ground. About this time--thanks to the currents of excitement spread everywhere by the European revolutionary movements of 1848--began a fresh agitation for responsible government, which had already been granted to the other North American colonies, and which involved a larger measure of self-government than had been conceded in the constitution of 1832. The inhabitants became more and more anxious that appointments within the colony should depend upon popular approval--or, rather, on the choice of the party commanding a majority in the Legislature--and not upon the Crown's nomination. The official view at home on this demand was stated both by the Whig, Earl Grey, and the Conservative, Sir John Pakington. The former wrote: "Until the wealth and population of the colony shall have increased considerably beyond their present amount, the introduction of what is called responsible government will by no means prove to its advantage.... The institutions of Newfoundland have been of late in various ways modified and altered, and some time must unavoidably elapse before they can acquire that amount of fixity and adaptation to the colonial wants of society which seems an indispensable preliminary to the future extension of popular government." Similarly, Sir John Pakington, in a despatch of April 3rd, 1852, observed: "Her Majesty's Government see no reason for differing from the conclusions at which their predecessors had arrived in the question of the establishment of responsible government, and which were conveyed to you by Lord Grey in the despatch already mentioned. I consider, on the contrary, that the wisdom and justice of these conclusions are confirmed by the accounts since received from Newfoundland." The change came in 1855, a year after the Secretary of State for the Colonies had informed the Governor that "Her Majesty's Government has come to the conclusion that they ought not to withhold from Newfoundland those institutions and that civil administration which, under the popular name of responsible government, have been adopted in all Her Majesty's neighbouring possessions in North America, and they are prepared to concede the immediate application of the system as soon as certain preliminary conditions have been acceded to on the part of the Legislature." At the same time the numbers of members in the Representative Assembly was, at the instance of the Imperial Government, increased to thirty. It was not long before the Empire had an instructive lesson in the influence with which responsible government arms a colony. A natural _rapprochement_ between France and England followed the Crimean War, and a Convention was drafted dealing with the Newfoundland fisheries. Against the proposed adjustment, involving a surrender by Great Britain of Newfoundland fishing rights, local feeling was strong and unanimous. Petition followed petition, and delegation delegation. "The excitement in the colony over the Convention of 1857 was most intense and widespread; the British flag was hoisted half-mast; other excited citizens flew American flags; everywhere there was burning indignation over this proposal to sell our birthright for a mess of pottage.[40] The resolute attitude of those interested elicited from Mr H. Labouchere, then Colonial Secretary, the welcome expression of a great constitutional principle: "The proposals contained in the Convention having been now unequivocally refused by the colony, they will of course fall to the ground; and you are authorized to give such assurance as you may think proper, that the consent of the community of Newfoundland is regarded by Her Majesty's Government as the essential preliminary to any modification of their territorial or maritime rights." So vital is the appreciation of this principle to an Empire constituted like our own, that it is worth while to set out the resolution of the Newfoundland Legislature which killed the Convention: "We deem it our duty most respectfully to protest in the most solemn way against any attempt to alienate any portion of our fisheries or our soil to any foreign power without the consent of the local Legislature. As our fishery and territorial rights constitute the basis of our commerce and of our social and political existence, as they are our birthright and the legal inheritance of our children, we cannot under any circumstances assent to the terms of the Convention; we therefore earnestly entreat that the Imperial Government will take no steps to bring this treaty into operation, but will permit the trifling privileges that remain to us to continue unimpaired." In 1858 took place a real advance in the relations between different parts of the Empire, for in that year the east coast of Newfoundland (Trinity Bay) was connected with Ireland by a submarine cable. The messages then exchanged through Newfoundland between the Queen and the President of the United States mark the most decisive point in what has been called the shrinkage of the world. Eight years later a second Atlantic cable was successfully landed at Heart's Content. A constitutional crisis arose in 1860, which was followed by serious political disturbances. The Government, in which Mr Kent was Premier, introduced a measure to determine the colonial equivalent of imperial sterling in the payment of officials. The judges forwarded to the Governor, Sir Alexander Bannerman, a representation against the proposal; Mr Kent thereupon in the Assembly accused the Governor of having entered into a conspiracy with the judges and the minority in the House against the executive. The Governor demanded an explanation which Mr Kent declined to give, adding that in his judgment he was not called upon to explain his utterances as a member of the Legislature to the Governor. Sir Alexander Bannerman immediately dismissed the Ministry, and invited the Opposition leader, Mr Hoyles, to form an Administration. The election took place in April, 1861. Political passions ran high, and the old feud between Romanists and Protestants was most unhappily revived. At the Protestant Harbour Grace the election could not be held at all, while at the Catholic Harbour Main a riot took place in which life was lost. The new Assembly was opened in May 1861, and showed a majority in favour of Mr Hoyles. It soon became clear that the passions of the mob in St. John's were dangerously excited; Sir Alexander was hooted and stoned on his return from the Assembly, and a little later an organized series of attacks was commenced upon the dwellings of well-known Roman Catholics. The magistrates thereupon called on the military, under the command of Colonel Grant. The soldiers marched out, eighty strong, and confronted the mob, which then numbered many thousands. Encouraged by their commander, the troops submitted with patient gallantry to insults and even to volleys of stones. Finally, it is alleged, a pistol was fired at them from the crowd. Then at last the order was given to fire; several persons were killed and twenty wounded. Among the latter, by great misfortune, was the Rev. Jeremiah O'Donnell, who had bravely and patiently tried to calm the mob. The whole incident was unfortunate, but it is impossible to accept the contention that Sir Alexander Bannerman was guilty of an unconstitutional exercise of the prerogative in dissolving the Assembly. It will not seriously be maintained that the representative of the Queen could have maintained relations with a Minister who publicly insulted him in his public capacity, and then curtly declined to explain or withdraw his charges. As to the sequel, it is sufficient to say that the civil authorities would have been grossly wanting in their duty if they had failed to call out the soldiers, and that the mob were not fired upon until the extreme limits of endurance had been reached. That innocent persons should have been involved in the consequences is matter of great regret; but association with a lawless mob, even when the motive is as admirable as that of Father O'Donnell, necessarily admits this risk. It cannot be doubted that deep-lying economic causes had much to do with political discontent. From the first the financial position of the colony had been unsound. The short prosperity of the winter months had produced a vicious and widely-spread system of credit. Soon a majority of the fishermen lived during the winter upon the prospective earnings of the coming season, and then when it came addressed themselves without zest to an occupation the fruits of which were already condemned. In this way a single bad season pauperized hundreds of hard-working men. Governor Waldegrave in 1797 had been struck by the failure of the law to provide for the poor, and owing to his exertions a voluntary system of poor relief was set on foot. By the time of Governor Gambier, in 1800, these measures had been discontinued and, indeed, permanence was not to be looked for in a system which depended upon voluntary support. The difficulty was that the Crown officers advised Governor Gambier "that the provision of the Poor Laws cannot be enforced in Newfoundland; and that the Governor has no authority to raise a sum of money by a rate upon the inhabitants." The evil grew worse rather than better, and by the time of the great Governor Cochrane, in 1825, it had assumed the form of an inveterate social disease. Many able-bodied applicants for relief were provided with work in public employments, and the wholesome warning was added that those who refused such work would under no circumstances be entitled to relief. Governor Cochrane did not shrink from indicating the real cause of the distress. "Those who are upon wages," he wrote, "receive a sum during the summer months, which, if properly husbanded, would, together with the produce of their own exertion after the fishery has ceased, be fully adequate to the support of themselves and families for the following winter. Yet I am led to believe that a large portion of this is dissipated before many weeks or days have elasped after the fishing season has terminated, and in consequence of such profusion many families are left to want and misery." The generality of the system destroyed in time that healthy dread of pauperism which, as an economic factor, is of the highest national importance. The receipt of poor relief lost the stigma assigned to it with rough justice by Anglo-Saxon independence, and in 1863, out of a total public expenditure of £90,000, the astounding proportion of £30,000 was expended upon the necessities of the poor. Far-seeing observers had long before pointed out that the remedy for these disorders must be a radical one. Improvidence among the poorer classes is familiar to economists in more experienced societies than that of Newfoundland, and may be accepted as a permanent element in the difficulty. The real hope lay in opening up, on remunerative lines, industries which would occupy the poor in the lean months. Nor was Newfoundland without such resources, if the capital necessary for their development could have been found. A penetrating railway system, by its indirect effects upon the mining and agricultural interests, would have done much to solve the problem of the unemployed. The difficulty was that the state of the public finances was in no condition to undertake costly schemes of betterment. In a later chapter we shall see the Government, after exhausting the resources of loans, looking to a desperate remedy to conquer its powerlessness for enterprise. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [40] Prowse, p. 473. CHAPTER VIII MODERN NEWFOUNDLAND In 1869[41] took place a General Election, in which great Imperial interests were involved. Governor Musgrave, in 1866, had advised Federal union with the Canadian provinces--then about to federate among themselves--and the election three years later was fought upon this issue. The result was a complete rout for the Federal party; a rout so complete that the question has hardly since reappeared within the field of practical politics. The causes of this defeat were, in the first place, economic considerations; secondly, Irish national feeling and hostility to the union; and thirdly, a certain distrust and dread of Canada. Judge Prowse, whose intimate knowledge of Newfoundland entitles his opinion to special respect, thinks that even in recent years there lingered some rankling memory of the days when French Canadian raids terrified the colonists in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.[42] However this may be, it is certain that the outlying portions of the Empire hardly as yet felt the same community with and loyalty to one another as they did with regard to the home country. The relation of Newfoundland to the Dominion of Canada resembles in many ways that of New Zealand to the new Australian Federal system, and in each group of colonies there is a noticeable drift towards centralization. Judge Prowse, who was a strong believer in North American union both from an Imperial and from a Colonial point of view, has fully indicated the difficulties. The Canadian protectionist tariff, the greater attractions of the United States market (inasmuch as the Dominion is a fish producer rather than a fish consumer), the opposition which wide political changes unavoidably excite--all these obstacles were formidable for the moment. It is uncertain even now whether they will be strong enough to prevent, indefinitely, the realization of the Confederate scheme. It is possible that such a union would be followed by some disadvantages to Newfoundland; but, on the other hand, the gain would be very great. The politics of the colony would be braced by the ampler atmosphere of the Dominion, and the tendency towards parochialism finally arrested. The geographical difficulty ceased to exist when the United States taught us how vast are the areas over which successful political unions are possible. No one can fairly ask that Newfoundland should take the step in the teeth of her own material interests; but, assuming that union with Canada can be reconciled with those interests, the Imperial issue holds the field. Its importance can hardly be overstated. So soon as the several communities, which together form the Empire, realize not merely their ties with the Mother Country, but also their own organic interconnection, from that moment the whole Imperial idea receives an immense accession of strength.[43] But it is now elementary that Newfoundland, and Newfoundland alone, can take this decision. She is the mistress of her own destinies. It is unfortunate that the Blaine-Bond incident in 1890 should have excited ill-feeling against Canada in the older colony. In September of that year a treaty of trade regulating the purchase of bait, etc., the shipping of crews, and transhipment of cargo (called, from the delegates employed on each side,[44] the Blaine-Bond Treaty) was informally negotiated between Newfoundland and the United States, and a draft of a convention was prepared. In the following December this draft was modified, but in January 1891, Mr Blaine submitted a counter-proposal, which the United States were disposed to accept, though they were not really anxious to effect the arrangement. The treaty had been submitted to the Colonial Office, and approved by it; but the ratification of the Imperial Government was refused at the last moment. Probably the refusal would have caused less irritation in the colony if it had sprung from Imperial considerations; as a fact, it was procured by Canadian remonstrances against Newfoundland's separate action in a matter concerning Canada also, and it was felt in Newfoundland that the island had been sacrificed to the exigencies of Canadian party politics. It may be added here that in 1902, another separate agreement--the Hay-Bond Treaty--similar to the preceding, was entered into, but was rejected by the United States Senate. Accordingly the Newfoundland Government secured in 1905 the passing of the Foreign Fishing Vessels Act which deprived the American fishermen (more particularly those of Gloucester, Mass.) of the special privileges hitherto conceded, leaving them the right under the Convention of 1818. Disputes arose. The question was discussed at the Imperial Conference in 1907. After temporary alleviation of the difficulties by a _modus vivendi_, the British and American Governments came to the conclusion that the best remedy lay in a submission to the Hague Court of Arbitration: in 1909 the terms of reference were agreed to, and on September 1910 the award was given.[45] Newfoundland was thereby placed in a very favourable position for dealing with the discrimination exercised against fish exported to America by Newfoundlanders. The points decided were: (1) The right to make regulations as to the exercise of the liberty to take fish, under the Treaty of 1818, is inherent to the sovereignty of Great Britain; (2) The United States has the right to employ non-Americans in the fisheries, but they are not entitled to benefit or immunity from the said Treaty; (3) While American fishing vessels may be required to report at colonial ports when convenient, such vessels should not be subject to the purely commercial formalities of report, entry, and clearance at a Custom House, nor to light, harbour, or other dues not imposed upon Newfoundland fishermen; (4) American fishing vessels entering certain colonial bays, for shelter, repairs, wood and water, should not be subject to dues or other demands for doing so, but they might be required to report to any reasonably convenient Custom House or official; (5) In the case of bays, mentioned in the Treaty of 1818, three marine miles are to be measured from a straight line drawn across the body of water at the place where it ceases to bear the configuration and characteristics of a bay. At all other places the three marine miles are to be measured following the sinuosities of the coast. To return to the period now under consideration. It saw a bold attempt to deal with the Poor-law scandal. Relief to able-bodied persons was discontinued in 1868. A succession of good fishing seasons, and the development of the mining industry, lessened the difficulty of the step. Seven years later came a still more momentous proposal. "The period appears to have arrived," said Governor Hill, in his opening speech to the Legislature, "when a question which has for some time engaged public discussion, viz., the construction of a railway across the island to St. George's Bay, should receive a practical solution.... There is a well-founded expectation that the line of railway would attract to our shores the mail and passenger traffic of the Atlantic ... and thus would be secured those vast commercial advantages which our geographical position manifestly entitles us to command. As a preliminary to this object a proposition will be submitted to you for a thorough survey, to ascertain the most eligible line, and with a view to the further inquiry whether the colony does not possess within itself the means of inducing capitalists to undertake this great enterprise of progress." It is easy to forget, in speaking of Newfoundland until 1875, how very little was known of the interior. The Newfoundland with which we are concerned consisted in fact of a few towns on the coast, with a great and imperfectly explored interior behind them. Even down to the beginning of the twentieth century very little was known of much of the island. It is difficult to assign limits to the developments which are probable when a thorough system of internal communication shall have given free play to each latent industry. The first proposal was that a railway should be constructed from St. John's to St. George's Bay, but objections were made from England on the ground that the line would end on the French shore. Then came the proposal that it should run from St. John's to Hall's Bay, with branches to Brigus and Harbour Grace, covering in all a distance of about 340 miles. A joint committee of both Houses prepared a report, which became the basis of the Bill (1880). One sentence is worth quoting, because it states very clearly the difficulties which have played so large a part in the history of Newfoundland: "The question of the future of our growing population has for some time enjoyed the earnest attention of all thoughtful men in this country, and has been the subject of serious solicitude. The fisheries being our main resource, and to a large extent the only dependence of the people, those periodic partial failures which are incident to such pursuits continue to be attended with recurring visitations of pauperism, and there seems no remedy to be found for this condition of things but that which may lie in varied and extensive pursuits.... Our fisheries have no doubt increased, but not in a measure corresponding to our measure of population; and even though they were capable of being expanded, that object would be largely neutralized by the decline in price which follows from a large catch, as no increase of markets can be found to give remunerative returns for an augmented supply." The Act was passed, which empowered the raising of a loan of £1,000,000 for the purpose of constructing the proposed railway. By November, 1884, the line was completed as far as Harbour Grace; by 1888 a further instalment of some twenty-seven miles was ready between Whitbourne and Placentia; soon afterwards it was decided to recommence building the line northwards from St. John's to Hall's Bay, which has been discontinued through the failure of the contractors, and to carry out the scheme the Reid Contract was entered into. We are now reaching a period when the leading parts are played by persons still or recently living, and the story must therefore be continued with the reserve proper to one who is not himself an inhabitant of Newfoundland. Particularly is this true of the much discussed Reid Contract, the circumstances of which are reserved, from their great importance, for a separate chapter.[46] It is unfortunate that the ensuing stage of this short narrative should be marred by so much trouble, but, in fact, the last ten years of the nineteenth century have been among the most disastrous in the history of the island. In 1892 came the most destructive of all the fires with which St. John's has been afflicted. The fire broke out in a stable at five o'clock on the afternoon of Friday, July 8th, and lasted until nine o'clock on Saturday morning. It came at the end of a month's draught, was helped by a powerful wind, and found the town with a depleted water supply. Arising in an eastern suburb, the flames were carried right into the business centre of the town, and finally reached the rich warehouses of Water Street. Eye witnesses describe the heat as so intense that brick and stone offered little more resistance than wood. A mile of wharfage was destroyed, and Water Street completely gutted. "Over a vast area," wrote one who noted the effects, "nothing is now to be seen but tottering walls and chimneys." It was computed that 10,000 persons were left homeless, and that the total damage exceeded 20,000,000 dollars, of which less than 5,000,000 dollars were covered by insurance. The Savings Bank, the Hospital, the Masonic Hall, and the Anglican Cathedral, alike perished. To complete the misery of the sufferers, it soon became known that the food supply remaining was only sufficient for ten days. As in 1846, the sympathy of Canada was promptly and warmly shown. The day after the fire 4,000 dollars' worth of provisions were sent over, and military tents sufficient to shelter 1,200 people. In England, a Mansion House fund was immediately opened by the Lord Mayor of London, and its final amount fell little short of £20,000. Sir Terence O'Brien, the Governor, and Lady O'Brien, happened to be in England at the time, and they threw themselves warmly into the cause of the colony. In 1894, a misfortune of a different kind happened. On Monday, December 10th, the Commercial Bank, the Union Bank, and the Savings Bank, which had all been long established, were compelled to suspend payment. A widespread panic followed, and all business was paralysed. Workmen were dismissed wholesale, no money being available for the payment of their wages. To make the crisis graver still, the Union Bank was to have provided the interest on the Public Debt, which was payable in London on January 1st. The population feared that the crash would bring about riots and other dread occurrences. In aggravation of the risk the rumour spread that Newfoundland was about to be incorporated into the Dominion of Canada as a mere province. The Government telegraphed to the authorities in London for an immediate loan of £200,000, and requested that a warship should be despatched in view of imminent disturbances. The causes which led immediately to the failure were well stated in a Dalziel telegram to _The Times_:[47] "The immediate cause of the financial crisis which has overwhelmed Newfoundland was the death of Mr Hall, a partner in the firm of Messrs Prowse, Hall & Morris, the London agents of the firms exporting fish to European markets. On his death the firm declined to meet further exchanges until an investigation of their affairs had been made. Their bills were protested, and the banks made demands on the Commercial Bank of St. John's, which was the drawer of the bills, and which, being unable to meet the demands made upon it, fell back upon its mercantile customers. These could not respond, and the bank had to suspend operations. The customers were compelled to make assignments, and nearly every business house in the colony was crippled, so interwoven are the affairs of one establishment with those of another. "The situation was only possible under the peculiar business customs of the colony. The fishing industry here is pursued under a system of advances for vessels and equipments made by the merchants to the fishermen, who gave the catch at the end of the season in exchange. The merchants receive large advances from the only two banks doing business here, the Union Bank of Newfoundland and the Commercial Bank. By backing each other's bills the banks are enabled to carry on operations, and then at the close of the year, when the produce of the fisheries is realized, they are able to settle their overdrafts. "The disaster happened at a most unfortunate time. If it had been postponed for another month the merchants would have realized on most of the fish, and the assets would have been far more valuable. At present, 2,000,000 dollars' worth of fishery products are stored in St. John's awaiting the means of shipment. Until financial aid from the outside world is obtained, it is impossible to place the fish on the market." At this time the financial position of the colony was thoroughly unsound. Its population numbered roughly 200,000 persons, and its Public Debt amounted to 14,000,000 dollars, or nearly three million pounds sterling. The Ministry of the day resigned, after an unsuccessful attempt to form a coalition Government, and its successors applied for Imperial help, an application which logically involved the surrender of the Constitution. In fact, the unassisted credit of the colony seemed hopeless, for in a year or two the railway reckonings had to be met. The Government had issued bonds whereof yearly interest was to become payable on completion, amounting to almost a third of the total revenue of the colony.[48] Such temporary measures as the nature of the crisis admitted were taken locally. The Legislature passed two Bills guaranteeing a portion of the note issue of both the Union Bank and the Commercial Bank; while a loan of 400,000 dollars was procured from the Bank of Montreal, and additional loans from the Bank of Nova Scotia and the Royal Bank of Canada: thus "the financial sceptre passed to Canada."[49] At the same time the manager and directors of the Commercial Bank were arrested on a charge of having presented a fraudulent balance sheet. Reuter's correspondent at St. John's noted that in this time of trouble the idea of union with Canada gained ground rapidly. How hopeless the position seemed to calm observers on the spot may be gathered from the following vivid extracts from a letter by _The Times_ correspondent at St. John's:[50] "Twelve large firms controlled the whole export trade of the colony--fish oils and fish products, valued at about 7,000,000 dollars. Of these twelve only two remain ... and these are sorely stricken. These firms occupied the whole waterside premises of St. John's, gave employment to hundreds of storekeepers, coopers, stevedores, and others, beside some thousands of unskilled labourers occupied in the handling of the fish. All these men are now without a day's work, or any means of obtaining it. The isolation of the colony, away out in the Atlantic with no neighbour, is its greatest curse. People unemployed cannot emigrate, but must swell an army of industrials depending on the Government for relief. The city is a veritable aggregation of unemployed; it is a city to let. Every business, factory, wharf, store, or shop employing labour has either suspended business or has curtailed the number of its employees to the lowest possible limit. It is not unreasonable to estimate the number unemployed here to-day at 6,000, every one of whom must be without work until spring opens." It is not surprising to find that in this difficulty the minds of the colonists turned towards the Imperial Exchequer. But the distinction is vital between an Imperial grant in relief of a visitation of nature and a grant in relief of financial disasters which may be the result of improvidence or extravagance. The Imperial Exchequer is drawn from complex sources, and cannot be diverted to irregular purposes without injustice to large numbers of poor people. These facts were not unnaturally overlooked in Newfoundland, for in trouble the sense of proportion is apt to disappear. Thus on March 2nd, 1895, Sir W. Whiteway, the Newfoundland Premier, in a letter to _The Times_, said: "We have approached Her Majesty's Government, and solicited a mere guarantee of interest to the amount of a few thousand pounds per annum for a limited period, in order to enable the colony to float its loans and tide it over the present temporary difficulties. Up to date the people of this old, loyal colony have received no response. They have been struggling against difficulties in the past, and if they still have to trust to their own inherent pluck, and to the resources of the country, they must only passively submit, although they may the more bitterly feel the heartless treatment of the Imperial Government towards them." The touch of bitterness in Sir William Whiteway's letter was, perhaps, unreasonable. Mr Goodridge was Premier at the time of the crash, and his Government at once appealed for help to England, on the ground that if it were not forthcoming the colony would be unable to meet its obligations. A proposal was added that a Royal Commission should be appointed to inquire into the whole political and commercial position of the colony. Mr Goodridge was unable to keep his place, and his Government was followed by that of Mr Greene. The new Government at once inquired whether, if the Newfoundland Legislature acquiesced in the appointment of a Commission, financial help would be immediately forthcoming. They desired information also as to the scope of the Commission and the terms on which assistance would be given. To this the answer was inevitable, that all these points must depend upon the findings of the Commission. In fact, the Colonial Government wished for an unconditional loan and an assurrance that the Constitution of the island would not be interfered with. Mr Greene, in turn, proved unable to hold his ground, and was succeeded by Sir William Whiteway. The latter substituted for the earlier proposals a request that the Newfoundland bonds should be guaranteed by the Imperial Government; the suggested Commission being ignored. This was the request referred to in Sir William's letter. Now it is very clear that although the amount involved was relatively small, a very important principle was raised. Responsible government has its privileges and its obligations, the latter of which flow logically from the former. The Imperial Government charges itself with responsibility for the finances of a Crown colony because it directs the policy and determines the establishment on which the finances so largely depend. It is not reasonable to ask that the British taxpayer should assume responsibility for liabilities incurred by a colony with responsible government. The _toga virilis_ has responsibilities. The case might, perhaps, be different if there were no danger that the concession of help might be drawn into a precedent. But it must never be forgotten that the aggregate public debts of the self-governing colonies at about that time exceeded £300,000,000. The crisis of 1895 has been dealt with at some little length, because it would be impossible otherwise to understand the occasion of the great Reid Contract, which will form the subject of the next chapter. It so happens that the last ten years of the nineteenth century have been more momentous than any equal period in the history of the colony. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [41] The census of this year showed that the population had increased to 146,536. [42] _Op. cit._, p. 495. [43] This question of union was frequently raised--notably in 1906, and during the Great War in 1916 and 1917 (see end of chap. ix.). [44] Sir Robert Bond, the ex-Premier of Newfoundland; Mr J.G. Blaine, the American Secretary of State. [45] House of Commons Papers, Miscellaneous, No. 3, 1910, Cd. 5396. [46] See chap. ix. [47] December 14th, 1894. [48] See General Dashwood's letter to _The Times_, December 18th, 1894. [49] Rogers, p. 189. [50] January 17th, 1895. CHAPTER IX THE REID CONTRACT--GENERAL PROGRESS AND RECENT HISTORY The next few years may be dismissed briefly, for they were years of unrelieved melancholy, from the point of view of the public financial policy and the political development of the colony. Nor did the disease admit of a readily applicable remedy. The experience of each decade had shown more and more clearly that the colony had nothing in reserve--no variety of pursuits to support the general balance of prosperity by alternations of success. Potentially its resources were almost incalculably great, but their development was impossible without capital or credit. The colony had neither. Under these circumstances took place the General Election of October, 1897. The assets of the colony were not before the electorate, and there was no reason to suppose that financial proposals of an extraordinary kind were in contemplation. The result of the election placed Sir James Winter in power. In six months the famous "Reid Contract" had been entered into--a contract which must be described at some length in these pages, partly because it throws a vivid light upon the constitutional relations between the Mother Country and a self-governing colony, partly because it appears to be incomparably the most important event in the recent history of Newfoundland. On February 22nd, 1898, Mr Chamberlain received a telegram from the Governor, Sir Herbert Murray, advising him that a novel resolution had been submitted to the Houses of Legislature by his responsible advisers. A fuller telegram six days later, and a letter intervening, explained the proposals in detail. To put the matter as shortly as possible, the Government advised the sale to a well-known Canadian contractor, Mr R.G. Reid, of certain valuable colonial assets. In the first place, Mr Reid was to purchase all lines of railway from the Government for 1,000,000 dollars; this amount was the price of the ultimate reversion, the contractor undertaking to operate the lines for fifty years on agreed terms, and to re-ballast them. If he failed in this operation his reversionary rights became forfeit. For carrying the Government mails he was to receive an annual subsidy of 42,000 dollars. Minute covenants by the contractor were inserted in the draft contract, "in consideration whereof," it continued, "the Government hereby covenant and agree to and with the contractor, to grant to him in fee simple ... 5,000 acres of land for each one mile of main line or branch railway throughout the entire length of the lines to be operated: the expression 'in fee simple' to include with the land all mines, ores, precious metals, minerals, stones, and mineral oils of every kind." Besides these general concessions a particular grant of mineral land was made. The areas of land near Grand Lake, in which coal had been discovered, were transferred to Mr Reid, on condition that he should so work the coal mines as to produce not less than 50,000 tons of coal per annum. The contract then passed on to deal with the service of mail steamers. Under this head eight steamers for various services were to be provided by the contractor, and by him manned and equipped. In consideration therefor the Government undertook to pay subsidies upon an agreed scale. The docks were next disposed of. Under this head the Government agreed to sell to the contractor the St. John's Dry Dock for 325,000 dollars. The next available asset was the telegraph service. Here the agreement provided that the contractor should assume responsibility for all telegraph lines until 1904, in return for an annual subsidy of 10,000 dollars, and after 1904, until the period of fifty years was completed, should maintain them free of any charge to the colony by way of subsidy or otherwise. By a later section of the draft contract it was provided that the contractor should not assign or sublet the contract, or any part or portion thereof, to any person or corporation whomsoever without the consent of the Government. The language of this prohibition is curiously general, and is indeed sufficient in its terms to prohibit assignments _mortis causa_, as well as those _inter vivos_. Such a result can hardly have been contemplated. By the last section it was recorded that "the Government undertake to enact all such legislation as may be necessary to give full effect to the contract and the several clauses and provisions thereof, according to the spirit and intent thereof, and also such as may be necessary to facilitate and enforce the collection and payment of fares and rates, the preservation of order and discipline in the trains and stations, and generally to give to the contractor all such powers, rights, and privileges as are usually conferred upon or granted to railways and railway companies for the purposes of their business." Such, in barest outline, was the proposal of which Mr Chamberlain was informed by Governor Murray. It certainly involved a sacrifice incalculably grave of the colony's prospects, but those who brought it forward no doubt reflected on the truism that he who has expectations, but neither assets nor credit, must reinforce the latter by drawing in some degree upon the former. In fact, it seems to have been doubtful whether, at the time, the colony could by any device meet its obligations as they became due. The force of these observations must be frankly conceded; but it may still be doubted whether a less desperate remedy was not within the grasp of resourceful statesmanship. In his first telegram, sent on March 2nd, 1898, Mr Chamberlain called attention to the more apparent objections: "The future of the colony will be placed entirely in the hands of the contractor by the railway contract, which appears highly improvident. As there seems to be no penalty provided for failure to operate the railways, the contract is essentially the sale of a million and a quarter acres for a million dollars." From the legal point of view the contract was a very singular one. The Government of Newfoundland, in fact, assumed to bind its successors by a partial abdication of sovereign power. Yet the same capacity which enabled the then Government to bind itself would equally and evidently inhere in its successors to revoke the obligation. Those who are struck by the conscientious obligation which the then Government could no doubt bequeath, may ask themselves how long a democratically governed country would tolerate corruption or ineptitude in the public service on the ground that the monopolist worker of them had inherited a franchise from an ancestor who had known how to exploit the public necessities. The virtual expropriation of the Irish landlords, which was in progress in the United Kingdom, may have been right or it may have been wrong; it is at least a far more startling interference with vested interest than would be the resumption by a State of control over heedlessly aliened public services. Whatever be the force of these observations, the disadvantages of the Newfoundland Government's specific proposals were patent enough. Nor were they unperceived in the colony, and in particular by the enemies of the Ministry. The islanders stopped fishing and took to petitions. These were numerous and lengthy, and it is only proposed to consider here the petition which was sent by dissentient members of the House of Assembly, containing a formidable indictment of the proposed agreement. The objections brought forward may be briefly summarized: 1. The electors were never consulted. 2. The Bill was an absolute conveyance in fee simple of all the railways, the docks, telegraph lines, mineral, timber, and agricultural lands of the colony, and virtually disposed of all the assets, representing a funded debt of 17,000,000 dollars, for £280,000. 3. While the Bill conveyed large and valuable mineral, agricultural, and timber areas, amounting, with former concessions, to four million acres, it made no provision for the development of these lands. 4. The conveyance embraced the whole Government telegraph system of the colony. 5. It included a monopoly for the next thirty years of the coastal carrying trade. 6. It included the sale of the dry dock, and the granting, without consideration, of valuable waterside property belonging to the Municipal Council of St. John's. On March 23rd Mr Chamberlain answered the representation of Governor Murray, and the profuse petitions which the latter had forwarded. Both from the general constitutional significance of the reply, and its particular importance in the history of Newfoundland, it is convenient to reproduce the letter in full: Mr Chamberlain to Governor Sir H.H. Murray. Downing Street, March 23rd, 1898. SIR,--In my telegram of the 2nd instant I informed you that if your Ministers, after fully considering the objections urged to the proposed contract with Mr R.G. Reid for the sale and operation of the Government railways and other purposes, still pressed for your signature to that instrument, you would not be constitutionally justified in refusing to follow their advice, as the responsibility for the measure rested entirely with them. 2. Whatever views I may hold as to the propriety of the contract, it is essentially a question of local finance, and as Her Majesty's Government have no responsibility for the finance of self-governing colonies, it would be improper for them to interfere in such a case unless Imperial interests were directly involved. On these constitutional grounds I was unable to advise you to withhold your assent to the Bill confirming the contract. 3. I have now received your despatches as noted in the margin, giving full information as to the terms of the contract, and the grounds upon which your Government have supported it, as well as the reasons for which it was opposed by the Leader and some members of the Opposition. 4. I do not propose to enter upon a discussion of the details of the contract, or of the various arguments for and against it, but I cannot refrain from expressing my views as to the serious consequences which may result from this extraordinary measure. 5. Under this contract, and the earlier one of 1893, for the construction of the railway, practically all the Crown lands of any value become, with full rights to all minerals, the freehold property of a single individual: the whole of the railways are transferred to him, the telegraphs, the postal service, and the local sea communications, as well as the property in the dock at St. John's. Such an abdication by a Government of some of its most important functions is without parallel. 6. The colony is divested for ever of any control over or power of influencing its own development, and of any direct interest in or direct benefit from that development. It will not even have the guarantee for efficiency and improvement afforded by competition, which would tend to minimize the danger of leaving such services in the hands of private individuals. 7. Of the energy, capacity, and character of Mr Reid, in whose hands the future of the colony is thus placed, both yourself and your predecessor have always spoken in the highest terms, and his interests in the colony are already so enormous that he has every motive to work for and to stimulate its development; but he is already, I believe, advanced in years, and though the contract requires that he shall not assign or sublet it to any person or corporation without the consent of the Government, the risk of its passing into the hands of people less capable and possessing less interest in the development of the colony is by no means remote. 8. All this has been fully pointed out to your Ministers and the Legislature, and I can only conclude that they have satisfied themselves that the danger and evils resulting from the corruption which, according to the statement of the Receiver-General, has attended the administration of these services by the Government, are more serious than any evils that can result from those services being transferred unreservedly to the hands of a private individual or corporation; and that, in fact, they consider that it is beyond the means and capacity of the colony to provide for the honest and efficient maintenance of these services, and that they must, therefore, be got rid of at whatever cost. 9. That they have acted thus in what they believe to be the best interests of the colony I have no reason to doubt; but, whether or not it is the case, as they allege, that the intolerable burden of the Public Debt, and the position in which the colony was left by the contract of 1893, rendered this sacrifice inevitable, the fact that the colony, after more than forty years of self-government, should have to resort to such a step is greatly to be regretted. 10. I have to request that in communicating this despatch to your Ministers you will inform them that it is my wish that it may be published in the _Gazette_. I have, etc., J. CHAMBERLAIN. Some of the inferences set forth in the Colonial Secretary's lucid letter were questioned by the Newfoundland Government, but substantially his conclusions were not assailed. The decision of the Imperial Government by no means stayed the voice of local agitation, and the stream of petitions continued to grow. In a further letter to Governor Murray, dated December 5th, 1898, Mr Chamberlain laid down the great constitutional doctrine which is the Magna Charta of Greater Britain. Every student of colonial politics should be familiar with these passages: "The right to complete and unfettered control over financial policy and arrangements is essential to self-government, and has been invariably acknowledged and respected by Her Majesty's Government, and jealously guarded by the colonies. The Colonial Government and Legislature are solely responsible for the management of its finances to the people of the colony, and unless Imperial interests of grave importance were imperilled, the intervention of Her Majesty's Government in such matters would be an unwarrantable intrusion and a breach of the charter of the colony. "It is nowhere alleged that the interests of any other part of the Empire are involved, or that the Act is any way repugnant to Imperial legislation. It is asserted, indeed, that the contract disposes of assets of the colony over which its creditors in this country have an equitable, if not a legal claim; but, apart from the fact that the assets in question are mainly potential, and that the security of the colonial debt is its general revenue and not any particular property or assets, I cannot admit that the creditors of the colony have any right to claim the interference of Her Majesty's Government in this matter. It is on the faith of the Colonial Government and Legislature that they have advanced their money, and it is to them that they must appeal if they consider themselves damnified. "No doubt, if it was seriously alleged that the Act involved a breach of faith or a confiscation of the rights of absent persons, Her Majesty's Government would have to consider it carefully, and consider whether the discredit which such action on the part of a colony would entail on the rest of the Empire rendered it necessary for them to intervene. But no such charge is made, and if Her Majesty's Government were to intervene whenever the domestic legislation of a colony was alleged to affect the rights of residents, the right of self-government would be restricted to very narrow limits.... "The fact that the constituencies were not consulted on a measure of such importance might have furnished a reason for its rejection by the Upper Chamber, but would scarcely justify the Secretary of State in advising its disallowance even if it were admitted as a general principle of constitutional government in Newfoundland that the Legislature has no right to entertain any measure of first importance without an immediate mandate from the electors." The passing of the particular Bill by no means brought the Reid controversy to an end. In fact, the General Election in Newfoundland, of which the result was announced in November 1900, was fought entirely upon this absorbing question. The issue arose in the following way. The contract contained a clause providing that Mr Reid should not assign his rights over the railway without the consent of the Government. Mr Reid applied to the Government of Sir James Winter for such consent, but when that Government was defeated in February 1900, no answer had been received. Mr Reid wished to turn all his holdings in the colony over to a corporation capitalized at 25,000,000 dollars, he and his three sons forming the company. On the properties included he proposed to raise 5,000,000 dollars by debenture bonds, this sum to be expended in development.[51] A Liberal Ministry under Mr Bond, who had consistently opposed the Reid arrangements, displaced Sir James Winter. Finding himself unable to hold his own in the Assembly, Mr Bond formed a coalition with Mr Morris, the leader of a section of Liberals who had not associated themselves with the party opposition to the contract. The terms of accommodation were simple: "The contract was to be treated as a _fait accompli_, but no voluntary concessions were to be made to Mr Reid except for a consideration." Consistently with this view, Mr Reid was informed by the Government that the permission he requested would be given upon the following terms: (1) He should agree to resign his proprietary rights in the railway. (2) He should restore the telegraphs to the ownership of the Government. (3) He should consent to various modifications of his land grants in the interest of squatters able to establish their _de facto_ possession. To these terms the contractor was not prepared to accede. It is difficult not to feel sympathy with his refusal. I had the advantage of hearing the contention on this point of a well-known Newfoundland Liberal, who brought forward intelligible, but not, I think, convincing arguments. The clause against assignment without the consent of Government ought surely to be qualified by the implied condition that such consent must not be unreasonably withheld. In the private law of England equity has long since grafted this implication upon prohibitions against assignment. If, however, the Government had been content with a blunt _non possumus_, a case could no doubt have been made out for insisting upon their pound of flesh. They chose, however, to do the one thing which was neither dignified nor defensible: they offered to assent to an assignment on condition that Mr Reid surrendered his most valuable privileges. It is no answer to say, as many Newfoundland Liberals did say: We opposed the contract from the start, and it is therefore impossible for us to assent to any extension of the contractor's privileges. In fact, such an argument seems to betray an inability to understand the ground principle on which party government depends. That principle, of course, is the loyal acceptance by each party on entering office of the completed legislation of its predecessors. To borrow a metaphor from the Roman lawyers, the _hereditas_ may be _damnosa_, but the party succeeds thereto as a _hæres necessarius_. Any other rule would substitute anarchy for order, and an endless process of reversing the past for a salutary attention to the present. It must, on the other hand, be admitted that Mr Reid's conduct was not very well chosen to reassure his critics. He threw himself heart and soul into the General Election which became imminent, and displayed little judiciousness in his selection of nominees to fight seats in his interests. It is hard to suppose that independent men were not discoverable to lay stress on the immediate relief to the colony which the contract secured, and the inexorable necessity of which it might plausibly be represented to be the outcome. Mr Morine was Mr Reid's solicitor. He was a prominent Conservative and Minister of Finance, and his influence in the Assembly (where his connection with Mr Reid was apparently unknown) had been exerted in favour of the contract. When challenged on the point, Mr Morine asserted that he advised Mr Reid only on private matters, in which his interests would not come into conflict with those of the colony. Compelled to resign, however, by Governor Murray on account of the apparently incompatible duality of his position, he was reinstated (April, 1899) by Governor M'Callum, on an undertaking that his connection with Mr Reid should be suspended during office. Mr Morine became leader of the Conservative party on the retirement of Sir James Winter, reassuming at the same time his business relations with Mr Reid. In concert with the latter he began a political campaign in opposition to the Liberal party. His partner, Mr Gibbs, fought another seat in the same interest. _The Times_ correspondent above referred to gives an amusing account of other candidates: "One of Mr Reid's sons has been accompanying him through his constituency, and is mooted as a candidate. Two captains of Reid's bay steamers are running for other seats. The clothier who supplies the uniforms for Reid's officials is another, and a shipmaster, who until recently was ship's husband for the Reid steamers, is another. His successor, who is a member of the Upper House, has issued a letter warmly endorsing Mr Morine's policy, and it is now said that one of Reid's surveying staff will be nominated for another constituency." It may easily be imagined that to the ordinary voter the Conservative _personnel_ proved somewhat disquieting. Success at the polls would have enabled Mr Reid to say, with Louis XIV.--"_L'Etat, c'est moi._" Amid extraordinary excitement the election was fought in the autumn of 1900 on the sole issue of the Reid contract, and resulted in a sweeping victory for the Liberal party, supporting Mr Bond in his policy as to Mr Reid's monopolies. The Reid Contract has been dealt with at this length at a sacrifice of proportion which the writer believes to be apparent rather than real. Newfoundland is newly emerged from infancy. The story of its childhood is relatively uneventful, but the political experiments of its adolescence must be of absorbing interest to all students of politics. In 1901 an Act was passed giving sanction to a new agreement with Mr Reid in regard to the railways, and incorporating the Reid Newfoundland Company. Under the agreement the sum of one million dollars was to be paid to him in consideration of the surrender by him of the right to own the railway at the end of 1938; and 850,000 dollars instead of 2½ million acres of land to which he had become entitled as a bonus for undertaking to operate the railway until 1938. He still had, however, claims in respect of certain rolling-stock and equipment that had been provided under earlier contracts; and also claims arising through the surrender of the telegraphs. All these were submitted to arbitration, resulting in awards to Mr Reid of 894,000 dollars and 1½ million dollars respectively. However, under the new arrangement, Mr Reid ceased to be the virtual owner of the railway system; and became merely a contractor for its operation. The Reid Newfoundland Company, by agreement with Mr Reid, and with a capital of 25 million dollars, came into possession of over 2½ million acres of land, with timber, mineral, and other rights thereon, and took over all existing contracts for working the railway, and mail and steamboat services of the colony, including St. John's Dry Dock and the St. John's tramways, as well as powers for electric lighting in the capital. The new Company commenced operations on September 1st, 1901. With the beginning of the twentieth century was inaugurated an epoch of political as well as economic progress in the history of the island. The numerous and widespread activities of the new enterprise gave a great impetus to the colony: it ensured the efficient working of the railway, and gave employment at a good wage to an army of working men in the various branches, and also in connection with the flotilla of steamers that were run. Other spheres of activity were gradually opened up, _e.g._ the establishment of a sawmill to furnish the timber necessary for the various needs of the scheme, the opening of a granite quarry to supply material for bridge building and paving the streets of the capital, the development of a slate area and oil boring, coal mining, the construction of a hotel in St. John's, etc. The expansion of the undertaking increased from year to year, and included such projects as the establishment of flour mills, pulp and paper mills, etc. Next to the Government itself, the Reid Company became the largest paymaster in the island.[52] Other factors contributing to the material advancement of the country were the development of the iron mines at Belle Island, and the production of pulp and paper by the "Anglo-Newfoundland Development Company," the initiators and controllers of which were Messrs Harmsworth, the well-known newspaper proprietors. This company was followed soon afterwards by the Albert Reed Company of London. A few of the main events in the recent history of the colony may now be referred to; these, taking us down to the Great War, will suitably conclude the present chapter. First may be mentioned a curious development in the political arena. In 1902 the Ministerial candidates suffered a complete defeat in a by-election; and this result was attributed to two causes--in the first place, deficient fishing returns, and secondly, popular dissatisfaction at the monetary gains secured by Mr Reid. The contest of 1904 was further complicated by the formation of a number of factions in the ranks of the Opposition. The latter eventually joined their forces under five leaders, and, including all elements hostile to the party in power, took the field against the Bond-Morris Government. But the sympathies of the people were alienated from such an unusual combination, composed as it was of antithetical constituents, and when it was in addition rumoured that their aim was to effect a union with Canada, they suffered a severe reverse at the elections. Only Mr Morine was returned for his constituency; and he had no more than five followers in the Assembly. In these circumstances it was thought that Sir Robert Bond's administration was ensured a long term of office. But in July 1907 Sir Edward Morris, then Minister of Justice, resigned through a disagreement with the Premier on a question of the amount of wages to be paid to the employees in the Public Works. The Opposition under Mr Morison (succeeding Mr Morine, who had shortly before left Newfoundland for Canada) co-operated with leading supporters of Sir Edward Morris and invited him to become the leader of a united party. He accepted the offer, and issued a manifesto in March 1908, indicating his policy. The number of his adherents increased, as a result of his efforts in the Assembly. In the following November the quadrennial general election took place, which was vigorously--indeed bitterly--contested; and the result was a tie, eighteen supporters having been returned for Sir Robert Bond, and eighteen for the Opposition--a unique occurrence apparently in the history of self-governing colonies. The success of Sir Edward Morris was regarded as remarkable, in view of several disadvantages from which he suffered in the eyes of large sections of the population, _e.g._ his being a Roman Catholic (every Premier during the preceding half century had been a Protestant), his alleged sympathy with Mr Reid, and his alleged support of union with Canada. The Governor, Sir William MacGregor, having been requested by Sir Robert Bond to summon the Legislature, was then required by him, on the very eve of the session, to dissolve it, without giving it an opportunity to meet. The Governor refusing to do this, Sir Robert Bond, conformably to usage, resigned along with his cabinet. Sir Edward Morris was accordingly called upon to form a ministry; but at the meeting of the Assembly the attempt to elect a Speaker failed, owing to the opposition of the Bond party. The Governor next endeavoured to obtain a coalition Ministry, but failed, and a dissolution was granted (April, 1909). At the election in May the Morris administration was returned with a substantial majority--the new ministry for the first time in the history of the island consisting entirely of natural-born Newfoundlanders. The course adopted by the Governor, who had been charged by followers of Sir Robert Bond with partisanship and unconstitutional conduct, was thus vindicated by the election, and also approved by the Imperial authorities. In a despatch from the Colonial Office, November 14th, Lord Crewe observed: "... It will be learned from my previous despatches and telegrams that your action throughout the difficult political situation, which was created in the colony by the indecisive result of the last general election, has met with my approval, but I desire to place publicly on record my high appreciation of the manner in which you have handled a situation practically unprecedented in the history of responsible Government in the Dominions. I may add that I consider your decision to grant a dissolution to Sir Edward Morris--which has, I observe, been adversely criticized in a section of the Newfoundland press--to have been fully in accordance with the principles of responsible Government." In 1913 the growing prosperity of the fish trade was still further increased by the passing of the new United States tariff law, which admitted fish to the United States free of duty. Further, the opening of the Panama Canal made possible the establishment of new markets. Now we come to the next momentous event in the history of modern Newfoundland, as it is in that of the modern world generally--namely, the outbreak of the Great War in August 1914. The colony, like all the other British dominions and possessions, was fully alive to the justice of the British cause, and, like the others, was resolved as a faithful and dutiful daughter to contribute to the military, naval, and material resources of the Mother Country. This manifestation of colonial association and unity was a remarkable feature throughout the war, and will ever be memorable as a token of the undying bonds that unite the scattered constituents of the British Empire, and of the common feelings and ideals that inspire the various sections of the British family. Despite doubt and solicitude as to the effect on trade, especially on the fish markets, on which Newfoundland is so much dependent, the colony devoted itself wholeheartedly to the prosecution of the war. In September 1914 a special war session of the Legislature was held, and several measures were passed, making provision for the raising of a volunteer force of 1,000 men, for increasing the number of Naval Reserve from 600 to 1,000 men, and for raising a loan (which was subsequently furnished by the Imperial Government) for equipping and maintaining the projected contingents. It may be pointed out here that about the end of the nineteenth century the colony, desiring to participate in the obligations--and indeed privileges--of Imperial defence, took steps to establish a Royal Naval Reserve. From 1900 a number of men volunteered as reservists, and entered for six months' training on one of the vessels of the North American and West Indian squadron. In 1902 a training ship, H.M.S. _Calypso_, was stationed in St. John's harbour, where the 600 men--the number proposed--might duly complete their training. Before the war the Naval Reserve establishment amounted to 580. There were besides local Boys' Brigades, but no military force whatever. In 1915 considerable efforts were made. By the end of the year a military contingent of 2,000 men was raised, and the Naval Reserve was enlarged to 1,200. In November a plebiscite was taken in regard to the question of total prohibition, and a majority decided in its favour; so that from January 1st, 1917, the manufacture, importation, and sale of intoxicating liquors were prohibited. In 1916 a battalion of the Newfoundland regiment took part in a good deal of severe fighting in France; and it was maintained to full strength by regular drafts from home. In the meantime an Act was passed imposing restrictions on the killing of seals in Newfoundland waters, the object being to prevent their extermination. A political question that especially engaged the attention of the colony at this time was its relation to the Canadian Federation, but no progress was made towards the solution of the long standing problem. The following year it became again the chief concern (apart from the war) of the island's electorate. In June the question was raised in the Federal House of Commons at Ottawa; and members spoke in favour of union, declaring that from information received it appeared that the disposition of Newfoundland was becoming more and more in favour of it.[53] In July a coalition Ministry was established, and a Bill was passed prolonging the life of the Parliament for twelve months, as it would normally have expired in October. In the early part of this year, Sir Edward Morris, the Premier, was in London and represented Newfoundland at the Imperial War Conference. During the last year of the war the population found itself much more affected by the world conflict than it had been in the preceding years. Additions to the Newfoundland contingent under the voluntary system were becoming inadequate: accordingly, the new Government, of which Mr W.F. Lloyd was Premier, decided to introduce a Bill for the purpose of establishing conscription. This was of a selective character, that is, applying to all unmarried men and widowers without children, between the ages of 19 and 39. The conscripts were to be divided into four classes according to age, the youngest being called up first. The Bill was passed, and the measure proved to be a successful one. After the conclusion of the Armistice in November, the Prime Minister, the Right Hon. Sir William F. Lloyd, K.C.M.G., acted as the representative of Newfoundland at the Paris Peace Conference (1919). In concluding this chapter it will be of interest to give a few facts and figures showing Newfoundland's effort and record in the war.[54] (1) PERSONNEL At the outbreak of war there was no military force in Newfoundland. There was, however, a pre-war establishment of 580 Naval Reservists besides local Boys' Brigades. Newfoundland contributed to the fighting forces of the Empire 11,922 all ranks, consisting of 9,326 men for the Army, 2,053 men for the Royal Naval Reserve, 500 men for the Newfoundland Forestry Corps, and 43 nurses. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment furnished a battalion for the Gallipoli campaign and sent 4,253 men to France and Belgium, suffering the following casualties: Killed in action and died of wounds 1,082 Died from other causes 95 Missing 18 Prisoners of War 152 Wounded 2,314 ----- Total 3,661 The following decorations were won by the Regiment: 1 V.C., 2 C.M.G., 4 D.S.O., 28 M.C., 6 Bars to M.C., 33 D.C.M., 1 Bar to D.C.M., 105 M.M., 8 Bars to M.M., 1 O.B.E., 22 Mentions in Despatches, 21 Allied Decorations, 3 other medals: Total, 234. In the Royal Naval Reserve 167 men were killed in action and 124 invalided out of the Service. 3,000 Newfoundlanders enlisted in the Canadian and other forces (outside Newfoundland), but there is no statistical record of casualties regarding them, although it is known they were heavy. (2) MONEY, ETC. Total receipts, Cot Fund[55] $129,200 " " Aeroplane Fund 53,487 " " Red Cross Fund 151,500 " " Patriotic Fund 166,687 A War Loan of $6,000,000 was raised by Newfoundland. A large quantity of Red Cross material, etc., was sent from the Dominion during the war to the various organizations overseas, in addition to many thousands of dollars worth of comforts for the troops. Newfoundland provided the pay and allowances of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment (6,326 all ranks) and made up the difference in pay to bring the Royal (Newfoundland) Naval Reserve to the same scale as that of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, besides equipping the Royal Newfoundland Regiment before proceeding overseas. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [51] See a letter from the able correspondent of _The Times_ in Newfoundland, November 6th, 1900. [52] P.T. M'Grath, "Newfoundland in 1911," p. 24. [53] This question has already been referred to several times in the preceding pages (see especially beginning of chap. viii). It may be added here that in March 1906, the Prime Minister of Canada stated that the Government of Newfoundland was fully aware that the Government of Canada was ready to entertain a proposal for the entry of the island into the confederation. [54] For the statement following the writer is indebted to Sir Edgar Bowring, the High Commissioner of Newfoundland. [55] Instead of maintaining a hospital overseas, Newfoundland supported 301 beds in addition to 32 in Newfoundland. CHAPTER X THE FRENCH SHORE QUESTION It has been impossible in the above pages to avoid reference to the Anglo-French disputes in Newfoundland, but it seemed convenient to postpone a detailed examination of the question to a separate chapter. No apology is necessary for such a chapter even in a work so slight as the present, for the French Shore question was chronically acute in Newfoundland, and the French claims, like George III.'s prerogative, were increasing, had increased, and ought to have been diminished. The dispute is partly historical, partly legal, and can only be explained by reference to documents of considerable age. The French connection with Newfoundland was encouraged by the nearness of Canada, and in quaint names, such as Bay Fâcheuse and Point Enragée, it has bequeathed lasting reminders. For centuries the French, like the Dutch, went on giving too little and asking too much. By the time of Louis XIV. they had in fact established themselves--an _imperium in imperio_--upon the south coast, and William of Orange in the declaration of war against his lifelong enemy recited the English grievances: "It was not long since the French took licences from the Governor of Newfoundland to fish upon that coast, and paid a tribute for such licences as an acknowledgment of the sole right of the Crown of England to that island; but of late the encroachments of the French, and His Majesty's subjects trading and fishing there, had been more like the invasion of an enemy than becoming friends who enjoyed the advantages of that trade only by permission." The Treaty of Ryswick, in 1697, contained no mention of Newfoundland, and the French were, therefore, left in enjoyment of their possessory claims. In 1710 the splendid genius of Marlborough had brought Louis XIV. to his knees, and the arguments supplied by the stricken fields of Blenheim and Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet, should have made easy the task of English diplomacy. But from a corrupt political soil sprang the Treaty of Utrecht, the first leading instrument in the controversy of which we are attempting to collect the threads. The merits of the dispute cannot be understood without a careful study of Article 13 of the Treaty. It was thereby provided that: "The island called Newfoundland, with the adjacent islands, shall from this time forward belong of right wholly to Britain, and to that end the town and fortress of Placentia, and whatever other places in the said island are in possession of the French, shall be yielded and given up within seven months from the exchange of the ratifications of this Treaty, or sooner if possible, by the most Christian King to those who have a commission from the Queen of Great Britain for that purpose. Nor shall the most Christian King, his heirs and successors, or any of their subjects, at any time hereafter lay claim to any right to the said island and islands, or to any part of it or them. Moreover it shall not be lawful for the subjects of France to fortify any place in the said island of Newfoundland, or to erect any building there, besides stages made of boards, and huts necessary and useful for drying of fish, or to resort to the said island beyond the time necessary for fishing and drying of fish. But it shall be allowed to the subjects of France to catch fish and to dry them on land in that part only, and in no other besides that, of the said island of Newfoundland, which stretches from the place called Cape Bonavista to the northern point of the said island, and from thence, running down by the western side, reaches as far as the place called Point Riche. But the island called Cape Breta, as also all others, both in the mouth of the River St. Lawrence and in the Gulf of the same name, shall hereafter belong of right to the French, and the most Christian King shall have all manner of liberty to fortify any place or places there." The Treaty of Paris, in 1763, confirmed this arrangement, and twenty years later the Treaty of Versailles contained the following provision upon the subject: "The XIIIth Article of the Treaty of Utrecht and the method of carrying on the fishery, which has at all times been acknowledged, shall be the plan upon which the fishery shall be carried on there; it shall not be deviated from by either party; the French fishermen building only their scaffolds, confining themselves to the repair of their fishing vessels, and not wintering there; the subjects of His Majesty Britannic on their part not molesting in any manner the French fishermen during their fishing, nor injuring their scaffolds during their absence." But for the boundaries prescribed by the Treaty of Utrecht (viz. those limited by Cape Bonavista and Point Riche) new boundaries were substituted, viz., those limited by Cape St. John round by the north to Cape Ray. The coast thus indicated came to be known as the "French shore." As the declaration annexed to the above treaty was often relied upon by French diplomatists, it may be conveniently set forth in this place: "... In order that the fishermen of the two nations may not give a cause of daily quarrels, His Britannic Majesty will take the most positive measures for preventing his subjects from interrupting in any manner by their competition the fishery of the French during the temporary exercise of it which is granted to them.... His Majesty will ... for this purpose cause the fixed settlement which shall be found there to be removed, and will give orders that the French fishermen shall not be incommoded in the cutting of wood necessary for the repair of their scaffolds, huts, and fishing boats." The title of an Act of Parliament passed in 1782 in pursuance of this treaty was also pressed into the service of the French contention: "An Act to enable His Majesty to make such regulations as may be necessary to prevent the inconvenience which might arise from the competition of His Majesty's subjects and those of the most Christian King in carrying on the fishery on the coasts of the island of Newfoundland." No material alteration in the position took place from 1782 to 1792, and the Treaty of Peace of 1814 declared that "the French right of fishery at Newfoundland is replaced upon the footing upon which it stood in 1792." On these documents a very simple issue arose. According to the English contention their cumulative effect was to give the French a concurrent right of fishery with themselves upon the coasts in question. It was maintained, on the other hand, by France that her subjects enjoyed an exclusive right of fishing along the so-called French shore. It may be said at once that the course of English diplomacy was almost uniformly weak, and was in fact such as to lend no small countenance to the French contention. Thus, for many years it was the policy of the Home Government to discourage the colonists from exercising the right which was always alleged in theory to be concurrent. Nor did the Imperial complaisance end here. The French fishermen and their protectors from time to time put forward pretensions only to be justified by a revival of the sovereignty which was extinguished by the Treaty of Utrecht. Thus, they attempted systematically to prevent any English settlement at all upon the debatable shore. For residential, mining and agricultural purposes this strip would thus be withdrawn from colonial occupation. It is much to be regretted that these claims were not summarily repudiated. The Imperial Government, however, encouraged them by forbidding any grants of land along the area in dispute. Under these circumstances the theoretical assertion of British sovereignty by which the prohibition was qualified was not likely to be specially impressive. The islanders acquiesced in the decision with stolid patience, but, undeterred by the consequent insecurity of tenure, settled as squatters in the unappropriated lands. As recently as forty years ago their title was still unrecognized, and the presence of thousands of settlers with indeterminate claims had become a dangerous grievance. In 1881 Sir William Whiteway, then Premier of the colony, paid a visit to England, and his powerful advocacy procured recognition for the title of the settlers to their lands, and brought them within the pale of the Queen's law. The French shore cod fishery was recently so poor compared with the Great Bank fishery that French fishermen abandoned the former for the latter; and, in fact, but for a recent development of the French claim, it would have been possible to say of the whole question _solvitur ambulando_. The development referred to sprang from the growing lobster industry along the French shore. In 1874 and the following years lobster factories were erected by British subjects on the French shore, in positions where there was no French occupation and there were no French buildings. Here there was no violation of the Treaty of Utrecht provision, for the French were in no way restrained from "erecting stages made of boards, and huts necessary and useful for drying of fish," nor was there any violation of the declaration annexed to the Treaty of Versailles, that "His Britannic Majesty will take the most positive measures for preventing his subjects from interrupting in any way by their competition the fishery of the French during the temporary exercise of it which is granted them." The "fishing" which was not to be interrupted by competition was the fishery "which is granted to them," a limitation which throws us back at once upon the language of the earlier treaties. Now it is indisputably clear that the only fishing rights granted to the French were concerned with codfish. The lobster industry was then unknown; and the language used, and in particular "the stages and huts necessary and useful for drying fish" spoken of, are applicable to codfish and not to lobsters, for the canning industry was only of recent date, and lobsters, moreover, are not dried. No fishery other than that of the codfish could then have been contemplated. That this must have been abundantly clear is apparent from the memoirs of M. de Torcy, one of the negotiators of the treaty, who uses throughout the expression "morue" (codfish)--the liberty stipulated was "pêcher et sécher les morues" (to fish and dry codfish). The French, however, not content with objecting to the presence of English factories, erected factories of their own, comprehending them, it must be presumed, within the description "huts necessary and useful for the drying of fish." They contended, furthermore, that their rights were a part of the ancient French sovereignty retained when the soil was ceded to England. Such a claim was inadmissible on any view of the treaties. In fact, there was much to be said for the view that no _exclusive_ right of fishery of any sort was ever given to the French, in spite of the language of the celebrated Declaration. As Lord Palmerston wrote, some eighty years ago, to Count Sebastiani, in his unambiguous way: "I will observe to your Excellency, in conclusion, that if the right conceded to the French by the Declaration of 1783 had been intended to be exclusive within the prescribed district, the terms used for defining such right would assuredly have been more ample and specific than they are found to be in that document; for in no other similar instrument which has ever come under the knowledge of the British Government is so important a concession as an exclusive privilege of this description accorded in terms so loose and indefinitive. Exclusive rights are privileges which from the very nature of things are likely to be injurious to parties who are thereby debarred from some exercise of industry in which they would otherwise engage. Such rights are, therefore, certain at some time or other to be disputed, if there is any maintainable ground for contesting them; and for these reasons, when negotiators have intended to grant exclusive grants, it has been their invariable practice to convey such rights in direct, unqualified, and comprehensive terms, so as to prevent the possibility of future dispute or doubt. In the present case, however, such forms of expression are entirely wanting, and the claim put forward on the part of France is founded simply upon inference and upon an assumed interpretation of words." It was, in fact, as Lord Palmerston argued, a perfectly open contention that on the authorities no exclusive right was ever given to the French, but the demeanour of this country had been such as to render the position difficult and unconvincing. We are, however, upon much firmer ground when we come to close quarters with the French claims to rights of lobster fishing. The claim was first clearly advanced in 1888, that none but Frenchmen were entitled to catch lobsters and erect preserving factories upon the French shore. This at once elicited an incisive English remonstrance, in deference to which French diplomacy had recourse to the evasion that the factories were merely temporary. They were not, however, removed, and finally in 1889 further remonstrances by Lord Salisbury were met with the bold contention that these factories were comprehended within the language of the treaties. The English Government met this _volte face_ with a feeble proposal to resort to arbitration--a proposal which the islanders declined with equal propriety and spirit. The consequent position was vividly and faithfully stated by Sir Charles Dilke, in a passage which may be quoted in full: "Instead of protecting British fishermen in the prosecution of their lawful avocation, and resisting the new claim of the French, our Government, after failing to enforce the claim of the French, tried to go to arbitration upon it before a Court in which the best known personage was to have been M. de Martens, the hereditary librarian of the Russian Foreign Office, whose opinion on such points was hardly likely to be impartial. Luckily, the French added a condition, the enormity of which was such that the arbitration has never taken place, and it may be hoped now never will. "While British officers were backed up by the Government in most arbitrary action on behalf of the French and against the colonists, the theory continued to be that the French pretensions were disputed by us. At the end of 1889 the Home Government sent for the Prime Minister of Newfoundland, who came to England in 1890. A _modus vivendi_ was agreed to preserving such British lobster factories as existed, and the French Government agreeing that they would undertake to grant no new lobster-fishing concessions 'on fishing grounds occupied by British subjects,' whatever that might mean. But the limitation was afterwards explained away, and the _modus vivendi_ stated to mean the _status quo_. The Colonial Government strongly protested against the _modus vivendi_, as a virtual admission of a concurrent right of lobster fishing prejudicial to the position of Newfoundland in future negotiation; and there can be no doubt that the adoption of the _modus vivendi_ by the British Government without previous reference to the colony, and against its wish, was a violation of the principle laid down by the then Mr Labouchere, when Secretary of State in 1857, and by Lord Palmerston. Our Government deny this, because they expressly reserved all questions of principle and right in the agreement with the French, and that is so, of course; but there can be no doubt about the effect of what they did. "By an answer given by an Under-Secretary of State in the House of Commons, the views of the Newfoundland Government were misrepresented, it being stated that they 'were consulted as to the terms of the _modus vivendi_, which was modified to some extent to meet their views, although concluded without reference to them in its final shape'; but the Newfoundland Government insisted that the terms of the _modus vivendi_ had not been modified in accordance with their views, as they had protested against the whole arrangement. The Home Government quibbled and said that the answer showed that the Newfoundland Government were not responsible for the _modus vivendi_ as settled. Plain people, however, must continue to be as indignant as the colonists are at the misrepresentation and the breach of Mr Labouchere's principle. "The terms of the _modus vivendi_ accord to unfounded pretensions the standing of reasonable claims, and confer upon the French the actual possession and enjoyment of the rights to which these claims relate. Mr Baird refused to comply with the _modus vivendi_. Sir Baldwin Walker, commanding on the coast, landed a party of blue-jackets in 1891, and took the law into his own hands against Mr Baird, was sued for damages, and twice lost his case.[56] There had existed an Imperial Act under which Sir Baldwin Walker might have been protected, but it had been repealed when self-government was granted to Newfoundland. In the same year of 1891 a Newfoundland Act was passed, under heavy pressure from the Home Government, compelling colonial subjects to observe the instructions of the naval officers to the extent of at once quitting the French shore if directed, and the Act was to be in force till the end of 1893. The Home Government had passed a Bill through the House of Commons, and dropped it, before it received the Royal assent, only after the Prime Minister of Newfoundland had been heard at the bar of both Houses and had promised colonial legislation. The French Government have insisted that a British Act should be passed; and Lord Salisbury, while declaring that there ought to be a permanent Colonial Act, has always refused to promise a British Act. To my mind, the Newfoundland people went too far in giving up their freedom by passing the Act which I have named, an Act to which, had I been a member of the Newfoundland Legislature, nothing would have induced me to consent; and my sympathies are entirely with the Newfoundlanders in their refusal to part with their freedom, for all time, by making so monstrous a statute permanent." The _modus vivendi_ treaty was periodically renewed by the Colonial Legislature with a submissiveness which would have seemed excessive if they had not been pressed with the shibboleth of Imperial interest. At the same time, signs of restiveness were not wanting. The complaints of the Newfoundlanders became more frequent, more insistent, and more emphatic. They pointed out that the French virtually claimed a monopoly of an 800-mile shore, which was entirely British of right, that in consequence they interfered with the development of the mining industry, and the extension of railways, and that thereby they were seriously hampering the progress of the colony. The case put forward by the colonists was historically strong, and there was much to be said for the contention that they were entitled to everything they claimed: on any view they could rightly complain of a cruel injustice, so long as the indolence or incompetence of English diplomacy suffered a debatable land to survive in the teeth of an undebatable argument. In August, 1898, at the request of the Newfoundland Government, a Royal Commission was appointed by Mr Chamberlain, and sent out the following year, for the purpose of inquiring into the whole question of French treaty rights. A good deal of evidence was given by local colonists of acts of French aggression, and of consequent injury in person and property. But the report remained unpublished. Such aggression was in keeping with the instructions issued in 1895 by the French Premier and Foreign Minister to the commanders of the French warships on this station: "To seize and confiscate all instruments of fishing belonging to foreigners, resident or otherwise, who shall fish on that part of the coast which is reserved for our use"--instructions that amounted to an arbitrary assertion of territorial sovereignty. And yet the actual interests of France were very meagre: thus in 1898, on a coastline where some 20,000 Newfoundlanders were settled in 215 harbours, there were only 16 French stations and 458 men on the 800-mile shore; in 1903 only 13 stations and 402 men.[57] In 1901 when the vexed question came once again before the Newfoundland Legislature, the Government declared that in renewing the _modus vivendi_ for the following year, they did so only in consideration of the obstacles then in the way of the Imperial Government to securing a satisfactory settlement of the whole matter. In 1904 the Newfoundland Government refused to relax the Bait Law any more; and France then consented to enter into the notable agreement, which once for all abolished the inveterate grievances and difficulties arising out of the "French shore" question. In consideration of certain territorial privileges in West Africa, France agreed to relinquish her rights as to landing and drying fish on the treaty shore, which had been recognized by the Treaty of Utrecht. French subjects injured by this arrangement were to receive such compensation from Great Britain as would be awarded by a tribunal consisting of one representative of each contracting party, assisted by an umpire if necessary. The French were to enjoy the same rights as British subjects of fishing on the coast generally, and were permitted to take bait, which they had been forbidden to do by the Newfoundland Act of 1886. This convention did not affect the applicability of local law as to bait in regard to the non-treaty coast. Newfoundland was satisfied with this change. After the ratification of the agreement, the new Governor, Sir William MacGregor, telegraphed to Mr Lyttelton, the Minister for the Colonies, asking him to convey to the King the people's acknowledgment of the "great boon" conferred by the Convention, which His Majesty was chiefly instrumental in initiating, and to the British Government for having safeguarded the interests of the colony in negotiations involving so many difficulties. That this view represented that of the population at large was shown by the return to office (October) of Sir Robert Bond and his colleagues with a very strong majority. Soon afterwards an _entente cordiale_ was established between Newfoundland and the French colony of St. Pierre and Miquelon. Thus, "the Anglo-French chapter--some four centuries long--closed; and the lobster, which darkened its closing paragraphs, ceased to be a force in history."[58] * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [56] [See _Baird_ v. _Walker_, Law Reports, 1891, Appeal Cases, p. 491.] [57] M'Grath, _op. cit._, p. 149. [58] Rogers, _op. cit._, p. 225. INDEX Abandonment Suggested, 85, 106 Admirals, Fishing, 70, 71, 84, 85, 86, 98, 99 Amiens, Peace of, 102 American Independence, War of, 95 American prohibition of trade, 91 American Rebellion, 90 Area of Newfoundland, 8 Bacon, Sir Francis, 15, 66, 96 Baird, Mr, 182, 183 Bait Law, 185 Baltimore, Lord, 64, 70, 89 Banks Disaster, 135-142 Bannerman, Governor, 120 Basque Pioneers, 26, 47 Bathurst, Lord, 107 Beauclerk, Lord Vere, 85 Beazley, Mr Raymond, 30, 32, 35 Blaine, J.G., 128 Blaine-Bond incident, 128 Board of Trade, The, 78 Boeothics, 17, 102 Bonavista, Cape, 35 Bond, Sir Robert, 128, 162, 163, 186 Bond-Morris, Coalition, 155, 162 Bonfoy, Governor, 90 Bonnycastle, Sir Richard, 8, 19, 75 Boulton, Chief Justice, 110 Boys' Brigades, 166 Breton, Cape, Attack on, 87 Bristol, 30, 36, 67, 71 British indifference, 46, 76, 81, 84, 88, 91, 95, 176, 180, 182 Buchan, Captain, 105 Burleigh, Lord, 53 Burrill's Attack, 82 Bute, Lord, 88 Cables, Transatlantic, 7, 120 Cabot, John, 26-32, 35-6, 42-3 Cabot, Sebastian, 17, 28, 30, 39, 40, 43 _Calypso_, H.M.S., 165 Canada, 126, 129 Canada, Proposed Union with, 126, 135, 138, 162, 163, 166 Canadian Sympathy, 115, 134 Carbonier, 83 Carson, Dr William, 104, 107, 109 Cartier, 18, 50 Casualties in Great War, 168 Chamberlain, Mr, 144-154 Charles, I., 74, 75, 81 Charles II., 81 Cinderella of colonial history, 75 Climate, 9, 57 Coalition Ministry, 167 Cochrane, Governor, 107, 108, 123 Colonization, 45 Colville, Admiral Lord, 87 Columbus, Christopher, 26, 27, 41 Commercial Bank, 135 Commissioners of Foreign Plantations, 74 Committee of Trade and Plantations, 77 "Company of Adventurers and Planters," 67 Conscription, 167 Cook, Captain, Survey of, 89 Copper, 12 Cortereal, Gaspar, 47 Council, Governing, 107 Court of Civil Jurisdiction, 98 Courts of Session, 98 Crewe, Lord, 164 Customs, survival of, 79 Decorations won in Great War, 169 d'Haussonville, Count, 87 de Martens, M., 181 Dilke, Sir Charles, 180 di Raimondi, Raimondo, 31, 35, 43 Discovery, the age of, 22 Dorrell, Governor, 89 Drake, Sir Barnard, 65 Duckworth, Governor, Sir Thomas, 103, 104 Economic position, 20, 92, 122, 137 Edward VII., 186 Elizabeth, Queen, 54 Ericsson, Leif, 25 European War, (1914-19), 164-170 Exploits River, 11 Falkland, Lord, 70 Famine, 105 Financial crisis, 135 Fires at St John's, 106, 115, 134 Fishing industry, 8, 13, 37, 40, 45, 48, 52, 60, 86, 92, 136, 164-5, 173 Fishing regulations, 67, 74 Fisheries Commission, 1890, 15 Fisheries, Department of Marine and, 16 Foreign fishing vessels Act, 129 Foreign traders, duty on, 81 France, conflict with, 82, 83, 87 France, fishing concessions to, 67, 84, 175, 179 French aggression, 23, 81, 82, 96, 172, 185 French, agreement with, 185 French and fishing industry, 47, 84, 88, 105, 172-3 French claims, 171, 178, 184 French colonization, 64 French fishing interests, 98, 102 French settlement, 81 French shore question, 171, 186 French surrender, 87 French voyagers, 50 Gallipoli, 168 Gambier, Governor, 102 Gibbs, Mr, 158 Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, voyage of, 53-63 Goodridge, Mr, 140 Governor, first, 85 Gower, Governor, 103 Grand Falls, 12 Grand Newfoundland Bank, 14 Graves, Admiral Lord, 87, 89 Greene, Mr, 140 Grenville, Sir Richard, 53 Grey, Earl, 117 Guy, John, 67 Hague Arbitration, 16, 129 Hakluyt, Richard, 51, 53 Harmsworth, Messrs, 161 Harvey, Governor, 115 Hay-Bond Treaty, 129 Hayes, Captain Edward, 9, 55, 57-62 Hayman's, Robert, verses, 72 Henry VII., 24, 29, 42, 43 Henry VIII., 24, 48, 50 Hill, Governor, 131 Historians, 8 Hobart, Lord, 102 Hore's voyage, 51 Hospital, first, 103 House of Assembly, 109, 112 Hoyles, Mr, 121 Imperial War Conference, 167 Imports and exports, 20 Industries, development of, 124, 160, 161, 184 Iron mines, 161 James I., 66 Justices of the Peace, 85, 86, 90 Justice, Administration of, 77, 90, 98 Keats, Governor, 104 Kent, John, 111, 120 Kielly, Dr, 111 King, Governor, 100 Kirke, Sir David, 74 Labouchere, Mr H., 181 Labrador, 9, 35, 47, 89 Lakes, 11 La Salle, 64 _Latona_, H.M.S., mutiny on, 100 Laws, first, 56 Leake, Admiral Sir John, Attack by, 83 Lecky, W.E.H., 96 Legislative Council, 110 Legislative power, establishment of, 102 Lilly, Mr Justin, 111 Lloyd, Sir Wm. F., 167-8 Lobster fishery, 177, 180 Lyttelton, Hon. Alfred, 186 M'Callum, Governor, 158 MacGregor, Sir William, 163, 186 Mansion House Fund, 135 Markland, 25 Mason, Captain John, 68, 72 _Matthew_, The, 30 May March, 19 _Mayflower_, The, 64 Merchants, 23, 69, 76, 80, 86, 99, 105, 106, 108 Milbanke, Governor, 98 Mineral resources, 8, 12, 161 Montague, Governor, 92 Morine, Mr, 157-8, 162 Morison, Mr, 162 Morris, Sir Edward, 162, 163, 167 Murray, Governor Sir Herbert, 144, 149 Musgrave, Governor, 126 Native inhabitants, 17, 19 Native races, 16 Natural features, 8, 11, 57, 58 Naval Reserve, 165, 168, 170 Newfoundland Act, the, 183 Newfoundland forestry corps, 168 Newspaper, the first, 103 Norse explorers, 25 Nova Scotia, 85, 106 O'Brien, Sir Terence, 135 O'Donnell, Bishop, 102, 122 Osborne, Captain Henry, 85 Ougier, Peter, 108 Oyer and Terminer, Commissioners of, 86 Pakington, Sir John, 117 Palmerston, Lord, 178, 182 Palliser, Governor, 88 Palliser's Act, 92 Panama Canal, 164 Paper Industry, 161 Paris, Treaty of, 87, 104, 174 Parke, Chief Baron, 112 Parkhurst, Anthony, 52 Pasqualigo, Lorenzo, 31 Pedley, Rev. C., 83, 89, 101 Peter Martyr d'Anghiera, 32, 39, 42 Pickmore, Governor, 105-7 Pitt, William (Lord Chatham), 87, 88, 97 Placentia, Attack on, 83 Plantations, 18, 66, 74, 77, 79, 95, 96 Planters, 18, 68, 76, 77 Poor Relief, 102, 123, 124, 131, 139 Population, 20, 77, 91, 93, 94, 102, 126, 132, 137 Popham, Sir John, 67 Portuguese, 24, 47, 52, 54 Post Office, 103 Prescott, Governor, 115 Prohibition, 166 Prowse, Chief Justice, 8, 30, 35, 109, 126 Railways, 21, 124, 131, 132, 133, 159, 184. (See also Reid Contract and Reid Newfoundland Company) Raleigh, Sir Walter, 22, 53, 63, 65 Ramusio, 32, 39, 40, 42 Reeves, Chief Justice, 99 Reed, Albert, Company, 161 Reid Contract, 133, 143-159 Reid Newfoundland Company, 159-161 Religion and religious differences, 20, 70, 89, 102, 112, 121 Rent, first levied, 75 Revenue and expenditure, 20 Rivers, 11 Roads, first, 107 Roberval, 50 Rocky River, 12 Rodney, Governor, 86 Rogers, J.D., 8, 13, 66 Royal Commission, 184 Royal Newfoundland Regiment, 100, 102 "Royal Gazette," The, 103 Rut, John, 50 Ryswick, Treaty of, 82, 172 Salisbury, Marquis of, 180, 183 Savings Bank, 135 Seal Fisheries, 115, 166 Sebastiani, Count, 179 Self-Government demanded, 104, 107, 116 Settlers, 74, 77, 78, 102, 177 Shanandithit, 19 Shipping, 21 Smith, Adam, 95 Sothern, Captain, 100 Southampton, Mayor of, 78 Spain and Spaniards, 24, 29, 36, 45, 52, 54, 65 _Squirrel_, The, 54, 63 St George's Bay, 131 St John's, 7, 55, 83, 87, 103, 106, 116, 121, 134 St John's, Capture by French, 83 St John's, Surrender to French, 87 Stamp Act, 91 Star Chamber, 70, 74, 76, 77 Storm at St John's, 116 Taxation, 91, 97 Telegraphs, 7, 21, 120 Thirkill, 43 Unemployment Problem, 124, 138 Union Bank, 135 United States, 128, 130, 164 United States, Fishing Industry, 105 Utrecht, Treaty of, 83, 102, 172, 174, 176 Vaughan, Sir William, 69, 75 Verrazzano, 50 Versailles, Treaty of, 97, 177 Vesmond, Chevalier, 82 Vikings, 25 Volunteer Force, 165 Waldegrave, Governor, 100, 102, 123 Walker, Sir Baldwin, 182 Wallace, Governor Sir Richard, 100 Walsingham, 65 War Loan, 169 West Country merchants, 76 West Country, sailors of, 30, 38, 65, 67 Weymouth, Mayor of, 78 Whitbourne, Sir Richard, 10, 18, 69, 71 Whiteway, Sir W., 139, 141, 177 William III., 82, 171 Willoughby, Sir Hugh, 17 Winter, Sir James, 143, 155, 158 Wireless Telegraphy, 7 Wolfe, General, 87 * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 114: 'dissolve the Legislation.' replaced with | | 'dissolve the Legislature.' | | Page 143: incalulably replaced with incalculably | | Page 147: inepitude replaced with ineptitude | | Page 149: signficance replaced with significance | | Page 190: Masou replaced with Mason | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
29130	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 29130-h.htm or 29130-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29130/29130-h/29130-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29130/29130-h.zip) BILLY TOPSAIL & COMPANY * * * * * THE "BILLY TOPSAIL" BOOKS By NORMAN DUNCAN THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL Illustrated, cloth, $1.50 "There was no need to invent conditions or imagine situations. The life of _any_ lad of Billy Topsail's years up there is sufficiently romantic. It is this skill in the portrayal of actual conditions that lie ready to the hand of the intelligent observer that makes Mr. Duncan's Newfoundland stories so noteworthy. 'The Adventures of Billy Topsail' is a wonderful book."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ BILLY TOPSAIL AND COMPANY Illustrated, cloth, $1.50 Every boy who knows Billy Topsail will welcome this continuation of his adventuresome life in the North. Like its predecessor, the new volume is a stirring story for boys, true to life, among the hardy sons of the sea, clean, pure and stimulating. * * * * * [Illustration: BILL O' BURNT BAY AND THE BOYS OF THE _SPOT CASH_ COULD NOT FATHOM THE MYSTERY OF THE _BLACK EAGLE_.] BILLY TOPSAIL & COMPANY A Story for Boys by NORMAN DUNCAN Author of "The Adventures of Billy Topsail," "Doctor Luke of The Labrador," "The Mother," "Dr. Grenfell's Parish" Illustrated [Illustration] New York--Chicago--Toronto Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1910, by Fleming H. Revell Company New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street To Chauncey Lewis and to "Buster," good friends both, sometimes to recall to them places and occasions at Mike Marr's: Dead Man's Point, Rolling Ledge, the Canoe Landing, the swift and wilful waters of the West Branch, Squaw Mountain, the trail to Dead Stream, the raft on Horseshoe, the Big Fish, the gracious kindness of the L. L. of E. O., (as well as her sandwiches), and the never-to-be-forgotten flapjacks that "didn't look it" but were indeed "all there." CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. _In Which Jimmie Grimm, Not Being Able to Help It, Is Born At Buccaneer Cove, Much to His Surprise, and Tog, the Wolf-Dog, Feels the Lash of a Seal-hide Whip and Conceives an Enmity_ 15 II. _In Which Jimmie Grimm is Warned Not to Fall Down, and Tog, Confirmed in Bad Ways, Raids Ghost Tickle, Commits Murder, Runs With the Wolves, Plots the Death of Jimmie Grimm and Reaches the End of His Rope_ 24 III. _In Which Little Jimmie Grimm Goes Lame and His Mother Discovers the Whereabouts of a Cure_ 33 IV. _In Which Jimmie Grimm Surprises a Secret, Jim Grimm makes a Rash Promise, and a Tourist From the States Discovers the Marks of Tog's Teeth_ 41 V. _In Which Jimmie Grimm Moves to Ruddy Cove and Settles on the Slope of the Broken Nose, Where, Falling in With Billy Topsail and Donald North, He Finds the Latter a Coward, But Learns the Reason, and Scoffs no Longer. In Which, Also, Donald North Leaps a Breaker to Save a Salmon Net, and Acquires a Strut_ 49 VI. _In Which, Much to the Delight of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Donald North, Having Perilous Business On a Pan of Ice After Night, is Cured of Fear, and Once More Puffs Out His Chest and Struts Like a Rooster_ 61 VII. _In Which Bagg, Imported From the Gutters of London, Lands At Ruddy Cove From the Mail-Boat, Makes the Acquaintance of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, and Tells Them 'E Wants to Go 'Ome. In Which, Also, the Way to Catastrophe Is Pointed_ 69 VIII. _In Which Bagg, Unknown to Ruddy Cove, Starts for Home, and, After Some Difficulty, Safely Gets There_ 76 IX. _In Which Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Being Added Up and Called a Man, Are Shipped For St. John's, With Bill o' Burnt Bay, Where They Fall In With Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald's Son, and Bill o' Burnt Bay Declines to Insure the "First Venture"_ 88 X. _In Which the Cook Smells Smoke, and the "First Venture" In a Gale of Wind Off the Chunks, Comes Into Still Graver Peril, Which Billy Topsail Discovers_ 97 XI. _In Which the "First Venture" All Ablaze Forward, Is Headed For the Rocks and Breakers of the Chunks, While Bill o' Burnt Bay and His Crew Wait for the Explosion of the Powder in Her Hold. In Which, Also, a Rope Is Put to Good Use_ 102 XII. _In Which Old David Grey, Once of the Hudson Bay Company, Begins the Tale of How Donald McLeod, the Factor at Fort Refuge, Scorned a Compromise With His Honour, Though His Arms Were Pinioned Behind Him and a Dozen Tomahawks Were Flourished About His Head._ 112 XIII. _In Which There Are Too Many Knocks At the Gate, a Stratagem Is Successful, Red Feather Draws a Tomahawk, and an Indian Girl Appears On the Scene_ 119 XIV. _In Which Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg Are Overtaken by the Black Fog in the Open Sea and Lose the Way Home While a Gale is Brewing_ 130 XV. _In Which it Appears to Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg That Sixty Seconds Sometimes Make More Than a Minute_ 136 XVI. _In Which Archie Armstrong Joins a Piratical Expedition and Sails Crested Seas to Cut Out the Schooner "Heavenly Home"_ 143 XVII. _In Which Bill o' Burnt Bay Finds Himself in Jail and Archie Armstrong Discovers That Reality is Not as Diverting as Romance_ 151 XVIII. _In Which Archie Inspects an Opera Bouffe Dungeon Jail, Where He Makes the Acquaintance of Dust, Dry Rot and Deschamps. In Which, Also, Skipper Bill o' Burnt Bay Is Advised to Howl Until His Throat Cracks_ 159 XIX. _In Which Archie Armstrong Goes Deeper In and Thinks He Has Got Beyond His Depth. Bill o' Burnt Bay Takes Deschamps By the Throat and the Issue Is Doubtful For a Time_ 165 XX. _In Which David Grey's Friend, the Son of the Factor at Fort Red Wing, Yarns of the Professor With the Broken Leg, a Stretch of Rotten River Ice and the Tug of a White Rushing Current_ 172 XXI. _In Which a Bearer of Tidings Finds Himself In Peril of His Life On a Ledge of Ice Above a Roaring Rapid_ 179 XXII. _In Which Billy Topsail Gets an Idea and, to the Amazement of Jimmie Grimm, Archie Armstrong Promptly Goes Him One Better_ 189 XXIII. _In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong Is Almost Floored By a Business Proposition, But Presently Revives, and Seems to be About to Rise to the Occasion_ 194 XXIV. _In Which the Honour of Archie Armstrong Becomes Involved, the First of September Becomes a Date of Utmost Importance, He Collides With Tom Tulk, and a Note is Made in the Book of the Future_ 203 XXV. _In Which Notorious Tom Tulk o' Twillingate and the Skipper of the "Black Eagle" Put Their Heads Together Over a Glass of Rum in the Cabin of a French Shore Trader_ 212 XXVI. _In Which the Enterprise of Archie Armstrong Evolves Señor Fakerino, the Greatest Magician In Captivity. In Which, also, the Foolish are Importuned Not to be Fooled, Candy is Promised to Kids, Bill o' Burnt Bay is Persuaded to Tussle With "The Lost Pirate," and the "Spot Cash" Sets Sail_ 220 XXVII. _In Which the Amazing Operations of the "Black Eagle" Promise to Ruin the Firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, and Archie Armstrong Loses His Temper and Makes a Fool of Himself_ 229 XXVIII. _In Which the "Spot Cash" is Caught By a Gale In the Night and Skipper Bill Gives Her Up For Lost_ 239 XXVIX. _In Which Opportunity is Afforded the Skipper of the "Black Eagle" to Practice Villainy in the Fog and He Quiets His Scruples. In Which, also, the Pony Islands and the Tenth of the Month Come Into Significant Conjunction_ 247 XXX. _In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the "Spot Cash" Fall Foul of a Dark Plot_ 256 XXXI. _In Which the "Spot Cash" is Picked up by Blow-Me-Down Rock In Jolly Harbour, Wreckers Threaten Extinction and the Honour of the Firm Passes into the Keeping of Billy Topsail_ 266 XXXII. _In Which the "Grand Lake" Conducts Herself In a Most Peculiar Fashion to the Chagrin of the Crew of the "Spot Cash"_ 275 XXXIII. _In Which Billy Topsail, Besieged by Wreckers, Sleeps on Duty and Thereafter Finds Exercise For His Wits. In Which, also, a Lighted Candle is Suspended Over a Keg of Powder and Precipitates a Critical Moment While Billy Topsail Turns Pale With Anxiety_ 281 XXXIV. _In Which Skipper Bill, as a Desperate Expedient, Contemplates the Use of His Teeth, and Archie Armstrong, to Save His Honour, Sets Sail in a Basket, But Seems to Have Come a Cropper_ 291 XXXV. _In Which Many Things Happen: Old Tom Topsail Declares Himself the Bully to Do It, Mrs. Skipper William Bounds Down the Path With a Boiled Lobster, the Mixed Accommodation Sways, Rattles, Roars, Puffs and Quits on a Grade in the Wilderness, Tom Topsail Loses His Way in the Fog and Archie Armstrong Gets Despairing Ear of a Whistle_ 301 XXXVI. _And Last: In Which Archie Armstrong Hangs His Head in His Father's Office, the Pale Little Clerk Takes a Desperate Chance, Bill o' Burnt Bay Loses His Breath, and there is a Grand Dinner in Celebration of the Final Issue, at Which the Amazement of the Crew of the "Spot Cash" is Equalled by Nothing in the World Except Their Delight_ 311 ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE Bill O' Burnt Bay and the Boys of the _Spot Cash_ Could not Fathom the Mystery of the _Black Eagle_. _Title_ Tog Thawed Into Limp and Servile Amiability. 20 Instinctively, He Covered His Throat With His Arms when Tog Fell Upon Him. 28 Plucking up His Courage, Donald Leaped for the Rock. 58 She Was Beating Laboriously into a Violent Head Wind. 96 Buffalo Horn Looked Steadily into Mcleod's Eyes. 125 "--We Want to Charter the _On Time_ and Trade the Ports of the French Shore." 198 Señor Fakerino created Applause by Extracting Half Dollars From Vacancy. 230 BILLY TOPSAIL & COMPANY CHAPTER I _In Which Jimmie Grimm, Not Being Able to Help It, Is Born At Buccaneer Cove, Much to His Surprise, and Tog, the Wolf-Dog, Feels the Lash of a Seal-hide Whip and Conceives an Enmity_ Young Jimmie Grimm began life at Buccaneer Cove of the Labrador. It was a poor place to begin, of course; but Jimmie had had nothing to do with that. It was by Tog, with the eager help of two hungry gray wolves, that he was taught to take care of the life into which, much to his surprise, he had been ushered. Tog was a dog with a bad name; and everybody knows that a dog with a bad name should be hanged forthwith. It should have happened to Tog. At best he was a wolfish beast. His father was a wolf; and in the end Tog was as lean and savage and cunningly treacherous as any wolf of the gray forest packs. When he had done with Jimmie Grimm--and when Jimmie Grimm's father had done with Tog--Jimmie Grimm had learned a lesson that he never could recall without a gasp and a quick little shudder. "I jus' don't like t' think o' Tog," he told Billy Topsail and Archie Armstrong, long afterwards. "You weren't _afraid_ of him, were you?" Archie Armstrong demanded, a bit scornfully. "_Was_ I?" Jimmie snorted. "Huh!" The business with Tog happened before old Jim Grimm moved south to Ruddy Cove of the Newfoundland coast, disgusted with the fishing of Buccaneer. It was before Jimmie Grimm had fallen in with Billy Topsail and Donald North, before he had ever clapped eyes on Bagg, the London gutter-snipe, or had bashfully pawed the gloved hand of Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald's son. It was before Donald North cured himself of fear and the _First Venture_ had broken into a blaze in a gale of wind off the Chunks. It was before Billy Topsail, a lad of wits, had held a candle over the powder barrel, when the wreckers boarded the _Spot Cash_. It was before Bill o' Burnt Bay had been rescued from a Miquelon jail and the _Heavenly Home_ was cut out of St. Pierre Harbour in the foggy night. It was also before the _Spot Cash_ had fallen foul of the plot to scuttle the _Black Eagle_. It was before the big gale and all the adventures of that northward trading voyage. In short, it was before Jim Grimm moved up from the Labrador to Ruddy Cove for better fishing. * * * * * Tog had a bad name. On the Labrador coast all dogs have bad names; nor, if the truth must be told, does the reputation do them any injustice. If evil communications corrupt good manners, the desperate character of Tog's deeds, no less than the tragic manner of his end, may be accounted for. At any rate, long before his abrupt departure from the wilderness trails and snow-covered rock of Buccaneer Cove, he had earned the worst reputation of all the pack. It began in the beginning. When Tog was eight weeks old his end was foreseen. He was then little more than a soft, fluffy, black-and-white ball, awkwardly perambulating on four absurdly bowed legs. Martha, Jim Grimm's wife, one day cast the lean scraps of the midday meal to the pack. What came to pass so amazed old Jim Grimm that he dropped his splitting-knife and stared agape. "An' would you look at that little beast!" he gasped. "That one's a wonder for badness!" The snarling, scrambling heap of dogs, apparently inextricably entangled, had all at once been reduced to order. Instead of a confusion of taut legs and teeth and bristling hair, there was a precise half-circle of gaunt beasts, squatted at a respectful distance from Tog's mother, hopelessly licking their chops, while, with hair on end and fangs exposed and dripping, she kept them off. "It ain't Jinny," Jim remarked. "You can't blame she. It's that little pup with the black eye." You couldn't blame Jenny. Last of all would it occur to Martha Grimm, with a child of her own to rear, to call her in the wrong. With a litter of five hearty pups to provide for, Jenny was animated by a holy maternal instinct. But Tog, which was the one with the black eye, was not to be justified. He was imitating his mother's tactics with diabolical success. A half-circle of whimpering puppies, keeping a respectful distance, watched in grieved surprise, while, with hair on end and tiny fangs occasionally exposed, he devoured the scraps of the midday meal. "A wonder for badness!" Jim Grimm repeated. "'Give a dog a bad name,'" quoted Martha, quick, like the woman she was, to resent snap-judgment of the young, "'an'----'" "'Hang un,'" Jim concluded. "Well," he added, "I wouldn't be s'prised if it _did_ come t' that." It did. * * * * * In Tog's eyes there was never the light of love and humour--no amiable jollity. He would come fawning, industriously wagging his hinder parts, like puppies of more favoured degree; but all the while his black eyes were alert, hard, infinitely suspicious and avaricious. Not once, I am sure, did affection or gratitude lend them beauty. A beautiful pup he was, nevertheless--fat and white, awkwardly big, his body promising splendid strength. Even when he made war on the fleas--and he waged it unceasingly--the vigour and skill of attack, the originality of method, gave him a certain distinction. But his eyes were never well disposed; the pup was neither trustful nor to be trusted. "If he lives t' the age o' three," said Jim Grimm, with a pessimistic wag of the head, "'twill be more by luck than good conduct." "Ah, dad," said Jimmie Grimm, "you jus' leave un t' me!" "Well, Jimmie," drawled Jim Grimm, "it might teach you more about dogs than you know. I don't mind if I _do_ leave un t' you--for a while." "Hut!" Jimmie boasted. "_I'll_ master un." "May _be_," said Jim Grimm. It was Jimmie Grimm who first put Tog in the traces. This was in the early days of Tog's first winter--and of Jimmie's seventh. The dog was a lusty youngster then; better nourished than the other dogs of Jim Grimm's pack, no more because of greater strength and daring than a marvellous versatility in thievery. In a bored sort of way, being at the moment lazy with food stolen from Sam Butt's stage, Tog submitted. He yawned, stretched his long legs, and gave inopportune attention to a persistent flea near the small of his back. When, however, the butt of Jimmie's whip fell smartly on his flank, he was surprised into an appreciation of the fact that a serious attempt was being made to curtail his freedom; and he was at once alive with resentful protest. [Illustration: _Courtesy of "The Outing Magazine"_ TOG THAWED INTO LIMP AND SERVILE AMIABILITY.] "Hi, Tog!" Jimmie complained. "Bide still!" Tog slipped from Jimmie's grasp and bounded off. He turned with a snarl. "Here, Tog!" cried Jimmie. Tog came--stepping warily over the snow. His head was low, his king-hairs bristling, his upper lip lifted. "Ha, Tog, b'y!" said Jimmie, ingratiatingly. Tog thawed into limp and servile amiability. The long, wiry white hair of his neck fell flat; he wagged his bushy white tail; he pawed the snow and playfully tossed his long, pointed nose as he crept near. But had Jimmie Grimm been more observant, more knowing, he would have perceived that the light in the lanky pup's eyes had not mellowed. "Good dog!" crooned Jimmie, stretching out an affectionate hand. Vanished, then, in a flash, every symptom of Tog's righteousness. His long teeth closed on Jimmie's small hand with a snap. Jimmie struck instantly--and struck hard. The butt of the whip caught Tog on the nose. He dropped the hand and leaped away with a yelp. "Now, me b'y," thought Jimmie Grimm, staring into the quivering dog's eyes, not daring to glance at his own dripping hand, "I'll master _you_!" But it was no longer a question of mastery. The issue was life or death. Tog was now of an age to conceive murder. Moreover, he was of a size to justify an attempt upon Jimmie. And murder was in his heart. He crouched, quivering, his wolfish eyes fixed upon the boy's blazing blue ones. For a moment neither antagonist ventured attack. Both waited. It was Jimmie who lost patience. He swung his long dog whip. The lash cracked in Tog's face. With a low growl, the dog rushed, and before the boy could evade the attack, the dog had him by the leg. Down came the butt of the whip. Tog released his hold and leaped out of reach. He pawed about, snarling, shaking his bruised head. This advantage the boy sought to pursue. He advanced--alert, cool, ready to strike. Tog retreated. Jimmie rushed upon him. At a bound, Tog passed, turned, and came again. Before Jimmie had well faced him, Tog had leaped for his throat. Down went the boy, overborne by the dog's weight, and by the impact, which he was not prepared to withstand. But Tog was yet a puppy, unpracticed in fight; he had missed the grip. And a heavy stick, in the hands of Jimmie's father, falling mercilessly upon him, put him in yelping retreat. "I 'low, Jimmie," drawled Jim Grimm, while he helped the boy to his feet, "that that dog _is_ teachin' you more 'n you knowed." "I 'low, dad," replied the breathless Jimmie, "that he teached me nothin' more than I forgot." "I wouldn't forget again," said Jim. Jimmie did not deign to reply. CHAPTER II _In Which Jimmie Grimm is Warned Not to Fall Down, and Tog, Confirmed in Bad Ways, Raids Ghost Tickle, Commits Murder, Runs With the Wolves, Plots the Death of Jimmie Grimm and Reaches the End of His Rope_ Jimmie Grimm's father broke Tog to the traces before the winter was over. A wretched time the perverse beast had of it. Labrador dogs are not pampered idlers; in winter they must work or starve--as must men, the year round. But Tog had no will for work, acknowledged no master save the cruel, writhing whip; and the whip was therefore forever flecking his ears or curling about his flanks. Moreover, he was a sad shirk. Thus he made more trouble for himself. When his team-mates discovered the failing--and this was immediately--they pitilessly worried his hind legs. Altogether, in his half-grown days, Tog led a yelping, bleeding life of it; whereby he got no more than his desserts. Through the summer he lived by theft when thievery was practicable; at other times he went fishing for himself with an ill will. Meantime, he developed strength and craft, both in extraordinary degree. There was not a more successful criminal in the pack, nor was there a more despicable bully. When the first snow fell, Tog was master at Buccaneer Cove, and had already begun to raid the neighbouring settlement at Ghost Tickle. Twice he was known to have adventured there. After the first raid, he licked his wounds in retirement for two weeks; after the second, which was made by night, they found a dead dog at Ghost Tickle. Thereafter, Tog entered Ghost Tickle by daylight, and with his teeth made good his right to come and go at will. It was this that left him open to suspicion when the Ghost Tickle tragedy occurred. Whether or not Tog was concerned in that affair, nobody knows. They say at Ghost Tickle that he plotted the murder and led the pack; but the opinion is based merely upon the fact that he was familiar with the paths and lurking places of the Tickle--and, possibly, upon the fact of his immediate and significant disappearance from the haunts of men. News came from Ghost Tickle that Jonathan Wall had come late from the ice with a seal. Weary with the long tramp, he had left the carcass at the waterside. "Billy," he said to his young son, forgetting the darkness and the dogs, "go fetch that swile up." Billy was gone a long time. "I wonder what's keepin' Billy," his mother said. They grew uneasy, at last; and presently they set out to search for the lad. Neither child nor seal did they ever see again; but they came upon the shocking evidences of what had occurred. And they blamed Tog of Buccaneer Cove. * * * * * For a month or more Tog was lost to sight; but an epidemic had so reduced the number of serviceable dogs that he was often in Jim Grimm's mind. Jim very heartily declared that Tog should have a berth with the team if starvation drove him back; not that he loved Tog, said he, but that he needed him. But Tog seemed to be doing well enough in the wilderness. He did not soon return. Once they saw him. It was when Jim and Jimmie were bound home from Laughing Cove. Of a sudden Jim halted the team. "Do you see that, Jimmie, b'y?" he asked, pointing with his whip to the white crest of a near-by hill. "Dogs!" Jimmie ejaculated. "Take another squint," said Jim. "Dogs," Jimmie repeated. "Wolves," drawled Jim. "An' do you see the beast with the black eye?" "Why, dad," Jimmie exclaimed, "'tis Tog!" "I 'low," said Jim, "that Tog don't need us no more." But Tog did. He came back--lean and fawning. No more abject contrition was ever shown by dog before. He was starving. They fed him at the usual hour; and not one ounce more than the usual amount of food did he get. Next day he took his old place in the traces and helped haul Jim Grimm the round of the fox traps. But that night Jim Grimm lost another dog; and in the morning Tog had again disappeared into the wilderness. Jimmie Grimm was glad. Tog had grown beyond him. The lad could control the others of the pack; but he was helpless against Tog. "I isn't so wonderful sorry, myself," said Jim. "I 'low, Jimmie," he added, "that Tog don't like _you_." "No, that he doesn't," Jimmie promptly agreed. "All day yesterday he snooped around, with an eye on me. Looked to me as if he was waitin' for me to fall down." "Jimmie!" said Jim Grimm, gravely. "Ay, sir?" "You _mustn't_ fall down. Don't matter whether Tog's about or not. If the dogs is near, _don't you fall down!_" "Not if I knows it," said Jimmie. * * * * * It was a clear night in March. The moon was high. From the rear of Jim Grimm's isolated cottage the white waste stretched far to the wilderness. The dogs of the pack were sound asleep in the outhouse. An hour ago the mournful howling had ceased for the night. Half-way to the fish-stage, whither he was bound on his father's errand, Jimmie Grimm came to a startled full stop. "What was that?" he mused. [Illustration: _Courtesy of "The Outing Magazine"_ INSTINCTIVELY, HE COVERED HIS THROAT WITH HIS ARMS WHEN TOG FELL UPON HIM.] A dark object, long and lithe, had seemed to slip like a shadow into hiding below the drying flake. Jimmie continued to muse. What had it been? A prowling dog? Then he laughed a little at his own fears--and continued on his way. But he kept watch on the flake; and so intent was he upon this, so busily was he wondering whether or not his eyes had tricked him, that he stumbled over a stray billet of wood, and fell sprawling. He was not alarmed, and made no haste to rise; but had he then seen what emerged from the shadow of the flake he would instantly have been in screaming flight toward the kitchen door. The onslaught of Tog and the two wolves was made silently. There was not a howl, not a growl, not even an eager snarl. They came leaping, with Tog in the lead--and they came silently. Jimmie caught sight of them when he was half-way to his feet. He had but time to call his father's name; and he knew that the cry would not be heard. Instinctively, he covered his throat with his arms when Tog fell upon him; and he was relieved to feel Tog's teeth in his shoulder. He felt no pain--not any more, at any rate, than a sharp stab in the knee. He was merely sensible of the fact that the vital part had not yet been reached. In the savage joy of attack, Jimmie's assailants forgot discretion. Snarls and growls escaped them while they worried the small body. In the manner of wolves, too, they snapped at each other. The dogs in the outhouse awoke, cocked their ears, came in a frenzy to the conflict; not to save Jimmie Grimm, but to participate in his destruction. Jimmie was prostrate beneath them all--still protecting his throat; not regarding his other parts. And by this confusion Jim Grimm was aroused from a sleepy stupor by the kitchen fire. "I wonder," said he, "what's the matter with them dogs." "I'm not able t' make out," his wife replied, puzzled, "but----" "Hark!" cried Jim. They listened. "Quick!" Jimmie's mother screamed. "They're at Jimmie!" With an axe in his hand, and with merciless wrath in his heart, Jim Grimm descended upon the dogs. He stretched the uppermost dead. A second blow broke the back of a wolf. The third sent a dog yelping to the outhouse with a useless hind leg. The remaining dogs decamped. Their howls expressed pain in a degree to delight Jim Grimm and to inspire him with deadly strength and purpose. Tog and the surviving wolf fled. "Jimmie!" Jim Grimm called. Jimmie did not answer. "They've killed you!" his father sobbed. "Jimmie, b'y, is you dead? Mother," he moaned to his wife, who had now come panting up with a broomstick, "they've gone an' killed our Jimmie!" Jimmie was unconscious when his father carried him into the house. It was late in the night, and he was lying in his own little bed, and his mother had dressed his wounds, when he revived. And Tog was then howling under his window; and there Tog remained until dawn, listening to the child's cries of agony. * * * * * Two days later, Jim Grimm, practicing unscrupulous deception, lured Tog into captivity. That afternoon the folk of Buccaneer Cove solemnly hanged him by the neck until he was dead, which is the custom in that land. I am glad that they disposed of him. He had a noble body--strong and beautiful, giving delight to the beholder, capable of splendid usefulness. But he had not one redeeming trait of character to justify his existence. "I wonder why Tog was so bad, dad," Jimmie mused, one day, when, as they mistakenly thought, he was near well again. "I s'pose," Jim explained, "'twas because his father was a wolf." Little Jimmie Grimm was not the same after that. For some strange reason he went lame, and the folk of Buccaneer Cove said that he was "took with the rheumatiz." "Wisht I could be cured," the little fellow used to sigh. CHAPTER III _In Which Little Jimmie Grimm Goes Lame and His Mother Discovers the Whereabouts of a Cure_ Little Jimmie Grimm was then ten years old. He had been an active, merry lad, before the night of the assault of Tog and the two wolves--inclined to scamper and shout, given to pranks of a kindly sort. His affectionate, light-hearted disposition had made him the light of his mother's eyes, and of his father's, too, for, child though he was, lonely Jim Grimm found him a comforting companion. But he was now taken with what the folk of Buccaneer Cove called "rheumatiz o' the knee." There were days when he walked in comfort; but there were also times when he fell to the ground in a sudden agony and had to be carried home. There were weeks when he could not walk at all. He was not now so merry as he had been. He was more affectionate; but his eyes did not flash in the old way, nor were his cheeks so fat and rosy. Jim Grimm and the lad's mother greatly desired to have him cured. "'Twould be like old times," Jim Grimm said once, when Jimmie was put to bed, "if Jimmie was only well." "I'm afeared," the mother sighed, "that he'll never be well again." "For fear you're right, mum," said Jim Grimm, "we must make him happy every hour he's with us. Hush, mother! Don't cry, or I'll be cryin', too!" Nobody connected Jimmie Grimm's affliction with the savage teeth of Tog. * * * * * It was Jimmie's mother who discovered the whereabouts of a cure. Hook's Kurepain was the thing to do it! Who could deny the virtues of that "healing balm"? They were set forth in print, in type both large and small, on a creased and dirty remnant of the _Montreal Weekly Globe and Family Messenger_, which had providentially strayed into that far port of the Labrador. Who could dispute the works of "the invaluable discovery"? Was it not a positive cure for bruises, sprains, chilblains, cracked hands, stiffness of the joints, contraction of the muscles, numbness of the limbs, neuralgia, rheumatism, pains in the chest, warts, frost bites, sore throat, quinsy, croup, and various other ills? Was it not an excellent hair restorer, as well? If it had cured millions (and apparently it had), why shouldn't it cure little Jimmie Grimm? So Jimmie's mother longed with her whole heart for a bottle of the "boon to suffering humanity." "I've found something, Jim Grimm," said she, a teasing twinkle in her eye, when, that night, Jimmie's father came in from the snowy wilderness, where he had made the round of his fox traps. "Have you, now?" he asked, curiously. "What is it?" "'Tis something," said she, "t' make you glad." "Come, tell me!" he cried, his eyes shining. "I've heard you say," she went on, smiling softly, "that you'd be willin' t' give anything t' find it. I've heard you say that----" "'Tis a silver fox!" "I've heard you say," she continued, shaking her head, "'Oh,' I've heard you say, 'if I could _only_ find it I'd be happy.'" "Tell me!" he coaxed. "Please tell me!" She laid a hand on his shoulder. The remnant of the _Montreal Weekly Globe and Family Messenger_ she held behind her. "'Tis a cure for Jimmie," said she. "No!" he cried, incredulous; but there was yet the ring of hope in his voice. "Have you, now?" "Hook's Kurepain," said she, "never failed yet." "'Tis wonderful!" said Jim Grimm. She spread the newspaper on the table and placed her finger at that point of the list where the cure of rheumatism was promised. "Read that," said she, "an' you'll find 'tis all true." Jim Grimm's eye ran up to the top of the page. His wife waited, a smile on her lips. She was anticipating a profound impression. "'Beauty has wonderful charms,'" Jim Grimm read. "'Few men can withstand the witchcraft of a lovely face. All hearts are won----'" "No, no!" the mother interrupted, hastily. "That's the marvellous Oriental Beautifier. I been readin' that, too. But 'tis not that. 'Tis lower down. Beginnin', 'At last the universal remedy of Biblical times.' Is you got it yet?" "Ay, sure!" And thereupon Jim Grimm of Buccaneer Cove discovered that a legion of relieved and rejuvenated rheumatics had without remuneration or constraint sung the virtues of the Kurepain and the praises of Hook. Poor ignorant Jim Grimm did not for a moment doubt the existence of the Well-Known Traveller, the Family Doctor, the Minister of the Gospel, the Champion of the World. He was ready to admit that the cure had been found. "I'm willin' t' believe," said he, solemnly, the while gazing very earnestly into his wife's eyes, "that 'twould do Jimmie a world o' good." "Read on," said she. "'It costs money to make the Kurepain,'" Jim read, aloud. "'It is not a sugar-and-water remedy. It is a _cure_, manufactured at _great expense_. Good medicines come _high_. But the peerless Kurepain is _cheap_ when compared with the worthless substitutes now on the market and sold for just as good. Our price is five dollars a bottle; three bottles guaranteed to cure.'" Jim Grimm stopped dead. He looked up. His wife steadily returned his glance. The Labrador dweller is a poor man--a very poor man. Rarely does a dollar of hard cash slip into his hand. And this was hard cash. Five dollars a bottle! Five dollars for that which was neither food nor clothing! "'Tis fearful!" he sighed. "But read on," said she. "'In order to introduce the Kurepain into this locality, we have set aside _one thousand bottles_ of this _incomparable_ medicine. That number, _and no more_, we will dispose of at four dollars a bottle. Do not make a mistake. When the supply is exhausted, the price will _rise_ to eight dollars a bottle, owing to a scarcity of one of the ingredients. We honestly advise you, if you are in pain or suffering, to take advantage of this _rare_ opportunity. A word to the wise is sufficient. Order to-day.'" "'Tis a great bargain, Jim," the mother whispered. "Ay," Jim answered, dubiously. His wife patted his hand. "When Jimmie's cured," she went on, "he could help you with the traps, an'----" "'Tis not for _that_ I wants un cured," Jim Grimm flashed. "I'm willin' an' able for me labour. 'Tis not for that. I'm just thinkin' all the time about seein' him run about like he used to. That's what _I_ wants." "Doesn't you think, Jim, that we could manage it--if we tried wonderful hard?" "'Tis accordin' t' what fur I traps, mum, afore the ice goes an' the steamer comes. I'm hopin' we'll have enough left over t' buy the cure." "You're a good father, Jim," the mother said, at last. "I knows you'll do for the best. Leave us wait until the spring time comes." "Ay," he agreed; "an' we'll say nar a word t' little Jimmie." They laid hold on the hope in Hook's Kurepain. Life was brighter, then. They looked forward to the cure. The old merry, scampering Jimmie, with his shouts and laughter and gambols and pranks, was to return to them. When, as the winter dragged along, Jim Grimm brought home the fox skins from the wilderness, Jimmie fondled them, and passed upon their quality, as to colour and size and fur. Jim Grimm and his wife exchanged smiles. Jimmie did not know that upon the quality and number of the skins, which he delighted to stroke and pat, depended his cure. Let the winter pass! Let the ice move out from the coast! Let the steamer come for the letters! Let her go and return again! _Then_ Jimmie should know. "We'll be able t' have _one_ bottle, whatever," said the mother. "'Twill be more than that, mum," Jim Grimm answered, confidently. "We wants our Jimmie cured." CHAPTER IV _In Which Jimmie Grimm Surprises a Secret, Jim Grimm makes a Rash Promise, and a Tourist From the States Discovers the Marks of Tog's Teeth_ With spring came the great disappointment. The snow melted from the hills; wild flowers blossomed where the white carpet had lain; the ice was ready to break and move out to sea with the next wind from the west. There were no more foxes to be caught. Jim Grimm bundled the skins, strapped them on his back, and took them to the storekeeper at Shelter Harbour, five miles up the coast; and when their value had been determined he came home disconsolate. Jimmie's mother had been watching from the window. "Well?" she said, when the man came in. "'Tis not enough," he groaned. "I'm sorry, mum; but 'tis not enough." She said nothing, but waited for him to continue; for she feared to give him greater distress. "'Twas a fair price he gave me," Jim Grimm continued. "I'm not complainin' o' that. But there's not enough t' do more than keep us in food, with pinchin', till we sells the fish in the fall. I'm sick, mum--I'm fair sick an' miserable along o' disappointment." "'Tis sad t' think," said the mother, "that Jimmie's not t' be cured--after all." "For the want o' twelve dollars!" he sighed. They were interrupted by the clatter of Jimmie's crutches, coming in haste from the inner room. Then entered Jimmie. "I heered what you said," he cried, his eyes blazing, his whole worn little body fairly quivering with excitement. "I heered you say 'cure.' Is I t' be cured?" They did not answer. "Father! Mama! Did you say I was t' be cured?" "Hush, dear!" said the mother. "I can't hush. I wants t' know. Father, tell me. Is I t' be cured?" "Jim," said the mother to Jim Grimm, "tell un." "You is!" Jim shouted, catching Jimmie in his arms, and rocking him like a baby. "You _is_ t' be cured. Debt or no debt, lad, I'll see you cured!" * * * * * The matter of credit was easily managed. The old storekeeper at Shelter Harbour did not hesitate. Credit? Of course, he would give Jim Grimm that. "Jim," said he, "I've knowed you for a long time, an' I knows you t' be a good man. I'll fit you out for the summer an' the winter, if you wants me to, an' you can take your own time about payin' the bill." And so Jim Grimm withdrew twelve dollars from the credit of his account. They began to keep watch on the ice--to wish for a westerly gale, that the white waste might be broken and dispersed. "Father," said Jimmie, one night, when the man was putting him to bed, "how long will it be afore that there Kurepain comes?" "I 'low the steamer'll soon be here." "Ay?" "An' then she'll take the letter with the money." "Ay?" "An' she'll be gone about a month an' a fortnight, an' then she'll be back with----" "The cure!" cried Jimmie, giving his father an affectionate dig in the ribs. "She'll be back with the cure!" "Go t' sleep, lad." "I can't," Jimmie whispered. "I can't for joy o' thinkin' o' that cure." * * * * * By and by the ice moved out, and, in good time, the steamer came. It was at the end of a blustering day, with the night falling thick. Passengers and crew alike--from the grimy stokers to the shivering American tourists--were relieved to learn, when the anchor went down with a splash and a rumble, that the "old man" was to "hang her down" until the weather turned "civil." Accompanied by the old schoolmaster, who was to lend him aid in registering the letter to the Kurepain Company, Jim Grimm went aboard in the punt. It was then dark. "You knows a Yankee when you sees one," said he, when they reached the upper deck. "Point un out, an' I'll ask un." "Ay, _I'm_ travelled," said the schoolmaster, importantly. "And 'twould be wise to ask about this Kurepain Company before you post the letter." Thus it came about that Jim Grimm timidly approached two gentlemen who were chatting merrily in the lee of the wheel-house. "Do you know the Kurepain, sir?" he asked. "Eh? What?" the one replied. "Hook's, sir." "Hook's? In the name of wonder, man, Hook's what?" "Kurepain, sir." "Hook's Kurepain," said the stranger. "Doctor," addressing his companion, "do you recommend----" The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Then you do not?" said the other. The doctor eyed Jim Grimm. "Why do you ask?" he inquired. "'Tis for me little son, sir," Jim replied. "He've a queer sort o' rheumaticks. We're thinkin' the Kurepain will cure un. It have cured a Minister o' the Gospel, sir, an' a Champion o' the World; an' we was allowin' that it wouldn't have much trouble t' cure little Jimmie Grimm. They's as much as twelve dollars, sir, in this here letter, which I'm sendin' away. I'm wantin' t' know, sir, if they'll send the cure if I sends the money." The doctor was silent for a moment. "Where do you live?" he asked, at last. Jim pointed to a far-off light. "Jimmie will be at that window," he said, "lookin' out at the steamer's lights." "Do you care for a run ashore?" asked the doctor, turning to his fellow tourist. "If it would not overtax you." "No, no--I'm strong enough, now. The voyage has put me on my feet again. Come--let us go." Jim Grimm took them ashore in the punt; guided them along the winding, rocky path; led them into the room where Jimmie sat at the window. The doctor felt of Jimmie's knee, and asked him many questions. Then he held a whispered consultation with his companion and the schoolmaster; and of their conversation Jimmie caught such words and phrases as "slight operation" and "chloroform" and "that table" and "poor light, but light enough" and "rough and ready sort of work" and "no danger." Then Jim Grimm was dispatched to the steamer with the doctor's friend; and when they came back the man carried a bag in his hand. The doctor asked Jimmie a question, and Jimmie nodded his head. Whereupon, the doctor called him a brave lad, and sent Jim Grimm out to the kitchen to keep his wife company for a time, first requiring him to bring a pail of water and another lamp. When they called Jim Grimm in again--he knew what they were about, and it seemed a long, long time before the call came--little Jimmie was lying on the couch, sick and pale, with his knee tightly bandaged, but with his eyes glowing. "Mama! Father!" the boy whispered, exultantly. "They says I'm cured." "Yes," said the doctor; "he'll be all right, now. His trouble was not rheumatism. It was caused by a fragment of the bone, broken off at the knee-joint. At least, that's as plain as I can make it to you. He was bitten by a dog, was he not? So he says. And he remembers that he felt a stab of pain in his knee at the time. That or the fall probably accounts for it. At any rate, I have removed that fragment. He'll be all right, after a bit. I've told the schoolmaster how to take care of him, and I'll leave some medicine, and--well--he'll soon be all right." When the doctor was about to step from the punt to the steamer's ladder, half an hour later, Jim Grimm held up a letter to him. "'Tis for you, sir," he said. "What's this?" the doctor demanded. "'Tis for you to keep, sir," Jim answered, with dignity. "'Tis the money for the work you done." "Money!" cried the doctor. "Why, really," he stammered, "I--you see, this is my vacation--and I----" "I 'low, sir," said Jim, quietly, "that you'll 'blige me." "Well, well!" exclaimed the doctor, being wise, "that I will!" Jimmie Grimm got well long before it occurred to his father that the fishing at Buccaneer Cove was poor and that he might do better elsewhere. CHAPTER V _In Which Jimmie Grimm Moves to Ruddy Cove and Settles on the Slope of the Broken Nose, Where, Falling in With Billy Topsail and Donald North, He Finds the Latter a Coward, But Learns the Reason, and Scoffs no Longer. In Which, Also, Donald North Leaps a Breaker to Save a Salmon Net, and Acquires a Strut_ When old Jim Grimm moved to Ruddy Cove and settled his wife and son in a little white cottage on the slope of a bare hill called Broken Nose, Jimmie Grimm was not at all sorry. There were other boys at Ruddy Cove--far more boys, and jollier boys, and boys with more time to spare, than at Buccaneer. There was Billy Topsail, for one, a tow-headed, blue-eyed, active lad of Jimmie's age; and there was Donald North, for another. Jimmie Grimm liked them both. Billy Topsail was the elder, and up to more agreeable tricks; but Donald was good enough company for anybody, and would have been quite as admirable as Billy Topsail had it not been that he was afraid of the sea. They did not call him a coward at Ruddy Cove; they merely said that he was afraid of the sea. And Donald North was. * * * * * Jimmie Grimm, himself no coward in a blow of wind, was inclined to scoff, at first; but Billy Topsail explained, and then Jimmie Grimm scoffed no longer, but hoped that Donald North would be cured of fear before he was much older. As Billy Topsail made plain to the boy, in excuse of his friend, Donald North was brave enough until he was eight years old; but after the accident of that season he was so timid that he shrank from the edge of the cliff when the breakers were beating the rocks below, and trembled when his father's fishing punt heeled to the faintest gust. "Billy," he had said to Billy Topsail, on the unfortunate day when he caught the fear, being then but a little chap, "leave us go sail my new fore-an'-after. I've rigged her out with a fine new mizzens'l." "Sure, b'y!" said Billy. "Where to?" "Uncle George's wharf-head. 'Tis a place as good as any." Off Uncle George's wharf-head the water was deep--deeper than Donald could fathom at low tide--and it was cold, and covered a rocky bottom, upon which a multitude of starfish and prickly sea-eggs lay in clusters. It was green, smooth and clear, too; sight carried straight down to where the purple-shelled mussels gripped the rocks. The tide had fallen somewhat and was still on the ebb. Donald found it a long reach from the wharf to the water. By and by, as the water ran out of the harbour, the most he could do was to touch the tip of the mast of the miniature ship with his fingers. Then a little gust of wind crept round the corner of the wharf, rippling the water as it came near. It caught the sails of the new fore-and-after, and the little craft fell over on another tack and shot away. "Here, you!" Donald cried. "Come back, will you?" He reached for the mast. His fingers touched it, but the boat escaped before they closed. He laughed, hitched nearer to the edge of the wharf, and reached again. The wind had failed; the little boat was tossing in the ripples, below and just beyond his grasp. "I can't cotch her!" he called to Billy Topsail, who was back near the net-horse, looking for squids. Billy looked up, and laughed to see Donald's awkward position--to see him hanging over the water, red-faced and straining. Donald laughed, too. At once he lost his balance and fell forward. This was in the days before he could swim, so he floundered about in the water, beating it wildly, to bring himself to the surface. When he came up, Billy Topsail was leaning over to catch him. Donald lifted his arm. His fingers touched Billy's, that was all--just touched them. Then he sank; and when he came up again, and again lifted his arm, there was half a foot of space between his hand and Billy's. Some measure of self-possession returned. He took a long breath, and let himself sink. Down he went, weighted by his heavy boots. Those moments were full of the terror of which, later, he could not rid himself. There seemed to be no end to the depth of the water in that place. But when his feet touched bottom, he was still deliberate in all that he did. For a moment he let them rest on the rock. Then he gave himself a strong upward push. It needed but little to bring him within reach of Billy Topsail's hand. He shot out of the water and caught that hand. Soon afterwards he was safe on the wharf.[1] "Sure, mum, I thought I were drownded that time!" he said to his mother, that night. "When I were goin' down the last time I thought I'd never see you again." "But you wasn't drownded, b'y," said his mother, softly. "But I might ha' been," said he. There was the rub. He was haunted by what might have happened. Soon he became a timid, shrinking lad, utterly lacking confidence in the strength of his arms and his skill with an oar and a sail; and after that came to pass, his life was hard. He was afraid to go out to the fishing-grounds, where he must go every day with his father to keep the head of the punt up to the wind, and he had a great fear of the wind and the fog and the breakers. But he was not a coward. On the contrary, although he was circumspect in all his dealings with the sea, he never failed in his duty. In Ruddy Cove all the men put out their salmon nets when the ice breaks up and drifts away southward, for the spring run of salmon then begins. These nets are laid in the sea, at right angles to the rocks and extending out from them; they are set alongshore, it may be a mile or two, from the narrow passage to the harbour. The outer end is buoyed and anchored, and the other is lashed to an iron stake which is driven deep into some crevice of the rock. When belated icebergs hang offshore a watch must be kept on the nets, lest they be torn away or ground to pulp by the ice. "The wind's haulin' round a bit, b'y," said Donald's father, one day in spring, when the lad was twelve years old, and he was in the company of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail on the sunny slope of the Broken Nose. "I think 'twill freshen and blow inshore afore night." "They's a scattered pan of ice out there, father," said Donald, "and three small bergs." "Yes, b'y, I knows," said North. "'Tis that I'm afeared of. If the wind changes a bit more, 'twill jam the ice agin the rocks. Does you think the net is safe?" Jimmie Grimm glanced at Billy Topsail; and Billy Topsail glanced at Jimmie Grimm. "Wh-wh-what, sir?" Donald stammered. It was quite evident that the net was in danger, but since Donald had first shown sign of fearing the sea, Job North had not compelled him to go out upon perilous undertakings. He had fallen into the habit of leaving the boy to choose his own course, believing that in time he would master himself. "I says," he repeated, quietly, "does you think that net's in danger?" Billy Topsail nudged Jimmie Grimm. They walked off together. It would never do to witness a display of Donald's cowardice. "He'll not go," Jimmie Grimm declared. "'Tis not so sure," said Billy. "I tell you," Jimmie repeated, confidently, "that he'll never go out t' save that net." "But!" he added; "he'll have no heart for the leap." "I think he'll go," Billy insisted. In the meantime Job North had stood regarding his son. "Well, son," he sighed, "what you think about that net?" "I think, sir," said Donald, steadily, between his teeth, "that the net should come in." Job North patted the boy on the back. "'Twould be wise, b'y," said he, smiling. "Come, b'y; we'll go fetch it." "So long, Don!" Billy Topsail shouted delightedly. Donald and his father put out in the punt. There was a fair, fresh wind, and with this filling the little brown sail, they were soon driven out from the quiet water of the harbour to the heaving sea itself. Great swells rolled in from the open and broke furiously against the coast rocks. The punt ran alongshore for two miles, keeping well away from the breakers. When at last she came to that point where Job North's net was set, Donald furled the sail and his father took up the oars. "'Twill be a bit hard to land," he said. Therein lay the danger. There is no beach along that coast. The rocks rise abruptly from the sea--here, sheer and towering; there, low and broken. When there is a sea running, the swells roll in and break against these rocks; and when the breakers catch a punt, they are certain to smash it to splinters. The iron stake to which Job North's net was lashed was fixed in a low ledge, upon which some hardy shrubs had taken root. The waves were casting themselves against the rocks below, breaking with a great roar and flinging spray over the ledge. "'Twill be a bit hard," North said again. But the salmon-fishers have a way of landing under such conditions. When their nets are in danger they do not hesitate. The man at the oars lets the boat drift with the breaker stern foremost towards the rocks. His mate leaps from the stern seat to the ledge. Then the other pulls the boat out of danger before the wave curls and breaks. It is the only way. But sometimes the man in the stern miscalculates--leaps too soon, stumbles, leaps short. He falls back, and is almost inevitably drowned. Sometimes, too, the current of the wave is too strong for the man at the oars; his punt is swept in, pull as hard as he may, and he is overwhelmed with her. Donald knew all this. He had lived in dread of the time when he must first make that leap. "The ice is comin' in, b'y," said North. "'Twill scrape these here rocks, certain sure. Does you think you're strong enough to take the oars an' let me go ashore?" "No, sir," said Donald. "You never leaped afore, did you?" "No, sir." "Will you try it now, b'y?" said North, quietly. "Yes, sir," Donald said, faintly. "Get ready, then," said North. With a stroke or two of the oars Job swung the stern of the boat to the rocks. He kept her hanging in this position until the water fell back and gathered in a new wave; then he lifted his oars. Donald was crouched on the stern seat, waiting for the moment to rise and spring. The boat moved in, running on the crest of the wave which would a moment later break against the rock. Donald stood up, and fixed his eye on the ledge. He was afraid; all the strength and courage he possessed seemed to desert him. The punt was now almost on a level with the ledge. The wave was about to curl and fall. It was the precise moment when he must leap--that instant, too, when the punt must be pulled out of the grip of the breaker, if at all. Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm were at this critical moment hanging off Grief Island, in the lee, whence they could see all that occurred. They had come out to watch the issue of Donald's courage. [Illustration: _Courtesy of "The Youth's Companion"_ PLUCKING UP HIS COURAGE, DONALD LEAPED FOR THE ROCK.] "He'll never leap," Jimmie exclaimed. "He will," said Billy. "He'll not," Jimmie declared. "Look!" cried Billy. Donald felt of a sudden that he _must_ do this thing. Therefore why not do it courageously? He leaped; but this new courage had not come in time. He made the ledge, but he fell an inch short of a firm footing. So for a moment he tottered, between falling forward and falling back. Then he caught the branch of an overhanging shrub, and with this saved himself. When he turned, Job had the punt in safety; but he was breathing hard, as if the strain had been great. "'Twas not so hard, was it, b'y?" said Job. "No, sir," said Donald. "I told you so," said Billy Topsail to Jimmie Grimm. "Good b'y!" Jimmie declared, as he hoisted the sail for the homeward run. Donald cast the net line loose from its mooring, and saw that it was all clear. His father let the punt sweep in again. It is much easier to leap from a solid rock than from a boat, so Donald jumped in without difficulty. Then they rowed out to the buoy and hauled the great, dripping net over the side. It was well they had gone out, for before morning the ice had drifted over the place where the net had been. More than that, Donald North profited by his experience. He perceived that if perils must be encountered, they are best met with a clear head and an unflinching heart. "Wisht you'd been out t' see me jump the day," he said to Jimmie Grimm, that night. Billy and Jimmie laughed. "Wisht you had," Donald repeated. "We was," said Jimmie. Donald threw back his head, puffed out his chest, dug his hands in his pockets and strutted off. It was the first time, poor lad! he had ever won the right to swagger in the presence of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail. To be sure, he made the most of it! But he was not yet cured. ----- [1] Donald North himself told me this--told me, too, what he had thought, and what he said to his mother--N. D. CHAPTER VI _In Which, Much to the Delight of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Donald North, Having Perilous Business On a Pan of Ice After Night, is Cured of Fear, and Once More Puffs Out His Chest and Struts Like a Rooster_ Like many another snug little harbour on the northeast coast of Newfoundland, Ruddy Cove is confronted by the sea and flanked by a vast wilderness; so all the folk take their living from the sea, as their forebears have done for generations. In the gales and high seas of the summer following, and in the blinding snow-storms and bitter cold of the winter, Donald North grew in fine readiness to face peril at the call of duty. All that he had gained was put to the test in the next spring, when the floating ice, which drifts out of the north in the spring break-up, was driven by the wind against the coast. After that adventure, Jimmie Grimm said: "You're all right, Don!" And Billy Topsail said: "You're all right, Don!" Donald North, himself, stuck his hands in his pockets, threw out his chest, spat like a skipper and strutted like a rooster. "I 'low I _is_!" said he. And he was. And nobody decried his little way of boasting, which lasted only for a day; and everybody was glad that at last he was like other boys. * * * * * Job North, with Alexander Bludd and Bill Stevens, went out on the ice to hunt seal. The hunt led them ten miles offshore. In the afternoon of that day the wind gave some sign of changing to the west, and at dusk it was blowing half a gale offshore. When the wind blows offshore it sweeps all this wandering ice out to sea, and disperses the whole pack. "Go see if your father's comin', b'y," said Donald's mother. "I'm gettin' terrible nervous about the ice." Donald took his gaff--a long pole of the light, tough dogwood, two inches thick and shod with iron--and set out. It was growing dark. The wind, rising still, was blowing in strong, cold gusts. It began to snow while he was yet on the ice of the harbour, half a mile away from the pans and dumpers which the wind of the day before had crowded against the coast. When he came to the "standing edge"--the stationary rim of ice which is frozen to the coast--the wind was thickly charged with snow. What with dusk and snow, he found it hard to keep to the right way. But he was not afraid for himself; his only fear was that the wind would sweep the ice-pack out to sea before his father reached the standing edge. In that event, as he knew, Job North would be doomed. Donald went out on the standing edge. Beyond lay a widening gap of water. The pack had already begun to move out. There was no sign of Job North's party. The lad ran up and down, hallooing as he ran; but for a time there was no answer to his call. Then it seemed to him that he heard a despairing hail, sounding far to the right, whence he had come. Night had almost fallen, and the snow added to its depth; but as he ran back Donald could still see across the gap of water to the great pan of ice, which, of all the pack, was nearest to the standing edge. He perceived that the gap had considerably widened since he had first observed it. "Is that you, father?" he called. "Ay, Donald," came an answering hail from directly opposite. "Is there a small pan of ice on your side?" Donald searched up and down the standing edge for a detached cake large enough for his purpose. Near at hand he came upon a small, thin pan, not more than six feet square. "Haste, b'y!" cried his father. "They's one here," he called back, "but 'tis too small. Is there none there?" "No, b'y. Fetch that over." Here was desperate need. If the lad were to meet it, he must act instantly and fearlessly. He stepped out on the pan and pushed off with his gaff. Using his gaff as a paddle--as these gaffs are constantly used in ferrying by the Newfoundland fishermen--and helped by the wind, he soon ferried himself to where Job North stood waiting with his companions. "'Tis too small," said Stevens. "'Twill not hold two." North looked dubiously at the pan. Alexander Bludd shook his head in despair. "Get back while you can, b'y," said North. "Quick! We're driftin' fast! The pan's too small." "I thinks 'tis big enough for one man an' me," said Donald. "Get aboard an' try it, Alexander," said Job. "Quick, man!" Alexander Bludd stepped on. The pan tipped fearfully, and the water ran over it; but when the weight of the man and the boy was properly adjusted, it seemed capable of bearing them both across. They pushed off, and seemed to go well enough; but when Alexander moved to put his gaff in the water the pan tipped again. Donald came near losing his footing. He moved nearer the edge and the pan came to a level. They paddled with all their strength, for the wind was blowing against them, and there was need of haste if three passages were to be made. Meantime the gap had grown so wide that the wind had turned the ripples into waves, which washed over the pan as high as Donald's ankles. But they came safely across. Bludd stepped swiftly ashore, and Donald pushed off. With the wind in his favour he was soon once more at the other side. "Now, Bill," said North; "your turn next." "I can't do it, Job," said Stevens. "Get aboard yourself. The lad can't come back again. "We're driftin' out too fast. He's your lad, an' you've the right to----" "Ay, I can come back," said Donald. "Come on, Bill! Be quick!" Stevens was a lighter man than Alexander Bludd; but the passage was wider, and still widening, for the pack had gathered speed. When Stevens was safely landed he looked back. A vast white shadow was all that he could see. Job North's figure had been merged with the night. "Donald, b'y," he said, "you got t' go back for your father, but I'm fair feared you'll never----" "Give me a push, Bill," said Donald. Stevens caught the end of the gaff and pushed the lad out. "Good-bye, Donald," he called. When the pan touched the other side Job North stepped aboard without a word. He was a heavy man. With his great body on the ice-cake, the difficulty of return was enormously increased, as Donald had foreseen. The pan was overweighted. Time and again it nearly shook itself free of its load and rose to the surface. North was near the centre, plying his gaff with difficulty, but Donald was on the extreme edge. Moreover, the distance was twice as great as it had been at first, and the waves were running high, and it was dark. They made way slowly. The pan often wavered beneath them; but Donald was intent upon the thing he was doing, and he was not afraid. Then came the time--they were but ten yards off the standing edge--when North struck his gaff too deep into the water. He lost his balance, struggled to regain it, failed--and fell off. Before Donald was awake to the danger, the edge of the pan sank under him, and he, too, toppled off. Donald had learned to swim now. When he came to the surface, his father was breast-high in the water, looking for him. "Are you all right, Donald?" said his father. "Yes, sir." "Can you reach the ice alone?" "Yes, sir," said Donald, quietly. Alexander Bludd and Bill Stevens helped them up on the standing edge, and they were home by the kitchen fire in half an hour. "'Twas bravely done, b'y," said Job. So Donald North learned that perils feared are much more terrible than perils faced. He had a courage of the finest kind, in the following days of adventure, now close upon him, had young Donald. CHAPTER VII _In Which Bagg, Imported From the Gutters of London, Lands At Ruddy Cove From the Mail-Boat, Makes the Acquaintance of Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, and Tells Them 'E Wants to Go 'Ome. In Which, Also, the Way to Catastrophe Is Pointed_ The mail-boat comes to Ruddy Cove in the night, when the shadows are black and wet, and the wind, blowing in from the sea, is charged with a clammy mist. The lights in the cottages are blurred by the fog. They form a broken line of yellow splotches rounding the harbour's edge. Beyond is deep night and a wilderness into which the wind drives. In the morning the fog still clings to the coast. Within the cloudy wall it is all glum and dripping wet. When a veering wind sweeps the fog away, there lies disclosed a world of rock and forest and fuming sea, stretching from the end of the earth to the summits of the inland hills--a place of ruggedness and hazy distances; of silence and a vast, forbidding loneliness. It was on such a morning that Bagg, the London gutter-snipe, having been landed at Ruddy Cove from the mail-boat the night before--this being in the fall before Donald North played ferryman between the standing edge and the floe--it was on such a foggy morning, I say, that Bagg made the acquaintance of Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm. "Hello!" said Billy Topsail. "Hello!" Jimmie Grimm echoed. "You blokes live 'ere?" Bagg whined. "Uh-huh," said Billy Topsail. "This yer '_ome_?" pursued Bagg. Billy nodded. "Wisht _I_ was 'ome!" sighed Bagg. "I say," he added, "which way's 'ome from 'ere?" "You mean Skipper 'Zekiel's cottage?" "I mean Lun'on," said Bagg. "Don't know," Billy answered. "You better ask Uncle Tommy Luff. He'll tell you." Bagg had been exported for adoption. The gutters of London are never exhausted of their product of malformed little bodies and souls; they provide waifs for the remotest colonies of the empire. So, as it chanced, Bagg had been exported to Newfoundland--transported from his native alleys to this vast and lonely place. Bagg was scrawny and sallow, with bandy legs and watery eyes and a fantastic cranium; and he had a snub nose, which turned blue when a cold wind struck it. But when he was landed from the mail-boat he found a warm welcome, just the same, from Ruth Rideout, Ezekiel's wife, by whom he had been taken for adoption. * * * * * Later in the day, old Uncle Tommy Luff, just in from the fishing grounds off the Mull, where he had been jigging for stray cod all day long, had moored his punt to the stage-head, and he was now coming up the path with his sail over his shoulder, his back to the wide, flaring sunset. Bagg sat at the turn to Squid Cove, disconsolate. The sky was heavy with glowing clouds, and the whole earth was filled with a glory such as he had not known before. "Shall I arst the ol' beggar when 'e gets 'ere?" mused Bagg. Uncle Tommy looked up with a smile. "I say, mister," piped Bagg, when the old man came abreast, "which way's 'ome from 'ere?" "Eh, b'y?" said Uncle Tommy. "'Ome, sir. Which way is 'ome from 'ere?" In that one word Bagg's sickness of heart expressed itself--in the quivering, wistful accent. "Is you 'Zekiel Rideout's lad?" said Uncle Tommy. "Don't yer make no mistake, mister," said Bagg, somewhat resentfully. "I ain't nothink t' nobody." "I knowed you was that lad," Uncle Tommy drawled, "when I seed the size o' you. Sure, b'y, you knows so well as me where 'Zekiel's place is to. 'Tis t' the head o' Burnt Cove, there, with the white railin', an' the tater patch aft o' the place where they spreads the fish. Sure, you knows the way home." "I mean Lun'on, mister," Bagg urged. "Oh, home!" said Uncle Tommy. "When I was a lad like you, b'y, just here from the West Country, me fawther told me if I steered a course out o' the tickle an' kept me starn fair for the meetin'-house, I'd sure get home t' last." "Which way, mister?" Uncle Tommy pointed out to sea--to that far place in the east where the dusk was creeping up over the horizon. "There, b'y," said he. "Home lies there." Then Uncle Tommy shifted his sail to the other shoulder and trudged on up the hill; and Bagg threw himself on the ground and wept until his sobs convulsed his scrawny little body. "I want to go 'ome!" he sobbed. "I want to go 'ome!" * * * * * No wonder that Bagg, London born and bred, wanted to go home to the crowd and roar and glitter of the streets to which he had been used. It was fall in Ruddy Cove, when the winds are variable and gusty, when the sea is breaking under the sweep of a freshening breeze and yet heaving to the force of spent gales. Fogs, persistently returning with the east wind, filled the days with gloom and dampness. Great breakers beat against the harbour rocks; the swish and thud of them never ceased, nor was there any escape from it. Bagg went to the fishing grounds with Ezekiel Rideout, where he jigged for the fall run of cod; and there he was tossed about in the lop, and chilled to the marrow by the nor'easters. Many a time the punt ran heeling and plunging for the shelter of the harbour, with the spray falling upon Bagg where he cowered amidships; and once she was nearly undone by an offshore gale. In the end Bagg learned consideration for the whims of a punt and acquired an unfathomable respect for a gust and a breaking wave. Thus the fall passed, when the catching and splitting and drying of fish was a distraction. Then came the winter--short, drear days, mere breaks in the night, when there was no relief from the silence and vasty space round about, and the dark was filled with the terrors of snow and great winds and loneliness. At last the spring arrived, when the ice drifted out of the north in vast floes, bearing herds of hair-seal within reach of the gaffs of the harbour folk, and was carried hither and thither with the wind. Then there came a day when the wind gathered the dumpers and pans in one broad mass and jammed it against the coast. The sea, where it had lain black and fretful all winter long, was now covered and hidden. The ice stretched unbroken from the rocks of Ruddy Cove to the limit of vision in the east. And Bagg marvelled. There seemed to be a solid path from Ruddy Cove straight away in the direction in which Uncle Tommy Luff had said that England lay. Notwithstanding the comfort and plenty of his place with Aunt Ruth Rideout and Uncle Ezekiel, Bagg still longed to go back to the gutters of London. "I want to go 'ome," he often said to Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm. "What for?" Billy once demanded. "Don't know," Bagg replied. "I jus' want to go 'ome." At last Bagg formed a plan. CHAPTER VIII _In Which Bagg, Unknown to Ruddy Cove, Starts for Home, and, After Some Difficulty, Safely Gets There_ Uncle Tommy Luff, coming up the hill one day when the ice was jammed against the coast and covered the sea as far as sight carried, was stopped by Bagg at the turn to Squid Cove. "I say, mister," said Bagg, "which way was you tellin' me Lun'on was from 'ere?" Uncle Tommy pointed straight out to the ice-covered sea. "That way?" asked Bagg. "Straight out o' the tickle with the meetin'-house astarn." "Think a bloke could ever get there?" Bagg inquired. Uncle Tommy laughed. "If he kep' on walkin' he'd strike it some time," he answered. "Sure?" Bagg demanded. "If he kep' on walkin'," Uncle Tommy repeated, smiling. This much may be said of the ice: the wind which carries it inshore inevitably sweeps it out to sea again, in an hour or a day or a week, as it may chance. The whole pack--the wide expanse of enormous fragments of fields and glaciers--is in the grip of the wind, which, as all men know, bloweth where it listeth. A nor'east gale sets it grinding against the coast, but when the wind veers to the west the pack moves out and scatters. If a man is caught in that great rush and heaving, he has nothing further to do with his own fate but wait. He escapes if he has strength to survive until the wind blows the ice against the coast again--not else. When the Newfoundlander starts out to the seal hunt he makes sure, in so far as he can, that no change in the wind is threatened. Uncle Ezekiel Rideout kept an eye on the weather that night. "Be you goin', b'y?" said Ruth, looking up from her weaving. Ezekiel had just come in from Lookout Head, where the watchers had caught sight of the seals, swarming far off in the shadows. "They's seals out there," he said, "but I don't know as us'll go the night. 'Tis like the wind'll haul t' the west." "What do Uncle Tommy Luff say?" "That 'twill haul t' the west an' freshen afore midnight." "Sure, then, you'll not be goin', b'y?" "I don't know as anybody'll go," said he. "Looks a bit too nasty for 'em." Nevertheless, Ezekiel put some pork and hard-bread in his dunny bag, and made ready his gaff and tow-lines, lest, by chance, the weather should promise fair at midnight. "Where's that young scamp?" said Ezekiel, with a smile--a smile which expressed a fine, indulgent affection. "Now, I wonder where he is?" said Ruth, pausing in her work. "He've been gone more'n an hour, sure." "Leave un bide where he is so long as he likes," said he. "Sure he must be havin' a bit o' sport. 'Twill do un good." Ezekiel sat down by the fire and dozed. From time to time he went to the door to watch the weather. From time to time Aunt Ruth listened for the footfalls of Bagg coming up the path. After a long time she put her work away. The moon was shining through a mist; so she sat at the window, for from there she could see the boy when he rounded the turn to the path. She wished he would come home. "I'll go down t' Topsail's t' see what's t' be done about the seals," said Ezekiel. "Keep a lookout for the b'y," said she. Ezekiel was back in half an hour. "Topsail's gone t' bed," said he. "Sure, no one's goin' out the night. The wind's hauled round t' the west, an' 'twill blow a gale afore mornin'. The ice is movin' out slow a'ready. Be that lad out yet?" "Yes, b'y," said Ruth, anxiously. "I wisht he'd come home." "I--I--wisht he would," said Ezekiel. Ruth went to the door and called Bagg by name. But there was no answer. * * * * * Offshore, four miles offshore, Bagg was footing it for England as fast as his skinny little legs would carry him. The way was hard--a winding, uneven path over the pack. It led round clumpers, over ridges which were hard to scale, and across broad, slippery pans. The frost had glued every fragment to its neighbour; for the moment the pack formed one solid mass, continuous and at rest, but the connection between its parts was of the slenderest, needing only a change of the wind or the ground swell of the sea to break it everywhere. The moon was up. It was half obscured by a haze which was driving out from the shore, to which quarter the wind had now fairly veered. The wind was rising--coming in gusts, in which, soon, flakes of snow appeared. But there was light enough to keep to the general direction out from the coast, and the wind but helped Bagg along. "I got t' 'urry up," thought he. The boy looked behind. Ruddy Cove was within sight. He was surprised that the coast was still so near. "Got t' 'urry up a bit more," he determined. He was elated--highly elated. He thought that his old home was but a night's journey distant; at most, not more than a night and a day, and he had more than food enough in his pockets to last through that. He was elated; but from time to time a certain regret entered in, and it was not easily cast out. He remembered the touch of Aunt Ruth's lips, and her arm, which had often stolen about him in the dusk; and he remembered that Uncle Ezekiel had beamed upon him most affectionately, in times of mischief and good works alike. He had been well loved in Ruddy Cove. "Wisht I'd told Aunt Ruth," Bagg thought. On he trudged--straight out to sea. "Got t' 'urry up," thought he. Again the affection of Aunt Ruth occurred to him. She had been very kind; and as for Uncle 'Zeke--why, nobody could have been kinder. "Wisht I _'ad_ told Aunt Ruth," Bagg regretted. "Might o' said good-bye anyhow." The ice was now drifting out; but the wind had not yet risen to that measure of strength wherewith it tears the pack to pieces, nor had the sea attacked it. There was a gap of two hundred yards between the coast rocks and the edge of the ice, but that was far, far back, and hidden from sight. The pack was drifting slowly, smoothly, still in one compact mass. Its motion was not felt by Bagg, who pressed steadily on toward England, eager again, but fast growing weary. "Got t' 'urry up," thought he. But presently he must rest; and while he rested the wind gathered strength. It went singing over the pack, pressing ever with a stronger hand upon its dumpers and ridges--pushing it, everywhere, faster and faster out to sea. The pack was on the point of breaking in pieces under the strain, but the wind still fell short of the power to rend it. There was a greater volume of snow falling; it was driven past in thin, swirling clouds. Hence the light of the moon began to fail. Far away, at the rim of the pack, the sea was eating its way in, but the swish and crash of its work was too far distant to be heard. "I ain't nothink t' nobody but Aunt Ruth," Bagg thought, as he rose to continue the tramp. On he went, the wind lending him wings; but at last his legs gave out at the knees, and he sat down again to rest. This was in the lee of a clumper, where he was comfortably sheltered. He was still warm--in a glow of heat, indeed--and his hope was still with him. So far he had suffered from nothing save weariness. So he began to dream of what he would do when he got home, just as all men do when they come near, once again, to that old place where they were born. The wind was now a gale, blowing furiously; the pack was groaning in its outlying parts. "Nothink t' nobody," Bagg grumbled, on his way once more. Then he stopped dead--in terror. He had heard the breaking of an ice-pan--a great clap and rumble, vanishing in the distance. The noise was repeated, all roundabout--bursting from everywhere, rising to a fearful volume: near at hand, a cracking; far off, a continuing roar. The pack was breaking up. Each separate part was torn from another, and the noise of the rending was great. Each part ground against its neighbour on every side. The weaker pans were crushed like egg-shells. Then the whole began to feel the heave of the sea. "It's a earthquake!" thought Bagg. "I better 'urry up." He looked back over the way he had come--searching the shadows for Ruddy Cove. But the coast was lost to sight. "Must be near acrost, now," he thought. "I'll 'urry up." So he turned his back on Ruddy Cove and ran straight out to sea, for he thought that England was nearer than the coast he had left. He was now upon a pan, both broad and thick--stout enough to withstand the pressure of the pack. It was a wide field of ice, which the cold of the far North, acting through many years, it may be, had made strong. Elsewhere the pans were breaking--were lifting themselves out of the press and falling back in pieces--were being ground to finest fragments. This mighty confusion of noise and wind and snow and night, and the upheaval of the whole world roundabout, made the soul of Bagg shiver within him. It surpassed the terrors of his dreams. "Guess I never _will_ get 'ome," thought he. Soon he came to the edge of the pan. Beyond, where the pack was in smaller blocks, the sea was swelling beneath it. The ice was all heaving and swaying. He dared not venture out upon this shifting ground. So he ran up and down, seeking a path onward; but he discovered none. Meantime, the parts of the pack had fallen into easier positions; the noise of crunching, as the one ground against the other, had somewhat abated. The ice continued its course outward, under the driving force of the wind, but the pressure was relieved. The pans fell away from one another. Lakes and lanes of water opened up. The pan upon which Bagg chanced to find himself in the great break-up soon floated free. There was now no escape from it. Bagg retreated from the edge, for the seas began to break there. "Wisht I was 'ome again," he sobbed. This time he did not look towards England, but wistfully back to Ruddy Cove. * * * * * The gale wasted away in the night. The next day was warm and sunny on all that coast. An ice-pack hung offshore from Fortune Harbour. In the afternoon it began to creep in with a light wind. The first pans struck the coast at dusk. The folk of the place were on the Head, on the lookout for the sign of a herd of seal. Just before night fell they spied a black speck, as far out from shore as their eyes could see. "They'll be seals out there the morrow," the men were all agreed. So they went home and prepared to set out at dawn of the next day. In the night, the wind swept the whole pack in, to the last lagging pan. The ice was all jammed against the coast--a firm, vast expanse, stretching to the horizon, and held in place by the wind, which continued strong and steady. The men of Fortune Harbour went confidently out to the hunt. At noon, when they were ten miles off the shore, they perceived the approach of a small, black figure. The meeting came soon afterwards, for the folk of Fortune Harbour, being both curious and quick to respond to need, made haste. "I say, mister," said Bagg, briskly, addressing old John Forsyth, "yer 'aven't got no 'am, 'ave yer?" The men of Fortune Harbour laughed. "Or nothink else, 'ave yer?" Bagg continued, hopefully. "I'm a bit 'ungry." "Sure, b'y," said Forsyth. "I've a biscuit an' a bit o' pork." "'Ave yer, now?" said Bagg. "Would yer mind giv----" But his hands were already full. A moment later his mouth was in the same condition. "How'd you come out here?" said Forsyth. "Swep' out," said Bagg. "I say, mister," he added, between munches, "which way would yer say my 'ome was from 'ere?" "Where's your home?" "Ruddy Cove," said Bagg. "'Tis fifteen mile up the coast." "'Ow would you get there quickest if yer 'ad to?" "We'll take care o' you, b'y," said Forsyth. "We'll put you t' Ruddy Cove in a skiff, when the ice goes out. Seems t' me," he added, "you must be the boy Ezekiel Rideout took. Isn't you Ezekiel Rideout's boy?" "Bet yer life I am," said Bagg. CHAPTER IX _In Which Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail, Being Added Up and Called a Man, Are Shipped For St. John's, With Bill o' Burnt Bay, Where They Fall In With Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald's Son, and Bill o' Burnt Bay Declines to Insure the "First Venture"_ Of course, Donald North, who had been ferryman to his father, had no foolishly romantic idea of his experience on that pan of ice; nor had Jimmie Grimm, nor had Billy Topsail. Donald North would not have called it an adventure, nor himself a hero; he would have said, without any affectation of modesty, "Oh, that was jus' a little mess!" The thing had come in the course of the day's work: that was all. Something had depended upon him, and, greatly to his elation, he had "made good." It was no more to him than a hard tackle to a boy of the American towns. Any sound American boy--any boy of healthy courage and clean heart--would doubtless have taken Job North off the drifting floe; and Donald North, for his part, would no doubt have made the tackle and saved the goal--though frightened to a greenish pallor--had he ever been face to face with the necessity. Had he ever survived a football game, he would have thought himself a hero, and perhaps have boasted more than was pleasant; but to have taken a larger chance with his life on a pan of ice was so small and usual a thing as presently to be forgotten. Newfoundland boys are used to that. * * * * * It was still spring at Ruddy Cove--two weeks or more after Bagg came back to his real home--when Donald North's friends, Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm, fell into considerable peril in a gale of wind off the Chunks. Even they--used to such adventures as they were--called it a narrow escape. "No more o' that for _me_," said Billy Topsail, afterwards. "Nor me," said Jimmie Grimm. "You'll both o' you take all that comes your way," Bill o' Burnt Bay put in, tartly. It was aboard the _First Venture_, which Bill o' Burnt Bay had as master-builder built at Ruddy Cove for himself. She was to be his--she _was_ his--and he loved her from stem to stern. And she was his because Sir Archibald Armstrong, the great St. John's merchant and ship-owner, had advanced the money to build her in recognition of Skipper Bill's courageous rescue of Archie Armstrong, Sir Archibald's only son, in a great blizzard, on the sealing voyage of the year before.[2] At any rate, the _First Venture_ was Bill's; and she was now afloat and finished, rigged to the last strand of rope. To say that Skipper Bill was proud of her does not begin to express the way in which he loved her. "Now, look you, Billy Topsail, and you, too, Jimmie Grimm!" said he, gravely, one day, beckoning the boys near. The _First Venture_ was lying at anchor in the harbour, ready for her maiden voyage to St. John's. "I'm in need of a man aboard this here craft," Bill o' Burnt Bay went on; "an' as there's none t' be had in this harbour I'm thinkin' of addin' you two boys up an' callin' the answer t' the sum a man." "Wisht you would, Skipper Bill," said Jimmie. "Two halves makes a whole," Bill mused, scratching his head in doubt. "Leastwise, so I was teached." "They teach it in school," said Jimmie. Billy Topsail grinned delightedly. "Well," Bill declared, at last, "I'll take you, no matter what comes of it, for there's nothing else I can do." It wasn't quite complimentary; but the boys didn't mind. * * * * * When the _First Venture_ made St. John's it was still early enough in the spring of the year for small craft to be at sea. When she was ready to depart on the return voyage to Ruddy Cove, the days were days of changeable weather, of wind and snow, of fog and rain, of unseasonable intervals of quiet sunshine. The predictions of the wiseacres were not to be trusted; and, at any rate, every forecast was made with a wag of the head that implied a large mental reservation. At sea it was better to proceed with caution. To be prepared for emergencies--to expect the worst and to be ready for it--was the part of plain common sense. And Skipper Bill o' Burnt Bay was well aware of this. The _First Venture_ lay in dock at St. John's. She was loaded for Ruddy Cove and the ports beyond. Skipper Bill had launched himself as a coastwise skipper--master of the stout _First Venture_, carrying freight to the northern settlements at a fair rate for all comers. The hold was full to the deck; and the deck itself was cumbered with casks and cases, all lashed fast in anticipation of a rough voyage. It was a miscellaneous cargo: flour, beef, powder and shot, molasses, kerosene, clothing--such necessities, in short, as the various merchants to whom the cargo was consigned could dispose of to the people of the coast, and such simple comforts as the people could afford. She was a trim and stout little fore-and-aft schooner of fifty tons burthen. The viewers had awarded the government bounty without a quibble. Old John Hulton, the chief of them--a terror to the slipshod master-builders--had frankly said that she was an honest little craft from bowsprit to taffrail. The newspapers had complimented Bill o' Burnt Bay, her builder, in black and white which could not be disputed. They had even called Skipper Bill "one of the honest master-builders of the outports." Nor had they forgotten to add the hope that "in the hands of Skipper William, builder and master, the new craft will have many and prosperous voyages." By this praise, of course, Skipper Bill was made to glow from head to foot with happy gratification. All the _First Venture_ wanted was a fair wind out. "She can leg it, sir," Skipper Bill said to Sir Archibald, running his eyes over the tall, trim spars of the new craft; "an' once she gets t' sea she's got ballast enough t' stand up to a sousing breeze. With any sort o' civil weather she ought t' make Ruddy Cove in five days." "I'd not drive her too hard," said Sir Archibald, who had come down to look at the new schooner for a purpose. Bill o' Burnt Bay looked up in amazement. This from the hard-sailing Sir Archibald! "Not too hard," Sir Archibald repeated. Skipper Bill laughed. "I'm sure," said Sir Archibald, "that Mrs. William had rather have you come safe than unexpected. Be modest, Skipper Bill, and reef the _Venture_ when she howls for mercy." "I'll bargain t' reef her, sir," Bill replied, "when I thinks you would yourself." "Oh, come, skipper!" Sir Archibald laughed. Bill o' Burnt Bay roared like the lusty sea-dog he was. "I've good reason for wishing you to go cautiously," said Sir Archibald, gravely. Bill looked up with interest. "You've settled at Ruddy Cove, skipper?" "Ay, sir," Bill answered. "I moved the wife t' Ruddy Cove when I undertook t' build the _Venture_." "I'm thinking of sending Archie down to spend the summer," said Sir Archibald. Bill o' Burnt Bay beamed largely and delightedly. "Do you think," Sir Archibald went on, with a little grin, "that Mrs. Skipper William would care to take him in?" "_Care?_" Skipper Bill exclaimed. "Why, sir, 'twould be as good as takin' her a stick o' peppermint." "He'll come aboard this afternoon," said Sir Archibald. "He'll be second mate o' the _Venture_," Bill declared. "Skipper," said Sir Archibald, presently, "you'll be wanting this craft insured, I suppose?" "Well, no, sir," Bill drawled. Sir Archibald frowned. "No trouble for me to take the papers out for you," said he. "You see, sir," Bill explained, "I was allowin' t' save that there insurance money." "Penny wise and pound foolish," said Sir Archibald. "Oh," drawled Skipper Bill, "I'll manage t' get her t' Ruddy Cove well enough. Anyhow," he added, "'twon't be wind nor sea that will wreck my schooner." "As you will," said Sir Archibald, shortly; "the craft's yours." * * * * * Archie Armstrong came aboard that afternoon--followed by two porters and two trunks. He was Sir Archibald's son; there was no doubt about that: a fine, hardy lad--robust, straight, agile, alert, with his head carried high; merry, quick-minded, ready-tongued, fearless in wind and high sea. His hair was tawny, his eyes blue and wide and clear, his face broad and good-humoured. He was something of a small dandy, too, as the two porters and the two trunks might have explained. The cut of his coat, the knot in his cravat, the polish on his boots, the set of his knickerbockers, were always matters of deep concern to him. But this did not interfere with his friendship with Billy Topsail, the outport boy. That friendship had been formed in times of peril and hardship, when a boy was a boy, and clothes had had nothing to say in the matter. Archie bounded up the gangplank, crossed the deck in three leaps and stuck his head into the forecastle. "Ahoy, Billy Topsail!" he roared. "Ahoy, yourself!" Billy shouted. "Come below, Archie, an' take a look at Jimmie Grimm." Jimmie Grimm was at once taken into the company of friends. ----- [2] The story of this voyage--the tale of the time when Archie Armstrong and Billy Topsail and Bill o' Burnt Bay were lost in the snow on the ice-floe--with certain other happenings in which Billy Topsail was involved--is related in "The Adventures of Billy Topsail." [Illustration: _Courtesy of "The Youth's Companion"_ SHE WAS BEATING LABORIOUSLY INTO A VIOLENT HEAD WIND.] CHAPTER X _In Which the Cook Smells Smoke, and the "First Venture" In a Gale of Wind Off the Chunks, Comes Into Still Graver Peril, Which Billy Topsail Discovers_ Skipper Bill o' Burnt Bay got the _First Venture_ under way at dawn of the next day. It was blowing a stiff breeze. A fine, fresh wind was romping fair to the northwest, where, far off, Ruddy Cove lay and Mrs. Skipper William waited. "I 'low," Skipper Bill mused, as the schooner slipped through the narrows, "that that there insurance wouldn't o' done much harm anyhow." There was an abrupt change of weather. It came without warning; and there was no hint of apology to the skipper of the _First Venture_. When the schooner was still to the s'uth'ard of the dangerous Chunks, but approaching them, she was beating laboriously into a violent and capricious head wind. Bill o' Burnt Bay, giving heed to Sir Archibald's injunction, kept her well off the group of barren islands. They were mere rocks, scattered widely. Some of them showed their forbidding heads to passing craft; others were submerged, as though lying in wait. It would be well to sight them, he knew, that he might better lay his course; but he was bound that no lurking rock should "pick up" his ship. "Somehow or other," he thought, "I wisht I _had_ took out that there insurance." At dusk it began to snow. What with this thick, blinding cloud driving past, shrouding the face of the sea, and what with the tumultuous waves breaking over her, and what with the roaring gale drowning her lee rail, the _First Venture_ was having a rough time of it. Skipper Bill, with his hands on the wheel, had the very satisfactory impression, for which he is not to be blamed, that he was "a man." But when, at last, the _First Venture_ began to howl for mercy in no uncertain way, he did not hesitate to waive the wild joy of "driving" for the satisfaction of keeping his spars in the sockets. "Better call the hands, Tom!" he shouted to the first hand. "We'll reef her." Tom put his head into the forecastle. The fire in the little round stove was roaring lustily; and the swinging lamp filled the narrow place with warm light. "Out with you, lads!" Tom cried. "All hands on deck t' reef the mains'l!" Up they tumbled; and up tumbled Archie Armstrong, and up tumbled Jimmie Grimm, and up tumbled Billy Topsail. "Blowin' some," thought Archie. "Great sailin' breeze. What's he reefin' for?" The great sail was obstinate. Ease the schooner as Skipper Bill would, it was still hard for his crew of two men, three lads and a cook to grasp and confine the canvas. Meantime, the schooner lurched along, tossing her head, digging her nose into the frothy waves. A cask on the after deck broke its lashings, pursued a mad and devastating career fore and aft, and at last went spinning into the sea. Skipper Bill devoutly hoped that nothing else would get loose above or below. He cast an apprehensive glance into the darkening cloud of snow ahead. There was no promise to be descried. And to leeward the first islands of the Chunks, which had been sighted an hour ago, had disappeared in the night. "Lively with that mains'l, lads!" Skipper Bill shouted, lifting his voice above the wind. "We'll reef the fores'l!" The crew had been intent upon the task in hand. Not a man had yet smelled smoke. And they continued to wrestle with the obstinate sail, each wishing, heartily enough, to get the dirty-weather job well done, and to return to the comfort of the forecastle. It was the cook who first paused to sniff--to sniff again--and to fancy he smelled smoke. But a gust of wind at that moment bellied his fold of the sail, and he forgot the dawning suspicion in an immediate tussle to reduce the disordered canvas. A few minutes more of desperate work and the mainsail was securely reefed; but these were supremely momentous intervals, during which the fate of the _First Venture_ was determined. "All stowed, sir!" Archie Armstrong shouted to the skipper. "Get at that fores'l, then!" was the order. With the customary, "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted cheerily, in the manner of good men and willing lads, the crew ran forward. Skipper Bill remembers that the cook tripped and went sprawling into the lee scupper; and that he scrambled out of the water with a laugh. It was the last laugh aboard the _First Venture_; for the condition of the schooner was then instantly discovered. "Fire!" screamed Billy Topsail. The _First Venture_ was all ablaze forward. CHAPTER XI _In Which the "First Venture" All Ablaze Forward, Is Headed For the Rocks and Breakers of the Chunks, While Bill o' Burnt Bay and His Crew Wait for the Explosion of the Powder in Her Hold. In Which, Also, a Rope Is Put to Good Use_ "Fire!" A cloud of smoke broke from the forecastle and was swept off by the wind. A tongue of red flame flashed upward and expired. Skipper Bill did not need the cries of terror and warning to inform him. The _First Venture_ was afire! And she was not only afire; she was off the Chunks in a gale of wind and snow. "Aft, here, one o' you!" When Billy Topsail took the wheel, the skipper plunged into the forecastle. It was a desperate intention. He was back in a moment, singed and gasping. But in that interval he had made out that the forecastle stove, in some violent lurch of the schooner, had broken loose, and had been bandied about, distributing red coals in every part. He had made out, moreover, that the situation of the schooner was infinitely perilous, if not, indeed, quite beyond hope. The forecastle was all ablaze. In five minutes it would be a furnace. "We're lost!" Jimmie Grimm cried, staring at the frothy waves running past. "Not yet," Archie grimly replied. They were all of heart and strength and ingenuity; and they worked with all their might. But the buckets of water, and the great seas, which Skipper Bill, in desperation, deliberately shipped, made little impression. It was soon evident that the little _First Venture_ was doomed. Meantime, the skipper had brought her before the wind, and she was now flying towards the inhospitable Chunks. The skipper was less concerned for his schooner than for the lives of his crew. The ship was already lost; the crew--well, how _could_ the crew survive the rocks and gigantic breakers of the Chunks? It was the only hope. No small boat could for a moment live in the sea that was running. The schooner must be beached on the Chunks. There was no other refuge. But how beach her? It was a dark night, with the snow flying thick. Was it possible to sight a black, low-lying rock? There was nothing for it but to drive with the wind in the hope of striking. There were many islands; she might strike one. But would it really be an island, whereon a man might crawl out of reach of the sea? or would it be a rock swept by the breakers? Chance would determine that. Skipper Bill was powerless. But would she make the Chunks before she was ablaze from stem to stern? Again, the skipper was powerless; he could do no more than give her all the wind that blew. So he ordered the reefs shaken out--and waited. "Tom," said the skipper, presently, to the first hand, "was it you stowed the cargo?" "Yes, sir." There was a pause. Archie Armstrong and Jimmie Grimm, aft near the wheel, wondered why the skipper had put the question. "An' where," the skipper asked, quietly, "did you put the powder?" "For'ard, sir." "How far for'ard?" "Fair up against the forecastle bulkhead!" The appalling significance of this was plain to the crew. The bulkhead was a thin partition dividing the forecastle from the hold. "Archie," Skipper Bill drawled, "you better loose the stays'l sheet. She ought t' do better than this." He paused. "Fair against the forecastle bulkhead?" he continued. "Tom, you better get the hatch off, an' see what you're able t' do about gettin' them six kegs o' powder out. No--bide here!" he added. "Take the wheel again, Billy. Get that hatch off, some o' you." It was the skipper himself who dropped into the hold. The cargo was packed tight. Heavy barrels of flour, puncheons of molasses, casks of pork and beef, lay between the skipper and the powder. He crawled forward, wriggling in the narrow space between the freight and the deck. No fire had as yet entered the hold; but the place was full of stifling smoke. It was apparent that the removal of the powder would be the labour of hours; and there were no hours left for labour. The skipper could stand the smoke no longer. He retreated towards the hatch. How long it would be before the fire communicated itself to the cargo--how long it would be before the explosion of six kegs of powder would scatter the wreck of the _First Venture_ upon the surface of the sea--no man could tell. But the end was inevitable. Anxious questions greeted the skipper when again he stood upon the wind-swept deck. "Close the hatch," said he. "No chance, sir?" Archie asked. "No, b'y." The forecastle was already closed. There was no gleam of fire anywhere to be seen. The bitter wind savoured of smoke; nothing else betrayed the schooner's peril. "Now, get you all back aft!" was the skipper's command. "Keep her head as it points." When the crew had crept away to the place remotest from the danger point, Bill o' Burnt Bay went forward to keep a lookout for the rocks and breakers. The burning forecastle was beneath his feet; he could hear the crackling of the fire; and the smoke, rising now more voluminously, troubled his nostrils and throat. It was pitch dark ahead. There was no blacker shadow of land, no white flash of water, to give him hope. It seemed as though an unbroken expanse of sea lay before the labouring _First Venture_. But the skipper knew to the contrary; somewhere in the night into which he stared--somewhere near, and, momentarily, drawing nearer--lay the Chunks. He wondered if the _First Venture_ would strike before the explosion occurred. It must be soon, he knew. The possibility of being off the course did not trouble him. Soon the seams of the deck began to open. Smoke poured out in thickening clouds. Points of light, fast changing to lines of flame, warned the skipper that he must retreat. It was not, however, until heat and smoke and the certain prospect of collapse compelled him, that he joined the crew. He was not a spectacular hero; when common sense dictated return, he obeyed without delay, and without maudlin complaint. Without a word he took the wheel from Billy Topsail's hands, and without a word he kept the schooner on her course. There was no need of command or advice; men and boys knew their situation and their duty. "It can't be long," said the cook. There was now a glow of red light above the forecastle. The fire was about to break through. It was not hard to surmise that the collapse of the bulkhead was imminent. "No, sir!" the fidgety cook repeated. "It can't be long, now." It seemed long. Minute after minute passed, each of incredible length, while the _First Venture_ staggered forward, wildly pitching through the seas. At last, the flames broke out of the forecastle and illuminated the deck. "Not long, now!" the cook whimpered. "It _can't_ be!" Nor was it. The _First Venture_ struck. She was upon the rocks before the skipper was well aware that breakers lay ahead. Her bow fell, struck, was lifted, fell again, and fastened itself. The next wave flung the schooner broadside. The third completed the turn. She lay with her head pointing into the wind. Her stern, where the crew stood waiting for the end, rose and fell on the verge of a great breaker. Beyond was a broken cliff, rising to unwashed heights, which the snow had begun to whiten. The bow was lifted clear of the waves; the stern was awash. A space of white water lay between the schooner and the shore. Bill o' Burnt Bay let go his grip on the wheel. There was but one thing to do. Many a skipper had done it before; but never before had there been such desperate need of haste. The fire still burned lustily; and the forecastle was high out of the water. "If I can't do it," the skipper shouted, "it's the first hand's turn next." He had fastened the end of a coil of rope about his waist. Now he stood swaying on the taffrail. By the light of the fire--uncertain and dull--he must act. He leaped a moment after the next wave had slipped under the stern--when, in the current, he should reach the rocks just after the wave had broken. The crew waited a long time. Many a glance was cast forward; it seemed to them all, such headway had the fire made, that the six kegs of powder must explode the very next instant. No sign came from the skipper; and no sight of him could be caught. They paid out the rope--and waited. The rope was for a long time loose in their hands. "He's landed!" cried Jimmie Grimm. The rope was hauled taut. Upon the rocks, out of reach of the sea, the figure of the skipper could be seen. "One at a time!" Skipper Bill shouted. And one at a time they went--decently and in order, like true Newfoundland sailors, Tom Rook, the first hand, the last of all. When they were all ashore, they scrambled like mad up the cliff; and they were no more than out of danger when the _First Venture_ was blown to atoms. There was a flash, a deafening roar--and darkness; broken only by the spluttering splinters of the little craft. * * * * * That night, from Heart's Harbour, the folk observed a ship afire, running in towards the Chunks. To the report they sent immediately to St. John's--there happens fortunately to be a government telegraph station at Heart's Harbour--they added, later, that she had blown up. But from St. John's the salvage-tug _Hurricane_ was dispatched into the stormy sea in search of the survivors; and on the second day following she picked up Skipper Bill o' Burnt Bay and his crew. Next day they were in St. John's. "Wisht I'd took your advice about the insurance, sir," broken-hearted Bill o' Burnt Bay said to Sir Archibald. Sir Archibald laughed. "I took it for you," said he. "What?" Skipper Bill exploded. "I insured the _First Venture_ on my own responsibility," Sir Archibald replied. "You shall build the _Second Venture_ at Ruddy Cove next winter." Archie Armstrong and Bill o' Burnt Bay, with the lads and men of the lost _First Venture_, went back to Ruddy Cove by rail and the mail-boat. CHAPTER XII _In Which Old David Grey, Once of the Hudson Bay Company, Begins the Tale of How Donald McLeod, the Factor at Fort Refuge, Scorned a Compromise With His Honour, Though His Arms Were Pinioned Behind Him and a Dozen Tomahawks Were Flourished About His Head._ Archie Armstrong was presently established in a white little room in the beaming Aunt "Bill's" little white cottage at Ruddy Cove. His two trunks--two new trunks, now--were there established with him, of course; and they contained a new outfit of caps, shoes, boots, sweaters, coats, gloves, and what not, suited to every circumstance and all sorts of weather. Then began for Archie, Jimmie and Billy--with Bagg, of the London gutters, sometimes included--hearty times ashore and afloat. It was Bagg, indeed, who proposed the cruise to Birds' Nest Islands. "I said I wouldn't go t' Birds' Nest Islands," said Billy Topsail, "an' I won't." "Ah, come on, Billy," Archie pleaded. "I said I wouldn't," Billy repeated, obstinately, "an' I won't." "That ain't nothink," Bagg argued. "Anyhow," said Billy, "I won't, for I got my reasons."[3] David Grey, a bent old fellow, who was now long "past his labour," as they say in Newfoundland, sat within hearing. Boy and man he had been in the service of the Hudson Bay Company, as hunter, clerk, trader, explorer, factor; and here, on the coast where he had been born, he had settled down to spend the rest of his days. He was not an ignorant man, but, on the contrary, an intelligent one, educated by service, wide evening study of books, and hard experience in the great wildernesses of the Canadian Northwest, begun, long ago, when he was a lad. "You make me think of Donald McLeod," said he. The boys drew near. * * * * * "It was long ago," David went on. "Long, long ago," the old man repeated. "It was 'way back in the first half of the last century, for I was little more than a boy then. McLeod was factor at Fort Refuge, a remote post, situated three hundred miles or more to the northeast of Lake Superior, but now abandoned. And a successful, fair-dealing trader he was, but so stern and taciturn as to keep both his helpers and his half-civilized customers in awe of him. It was deep in the wilderness--not the wilderness as you boys know it, where a man might wander night and day without fear of wild beast or savage, but a vast, unexplored place, with dangers lurking everywhere. "'Grey,' he said to me when I reported for duty, fresh from headquarters, 'if you do your duty by me, I'll do mine by you.' "'I'll try to,' said I. "'When you know me better,' said McLeod, with quiet emphasis, 'you'll know that I stand by my word.' "We dealt, of course, with the Indians, who, spring and fall, brought their furs to the fort, and never failed to remain until they had wasted their earnings in the fashion that best pleased their fancy. "Even then the Indians were degenerate, given over to idleness and debauchery; but they were not so far sunk in these habits as are the dull, lazy fellows who sell you the baskets and beaded moccasins that the squaws make to-day. They were superstitious, malicious, revengeful, and they were almost in a condition of savagery, for the only law they knew was the law our guns enforced. Some authority was vested in the factor, and he was not slow to exert it when a flagrant offense was committed near by. "'There's no band of Indians in these parts,' I was told, 'that can scare McLeod. He'll see justice done for and against them as between man and man.' "Fort Refuge was set in a wide clearing. It was built of logs and surrounded by a high, stout stockade. Admittance to the yard was by a great gate, which was closed promptly at sundown, and always strongly barred. We had no garrison regularly stationed there to defend us. In all, it may be, we could muster nine men--McLeod, two clerks, and a number of stout fellows who helped handle the stores. Moreover, were our gate to be closed and our fort surrounded by a hostile force, we should be utterly cut off from communication with those quarters whence relief might come. We had the company's wares to guard, and we knew that once we were overcome, whatever the object of the attack, the wares and our lives would be lost together. "'But we can stand a long siege,' I used to think; and indeed there was good ground for comfort in that. "Our stockade was impregnable to an attack by force, no doubt; but as it soon appeared, it was no more than a paper ribbon before the wily strategy of the Indians. One night, when I had shut the gates and dropped the bars, I heard a long-drawn cry--a scream, in which it was not hard to detect the quality of terror and great stress. It came, as I thought, from the edge of the forest. When it was repeated, near at hand, my heart went to my mouth, for I knew that a band of Indians was encamped beyond, and had been carousing for a week past. Then came a knocking at the gate--a desperate pounding and kicking. "'Let me in! Open! Open!' I heard a man cry. "I had my hands on the bar to lift it and throw open the gate when McLeod came out of his house. "'Stop!' he shouted. "I withdrew from the gate. He approached, waved me back, and put his own hand on the bar. "'Who's there?' he asked. "'Let me in, McLeod. It's Landley. Quick! Open the gate, or I'll be killed!' "McLeod's hesitation vanished. He opened the gate. A man stumbled in. Then the gate was shut with a bang. "'What's this about, Landley?' McLeod said, sternly. 'What trouble have you got yourself into now?' "I knew Landley for a white man who had abandoned himself to a shiftless, vicious life with the Indians. He had sunk lower, even, than they. He was an evil, worthless, ragged fellow, despised within the fort and respected nowhere. But while he stood there, gasping and terror-stricken, I pitied him; and it may be McLeod himself was stirred by the mere kinship of colour. "'Speak up, man!' he commanded. 'What have you done?' "'I've done no wrong,' Landley whimpered. 'Buffalo Horn's young son has died, and they put the blame on me. They say I've cast the evil eye on him. They say I killed him with a spell. You know me, McLeod. You know I haven't got the evil eye. Don't turn me out, man. They're coming to kill me. Don't give me up. You know I'm not blood-guilty. You know me. You know I haven't got the evil eye.' "'Tush, man!' said McLeod. 'Is that all the trouble?' "'That's all!' Landley cried. 'I've done no harm. Don't give me up to them.' "'I won't,' McLeod said, positively. 'You're safe here until they prove you blood-guilty. I'll not give you up.'" Old David Grey paused; and Jimmie demanded: "Did they give un up?" "Was they _wild_ Indians?" Bagg gasped. David laughed. "You just wait and see," said he. ----- [3] Billy Topsail's reasons were no doubt connected with an encounter with a gigantic devil-fish at Birds' Nest Islands, as related in "The Adventures of Billy Topsail." CHAPTER XIII _In Which There Are Too Many Knocks At the Gate, a Stratagem Is Successful, Red Feather Draws a Tomahawk, and an Indian Girl Appears On the Scene_ "McLeod turned on his heel and went to the shop," David continued; "and when he had ordered a watch to be kept on the clearing on all sides, we devoted ourselves to the matter in hand--the preparation of the regular quarterly statement for the officials at headquarters. But as we laboured, hatchets, knives and the cruel, evil faces of the savages, by whom, as I chose to think, we were threatened, mixed themselves with the figures, to my bewilderment. "Soon the dusk came, and while I trimmed and lighted the candles in the shadowy outer room there seemed to be shapes in the corners which I had never seen there in quieter times. McLeod, however, was unperturbed. He had forgotten all about the numerous band which he stood ready to defy. "'Do you think there is danger?' said I. "'Danger?' said he. 'From what?' "'Buffalo Horn's band,' said I. "'Nonsense!' said he. 'What is that last total? There seems to be a shilling and sixpence missing here.' "At that moment one of the helpers came in. He was visibly excited--like a man who bears tidings. "'Red Feather is at the gate,' he said. "'Is he alone?' said McLeod. "'Yes, sir. We made sure of that.' "'Fetch him here,' said the factor, calmly. 'Take Tom and Tobias to the gate, and don't let Red Feather hold it open.' "Red Feather was soon brought in. He was the chief of the band, an old, crafty Indian, chief in name, but inferior in authority to Buffalo Horn, who was chief in fact. McLeod continued his work. "'Let us talk,' said Red Feather, at last. "He spoke in his own tongue, which I shall interpret freely for you. McLeod put his pen aside and faced about. "'What have we to talk about?' he asked. 'The trading is done. You have your supplies. There is no business between us.' "'We have the white man to talk about,' said Red Feather. 'He has killed a child of our tribe, and you have given him refuge here. He has killed the son of Buffalo Horn with the evil eye. He must be put to death.' "'I know this man,' said McLeod. 'He has not the evil eye. He has killed no man, and he shall not be given up.' "'His life is forfeit to the tribe.' "'His life is in my keeping. I have said that he shall not lose it. Am I the man to break my word?' "'You have kept your word between us,' said Red Feather. 'You are not the man to break your word.' "'What business, then, lies between us? Our talk is done.' "The guard at the gate interrupted. 'There is a man knocking at the gate,' he said. "'It is my brother,' said Red Feather. 'He comes to join the talk. Let him in.' "'Open the gate,' said McLeod. "It was growing dark. I went with the guard to admit the brother of Red Feather. Dusk had fallen over the clearing. The sky was overcast; in half an hour it would be deep night, the clearing one with the forest. But we opened the gate. A tall Indian stalked in. He was alone, and I knew him for the brother of Red Feather. I followed him to the shop, making sure first that the bar was in place. "'Let us have the white man,' he said to McLeod. 'Let the peace between us continue.' "McLeod perceived the threat. He was not a rash man. He had no wish to provoke a conflict, but he had no thought of surrendering the refugee. As for me, my trust was in the stockade. "'I will talk with the white man,' he said. "The factor was gone for half an hour. He secreted Landley, inspected the defenses, gathered the women and children in the blockhouse, and returned to the council. "'The white man is not blood-guilty,' he said, proudly. 'I have promised him protection and he shall have it.' "Again the helper came. 'There is another knock at the gate,' said he. "'Who is there?' said McLeod. "'It's so dark I can't see,' said the helper. "'The man is my cousin,' said Red Feather. 'He has come to talk with us. Let him in, for he is a wise man and may help us.' "'Open the gate,' said McLeod. "We sat silent, waiting for the cousin of Red Feather, the wise man who might help us. I heard the rattle of the bar as the helper lifted it, then the creak of the gate. Then a furious outcry, a confusion of howls and screams, a war-whoop and a rush of feet. The Indians were within the stockade. A moment later they burst into the shop and advanced upon us, uttering blood-curdling whoops and brandishing their hatchets and knives. McLeod reached for the musket above the desk, but before his fingers touched it Red Feather caught him by the arms, and with the help of the brother made him prisoner. At the same instant I was secured. "'Let us strike! Let us strike!' the Indians kept shouting, all the while dancing about us, flourishing their weapons. "The danger was real and terrible. We were at the mercy of the band, and at that moment I did not doubt that they were bent on murder and pillage. There had been a cruel massacre at Fort Pine but a few months before. The story was fresh in my mind. That crime had gone unpunished; nor was it likely that a sufficient force would be sent west to give the band their due. There was nothing now to deter Red Feather's men from committing a similar outrage. We were remote from our kind, on the edge of a wilderness into which escape was a simple matter. Our guns, as I have said, had been our law and defense, and we were now utterly in the power of our enemies. "'Let us strike! Let us strike!' was the cry. "Buffalo Horn had come in with the band. It was soon evident that to the restraining influence of his presence was due our respite. He waved his braves back. They withdrew and became quiet. "'Will you give the murderer of my child to our tribe?' the chief said to McLeod. "'He is no longer mine to give,' said the factor. "'Will you give him to us in peace and forget that he has gone with us?' "McLeod was still in the grasp of Red Feather and his brother. Buffalo Horn was facing him. Behind the chief, awaiting his signal, was the band, with knives and hatchets in hand. "'No,' said McLeod. "The tumult was renewed. The Indians advanced, threatening the factor with their weapons and crying out for his death. But McLeod was not to be terrified. [Illustration: _Courtesy of "The Youth's Companion"_ BUFFALO HORN LOOKED STEADILY INTO McLEOD'S EYES.] "'Let us take the white man,' said Buffalo Horn, lifting his hand for silence. 'We have no quarrel with you. Let all be as it was.' "'No,' said McLeod. 'I will never consent to his murder.' "'Let us take him.' "'I said I wouldn't,' said McLeod, 'and I won't.' "It seemed to me that the end had come. Buffalo Horn looked steadily into McLeod's eyes. McLeod gave him glance for glance. He was ready to die for the word he had passed. The Indian hesitated. It may be that he did not want to precipitate the slaughter. Then he turned, as if to give the signal. Before his hand was raised, however, the daughter of the Indian interpreter of the post pushed her way through the band of braves and stood before their chief. "'Listen,' said she. 'Have you come to rob the great company of its goods?' "'No,' said Buffalo Horn. 'We have no quarrel with the great company.' "She was a slip of a girl, to whom, in sickness and in health, McLeod had been unfailingly kind. She knew no fear, and in intelligence she was superior to all the other women of her race I have known. "'Have you come to take the life of this man?' she went on, moving closer to Buffalo Horn, and looking deep into his eyes. "'No,' said the chief, 'we have no quarrel with this man. He is a good man, but he will not deliver the murderer of my child.' "'Will you take his life because of that?' "'No; we will take his life because he will betray our part in the death of the white man whom he has tried to shelter.' "'There are others who might betray you.' "'And their lives, also,' said Buffalo Horn, composedly. "All that had been implied was now expressed. He was to massacre us all to shield his tribe from the punishment that might follow the discovery of his revenge. "'You will lay waste the fort,' said the interpreter's daughter, 'but will the ruins not accuse you to the great company which this man serves?' "'We will be far away.' "'And will you never care to return to the grounds you have hunted from childhood?' "To this Buffalo Horn made no reply. He looked at the floor, his arms folded, and he was silent for a long time. "'This man,' said the girl, touching McLeod on the shoulder, 'has dealt fairly by you. He has kept his faith with you. He said that he would provide you with food through the hard seasons. Has he not done so?' "'He has kept faith with us,' said the chief. 'Therefore he is a good man.' "'He is a good man because he has kept faith with you,' the girl said, eagerly. 'Would you, then, have him break faith with some other? He has said to the white man, "I will not give you up." Would you have him break the word he has passed? For if he breaks it once, will he not break it again? If he should yield up the white man, what security would you have that he would provide for you through the next hard season?' "'He keeps his word,' said Buffalo Horn. 'He is a good man.' "He made a sign to Red Feather to release McLeod. Then he gathered his braves about him, and stalking solemnly at their head, led them out of the shop, over the courtyard and through the gate. We were left alone. "'Leave the gate open, Tobias,' said McLeod. 'Come, boy,' to me, 'let us get to work on the quarterly statement again. This interruption came at an awkward time. We'll have to make up for it.'" That was the end of David's story. CHAPTER XIV _In Which Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg Are Overtaken by the Black Fog in the Open Sea and Lose the Way Home While a Gale is Brewing_ Jimmie Grimm and Bagg, returning from Birds' Nest Islands, were caught by the black fog in the open sea. It had been lowering all day. Dull clouds had hung in the sky since early morning and had kept the waters of the sea sombre. There was no wind--not the faintest breath or sigh. The harbour water was still; and the open--beyond the tickle rocks--was without a ripple or hint of ground swell. A thick, gray mist crept out from the hills, late in the afternoon, and presently obscured the shore. Jimmie and Bagg were then off Mad Mull. Two miles of flat sea and windless space lay between the punt and the harbour. "Goin' t' be thick as mud," Jimmie grumbled. "Wisht we was more inshore," said Bagg, anxiously. At dusk the fog was so thick that every landmark had been blotted from sight. "Is _you_ able t' see Mad Mull?" Jimmie demanded. "I is _not_," said Bagg. Mad Mull was lost in the fog. It was the last landmark. The tickle rocks, through which a passage leads to the harbour, had long ago vanished. "Wisht we was home," said Bagg. "Don't you go an' get scared, Bagg," Jimmie laughed. "Never you fear. _I'll_ take _you_ home." It was hot, dark and damp--a breathless evening. There was a menace in the still air and heat. A roll of thunder sounded from the northeast. "I 'low 'twill blow afore long," said Jimmie. "'Urry up," said Bagg. Jimmie put a little more strength into the rowing. The punt moved faster, but not fast enough to please Bagg, who was terrified by the fog, the thunder and the still, black water. "Never you fear," Jimmie grumbled; "you'll get home afore the wind comes." Bagg wasn't so sure of that. "An' it _will_ come," Jimmie reflected. "I can fair feel it on the way." Jimmie pulled doggedly. Occasionally a rumble of thunder came out of the northeast to enliven his strokes. There was no wind, however, as yet, except, perhaps, an adverse stirring of the air--the first hint of a gale. On and on crept the punt. There was no lessening of the heat. Jimmie and Bagg fairly gasped. They fancied it had never been so hot before. But Jimmie did not weaken at the oars; he was stout-hearted and used to labour, and the punt did not lag. On they went through the mist without a mark to guide them. Roundabout was a wall of darkening fog. It hid the whole world. "Must be gettin' close inshore," said Jimmie, at last, while he rested on his oars, quite bewildered. "What you stoppin' for?" Bagg demanded. "Seems t' me," said Jimmie, scratching his head in a puzzled way, "that we ought t' be in the tickle by this time." It was evident, however, that they were not in the tickle.[4] There was no sign of the rocks on either hand. Jimmie gazed about him in every direction for a moment. He saw nothing except a circle of black water about the boat. Beyond was the black wall of fog. "Wonderful queer," thought he, as he dipped his oars in the water again; "but I 'low we ought t' be in the harbour." There was a louder clap of thunder. "We'll have that wind afore long," mused Jimmie. "You 'aven't gone an' lost your way, 'ave you?" Bagg inquired in a frightened voice. "Wonderful queer," Jimmie replied. "We _ought_ t' be in the harbour by this time. I 'low maybe I been pullin' too far t' the nor'east." "No, you 'aven't," said Bagg; "you been pullin' too far t' the sou'east." "I 'low not," mused Jimmie. "'Ave, too," Bagg sniffed. Jimmie was not quite sure, after all. He wavered. Something seemed to be wrong. It didn't _feel_ right. Some homing instinct told him that the tickle rocks did not lie in the direction in which the bow of the punt pointed. In fact, the whole thing was queer--very queer! But he had not pulled too far to the southeast; he was sure of that. Perhaps, too far to the northeast. He determined to change his course. "Now, Bagg," said he, confidently, "I'll take you into harbour." A clap of thunder--sounding near at hand--urged the boy on. "Wisht you would," Bagg whimpered. Jimmie turned the boat's head. He wondered if he had turned far enough. Then he fancied he had turned too far. Why, of course, thought he, he had turned too far! He swerved again towards the original direction. This, however, did not feel just right. Again he changed the course of the boat. He wondered if the harbour lay ahead. Or was it the open sea? Was he pulling straight out from shore? Would the big wind catch the little punt out of harbour? "How's she headin' now?" he asked Bagg. "You turned too far," said Bagg. "Not far enough," said Jimmie. Jimmie rowed doggedly on the course of his choosing for half an hour or more without developing anything to give him a clue to their whereabouts. Night added to the obscurity. They might have been on a shoreless waste of water for all that they were able to see. The mist made the night impenetrable. Jimmie could but dimly distinguish Bagg's form, although he sat not more than five feet from him; soon he could not see him at all. At last he lifted his oars and looked over the bow. "I don't know where we is," he said. "No more do I," Bagg sobbed. "I 'low we're lost," Jimmie admitted. Just then the first gust of wind rippled the water around the boat and went whistling into the mist. ----- [4] A "tickle" is a narrow passage of water between two islands. It is also (as here used) a narrow passage leading into harbour. CHAPTER XV _In Which it Appears to Jimmie Grimm and Master Bagg That Sixty Seconds Sometimes Make More Than a Minute_ Ruddy Cove is deep--vastly deep--except in one part. That is in Burnt Cove within the harbour. There at low tide it is shallow. Rocks protrude from the water--dripping and covered with a slimy seaweed. And Burnt Cove lies near the tickle to the sea. You pass between the tickle rocks, bear sharply to the right and are presently in the cove. It is a big expanse, snugly sheltered; and it shallows so slowly that there are many acres of quiet water in which the little fellows of Ruddy Cove learn to swim. Ezekiel Rideout's cottage was by Burnt Cove; and Bagg wished most heartily that he were there. * * * * * But Bagg was at sea. And the punt was a small one. It was not Jimmie Grimm's fishing punt; it was a shallow little rodney, which Jimmie's father used for going about in when the ice and seals were off the coast. It was so small and light that it could be carried over the pans of ice from one lane of open water to another. And being small and light it was cranky. It was no rough weather boat; nor was it a boat to move very much about in, as both boys were quite well aware. Bagg heard Jimmie's oars rattle in the row-locks and the blades strike the water. The boat moved forward. Jimmie began to row with all his strength--almost angrily. It was plain that he was losing his temper. And not only did he lose his temper; he had grown tired before he regained it. "Here, Bagg," said he; "you have a go at it." "I'll 'ave a try," Bagg agreed. Jimmie let the oars swing to the side and Bagg made ready to steady the little boat. Bagg heard him rise. The boat rocked a little. "Steady!" Bagg gasped. "Steady, yourself!" Jimmie retorted. "Think I don't know how t' get around in a rodney?" It was now so dark, what with night and fog, that Bagg could not see Jimmie. But presently he understood that Jimmie was on his feet waiting for him to rise in his turn. They were to exchange places. Bagg got to his feet, and, with all the caution he could command, advanced a step, stretching out his hands as he did so. But Bagg had not been born on the coast and was not yet master of himself in a boat. He swayed to the left--fairly lurched. "Have a care!" Jimmie scolded. Have you never, in deep darkness, suddenly felt a loss of power to keep your equilibrium? You open your eyes to their widest. Nothing is to be seen. You have no longer a sense of perpendicularity. You sway this way and that, groping for something to keep you from falling. And that is just what happened to Bagg. He was at best shaky on his legs in a boat; and now, in darkness and fear, his whole mind was fixed on finding something to grasp with his hands. "Is you ready?" asked Jimmie. "Uh-huh!" Bagg gasped. "Come on," said Jimmie; "but mind what you're about." Bagg made a step forward. Again the boat rocked; again the darkness confused him, and he had to stop to regain his balance. In the pause it struck him with unpleasant force that he could not swim. He was sure, moreover, that the boat would sink if she filled. He wished he had not thought of that. A third half-crawling advance brought him within reach of Jimmie. He caught Jimmie's outstretched hand and drew himself forward until they were very close. "Look out!" he cried. He had crept too far to the right. The boat listed alarmingly. They caught each other about the middle, and crouched down, waiting, rigid, until she had come to an even keel. Presently they were ready to pass each other. "Now," said Jimmie. Bagg made the attempt to pass him. The foothold was uncertain; the darkness was confusing. He moved to the side, but so great was his agitation that he miscalculated, and the boat tipped suddenly under his weight. The water swept over the gunwale. Bagg would have fallen bodily from the punt had it not been for Jimmie's clutch on his arm. In the light they might have steadied themselves; in the dark they could not. Jimmie drew Bagg back--but too hurriedly, too strongly, too far. The side of the boat over which he had almost fallen leaped high in the air and the opposite gunwale was submerged. Jimmie released him, and Bagg collapsed into a sitting posture in the bottom. Instinctively he grasped the gunwales and frantically tried to right the boat. He felt the water slowly curling over. "She's goin' down," said Jimmie. "Sinkin'!" Bagg sobbed. The boat sank very slowly, gently swaying from side to side. Bagg and Jimmie could see nothing, and all they could hear was the gurgle and hissing of the water as it curled over the gunwales and eddied in the bottom of the boat. Bagg felt the water rise over his legs--creep to his waist--rise to his chest--and still ascend. Through those seconds he was incapable of action. He did not think; he just waited. Jimmie wondered where the shore was. A yard or a mile away? In which direction would it be best to strike out? How could he help Bagg? He must not leave Bagg to drown. But how could he help him? What was the use of trying, anyhow? If he could not row ashore, how could he manage to swim ashore? And if he could not get ashore himself, how could he help Bagg ashore? Nothing was said. Neither boy breathed. Both waited. And it seemed to both that the water was slow in coming aboard. But the water came. It came slowly, perhaps--but surely. It rose to Bagg's shoulders--to his chin--it seemed to be about to cover his mouth and nostrils. Bagg already had a stifled sensation--a frantic fear of smothering; a wish to breathe deep. But he did not stir; he could not rise. The boys felt a slight shock. The water rose no more. There was a moment of deep silence. "I--I--I 'low we've grounded!" Jimmie Grimm stuttered. The silence continued. "We sure is!" Jimmie cried. "Wh-wh-where 'ave we got to?" Bagg gasped, his teeth chattering with the fright that was not yet passed. Silence again. "Ahoy, there!" came a voice from near at hand in the foggy night. "What you boys doin' out there?" "We're in Burnt Cove," said Jimmie, in amazement, to Bagg. "'Tis Uncle Zeke's voice--an', ay, look!--there's the cottage light on the hill." "We're comin' ashore, Uncle Zeke," Bagg shouted. The boat had grounded in less than three feet of water. Jimmie had brought her through the tickle without knowing it. The boys emptied her and dragged her ashore just as the rain and wind came rushing from the open sea. That's why Jimmie used to say with a laugh: "Sixty seconds sometimes makes more than a minute." "Bet yer life!" Bagg would add. CHAPTER XVI _In Which Archie Armstrong Joins a Piratical Expedition and Sails Crested Seas to Cut Out the Schooner "Heavenly Home"_ It was quite true that Archie Armstrong could speak French; it was just as true, as Bill o' Burnt Bay observed, that he could jabber it like a native. There was no detecting a false accent. There was no hint of an awkward Anglo-Saxon tongue in his speech. There was no telling that he was not French born and Paris bred. Archie's French nurse and cosmopolitan-English tutor had taken care of that. The boy had pattered French with the former since he had first begun to prattle at all. And this was why Bill o' Burnt Bay proposed a piratical expedition to the French islands of Miquelon which lie off the south coast of Newfoundland. "Won't ye go, b'y?" he pleaded. Archie laughed until his sides ached. "Come, now!" Bill urged; "there's like t' be a bit of a shindy that Sir Archibald hisself would be glad t' have a hand in." "'Tis sheer piracy!" Archie chuckled. "'Tis nothin' of the sort!" the indignant Skipper William protested. "'Tis but a poor man takin' his own from thieves an' robbers." "Have you ever been to Saint Pierre?" Archie asked. "That I has!" Skipper Bill ejaculated; "an' much t' the grief o' Saint Pierre." "They've a jail there, I'm told." "Sure 'tis like home t' me," said Skipper Bill. "I've been in it; an' I'm told they've an eye open t' clap me in once more." Archie laughed again. "Jus' t' help a poor man take back his own without troublin' the judges," Bill urged. The lad hesitated. "Sure, I've sore need o' your limber French tongue," said Bill. "Sure, b'y, you'll go along with me, will you not?" "Why don't you go to law for your own?" Archie asked, with a little grin. "Law!" Bill o' Burnt Bay burst out. "'Tis a poor show I'd have in a court at Saint Pierre. Hut!" he snorted. "Law!--for a Newfoundlander in Saint Pierre!" "My father----" Archie began. "I'll have the help o' no man's money nor brains nor influence in a business so simple," Bill protested. The situation was this: Bill o' Burnt Bay had chartered a schooner--his antique schooner--the schooner that was forever on the point of sinking with all hands--Bill had chartered the schooner _Heavenly Home_ to Luke Foremast of Boney Arm to run a cargo from Saint Pierre. But no sooner had the schooner appeared in French waters than she was impounded for a debt that Luke Foremast unhappily owed Garnot & Cie, of Saint Pierre. It was a high-handed proceeding, of course; and it was perhaps undertaken without scruple because of the unpopularity of all Newfoundlanders. Luke Foremast protested in an Anglo-Saxon roar; but roar and bellow and bark and growl as he would, it made no difference: the _Heavenly Home_ was seized, condemned and offered for sale, as Bill o' Burnt Bay had but now learned. "'Tis a hard thing to do," Archie objected. "Hut!" Bill exclaimed. "'Tis nothin' but goin' aboard in the dark an' puttin' quietly out t' sea." "Anyhow," Archie laughed, "I'll go." Sir Archibald Armstrong liked to have his son stand upon his own feet. He did not wish to be unduly troubled with requests for permission; he fancied it a babyish habit for a well-grown boy to fall into. The boy should decide for himself, said he, where decision was reasonably possible for him; and if he made mistakes he would surely pay for them and learn caution and wisdom. For this reason Archie had no hesitation in coming to his own decision and immediately setting out with Bill o' Burnt Bay upon an expedition which promised a good deal of highly diverting and wholly unusual experience. Billy Topsail and Jimmie Grimm wished the expedition luck when it boarded the mail-boat that night. * * * * * Archie Armstrong did not know until they were well started that Bill o' Burnt Bay was a marked man in Saint Pierre. There was no price on his head, to be sure, but he was answerable for several offenses which would pass current in St. John's for assault and battery, if not for assault with intent to maim or kill (which Bill had never tried to do)--all committed in those old days when he was young and wild and loved a ruction better than a prayer-meeting. They determined to make a landing by stealth--a wise precaution, as it appeared to Archie. So in three days they were at La Maline, a small fishing harbour on the south coast of Newfoundland, and a port of call for the Placentia Bay mail-boat. The Iles Saint Pierre et Miquelon, the remnant of the western empire of the French, lay some twenty miles to the southwest, across a channel which at best is of uncertain mood, and on this day was as forbidding a waste of waves and gray clouds as it had been Archie's lot to venture out upon. Bill o' Burnt Bay had picked up his ideal of a craft for the passage--a skiff so cheap and rotten that "'twould be small loss, sir, if she sank under us." And the skipper was in a roaring good humour as with all sail set he drove the old hulk through that wilderness of crested seas; and big Josiah Cove, who had been taken along to help sail the _Heavenly Home_, as he swung the bail bucket, was not a whit behind in glowing expectation--in particular, that expectation which concerned an encounter with a gendarme with whom he had had the misfortune to exchange nothing but words upon a former occasion. As for Archie, at times he felt like a smuggler, and capped himself in fancy with a red turban, at times like a pirate. * * * * * They made Saint Pierre at dusk--dusk of a thick night, with the wind blowing half a gale from the east. They had no mind to subject themselves to those formalities which might precipitate embarrassing disclosures; so they ran up the harbour as inconspicuously as might be, all the while keeping a covert lookout for the skinny old craft which they had come to cut out. The fog, drifting in as they proceeded, added its shelter to that of the night; and they dared to make a search. They found her at last, lying at anchor in the isolation of government waters--a most advantageous circumstance. "Take the skiff 'longside, skipper," said Josiah. "'Tis a bit risky, Josiah, b'y," said Skipper Bill. "But 'twould be good--now, really, 'twould--'twould be good t' tread her old deck for a spell." "An' lay a hand to her wheel," said Josiah, with a side wink so broad that the darkening mist could not hide it. "An' lay a hand to her wheel," repeated the skipper. "An' lay a hand to her wheel!" They ran in--full into the lee of her--and rounded to under the stern. The sails of the skiff flapped noisily and the water slapped her sides. They rested breathless--waiting an event which might warn them to be off into hiding in the fog. But no disquieting sound came from the schooner--no startled exclamation, no hail, no footfall: nothing but the creaking of the anchor chain and the rattle of the blocks aloft. A schooner loomed up and shot past like a shadow; then silence. Archie gave a low hail in French. There was no response from the _Heavenly Home_; nor did a second hail, in a raised voice, bring forth an answering sound. It was all silent and dark aboard. So Skipper Bill reached out with the gaff and drew the boat up the lee side. He chuckled a bit and shook himself. It seemed to Archie that he freed his arms and loosened his great muscles as for a fight. With a second chuckle he caught the rail, leaped from the skiff like a cat and rolled over on the deck of his own schooner. They heard the thud of his fall--a muttered word or two, mixed up with laughter--then the soft fall of his feet departing aft. For a long time nothing occurred to inform them of what the skipper was about. They strained their ears. In the end they heard a muffled cry, which seemed to come out of the shoreward cloud of fog--a thud, as though coming from a great distance--and nothing more. "What's that?" Archie whispered. "'Tis a row aboard a Frenchman t' win'ard, sir," said Josiah. "'Tis a skipper beatin' a 'prentice. They does it a wonderful lot." Five minutes passed without a sign of the skipper. Then he came forward on a run. His feet rang on the deck. There was no concealment. "I've trussed up the watchman!" he chortled. Archie and Josiah clambered aboard. CHAPTER XVII _In Which Bill o' Burnt Bay Finds Himself in Jail and Archie Armstrong Discovers That Reality is Not as Diverting as Romance_ To be sure, Bill o' Burnt Bay had overcome the watchman! He had blundered upon him in the cabin. Being observed before he could withdraw, he had leaped upon this functionary with resistless impetuosity--had overpowered him, gagged him, trussed him like a turkey cock and rolled him into his bunk. The waters roundabout gave no sign of having been apprised of the capture. No cry of surprise rang out--no call for help--no hullabaloo of pursuit. The lights of the old town twinkled in the foggy night in undisturbed serenity. The night was thick, and the wind swept furiously up from the sea. It would be a dead beat to windward to make the open--a sharp beat through a rock-strewn channel in a rising gale. "Now we got her," Skipper Bill laughed, "what'll we do with her?" Archie and Josiah laughed, too: a hearty explosion. "We can never beat out in this wind," said Bill; "an' we couldn't handle her if we did--not in a gale o' wind like this. All along," he chuckled, "I been 'lowin' for a fair wind an' good weather." They heard the rattle and creak of oars approaching; to which, in a few minutes, the voices of two men added a poignant interest. The rowers rested on their oars, as though looking about; then the oars splashed the water again, and the dory shot towards the _Heavenly Home_. Bill o' Burnt Bay and his fellow pirates lay flat on the deck. The boat hung off the stern of the schooner. "Jean!" The hail was in French. It was not answered, you may be sure, from the _Heavenly Home_. "Jean!" "He's not aboard," spoke up the other man. "He must be aboard. His dory's tied to the rail. Jean! Jean Morot!" "Come--let's be off to the _Voyageur_. He's asleep." A pair of oars fell in the water. "Come--take your oars. It's too rough to lie here. And it's late enough." "But----" "Take your oars!" with an oath. The Newfoundlanders breathed easier when they heard the splash and creak and rattle receding; but they did not rise until the sounds were out of hearing, presumably in the direction of the _Voyageur_. * * * * * Bill o' Burnt Bay began to laugh again. Archie joined him. But Josiah Cove pointed out the necessity of doing something--anything--and doing it quickly. It was all very well to laugh, said he; and although it might seem a comical thing to be standing on the deck of a captured schooner, the comedy would be the Frenchman's if they were caught in the act. But Archie still chuckled away; the situation was quite too ridiculous to be taken seriously. Archie had never been a pirate before; he didn't feel like one now--but he rather liked the feeling he had. "We can't stay aboard," said he, presently. "Blest if I want t' go ashore," said Bill. "We _got_ t' go ashore," Josiah put in. Before they left the deck of the _Heavenly Home_ (the watchman having then been made more comfortable), it was agreed that the schooner could not make the open sea in the teeth of the wind. That was obvious; and it was just as obvious that the Newfoundlander could not stay aboard. The discovery of the watchman in the cabin must be chanced until such a time as a fair wind came in the night. On their way to the obscure wharf at which they landed it was determined that Josiah should board the schooner at nine o'clock, noon, and six o'clock of the next day to feed the captured watchman and to set the galley fire going for half an hour to allay suspicion. "An' Skipper Bill," said Josiah, seriously, "you lie low. If you don't you're liable to be took up." "Take your advice t' yourself," the skipper retorted. "Your reputation's none o' the best in this harbour." "We'll sail to-morrow night," said Archie. "Given a dark night an' a fair wind," the skipper qualified. Skipper Bill made his way to a quiet café of his acquaintance; and Josiah vanished in the fog to lie hidden with a shipmate of other days. Archie--depending upon his youth and air and accent and well-tailored dress to avert suspicion--went boldly to the Hotel Joinville and sat down to dinner. The dinner was good; he enjoyed it, and was presently delighting in the romance in which he had a part. It all seemed too good to be true. How glad he was he had come! To be here--in the French Islands of Miquelon--to have captured a schooner--to have a prisoner in the cabin--to be about to run off with the _Heavenly Home_. For the life of him, Archie could not take the thing seriously. He chuckled--and chuckled--and chuckled again. Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady, gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the pendant street lights, the rumble of the ten o'clock drums. These things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were made--of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare dream--and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere. As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste. "Monsieur--if he will pardon--it was not----" this fellow stammered, apologetically. Men were hurrying past toward the Café d'Espoir, appearing everywhere from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was a clamorous crowd about the door--pushing, scuffling, shouting. "What has happened?" Archie asked in French. "An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh, fear-r-rful!" "And why--what----" "He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he fought, monsieur--fought with the strength of a savage. It took five gendarmes to bind him--five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is dead--killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse me, I will----" He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the café, which was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the café. Then he wormed his way to the door and entered. A moment later he had climbed on a barrel and was overlooking the squirming crowd and eagerly listening to the clamour. Above every sound--above the cries and clatter and gabble--rang the fighting English of Bill o' Burnt Bay. It was no American; it was Skipper Bill whom the gendarmes had taken, and he was now so seriously involved, apparently, that his worst enemies could wish him no deeper in the mesh. They had him bound hand and foot and guarded with drawn swords, fearing, probably, that somewhere he had a crew of wild fellows at his back to make a rescue. To attempt a rescue was not to be thought of. It did not enter the boy's head. He was overcome by grief and terror. He withdrew into a shadow until they had carried Skipper Bill out with a crowd yelping at his heels. Then, white and shaking, he went to a group in the corner where Louis Arnot, the gendarme, was stretched out on the floor. Archie touched the surgeon on the shoulder. "Is he dead?" the boy asked, in French, his voice trembling. "No, monsieur; he is alive." "Will he live?" "To be sure, monsieur!" "Is there any doubt about it?" asked Archie. "Doubt?" exclaimed the surgeon. "With _my_ skill, monsieur? It is impossible--he _cannot_ die! He will be restored in three days. I--_I_--I will accomplish it!" "Thank God for that!" thought Archie. The boy went gravely home to bed; and as he lay down the adventure seemed less romantic than it had. CHAPTER XVIII _In Which Archie Inspects an Opera Bouffe Dungeon Jail, Where He Makes the Acquaintance of Dust, Dry Rot and Deschamps. In Which, Also, Skipper Bill o' Burnt Bay Is Advised to Howl Until His Throat Cracks_ In the morning Archie went as a tourist to the jail where Bill o' Burnt Bay was confined. The wind was blowing fresh from the west and promised to hold true for the day. It was a fair, strong wind for the outward bound craft; but Archie Armstrong had no longer any interest in the wind or in the _Heavenly Home_. He was interested in captives and cells. To his astonishment he found that the Saint Pierre jail had been designed chiefly with the idea of impressing the beholder, and was builded long, long ago. It was a low-walled structure situate in a quiet quarter of the town. The outer walls were exceeding thick. One might work with a pick and shovel for a week and never tunnel them. "But," thought Archie, "why tunnel them when it is possible to leap over them?" They were jagged on top and strewn with bits of broken bottle imbedded in the mortar. "But," thought Archie, "why cut one's hands when it is so easy to throw a jacket over the glass and save the pain?" The walls apparently served no good purpose except to frighten the populace with their frowns. * * * * * As big Deschamps, the jailer, led Archie through the musty corridors and cells the boy perceived that the old building had long ago gone to wrack. It was a place of rust and dust and dry rot, of crumbling masonry, of rotted casements, of rust-eaten bars, of creaking hinges and broken locks. He had the impression that a strong man could break in the doors with his fist and tumble the walls about his ears with a push. "This way, monsieur," said Deschamps, at last. "Come! I will show you the pig of a Newfoundlander who half killed a gendarme. He is a terrible fellow." He had Skipper Bill safe enough--thrown into a foul-aired, windowless cell with an iron-bound door, from which there was no escape. To release him was impossible, whatever the condition of the jail in other parts. Archie had hoped to find a way; but when he saw the cell in which Skipper Bill was confined he gave up all idea of a rescue. And at that moment the skipper came to the narrow grating in the door. He scowled at the jailer and looked the boy over blankly. "Pah!" exclaimed Deschamps, screwing his face into a look of disgust. "You wait 'til I cotches _you!_" the skipper growled. "What does the pig say, monsieur?" Deschamps asked. "He has not yet repented," Archie replied, evasively. "Pah!" said Deschamps again. "Come, monsieur; we shall continue the inspection." Archie was taken to the furthermost cell of the corridor. It was isolated from that part of the building where the jailer had his living quarters, and it was a light, roomy place on the ground floor. The window bars were rusted thin and the masonry in which they were sunk was falling away. It seemed to Archie that he himself could wrench the bars away with his hands; but he found that he could not when he tried them. He looked out; and what he saw made him regret that Skipper Bill had not been confined in that particular cell. "This cell, monsieur," said Deschamps, importantly, "is where I confine the drunken Newfoundland sailors when----" Archie looked up with interest. "When they make a great noise, monsieur," Deschamps concluded. "I have the headache," he explained. "So bad and so often I have the headache, monsieur. I cannot bear the great noise they make. It is fearful. So I put them here, and I go to sleep, and they do not trouble me at all." "Is monsieur in earnest?" Archie asked. Deschamps was flattered by this form of address from a young gentleman. "It is true," he replied. "Compelled. That is the word. I am compelled to confine them here." "Let us return to the Newfoundlander," said Archie. "He is a pig," Deschamps agreed, "and well worth looking at." When they came to the door of Skipper Bill's cell, Archie was endeavouring to evolve a plan for having a word with him without exciting Deschamps' suspicion. The jailer saved him the trouble. "Monsieur is an American," said Deschamps. "Will he not tell the pig of a Newfoundlander that he shall have no breakfast?" "Skipper Bill," said Archie, in English, "when I leave here you howl until your throat cracks." Bill o' Burnt Bay nodded. "How's the wind?" he asked. "What does the pig of a Newfoundlander say?" Deschamps inquired. "It is of no importance," Archie replied. When Archie had inspected the guillotine in the garret, which Deschamps exhibited to every visitor with great pride, the jailer led him to the open air. "Do the prisoners never escape?" Archie asked. "Escape!" Deschamps cried, with reproach and indignation. "Monsieur, how could you suggest it? Escape! From me--from _me_, monsieur!" He struck his breast and extended his arms. "Ah, no--they could not! My bravery, monsieur--my strength--all the world knows of them. I am famous, monsieur. Deschamps, the wrestler! Escape! From _me_! Ah, no--it is _impossible_!" When Archie had more closely observed his gigantic form, his broad, muscular chest, his mighty arms and thick neck, his large, lowering face--when he had observed all this he fancied that a man might as well wrestle with a grizzly as oppose him, for it would come to the same thing in the end. "You are a strong man," Archie admitted. "Thanks--thanks--monsieur!" the delighted Deschamps responded. At that moment, a long, dismal howl broke the quiet. It was repeated even more excruciatingly. "The pig of a Newfoundlander!" groaned Deschamps. "My head! It is fearful. He will give me the headache." Archie departed. He was angry with Deschamps for having called Newfoundlanders pigs. After all, he determined, angrily, the jailer was deserving of small sympathy. CHAPTER XIX _In Which Archie Armstrong Goes Deeper In and Thinks He Has Got Beyond His Depth. Bill o' Burnt Bay Takes Deschamps By the Throat and the Issue Is Doubtful For a Time_ That afternoon, after a short conversation with Josiah Cove, who had thus far managed to keep out of trouble, Archie Armstrong spent a brief time on the _Heavenly Home_ to attend to the health and comfort of the watchman, who was in no bad way. Perhaps, after all, Archie thought--if Deschamps' headache would only cause the removal of Bill o' Burnt Bay to the dilapidated cell on the ground floor--the _Heavenly Home_ might yet be sailed in triumph to Ruddy Cove. He strutted the deck, when necessary, with as much of the insolence of a civic official as he could command, and no man came near to question his right. When the watchman's friends came from the _Voyageur_ he drove them away in excellent French. They went meekly and with apologies for having disturbed him. "So far, well enough," thought Archie, as he rowed ashore, glad to be off the schooner. It was after dark when, by appointment, the lad met Josiah. Josiah had provided himself with a crowbar and a short length of line, which he said would be sure to come useful, for he had always found it so. Then the two set off for the jail together, and there arrived some time after the drums had warned all good people to be within doors. "What's that?" said Josiah of a sudden. It was a hoarse, melancholy croak proceeding from the other side of the wall. The skipper's cell had been changed, as Archie had hoped, and the skipper himself was doing his duty to the bitter end. The street was deserted. They acted quickly. Josiah gave Archie a leg. He threw his jacket over the broken glass and mounted the wall. Josiah made off at once; it was his duty to have the skiff in readiness. Archie dropped into the garden. "Is that you, b'y?" whispered Skipper Bill. Again Archie once more found it impossible to take the adventure seriously. He began to laugh. It was far too much like the romances he had read to be real. It was play, it seemed--just like a game of smugglers and pirates, played on a summer's afternoon. "Is it you, Archie?" the skipper whispered again. Archie chuckled aloud. "Is the wind in the west?" the skipper asked. "Ay," Archie replied; "and blowing a smart sailing breeze." "Haste, then, lad!" said the skipper. "'Tis time t' be off for Ruddy Cove." The window was low. With his crowbar Archie wrenched a bar from its socket. It came with a great clatter. It made the boy's blood run cold to hear the noise. He pried the second and it yielded. Down fell a block of stone with a crash. While he was feeling for a purchase on the third bar Skipper Bill caught his wrist. "Hist, lad!" It was a footfall in the corridor. Skipper Bill slipped into the darkness by the door--vanished like a shadow. Archie dropped to the ground. By what unhappy chance had Deschamps come upon this visitation? Could it have been the silence of Skipper Bill? Archie heard the cover of the grating drawn away from the peep-hole in the door. "He's gone!" That was Deschamps' voice. Doubtless he had observed that two bars were missing from the window. Archie heard the key slipped into the lock and the door creak on its hinges. All the time he knew that Skipper Bill was crouched in the shadow--poised for the spring. The boy no longer thought of the predicament as a game. Nor was he inclined to laugh again. This was the ugly reality once more come to face him. There would be a fight in the cell. This he knew. And he waited in terror of the issue. There was a quick step--a crash--a quick-drawn breath--the noise of a shock--a cry--a groan. Skipper Bill had kicked the door to and leaped upon the jailer. Archie pried the third bar out and broke the fourth with a blow. Then he squirmed through the window. Even in that dim light--half the night light without--he could see that the struggle was over. Skipper Bill had Deschamps by the throat with his great right hand. He had the jailer's waist in his left arm as in a vise, and was forcing his head back--back--back--until Archie thought the Frenchman's spine would crack. "Don't kill him!" Archie cried. Skipper Bill had no intention of doing so; nor had Deschamps, the wrestler, any idea of allowing his back to be broken. "Don't kill him!" Archie begged again. Deschamps was tugging at that right arm of iron--weakly, vainly tugging to wrench it away from his throat. His eyes were starting from their sockets, and his tongue protruded. Back went the head--back--back! The arm was pitiless. Back--back! He was fordone. In a moment his strength departed and he collapsed. He had not had time to call for help, so quick had been Bill's hand. They bound his limp body with the length of line Josiah had brought, and they had no sooner bound him than he revived. "You are a great man, monsieur," he mumbled. "You have vanquished me--Deschamps! You will be famous--famous, monsieur. I shall send my resignation to His Excellency the Governor to-morrow. Deschamps--he is vanquished!" "What's he talkin' about?" the skipper panted. "You have beaten him." "Let's be off, b'y," the skipper gasped. They locked the door on the inside, clambered through the window and scaled the wall. They sped through the deserted streets with all haste. They came to the landing-place and found the skiff tugging at her painter with her sails all unfurled. Presently they were under way for the _Heavenly Home_, and, having come safely aboard, hauled up the mainsail, set the jib and were about to slip the anchor. Then they heard the clang, clang, clang of a bell--a warning clang, clang, clang, which could mean but one thing: discovery. "Fetch up that Frenchman," the skipper roared. The watchman was loosed and brought on deck. "Put un in his dory and cast off," the skipper ordered. This done the anchor was slipped and the sheets hauled taut. The rest of the canvas was shaken out and the _Heavenly Home_ gathered way and fairly flew for the open sea. * * * * * If there was pursuit it did not come within sight. The old schooner came safely to Ruddy Cove, where Bill o' Burnt Bay, Josiah Cove and Archie Armstrong lived for a time in sickening fear of discovery and arrest. But nothing was ever heard from Saint Pierre. The _Heavenly Home_ had been unlawfully seized by the French; perhaps that is why the Ruddy Cove pirates heard no more of the Miquelon escapade. There was hardly good ground in the circumstances for complaint to the Newfoundland government. At any rate, Archie wrote a full and true statement of the adventure to his father in St. John's; and his father replied that his letter had been received and "contents noted." There was no chiding; and Archie breathed easier after he had read the letter. CHAPTER XX _In Which David Grey's Friend, the Son of the Factor at Fort Red Wing, Yarns of the Professor With the Broken Leg, a Stretch of Rotten River Ice and the Tug of a White Rushing Current_ One quiet evening, after sunset, in the early summer, when the folk of Ruddy Cove were passing time in gossip on the wharf, while they awaited the coming of the mail-boat, old David Grey, who had told the tale of McLeod and the tomahawks, called to Billy Topsail and his friends. A bronzed, pleasant-appearing man, David's friend, shook hands with the boys with the grip of a woodsman. Presently he drifted into a tale of his own boyhood at Fort Red Wing in the wilderness far back of Quebec. "You see," said he, "my father had never fallen into the habit of coddling me. So when the lost Hudson Bay Geological Expedition made Fort Red Wing in the spring--every man exhausted, except the young professor, who had broken a leg a month back, and had set it with his own hands--it was the most natural thing in the world that my father should command me to take the news to Little Lake, whence it might be carried, from post to post, all the way to the department at Ottawa. "'And send the company doctor up,' said he. 'The little professor's leg is in a bad way, if I know anything about doctoring. So you'll make what haste you can.' "'Yes, sir,' said I. "'Keep to the river until you come to the Great Bend. You can take the trail through the bush from there to Swift Rapids. If the ice is broken at the rapids, you'll have to go round the mountain. That'll take a good half day longer. But don't be rash at the rapids, and keep an eye on the ice all along. The sun will be rotting it by day now. It looks like a break-up already.' "'Shall I go alone, sir?' said I. "'No,' said my father, no doubt perceiving the wish in the question. 'I'll have John go with you for company.' "John was an Indian lad of my own age, or thereabouts, who had been brought up at the fort--my companion and friend. I doubt if I shall ever find a stancher one. "With him at my heels and a little packet of letters in my breast pocket, I set out early the next day. It was late in March, and the sun, as the day advanced, grew uncomfortably hot. "'Here's easy going!' I cried, when we came to the river. "'Bad ice!' John grunted. "And it proved to be so--ice which the suns of clear weather had rotted and the frosts of night and cold days had not repaired. Rotten patches alternated with spaces of open water and of thin ice, which the heavy frost of the night before had formed. "When we came near to Great Bend, where we were to take to the woods, it was late in the afternoon, and the day was beginning to turn cold. "We sped on even more cautiously, for in that place the current is swift, and we knew that the water was running like mad below us. I was ahead of John, picking the way; and I found, to my cost, that the way was unsafe. In a venture offshore I risked too much. Of a sudden the ice let me through. "It was like a fall, feet foremost, and when I came again to the possession of my faculties, with the passing of the shock, I found that my arms were beating the edge of ice, which crumbled before them, and that the current was tugging mightily at my legs. "'Look out!' I gasped. "The warning was neither heard nor needed. John was flat on his stomach, worming his way towards me--wriggling slowly out, his eyes glistening. "Meanwhile I had rested my arms on the edge, which then crumbled no more; but I was helpless to save myself, for the current had sucked my legs under the ice, and now held them securely there, sweeping them from side to side, all the while tugging as if to wrench me from my hold. The most I could do was to resist the pull, to grit my teeth and cling to the advantage I had. It was for John to make the rescue. "There was an ominous crack from John's direction. When I turned my eyes to look he was lying still. Then I saw him wriggle out of danger, backing away like a crab. "'John!' I screamed. "The appeal seemed not to move him. He continued to wriggle from me. When he came to solid ice he took to his heels. I caught sight of him as he climbed the bank, and kept my eyes upon him until he disappeared over the crest. He had left me without a word. "The water was cold and swift, and the strength of my arms and back was wearing out. The current kept tugging, and I realized, loath as I was to admit it, that half an hour would find me slipping under the ice. It was a grave mistake to admit it; for at once fancy began to paint ugly pictures for me, and the probabilities, as it presented them, soon flustered me almost beyond recovery. "'I was chest-high out of the water,' I told myself. 'Chest-high! Now my chin is within four inches of the ice. I've lost three inches. I'm lost!' "With that I tried to release my feet from the clutch of the current, to kick myself back to an upright position, to lift myself out. It was all worse than vain. The water was running so swiftly that it dangled my legs as it willed, and the rotten ice momentarily threatened to let me through. "I lost a full inch of position. So I settled myself to wait for what might come, determined to yield nothing through terror or despair. My eyes were fixed stupidly upon the bend in the river, far down, where a spruce-clothed bluff was melting with the dusk. "What with the cold and the drain upon my physical strength, it may be that my mind was a blank when relief came. At any rate, it seemed to have been an infinitely long time in coming; and it was with a shock that John's words restored me to a vivid consciousness of my situation. "'Catch hold!' said he. "He had crawled near me, although I had not known of his approach, and he was thrusting towards me the end of a long pole, which he had cut in the bush. It was long, but not long enough. I reached for it, but my hand came three feet short of grasping it. "John grunted and crept nearer. Still it was beyond me, and he dared venture no farther. He withdrew the pole; then he crept back and unfastened his belt. Working deliberately but swiftly, he bound the belt to the end of the pole, and came out again. He cast the belt within reach, as a fisherman casts a line. I caught it, clutched it, and was hauled from my predicament by main strength. "'John,' I said, as we drew near to the half-way cabin, 'I know your blood, and it's all very well to be careful not to say too much; but there's such a thing as saying too little. Why didn't you tell me where you were going when you started for that pole?' "'Huh!' said John, as if his faithfulness to me in every fortune were quite beyond suspicion. "'Yes, I know,' I insisted, 'but a word or two would have saved me a deal of uneasiness.' "'Huh!' said he." CHAPTER XXI _In Which a Bearer of Tidings Finds Himself In Peril of His Life On a Ledge of Ice Above a Roaring Rapid_ "We passed that night at the cabin, where a roaring fire warmed me and dried my clothes," David's friend continued. "My packet of letters was safe and dry, so I slept in peace, and we were both as chirpy as sparrows when we set out the next morning. It was a clear, still day, with the sun falling warmly upon us. "Our way now led through the bush for mile after mile--little hills and stony ground and swamp-land. By noon we were wet to the knees; but this circumstance was then too insignificant for remark, although later it gave me the narrowest chance for life that ever came within my experience. "We made Swift Rapids late in the afternoon, when the sun was low and a frosty wind was freezing the pools by the way. The post at Little Lake lay not more than three miles beyond the foot of the rapids, and when the swish and roar of water first fell upon our ears we hallooed most joyfully, for it seemed to us that we had come within reaching distance of our destination. "'No,' said John, when we stood on the shore of the river. "'I think we can,' said I. "'No,' he repeated. "The rapids were clear of ice, which had broken from the quiet water above the verge of the descent, and now lay heaped up from shore to shore, where the current subsided at the foot. The water was most turbulent--swirling, shooting, foaming over great boulders. It went rushing between two high cliffs, foaming to the very feet of them, where not an inch of bank was showing. At first glance it was no thoroughfare; but the only alternative was to go round the mountain, as my father had said, and I had no fancy to lengthen my journey by four hours, so I searched the shore carefully for a passage. "The face of the cliff was such that we could make our way one hundred yards down-stream. It was just beyond that point that the difficulty lay. The rock jutted into the river, and rose sheer from it; neither foothold nor handhold was offered. But beyond, as I knew, it would be easy enough to clamber along the cliff, which was shelving and broken, and so, at last, come to the trail again. "'There's the trouble, John,' said I, pointing to the jutting rock. 'If we can get round that, we can go the rest of the way without any difficulty.' "'No go,' said John. 'Come.' "He jerked his head towards the bush, but I was not to be easily persuaded. "'We'll go down and look at that place,' I replied. 'There may be a way.' "There was a way, a clear, easy way, requiring no more than a bit of nerve to pass over it, and I congratulated myself upon persisting to its discovery. The path was by a stout ledge of ice, adhering to the cliff and projecting out from it for about eighteen inches. The river had fallen. This ledge had been formed when it was at its highest, and when the water had subsided the ice had been left sticking to the rock. The ledge was like the rim of ice that adheres to a tub when a bucketful of freezing water has been taken out. "I clambered down to it, sounded it, and found it solid. Moreover, it seemed to lead all the way round, broadening and narrowing as it went, but wide enough in every part. I was sure-footed and unafraid, so at once I determined to essay the passage. 'I am going to try it!' I called to John, who was clinging to the cliff some yards behind and above me. 'Don't follow until I call you.' "'Look out!' said he. "'Oh, it's all right,' I said, confidently. "I turned my back to the rock and moved out, stepping sidewise. It was not difficult until I came to a point where the cliff is overhanging--it may be a space of twelve feet or less; then I had to stoop, and the awkward position made my situation precarious in the extreme, for the rock seemed all the while bent on thrusting me off. "The river was roaring past. Below me the water was breaking over a great rock, whence it shot, swift and strong, against a boulder which rose above it. I could hear the hiss and swish and thunder of it; and had I been less confident in my foothold, I might then and there have been hopelessly unnerved. There was no mercy in those seething rapids. "'A fall would be the end of me,' I thought; 'but I will not fall.' "Fall I did, however, and that suddenly, just after I had rounded the point and was hidden from John's sight. The cold of the late afternoon had frozen my boots stiff; they had been soaked in the swamp-lands, and the water was now all turned to ice. "My soles were slippery and my feet were awkwardly managed. I slipped. "My feet shot from under me. A flash of terror went through me. Then I found myself lying on my hip, on the edge of the shelf with my legs dangling over the rapids, my shoulder pressing the cliff, my hands flat on the ice, and my arms sustaining nearly the whole weight of my body. "At that instant I heard a thud and a splash, as of something striking the water, and turning my eyes, I perceived that a section of the snow ledge had fallen from the cliff. It was not large, but it was between John and me, and the space effectually shut him off from my assistance. "My problem was to get to my feet again. But how? The first effort persuaded me that it was impossible. My shoulder was against the cliff. When I attempted to raise myself to a seat on the ledge I succeeded only in pressing my shoulder more firmly against the rock. Wriggle as I would, the wall behind kept me where I was. I could not gain an inch. I needed no more, for that would have relieved my arms by throwing more of my weight upon my hips. "I was in the position of a boy trying to draw himself to a seat on a window-sill, with the difference that my heels were of no help to me, for they were dangling in space. My arms were fast tiring out. The inch I needed for relief was past gaining, and it seemed to me then that in a moment my arms would fail me, and I should slip off into the river. "'Better go now,' I thought, 'before my arms are worn out altogether. I'll need them for swimming.' "But a glance down the river assured me that my chance in the rapids would be of the smallest. Not only was the water swift and turbulent, but it ran against the barrier of ice at the foot of the rapids, and it was evident that it would suck me under, once it got me there. "Nor was there any hope in John's presence. I had told him to stay where he was until I called; and, to be sure, in that spot would he stay. I might call now. But to what purpose? He could do nothing to help me. He would come to the gap in the ledge, and from there peep sympathetically at me. Indeed, he might reach a pole to me, as he had done on the day before, but my hands were fully occupied, and I could not grasp it. So I put John out of my mind,--for even in the experience of the previous day I had not yet learned my lesson,--and determined to follow the only course which lay open to me, desperate though it was. "'I'll turn on my stomach,' I thought, 'and try to get to my knees on the ledge.' "I accomplished the turn, but in the act I so nearly lost my hold that I lost my head, and there was a gasping lapse of time before I recovered my calm. "In this change I gained nothing. When I tried to get to my knees I butted my head against the overhanging rock, nor could I lift my foot to the ice and roll over on my side, for the ledge was far too narrow for that. I had altered my position, but I had accomplished no change in my situation. It was impossible for me to rest more of my weight upon my breast than my hips had borne. My weakening arms still had to sustain it, and the river was going its swirling way below me, just as it had gone in the beginning. I had not helped myself at all. "There was nothing for it, I thought, but to commit myself to the river and make as gallant a fight for life as I could. So at last I called John, that he might carry our tidings to their destination and return to Fort Red Wing with news of a sadly different kind. "'Ho!' said John. "He was staring round the point of rock; and there he stood, unable to get nearer. "'Ice under,' said he, indicating a point below me. 'More ice. Let down.' "'What?' I cried. 'Where?' "'More ice. Down there,' said he. 'Like this. Let down.' "Then I understood him. Another ledge, such as that upon which I hung, had been formed in the same way, and was adhering to the rock beneath. No doubt there was a pool on the lower side of the point, and just below me, and the current would be no obstacle to the formation of ice. I had looked down from above, and the upper ledge had hidden the lower from me; but John, standing by the gap in the upper, could see it plainly. "So I had but to let myself down until my feet rested on the new ledge, and this I did, with extreme caution and the expenditure of the last ounce of strength in my arms. Then a glance assured me that the way was clear to the shelving cliff beyond. "'You go,' said John. 'I go round.' "'All right,' said I. 'And, say! I wish I'd called you before.' "'Ho!' said he, as he vanished. "When John reached the Little Lake post late that night, the tidings of the safe return of the Hudson Bay Geological Expedition were on the way south by another messenger, and the company's physician was moving over the trail towards Fort Red Wing, making haste to the aid of the young professor, whom, indeed, he soon brought back to health. The passage by the ledge of ice had resulted in a gain of three hours, but whether or not it saved the professor's life I do not know. I do not think it did. It nearly cost me mine, but I had no thought of that when I essayed it, so my experience reflects no credit upon me whatever. I take fewer rash and reckless chances now on land and water, and I am not so overreliant upon my own resources. "I have learned that a friend's help is of value." At that moment the Ruddy Cove mail-boat entered the Tickle. CHAPTER XXII _In Which Billy Topsail Gets an Idea and, to the Amazement of Jimmie Grimm, Archie Armstrong Promptly Goes Him One Better_ While Archie Armstrong was pursuing his piratical adventure in the French harbour of St. Pierre, Billy Topsail had gone fishing with Jimmie Grimm and Donald North. This was in the trim little sloop that Sir Archibald had sent north to Billy Topsail in recognition of his service to Archie during a great blizzard from which Bill o' Burnt Bay had rescued them both.[5] There were now no fish in the summer waters of Ruddy Cove; but word had come down the coast that fish were running in the north. So up went the sails of the little _Rescue_; and with Billy Topsail, Jimmie Grimm and Bobby North aboard she swept daintily between the tickle rocks and turned her shapely prow towards White Bay. There was good fishing with hook and line; and as the hold of the little sloop was small she was soon loaded with green cod. "I 'low I got an idea," said Billy Topsail. Jimmie Grimm looked up. "We'll sail for Ruddy Cove the morrow," Billy went on; "an' when we lands our fish we'll go tradin'. There's a deal o' money in that, I'm told; an' with what we gets for our fish we'll stock the cabin o' the _Rescue_ and come north again t' trade in White Bay." Donald and Jimmie were silent; the undertaking was too vast to be comprehended in a moment. "Let's have Archie," said Jimmie, at last. "An' poor ol' Bagg," said Donald. "We'll have Archie if he'll come," Billy agreed, "an' Bagg if we can stow un away." There was a long, long silence, during which the three boys began to dream in an amazing way. "Billy," Donald North asked, at last, "what you goin' t' do with your part o' the money we'll make at tradin'?" It was a quiet evening on the coast; and from the deck of the sloop, where she lay in harbour, the boys looked away to a glowing sunset, above the inland hills and wilderness. "I don't know," Billy replied. "What you goin' t' do with your share, Jimmie?" "Don't know," said Jimmie, seriously. "What you goin' t' do with yours, Donald?" "I isn't quite made up my mind," said Donald, with an anxious frown. "I 'low I'll wait an' see what Archie does with his." The three boys stowed away in the little cabin of the _Rescue_ very early that night. They were to set sail for Ruddy Cove at dawn of the next morning. * * * * * Archie Armstrong, now returned from the Miquelon Islands and relieved of his anxiety concerning that adventure by his father's letter, was heart and soul for trading. But he scorned the little _Rescue_. It was merely that she was too small, he was quick to add; she was trim and fast and stout, she possessed every virtue a little craft could have, but as for trading, on any scale that half-grown boys could tolerate, she was far too small. If a small venture could succeed, why shouldn't a larger one? What Archie wanted--what he determined they should have--was a thirty-ton schooner. Nothing less would do. They must have a thirty-ton fore-an'-after with Bill o' Burnt Bay to skipper her. The _Heavenly Home_? Not at all! At any rate, Josiah Cove was to take that old basket to the Labrador for the last cruise of the season. Jimmie Grimm laughed at Archie. "What you laughing at?" Archie demanded, with a grin. Jimmie couldn't quite tell; but the truth was that the fisherman's lad could never get used to the airy, confident, masterful way of a rich man's son and a city-bred boy. "Look you, Archie!" said Billy Topsail, "where in time is you goin' t' get that schooner?" "The _On Time_," was the prompt reply. "We'll call her the _Spot Cash_." Billy realized that the _On Time_ might be had. Also that she might be called the _Spot Cash_. She had lain idle in the harbour since her skipper had gone off to the mines at Sidney to make more money in wages than he could take from the sea. But how charter her? "Where you goin' t' get the stock?" Jimmie Grimm inquired. "Don't know whether I can or not," said Archie; "but I'm going to try my level best." Archie Armstrong left for St. John's by the next mail-boat. He was not the lad to hesitate. What his errand was the Ruddy Cove boys knew well enough; but concerning the prospect of success, they could only surmise. However, Archie wouldn't be long. Archie wasn't the lad to be long about anything. What he undertook to do he went right _at_! "If he can only do it," Billy Topsail said. Jimmie Grimm and Donald North and Bagg stared at Billy Topsail like a litter of eager and expectant little puppies. And Bill o' Burnt Bay stood like a wise old dog behind. If only Archie could! ----- [5] As related in "The Adventures of Billy Topsail." CHAPTER XXIII _In Which Sir Archibald Armstrong Is Almost Floored By a Business Proposition, But Presently Revives, and Seems to be About to Rise to the Occasion_ Sir Archibald Armstrong was a colonial knight. His decoration--one of Her late Majesty's birthday honours--had come to him for beneficent political services to the colony in time of trouble and ruin. He was a Newfoundlander born and bred (though educated in the English schools); and he was fond of saying in a pleasantly boastful way and with a little twinkle of amusement in his sympathetic blue eyes: "I'm a fish-merchant, sir--a Newfoundland fish-merchant!" This was quite true, of course; but it was only half the truth. Directly or indirectly, Sir Archibald's business interests touched every port in Newfoundland, every harbour of the Labrador, the markets of Spain and Portugal, of the West Indies and the South American Republics. Sir Archibald was alone in his cozy office. The day was raw and wet. There was a blazing fire in the grate--an agreeable bit of warmth and brightness to contrast with the rain beating on the window-panes. A pale little clerk put his head in at the door. "Beg pardon, sir," he jerked. "Master Archie, sir." "Master Archie!" Sir Archibald exclaimed. Archie entered. "What's this?" said Sir Archibald, in amazement. "Back from Ruddy Cove?" "On business," Archie replied. Sir Archibald laughed pleasantly. "Don't make fun of me, father," said Archie. "I'm in dead earnest." "How much is it, son?" This was an ancient joke between the two. Both laughed. "You'd be surprised if you knew," the boy returned. "But look here, father! please don't take it in that way. I'm really in earnest." "It's money, son," Sir Archibald insisted. "I know it is." "Yes," said Archie, with a grave frown; "it _is_ money. It's a good deal of money. It's so much money, dad, that you'll sit up when you hear about it." Sir Archibald looked sharply into his son's grave eyes. "Ahem!" he coughed. "Money," he mused, "and a good deal of it. What's the trouble, son?" "No trouble, father," said Archie; "just a ripping good chance for fun and profit." Sir Archibald moved to the chair behind a broad flat-top desk by the window. This was the queer little throne from which all business problems were viewed. It was from the shabby old chair--with a broad window behind--that all business judgments were delivered. Did an outport merchant want credit in any large way, it was from the opposite chair--with the light falling full in his face through the broad window--that he put the case to Sir Archibald. Archie sat down in that chair and leaned over the desk. Sir Archibald stretched his legs, put his hands deep in his pockets, let his chin fall on his breast and stared searchingly into his son's face. The rain was driven noisily against the windows; the fire crackled and glowed. As between the two at the desk there was a momentary silence. "Well?" said Sir Archibald, shortly. "I want to go trading," Archie replied. Sir Archibald lifted his eyebrows--then pursed his lips. The matter of credit was evidently to be proposed to him. It was to be put, too, it seemed, in a business way. Very well: Sir Archibald would deal with the question in a business way. He felt a little thrill of pleasure--he was quite conscious of it. It was delightful to have his only son in a business discussion, at the familiar old desk, with the fire glowing, the wind rattling the windows and the rain lashing the panes. Sir Archibald was a business man; and now he realized for the first time that Archie was grown to a companionable age. This, after all, he reflected, was what he had been working for: To engage in business with his own son. "Then you want credit?" said he. "Look here, dad!" Archie burst out; "of course, I want credit. I'll tell you all about it," he rattled anxiously. "We want--we means Billy Topsail, Jimmie Grimm, Donald North and me--they're all Ruddy Cove fellows, you know--we want to charter the _On Time_ at Ruddy Cove, call her the _Spot Cash_, stock her cabin and hold--she's only a twenty-tonner--and ship Bill o' Burnt Bay for skipper and trade the ports of White Bay and the French Shore. All the boys----" [Illustration: "--WE WANT TO CHARTER THE _ON TIME_ AND TRADE THE PORTS OF THE FRENCH SHORE."] "My traders," Sir Archibald interrupted, quietly, "are trading White Bay and the French Shore." "I know it, dad," Archie began eagerly, "but----" "Will you compete with them?" Sir Archibald asked, his eyes wide open. "The _Black Eagle_ sails north on a trading voyage in a fortnight. She's loading now." "That's all right," said Archie, blithely. "We're going to----" "Encounter harsh competition," Sir Archibald put in, dryly. "How will you go about it?" Archie had been fidgeting in his chair--hardly able to command his politeness. "A cash trader!" he burst out. "Ah!" Sir Archibald drawled, enlightened. "I see. I see-ee!" "We'll be the only cash trader on the coast, dad," Archie continued; "and we'll advertise--and carry a phonograph--and sell under the credit prices--and----" Sir Archibald whistled in chagrin. "And we'll make good," Archie concluded. "You little pirate!" Sir Archibald ejaculated. Father and son laughed together. Then Sir Archibald began to drum on the desk with his finger-tips. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his lips pursed, his brows drawn in a scowl of reflection. This was a characteristic thing. Sir Archibald invariably paced, and pursed his lips, and scowled, when a problem of more than ordinary interest engaged him. He knew that Archie's plan was not unreasonable. There _might_--there _ought_ to be--good profit in a cash-trading voyage in a small schooner to the harbours of White Bay and the French Shore. There are no shops in most of these little settlements. Shops go to the people in the form of trading-schooners from St. John's and the larger ports of the more southerly coast. It is in this way that the fisher-folk procure their flour and tea, their medicines and clothing, their tackle, their molasses, pins and needles, their trinkets, everything, in fact, both the luxuries and necessities of life. It is chiefly a credit business, the prices based on credit; the folk are outfitted in the spring and pay in salt-cod in the late summer and fall. Why shouldn't a cash-trader, underselling the credit plan, do well on the coast in a small way? By and by, his face clearing, Sir Archibald sat down at the desk again. "How much do you want?" he asked, directly. Archie took a grip on the arms of his chair and clenched his teeth. It took a good deal of resolution to utter the amount. "Well, well?" Sir Archibald impatiently demanded. "A thousand dollars," said Archie, grimly. Sir Archibald started. "Two hundred and fifty dollars in cash," Archie added, "and seven hundred and fifty in credit at the warehouse." "What's the security?" Sir Archibald blandly inquired. "Security!" Archie gasped. "It is a customary consideration in business," said Sir Archibald. Archie's house of cards seemed to be tumbling about his ears. Security? He had not thought of that. He began to drum on the desk with his finger-tips. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his lips pursed, his brow drawn in a scowl of reflection. Sir Archibald, recognizing his own habit in his son's perturbation, smiled in a fatherly-fond way. The boy was very dear to him; no doubt about it. But Sir Archibald was not sentimental in the affection. "Well, sir," said Archie, by and by, his face clearing as he sat down, "I could offer you security, and good enough security, but it doesn't seem quite fair." Sir Archibald asked the nature of the bond. "I have a pony and cart, a motor boat and a sloop yacht," Archie replied, grinning. "I 'low," he drawled, with a sly drooping of his eyelids, "that they're worth more than a thousand dollars. Eh, father? What do _you_ think?" Sir Archibald guffawed. "The trouble is," Archie went on, seriously, "that you gave them to me; and it doesn't seem fair to you to offer them as security. But I tell you, dad," he declared, "if we don't make good in this trading cruise I'll sell those things and do without 'em. It isn't fair, I know--it seems pretty mean to you--it looks as if I didn't care for what you've given me. But I do care; and you know I care. The trouble is that I want awfully to go trading." "It is the only security you have?" "Except mother," said Archie. "But," he added, hastily, "I wouldn't--I _won't_--drag a lady into this." Sir Archibald threw back his head and roared. "What you laughing at, dad?" Archie asked, a little offended, if a quick flush meant anything. "I'm sure," his father replied, "that the lady wouldn't mind." "No," said Archie, grave with his little problem of honour; "but I wouldn't let a lady in for a thing like that." "Son," said Sir Archibald, now all at once turning very serious, "you have better security than your pony and sloop." Archie looked up in bewilderment. "It is your integrity," Sir Archibald explained, gently, "and your efficiency." Archie flushed with pleasure. "These are great things to possess," said Sir Archibald. "Thank you, sir," said Archie, rising in acknowledgment of this hearty compliment. The lad was genuinely moved. CHAPTER XXIV _In Which the Honour of Archie Armstrong Becomes Involved, the First of September Becomes a Date of Utmost Importance, He Collides With Tom Tulk, and a Note is Made in the Book of the Future_ Sir Archibald began again to tap the desk with his finger-tips. Archie strayed to the broad window and looked out upon the wharves and harbour. "Is that the _Black Eagle_ at the wharf?" he asked. "The _Black Eagle_, sure enough!" Sir Archibald laughed. "She's the White Bay and French Shore trader." "Trade enough for all," Archie returned. "George Rumm, master," said Sir Archibald. "Still?" Archie exclaimed. The sailing reputation of Skipper George had been in question through the season. He had come within six inches of losing the _Black Eagle_ in a small gale of the last voyage. "Who's clerk?" Archie asked. "Tommy Bull, boy." No friend of Archie! "Sharp enough, anyhow," the boy thought. Sir Archibald put his hands in his pockets again and began to pace the floor; his lips were pursed, his brows drawn. Archie waited anxiously at the window. "When," demanded Sir Archibald, pausing abruptly in his walk--"when do you propose to liquidate this debt?" "We'll sail the _Spot Cash_ into St. John's harbour, sir, on September first, or before." "With three hundred quintals of fish in her hold, I suppose?" Three hundred quintals of dry fish, at four dollars, roughly, a quintal, was twelve hundred dollars. "More than that, sir," said Archie. "Well, boy," said Sir Archibald, briskly, "the security I have spoken of is all right, and----" "Not worth much at auction sale," Archie interrupted, grinning. "There's no better security in the world," said Sir Archibald, "than youth, integrity and capacity." Archie waited. "I'll back you," said Sir Archibald, shortly. "Father," Archie declared, his eyes shining with a little mist of delight and affection, "I'll stand by this thing for all I'm worth!" They shook hands upon it. * * * * * Sir Archibald presently wrote a check and scribbled a few lines on a slip of paper. The check was for two hundred and fifty dollars; it was for running expenses and emergencies that Archie needed the hard cash. The slip of paper was an order upon the warehouses and shops for credit in the sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars. "Now," said Sir Archibald, "it is explicitly understood between us that on or before the first of September you are to turn over to the firm of Armstrong & Company a sufficient quantity of properly cured fish to liquidate this account." "Yes, sir," Archie replied, earnestly; "on or before the first day of September next." "You perfectly understand the terms?" Sir Archibald insisted. "You know the nature of this obligation?" "Yes, sir." "Very well, son," said Sir Archibald; "your honour is involved." Archie received the two slips of paper. It must be confessed that they burned his fingers a little. It was a good deal to come into possession of all at once--a good deal of money and an awe-inspiring responsibility. Sir Archibald watched the boy's face narrowly. He seemed to be pleased with what he found there--a little fear, a little anxiety, a great deal of determination. The veteran business man wondered if the boy would sleep as easily as usual that night. Would he wake up fresh and smiling in the morning? These were large cares to lie upon the shoulders of a lad. "Shall I give you a--well--a receipt--or a note--or anything like that?" Archie asked. "You are upon your honour," said his father. Archie scratched his head in doubt. "Your honour," Sir Archibald repeated, smiling. "The first of September," Archie laughed. "I shan't forget that date." In the end he had good cause to remember it. * * * * * Before Archie left the office Sir Archibald led him to the broad window behind the desk. Archie was used to this. It was his father's habit. The thing was not done in a spirit of boasting, as the boy was very well aware. Nor was it an attempt to impress the boy with a sense of his own importance and future wealth in the world. It was rather a well-considered and consistent effort to give him a sense of the reality and gravity of the obligations that would some day be his. From the broad window Archie looked out once more upon the various activities of his father's great business. There were schooners fitting out for the fishing cruise to the Labrador; there were traders taking in stores for the voyage to the Straits of Belle Isle, to the South Coast, to the French Shore; there were fore-and-afters outbound to the Grand Banks and waiting for a favourable wind; there were coastwise vessels, loading flour and pork for the outport merchants; there were barques awaiting more favourable weather in which to load salt-cod for the West Indies and Spain. All this never failed to oppress Archie a little as viewed from the broad window of his father's office. "Look!" said Sir Archibald, moving a hand to include the shipping and storehouses. Archie gazed into the rainy day. "What do you see?" his father asked, in a way half bantering, half grave. "Your ships and wharves, sir." "Some day," said Sir Archibald, "they will be yours." "I wish you wouldn't say that, dad--at least, not just in that way," said Archie, turning away from the window. "It sort of frightens me." Sir Archibald laughed and clapped him on the back. "You know what I mean," said he. "You mean that the firm has a name," said Archie. "You mean that the name must never be disgraced. I know what you mean." Sir Archibald nodded. "I hope," said Archie, the suspicion of a quaver in his voice and a tremble in his lower lip, "that I'll never disgrace it." "Nor the name of the little firm that goes into business this day," said Sir Archibald. Archie's solemn face broke into a smile of amusement and surprise. "Why, dad," said he, "it hasn't got a name." "Armstrong & Company, Junior?" "Armstrong, Topsail, Grimm & Company," said Archie, promptly. "Good luck to it!" wished Sir Archibald. "No; that's not it at all," said Archie. "Billy Topsail schemed this thing out. Wish luck to the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company." "Build the firm," said Sir Archibald, "upon hard work and fair play." Archie hurriedly said they would--and vanished. "Son is growing up," thought Sir Archibald, when the boy had gone. "Son is decidedly growing up. Well, well!" he sighed; "son is growing up and in far more trouble than he dreams of. It's a big investment, too. However," he thought, well pleased and cheerful again, "let him go ahead and learn his daddy's business. And I'll back him," he declared, speaking aloud in his enthusiastic faith. "By Jove! I'll back him to win!" * * * * * At the foot of the stairway Archie collided full tilt with two men who were engaged in intimate conversation as they passed the door. The one was George Rumm, skipper of the _Black Eagle_--a timid, weak-mouthed, shifty-eyed man, with an obsequious drawl in his voice, a diffident manner, and, altogether, a loose, weak way. The other was old Tom Tulk of Twillingate. Archie leaped back with an apology to Skipper George. The boy had no word to say to Tom Tulk of Twillingate. Tom Tulk was notoriously a rascal whom the law was eager to catch but could never quite satisfactorily lay hands on. It did not occur to Archie that no wise skipper would put heads mysteriously together in a public place with old Tom Tulk of Twillingate. The boy was too full of his own concerns to take note of anything. "Hello, Skipper George!" he cried, buoyantly. "I'll see you on the French Shore." "Goin' north?" Skipper George drawled. "Tradin'," said Archie. Skipper George started. Tom Tulk scowled. "Goin' aboard the _Black Eagle_?" asked Skipper George. "Tradin' on my own hook, Skipper George," said Archie; "and I'm bound to cut your throat on the Shore." Tom Tulk and Skipper George exchanged glances as Archie darted away. There was something of relief in Skipper George's eyes--a relieved and teasing little smile. But Tom Tulk was frankly angry. "The little shaver!" said he, in disgust. It was written in the book of the future that Skipper George Rumm and Archie Armstrong should fall in with each other on the north coast before the summer was over. CHAPTER XXV _In Which Notorious Tom Tulk o' Twillingate and the Skipper of the "Black Eagle" Put Their Heads Together Over a Glass of Rum in the Cabin of a French Shore Trader_ There was never a more notorious rascal in Newfoundland than old Tom Tulk of Twillingate. There was never a cleverer rascal--never a man who could devise new villainies as fast and execute them as neatly. The law had never laid hands on him. At any rate not for a crime of importance. He had been clapped in jail once, but merely for debt; and he had carried this off with flying colours by pushing past the startled usher in church and squatting his great flabby bulk in the governor's pew of the next Sunday morning. He was a thief, a chronic bankrupt, a counterfeiter, an illicit liquor seller. It was all perfectly well known; but not once had a constable brought an offense home to him. He had once been arrested for theft, it is true, and taken to St. John's by the constables; but on the way he had stolen a watch from one and put it in the pocket of the other, thereby involving both in far more trouble than they could subsequently involve him. Add to these evil propensities a deformed body and a crimson countenance and you have the shadow of an idea of old Tom Tulk. * * * * * George Rumm and Tom Tulk boarded the _Black Eagle_ in the rain and sought the shelter of her little cabin. The cook had made a fire for the skipper; the cabin was warm and quiet. Tom Tulk closed the door with caution and glanced up to see that the skylights were tight. Skipper George produced the bottle and glasses. "Now, Skipper George," said Tom Tulk, as he tipped the bottle, "'tis a mint o' money an' fair easy t' make." "I'm not likin' the job," the skipper complained. "I'm not likin' the job at all." "'Tis an easy one," Tom Tulk maintained, "an' 'tis well paid when 'tis done." Skipper George scowled in objection. "Ye've a soft heart for man's work," said Tom, with a bit of a sneer. Skipper George laughed. "Is you thinkin' t' drive me by makin' fun o' me?" he asked. "I'm thinkin' nothin'," Tom Tulk replied, "but t' show you how it can be done. Will you listen t' me?" "Not me!" George Rumm declared. Tom Tulk observed, however, that the skipper's ears were wide open. "Not me!" Skipper George repeated, with a loud thump on the table. "No, sir! I'll have nothin' t' do with it!" Tom Tulk fancied that the skipper's ears were a little bit wider than before; he was not at all deceived by this show of righteousness on the part of a weak man. "Well, well!" he sighed. "Say no more about it." "I'm not denyin'," said Skipper George, "that it _could_ be done. I'm not denyin' that it would be easy work. But I tells you, Tom Tulk, that I'll have nothin' t' do with it. I'm an honest man, Tom Tulk, an' I'd thank you t' remember it." "Well, well!" Tom Tulk sighed again. "There's many a man in this harbour would jump at the chance; but there's never another so honest that I could trust him." "Many a man, if you like," Skipper George growled; "but not me." "No, no," Tom Tulk agreed, with a covert little sneer and grin; "not you." "'Tis a prison offense, man!" "If you're cotched," Tom Tulk laughed. "An' tell me, George Rumm, is _I_ ever been cotched?" "I'm not sayin' you is." "No; nor never will be." It had all been talked over before, of course; and it would be talked over again before a fortnight was past and the _Black Eagle_ had set sail for the French Shore with a valuable cargo. Tom Tulk had begun gingerly; he had proceeded with exquisite caution; he had ventured a bit more; at last he had come boldly out with the plan. Manned with care--manned as she could be and as Tom Tulk would take care to have her--the _Black Eagle_ was the ship for the purpose; and Skipper George, with a reputation for bad seamanship, was the man for the purpose. And the thing _would_ be easy. Tom Tulk knew it. Skipper George knew it. It could be successfully done. There was no doubt about it; and Skipper George hated to think that there was no doubt about it. The ease and safety with which he might have the money tumble into his pocket troubled him. It was not so much a temptation as an aggravation. He found himself thinking about it too often; he wanted to put it out of his mind, but could not. "Now, Tom Tulk," said he, at last, flushing angrily, "let's have no more o' this. I'm fair tired of it. I'll have nothin' t' do with it; an' I tells you so, once an' for all." "Pass the bottle," said Tom Tulk. The bottle went from hand to hand. "We'll say no more about it," said Tom Tulk; "but I tells you, Skipper George, that that little clerk o' yours, Tommy Bull, is just the ticket. As for a crew, I got un handy." "Belay, belay!" "Ay, ay, Skipper George," Tom Tulk agreed; "but as for fetchin' a cargo o' fish into St. John's harbour without tellin' where it came from, if there's any man can beat me at that, why, I'd----" Skipper George got up and pulled open the hatch. "I'll see you again," said Tom Tulk. Skipper George of the _Black Eagle_ helped himself to another dram when Tom Tulk had withdrawn his great body and sly face. It was true, all that Tom Tulk had said. It was true about the clerk; he was ripe to go bad. It was true about the crew; with hands scarce, and able-bodied young fellows bound to the Sidney mines for better wages, Skipper George could ship whom he liked and Tom Tulk chose. It was true about fetching fish into St. John's without accounting whence it came. Tom Tulk could do it; nobody would ask eccentric old Tom Tulk where he got his fish--everybody would laugh. It was true about the skipper himself; it was quite true that his reputation was none of the best as a sailing-master. But he had never lost a ship yet. They might say he had come near it, if they liked; but he had never lost a ship yet. No, sir; he had never lost a ship yet. Nor would he. He'd fetch the _Black Eagle_ home, right enough, and _show_ Sir Archibald Armstrong! But the thing would be easy. It was disgustingly easy in prospect. Skipper George wished that old Tom Tulk had never come near to bother him. "Hang Tom Tulk!" thought he. But how easy, after all, the thing would be! * * * * * The first hand put his head in the hatchway to tell Skipper George that he was to report to Sir Archibald Armstrong in the office at once. Skipper George was not quite easy about the three drams he had taken; but there was nothing for it but to appear in the office without delay. As a matter of fact Sir Archibald Armstrong detected nothing out of the way. He had something to say to Skipper George about the way to sail a schooner--about timid sailing, and reckless sailing, and feeling about in fogs, and putting out to sea, and running for harbour. When he had finished--and he spoke long and earnestly, with his blue eyes flashing, his head in the air, his teeth snapping once in a while--when Sir Archibald had finished, Skipper George was standing with his cap in his hand, his face flushed, answering, "Yes, sir," and, "No, sir," in a way of the meekest. When he left the office he was unpleasantly aware that he was face to face with his last chance. In this new trouble he forgot all about Tom Tulk. "Skipper George," he thought, taking counsel with himself, as he poured another dram, "you got t' do better." He mused a long time. "I _will_ do better," he determined. "I'll show un that I can sail a schooner." Before he stowed away for the night, a little resentment crept into his thoughts of Sir Archibald. He had never felt this way before. "I got t' stop this," he thought. Tom Tulk was then dreaming over a glass of rum; and his dreams were pleasant dreams--concerning Skipper George of the _Black Eagle_. CHAPTER XXVI _In Which the Enterprise of Archie Armstrong Evolves Señor Fakerino, the Greatest Magician In Captivity. In Which, also, the Foolish are Importuned Not to be Fooled, Candy is Promised to Kids, Bill o' Burnt Bay is Persuaded to Tussle With "The Lost Pirate," and the "Spot Cash" Sets Sail_ For three dismal, foggy days, Archie Armstrong was the busiest business man in St. John's, Newfoundland. He was forever damp, splashed with mud, grimy-faced, wilted as to clothes and haggard as to manner. But make haste he must; there was not a day--not an hour--to spare: for it was now appallingly near August; and the first of September would delay for no man. When, with the advice of Sir Archibald and the help of every man-jack in the warehouses (even of the rat-eyed little Tommy Bull), the credit of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company had been exhausted to the last penny, Archie sighed in a thoroughly self-satisfied way, pulled out his new check-book and plunged into work of another sort. "How's that bank-account holding out?" Sir Archibald asked, that evening. "I'm a little bit bent, dad," Archie replied, "but not yet broke." Sir Archibald looked concerned. "Advertising," Archie briefly explained. "But," said Sir Archibald, in protest, "nobody has ever advertised in White Bay before." "Somebody is just about to," Archie laughed. Sir Archibald was puzzled. "Wh-wh-what _for_?" he inquired. "What kind of advertising?" "Handbills, dad, and concerts, and flags, and circus-lemonade." "Nothing more, son?" Sir Archibald mocked. "Señor Fakerino," Archie replied, with a smack of self-satisfaction, "the World's Greatest Magician." "The same being?" "Yours respectfully, A. Armstrong." Sir Archibald shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes twinkled, his sides began to shake, and he threw back his head and burst into a roar of laughter, in which Archie and his mother--they were all at dinner--joined him. "Why, dad," Archie exclaimed, with vast enthusiasm, "the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company is going to give the people of White Bay such a good time this summer that they'll never deal with anybody else. And we're going to give them the worth of their money, too--every penny's worth. On a cash basis we can afford to. We're going into business to build up a business; and when I come back from that English school next summer it's going to go right ahead." Sir Archibald admitted the good prospect. "Pity the poor _Black Eagle_!" said Archie, grinning. Lady Armstrong finished Señor Fakerino's gorgeously spangled crimson robe and high-peaked hat that night and Archie completed a very masterpiece of white beard. Afterwards, Archie packed his trunks. When he turned in at last, outward bound next day by the cross-country mixed train, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had stowed the phonograph, the printing-press and type, the signal flags, the magical apparatus and Fakerino costume and the new accordion; and he knew--for he had taken pains to find out--that the stock of trading goods, which he had bought with most anxious discrimination, was packed and directed and waiting at the station, consigned to Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, General Merchants, Ruddy Cove, Newfoundland. Archie slept well. When the mail-boat made Ruddy Cove, Archie was landed, in overflowing spirits, with his boxes and bales and barrels and trunks and news. The following days were filled with intense activity. Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company chartered the _On Time_ in due form; and with the observance of every legal requirement she was given a new name, the _Spot Cash_. They swept and swabbed her, fore and aft; they gave her a line or two of gay paint; they fitted her cabin with shelves and a counter and her forecastle with additional bunks; and Bill o' Burnt Bay went over her rigging and spars. While Jimmie Grimm, Bobby North and Bagg unpacked the stock and furnished the cabin shelves and stowed the hold, Billy Topsail and Archie turned to on the advertising. The printing-press was set up in Mrs. Skipper William's fish-stage. Billy Topsail--who had never seen the like--stared open-mouthed at the operation. "We got to _make_ 'em buy," Archie declared. "H-h-how?" Billy stammered. "We got to make _'em want_ to," said Archie. "They'll trade if they want to." In return Billy watched Archie scribble. "How's this?" Archie asked, at last. Billy listened to the reading. "Will that fetch 'em aboard?" Archie demanded, anxiously. "It would _my_ mother," said the astonished Billy. "_I'd_ fetch her, bet yer life!" They laboriously set up the handbill and triumphantly struck it off: kANDY FOR KIdS X Boys Gi_r_ls and Ba_b_ies co_m_e Ab_o_ard the "sPOT CAsH" Yo_u_ Get Perfectly P_u_re Pepper_m_int if yo_u_ bring yo_u_r :o: P_A_REnTS :o: _W_E LOVE K_I_Ds KIdDIES A_N_D KiDLE_T_S _Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Co._ "That'll fetch 'em, all right!" Archie declared. "Now for the concert." Billy had another shock of surprise. "Th-th _what_?" he ejaculated. "Concert," Archie replied. "You're going to sing, Billy." "Me!" poor Billy exclaimed in large alarm. "And Skipper Bill is, too," Archie went on; "and Bagg's going to double-shuffle, and Bobby North is going to shake that hornpipe out of his feet, and Jimmie Grimm is going to recite 'Sailor Boy, Sailor Boy,' and I'm going to do a trifling little stunt myself. I'm Señor Fakerino, Billy," Archie laughed, "the Greatest Magician in Captivity. _Just_ you wait and see. I think I'll have a bill all to myself." Archie scowled and scribbled again with a result that presently made him chuckle. It appeared in the handbill (after some desperately hard work) in this guise: tO-NIGHT! tO-NIGHT! O_n_ Boa_r_d t_h_e "SPOT CASH" ----SENOR FAKE-erino---- Will Fully F_oo_l the F_oo_lish :o: DOn'T :o: Be F_oo_lish _a_nd Fully F_oo_led by Credit Tr_a_ding TRADE FOR CASH *** ABOARD _the_ *** "SPOT CASH" It was late in the afternoon before the last handbill was off the press; and Billy Topsail then looked more like a black-face comedian than senior member of the ambitious firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Archie was no better--perspiring, ink-stained, tired in head and hands. But the boys were delighted with what they had accomplished. There were two other productions: one announcing the concert and the other an honest and quiet comparison of cash and credit prices with a fair exposition of the virtue and variety of the merchandise to be had aboard the _Spot Cash_. When Bill o' Burnt Bay, however, was shown the concert announcement and informed, much to his amazement, that it was down in the articles of agreement, as between him, master of the _Spot Cash_, and the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company--down in black and white in the articles of agreement which he was presumed to have signed--down and no dodging it--that he was to sing "The Lost Pirate" when required--Bill o' Burnt Bay was indignant and flatly resigned his berth. "All right, skipper," Archie drawled. "You needn't sing, I 'low. Billy Topsail has a sweet little pipe, an' I 'low it'll be a good deal better to have him sing twice." "Eh?" Bill gasped, chagrined. "What's that?" "Better to have Billy sing twice," Archie repeated indifferently. Bill o' Burnt Bay glared at Billy Topsail. "Billy Topsail," said Archie, in a way the most careless, "has the neatest little pipe on the coast." "I'll have you to know," Bill o' Burnt Bay snorted, "that they's many a White Bay liveyere would pay a _dime_ t' hear me have a tussle with 'The Lost Pirate.'" Archie whistled. "Look you, Archie!" Skipper Bill demanded; "is you goin' t' let me sing, or isn't you?" "I is," Archie laughed. That was the end of the mutiny. * * * * * At peep of dawn the _Spot Cash_ set sail from Ruddy Cove with flags flying and every rag of sail spread to a fair breeze. Presently the sun was out, the sky blue, the wind smartly blowing. Late in the afternoon she passed within a stone's throw of Mother Burke and rounded Cape John into White Bay. Before dark she dropped anchor in Coachman's Cove and prepared for business. "Come on, lads!" Archie shouted, when the anchor was down and all sail stowed. "Let's put these dodgers where they'll do most good." The handbills were faithfully distributed before the punts of Coachman's came in from the fishing grounds; and that night, to an audience that floated in punts in the quiet water, just beyond the schooner's stern, and by the light of four torches, Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company presented their first entertainment in pursuit of business, the performers operating upon a small square stage which Bill o' Burnt Bay had rigged on the house of the cabin. It was a famous evening. CHAPTER XXVII _In Which the Amazing Operations of the "Black Eagle" Promise to Ruin the Firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, and Archie Armstrong Loses His Temper and Makes a Fool of Himself_ Trade was brisk next day--and continued brisk for a fortnight. From Coachman's Cove to Seal Cove, from Seal Cove to Black Arm, from Black Arm to Harbour Round and Little Harbour Deep went the _Spot Cash_. She entered with gay signal flags and a multitude of little Union Jacks flying; and no sooner was the anchor down than the phonograph began its musical invitation to draw near and look and buy. And there was presently candy for the children; and there were undeniable bargains for the mothers. In the evening--under a quiet starlit sky--Skipper Bill "tussled" gloriously with "The Lost Pirate," and Bobby North shook the hornpipe out of his very toes, and Bill Topsail wistfully piped the well-loved old ballads of the coast in a tender treble; and after that Señor Fakerino created no end of mystification and applause by extracting half-dollars from the vacant air, and discovering three small chicks in an empty top-hat, and producing eggs at will from Bagg's capacious mouth, and with a mere wave of his wand changing the blackest of ink into the very most delicious of lemonade. The folk of that remote coast were delighted. They had never been amused before; and they craved amusement--like little children. [Illustration: SEÑOR FAKERINO CREATED APPLAUSE BY EXTRACTING HALF DOLLARS FROM VACANCY.] Trade followed as a matter of course. * * * * * Trade was brisk as any heart could wish up the White Bay coast to the first harbours of the northern reaches of the French Shore; and there it came to an appalling full stop. The concerts were patronized as before; but no fish came aboard for exchange. "I can't bear to look the calendar in the face," Archie complained. The _Spot Cash_ then lay at anchor in Englee. "'Tis the fifth o' August," said Billy Topsail. "Whew!" Archie whistled. "Sixteen days to the first of September!" "What's the matter, anyhow?" Skipper Bill inquired. "The _Black Eagle's_ the matter," said Archie, angrily. "She's swept these harbours clean. She cleaned out Englee yesterday." "Stand by, all hands!" roared the skipper. "What's up, skipper?" asked Archie. "Nothin'," replied the skipper; "that's the trouble. But the mains'l _will_ be up afore very long if there's a rope's end handy," he added. "We'll chase the _Black Eagle_." They caught the _Black Eagle_ at anchor in Conch that evening. She was deep in the water. Apparently her hold was full; there were the first signs of a deck-load of fish to be observed. In a run ashore Archie very soon discovered the reason of her extraordinary success. He returned to the deck of the _Spot Cash_ in a towering rage. The clerk of the _Black Eagle_ had put up the price of fish and cut the price of every pound and yard of merchandise aboard his vessel. No wonder she had loaded. No wonder the folk of the French Shore had emptied their stages of the summer's catch. And what was the _Spot Cash_ to do? Where was she to get _her_ fish? By selling at less than cost and buying at more than the market price? Nothing of the sort! Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company were not going to be ruined by that sort of folly. Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company couldn't _have_ any fish. The powerful firm of Armstrong & Company of St. John's was going to put the poor little firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company out of business--going to snuff 'em out--_had_ snuffed 'em out. The best thing Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company could do was to get to cover and call cash trading as big a failure as had ever been made in Newfoundland business. "Isn't fair!" Archie complained, aboard the _Spot Cash_. "It's dirty business, I tell you." "Let's fire away, anyhow," said Jimmie Grimm. "It isn't fair of dad," Archie repeated, coming as near to the point of tears as a boy of his age well could. "It's a low trick to cut a small trader's throat like this. They can outsail us and keep ahead of us; and they'll undersell and overbuy us wherever we go. When they've put us out of business, they'll go back to the old prices. It isn't fair of dad," he burst out. "I tell you, it isn't fair!" "Lend a hand here," said Bill. "We'll see what they do." A pretense of hauling up the mainsail was made aboard the _Spot Cash_. There was an immediate stir on the deck of the _Black Eagle_; the hands were called from the forecastle. "Look at that!" said Archie, in disgust. Both crews laughed and gave it up. "It isn't _like_ your dad," said Bill o' Burnt Bay. "I'll lay you alongside the _Black Eagle_, Archie," he added, "an' you can have a little yarn with Skipper George." * * * * * Skipper George Rumm was glad to see Archie--glad in a too bland way, in which, however, Archie did not detect a very obvious nervousness. Three eighty-five for fish? Yes; the skipper _did_ believe that Tommy Bull was paying three eighty-five. No; he didn't know the market price in St. John's. Flour and pork and sugar and tea? No; the skipper didn't know just what Tommy Bull was selling flour and pork and sugar and tea at. You see, Tommy Bull was clerk of the _Black Eagle_; and that was the clerk's business. Tommy Bull was ashore just then; the skipper didn't just quite know when he'd come aboard. Were these prices Sir Archibald's orders? Really, Skipper George didn't know. Tommy Bull knew all about that; and Tommy Bull had clerked in these waters long enough to keep the firm's business to himself. Tommy Bull was closemouthed; he wouldn't be likely to blab Sir Archibald's orders in every harbour of the coast or whisper them in the ear of a rival trading clerk. This last thrust was too much for Archie's dignity. He leaped from the deck of the _Black Eagle_ into his own punt in a greater rage than ever. "There's t' be a spell o' rough weather," were Skipper George's last words. The punt moved away. "Skipper Bill," said Archie, "the nearest telegraph station is at Tilt Cove. Can we make it in a night?" "If the wind holds," the skipper answered. "Then we'll try," said Archie. The predicament was explained to Donald North and Jimmie Grimm and Billy Topsail. The _Spot Cash_ could have no more fish as long as the _Black Eagle_ paid three eighty-five with the St. John's market at three thirty-five. But _was_ the market at three thirty-five? Hadn't the _Black Eagle_ later information? That must be found out; and from Tilt Cove it could be discovered in two hours. So up went the sails of the _Spot Cash_, and, with the _Black Eagle_ following, she jockeyed out of the harbour. Presently, when she had laid a course for Cape John and Tilt Cove, the _Black Eagle_ came about and beat back to Conch. * * * * * Next morning--and dirty weather was promised for the day--the _Spot Cash_ dropped anchor in the shelter of the cliff at Tilt Cove and Billy Topsail pulled Archie ashore. It was in Archie's heart to accuse his father's firm of harsh dealing with a small competitor; but he resolved to do no more than ask the price of fish. The answer would be significant of all that the lad wished to know; and if the great firm of Armstrong & Company had determined to put obstacles in the way of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, even to the point of ruin, there was no help for Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Archie would ask no quarter. "Make haste!" Skipper Bill called from the deck of the _Spot Cash_. "I've no love for this harbour in a gale o' wind." It was poor shelter at best. "Much as I can," Archie shouted back. The boy sent this telegram: Tilt Cove, August 6. Armstrong & Company, St. John's. Price of fish. Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. There was now nothing to do but wait. Sir Archibald would be in his little office overlooking his wharves and shipping. It would not be long. And the reply presently came: St. John's, August 6. Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, Aboard "Spot Cash," Tilt Cove. Still three thirty-five. No rise probable. Armstrong & Company. Archie Armstrong was hurt. He could hardly conceive that his father had planned the ruin of his undertaking and the loss of his honour. But what was left to think? Would the skipper and clerk of the _Black Eagle_ deliberately court discharge? And discharge it would be--discharge in disgrace. There was no possible excuse for this amazing change in prices. No; there was no explanation but that they were proceeding upon Sir Archibald's orders. It was inconceivable that they should be doing anything else. Archie would ask no quarter of his father; but he would at least let Sir Archibald know that he was aware of the difference between fair and unfair competition. Before he boarded the _Spot Cash_ he dispatched this message: Tilt Cove, August 6. Armstrong & Company, St. John's. Tilt Cove. "Black Eagle" paying three eighty-five. Underselling flour, pork, tea, sugar. Why don't you play fair? Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. If Archie Armstrong could have been in the little office which overlooked the wharves to observe the effect of that message upon Sir Archibald he would not only have been amazed but would have come to his senses in a good deal less time than he actually did. The first item astounded and bewildered Sir Archibald; the second--the brief expression of distrust--hurt him sorely. But he had no time to be sentimental. Three eighty-five for fish? What was the meaning of that? Cut prices on flour, pork, sugar and tea? What was the meaning of _that_? Sir Archibald saw in a flash what it meant to Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. But what did it mean to Armstrong & Company? Sir Archibald flushed and perspired with wrath. He pushed buttons--he roared orders--he scribbled telegrams. In ten minutes, so vociferous was his rage, so intense his purpose, it was known from one end of the establishment to the other that the _Black Eagle_ must be communicated with at once. But Armstrong & Company could not manage to communicate with the _Black Eagle_ direct, it seemed. Armstrong & Company might, however, communicate with the _Spot Cash_, now at Tilt Cove and possibly bound north. Doubtless by favour of the clerk of the _Spot Cash_ Armstrong & Company would be able to speak orders in the ear of Skipper George Rumm. "Judd!" Sir Archibald roared. The pale little clerk appeared on the bound. "Rush this," said Sir Archibald. The message read: St. John's, August 6. Archibald Armstrong II, On board "Spot Cash," Tilt Cove. Please oblige order "Black Eagle" St. John's forthwith. This your authority. Armstrong & Company. CHAPTER XXVIII _In Which the "Spot Cash" is Caught By a Gale In the Night and Skipper Bill Gives Her Up For Lost_ It was blowing up when Archie returned to the _Spot Cash_. There was a fine rain in the wind, too; and a mist--hardly yet a fog--was growing denser on the face of a whitening sea. Nothing to bother about yet, of course: only a smart breeze and a little tumble, with thick weather to make a skipper keep his eyes open. But there was the threat of heavy wind and a big sea in gray sky overhead and far out upon the water. Tilt Cove was no place for the _Spot Cash_ to lie very long; she must look for shelter in Sop's Arm before night. "Archie, b'y," said Bill o' Burnt Bay, in the cozy forecastle with the boys, "there's something queer about this here _Black Eagle_." "I should say so!" Archie sneered. "It's the first time I ever knew my father not to play fair." "Bosh!" Skipper Bill ejaculated. Archie started up in a rage. "'Ear the wind!" said Bagg, with a little shiver. It had begun to blow in earnest. The wind, falling over the cliff, played mournfully in the rigging. A gust of rain lashed the skylight. Swells from the open rocked the schooner. "Blowin' up," said Billy Topsail. "How long have you knowed Sir Archibald?" the skipper asked. Archie laughed. "Off an' on for about sixteen years, I 'low?" said the skipper. Archie nodded shortly. "'Ark t' the wind!" Bagg whispered. "'Twill be all in a tumble off the cape," said Jimmie Grimm. "Know Sir Archibald _well_?" the skipper pursued. Archie sat down in disgust. "Pretty intimate, eh?" asked the skipper. The boy laughed again; and then all at once--all in a flash--his ill-humour and suspicion vanished. His father not play fair? How preposterous the fancy had been! Of _course_, he was playing fair! But somebody wasn't. And _who_ wasn't? "It is queer," said he. "What do you make of it, Bill?" "I been thinkin'," the skipper replied heavily. "Have you fathomed it?" "Well," the skipper drawled, "I've thunk along far enough t' want t' look into it farder. I'd say," he added, "t' put back t' Conch." "It's going to blow, Skipper Bill." It had already begun to blow. The wind was moaning aloft. The long-drawn melancholy penetrated to the cozy cabin. In the shelter of the cliff though she was, the schooner tossed in the spent seas that came swishing in from the open. "Well," the skipper drawled, "I guess the wind won't take the hair off a body; an' I 'low we can make Conch afore the worst of it." "I'm with the skipper," said Billy Topsail. "Me, too," said Jimmie Grimm. Bagg had nothing to say; he seldom had, poor fellow! in a gale of wind. "I've a telegram to send," said Archie. It was a message of apology. Archie went ashore with a lighter heart to file it. What an unkindly suspicious fool he had been! he reflected, heartily ashamed of himself. "Something for you, sir," said the agent. Sir Archibald's telegram was put in the boy's hand; and when this had been read aboard the _Spot Cash_--and when the schooner had rounded Cape John and was taking full advantage of a sudden change of wind to the southwest--Archie and the skipper and the crew felt very well indeed, thank you! * * * * * It blew hard in the afternoon--harder than Bill o' Burnt Bay had surmised. The wind had a slap to it that troubled the little _Spot Cash_. Crested seas broke over her bows and swept her deck. She was smothered in white water half the time. The wind was rising, too. It was to be a big gale from the southeast. It was already half a gale. There was wind enough for the _Spot Cash_. Much more would shake and drown her like a chip. Bill o' Burnt Bay, at the wheel, and the crew, forward and amidships, kept watch for the coast and the friendly landmarks of harbour. But what with wind and fog and rain it was a disheartening business. When night gathered, the coast was not in sight. The _Spot Cash_ was tossing somewhere offshore in a rising gale and dared not venture in. The wind continued in the southeast. The coast was a lee shore--all rocks and islands and cliffs. The _Spot Cash_ must beat out again to sea and wait for the morning. Any attempt to make a harbour of that harsh shore in the dark would spell destruction. But the sea was hardly more hospitable. The _Spot Cash_, reefed down almost to bare poles, and standing out as best she could, tossed and plunged in the big black seas, with good heart, to be sure, but, presently, with small hope. It seemed to Bill o' Burnt Bay that the little craft would be broken and swamped. The boys came aft from forward and amidships. All at once Archie, who had been staring into the night ahead, started, turned and uttered an ejaculation of dismay, which a gust of wind drove into the skipper's ear. "What is it, b'y?" Skipper Bill roared. "I forgot to insure her," shouted Archie. Skipper Bill grinned. "It's ruin if we wreck, Bill," Archie shouted again. It looked to Bill o' Burnt Bay like wreck and death. If so, the ruin might take care of itself. It pleased him to know that Archie was still unconcerned about his life. He reflected that if the _Spot Cash_ should by any chance survive he would tell Sir Archibald that story. But a great sea and a smothering blast of wind distracted him. The sea came clear over the bow and broke amidships; the wind fairly drove the breath back into the skipper's throat. There would be two more seas he knew: there were always three seas. The second would break in a moment; the third would swamp the schooner. He roared a warning to the boys and turned the wheel to meet the sea bow on. The big wave fell with a crash amidships; the schooner stopped and shivered while a torrent of water drove clear over the stern. Bill o' Burnt Bay saw the crest of the third sea grow white and tower in the night. "Hang to her!" screamed Archie. Skipper Bill smiled grimly as the sea came aboard. It broke and swept past. He expected no more; but more came--more and still more. The schooner was now tossing in a boiling pot from which the spray rose like steam. Bill caught the deep boom of breakers. The _Spot Cash_ was somewhere inshore. The water was shallowing. She was fairly on the rocks. Again Bill shouted a warning to the boys to save themselves when she struck. He caught sight of a low cliff--a black shadow above a mass of moving, ghostly white. The schooner was lifted by a great sea and carried forward. Skipper Bill waited for the shock and thud of her striking. He glanced up at the spars--again screamed a warning--and stood rigid. On swept the schooner. She was a long time in the grip of that great wave. Then she slipped softly out of the rough water into some placid place where the wind fluttered gently down from above. * * * * * There was a moment of silence and uttermost amazement. The wind had vanished; the roar of the sea was muffled. The schooner advanced gently into the dark. "The anchor!" the skipper gasped. He sprang forward, stumbling; but it was too late: the bowsprit crumpled against a rock, there was a soft thud, a little shock, a scraping, and the _Spot Cash_ stopped dead. "We're aground," said Bill. "I wonders where?" said Jimmie Grimm. "In harbour, anyhow," said Billy Topsail. "And no insurance!" Archie added. There was no levity in this. The boys were overawed. They had been afraid, every one of them; and the mystery of their escape and whereabouts oppressed them. But they got the anchor over the bow; and presently they had the cabin stove going and were drying off. Nobody turned in; they waited anxiously for the first light of day to disclose their surroundings. CHAPTER XXVIX _In Which Opportunity is Afforded the Skipper of the "Black Eagle" to Practice Villainy in the Fog and He Quiets His Scruples. In Which, also, the Pony Islands and the Tenth of the Month Come Into Significant Conjunction_ Aboard the _Black Eagle_, Skipper George Rumm and Tommy Bull, with the cook and three hands, all of Tom Tulk's careful selection, were engaged, frankly among themselves, in a conspiracy to wreck the schooner for their own profit. It was a simple plan; and with fortune to favour rascality, it could not go awry. Old Tom Tulk of Twillingate had conceived and directed it. The _Black Eagle_ was to be loaded with salt-cod from the French Shore stages in haste and at any cost. She was then to be quietly taken off one of the out-of-the-way rocky little islands of the remote northern coast. Her fish and the remainder of her cargo were to be taken ashore and stowed under tarpaulin: whereupon--with thick weather to corroborate a tale of wreck--the schooner was to be scuttled in deep water. "'Tis but a matter o' clever management," Tom Tulk had said. "Choose your weather--that's all." Presently the castaways were to appear in Conch in the schooner's quarter boat with a circumstantial account of the disaster. The _Black Eagle_ was gone, they would say; she had struck in a fog, ripped out her keel (it seemed), driven over the rock, filled and sunk. At Conch, by this time, the mail-boat would be due on the southward trip. Skipper George and the clerk would proceed in grief and humiliation to St. John's to report the sad news to Armstrong & Company; but the cook and the three hands would join Tom Tulk at Twillingate, whence with the old reprobate's schooner they would rescue fish and cargo from beneath the tarpaulins on the out-of-the-way rocky little island in the north. To exchange crews at Twillingate and run the cargo to St. John's for quick sale was a small matter. "Barrin' accident," Tom Tulk had said, "it can't fail." There, indeed, was a cold, logical plan. "Barrin' accident," as Tom Tulk was aware, and as he by and by persuaded Skipper George, it could not fail. Let the weather be well chosen, the story consistent: that was all. Was not Skipper George forever in danger of losing his schooner? Had not Sir Archibald already given him his last warning? They would say in St. John's merely that Skipper George had "done it at last." Nobody would be surprised; everybody would say, "I told you so." And when old Tom Tulk came into harbour with a mysterious load of fish who would suspect him? Was not Tom Tulk known to be an eccentric? Was there any accounting for what Tom Tulk would do? Tom Tulk would say, "Mind your business!" and that would make an end of the questioning. "Choose your weather, Skipper George," said Tom Tulk. "Let it be windy and thick." With fog to hide the deed--with a gale to bear out the story and keep prying craft away--there would be small danger of detection. And what if folk did suspect? Let 'em prove it! _That's_ what the law demanded. Let 'em _prove_ it! * * * * * When the _Black Eagle_ put back to Conch from following the little _Spot Cash_, it was evident that the opportunity had come. The weather was thick; there was a promise of wind in the air. Moreover, with Archie Armstrong on the coast in a temper, it was the part of wisdom to beware. Skipper George went gloomily to the cabin when the schooner rode once more at anchor. It was time, now; he knew it, the clerk knew it, the crew knew it. But Skipper George had no liking for the job; nor had the clerk, to tell the truth, nor had the cook, nor had the crew. Rascals are not made in a day; and it takes a long time to innure them against fear and self-reproach. But skipper and crew of the _Black Eagle_ were already committed. Their dealing for fish on the coast had been unpardonable. The skipper could not explain it in St. John's; nor could the clerk excuse it. "We got t' go through with this, Tommy," said the gloomy skipper. "Have a dram," the clerk replied. "I'm in sore need o' one meself." It seemed the skipper was, too. "With that little shaver on the coast," said the clerk, "'tis best done quickly." "I've no heart for it," the skipper growled. The clerk's thin face was white and drawn. His hand trembled, now, as he lifted his glass. Nor had _he_ any heart for it. It had been all very well, at first; it had seemed something like a lark--just a wild lark. The crew, too, had taken it in the spirit of larking--at first. But now that the time was come both forecastle and cabin had turned uneasy and timid. In the forecastle, the cook said to the first hand: "Wisht I was out o' this." "Wisht I'd never come in it," the first hand sighed. Their words were in whispers. "I 'low," said the second hand, with a scared glance about, "that the ol' man will--will _do_ it--the morrow." The three averted their eyes--each from the other's. "I 'low," the cook gasped. Meantime, in the cabin, the clerk, rum now giving him a saucy outlook, said: "'Twill blow half a gale the morrow." "Ay," said the skipper, uneasily; "an' there's like t' be more than half a gale by the glass." "There'll be few craft out o' harbour." "Few craft, Tommy," said the skipper, drawing a timid hand over his bristling red beard. "I'm not likin' t' take the _Black Eagle_ t' sea." "'Tis like there'll be fog," the clerk continued. "Ay; 'tis like there'll be a bit o' fog." Skipper and clerk helped themselves to another dram of rum. Why was it that Tom Tulk had made them a parting gift? Perhaps Tom Tulk understood the hearts of new-made rascals. At any rate, skipper and clerk, both simple fellows, after all, were presently heartened. Tommy Bull laughed. "Skipper," said he, "do you go ashore an' say you'll take the _Black Eagle_ t' sea the morrow, blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul." The skipper looked up in bewilderment. "Orders," the clerk explained, grinning. "Tell 'em you've been wigged lively enough by Sir Archibald for lyin' in harbour." Skipper George laughed in his turn. "For'ard, there!" the clerk roared, putting his head out of the cabin. "One o' you t' take the skipper ashore!" Three fishing-schooners, bound down from the Labrador, had put in for safe berth through a threatening night. And with the skippers of these craft, and with the idle folk ashore, Skipper George foregathered. Dirty weather? (the skipper declared); sure, 'twas dirty weather. But there was no wind on that coast could keep the _Black Eagle_ in harbour. No, sir: no wind that blowed. Skipper George was sick an' tired o' bein' wigged by Sir Archibald Armstrong for lyin' in harbour. No more wiggin' for _him_. No, sir! He'd take the _Black Eagle_ t' sea in the mornin'? Let it blow high or blow low, fair wind or foul, 'twould be up anchor an' t' sea for the _Black Eagle_ at dawn. Wreck her? Well, let her _go_ t' wreck. Orders was orders. If the _Black Eagle_ happened t' be picked up by a rock in the fog 'twould be Sir Archibald Armstrong's business to explain it. As for Skipper George, no man would be able t' tell _him_ again that he was afraid t' take his schooner t' sea. An' orders was orders, sir. Yes, sir; orders was orders. "I'm not likin' the job o' takin' my schooner t' sea in wind an' fog," Skipper George concluded, with a great assumption of indignant courage; "but when I'm told t' drive her, _I'll drive_, an' let the owner take the consequences." This impressed the Labrador skippers. "Small blame t' you, Skipper George," one declared, "if you do lose her." Well satisfied with the evidence he had manufactured to sustain the story of wreck, Skipper George returned to the schooner. "Well," he drawled to the clerk, "I got my witnesses. They isn't a man ashore would put t' sea the morrow if the weather comes as it promises." The clerk sighed and anxiously frowned. Skipper George, infected by this melancholy and regret--for the skipper loved the trim, fleet-footed, well-found _Black Eagle_--Skipper George sighed, too. "Time t' turn in, Tommy," said he. The skipper had done a good stroke of business ashore. Sir Archibald had indeed ordered him to "drive" the _Black Eagle_. * * * * * And in the rising wind of the next day while the _Spot Cash_ lay at anchor in Tilt Cove and Archie's messages were fleeting over the wire to St. John's--the _Black Eagle_ was taken to sea. Ashore they advised her skipper to stick to shelter; but the skipper would have none of their warnings. Out went the _Black Eagle_ under shortened sail. The wind rose; a misty rain gathered; fog came in from the far, wide open. But the _Black Eagle_ sped straight out to sea. Beyond the Pony Islands--a barren, out-of-the-way little group of rocks--she beat aimlessly to and fro: now darting away, now approaching. But there was no eye to observe her peculiar behaviour. Before night fell--driven by the gale--she found poor shelter in a seaward cove. Here she hung grimly to her anchorage through the night. Skipper and crew, as morning approached, felt the wind fall and the sea subside. Dawn came in a thick fog. "What do you make of it, Tommy?" the skipper asked. The clerk stared into the mist. "Pony Islands, skipper, sure enough," said he. "Little Pony or Big?" In a rift of the mist a stretch of rocky coast lay exposed. "Little Pony," said the clerk. "Ay," the skipper agreed: "an' 'twas Little Pony, easterly shore," he added, his voice dwindling away, "that Tom Tulk advised." "An' about the tenth o' the month," Tommy Bull added. CHAPTER XXX _In Which the Fog Thins and the Crew of the "Spot Cash" Fall Foul of a Dark Plot_ Morning came to the _Spot Cash_, too--morning with a thick mist: morning with a slow-heaving sea and a vanished wind. Bill o' Burnt Bay looked about--stared in every direction from the listed little schooner--but could find no familiar landmark. They were in some snug harbour, however, of a desolate and uninhabited coast. There were no cottages on the hills; there were no fish-flakes and stages by the waterside. Beyond the tickle--that wide passage through which the schooner had driven in the dark--the sea was heaving darkly under the gray mist. Barren, rugged rock fell to the harbour water; and rocky hills, stripped of verdure by the winds of a thousand years, hid their bald heads in the fog. "I don't know what it _is_," said Bill o' Burnt Bay to the boys; "but I know well enough what it _ought_ t' be." "'Tis never the Shore," Billy Topsail declared. "I'm 'lowin'," said Skipper Bill, but yet doubtfully, "that 'tis one o' the Pony Islands. They lies hereabouts," he continued, scratching his head, "long about thirty mile off the mainland. We're on a westerly shore, and that means Islands, for we've never come t' the westerly coast o' Newfoundland. If I could get a peep at the Bald-head I could tell for certain." The grim landmark called the Bald-head, however,--if this were indeed one of the Pony Islands--was in the mist. "I'll lay 'tis the Pony Islands," Billy Topsail declared again. "It may be," said the skipper. "An' Little Pony, too," Billy went on. "I mind me now that we sheltered in this harbour in the _Fish Killer_ afore she was lost on Feather's Folly."[6] "I 'low _'tis_," Skipper Bill agreed. Whether the Pony Islands or not--and whether Big Pony or Little Pony--clearing weather would disclose. Meantime, as Archie Armstrong somewhat tartly pointed out, the _Spot Cash_ was to be looked to. She had gone aground at low tide, it seemed; and she was now floating at anchor, free of the bottom. The butt of her bowsprit had been driven into the forecastle; and the bowsprit itself had gone permanently out of commission. Otherwise she was tight and ready. The practical-minded Archie Armstrong determined, with a laugh, that notwithstanding the loss of a bowsprit the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company would not have to go out of business for lack of insurance. And after an amazingly hearty and hilarious breakfast, which Bagg, the cook--Bagg _was_ the cook--presently announced, the folk of the _Spot Cash_ went ashore to take observations. "We'll rig a bowsprit o' some sort," Bill o' Burnt Bay remarked, "afore the fog lifts." The fog was already thinning. * * * * * Meantime, on the easterly coast of the Little Pony, the _Black Eagle_ was being warped in towards shore and moored with lines to a low, sheer rock, which served admirably as a landing wharf. The gangplank was run out, the hatches were lifted, the barrows were fetched from below; and all these significant operations were directed in a half-whisper by the rat-eyed little Tommy Bull. Ashore went the fish--ashore by the barrow-load--and into a convenient little gully where the tarpaulins would keep it snug against the weather. Fortune favoured the plan: fog hid the island from the sight of all men. But the faces of the crew grew longer as the work advanced; and the voice of the rat-eyed little clerk fell lower, and his manner turned still more furtive, and his hand began to shake. In the cabin the skipper sat, with an inspiring dram, engaged in melancholy and apprehensive brooding. Armstrong & Company had not served him ill, after all (thought he); but, pshaw! the _Black Eagle_ was insured to the hilt and would be small loss to the firm. Well, well! she was a tight little schooner and had many a time taken the evil fall weather with a stout heart. 'Twas a pity to scuttle her. Scuttle her? The skipper had much rather scuttle Tom Tulk! But pshaw! after all 'twould but make more work for Newfoundland ship-builders. Would it never be known? Would the murder never out? Could Tommy Bull and the crew be trusted? The skipper had already begun to fear Tommy Bull and the crew. He had caught himself deferring to the cook. To the cook! "Pah!" thought the skipper, as he tipped his bottle, "George Rumm knucklin' down to a cook! A pretty pass t' come to!" Tommy Bull came down the ladder. "Skipper, sir," said he, "you'd best be on deck." Skipper George went above with the clerk. "She's gettin' light," said Tommy Bull. At that moment the skipper started. With a hoarse ejaculation leaping from his throat he stared with bulging eyes towards the hills upon which a shaft of sunlight had fallen. Then he gripped Tommy Bull by the arm. "Who's that?" he whispered. "What?" the terrified clerk exclaimed. "Who's what, man? Where--where? What you talkin' about?" The skipper pointed to the patch of sunlight on the hills. "That!" he gasped. "'Tis a man!" said the clerk. "We're cotched!" the skipper groaned. The rat-like little clerk bared his teeth. * * * * * Bill o' Burnt Bay and the boys of the _Spot Cash_ had seen what the lifting fog disclosed--the _Black Eagle_ moored to the rocks of the Little Pony and unloading. But they had not fathomed the mystery. A mystery it was, however, and a deep one. To solve it they came down the hill towards the schooner in a body and were presently face to face with skipper and clerk on the deck. The crew went on with the unloading; there was never a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. And the skipper of the _Spot Cash_ was serenely made welcome. Whatever rat-like impulse to bite may have been in the heart of the little clerk, when Bill o' Burnt Bay came over the crest of the hill, it had now vanished in discreet politeness. There was no occasion for biting. Had there been--had the crew of the _Black Eagle_ been caught in the very act of scuttling the ship--Tommy Bull would no doubt have driven his teeth in deep. Even amateur scoundrels at bay may be highly dangerous antagonists. These were amateur scoundrels, to be sure, and good-hearted in the main; but they were not yet by any means at bay. "Jus' a little leak, Skipper Bill," Skipper George explained, when Bill o' Burnt Bay had accounted for his presence in Little Pony. "Sprung it in the gale." "Did you, now?" said Skipper Bill, suspiciously; "'tis lucky we happened along. I'm a bit of a carpenter, meself, an' I'd----" "Not at all!" Skipper George protested, with a large wave of the hand. "_Not_ at all!" "'Twould be no trouble----" "Not at all!" Skipper George repeated. "Here's Tommy just found the spot, an' we'll plug it in short order." Skipper Bill could ill conceal his suspicion. "You're in trouble yourself with the _Spot Cash_, says you," said Skipper George. "We'll lend you a spar an' a couple o' hands t' set it." "We'll buy the spar," Archie put in. Skipper George laughed heartily. "Well, well," said he. "Have it your own way. You make your repairs, an' I'll make mine; an' then we'll see who's back t' the Shore ports first." Archie bethought himself. "I'll lay you," Skipper George went on, clapping Archie on the back, "that you'll not find a fish in the harbours where the _Black Eagle_ goes." "You're ordered home, Skipper George," said Archie. "I've this message from Tilt Cove." Skipper George glanced at the telegram. "Well, well!" said he, blandly; "we're nigh loaded, anyhow." Archie wondered afterwards why Skipper George had caught his breath and lost some of his colour. * * * * * Presently the crew of the _Spot Cash_, with two stout hands from the _Black Eagle_, went over the hills with the spare spar. Skipper George and Tommy Bull made haste to the cabin. "Ordered home," said the skipper, slapping the message on the counter. "Forthwith," Tommy Bull added. "There's more here than appears," the anxious skipper went on. "Tommy," said he, gravely, "there's something back o' this." The clerk beat a devil's tattoo in perturbation. "There's more suspected than these words tell," the skipper declared. "'Tis by sheer good luck, Skipper George," said the clerk, "that we've a vessel t' take home. I tell you, b'y," said he, flushing with suspicion and rage, "I don't trust Tom Tulk. He'd sell his mother for a slave for a thousand dollars." "Tom Tulk!" Skipper George exclaimed. "By thunder!" he roared, "Tom Tulk has blowed!" For the second time that day the rat-like little clerk of the _Black Eagle_ bared his teeth--now with a little snarl. "They've no proof," said the skipper. "True," the clerk agreed; "but they's as many as two lost jobs aboard this vessel. They'll be two able-bodied seamen lookin' for a berth when the _Black Eagle_ makes St. John's." "Well, Tommy Bull," said the skipper, with a shrug, "'tis the clerk that makes prices aboard a tradin' schooner; and 'twill be the clerk that will explain in this particular case." "Huh!" Tommy Bull sneered. Next day the _Black Eagle_, with her fish again aboard, put to sea and sped off on a straight course for St. John's. Notwithstanding the difficulties in store, clerk and skipper were in good humour with all the world (except Tom Tulk); and the crew was never so light-hearted since the voyage began. But as the day drew along--and as day by day passed--and as the home port and Sir Archibald's level eyes came ever nearer--the skipper grew troubled. Why should the _Black Eagle_ have been ordered home? Why had Sir Archibald used that mysterious and unusual word "forthwith" with such emphasis? What lay behind the brusque order? Had Tom Tulk played false? Would there be a constable on the wharf? With what would Sir Archibald charge the skipper? Altogether, the skipper of the _Black Eagle_ had never sailed a more disquieting voyage. And when the _Black Eagle_ slipped through the narrows to St. John's harbour he was like a dog come home for a thrashing. ----- [6] As related in "The Adventures of Billy Topsail." CHAPTER XXXI _In Which the "Spot Cash" is Picked up by Blow-Me-Down Rock In Jolly Harbour, Wreckers Threaten Extinction and the Honour of the Firm Passes into the Keeping of Billy Topsail_ The _Spot Cash_ made for the French Shore with all the speed her heels could command. The seventh of August! How near it was to the first of September! The firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, with the skipper and cook, shivered to think of it. Ten more trading days! Not another hour could they afford if the _Spot Cash_ would surely make St. John's harbour on the specified day. And she would--she must--Archie declared. His honour was involved--the honour of them all--of the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. Had not Sir Archibald said so? So in the harbours of the Shore Bill o' Burnt Bay once more tussled valiantly with "The Lost Pirate," and the flags flew, and the phonograph ground out inviting music, and Bobby North shook the hornpipe out of his active toes, and Bagg double-shuffled, and the torches flared, and "Kandy for Kids" and "Don't be Foolish and Fully Fooled" persuaded the populace, and Signor Fakerino created mystification, and Billy Topsail employed his sweet little pipe most wistfully in the old ballad of the coast: "Sure, the chain 'e parted, An' the schooner drove ashore, An' the wives of the 'ands Never saw un any more, No more! Never saw un any mo-o-o-re!" It was all to good purpose. Trade was even brisker than in White Bay. Out went the merchandise and in came the fish. Nor did the _Spot Cash_ once leave harbour without a hearty, even wistful, invitation to return. Within seven days, so fast did the fish come aboard, the hold had an appearance of plethora. Jimmie Grimm and Bagg protested that not another quintal of fish could be stowed away. It was fairly time to think of a deck-load. There was still something in the cabin: something to be disposed of--something to turn into fish. And it was Archie who proposed the scheme of riddance. "A bargain sale," said he. "The very thing." "An' Jolly Harbour's the place," said the skipper. "Then homeward bound!" shouted Archie. They ran into Jolly Harbour on the wings of a brisk southerly wind--and unfortunately in the dusk brought up hard and fast on Blow-Me-Down Rock. * * * * * Aground! They were hard and fast aground on Blow-Me-Down Rock in Jolly Harbour at high tide. A malignant sea made a certainty of it. It lifted the _Spot Cash_--drove her on--and gently deposited her with a horrifying list to starboard. Archie Armstrong wrung his hands and stamped the deck. Where was the first of September now? How was the firm to--to--what was it Sir Archibald had said?--yes; how was the firm to "liquidate its obligations" on the appointed day and preserve its honour? "By gettin' the _Spot Cash_ afloat," said Skipper Bill, tersely. "And a pretty time we'll have," groaned Archie. "I 'low," Bill drawled, "that we may be in for a prettier time still." "Sure, it couldn't be worse," Billy Topsail declared. "This here," Bill explained, "is Jolly Harbour; an' the folk o' Jolly Harbour isn't got no reputations t' speak of." This was hardly enlightening. "What I means," Skipper Bill went on, "is that the Jolly Harbour folk is called wreckers. They's been a good deal o' talk about wreckers on this coast; an' they's more lies than truth in it. But Jolly Harbour," he added, "is Jolly Harbour; an' the folk will sure come swarmin' in punts and skiffs an' rodneys when they hear they's a vessel gone ashore." "Sure, they'll give us help," said Billy Topsail. "Help!" Skipper Bill scornfully exclaimed. "'Tis little help _they'll_ give us. Why, b'y, when they've got her cargo, they'll chop off her standing rigging and draw the nails from her deck planks." "'Tis a mean, sinful thing to do!" cried Billy. "They live up to their lights, b'y," the skipper said. "They're an honest, good-hearted, God-fearin' folk on this coast in the main; but they believe that what the sea casts up belongs to men who can get it, and neither judge nor preacher can teach them any better. Here lies the _Spot Cash_, stranded, with a wonderful list t' starboard. They'll think it no sin to wreck her. I know them well. 'Twill be hard to keep them off once they see that she's high and dry." Archie began to stamp the deck again. * * * * * When the dawn broke it disclosed the situation of the schooner. She was aground on a submerged rock, some distance offshore, in a wide harbour. It was a wild, isolated spot, with spruce-clad hills, which here and there showed their rocky ribs rising from the edge of the water. There was a cluster of cottages in a ravine at the head of the harbour; but there was no other sign of habitation. Evidently the schooner's deep list betrayed her distress; for when the day had fully broken, a boat was pushed off from the landing-place and rowed rapidly towards her. "Here's the first!" muttered Skipper Bill. "I'll warn him well." He hailed the occupant, a fisherman with a simple, good-humoured face, who hung on his oars and surveyed the ship. "Keep off, there!" shouted the skipper. "We need no man's help. I warn you an' your mates fair not to come aboard. You've no right here under the law so long as there's a man o' the crew left on the ship, and I'll use force to keep you off." "You're not able to get her off, sir," said the fisherman, rowing on, as if bent on boarding. "She's a wreck." "Billy," the skipper ordered, "get forward with a gaff and keep him off." With that the fisherman turned his punt about and made off for the shore. "Aye, aye, Billy!" he called, good-naturedly. "I'll give you no call to strike me." "He'll come back with others," the skipper remarked, gloomily. "'Tis a bad lookout." "We'll try to haul her off with the punt," suggested Archie. "With the punt!" the skipper laughed. "'Twould be as easy to haul Blow-Me-Down out by the roots. But if we can keep the wreckers off, by trick or by force, we'll not lose her. The _Grand Lake_ passed up the coast on Monday. She'll be steamin' into Hook-and-Line again on Thursday. As she doesn't call at Jolly Harbour we'll have t' go fetch her. We can run over in the punt an' fetch her. 'Tis a matter o' gettin' there and back before the schooner's torn t' pieces." At dawn of the next day Skipper Bill determined to set out for Hook-and-Line to intercept the steamer. In the meantime there had been no sign of life ashore. Doubtless, the crew of the _Spot Cash_ thought, the news of the wreck was on its way to neighbouring settlements. The wind had blown itself out; but the sea was still running high, and five hands (three of them boys) were needed to row the heavy schooner's punt through the lop and distance. Muscle was needed for the punt; nothing but wit could save the schooner. Who should stay behind? "Let Archie stay behind," said Billy Topsail. "No," Skipper Bill replied; "he'll be needed t' bargain with the captain o' the _Grand Lake_." There was a moment of silence. "Billy," said the skipper, "you'll stay." Billy nodded shortly. "Now, Billy Topsail," Skipper Bill went on, "I fear you've never read the chapter on' Wreck an' Salvage' in the 'Consolidated Statutes o' Newfoundland.' So I'm going t' tell you some things you don't know. Now, listen careful! By law, b'y," tapping the boy on the breast with a thick, tarry finger, "if they's nobody aboard a stranded vessel--if she's abandoned, as they say in court--the men who find her can have her and all that's in her. That's pretty near the law o' the land--near enough for you, anyway. Contrary, by law, b'y," with another impressive tap, "if they is one o' the crew aboard, he's a right to shoot down any man who comes over the side against his will. That's _exactly_ the law. Do you follow?" "But I've no mind for shootin' at so good-natured a man," said Billy, recalling the fisherman's broad grin. "An' I hope you won't have to," said the skipper. "But they's no harm in aiming an empty gun anywhere you've a mind to. So far as I know, they's no harm in firin' away a blast or two o' powder if you forget t' put in the shot." Billy laughed. "Billy, boy," said Archie, tremulously, "it's up to you to save the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company." "All right, Archie," said Billy. "I _know_ it's all right," Archie declared. "They's just two things to remember," said the skipper, from the bow of the punt, before casting off. "The first is to stay aboard; the second is to let nobody else come aboard if you can help it. 'Tis all very simple." "All right, skipper," said Billy. "Topsail--Armstrong--Grimm--_and_--Company," were the last words Billy Topsail heard; and they came from Archie Armstrong. CHAPTER XXXII _In Which the "Grand Lake" Conducts Herself In a Most Peculiar Fashion to the Chagrin of the Crew of the "Spot Cash"_ Skipper Bill and the punt of the stranded _Spot Cash_ made the harbour at Hook-and-Line in good season to intercept the _Grand Lake_. She was due--she would surely steam in--that very day, said the men of Hook-and-Line. And it seemed to Archie Armstrong that everything now depended on the _Grand Lake_. It would be hopeless--Skipper Bill had said so and the boys needed no telling--it would be hopeless to attempt to get the _Spot Cash_ off Blow-Me-Down Rock in an unfriendly harbour without the steamer's help. "'Tis fair hard t' believe that the Jolly Harbour folk would give us no aid," said Jimmie Grimm. Skipper Bill laughed. "You've no knowledge o' Jolly Harbour," said he. "'Tis a big expense these robbers are putting us to," Archie growled. "Robbers?" Bill drawled. "Well, they're a decent, God-fearin' folk, with their own ideas about a wreck." Archie sniffed. "I've no doubt," the skipper returned, "that they're thankin' God for the windfall of a tradin' schooner at family worship in Jolly Harbour at this very minute." This view expressed small faith in the wits of Billy Topsail. "Oh, Billy Topsail will stand un off," Jimmie Grimm stoutly declared. "I'm doubtin' it," said the frank skipper. "Wh-wh-_what_!" Archie exclaimed in horror. "I'm just doubtin' it," the skipper repeated. This was a horrifying confession; and Archie Armstrong knew that Skipper Bill was not only wise in the ways of the French Shore but was neither a man to take a hopeless view nor one needlessly to excite anxiety. When Bill o' Burnt Bay admitted his fear that Billy Topsail had neither the strength nor the wit to save the _Spot Cash_ from the God-fearing folk of Jolly Harbour, he meant more than he said. The affairs of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company seemed to be in a bad way. It was now more than a mere matter of liquidating an obligation on the first of September; the problem was of liquidating it at all. "Wisht the _Grand Lake_ would 'urry up," said Bagg. "I'd like t' save some splinters o' the schooner, anyway," the skipper chuckled, in a ghastly way, "even if we _do_ lose the cargo." It occurred all at once to Archie Armstrong that Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company were not only in obligation for the debt to Armstrong & Company but were responsible for a chartered craft which was not insured. "A thousand dollars--a cold thousand dollars--_and_ the _Spot Cash_!" he exclaimed, aghast. "Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg repeated. Archie, pacing the wharf, his hands deep in his pockets, his face haggard and white, recalled that his father had once told him that many a man had been ruined by having too large a credit. And Archie had had credit--much credit. A mere boy with a thousand dollars of credit! With a thousand dollars of credit in merchandise and coin and the unquestioned credit of chartering a schooner! He realized that it had been much--too much. Somehow or other, as he feverishly paced the wharf at Hook-and-Line, the trading venture seemed infinitely larger and more precarious than it had in his father's office on the rainy day when the lad had so blithely proposed it. He understood, now, why it was that other boys could not stalk confidently into the offices of Armstrong & Company and be outfitted for a trading voyage. His father's faith--his father's indulgent fatherhood--had provided the all-too-large credit for his ruin. "Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg sighed. "Just now," Archie declared, looking Skipper Bill in the eye, "it's up to Billy Topsail." "Billy's a good boy," said the skipper. Little Donald North--who had all along been a thoroughly serviceable but inconspicuous member of the crew--began to shed unwilling tears. "Wisht she'd 'urry up," Bagg whimpered. "_There she is!_" Skipper Bill roared. It was true. There she was. Far off at sea--away beyond Grief Head at the entrance to Hook-and-Line--the smoke of a steamer surely appeared, a black cloud in the misty, glowering day. It was the _Grand Lake_. There was no other steamer on the coast. Cap'n Hand--Archie's friend, Cap'n Hand, with whom he had sailed on the sealing voyage of the stout old _Dictator_--was in command. She would soon make harbour. Archie's load vanished; from despair he was lifted suddenly into a wild hilarity which nothing would satisfy but a roaring wrestle with Skipper Bill. The _Grand Lake_ would presently be in; she would proceed full steam to Jolly Harbour, she would pass a line to the _Spot Cash_, she would jerk the little schooner from her rocky berth on Blow-Me-Down, and presently that selfsame wilful little craft would be legging it for St. John's. But was it the _Grand Lake_? "Lads," the skipper declared, when the steamer was in view, "it sure is the _Grand Lake_." They watched her. "Queer!" Skipper Bill muttered, at last. "What's queer?" asked Archie. "She should be turnin' in," the skipper replied. "What's Cap'n Hand thinkin' about?" "Wisht she'd 'urry up," said Bagg. The boys were bewildered. The steamer should by this time have had her nose turned towards Hook-and-Line. To round Grief Head she was keeping amazingly far out to sea. "Wonderful queer!" said the anxious skipper. The _Grand Lake_ steamed past Hook-and-Line and disappeared in the mist. Evidently she was in haste. Presently there was not so much as a trail of smoke to be descried at sea. CHAPTER XXXIII _In Which Billy Topsail, Besieged by Wreckers, Sleeps on Duty and Thereafter Finds Exercise For His Wits. In Which, also, a Lighted Candle is Suspended Over a Keg of Powder and Precipitates a Critical Moment While Billy Topsail Turns Pale With Anxiety_ At Jolly Harbour, meantime, where Billy Topsail kept watch, except for the flutter of an apron or skirt when the women went to the well for water, there was no sign of life at the cottages the livelong day. No boats ran out to the fishing-grounds; no men were on the flakes; the salmon nets and lobster-traps were not hauled. Billy prepared a spirited defense with the guns, which he charged heavily with powder, omitting the bullets. This done, he awaited the attack, meaning to let his wits or his arms deal with the situation, according to developments. The responsibility was heavy, the duty anxious; and Billy could not forget what Archie had said about the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company. "I 'low there was nothing for it but t' leave me in charge," he thought, as he paced the deck that night. "But 'twill be a job now to save her if they come." Billy fancied, from time to time, that he heard the splash of oars; but the night was dark, and although he peered long and listened intently, he could discover no boat in the shadows. And when the day came, with the comparative security of light, he was inclined to think that his fancy had been tricking him. "But it might have been the punts slippin' in from the harbours above and below," he thought, suddenly. "I wonder if 'twas." He spent most of that day lying on a coil of rope on the deck of the cabin--dozing and delighting himself with long day-dreams. When the night fell, it fell dark and foggy. An easterly wind overcast the sky and blew a thick mist from the open sea. Lights twinkled in the cottages ashore, somewhat blurred by the mist; but elsewhere it was dark; the nearer rocks were outlined by their deeper black. "'Twill be now," Billy thought, "or 'twill be never. Skipper Bill will sure be back with the _Grand Lake_ to-morrow." Some time after midnight, while Billy was pacing the deck to keep himself warm and awake, he was hailed from the shore. "'Tis from the point at the narrows," he thought. "Sure, 'tis Skipper Bill come back." Again he heard the hail--his own name, coming from that point at the narrows. "Billy, b'y! Billy!" "Aye, sir! Who are you?" "Skipper Bill, b'y!" came the answer. "Fetch the quarter-boat. We're aground and leakin'." "Aye, aye, sir!" "Quick, lad! I wants t' get aboard." Billy leaped from the rail to the quarter-boat. He was ready to cast off when he heard a splash in the darkness behind him. That splash gave him pause. Were the wreckers trying to decoy him from the ship? They had a legal right to salve an abandoned vessel. He clambered aboard, determined, until he had better assurance of the safety of his charge, to let Skipper Bill and his crew, if it were indeed they, make a shift for comfort on the rocks until morning. "Skipper Bill, sir!" he called. "Can you swim?" "Aye, b'y! But make haste." "I'll show a light for you, sir, if you want t' swim out, but I'll not leave the schooner." At that there was a laugh--an unmistakable chuckle--sounding whence the boy had heard the splash of an oar. It was echoed to right and left. Then a splash or two, a creak or two and a whisper. After that all was still again. "'Tis lucky, now, I didn't go," Billy thought. "'Twas a trick, for sure. But how did they know my name?" That was simple enough, when he came to think about it. When the skipper had warned the first fisherman off, he had ordered Billy forward by name. Wreckers they were, then--simple, good-hearted folk, believing in their right to what the sea cast up--and now bent on "salving" what they could, but evidently seeking to avoid a violent seizure of the cargo. Billy appreciated this feeling. He had himself no wish to meet an assault in force, whether in the persons of such good-natured fellows as the man who had grinned at him on the morning of the wreck, or in those of a more villainous cast. He hoped it was to be a game of wits; and now the lad smiled. "'Tis likely," he thought, "that I'll keep it safe." For an hour or more there was no return of the alarm. The harbour water rippled under the winds; the rigging softly rattled and sang aloft; the swish of breakers drifted in from the narrows. Billy sat full in the light of the deck lamps, with a gun in his hands, that all the eyes, which he felt sure were peering at him from the darkness roundabout, might see that he was alive to duty. As his weariness increased, he began to think that the wreckers had drawn off, discouraged. Once he nodded; again he nodded, and awoke with a start; but he was all alone on the deck, as he had been. Then, to occupy himself, he went below to light the cabin candle. For a moment, before making ready to go on deck again, he sat on the counter, lost in thought. He did not hear the prow of a punt strike the _Spot Cash_ amidships, did not hear the whispers and soft laughter of men coming over the side by stealth, did not hear the tramp of feet coming aft. What startled him was a rough voice and a burst of laughter. "Come aboard, skipper, sir!" The companionway framed six weather-beaten, bearded faces. There was a grin on each, from the first, which was clear to its smallest wrinkle in the candle-light, to those which were vanishing and reappearing in the shadows behind. Billy seemed to be incapable of word or action. "Come to report, sir," said the nearest wrecker. "We seed you was aground, young skipper, and we thought we'd help you ashore with the cargo." Billy rested his left hand on the head of a powder keg, which stood on end on the counter beside him. His right stole towards the candlestick. There was a light in his blue eyes--a glitter or a twinkle--which might have warned the wreckers, had they known him better. "I order you ashore!" he said, slowly. "I order you _all_ ashore. You've no right aboard this ship. If I had my gun----" "Sure, you left it on deck." "If I had my gun," Billy pursued, "I'd have the right t' shoot you down." The manner of the speech--the fierce intensity of it--impressed the wreckers. They perceived that the boy's face had turned pale, that his eyes were flashing strangely. They were unused to such a depth of passion. It may be that they were reminded of a bear at bay. "I believe he'd do it," said one. An uneasy quiet followed; and in that silence Billy heard the prow of another punt strike the ship. More footfalls came shuffling aft--other faces peered down the companionway. One man pushed his way through the group and made as if to come down the ladder. "Stand back!" Billy cried. The threat in that shrill cry brought the man to a stop. He turned; and that which he saw caused him to fall back upon his fellows. There was an outcry and a general falling away from the cabin door. Some men ran forward to the punts. "The lad's gone mad!" said one. "Leave us get ashore!" Billy had whipped the stopper out of the hole in the head of the powder keg, had snatched the candle from the socket, carefully guarding its flame, and now sat, triumphantly gazing up, with the butt of the candle through the hole in the keg and the flame flickering above its depths. "Men," said he, when they had gathered again at the door, "if I let that candle slip through my fingers, you know what'll happen." He paused; then he went on, speaking in a quivering voice: "My friends left me in charge o' this here schooner, and I've been caught nappin'. If I'd been on deck, you wouldn't have got aboard. But now you are aboard, and 'tis all because I didn't do my duty. Do you think I care what becomes o' me now? Do you think I don't care whether I do my duty or not? I tell you fair that if you don't go ashore I'll drop the candle in the keg. If one o' you dares come down that ladder, I'll drop it. If I hear you lift the hatches off the hold, I'll drop it. If I hear you strike a blow at the ship, I'll drop it. Hear me?" he cried. "If you don't go, I'll drop it!" The candle trembled between Billy's fingers. It slipped, fell an inch or more, but his fingers gripped it again before he lost it. The wreckers recoiled, now convinced that the lad meant no less than he said. "I guess you'd do it, b'y," said the man who had attempted to descend. "Sure," he repeated, with a glance of admiration for the boy's pluck, "I guess you would." "'Tis not comfortable here," said another. "Sure, he might drop it by accident. Make haste, b'ys! Let's get ashore." "Good-night, skipper, sir!" said the first. "Good-night, sir!" said Billy, grimly. With that they went over the side. Billy heard them leap into the punts, push off, and row away. Then silence fell--broken only by the ripple of the water, the noise of the wind in the rigging, the swish of breakers drifting in. The boy waited a long time, not daring to venture on deck, lest they should be lying in wait for him at the head of the ladder. He listened for a footfall, a noise in the hold, the shifting of the deck cargo; but he heard nothing. When the candle had burned low, he lighted another, put the butt through the hole, and jammed it. At last he fell asleep, with his head resting on a pile of dress-goods; and the candle was burning unattended. He was awakened by a hail from the deck. "Billy, b'y, where is you?" It was Skipper Bill's hearty voice; and before Billy could tumble up the ladder, the skipper's bulky body closed the exit. "She's all safe, sir!" said the boy. Skipper Bill at that moment caught sight of the lighted candle. He snatched it from its place, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it. He was a-tremble from head to foot. "What's this foolery?" he demanded, angrily. Billy explained. "It was plucky, b'y," said the skipper, "but 'twas wonderful risky." "Sure, there was no call to be afraid." "No call to be afraid!" cried the skipper. "No, sir--no," said Billy. "There's not a grain of powder in the keg." "Empty--an empty keg?" the skipper roared. "Do you think," said Billy, indignantly, "that I'd have risked the schooner that way if 'twas a full keg?" Skipper Bill stared; and for a long time afterwards he could not look at Billy without staring. CHAPTER XXXIV _In Which Skipper Bill, as a Desperate Expedient, Contemplates the Use of His Teeth, and Archie Armstrong, to Save His Honour, Sets Sail in a Basket, But Seems to Have Come a Cropper_ Billy Topsail suddenly demanded: "Where's the _Grand Lake_?" "The _Grand Lake_," Skipper Bill drawled, with a sigh, "is somewheres t' the s'uth'ard footin' it for St. John's." "You missed her!" Billy accused. "Didn't neither," said the indignant skipper. "She steamed right past Hook-an'-Line without a wink in that direction." This was shocking news. "Anyhow," said little Donald North, as though it mattered importantly, "we seed her smoke." Billy looked from Donald to Jimmie, from Jimmie to Bagg, from Bagg to the skipper; and then he stared about. "Where's Archie?" he asked. "Archie," the skipper replied, "is footin' it for St. John's, too. 'Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'Billy Topsail has kep' that schooner safe. I knows he has. It was up t' Billy Topsail t' save the firm from wreckers an' I'll lay you that Billy Topsail has saved the firm. Now, Skipper Bill,' says Archie, 'you go back t' Jolly Harbour an' get that schooner off. You get her off somehow. Get her off jus' as soon as you can,' says he, 'an' fetch her to St. John's.' "'I _can't_ get her off,' says I. "'Yes, you can, too, Skipper Bill,' says he. 'I'll lay you can get her off. I don't know how you'll do it,' says he; 'but _I'll lay you can_!' "'I'll get her off, Archie,' says I, 'if I got t' jump in the sea an' haul her off with a line in my teeth.' "'I knowed you would,' says he; 'an' you got the best teeth, Skipper Bill,' says he, 't' be found on this here coast. As for me, skipper,' says he, 'I'm goin' down t' St. John's if I got t' walk on water. I told my father that I'd be in his office on the first o' September--an' I'm goin' t' be there. If I can't be there with the fish I can be there with the promise o' fish; an' I can back that promise up with a motor boat, a sloop yacht an' a pony an' cart. I don't know how I'm goin' t' get t' St. John's,' says he, 'an' I don't want t' walk on a wet sea like this; but I'm goin' t' get there somehow by the first o' September, an' I'm goin' to assoom'--yes, sir, '_assoom_, Skipper Bill,' says Archie--'I'm goin' to assoom that you'll fetch down the _Spot Cash_ an' the tail an' fins of every last tom-cod aboard that there craft.' "An' I'm goin' t' _do_ it!" Skipper Bill roared in conclusion, with a slap of the counter with his hairy fist that made the depleted stock rattle on the shelves. "Does you t-t-think you c-c-_can_ haul her off with your teeth?" Donald North asked with staring eyes. Bill o' Burnt Bay burst into a shout of laughter. "We'll have no help from the Jolly Harbour folk," said Billy Topsail, gravely. "They're good-humoured men," he added, "but they means t' have this here schooner if they can." "Never mind," said Skipper Bill, with an assumption of far more hope than was in his honest, willing heart. "We'll get her off afore they comes again." "Wisht you'd 'urry up," said Bagg. With the _Spot Cash_ high and dry--with a small crew aboard--with a numerous folk, clever and unfriendly (however good-humoured they were), bent on possessing that which they were fully persuaded it was their right to have--with no help near at hand and small prospect of the appearance of aid--the task which Archie Armstrong had set Bill o' Burnt Bay was the most difficult one the old sea-dog had ever encountered in a long career of hard work, self-dependence and tight places. The Jolly Harbour folk might laugh and joke, they might even offer sympathy, they might be the most hospitable, tender-hearted, God-fearing folk in the world; but tradition had taught them that what the sea cast up belonged righteously to the men who could take it, and they would with good consciences and the best humour in the world stand upon that doctrine. And Bill o' Burnt Bay would do no murder to prevent them: it was not the custom of the coast to do murder in such cases; and Archie Armstrong's last injunction had been to take no lives. Bill o' Burnt Bay declared in growing wrath to the boys that he would come next door to murder. "I'll pink 'em, anyhow," said he, as he loaded his long gun. "_I'll_ makes holes for earrings, ecod!" Yes, sir; the skipper would show the Jolly Harbour folk how near a venturesome man could come to letting daylight into a Jolly Harbour hull without making a hopeless leak. Jus' t' keep 'em busy calking, ecod! How much of this was mere loud and saucy words--with how much real meaning the skipper spoke--even the skipper himself did not know. But, yes, sir; he'd show 'em in the morning. It was night, now, however--though near morning. Nobody would put out from shore before daybreak. They had been frightened off once. Skipper Bill's wrath could simmer to the boiling point. But a watch must be kept. No chances must be taken with the _Spot Cash_, and-- "Ahoy, Billy!" a pleasant voice called from the water. The crew of the _Spot Cash_ rushed on deck. "Oh, ho!" another voice laughed. "Skipper's back, too, eh?" "_With_ a long--perfeckly trustworthy--loaded--gun," Skipper Bill solemnly replied. The men in the punts laughed heartily. "Sheer off!" Skipper Bill roared. But in the protecting shadows of the night the punts came closer. And there was another laugh. * * * * * It chanced at Hook-and-Line Harbour before night--Skipper Bill had then for hours been gone towards Jolly Harbour--that a Labrador fishing craft put in for water. She was loaded deep; her decks were fairly awash with her load of fish, and at best she was squat and old and rotten--a basket to put to sea in. Here was no fleet craft; but she was south-bound, at any rate, and Archie Armstrong determined to board her. To get to St. John's--to open the door of his father's office on the first of September as he had promised--to explain and to reassure and even to present in hard cash the value of a sloop yacht and a pony and a motor boat--was the boy's feverish determination. He could not forget his father's grave words: "Your honour is involved." Perhaps he exaggerated the importance of them. His honour? The boy had no wish to be excused--had no liking for fatherly indulgence. He was wholly intent upon justifying his father's faith and satisfying his own sense of honourable obligation. It must be fish or cash--fish or cash--and as it seemed it could not be fish it must therefore be cash. It must be hard cash--cash down--paid on the first of September over his father's desk in the little office overlooking the wharves. "Green Bay bound," the skipper of the Labrador craft replied to Archie's question. That signified a landing at Ruddy Cove. "I'll go along," said Archie. "Ye'll not," the skipper snapped. "Ye'll not go along until ye mend your manners." Archie started in amazement. "_You'll_ go along, will ye?" the skipper continued. "Is you the owner o' this here craft? Ye may _ask_ t' go along; but whether ye go or not is for me--for _me_, ye cub!--t' say." Archie straightened in his father's way. "My name," said he, shortly, "is Archibald Armstrong." The skipper instantly touched his cap. "I'm sorry, skipper," Archie went on, with a dignity of which his manner of life had long ago made him unconsciously master, "for having taken too much for granted. I want passage with you to Ruddy Cove, skipper, for which I'll pay." "You're welcome, sir," said the skipper. The _Wind and Tide_ lay at Hook-and-Line that night in fear of the sea that was running. She rode so deep in the water, and her planks and rigging and sticks were at best so untrustworthy, that her skipper would not take her to sea. Next morning, however--and Archie subsequently recalled it--next morning the wind blew fair for the southern ports. Out put the old craft into a rising breeze and was presently wallowing her way towards Green Bay and Ruddy Cove. But there was no reckless sailing. Nothing that Archie could say with any appearance of propriety moved the skipper to urge her on. She was deep, she was old; she must be humoured along. Again, when night fell, she was taken into harbour for shelter. The wind still blew fair in the morning; she made a better day of it, but was once more safely berthed for the night. Day after day she crept down the coast, lurching along in the light, with unearthly shrieks of pain and complaint, and lying silent in harbour in the dark. "'Wisht she'd 'urry up,'" thought Archie, with a dubious laugh, remembering Bagg. It was the twenty-ninth of August and coming on dark when the boy first caught sight of the cottages of Ruddy Cove. "Mail-boat day," he thought, jubilantly. "The _Wind and Tide_ will make it. I'll be in St. John's the day after to-morrow." "Journey's end," said the skipper, coming up at that moment. "I'm wanting to make the mail-boat," said Archie. "She's due at Ruddy Cove soon after dark." "She'll be on time," said the skipper. "Hark!" Archie heard the faint blast of a steamer's whistle. "Is it she?" asked the skipper. "Ay," Archie exclaimed; "and she's just leaving Fortune Harbour. She'll be at Ruddy Cove within the hour." "I'm doubtin' that _we_ will," said the skipper. "Will you not run up a topsail?" the boy pleaded. "Not for the queen o' England," the skipper replied, moving forward. "I've got my load--an' I've got the lives o' my crew--t' care for." Archie could not gainsay it. The _Wind and Tide_ had all the sail she could carry with unquestionable safety. The boy watched the mail-boat's lights round the Head and pass through the tickle into the harbour of Ruddy Cove. Presently he heard the second blast of her deep-toned whistle and saw her emerge and go on her way. She looked cozy in the dusk, he thought: she was brilliant with many lights. In the morning she would connect with the east-bound cross-country express at Burnt Bay. And meantime he--this selfsame boastful Archie Armstrong--would lie stranded at Ruddy Cove. At that moment St. John's seemed infinitely far away. CHAPTER XXXV _In Which Many Things Happen: Old Tom Topsail Declares Himself the Bully to Do It, Mrs. Skipper William Bounds Down the Path With a Boiled Lobster, the Mixed Accommodation Sways, Rattles, Roars, Puffs and Quits on a Grade in the Wilderness, Tom Topsail Loses His Way in the Fog and Archie Armstrong Gets Despairing Ear of a Whistle_ At Ruddy Cove, that night, when Archie was landed from the _Wind and Tide_, a turmoil of amazement instantly gave way to the very briskest consultation the wits of the place had ever known. "There's no punt can make Burnt Bay the night," Billy Topsail's father declared. "Nor the morrow night if the wind changes," old Jim Grimm added. "Nor the next in a southerly gale," Job North put in. "There's the _Wind an' Tide_," Tom Topsail suggested. "She's a basket," said Archie; "and she's slower than a paddle punt." "What's the weather?" "Fair wind for Burnt Bay an' a starlit night." "I've lost the express," said Archie, excitedly. "I must--I _must_, I tell you!--I must catch the mixed." The Ruddy Cove faces grew long. "I must," Archie repeated between his teeth. The east-bound cross-country express would go through the little settlement of Burnt Bay in the morning. The mixed accommodation would crawl by at an uncertain hour of the following day. It was now the night of the twenty-ninth of August. One day--two days. The mixed accommodation would leave Burnt Bay for St. John's on the thirty-first of August. "If she doesn't forget," said Job North, dryly. "Or get tired an' rest too often," Jim Grimm added. Archie caught an impatient breath. "Look you, lad!" Tom Topsail declared, jumping up. "I'm the bully that will put you aboard!" Archie flung open the door of Mrs. Skipper William's kitchen and made for the Topsail wharf with old Tom puffing and lumbering at his heels. Billy Topsail's mother was hailed with the news. Before Tom had well made the punt shipshape for a driving cruise up the Bay she was on the wharf with a bucket of hardtack and a kettle of water. A frantic scream--perhaps, a shout--announced the coming of Mrs. Skipper William with a ham-bone and a greatcoat. These tossed inboard, she roared a command to delay, gathered up her skirts and fled into the night, whence she emerged, bounding, with a package of tea and a boiled lobster. She had no breath left to bid them Godspeed when Tom Topsail cast off; but she waved her great soft arms, and her portly person shook with the violence of her good wishes. And up went the sail--and out fluttered the little jib--and the punt heeled to the harbour breeze--and Tom Topsail and Archie Armstrong darted away from the lights of Ruddy Cove towards the open sea. * * * * * The mixed accommodation, somewhere far back in the Newfoundland wilderness, came to the foot of a long grade. She puffed and valiantly choo-chooed. It was desperately hard work to climb that hill. A man might have walked beside her while she tried it. But she surmounted the crest, at last, and, as though immensely proud of herself, rattled down towards the boulder-strewn level at an amazing rate of speed. On she went, swaying, puffing, roaring, rattling, as though she had no intention whatever of coming to a stop before she had brought her five hundred mile run to a triumphant conclusion in the station at St. John's. Even the engineer was astonished. "Doin' fine," thought the fireman, proud of his head of steam. "She'll make up them three hours afore mornin'," the engineer hoped. On the next grade the mixed accommodation lagged. It was a steep grade. She seemed to lose enthusiasm with every yard of puffing progress. She began to pant--to groan--to gasp with horrible fatigue. Evidently she fancied it a cruel task to be put to. And the grade was long--and it was outrageously steep--and they had overloaded the little engine with freight cars--and she wasn't yet half-way up. It would take the heart out of any engine. But she buckled to, once more, and trembled and panted and gained a yard or two. It was hard work; it was killing work. It was a ghastly outrage to demand such effort of _any_ engine, most of all of a rat-trap attached to a mixed accommodation on an ill-graded road. The Rat-Trap snorted her indignation. She howled with agony and despair. And then she quit. "What's the matter now?" a passenger asked the conductor, in a coach far in the rear. "Looks to me as if we'd have to uncouple and run on to the next siding with half the train," the conductor replied. "But it _may_ be the fire-box." "What's the matter with the fire-box?" "She has a habit of droppin' out," said the conductor. "We'll be a day late in St. John's," the passenger grumbled. The conductor laughed. "You will," said he, "if the trouble is with the fire-box." * * * * * While the mixed accommodation was panting on the long grade, Tom Topsail's punt, Burnt Bay bound, was splashing through a choppy sea, humoured along by a clever hand and a heart that understood her whims. It was blowing smartly; but the wind was none too much for the tiny craft, and she was making the best of it. At this rate--with neither change nor failure of the wind--Tom Topsail would land Archie Armstrong in Burnt Bay long before the accommodation had begun to think of achieving that point in her journey across the island. There was no failure of the wind as the night spent itself; it blew true and fair until the rosy dawn came softly out of the east. The boy awoke from a long doze to find the punt overhauling the first barren islands of the long estuary at the head of which the Burnt Bay settlement is situated. With the most favourable weather there was a day's sailing and more yet to be done. "How's the weather?" was Archie's first question. "Broodin'," Tom Topsail drawled. Archie could find no menace in the dawn. "Jus' broodin'," Topsail repeated. Towards night it seemed that a change and a gale of wind might be hatched by the brooding day. The wind fluttered to the east and blew up a thickening fog. "We've time an' t' spare," said Topsail, in the soggy dusk. "Leave us go ashore an' rest." They landed, presently, on a promising island, and made a roaring fire. The hot tea and the lobster and the hard-bread--and the tales of Topsail--and the glow and warmth of the fire--were grateful to Archie. He fell sound asleep, at last, with his greatcoat over him; and Tom Topsail was soon snoring, too. In the meantime the mixed accommodation, back in the wilderness, had surmounted the grade, had dropped three heavy cars at a way station, and was rattling on her way towards Burnt Bay with an energy and determination that surprised her weary passengers and could only mean that she was bound to make up at least some lost time or explode in the attempt. * * * * * Morning came--it seemed to Archie Armstrong that it never would come--morning came in a thick fog to Tom Topsail and the lad. In a general way Tom Topsail had his bearings, but he was somewhat doubtful about trusting to them. The fog thickened with an easterly wind. It blew wet and rough and cold. The water, in so far as it could be seen from the island, was breaking in white-capped waves; and an easterly wind was none of the best on the Burnt Bay course. But Tom Topsail and Archie put confidently out. The mixed accommodation was not due at Burnt Bay until 12:33. She would doubtless be late; she was always late. There was time enough; perhaps there would be time and to spare. The wind switched a bit to the south of east, however, and became nearly adverse; and down came the fog, thick and blinding. A hundred islands, and the narrowing main-shore to port and starboard, were wiped out of sight. There were no longer landmarks. "Man," Tom Topsail declared, at last, "I don't know where I is!" "Drive on, Tom," said Archie. The punt went forward in a smother of water. "Half after eleven," Archie remarked. Tom Topsail hauled the sheet taut to pick up another puff of wind. An hour passed. Archie had lost the accommodation if she were on time. "They's an island dead ahead," said Tom. "I feels it. Hark!" he added. "Does you hear the breakers?" Archie could hear the wash of the sea. "Could it be Right-In-the-Way?" Tom Topsail wondered. "Or is it Mind-Your-Eye Point?" There was no help in Archie. "If 'tis Right-In-the-Way," said Tom, "I'd have me bearin's. 'Tis a marvellous thick fog, this," he complained. Mind-Your-Eye is a point of the mainland. "I'm goin' ashore t' find out," Tom determined. Landed, however, he could make nothing of it. Whether Right-In-the-Way, an island near by Burnt Bay, or Mind-Your-Eye, a long projection of the main-shore, there was no telling. The fog hid all outlines. If it were Right-In-the-Way, Tom Topsail could land Archie in Burnt Bay within half an hour; if it were Mind-Your-Eye point--well, maybe. "Hark!" Tom exclaimed. Archie could hear nothing. "Did you not hear it?" said Tom. "What, man? Hear _what_?" "_That!_" Tom ejaculated. Archie heard the distant whistle of a train. "I knows this place," Tom burst out, in vast excitement. "'Tis Mind-Your-Eye. They's a cut road from here t' the railway. 'Tis but half a mile, lad." Followed by Archie, Tom Topsail plunged into the bush. They did not need to be told that the mixed accommodation was labouring on a steep grade from Red Brook Bridge. They did not need to be told that a little fire, builded by the track before she ran past, a flaring signal in the fog, would stop her. With them it was merely a problem of getting to the track in time to start that fire. CHAPTER XXXVI _And Last: In Which Archie Armstrong Hangs His Head in His Father's Office, the Pale Little Clerk Takes a Desperate Chance, Bill o' Burnt Bay Loses His Breath, and there is a Grand Dinner in Celebration of the Final Issue, at Which the Amazement of the Crew of the "Spot Cash" is Equalled by Nothing in the World Except Their Delight_ It was the first of September. A rainy day, this, in St. John's: the wind in the east, thick fog blowing in from the open. Sir Archibald's grate was crackling in its accustomed cheerful way. Rain lashed the office windows at intervals; a melancholy mist curtained the harbour from view. Sir Archibald was anxious. He drummed on the desk with his finger-tips; he paced the office floor, he scowled, he pursed his lips, he dug his restless hands deep in his pockets. The expected had not happened. It was now two o'clock. Sir Archibald was used to going home at three. And it was now two o'clock--no, by Jove! it was eight after. Sir Archibald walked impatiently to the window. It was evident that the fog was the cause of his impatience. He scowled at it. No, no (thought he); no schooner could make St. John's harbour in a fog like that. And the winds of the week had been fair winds from the French Shore. Still the expected had not happened. _Why_ had the expected not happened? A pale little clerk put his head in at the door in a very doubtful way. "Skipper of the _Black Eagle_, sir," said he. "Clerk, too," he added. "Show 'em in," Sir Archibald growled. What happened need not be described. It was both melancholy and stormy without; there was a roaring tempest within. Sir Archibald was not used to giving way to aggravation; but he was now presently embarked on a rough sea of it, from which, indeed, he had difficulty in reaching quiet harbour again. It was not the first interview he had had with the skipper and clerk of the _Black Eagle_ since that trim craft had returned from the French Shore trade. But it turned out to be the final one. The books of the _Black Eagle_ had been examined; her stores had been appraised, her stock taken, her fish weighed. And the result had been so amazing that Sir Archibald had not only been mystified but enraged. It was for this reason that when Skipper George Rumm, with Tommy Bull, the rat-eyed little clerk, left the presence of Sir Archibald Armstrong, the prediction of the clerk had come true: there were two able-bodied seamen looking for a berth on the streets of St. John's. First of all, however, they set about finding Tom Tulk o' Twillingate; but this, somehow or other, the discreet Tom Tulk never would permit them to do. * * * * * By Sir Archibald's watch it was now exactly 2:47. Sir Archibald rose from the chair that was his throne. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I had hoped----" Again the pale little clerk put his head in at the door. This time he was grinning shamelessly. "Well?" said Sir Archibald. "What is it?" "Master Archie, sir." Archie shook hands with his father in a perfunctory way. Sir Archibald's cheery greeting--and with what admiration and affection and happiness his heart was filled at that moment!--Sir Archibald's cheery greeting failed in his throat. Archie was prodigiously scowling. This was no failure of affection; nor was it an evil regard towards his creditor, who would have for him, as the boy well knew, nothing but the warmest sympathy. It was shame and sheer despair. In every line of the boy's drawn face--in his haggard eyes and trembling lips--in his dejected air--even in his dishevelled appearance (as Sir Archibald sadly thought)--failure was written. What the nature of that failure was Sir Archibald did not know. How it had come about he could not tell. But it _was_ failure. It was failure--and there was no doubt about it. Sir Archibald's great fatherly heart warmed towards the boy. He did not resent the brusque greeting; he understood. And Sir Archibald came at that moment nearer to putting his arms about his big son in the most sentimental fashion in the world than he had come in a good many years. "Father," said Archie, abruptly, "please sit down." Sir Archibald sat down. "I owe you a thousand dollars, sir," Archie went on, coming close to his father's desk and looking Sir Archibald straight in the eye. "It is due to-day, and I can't pay it--now." Sir Archibald would not further humiliate the boy by remitting the debt. There was no help for Archie in this crisis. Nobody knew it better than Sir Archibald. "I have no excuse, sir," said Archie, with his head half-defiantly thrown back, "but I should like to explain." Sir Archibald nodded. "I meant to be back in time to realize on--well--on those things you have given me--on the yacht and the boat and the pony," Archie went on, finding a little difficulty with a lump of shame in his throat; "but I missed the mail-boat at Ruddy Cove, and I----" The pale little clerk once more put his sharp little face in at the door. "Judd," said Sir Archibald, sternly, "be good enough not to interrupt me." "But, sir----" "Judd," Sir Archibald roared, "shut that door!" The pale little clerk took his life in his hands, and, turning infinitely paler, gasped: "Skipper of the _Spot Cash_ to see you, sir." "WHAT!" shouted Archie. Judd had fled. "Skipper--of--the--_Spot--Cash_!" Archie muttered stupidly. Indeed, yes. The hearty, grinning, triumphant skipper of the _Spot Cash_! And more, too, following sheepishly in his wake: no less than the full complement of other members of the trading firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, even to Donald North, who was winking with surprise, and Bagg, the cook, ex-gutter-snipe from London, who could not wink at all from sheer amazement. And then--first thing of all--Archie Armstrong and his father shook hands in quite another way. Whereupon this same Archie Armstrong (while Sir Archibald fairly bellowed with delighted laughter) fell upon Bill o' Burnt Bay, and upon the crew of the _Spot Cash_, right down to Bagg (who had least to lose), and beat the very breath out of their bodies in an hilarious expression of joy. * * * * * "Dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay explained, by and by. "Dickering?" ejaculated Archie. "Jus' simon-pure dickerin'," Bill o' Burnt Bay insisted, a bit indignantly. And then it all came out--how that the Jolly Harbour wreckers had come aboard to reason; how that Bill o' Burnt Bay, with a gun in one hand, was disposed to reason, and _did_ reason, and continued to reason, until the Jolly Harbour folk began to laugh, and were in the end persuaded to take a reasonable amount of merchandise from the depleted shelves (the whole of it) in return for their help in floating the schooner. It came out, too, how Billy Topsail had held the candle over the powder-keg. It came out, moreover, how the crew of the _Spot Cash_ had set sail from Jolly Harbour with a fair wind, how the wind had providentially continued to blow fair and strong, how the _Spot Cash_ had made the land-fall of St. John's before night of the day before, and how the crew had with their own arms towed her into harbour and had not fifteen minutes ago moored her at Sir Archibald's wharf. And loaded, sir--loaded, sir, with as fine a lot o' salt-cod as ever came out o' White Bay an' off the French Shore! To all of which both Sir Archibald and Archie listened with wide open eyes--the eyes of the boy (it may be whispered in strictest confidence) glistening with tears of proud delight in his friends. There was a celebration. Of _course_, there was a celebration! To be sure! This occurred when the load of the _Spot Cash_ had been weighed out, and a discharge of obligation duly handed to the firm of Topsail, Armstrong, Grimm & Company, and the balance paid over in hard cash. Skipper Bill was promptly made a member of the firm to his own great profit; and he was amazed and delighted beyond everything but a wild gasp--and so was Billy Topsail--and so was Jimmie Grimm--and so was Donald North--and so was Bagg--so were they all amazed, every one, when they were told that fish had gone to three-eighty, and each found himself the possessor, in his own right, free of all incumbrance, of one hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents. But this amazement was hardly equal to that which overcame them when they sat down to dinner with Archie and Sir Archibald and Lady Armstrong in the evening. Perhaps it was the shining plate--perhaps it was Lady Armstrong's sweet beauty--perhaps it was Sir Archibald's jokes--perhaps it was Archie Armstrong's Eton jacket and perfectly immaculate appearance--perhaps it was the presence of his jolly tutor--perhaps it was the glitter and snowy whiteness and glorious bounty of the table spread before them--but there was nothing in the whole wide world to equal the astonishment of the crew of the _Spot Cash_--nothing to approach it, indeed--except their fine delight. THE END * * * * * The Works of NORMAN DUNCAN THE SUITABLE CHILD Illustrations by Elizabeth Shippen Green. _Popular Edition._ Half Boards, Illustrated. Net .60. Decorated Edition, net $1.00. THE ADVENTURES OF BILLY TOPSAIL _15th thousand._ 12mo, Illustrated, 1.50. It's a boy's book, but it's "a book to be chummy with"--that includes everybody. "A marvelously vivid and realistic narrative. There was no need to invent conditions or imagine situations. It is this skill in portraying actual conditions in Newfoundland that makes Mr. Duncan's work so wonderful."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ DOCTOR LUKE OF THE LABRADOR _30th thousand._ 12mo, Cloth, 1.50. "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was expected of him in this story; it established him beyond question as one of the strong masters of the present day."--_Brooklyn Eagle._ DR. GRENFELL'S PARISH _Fifth Edition_. Illustrated, Cloth, net 1.00. "He tells vividly and picturesquely many of the things done by Dr. Grenfell and his associates."--_N. Y. Sun._ THE MOTHER A Novelette of New York Life. _Second Edition._ 12mo, Cloth, 1.25. de Luxe, net 2.00. DILLON WALLACE UNGAVA BOB A Tale of the Fur Trappers. _12th Thousand._ Illustrated, $1.50. This tale of Bob, the young fur trapper in the far frozen North has all the excitement and thrilling adventure that any boy could wish. Bob's experiences on the trail, in the Indian's camp, on the abandoned ship which he sailed into port, make fascinating reading. Moreover there is a strict adherence to fact which proves the author to have been thoroughly familiar with the events of which he writes. The story is heart stirring for young or old from beginning to end. [Illustration] "The story is told with the greatest simplicity and naturalness, and the author has put into it his own warm feeling toward the people of the frozen northland, whites, Indians and Eskimos alike."--_Pittsburg Post._ "Should bring the sparkle to many a lad's eye and make him wish in his day-dreams that he, too, might battle with dangers of cold and forest depth and heaving ice field."--_Chicago Post._ "A thrilling story full of exciting incidents and holding the interest of reader at highest pitch to its very close. Adventures and dangers and hairbreadth escapes."--_Westminster._ "A strong, virile book. The mystery of this most obscure corner of the frozen north pervades the pages."--_Plain Dealer._ 
44387	----	BROTHERS OF PERIL A Story of Old Newfoundland _WORKS OF THEODORE ROBERTS_ _The Red Feathers_ _$1.50_ _Brothers of Peril_ _1.50_ _Hemming the Adventurer_ _1.50_ _L. C. PAGE & COMPANY_ _New England Building, Boston, Mass._ [Illustration: "A VIVID CIRCLE OF RED ON THE SNOW OF THAT NAMELESS WILDERNESS"] Brothers of Peril A Story of Old Newfoundland By Theodore Roberts _Author of_ "Hemming, the Adventurer" _Illustrated by_ H. C. Edwards [Illustration: Logo] _Boston_ L. C. Page & Company _Mdccccv_ _Copyright, 1905_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ Published June, 1905 Second Impression, March, 1908 _COLONIAL PRESS Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U.S.A._ Preface During the three centuries directly following John Cabot's discovery of Newfoundland, that unfortunate island was the sport of careless kings, selfish adventurers, and diligent pirates. While England, France, Spain, and Portugal were busy with courts and kings, and with spectacular battles, their fishermen and adventurers toiled together and fought together about the misty headlands of that far island. Fish, not glory, was their quest! Full cargoes, sweetly cured, was their desire--and let fame go hang! The merchants of England undertook the guardianship of the "Newfounde Land." In greed, in valour, and in achievement they won their mastery. Their greed was a two-edged sword which cut all 'round. It hounded the aborigines; it bullied the men of France and Spain; it discouraged the settlement of the land by stout hearts of whatever nationality. It was the dream of those merchant adventurers of Devon to have the place remain for ever nothing but a fishing-station. They faced the pirates, the foreign fishers, the would-be settlers, and the natural hardships with equal fortitude and insolence. When some philosopher dreamed of founding plantations in the king's name and to the glory of God, England, and himself, then would the greedy merchants slay or cripple the philosopher's dream in the very palace of the king. Ay, they were powerful enough at court, though so little remarked in the histories of the times! But, ever and anon, some gentleman adventurer, or humble fisherman from the ships, would escape their vigilance and strike a blow at the inscrutable wilderness. The fishing admirals loom large in the history of the island. They were the hands and eyes of the wealthy merchants. The master of the first vessel to enter any harbour at the opening of the season was, for a greater or lesser period of time, admiral and judge of that harbour. It was his duty to parcel out anchorage, and land on which to dry fish, to each ship in the harbour; to see that no sailors from the fleet escaped into the woods; to discourage any visions of settlement which sight of the rugged forests might raise in the romantic heads of the gentlemen of the fleet; to see that all foreigners were hustled on every occasion, and to take the best of everything for himself. Needless to say, it was a popular position with the hard-fisted skippers. In the narratives of the early explorers frequent mention is made of the peaceful nature of the aborigines. At first they displayed unmistakable signs of friendly feeling. They were all willingness to trade with the loud-mouthed strangers from over the eastern horizon. They helped at the fishing, and at the hunting of seals and caribou. They bartered priceless pelts for iron hatchets and glass trinkets. Later, however, we read of treachery and murder on the parts of both the visitors and the natives. The itch of slave-dealing led some of the more daring shipmasters and adventurers to capture, and carry back to England, Beothic braves and maidens. Many of the kidnapped savages were kindly treated and made companions of by English noblemen and gentlefolk. It is recorded that more than one Beothic brave sported a sword at his hip in fashionable places of London Town before Death cut the silken bonds of his motley captivity. Master John Guy, an alderman of Bristol, who obtained a Royal Charter in 1610, to settle and develop Newfoundland, wrote of the Beothics as a kindly and mild-mannered race. Of their physical characteristics he says: "They are of middle size, broad-chested, and very erect.... Their hair is diverse, some black, some brown, and some yellow." As to the ultimate fate of the Beothics there are several suppositions. An aged Micmac squaw, who lives on Hall's Bay, Notre Dame Bay, says that her father, in his youth, knew the last of the Beothics. At that time--something over a hundred years ago--the race numbered between one and two hundred souls. They made periodical excursions to the salt water to fish, and to trade with a few friendly whites and Nova Scotian Micmacs. But, for the most part, they avoided the settlements. They had reason enough for so doing, for many of the settlers considered a lurking Beothic as fair a target for his buckshot as a bear or caribou. One November day a party of Micmac hunters tried to follow the remnant of the broken race on their return trip to the great wilderness of the interior. The trail was lost in a fall of snow on the night of the first day of the journey. And there, with the obliterated trail, ends the world's knowledge of the original inhabitants of Newfoundland; save of one woman of the race named Mary March, who died, a self-ordained fugitive about the outskirts of civilization, some ninety years ago. To-day there are a few bones in the museum at St. John's. One hears stories of grassy circles beside the lakes and rivers, where wigwams once stood. Flint knives and arrow-heads are brought to light with the turning of the farmer's furrow. But the language of the lost tribe is forgotten, and the history of it is unrecorded. In the following tale I have drawn the wilderness of that far time in the likeness of the wilderness as I knew it, and loved it, a few short years ago. The seasons bring their oft-repeated changes to brown barren, shaggy wood, and empurpled hill; but the centuries pass and leave no mark. I have dared to resurrect an extinct tribe for the purposes of fiction. I have drawn inspiration from the spirit of history rather than the letter! But the heart of the wilderness, and the hearts of men and women, I have pictured, in this romance of olden time, as I know them to-day. T. R. _November, 1904._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A BOY WINS HIS MAN-NAME 1 II. THE OLD CRAFTSMAN BY THE SALT WATER 9 III. THE FIGHT IN THE MEADOW 16 IV. OUENWA SETS OUT ON A VAGUE QUEST 24 V. THE ADMIRAL OF THE HARBOUR 34 VI. THE FANGS OF THE WOLF SLAYER 43 VII. THE SILENT VILLAGE 56 VIII. A LETTER FOR OUENWA 65 IX. AN UNCHARTERED PLANTATION 73 X. GENTRY AT FORT BEATRIX 83 XI. THE SETTING-IN OF WINTER 94 XII. MEDITATION AND ACTION 104 XIII. SIGNS OF A DIVIDED HOUSE 116 XIV. A TRICK OF PLAY-ACTING 126 XV. THE HIDDEN MENACE 133 XVI. THE CLOVEN HOOF 140 XVII. THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH 148 XVIII. EVENTS AND REFLECTIONS 156 XIX. TWO OF A KIND 164 XX. BY ADVICE OF BLACK FEATHER 174 XXI. THE SEEKING OF THE TRIBESMEN 183 XXII. BRAVE DAYS FOR YOUNG HEARTS 190 XXIII. BETROTHED 200 XXIV. A FIRE-LIT BATTLE. OUENWA'S RETURN 207 XXV. FATE DEALS CARDS OF BOTH COLOURS IN THE LITTLE FORT 217 XXVI. PIERRE D'ANTONS PARRIES ANOTHER THRUST 227 XXVII. A GRIM TURN OF MARCH MADNESS 233 XXVIII. THE RUNNING OF THE ICE 241 XXIX. WOLF SLAYER COMES AND GOES; AND TROWLEY RECEIVES A VISITOR 252 XXX. MAGGIE STONE TAKES MUCH UPON HERSELF 264 XXXI. WHILE THE SPARS ARE SCRAPED 273 XXXII. THE FIRST STAGE OF THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE IS BRAVELY ACCOMPLISHED 279 XXXIII. IN THE MERRY CITY 287 XXXIV. PIERRE D'ANTONS SIGNALS HIS OLD COMRADES, AND AGAIN PUTS TO SEA 294 XXXV. THE BRIDEGROOM ATTENDS TO OTHER MATTERS THAN LOVE 306 XXXVI. OVER THE SIDE 317 XXXVII. THE MOTHER 323 BROTHERS OF PERIL A Story of Old Newfoundland CHAPTER I. A BOY WINS HIS MAN-NAME The boy struck again with his flint knife, and again the great wolf tore at his shoulder. The eyes of the boy were fierce as those of the beast. Neither wavered. Neither showed any sign of pain. The dark spruces stood above them, with the first shadows of night in their branches; and the western sky was stained red where the sun had been. Twice the wolf dropped his antagonist's shoulder, in a vain attempt to grip the throat. The boy, pressed to the ground, flung himself about like a dog, and repeatedly drove his clumsy weapon into the wolf's shaggy side. At last the fight ended. The great timber-wolf lay stretched dead in awful passiveness. His fangs gleamed like ivory between the scarlet jaws and black lips. A shimmer of white menaced the quiet wilderness from the recesses of the half-shut eyelids. For a few minutes the boy lay still, with the fingers of his left hand buried in the wolf's mane, and his right hand a blot of red against the beast's side. Presently, staggering on bent legs, he went down to the river and washed his mangled arm and shoulder in the cool water. The shock of it cleared his brain and steadied his eyes. He waded into the current to his middle, stooped to the racing surface, and drank unstintingly. Strength flooded back to blood and muscle, and the slender limbs regained their lightness. By this time a few pale stars gleamed on the paler background of the eastern sky. A long finger-streak of red, low down on the hilltops, still lightened the west. A purple band hung above it like a belt of magic wampum--the war-belt of some mighty god. Above that, Night, the silent hunter, set up the walls of his lodge of darkness. The boy saw nothing of the changing beauty of the sky. He might read it, knowingly enough, for the morrow's rain or frost; but beyond that he gave it no heed. He returned to the dead wolf, and set about the skinning of it with his rude blade. He worked with skill and speed. Soon head and pelt were clear of the red carcass. After collecting his arrows and bow, he flung the prize across his shoulder and started along a faint trail through the spruces. The trail which the boy followed seemed to lead away from the river by hummock and hollow; and yet it cunningly held to the course of the stream. Now the night was fallen. A soft wind brushed over in the tree-tops. The voices of the rapids smote across the air with a deeper note. As the boy moved quietly along, sharp eyes flamed at him, and sharp ears were pricked to listen. Forms silent as shadows faded away from his path, and questioning heads were turned back over sinewy shoulders, sniffing silently. They smelt the wolf and they smelt the man. They knew that there had been another violent death in the valley of the River of Three Fires. After walking swiftly for nearly an hour, following a path which less primitive eyes could not have found, the boy came out on a small meadow bright with fires. Nineteen or twenty conical wigwams, made of birch poles, bark, and caribou hides, stood about the meadow. In front of each wigwam burned a cooking-fire, for this was a land of much wood. The meadow was almost an island, having the river on two sides and a shallow lagoon cutting in behind, leaving only a narrow strip of alder-grown "bottom" by which one might cross dry-shod. The whole meadow, including the alders and a clump of spruces, was not more than five acres in extent. The boy halted in front of the largest lodge, and threw the wolfskin down before the fire. There he stood, straight and motionless, with an air of vast achievement about him. Two women, who were broiling meat at the fire, looked from the shaggy, blood-stained pelt to the stalwart stripling. They cried out to him, softly, in tones of love and admiration. Jaws and fangs and half-shut eyes appeared frightful enough in the red firelight, even in death. "Ah! ah!" they cried, "what warrior has done this deed?" "Now give me my man-name," demanded the boy. The older of the two women, his mother, tried to tend his wounded arm; but he shook her roughly away. She seemed accustomed to the treatment. Still clinging to him, she called him by a score of great names. A stalwart man, the chief of the village, strode from the dark interior of the nearest wigwam, and glanced from his son to the untidy mass of hair and skin. His eyes gleamed at sight of his boy's torn arm and the white teeth of the wolf. "Wolf Slayer," he cried. He turned to the women. "Wolf Slayer," he repeated; "let this be his man-name--Wolf Slayer." So this boy, son of Panounia the chief, became, at the age of fourteen years, a warrior among his father's people. The inhabitants of that great island were all of one race. In history they are known as Beothics. At the time of this tale they were divided into two nations or tribes. Hate had set them apart from one another, breaking the old bond of blood. Each tribe was divided into numerous villages. The island was shared pretty evenly between the nations. Soft Hand was king of the Northerners. It was of one of his camps that the father of Wolf Slayer was chief. Soft Hand was a great chief, and wise beyond his generation. For more than fifty years he had held the richest hunting-grounds in the island against the enemy. His strength had been of both head and hand. Now he was stiff with great age. Now his hair was gray and scanty, and unadorned by flaming feathers of hawk and sea-bird. The snows of eighty winters had drifted against the walls of his perishable but ever defiant lodges, and the suns of eighty summers had faded the pigments of his totem of the great Black Bear. Though he was slow of anger, and fair in judgment, his people feared him as they feared no other. Though he was gentle with the weak and young, and had honoured his parents in their old age and loved the wife of his youth, still the strongest warrior dared not sneer. The village of this mighty chief was situated at the head of Wind Lake. On the night of Wolf Slayer's adventure, Soft Hand and his grandson arrived at the lesser village on the River of Three Fires. They travelled in bark canoes and were accompanied by a dozen braves. The grandson of the old chief was a lad of about Wolf Slayer's age. He was slight of figure and dark of skin. His name was Ouenwa. He was a dreamer of strange things, and a maker of songs. He and Wolf Slayer sat together by the fire. Wolf Slayer held his wounded arm ever under the visitor's eyes, and talked endlessly of his deed. For a long time Ouenwa listened attentively, smiling and polite, as was his usual way with strangers. But at last he grew weary of his companion's talk. He wanted to listen, in peace, to the song of the river. How could he understand what the rapids were saying with all this babbling of "knife" and "wolf" in his ears? "All this wind," he said, "would kill a pack of wolves, or even the black cave-devil himself." "There is no wind to-night," replied Wolf Slayer, glancing up at the trees. "There is a mighty wind blowing about this fire," said Ouenwa, "and it whistles altogether of a great warrior who slew a wolf." "At least that is not work for a dreamer," retorted the other, sullenly. Ouenwa's answer was a smile as soft and fleeting as the light-shadows of the fire. At an early hour of the next morning the great chief's party started up-stream in their canoes, on the return journey to Wind Lake. For hours Soft Hand brooded in silence, deaf to his grandson's hundred questions. He had grown somewhat moody in the last year. He gazed away to the forest-clad, mist-wreathed capes ahead, and heeded not the high piping of his dead son's child. His mind was busy with thoughts of the events of the past night. He recalled the tones of Panounia's voice with a shake of the head. He recalled the sullen smouldering of that stalwart chief's eyes. He sighed, and glanced at the lad in the forging craft beside him. "I grow old," he murmured. "The voice of my power is breaking to its last echo. My command over my people slips like a frozen thong of raw leather. And Panounia! What lurks in the dull brain of him?" The sun rose above the forest spires, clear and warm. The mists drew skyward and melted in the gold-tinted azure. Twillegs flew, piping, across the brown current of the river. Sandpipers, on down-bent wings, skimmed the pebbly shore. A kingfisher flashed his burnished feathers and screamed his strident challenge, ever an arrow-flight ahead of the voyagers. He warned the furtive folk of the great chief's approach. "Kingfisher would be a fitting name for the boy who killed the wolf," said Ouenwa. The old man glanced at him sharply. His thin face was sombre with more than the shadow of years. "Nay," he replied. "His is no empty cry. Beware of him, my son!" CHAPTER II. THE OLD CRAFTSMAN BY THE SALT WATER Montaw, the arrow-maker, dwelt alone at the head of a small bay. His home was half-wigwam, half-hut. The roof was of poles, partly covered with the hides of caribou and partly with a square of sail-cloth, which had been given him by a Basque fisherman in exchange for six beaver skins. The walls of the unusual lodge were of turf and stone. Here and there were signs of intercourse with the strangers out of the Eastern sea,--an iron fishhook, a scrap of gold lace, and a highly polished copper pot. Of these treasures the recluse was justly proud, for had he not acquired them at risk of sudden extinction by the breath of the clapping fire-stick? The arrow-maker was an old man. In his youth he had been a hunter of renown and a great traveller, and had sojourned long in the lodges of the Southern nation. He had loved a woman of that people,--and she had given him laughter in return for his devotion. Journeying back to his own hunting-grounds, he had planned a huge revenge. At once all his skill and bravery had been turned to less open ways than those of the lover and warrior. In little more than a year's time he had driven the tribes to a lasting and bitter war. Even now as he sat before the door of his lodge, he was shaping spear-heads and arrow-heads for the fighting men of Soft Hand's nation. Some arrows he made of jasper, and some of flint, and some of purple slate. Those of slate would break off in the wound. They were the grim old craftsman's pets. One day a young man from the valley of the River of Three Fires brought Montaw a string of fine trout, in payment for a spear-head. For awhile they talked together in the sunlight at the door of the lodge. "For the chase," said the old man, "I make the long shape of flint, three fingers wide, and to this I bind a long and heavy shaft. Such an arrow will hold in the side of the running deer, and may be plucked out after death." "I have even seen it, father," replied the young man, in supercilious tones; for he considered himself a mighty hunter. "For the battle," continued the arrow-maker, "I chip the flint and shape the narrow splinters of slate. All three are good in their way if the bow be strong--and the arm." The old craftsman made a song. It was rough as his arrow-heads. "Arrows of gray and arrows of black Soon shall be red. What will the white moon say to the proud Warriors, dead? "Arrows of jasper, arrows of flint, Arrows of slate. So, with the skill of my hands, I shape Arrows of hate. "Fly, my little ones, straight and true, Silent as sleep. Tell me, wind, of the flints I sow, What shall I reap? "Sorrow will come to their council-fires. Weeping and fear Will stalk to the heart of their great chief's lodge, Year after year. "When the moon rides on the purple hills, Joyous of face, Then do I give, to the men of my tribe, Heads for the chase. "When the chief's fire on the hilltop glows Like a red star, Then do I give, to the men of my tribe, Heads for the war. "Arrows of jasper, arrows of flint, Arrows of slate. Thus, in the door of my lodge, I nurse Battle and hate!" One evening, as he sat before his lodge looking seaward, his trained ears caught the sound of a faint call from the wooded hills behind. He did not turn his head or change his position. But he held his breath, the better to listen. Again came the cry, very weak and far away. "It is the voice of a woman," he said, and smiled grimly. Cheerless and desolately gray, the light of the east faded into the desolate gray of the sea. Black, like stalking shadows, stood the little islands of the headlands. The last of the light died out like the heart of fire in the shroud of cooling ashes. Again came the cry, whispering across the stillness. "It may be the voice of a child, lost in the woods," said the arrow-maker. He rose from his seat and entered the lodge. He blew the coals of his fire back to a tiny flame. He drew up to it the burnt ends of faggots. Then he took in his hand another of his Eastern prizes--a broad-bladed knife--and started across the tumbled rocks toward the edge of the wood. Though old, he was still strong and tough of limb and courageous of heart. Sure and swift he made his way through the heavy growth of spruce. Once he paused for the space of a heart-beat, to make sure of his direction. Again and again was the piteous cry repeated. The old man kept up his tireless trot through underbrush and swamp, and displayed neither fatigue nor caution until he reached the bank of a narrow and turbulent stream. Here he drew into the shadow of a clump of firs. He lay close, and breathed heavily. By this time the moon had cleared the knolls. Its thin radiance flooded the wilderness. In the air was a whisper of gathering frost. The water of the little river twisted black and silver, and worried at the fanged rocks that tore it, with a voice of agony. The crying had ceased; but the eyes of the old craftsman questioned the farther shore with a gaze steady and keen. There seemed to be something wrong with the shadows. A bent figure slipped down to the edge of the stream where the water spun in an eddy. It dropped on hands and knees and crawled to the black and unstable lip of the tide. Again the cry rang abroad, thin and high above the complaining tumult of the current. The watcher left his hiding-place and waded the stream. At the edge of the spinning eddy he found a woman. She lay exhausted. A long shaft hung to her left shoulder. Blood trickled down her bare and rounded arm. The arrow-maker lifted her against his shoulder and bathed her face in the cool water until her eyelids lifted. "Chief," she whispered, "pluck out the arrow." He shook his head. His trade was with battle and death, but it was half a lifetime since he had felt the gushing of human blood on his hands. "Father," she cried, faintly, "I pray you, pluck it out. The pain of it eats into my spirit. It sprang to me from a little wood, bitter and noiseless--and I heard not so much as the twang of the string." The old man held her with his left arm. With strong and gentle fingers he worked the arrow in the wound. She quivered with the pain of it. Blood came more freely. He trembled at the hot touch of it across his fingers. He had dwelt so long in the quiet of his craft. Then the barbed blade came away from the wound, and he clutched it in his reeking palm. The woman sobbed with mingled pain and relief. The old man stepped into the moonlight and lifted the arrow to his eyes. "It is none of my making," he said. He heard the woman sobbing in the dark. Returning to her he bound her shoulder with his belt of dressed leather. Then, lifting her tenderly, he again forded the flashing current of the complaining river. CHAPTER III. THE FIGHT IN THE MEADOW Even while the arrow-maker carried the wounded woman, arrows of the same shape as that which had stabbed her tender flesh were threatening the little village on the River of Three Fires. For days several war-parties from the South had been stealing through the country, raiding the lesser villages, and bent on destroying the nation of Soft Hand, and possessing his hunting-grounds. It was a laggard of one of the smaller bands that had wounded the woman. She had been far from her lodge at the time, seeking some healing herbs in the forest, and he had fired on her out of fear that she had discovered him and would warn her people. In her pain and fright, she had wandered coastward for several miles. Silent as shadows, the invading warriors drew down toward the little meadow. Clouds were over the face of the white October moon. A cold mist floated in the valley. The leaders of the invaders, lying low among the alders at the edge of the clearing, could see the unguarded people moving about their red fires. There was a scent of cooking deer-meat in the chill air. The chief of the attacking party lay on the damp grass and peered between the stems of the alders. He smiled exultantly. A quick slaughter, and then to a feast already prepared. He and his braves had enjoyed but poor fare during their long march. So shall I leave him, sniffing the breath of the cooking fires, and turn to Wolf Slayer. Late of that afternoon Wolf Slayer had sallied forth in quest of something to kill. The woods had seemed deserted, and in less than an hour after his valorous exit from the camp, he had fallen asleep on a warm and sheltered strip of shingle. The river flashed in front, and on three sides brooded the crowding trees. When he awoke, the sun had set, and the river, a curved mirror for the western sky, was red as fire--or blood. Down-stream, about two hundred yards distant, a sombre bluff thrust its rocky breast into the water. The boy gazed at this, and his eyes widened with dismay. Then they narrowed with hate. Out of the shelter of the rocks and the shadows, and into the flaming waters, came figure after figure. They waded knee-deep, hip-deep, shoulder-deep, into that molten glory. Then they swam; and the ripples washed back from gleaming neck and shoulder like lighter flames. One by one they stole from the shadow, swam the radiance, and again sought the shadow. The boy trembled. The devils of fear and rage had their fingers on him. Spellbound, he watched close upon a hundred warriors make the passage of the river. Then he, too, sank noiselessly into the shelter of the trees. He was old enough to know what this meant, and his heart hurt him with its pent-up fury as he crawled through the underbrush. He was dismayed at the sound of his own breathing. He heard the distant rapping of a woodpecker, the fall of a spent leaf from an alder, and the soft breath of a dying wind; and the familiar sounds filled him with awe. And yet, but for these sounds, the whole world might be dead and the forest empty. Thought of the hundred fighting men moving steadily upon the unguarded homes of his people, with no more warning than the sound of a swamp-bird's flight, was like a nightmare. But presently the courage that had helped him slay the wolf came to him, and he thought of the glory to be won by saving the threatened village. He did not strengthen his heart to the task for sake of his mother's life and the lives of his playmates; but because the warriors would call him a hero. Keeping just within the edge of the woods, he moved up-stream as speedily as he might without making any sound. He came upon a brown hare crouched beside a clump of ferns. He might have touched it with his hand, so unaware was it of his presence. He passed beneath an alder branch whereon perched a big slate-gray jay. It was not a foot from his back as he crawled under, and it did not take flight. But it eyed him intently, to make sure that he was not a fox. Sometimes he lay still for a little, listening. He heard nothing, though he started at a hundred fancied sounds. Twilight deepened into dusk, and dusk into gloom. The moon sailed up over the hills, and long banners of cloud passed across the face of it. Presently Wolf Slayer came within sight of the fires of the village. The red light flashed on the angry river beyond, but left the lagoon in darkness. He crawled into the water inch by inch, scarcely breaking the calm, black surface. Then he swam, without noise of splashing, and landed at the foot of the meadow like a great beaver. He crawled into the red circle of one of the fires, and told his news to the braves gathered around. Men slipped from fire to fire. Without any unwonted disturbance, the whole village armed itself. Suddenly, with a fierce shout and a flight of arrows, the alders were attacked. The invaders were checked at the very moment of their fancied victory. The fighting scattered. Here three men struggled together in the shallows at the head of the lagoon. Farther out, one tossed his arms and sank into the black depths. In the open a half-score warriors bent their bows. Among the twisted stems of the alders they pulled and strangled, like beasts of prey. Back in the spruces they slew with clubs and knives, feeling for one another in the dark. Their war-cries and shouts of hate rang fearfully on the night air, and awoke unholy echoes along the valley. In the front of the battle Wolf Slayer fought like a man. His lack of stature saved him from death more than once in that fearful encounter. Many a vicious blow glanced harmless, or missed him altogether, as he stumbled and bent among the alders. At first he fought with a long, flint knife,--the work of the old arrow-maker. But this was splintered in his hand by the murderous stroke of a war-club. He wrenched a spear from the clutch of a dying brave. A leaping figure went down before his unexpected lunge. It rolled over; then, queerly sprawling, it lay still. An arrow from the open ripped along an alder stem, rattled its shaft among the dry twigs, and struck a glancing blow on the young brave's neck. He stumbled, grabbing at the shadows. He fell--and forgot the fight. In light and darkness the battle raged on. Wigwams were overthrown, and about the little fires warriors gave up their violent lives. At last the encampment was cleared, and saved from destruction; and those of the invaders who remained beside the trampled fires had ceased to menace. Along the black edges of the forest ran the cries and tumult of the struggle. Spent arrows floated on the lagoon. Red knives lifted and turned in the underbrush. Wolf Slayer, dizzy and faint, crawled back to the lodges of his people. Other warriors were returning. They came exultant, with the lust of fighting still aflame in their eyes. Some strode arrogantly. Some crawled, as Wolf Slayer had. Some staggered to the home fires and reeled against the lodges, and some got no farther than the outer circle of light. And many came not at all. The chief, with a great gash high on his breast (he had bared arms and breast for the battle), sought about the clearing and trampled fringe of alders, and at last, returning to the disordered camp, found Wolf Slayer. With a glad, high shout of triumph, he lifted the boy in his arms and carried him home. The mother met them at the door of the lodge. In fearful silence the man and woman washed and bound the young brave's wound, and watched above his faint breathing with anxious hearts. "Little one, strengthen your feet against the turn of the dark trail," whispered the mother. "See, our fires are bright to guide you back to your own people." "Little chief, though this battle is ended, there are many good fights yet to come," whispered the father. "The fighters of the camp will have great need of you when we turn from our sleep. The old bear grumbles at the mouth of his den!--will you not be with us when we singe his fur?" "Hush, hush!" cried the woman. The boy, opening his eyes, turned the feet of his spirit from the dark trail. "I saw the lights of the lost fires," he murmured, "and the hunting-song of dead braves was in my ears." Wolf Slayer was nursed back to health and strength. Not once--not even at the edge of Death's domain--had his arrogance left him. It seemed that the days of suffering had but hardened his already hard heart. Lad though he was, the villagers began to feel the weight of his hand upon them. He bullied and beat the other boys of the camp. CHAPTER IV. OUENWA SETS OUT ON A VAGUE QUEST In the dead of winter--in that season of sweeping winds and aching skies, when the wide barrens lie uncheered of life from horizon to horizon--Soft Hand sent many of his warriors to the South. They followed in the "leads" of the great herds of caribou, going partly for the meat of the deer and partly to strike terror into the hearts of the Southern enemy. At the head of this party went Panounia, chief of the village on the River of Three Fires, and with him he took his hardy son, Wolf Slayer. Grim plans were bred on that journey. Grim tales were told around the big fire at night. The evil thing which Panounia hatched, with his bragging tongue, grew day by day and night by night. The hearts of the warriors were fired with the shameful flame. They dreamed things that had never happened, and wrought black visions out of the foolishnesses of their brains. "The bear nods," they repeated, one to another, after the chief had talked to them. "The bear nods, like an old woman over a pot of stew. But for Panounia, surely the men of the South would have scattered our lodges and led us, captive, to the playgrounds of their children and their squaws. Such a fate would warm the heart of Soft Hand, for is not our Great Chief an old woman himself?" So, far from the eye and paw of the great bear, the foxes barked at his power. The moon heard it, and the silent trees, and the wind which carries no messages. About this time Ouenwa, the grandson of Soft Hand, decided to make a journey of many days from the lodges at the head of Wind Lake to the Salt Water. He felt no interest in the Southern invasion. His eyes longed for a sight of the edges of the land and the breast of the great waters beyond. He had heard, in his inland home, rumour of mighty wooden canoes walled higher than the peak of a wigwam, and manned by loud-mouthed warriors from beyond the fogs and the rising sun. Some wiseacre, squatted beside the old chief's fire, hinted that the strangers were gods. He told many wonderful stories to back his argument. Soft Hand nodded. But Ouenwa smiled and shook his head. "Would gods make such flights for the sake of a few dried fishes and a few dressed pelts of beaver and fox?" he asked. "The gods of trade would do so," replied the wiseacre. "Also," he added, "they slay at great distances by means of brown stakes which are flame-tongued and smoke-crowned and thunder-voiced." "But do these gods not fight with knives--long knives and short?" inquired the lad. "I have heard it said that they sometimes fall out over the ordering of their affairs, even as we mortals do." "And what wonderful knives they are," cried the old gossip. "They are coloured like ice. They gleam in the sunlight, like a flash of lightning against a cloud. They cut quicker than thought, and the red blood follows the edge as surely as the rains follow April." "I have yet to see these gods," replied Ouenwa, "and in my heart I pray that they be but men, for the gods have proved themselves but cheerless companions to our people." At that Soft Hand looked up. "Are the seasons not arranged to your liking, boy?" he asked, quietly. "Nay, I did not mean that," cried Ouenwa; "but strange men promise better and safer company than strange gods." Now he was journeying toward the ocean of his dreaming and the ports of his desire. His eyes would search the headlands of fog. Out of the east, and the sun's bed, would lift the magic canoes of the strangers. But the journey was a hard one. The boy's only companion was a man of small stature and unheroic spirit, whom the old chief could well spare. They took their way down the frozen, snow-drifted lake, dragging their food and sleeping-bags of skin on a rough sledge. The wind came out of a steel-blue sky, unshifting and relentless. The dry snow ran before it over the level surface, and settled in thin, white ridges across their path. At the approach of night they sought the wooded shore, and in the shelter of the firs built their fire. During the journey Ouenwa's guide proved but a cheerless companion. He had no heart for any adventure that might take him beyond the scent of his people's cooking-fires. He considered the conversation of his young master but a poor substitute for the gossip of the lodges. The scant fare of his own cooking left his stomach uncomforted. He hated the weariness of the march and dreaded the silence of the night. The cry of the wind across the tree-tops was, to his craven ear, the voice of some evil spirit. The barking of a fox on the hill set his limbs a-tremble. The howl of a wolf struck him cold. The sudden leaping of a hare in the underbrush was enough to shake his poor wits with fright. But he feared the anger of Soft Hand more than all these terrors, and so held to Ouenwa and his mission. On the third day of the journey the blue sky thickened to gray, the wind veered, and a great storm of snow overtook them. The snowflakes were large and damp. The travellers turned aside and climbed the bank of the river to the thickets of evergreens. With their rude axes of stone they broke away the fir boughs and reared themselves a shelter in the heart of the wood. Into this they drew their sledge of provisions and their sleeping-bags. Then they collected whatever dry fuel they could find--dead twigs and branches, tree-moss and birch bark--and, with his ingenious contrivance of bow and notched stick, Ouenwa started a blaze. They roasted dried venison by holding it to the flame on the ends of pointed sticks. Each cooked what he wanted, and ate it without talk. All creation seemed shrouded in silence. There was not a sound save the occasional soft hiss of a melting snowflake in the fire. The storm became denser. It was as if a sudden, colourless night had descended upon the wilderness, blotting out even the nearer trees with its reeling gray. The old retainer crouched low, and gazed out at the storm from between his bony knees. His eyes fairly protruded with superstitious terror. "What do you see?" inquired Ouenwa. The awe of the storm was creeping over his courage like the first film of ice over a bright stream. The old man did not move. He did not reply. Ouenwa drew closer to him, and heaped dry moss on the fire. It glowed high, and splashed a ruddy circle of light on the eddying snowflakes as on a wall. "Hark!" whispered the old man. Yes, it was the sound of muffled footsteps, approaching behind the impenetrable curtain of the storm. The boy's blood chilled and thinned like water in his veins. He clutched his companion with frenzied hands. The fear of all the devils and shapeless beings of the wilderness was upon him. In the whirling snow loomed a great figure. It emerged into the glow of the fire. "Ah! ah!" cried the old man, cackling with relief. For their visitor was nothing more terrible than a fellow human. The stranger greeted them cordially, and told them that, but for the glow of their fire, he would have been lost. "But what are you doing here--an old man and a child?" he asked. Ouenwa told him. He explained his identity, and his intention of dwelling with the great arrow-maker of his grandfather's tribe to learn wisdom. "Then are we well met," replied the other, "for my lodge is not half a spear-throw from the lodge of the arrow-maker. The old man has been as a father to me since the day he saved my wife from death. Now I hunt for him, and work at his craft, and have left the river to be near him. My children play about his lodge. My wife broils his fish and meat. Truly the old man has changed since the return of laughter and friendship to his lodge." The stranger's name was Black Feather. He was taller than the average Beothic, and broad of shoulder in proportion. His hair was brown, and one lock of it, which was worn longer than the rest, was plaited with jet-black feathers. His garments consisted of a shirt of beaver skins that reached half-way between hip and knee, trousers of dressed leather, and leggins and moccasins of the same material. Around his waist was a broad belt, beautifully worked in designs of dyed porcupine quills. His head was uncovered. Black Feather seated himself beside Ouenwa, and replied, good-naturedly, and at great length, to the youth's many questions. He told of the high-walled ships, and of how he had once seen four of these monsters swinging together in the tide, with little boats plying between them, and banners red as the sunset flapping above them. He told of trading with the strangers, and described their manner of spreading out lengths of bright cloth, knives and hatchets of gray metal, and flasks of strong drink. "Their knives are edged with magic," he said. "Many of them carry weapons called muskets, which kill at a hundred paces, and terrify at even a greater distance. But a nimble bowman might loose four arrows in the time that they are conjuring forth the spirit of the musket." The storm continued throughout the day and night, but the morning broke clear. The travellers crawled from their weighted shelter and looked with gratitude upon the silver shield of the sun. After a hearty breakfast, they set out on the last stage of their journey. Their racquets of spruce wood woven across with strips of caribou hide sank deep in the feathery snow, and lifted a burden of it at every step. But they held cheerfully on their way. Black Feather walked ahead, and Pot Friend, the old gossip, brought up the rear. The thong by which they dragged the sledge passed over the right shoulder of each, and was grasped in the right hand. After several hours of tramping along the level of the river's valley, Black Feather turned toward the western bank and led them into the woods. Presently, after experiencing several difficulties with the sledge, they emerged on the barren beyond the fringe of timber. They ascended a treeless knoll that rounded in front of them, blindingly white against the pale sky. Old Pot Friend grumbled and sighed, and might just as well have been on the sledge, for all the pulling he did. On reaching the top of the knoll Black Feather swept his arm before him with a gesture of finality. "Behold!" he said. An exclamation of wonder sprang to Ouenwa's lips, and died--half-uttered. Before him lay a wedge of foam-crested winter sea beating out against a far, glass-clear horizon. To right and left were sheer rocks and timbered valleys, wave-washed coves, ice-rimmed islands, and crouching headlands. Even Pot Friend forgot his weariness and shortness of breath for the moment, and surveyed the outlook in silence. It was many years since he had been so far afield. His little soul was fairly stunned with awe. But presently his real nature reasserted itself. He pointed with his hand. "Smoke!" he exclaimed. "And the roofs of two lodges. Good!" Black Feather smiled. Ouenwa did not hear the old man's cry of joy. "I see the edge of the world," he said. "But the ships come over it, and go down behind it," replied Black Feather. "That is foolishness," said Pot Friend, who was filled with his old impudence at sight of the fire and the lodges. "No canoe would venture on the great salt water. I say it, who have built many canoes. And, if they voyaged so far, they would slip off into the caves of the Fog Devils. I believe nothing of all these stories of the strangers and their winged canoes." "Silence!" cried the boy, turning on him with flashing eyes. "What do you know of how far men will venture?--you, who have but heart enough to stir a pot of broth and lick the spoon." "I have brought you safely through great dangers," whined the old fellow. Montaw, the aged arrow-maker, welcomed his visitors cordially, and was grateful for the kind messages from his chief, Soft Hand, and for the gift of dressed leather. He accepted the charge and education of Ouenwa. He set the unheroic Pot Friend to the tasks of carrying water and wood, and snaring hares and grouse. He taught Ouenwa the craft of chipping flints into shapes for spear-heads and arrow-heads, and the art of painting, in ochre, on leather and birch bark. CHAPTER V. THE ADMIRAL OF THE HARBOUR Spring brought ice-floes and bergs from the north, and millions of Greenland seals. For weeks the little bay on which Montaw and Black Feather had their lodges was choked with battering ice-pans and crippled bergs. Many of the tribesmen came to the salt water to kill the seals. Soft Hand sent a canoe-load of beaver pelts to Ouenwa, so that the boy might trade with the strangers when they arrived out of the waste of waters. At last summer came to the great Bay of Exploits, and with it many ships--ships of England, of France, of Spain, and of Portugal. All were in quest of the world-renowned codfish. By this time the ice had rotted, and drifted southward. The first craft to enter Wigwam Harbour (as the English sailors called the arrow-maker's bay) was the Devon ship, _Heart of the West_. Her master, John Trowley, was an ignorant, hard-headed, and hard-fisted old mariner of the roughest type; but, by the laws of those waters, he was Admiral of Wigwam Harbour for that season. It was not long before every harbour had its admiral,--in every case the master of the first vessel to drop anchor there. The shores were portioned off in strips, so that each ship might have a place for drying-stages, whereon to cure its fish. Then the great business of garnering that rich harvest of the north began, amid the rattling of boat-gear, the shouting of orders in many tongues, and the volleying of oaths. Ouenwa, watching the animated scene, was fired with a desire to voyage in one of the strange vessels, and to taste the world that lay beyond the rim of the sea. One day, soon after their arrival, three men from the _Heart of the West_ ascended the twisting path to the arrow-maker's lodge. The old craftsman and Black Feather and Ouenwa advanced to meet them without fear, for up to that time the adventurers and the natives had been on the best of terms. The strangers smiled and bowed to the Beothics. They displayed a handful of coloured glass beads, a roll of red cloth, and a few sticks of tobacco. Old Montaw's eyes glistened at sight of the Virginian leaf. He had already learned the trick of drawing on the stem of a pipe and blowing fragrant clouds of smoke into the air. He said that to do so added to the profundity of his thoughts. And all winter he had gone without a puff. He produced a mink skin from his lodge and exchanged it for one of the coveted sticks of tobacco. Black Feather also traded, giving skins of mink, fox, and beaver for a piece of cloth, a dozen beads, and a knife. But Ouenwa stood aside and watched the strangers. One of them he recognized as the great captain who shouted and swore at the captains of the other ships, and pointed out to them places where they might anchor their ships--for it was none other than Master John Trowley. The young man with the gold lace in his hat, and the long sword at his side--surely, he, too, was a chief, despite his quiet voice and smooth face. Ouenwa's surmise was correct. The youth was Master Bernard Kingswell, only son of a wealthy widow of Bristol. His father, who had been knighted a few years before his premature death, had been a merchant of sound views and adventurous spirit. The son inherited the adventurous spirit, and was free from the bondage of the counting-house. The third of the party was a common seaman. That much Ouenwa could detect at a glance. Master Kingswell stepped over to the young Beothic. "Trade?" he inquired, kindly, displaying a string of glass beads in the palm of his hand. Ouenwa shook his head. He knew only such words of English as Montaw had taught him, and he feared that they would prove entirely inadequate for the purpose that was in his mind. However, he would try. He pointed to Trowley's ship, and then to the far and glinting horizon. "Take Ouenwa?" he whispered, scarce above his breath. "To see the ship?" inquired Master Kingswell. "Off," replied Ouenwa, with a wave of his arms. "Out, off!" Kingswell looked puzzled, and made no reply. The young Beothic bent a keen glance upon him; then he tapped himself on the chest. "Take Ouenwa," he whispered. He plucked the Englishman by the coat. "Come, chief, come," he cried, eagerly. Kingswell followed to the nearest lodge. Ouenwa pulled aside the flap of caribou hide that covered the doorway, and motioned for the visitor to enter. For a second the Englishman hesitated. He had heard many tales of the treachery of these people. What menace might not lurk in the gloom of the round, fur-scented lodge? But he did not lack courage; and, before the other had time to notice the hesitation, he stepped within. The flap of rawhide fell into place behind him. Save for the red glow that pulsated from the hearthstone in the centre of the floor, and the fingers of sunlight that thrust through the cracks in the apex of the roof, the big lodge was unilluminated. "What do you want?" asked Master Kingswell, with his shoulders against the slope of the roof and a tentative hand on his sword-hilt. For answer, Ouenwa held a torch of rolled bark to the fire until it flared smoky red, and then lifted it high. The light of it flooded the sombre place, showing up the couches of skins, Montaw's copper pot, and a great bale of pelts. The boy pointed to the pelts. Then he pressed the palm of his hand against the Englishman's breast. "Ouenwa give beaver," he said. "Take Ouenwa Englan'. Much good trade." Kingswell understood. But he saw obstacles in the way of carrying out the young Beothic's wish. The other savages might object. They might look on it as a case of kidnapping. Lads had been kidnapped before from the eastern bays, and, though they had been well treated, and made pets of in England, their people had ceased to trade with the visitors, and all their friendship had turned to treachery and hostility. On the other hand, he should like to take the youth home with him. He tried to explain his position to Ouenwa, but failed signally. They parted, however, with the most friendly feelings toward one another. After the interview with Kingswell, Ouenwa spent most of his time gazing longingly at the ships in the bay, and picturing the life aboard them, and the countries from which they had come. One morning Kingswell called to him from the land-wash. He ran down, delighted at the attention. Kingswell pointed to a small, open boat which the carpenter of the _Heart of the West_ had just completed. Then, by signs and a few words, he told Ouenwa that he was going northward in the little craft, to explore the coast, and that he would be back with the fleet before the birch leaves were yellow. Ouenwa begged to be taken on the expedition and afterward across the seas. He offered his canoe-load of beaver skins. He tried to tell of his great desire to see the lodges of the strangers, and to learn their speech. He did not want to live the life of his own people. Kingswell caught the general trend of the Beothic's remarks. He had no objection to driving a good bargain. So he made clear to him that he was to come alongside the ship, with the beaver skins, on the following night. The sky was black with clouds, and a fog wrapped the harbour, when Ouenwa stepped into his loaded canoe and pushed out toward the spot where Trowley's ship lay at anchor. He had dragged his skins from Montaw's lodge earlier in the night, without disturbing the slumbers of either his guardian or Pot Friend. Age had dulled their ears and thickened their sleep. He paddled noiselessly. Sounds of roistering came to his ears, muffled by the fog. Presently the admiral's ship loomed close ahead. Lights blinked fore and aft. She seemed a tremendous thing to the lad, though in truth she was but of one hundred tons. Singing and laughter were ripe aboard. For the first time a fear of the strangers took possession of Ouenwa. Even his trust in Kingswell faltered. He ceased paddling, and listened, with bated breath, to the hoarse shouts of merriment and the clapping oaths. Then curiosity overcame his fear. He slid his long canoe under the stem of the _Heart of the West_. A cheering glow of candle-light yellowed the fog above him. He stood up and found that his head was on a level with the sill of a square port. It stood open. He heard Kingswell's voice, and Trowley's. The master-mariner's was gusty and argumentative. It broke out at intervals, like the flapping of a sail. Ouenwa steadied himself with his hands on the casing of the open port, and lifted to tiptoe. Now he could see into the little cabin, and hear the conversation of its inmates. Happily for his feelings, he could understand only a word or two of that conversation. He saw Kingswell and the master of the ship seated opposite one another at a small table. Upon the table stood candles in metal sticks, a bottle, and glasses. The old sea-dog's bearded face was working with excitement. He slapped his great flipper-like hand on the polished surface of the board. "Now who be master o' this ship?" he bawled. "Tell me that, will 'e. Who be master?" "I am the owner, you'll kindly remember, John Trowley," replied Kingswell, with a ring of anger in his voice, but a smile on his lips. "Ay, ye be owner, but John Trowley be skipper," roared the other, glaring so hard that his round, pale eyes fairly bulged from his face. "An' no dirty redskin sails in ship o' mine unless as a servant, or afore the mast,--no, not if he pays his passage with all th' pelts in Newfoundland." "You are mistaken, my friend," replied Kingswell. "I'll carry fifty of these people back to Bristol, if it so pleases me." "I'll put ye in irons, my fine gentleman," retorted the seaman. "You are drunk," cried the young adventurer, drawing back his right hand as if to strike the great, scowling face that bent toward him across the table. "Drunk, d'ye say! An' ye'd lift yer hand against the ship's master, would ye?" shouted Trowley. He lurched forward, and a knife flashed above the overturned bottle and glasses. Ouenwa emitted a horrified scream, and hurled his paddle spear-wise into the cabin. The rounded point of the blade caught Trowley on the side of the head, and sent him crashing to the deck. CHAPTER VI. THE FANGS OF THE WOLF SLAYER When Trowley recovered consciousness, he was lying in his berth, with a bandage around his head. Kingswell looked in at him, smiling in a way that the old mariner was beginning to fear as well as hate. "I hope you are feeling more amiable since your sleep," said Kingswell. Trowley muttered a word or two of apology, damned the rum, and asked the time of day. His recollections of the argument in the cabin were hazy and fragmentary. In reply to his question the gentleman told him that the sun was well up, the fog cleared, and that he was having his boat provisioned for the coastwise exploration trip. "And mind you," he added, grimly, "that the eighty beaver skins which are now being stowed away in my berth are my property." "Certainly, sir," replied Trowley. "An' may I ask how ye come by such a power o' trade in a night-time?" "Yes, you may ask," replied Kingswell. He grinned at the wounded skipper for fully a minute, leaning on the edge of the bunk. Then he said: "I'll now bid you farewell until October. Don't sail without me, good Master Trowley, and look not upon the rum of the Indies when that same is red. A knife-thrust given in drunkenness might lead to the gallows." He turned and nimbly scaled the companion-ladder, leaving the shipmaster speechless with rage. Half an hour later the staunch little craft _Pelican_ spread her square sail and slid away from the _Heart of the West_. She was manned by old Tom Bent, young Peter Harding, and Richard Clotworthy. Master Bernard Kingswell sat at the tiller, with Ouenwa beside him. Their provisions, extra clothing, arms, and ammunition were stowed amidships and covered with sail-cloth. The sun was bright, and the sky blue. The wind bowled them along at a clipping pace. From a mound above the harbour Black Feather gazed after them under a level hand. In the little harbour Trowley's ship alone swung in her anchorage. The others had run out to the fishing-grounds,--for in those days the fishing was done over the sides of the ships, and not from small boats. On either side the brown shores fell back, and the dancing waters widened and widened. White gulls screamed above and around them, flashing silvery wings, snowy breasts, and inquisitive eyes. Ouenwa looked back, and then ahead, and felt a great misgiving. But Kingswell patted him on the shoulder, and the sailors nodded their heads at him and grinned. Soon they were among the fleet. The ungainly, high-sterned vessels rocked and bobbed under naked spars. The great business that had brought them so far was going forward. Along both sides of every ship were hung barrels, and in each barrel was stationed a man with two or more fishing-lines. Splashing desperately, the great fish were hauled up, unhooked, and tossed to the deck behind. As the little _Pelican_ slid by, the fishers paused in their work to cheer her, and wave their caps. The masters shouted "God speed" from their narrow quarter-decks, and doffed their hats. Kingswell waved them gracious farewells; Ouenwa gazed spellbound toward the widening outlook; and Tom Bent trimmed the sail to a nicety. They passed headland after headland, rocky island after rocky island, cove after cove. The shores behind them turned from brown to purple, and from purple to azure. The waves ran higher and the wind freshened. Kingswell shaped the boat's course a few points to the northward. The stout little craft skipped like a lamb and plunged like some less playful creature. Spray flew over her blunt bows, and the sailors laughed like children, and called her a brave lass, and many other endearing names, as if she were human. "A smart wench, sir," said Tom Bent to Master Kingswell. The commander nodded, and shifted the tiller knowingly. His blue eyes were flashing with the excitement of the speed and motion. His bright, pale hair streamed in the wind. He leaned forward, to pick out the course through a group of small islands that cluttered the bay ahead of them. He gave an order, and the seamen hauled on the wet sheet. But Ouenwa did not share the high spirits of his companions. A terrible, unknown feeling got hold of him. His dark cheeks lost their bloom. Kingswell glanced at him. "Let it go, lad," he said. "A sailor is made in this way. Tom, pass me along a blanket." With his unemployed hand he fixed a comfortable rest for the boy, and helped him to a drink of water. For an hour or more he maintained a hold on the young Beothic's belt, for, by this time, the soaring and sinking of the _Pelican_ were enough to unsteady even a seasoned mariner. As for Ouenwa!--the poor lad simply clung to the gunwale with the grip of despair, and entertained regretful, beautiful visions of level shores and unshaken hills. Tom Bent eyed him kindly. "The young un has it wicked, sir," he said. "Maybe, like as not, a swig o' rum ud sweeten his bilge, sir." Kingswell acted on the old tar's advice. The rank liquor completed the boy's breakdown. In so doing it served the purpose which Bent had intended. The sufferer was soon sleeping soundly, already half a sailor. When Ouenwa next took interest in his surroundings, the _Pelican_ had the surf of a sheer coast close aboard on her port side. She was heading due north. The sun was half-way down his western slope. Behind the _Pelican's_ bubbling wake, hills and headlands and high, naked barrens lay brown and purple and smoky blue. In front, and on the right hand, loomed surf-rimmed islands and flashed the innumerable, ever-altering yet unchanged hills and valleys of the deep. Tom Bent was now at the tiller, and Kingswell was in the bows, gazing intently at the austere coast. Ouenwa crawled over the thwarts and cargo of provisions, under the straining sail, and crouched beside him. His head felt light and his stomach painfully empty, but again life seemed worth living and the adventure worth while. About an hour before sunset the _Pelican_ ran into a little cove, and her two grappling anchors were heaved overboard. She lay within five yards of the land-wash, swinging on an easy tide. Ouenwa sprang into the water and waded ashore. It was a dismal anchorage, with only a strip of shingle, and grim cliffs rising in front and on either hand. But at the base of the cliffs, in fissures of the rock, grew stunted spruce-trees and birches. Ouenwa soon found a little stream dribbling a zigzag course from the levels above. It gathered, clear and cold, in a shallow basin at the foot of the rock, and from there spilled over into the obliterating sand. By this time the others were ashore. Clotworthy hacked down a couple of armfuls of the spruce and birch shrubs with his cutlass, and started a fire. Then he filled a pot from the little well and commenced preparations for a meal. The other seamen erected a shelter, composed of a sail and three oars, against the cliff. Kingswell and Ouenwa sat on a convenient boulder, and the commander filled a long pipe with tobacco and lit it at a brand from the fire. He seemed in high spirits, and in a mood to further his young companion's education. Pointing to the roll of Virginian leaf, from which he had cut the charge for his pipe, he said, "Tobacco." Ouenwa repeated it many times, and nodded his comprehension. Then Kingswell pointed to old Tom Bent, who was watching Clotworthy drop lumps of dried venison into the pot of water. "Boatswain," he said. Ouenwa mastered the word, as well as the term "able seamen," applied to Clotworthy and Peter Harding. By that time the stew was ready for them. They were all sound asleep, under their frail shelter, before the last glimmer of twilight was gone from the sky. It was very early when Ouenwa awoke. A pale flood of dawn illumined the tent and the recumbent forms of Master Kingswell and Clotworthy. Tom Bent and Harding were not in their places. The boy wondered at that, but was about to close his eyes again, when he was startled to his feet by a shrill cry that went ringing overhead and echoing along the cliffs. He darted from the tent, with Kingswell and Clotworthy hot on his heels. Bent and Harding were on the extreme edge of the beach, with their backs to the sea, staring upward. Ouenwa and the others turned their faces in the same direction. They were amazed to see about a dozen native warriors on the cliff above them, fully armed, and evidently deeply interested in what was going on in the little cove. One of them was pointing to the _Pelican_, and talking vehemently to the brave beside him. In two of them Ouenwa recognized young Wolf Slayer, and his father, the chief of the village on the River of Three Fires. He called up to them, and asked what brought them so far from their village. "We are at the salt water to take the fish," replied Wolf Slayer, "and we saw the smoke of your fire before the last darkness. But what do you with the great strangers, little Dreamer?" "They are my friends," replied Ouenwa, "and I am voyaging with them to learn wisdom." "What are you talking about?" asked Kingswell. The lad tried to explain. He pointed to the tent and provisions and then to the boat. "Put in," he said. At a word from Kingswell the three sailors quickly dismantled their night's shelter and carried the sail, the oars, and such food and blankets as they had brought ashore, out to the _Pelican_. At that the shrill cry rang out again, and echoed along the cliffs. "What does that mean?" inquired Kingswell. "Bad," replied Ouenwa, shortly. "What is in your fine canoe, little Dreamer?" called Wolf Slayer. "Our food and our clothing, little Fox Stabber," Ouenwa cried back, with indignation in his voice. "Your dreams must have unsettled your wits, my friend," replied Wolf Slayer, "or you would not talk so loud before a chief of the tribe." Just then, in answer to the cry that had sounded so dismally across the dawn a few moments before, five more warriors, armed with bows, appeared on the top of the cliff--for the cry was the hunting-call of the tribe. "Do you fish with war-bows?" shouted Ouenwa. "And why do you summon to trade with the cry of the hunt?" "You ask too many questions, even for a seeker of wisdom," replied the other youth, mockingly. "Does Soft Hand, the great bear, slumber, that the foxes bark with such assurance?" retorted Ouenwa. By this time the _Pelican_ was ready to put out of the cove. Both anchors were up, and Harding and Clotworthy held her off with the oars. Old Tom Bent was also in the boat, busy with something beside the mast. Suddenly a bow-string twanged, and an arrow buried its flint head in the sand at Kingswell's feet. Another struck a stone and, glancing out, rattled against Harding's oar. Kingswell and Ouenwa backed hastily into the water. Above them, silhouetted against the lightening sky, they saw bending bows and downward thrust arms. Then, with a clap and a roar, and a gust of smoke, old Tom Bent replied to the warriors on the cliff. The echoes of the discharge bellowed around and around the rock-girt harbour. Ouenwa and Kingswell sprang through the smoke and climbed aboard, and the seamen pushed into deep water and then bent to their oars. But the _Pelican_ proved a heavy boat to row, with her blunt bows and comfortable beam. She surged slowly beyond the cloud of bitter smoke that the musket had hung in the windless air. Clear of that, the voyagers looked for their treacherous assailants--and, behold, the great warriors were not to be seen. Kingswell and the three seamen laughed, as if the incident were a fine joke; but Ouenwa was hot with shame and anger. He stood erect and shouted abuse to the deserted cliff-top. He called upon Wolf Slayer and Panounia to show their cowardly faces. He threatened them with the displeasure of Soft Hand and with the anger of the English. A figure appeared on the sky-line. "You speak of Soft Hand," it cried. "Know you, then, that Soft Hand set out on the Long Trail four suns ago, when he marched into my village to dispute my power. I, Panounia, am now the great chief of the people. So carry yourself accordingly, O whelp without teeth and without a den to crawl into. Whose hand has overthrown the lodge of the totem of the Black Bear? Mine! Panounia's! Soft Hand has fallen under it as his son, your father, succumbed to it when you were a squalling babe." He paused for a moment, and held out a gleaming knife, with its point toward the _Pelican_. "The totem of the Wolf now hangs from the great lodge," he cried. Quick and noiseless as a breath, the edge of the cliff was lined with warriors. Like a sudden flight of birds their arrows flashed outward and downward. "Lie down!" cried Kingswell. With a strong hand he snatched Ouenwa to the bottom of the boat. Harding and Clotworthy sprawled forward between the thwarts. Only Tom Bent, crouched beside the naked mast, did not move. The arrows thumped against plank and gunwale. They pierced the cargo. They glanced from tiller and sweep and mast. One, turning from the rail, struck Bent on the shoulder. He cursed angrily, but did not look for the wound. His match was burning with a thread of blue smoke and a spark of red fire. His clumsy gun was geared to the rail by an impromptu swivel of cords. He lay flat and elevated the muzzle. "Steady her," he said, softly. "She's driftin' in." Kingswell sprang forward to one of the oars, thrust it to the bottom, and held the boat as steady as might be. Arrows whispered around him. He shouted a challenge to the befeathered warriors above him. Tom touched the slow-match to the quick fuse. Something hissed and sizzled. A plume of smoke darted up. Then, with a rebound that shook the boat from stem to stern, the gun hurled forth its lead, and fire, and black breath of hate. "Double charge, sir," gasped Tom Bent, from where he sagged against the mast. The kick of his musket had hurt him more than the blow from the arrow. Again the _Pelican_ fought her way toward the open waters, with Harding and Clotworthy pulling lustily at the sweeps. Kingswell, flushed and joyful, sat at the tiller and headed her for the channel, through which the tide was running landward at a fair pace. Bent was busy reloading his firearm. Ouenwa stood in the stern-sheets, with his bow in his left hand and an arrow on the string. A breath of wind brushed the smoke aside and cleared the view. Ouenwa pointed to the beach, and gave vent to a shrill whoop of triumph. The others looked, and saw a huddled shape of bronzed limbs and painted leather at the foot of the rock. "One more red devil for hell," muttered the boatswain. "I learned mun to shoot his pesky sticks at a Bristol gentleman." As if in answer, an arrow bit a splinter from the mast, not six inches from the old man's head. Ouenwa's bow bent, and sprang straight. The shaft flew with all the skill that Montaw had taught the boy, and with all the hate that was in his heart for the big murderer on the cliff. Every man of the little company narrowed his eyes to follow the flight of it. They saw it curve. They saw a warrior drop his bow from his menacing hand and sink to his knees. "The wolf falls," cried Ouenwa, in his own tongue. "The wolf bites the moss. Who, now, is the wolf slayer?" The Englishmen cheered again and again, and the good boat _Pelican_, urged forward by triumphant sinews, won through the channel and swam into the outer waters. CHAPTER VII. THE SILENT VILLAGE As soon as the _Pelican_ was out of arrow-shot of the cliff, the Beothics disappeared. Ouenwa laid aside his bow with a sigh of regret. Then he tried to repeat to Kingswell what he had heard from Panounia. After a deal of questioning, sign-making, and mental exertion, the Englishman gathered the information that treachery and murder had taken place up the river, and that his young friend hated the new leader of the tribe with a bitter hatred. He did not wonder at the bitterness. He looked at the young savage's flushed face and glowing eyes with sympathy and admiration. His liking for the boy had grown in every hour of their companionship, and, by this time, had developed into a decided fondness. "Sit down, lad, and let your guns cool," he said, with a light hand on the other's knee. "Your enemies are my enemies," he continued, "and we'll fight the dogs every time we see 'em." Ouenwa sat quiet and tried to look calm. He was soothed by the evident kindliness of Kingswell's tone and manner, though he had failed to translate his speech. The men on the thwarts had caught the words, however. They nodded heavily to one another. "Ye say the very word what was in my mind, sir," spoke up Tom Bent, "an', if I may make so bold as to say further, your enemies be your servants' enemies, sir. Therefore the young un's enemies must be our enemies, holus bolus." The other sailors nodded decidedly. "Therefore," continued Tom Bent, "all they cowardly heathen aft on the cliff has to reckon, hereafter, with Thomas Bent an' the crew o' this craft." "Well spoken, Tom," replied Kingswell, with the smile that always won him the heart and hand of every man he favoured with it,--and of every maid, too, more than likely. "But we can't enthuse on empty stomachs. Pass out the bread and the cold meat," he added. For fully two hours the _Pelican_ rocked about within half a mile of her night's anchorage. Kingswell was not in a desperate hurry, and so his men pulled at the oars just enough to hold the boat clear of the rocks. A sharp lookout was kept along the coast, but not a sight nor a sound of the Beothics rewarded their vigilance. "They be up to some devilment, ye may lay to that," said Tom Bent. At last a wind fluttered to them out of the nor'east, and the square sail was hoisted and sheeted home. Again the _Pelican_ dipped her bows and wet her rail on the voyage of exploration. After two hours of sailing, and just when they were off the mouth of a little river and a fair valley, a fog overtook them. Kingswell was for running in, but Ouenwa objected. "Panounia follow," he said. "He great angry. Drop irons," he added, pointing to the little anchors. "Panounia is wounded. You winged him yourself," replied Kingswell. "He could not follow us around that coast, lad, at the clip we were coming." Ouenwa considered the words with puckered brows. They were beyond him. The commander pointed shoreward. "All safe," he said. "All safe." "No, no," cried the lad. "All kill. No safe." During this controversy the sail had been partly lowered, and the _Pelican_ had been slowly running landward with the fog. Kingswell looked from the young Beothic to the seamen with a smile of whimsical uncertainty. "Out o' the mouths o' babes an' sucklin's," remarked Tom Bent, with his deep-set eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Kingswell's glance rested, for a moment, on the ancient mariner. "Lower away," he said. The sail flapped down, and was quickly stowed. "Let go the anchors," he commanded. The grapplings splashed into the gray waves. The fog crawled over the boat and shut her off from land and sky. With a last dreary whistle, the wind died out entirely. "Rip me!" exclaimed Master Kingswell, "but here is caution that smells remarkably like cowardice." Fretfully sighing, he produced his pipe, tobacco, and tinder-box. Soon the fragrant smoke was mingling with the fog. The young commander leaned back, taking his comfort where he could, like the courageous gentleman that he was. The habit of burning Virginian tobacco was an expensive one, confined to the wealthy and the adventurous. The seamen, who, of course, had not yet acquired it, watched their captain with open interest. When a puff was blown through the nostrils, or sent aloft in a series of rings, they nudged one another, like children at a show. By this time the walls of fog had made of the _Pelican_ a tiny, lost world by itself. Suddenly Ouenwa raised his hand. "Sh!" he whispered. Kingswell removed the pipe-stem from his mouth, and inclined his head toward the hidden river and valley. All strained their ears, to wrest some sound from the surrounding gray other than the lapping of the tide along the unseen land-wash. But they could hear nothing. "Village," whispered Ouenwa, pointing landward. "But we saw no signs of a village," protested Kingswell, gently. "Village," repeated the lad. "Ouenwa hear. Ouenwa smell." Immediately the four Englishmen began to sniff the fog, like hounds taking a scent on the wind. But their nostrils were not the nostrils of either hounds or Beothics. They sniffed to no purpose. They shook their heads. Kingswell wagged a chiding finger at their keen-nosed companion. The boy read the inference of the gesture, and flushed indignantly. "Village," he whispered, shrilly. "Village, village, village." Kingswell looked distressed. The sailors grinned leniently at the determined boy. They had great faith in their own noses, had those mariners of Bristol and thereabouts. Ouenwa, frowning a little, sank into a moody contemplation of the fog. "This is dull," exclaimed Kingswell, after a half-hour of silence. "Tom, pipe us a stave, like a good lad." The boatswain scratched his head reflectively. Presently he cleared his throat with energy. "Me voice be a bit husky, sir, to what it once were," he murmured, "but I'll do me best--an' no sailorman can say fairer nor that." Straightway he struck into a heroic ballad of a sea-fight, in a high, tottering tenor. The song dealt with Spanish swagger and English daring, with bloody decks, falling spars, and flying splinters. Harding joined in the chorus with a booming bass. Clotworthy and the commander soon followed. Kingswell's voice was clear and strong and wonderfully melodious. Ouenwa's eyes glowed and his muscles trembled. Though the words held no meaning for him, the rollicking, dashing swing of the tune fired his excitable blood. He forgot all about Panounia, and the suspected village on the river so near at hand ceased to trouble him. He beat time to the singing with his moccasined feet, and clapped his hands together in rhythmic appreciation of his comrades' efforts. In time the ballad was finished. The last member of the craven crew of the _Teressa Maria_ had tasted English steel and been tossed to the sharks. Then Master Kingswell sprang to his feet and sang a sentimental ditty. It was of roses and fountains, of latticed windows and undying affection. The air was captivating. The singer's voice rang tender and clear. Old Tom Bent remembered lost years. Harding thought of a Devon orchard, and of a Devon lass at work harvesting the ruddy fruit. Clotworthy saw a cottage beside a little wood, and a woman and a little child gazing seaward and westward from the door. For several seconds after the last note had died away, the little company remained silent and motionless, fully occupied with its various thoughts. Ouenwa was the first to break the spell of the song. He laid his hand on Kingswell's arm with a quick gesture, and leaned toward him. "Canoe," he whispered. The sound that had caught Ouenwa's attention was repeated--a short rap, like the inadvertent striking of a paddle against a gunwale. They all heard it, and, with as little noise as possible, set to work at getting out cutlasses and loading muskets. Kingswell crawled forward and whispered with old Tom Bent. The boatswain nodded and turned to Harding. That sturdy young seaman crawled to the bows and placed his hands on the hawser of the forward anchor. He looked aft. Kingswell, who had returned to his seat at the tiller, leaned over the stern and cut the manilla rope that tethered the boat at that end. Harding immediately pulled on his rope until he was directly over the light bow anchor. Then, strongly and slowly, and without noise, he brought the four-fingered iron up and into the bows. They were free of the bottom, anyway, and with the loss of only one anchor. Kingswell breathed a sigh of relief. The _Pelican_ drifted, and the crew stared into the fog, with wide eyes and alert ears. Then, to seaward and surely not ten yards away, sounded a plover-call. Kingswell signalled to Bent to man the seaward side and Clotworthy and Harding the other. They rested the barrels of their great matchlocks on the gunwales. Suddenly the prow of a canoe pierced the curtain of fog not four yards from Tom Bent. He touched the match to the short fuse. There was a terrific report, and a chorus of wild yells. In the excitement that followed, the others discharged their pieces. Kingswell grabbed an oar, slipped it into a notch beside the tiller and began to "scull" the boat seaward. The men reloaded their muskets and peered into the fog. They heard splashings and cries on all sides, but could see nothing. Ouenwa, standing erect, discharged arrow after arrow at the hidden enemy. The splashings grew fainter, and the cries ceased entirely. Kingswell passed the oar which he had been using to Harding, and told the men to lay aside their muskets and row. Ouenwa let fly his last arrow, in the names of his murdered father and grandfather. For a long and weary time the _Pelican_ lay off the hidden land, shrouded in fog and silence. A few hours before sunset a wind from the west found her out, drove away the fog, and disclosed the sea and the coast and the open sky. "Pull her head 'round," commanded Kingswell, "and hoist the sail. We are going back to have a look at that village." The men obeyed eagerly. They were itching for a chance to repay the savages for the fright in the dark. CHAPTER VIII. A LETTER FOR OUENWA Two headlands were rounded before the valley of the river opened again to the eyes of the adventurers. The brown water of the stream stole down and merged into the dancing, wind-bitten sea. The gradual hillsides, green-swarded, basked in the golden light. The lower levels of the valley were already in shadow. No sign of man, or of his habitation, was disclosed to the voyagers. "A fair spot," remarked Kingswell. "I feel a desire stirring within me to stretch my legs on that grassy bank. What do you say to the idea, Tom?" The old fellow grinned. "'Twould be pleasant, sir, an' no mistake," he replied--"a little walk along the brook, with our hands not very far from our hangers. Ay, sir, Tom Bent's for a spell o' nater worship." The boat ran in, and was beached on the sand well within the mouth of the river. Harding and Clotworthy, with loaded muskets, were left on guard, and the other three, fully armed, started along the bank of the stream. They advanced cautiously, with a sharp lookout on every clump of bushes and every spur of rock. A kingfisher dropped from its perch above the water and flew up-stream with shrill clamour. They turned a bend of the little river and halted short in their track with muttered exclamations. Before them, on a level meadow between the brown waters of the stream and the dark green wall of the forest, stood half a dozen wigwams. The place seemed deserted. They scanned the dark edge of the wood and the brown hills behind. They peered everywhere, expecting to catch the glint of hostile eyes at every turn. But neither grove nor hill, nor silent lodge, disclosed any sign of life. "Where the devil are they?" exclaimed Kingswell, thoroughly perplexed. Ouenwa smiled, and swept his hand in a half-circle. "Watch us," he remarked, nodding his head. "Yes, watch us." "He means they are lying around looking at us," said Kingswell to the boatswain. "Rip me, but I don't relish the chance of one of those stone-tipped arrows in my vitals." Tom Bent glanced about him in visible trepidation. Ouenwa noticed it, and pointed to the seaman's musket. "No 'fraid," he said. "Shoot." "What at?" inquired Bent. "Make shoot," cried the boy, indicating the silent wood, dusky in the gathering shadows. "He wants you to fire into the wood, and frighten them out," said Kingswell. "If they be there, I'm for lettin' 'em stay there," replied Tom. However, he fixed his murderous weapon in its support, aimed at the edge of the forest beyond the wigwams, and fired. The flame cut across the twilight like a red sword; a dismal howl arose and quivered in the air. It was answered from the hilltops on both sides of the stream. Before the echoes had died away, Ouenwa was inside the nearest lodge. Kingswell followed, and found him dismantling the couches and walls of their valuable furs. He instantly took a hand in the looting. Soon each had all he could handle. They carried their burdens from the lodge, and, with Tom as a rear-guard, marched back toward the _Pelican_. They had rounded the bend of the river, and the two seamen were hurrying to meet them, when old Tom Bent suddenly uttered an indignant whoop and leaped into the air. His musket flew from his shoulder and clattered against a stone. Kingswell and Ouenwa threw down their bundles and sprang to where he lay, kicking and spluttering. The feathered shaft of an arrow clung to the middle of his left thigh. He was swearing wildly, and vowing vengeance on the "heathen varment" who had pinked him. Harding and Clotworthy fired into the shadows of the wooded hillside, and Kingswell hoisted the struggling boatswain to his shoulders and continued his advance on the boat. The old sailor begged and implored his commander to put him down, assuring him that he was more surprised than hurt. But Kingswell turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, and did not release him until they were safe beside the _Pelican's_ bows. Just then Ouenwa and the sailors came running up with the looted pelts. All were puzzled. Why had the hidden enemy fired only one arrow, when they might have annihilated the little party with a volley? That night the _Pelican_ lay at anchor in the mouth of the river. Twice, during the long, eerie hours between dark and dawn, the man on duty woke his companions; but on both occasions the alarms proved to be false--the splashing of a marauding otter near the shore or the flop of a feeding trout. Under the pale lights of the morning the valley and the stream lay as peaceful and deserted as on the preceding evening. The voyagers ate their breakfast aboard. Then, as soon as the sun had cleared the light mist from the water, they got up their anchor and rowed up-stream. Harding and Clotworthy pulled on the oars. Bent and the commander crouched in the bows, with ready muskets, and Ouenwa sat at the tiller. The current was strong, and the boat crawled slowly against the twirling sinews of water. Little patches of spindrift, from some fall or rapid farther up the river, floated past them. The pebbly bottom flashed beneath the amber tide. Leaping fish gleamed and splashed on either hand, and sent silver circles rippling to the toiling boat. A moist, sweet fragrance of foliage and mould and dew filled the air. Soon the deserted lodges came into view, standing smokeless and pathetic between the murmuring river and the brooding trees. Kingswell motioned to Ouenwa to head for the low bank in front of the wigwams. They landed without incident, and all walked toward the village, with their firearms ready and their matches lighted. They explored every lodge and even beat the underbrush. The dwellings had been cleared of pelts and weapons and cooking utensils evidently during the night. A village of this size must have possessed at least six canoes; but not a canoe, nor so much as a paddle, could they find. "All run in canoe," remarked Ouenwa, pointing up-stream. "What be this?" asked Tom Bent, limping toward Kingswell with an arrow and a small square of birch bark in his hand. He had found the bark, pinned by the arrow, to the side of one of the wigwams. Kingswell examined it intently, and shook his head. "Pictures," he said. "I suppose it is a letter of some kind, in which their wise man tells us what he thinks of us." Ouenwa took the bark and surveyed the roughly sketched figures, with which it was covered, with a scornful twist of his face. "Wolf," he said, indicating the central figure. "See! Very big! Bear"--he touched another point of the missive and then tapped his own breast--"see bear! Him no big! Wolf eat bear." He laughed shrilly, and shook his head. "No, no," he said. "No, no." "What be mun jabberin' about?" muttered Tom Bent. Kingswell explained that the bear stood for Ouenwa's family, and that the wolf was the symbol of the people who had killed his grandfather. The _Pelican_ continued her voyage before noon, and all day skirted an austere and broken coast. She crossed the mouths of many wide bays, steering for the purple headlands beyond. She rounded many islands and braved intricate channels. Toward evening she rounded a bluffer, grimmer cape than any of the day's experience, and Kingswell, who had just relieved Harding at the tiller, forsook the straight course and headed up the bay. Two hours of brisk sailing brought them to a sheltered roadstead behind an island and just off a wooded cove. They lowered the sail and rowed in close to the beach. They built no fire, and spent the night close to the tide, with their muskets and cutlasses beside them, and the watch changed every two hours. Three days later the voyagers happened upon a ship. They ran close in to where she lay at anchor, believing her to be English, and did not discover their mistake until the little tub of a brig opened fire from a brass cannonade. The first shot went wide, and the _Pelican_ lay off with a straining sail. The second shot fell short, and that ended the encounter, for the Frenchmen were too busy fishing to get up anchor and give chase. Old Tom Bent was quite cast down over the incident. "It be the first time," he said, "that I ever seen a Frencher admiral o' a bay in Newfoundland. One year I were fishin' in the _Maid o' Bristol_, in Dog's Harbour, Conception, an', though we was last to drop anchor, an' the only English ship agin six Frenchers and two Spanishers, by Gad, our skipper said he were admiral--an', by Gad, so he were." But the valorous old mariner did not suggest that they put about and dispute the admiralty of the little harbour which they had just passed. CHAPTER IX. AN UNCHARTERED PLANTATION In a cave in White Bay the voyagers traded with a party of friendly natives. Farther north they found indications of copper, and collected a bagful of the mother rock. In late August a sickness prostrated Master Kingswell and Clotworthy, and camp was made on the mainland. For three weeks the sufferers were unable to lift their heads. They lost flesh until they were little more than skin and bone. Ouenwa undertook the dual position of physician and nurse. He had some knowledge of the science of medicine, as practised by the Beothics, and treated the malady with teas of roots and herbs. He also managed to kill a young caribou, and fed his patients with broth made from the meat. But it was close upon the end of September when the _Pelican_ again took up her northward journey. Kingswell's real reason for this adventurous cruise was the quest of gold. Other explorers had seen gold ore in the possession of the natives, and he had heard stories of a French sailor having been wounded by a gold-barbed arrow. But the precious metal eluded him. Upon gaining the farthest cape of the great island, he wanted to cross the straits and continue his search along the Labrador coast; but the men shook their heads. The boat was too small for the voyage. Their provisions were running low. The northern summer was already far spent. So Kingswell headed the _Pelican_ southward. After a week of fair winds, they were caught in a squall, and the starboard bow of their stout little craft was shattered while they were in the act of winning to a sheltered anchorage. Everything was salvaged; but it took them three days to patch the boat back to a seaworthiness. Even after this unlooked-for delay, the young commander persisted in exploring every likely looking cave and river mouth that had been neglected on the northward trip. The men grumbled sometimes, but it was not in the heart of any sailor to deny the wishes of so charming and brave a gentleman as Master Kingswell. Ouenwa's long conversations in his partially acquired English helped to keep the company in good spirits. It was November, and nipping weather in that northern bay, when the _Pelican_ threaded the islands of Exploits and opened Wigwam Harbour to the eager gaze of her company. The harbour was empty! They had not sighted a vessel in any of the outer reaches of the bay. The drying-stages and fish stores stood deserted above the green tide. Kingswell turned a bloodless face toward his men. "They have sailed for home without us," he said, and swallowed hard. Old Tom Bent gazed reflectively about him, and scratched a hoary whisker with a mahogany finger. He had grumbled at the chance of this very disaster, but now that he was face to face with it the thought of grumbling did not occur to him. "Ay, sir," said he, "the damned rascals has sailed without us--an' we are lucky not to be in such dirty company!" He spat contemptuously over the gunwale. The colour returned to Kingswell's cheeks, and a flash of the old humour to his eyes. He smiled approvingly on the boatswain. But young Peter Harding, being neither as old nor as wise as Bent, nor as cool-headed as Clotworthy, had something to say on the subject. He ripped out an oath. Then--"By God," he cried, "here's one man who'd rather sail in a ship with what ye calls dirty company, Tom Bent, than starve in a damn skiff with--with you all," he finished, lamely. Kingswell and Ouenwa looked at the young seaman with mute indignation in their eyes. But Tom Bent laughed softly. "Ay, Peter, boy," he said, "ye be one o' these fine, lion-hearted English mariners what's the pride o' the king an' the terror o' the seas. The likes o' ye don't sail shipmates with men, but with the duff an' the soup an' the prize-money." His voice shrilled a little. "Ay, if it wasn't that I know ye for a better man than ye sound just now, I'd ax cap'n's leave to twist the snivellin' nose off the fat face o' ye." "Tom be right," remarked Clotworthy, with a knowing and well-considered wag of his heavy head. Harding, who had delivered his speech from a commanding position on a thwart, sat down very softly, as if anxious not to attract any further attention. "We'll have a look at the old arrow-maker, lads," said Kingswell, cheerfully, "and stock up with enough dried venison to carry us south to Trinity, or even to Conception. Ships often lie in those bays till the snow flies. At the worst we can sail the old _Pelican_ right 'round to St. John's, and winter there. I'll wager the governor would be glad enough of a few extra fighting men to scare off the French and the privateers." Despite Master Kingswell's brave words, there was no store of dried venison to be obtained from the arrow-maker, for both the old philosopher's lodge and Black Feather's were gone--gone utterly, and only the round, level circles on the sward to show where they had stood. What had become of Montaw and his friends could only be surmised. Ouenwa's opinion that the enemies of Soft Hand were responsible for their disappearance was shared by the Englishman. All agreed that immediate flight was safer than a further investigation of the mystery. So the storm-beaten, wave-weary _Pelican_ turned seaward again. Two days later, toward nightfall, and after having sailed far up an arm of the sea and into the mouth of a great river, in fruitless search of some belated fishing-ship, the adventurers were startled and cheered by the sound of a musket-shot. It came from inland, from up the shadowy river. It was muffled by distance. It clapped dully on their eager ears like the slamming of a wooden door. But every lonely heart of them knew it for the voice of the black powder. They drifted back a little and lay at anchor all night, just off the mouth of the river. With the dark came the cruel frost. But they crawled beneath their freight of furs and slept. They were astir with the first gray lights, and before sunrise were pulling cautiously up the middle of the channel. White frost sparkled on thwart and gunwale. Dark, mist-wrapped forests of spruce and fir and red pine came down to the water on both sides. Here and there a fang of black rock, noisy with roosting gulls, jutted above the dark current. A jay screamed in the woods. A belated snipe skimmed across their bows. An eagle eyed them from the crown of an ancient pine, and swooped down and away. They must have ascended the stream a matter of two miles--and hard pulling it was--when Ouenwa's sharp eyes detected the haze of wood smoke beyond a wooded bend. "Cooking-fire there!" he exclaimed. "Maybe get something to eat? Maybe get killed?" He spoke cheerfully, as if neither prospect was devoid of charm. "We'll risk it," remarked Kingswell, quietly. "Put your weight into the stroke, lads--and, Tom, keep your match handy." At last the bend was rounded, and the rowers turned on the thwarts and peered over their shoulders, and Kingswell uttered a low cry of delight. Close ahead of them the right-hand bank lay level and open, and along its edge were beached three skiffs. About twenty yards back stood a little settlement of log cabins enclosed by palisades. From the chimneys of the cabins plumes of comfortable smoke rose to the clearer azure above. In front of this civilized spot, in mid-stream, a small high-pooped vessel lay moored. Her masts and spars were gone. She swung like a dead body in the brown current. Tom Bent swore softly and with grave deliberation. "Damn my eyes," he murmured. "Ay, sir, dash my old figger-head, if there don't lay a reggler, complete plantation! Blast my eyes!" "A tidy, Christian appearin' place," remarked Clotworthy, joyously. "An' real chimleys, too! Well, that do look homely, for certain." At that moment three men, armed with muskets, ran from the gateway of the enclosure and stood uncertain half-way between the palisade and the river. Kingswell hailed them, standing in the bluff bows of the little _Pelican_. He stated the nationality, the names, and degrees of himself and the other of the little company, and the manner of their misfortune, even while the boat was covering the short distance to the shore. The settlers laid aside their weapons, and received Master Kingswell and his men with every show of cordiality and good faith. They were strapping fellows, with weather-tanned faces, broad foreheads, steady eyes, and herculean shoulders. They doffed their skin caps to the gentleman adventurer. "Ye be our first visitors, sir, since we come ashore here two year and two months ago come to-morrow," said one of the three. "Yes, it be just two year and two months ago, come to-morrow, that we dropped anchor off the mouth of this river," he added, turning to his companions. They agreed silently. Their eyes and attention were fully absorbed by Master Kingswell's imposing, though sadly stained, yellow boots and gold-laced coat. Another settler joined the group, and welcomed the voyagers with sheepish grins. A fifth, arrayed in finery and a sword, approached and halted near by. "These," said the spokesman, "be Donnellys--father and son." With a casual tip of the thumb, he indicated two rugged members of the company. He turned to a handsome young giant beside him and smote him affectionately on the shoulder. "This here be my boy John--John Trigget," he said, "an' that gentleman be Captain Pierre d'Antons." He bowed, with ungracious deference, to the dark, lean, fashionably dressed individual who stood a few paces away. "An' my name be William Trigget, master mariner," he concluded. Kingswell bowed low for the second time, and again shook hands with the elder Trigget. Then he stepped over to D'Antons and murmured a few courteous words in so low a voice that his men caught nothing of them. Each gentleman laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. Each bowed, laced hat in hand, until his long hair fell forward about his face. D'Antons' locks were raven-black, and straight as a horse's mane. Young Kingswell's were bright as pale gold, and soft as a woman's. Both were of goodly proportions and gallant bearing, though the Frenchman was the taller and thinner of the two. D'Antons slipped his arm within Kingswell's, and, motioning to the others to follow, started toward the stockade. William Trigget immediately strode forward and walked on Master Kingswell's other hand, as if determined to assert his rights as a leader of the mixed company. Ouenwa and the seamen of the _Pelican_, and the Donnellys and young Trigget, followed close on the heels of their superiors. "And who may ye be, lad?" inquired John Trigget of Ouenwa, as they crossed the level of frost-seared grass. "I am Ouenwa," replied the boy, frankly, "and Master Kingswell is my strong friend and protector. My grandsire was Soft Hand, the head chief of this country. His enemies--barking foxes who name themselves wolves--pulled him down in the night-time." The big settler nodded, and the others uttered ejaculations of pity and interest. The story was not news to them, however. "Ay," said John Trigget, "Soft Hand were pulled down in the night, sure enough. The Injuns run fair crazy, what with murderin' each other an' burnin' each other's camps. I was huntin', two days to the north, when the trouble began. I come home without stoppin' to make any objections, an' the skipper kep' our gates shut for a whole week. They rebels was for wipin' out everybody; an' they captured two French ships, an' did for the crews. They be moved away inlan' now, thank God. We be safe till spring, I'm thinkin'." "There be worse folks nor they tormentin' Injuns around these here soundin's, an' ye can take my word for that," growled the elder Donnelly, in guarded tones. "Belay that," whispered John Trigget. "The devil can cook his stew plenty quick enough. Us won't bear a hand till the pot boils over." Captain d'Antons glanced back at the talkers. His black eyes gleamed suspiciously. CHAPTER X. GENTRY AT FORT BEATRIX Inside the stockade, posted unevenly around three sides of a foot-worn square, were five buildings of rough logs. From a platform in the southeast corner two small cannon presented their muzzles to the river. At the back of this platform, on the southern side of the square, stood the Donnelly cabin. It was stoutly built, and measured fifteen paces across the front. Against the western palisade the Trigget cabin and Captain d'Antons' habitation faced the square. On the north side stood a fourth dwelling and a small storehouse. In the centre of the yard bubbled a spring of clear water under a rustic shed. A tiny brook sparkled away from it, under the stockade and down to the river. The well was flanked on both sides by a couple of slim birches, now leafless under the white November sun. The visitors were led to the Triggets' cabin, and Skipper Trigget's wife and daughter--both big, comely women--fed them with the best in the little plantation. After breakfast, Kingswell and Ouenwa were taken to D'Antons' quarters. The Frenchman was the spirit of hospitality, and took blankets and sheets from his own bed to dress their couches. Also he produced a flask of priceless brandy, from which he and Kingswell pledged a couple of glasses to the Goddess of Chance. The toast was D'Antons' suggestion. Presently D'Antons excused himself, saying that he had a matter of business to attend to, and left his guests to their own devices. The house was divided into two apartments by curtains of caribou hides, which were hung from one of the low crossbeams of the ceiling. At the end of each room a fire burned on a roughly built hearth. Two small windows of clouded glass partially lit the sombre interior. Books in English, French, and Spanish, a packet of papers, ink and quills, and a neatly executed drawing of a pinnace under sail lay on a table near one of the windows. Antlers of stags, decorated quivers and bows, painted hides, and glossy skins adorned the rough walls. Above the hearth in the room in which Kingswell and his young companion sat, hung a musket with a silver inlaid stock, a carved powder-horn, and several knives and daggers in beaded sheaths. On the floor lay two great, pink-lipped West Indian shells. A steel head-piece, a breastplate of the same sure metal, and a heavy sword with a basket hilt hung above D'Antons' bed. Kingswell looked over the books on the table. He found that one of them was a manual of arms, written in the Spanish language; another a work of navigation, by a Frenchman; a third a weighty thesis on the science and practice of surgery; and the fourth was a volume as well-loved as familiar,--Master William Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet." He took up this last, and, seating himself with his shoulder to the window, was soon far away from the failures and daily perils of the wilderness. The greedy, hard-bitted materialist Present, with its quests of "fish," and fur, and gold, was replaced by the magic All-Time of the playwright poet. Ouenwa wandered about the room, prying into every nook and corner, and examining the shells, the arms, and the decorations. He even knelt on the hearthstone, and, at the risk of setting fire to his hair, tried to solve the mystery of the chimney--for a fire indoor unaccompanied by a lodgeful of smoke was a new thing in his experience. He looked frequently at Kingswell, in the hope of finding him open to questions, but was always disappointed. At last the thought occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to get hold of the great sword above the bed, and make cut, lunge, and parry with it as Kingswell had shown him how to do on several occasions. So he climbed on to the bed, and, in trying to clear the sword from its peg, knocked the steel cap ringing to the floor. Kingswell sprang from his stool, with his arm across his body and his hand on his sword-hilt, and Master Shakespeare's immortal drama sprawled at his feet. "Oh, that's all, is it?" he exclaimed, in tones of relief. "But you must not handle other people's goods, lad," he added, kindly, "especially a gentleman's arms and armour." Ouenwa flushed and apologized, and was about to step from D'Antons' couch to recover the head-piece, when D'Antons himself entered the cabin. Kingswell turned to him and explained the accident. "My young friend is very sorry," he said, "and would beg your pardon if he felt less embarrassed. However, captain, I beg it for him. I was so intent on the affairs of Romeo that I was not watching him. He is naturally of an investigating turn of mind." The Frenchman waved a slim hand and flashed his white teeth. "It is nothing, nothing," he cried. "I beg you not to mention it again, or give it another thought. The old pot has sustained many a shrewder whack than a tumble on the floor. Ah, it has turned blades of Damascus before now! But enough of this triviality! I have returned to request you to come with me to our governor. Neither Trigget nor I have mentioned him to you, as he is not desirous of meeting strangers. But he will make his own apologies, Master Kingswell." He stood aside, for Kingswell and Ouenwa to pass out before him. Kingswell went first. As Ouenwa crossed the threshold, D'Antons nipped him sharply by the arm, and hissed, "Dog! Cur!" in a voice so low, so sinister, that the boy gasped. But in a breath the Frenchman was his affable self again, and the Beothic, with the invectives still burning his ears, almost believed that he had been the victim of some evil magic. Kingswell caught nothing of the incident. Ouenwa was requested to wait outside. Master Kingswell was ushered into the governor's cabin, and D'Antons closed the door behind him. The young Englishman found himself in a dimly lit apartment very similar to that which he had just left. He hesitated, a step inside the threshold, and narrowed his lids in an effort to see more clearly. The Frenchman paused at his elbow. Two figures advanced from the farther side of the room. He ventured another step, and bowed with all the grace at his command, for one of the figures was that of a young woman in flashing raiment. The other was of a slim, foppishly dressed man of a little past middle age, with a worn face that somehow retained its air of youthfulness despite its haggard lines and faded skin. "Welcome to our humble retreat, Master Kingswell," said the gentleman, extending his hand and laughing softly. "This is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure. We last met, I believe, at Randon Hall--or was it at Beverly?" "Sir Ralph Westleigh!" exclaimed Kingswell, in a voice of ill-concealed consternation and surprise. For a moment he stood in an attitude of half-recoil. For a moment he hesitated, staring at the other with wide eyes. Then he caught the waiting hand in a firm grip. "Thank you, Sir Ralph. Yes, it was at Beverly that we last met," he said, evenly. He turned to the girl, who stood beside her father with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks and throat. The baronet hastened to make her known to the visitor. "My daughter Beatrix," he said. "A good girl, who willingly and cheerfully shares her worthless father's exile." Mistress Westleigh extended a firm and shapely hand, and Kingswell, bending low above it, intoxicated by the sudden presence of beauty and a flood of homesick memories, pressed his lips to the slim fingers with a warmth that startled the lady and brought a flash of anger to D'Antons' eyes. He recovered himself in an instant. "To see you in this wilderness--amid these bleak surroundings!" he exclaimed, scarcely above a whisper. "I cannot realize it, Mistress Beatrix! And once we played at racquets together in the court at Beverly." The girl smiled at him, with a gleam of understanding in her dark, parti-coloured eyes. "I remember," she said. "You have not changed greatly, save in size." And at that she laughed, with a note of embarrassment. "But you have," replied Kingswell. "You were not very beautiful as a little girl. To me you looked much the same as my own sisters." For a second, or less, the maiden's eyes met his with merriment and questioning in their depths. Then they were lowered. Sir Ralph moved uneasily. "Come, come," he said, "we must not stand here all day, like geese on a village green. There are seats by the fire." He led the way. "Captain, if you are not busy I hope you'll stay and hear some of Master Kingswell's adventures," he added, turning to D'Antons. "With pleasure," answered the captain. "One moment, sir," said Kingswell to Sir Ralph Westleigh. "I have a young friend--a sort of ward--whom I left outside. I'll tell him to run over to the men and amuse himself with them." As he opened the door and spoke a few kind words to Ouenwa, there was a sneer on D'Antons' lips that did not escape Mistress Beatrix Westleigh. It irritated her beyond measure, and she had all she could do to restrain herself from slapping him--for hot blood and a fighting spirit dwelt in that fair body. She wondered how she had once considered him attractive. She blushed crimson at the thought. Kingswell returned and seated himself on a stool between the governor of the little colony and the maiden. First of all, he told them who Ouenwa was, and of the time the lad saved him from injury by flooring old Trowley with his canoe paddle. Then he briefly sketched the voyage of the _Pelican_, and told something of his interests in the fishing fleet and in the new land. "And you found no indications of gold?" queried D'Antons. "None," replied the voyager, "but some splendid copper ore in great quantities, and one mine of 'fool's gold.'" The baronet nodded, with one of his wan smiles. "There are other kinds of fool's gold than these iron pyrites, I believe," he said, "and one finds it nearer home than in this God-forsaken--ah--in this wild country." The others understood the reference, and even the polished Frenchman looked into the fire and had nothing to say. Kingswell studied the water-bleached toes of his boots, and Beatrix glanced piteously at her father. For Sir Ralph Westleigh's life had known much of fool's gold, and much of many another folly, and something of that to which his acquaintances in Somerset--and, for that matter, in all England--gave a stronger and less lenient name. The baronet had lived hard; but his story comes later. "I knew nothing of this plantation of yours," said Kingswell, presently. "I did not know, even, that you were interested in colonization--and yet you have been here a matter of two years, so Trigget tells me." "Yes, and likely to die here--unless I am unearthed," replied Sir Ralph, bitterly, and with a meaning glance at Kingswell. "I put entire faith in my friends," he added. "And they are all in this little fort on Gray Goose River. My undoing lies in their hands." "Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, uneasily but stoutly, "I hope your trust has been extended to me,--yes, and to my men. Your wishes in any matter of--of silence or the like--are our orders. My fellows are true as steel. My friends are theirs. The young Beothic would risk his life for you at a word from me." The baronet was visibly affected by this speech. He laid a hand on the young man's knee and peered into his face. "Then you are a friend--out and out?" he inquired. "To the death," said the other, huskily. "And you have heard? Of course you have heard!" "Yes." "It is not for me to say 'God bless you' to any man," said Sir Ralph, "but it's good of you. I feel your kindness more deeply than I can say. I have forgotten my old trick of making pretty speeches." Kingswell blushed uncomfortably and wished that D'Antons, with his polite, superior, inscrutable smile, was a thousand miles out of sight of his embarrassment. The girl leaned toward him. But she did not look at him. "God bless you--my fellow countryman," she whispered, in a voice so low that he alone caught the words. He had no answer to make to that unexpected reward. For a little they maintained a painful silence. It was broken by the Frenchman. "You understand, Master Kingswell, that, for certain reasons, it is advisable that the place of Sir Ralph Westleigh's retreat be kept from the knowledge of every one save ourselves," he said, slowly and easily. "I understand," replied Kingswell, shortly. Captain d'Antons jarred on him, despite all his faultless and affable manners. CHAPTER XI. THE SETTING-IN OF WINTER About mid-afternoon of the day of Kingswell's advent into the settlement on Gray Goose River--Fort Beatrix it was called--the sky clouded, the voice of the river thinned and saddened, and snow began to fall. By Trigget's advice--and Trigget seemed to be the working head of the plantation--the pelts and gear of the _Pelican_ were removed to the storehouse. "Ye must winter in Newfoundland, sir, however the idea affects your plans, for no more ships will be sailing home this season; and ye couldn't make it in your bully," said the hospitable skipper. "We might work 'round to St. John's," replied Kingswell. Trigget shook his head. "This be the safer place o' the two," he answered, "and your Honour's company here will help keep Sir Ralph out o' his black moods. He wants ye to stay, I know. There'll be work and to spare for your men, what with cuttin' fuel, and huntin' game, and boat-buildin'." So Kingswell decided that, if this should prove the real setting-in of winter, and if no objections were raised by any of the pioneers, he would share the colony's fortunes until the following spring. D'Antons expressed himself as charmed with the decision; but, for all that, Kingswell saw, by deeper and finer signs than most people would credit him with the ability to read, that his presence was really far from agreeable to the French adventurer. When night closed about the little settlement, the snow was still falling, and ground and roofs shone with bleak radiance through the veil of darkness. The flakes of the storm were small and dry, and unstirred by any wind. They wove a curtain of silence over the unprotesting wilderness. Kingswell and Ouenwa supped with the Westleighs. But before the meal, and before Mistress Beatrix appeared from her little chamber, the two gentlemen had an hour of private conversation. "This Captain d'Antons--what of him?" inquired Kingswell. "He is none of our choosing," replied the baronet. "Several years ago, before I had quite given up the old life and the old show, I met him in London. He was reported rich. He had sailed many voyages to the West Indies, and talked of lands granted to him in New France. I had sold Beverly, and Beatrix was with me in town. She was little more than a child, but her looks attracted a deal of attention. She had nothing else, as all the town knew, with her father a ruined gamester, and her dead mother's property gone, with Randon Hall and Beverly! Dear God, but here was a dower for a beautiful lass! Well, the poets made a song or two, and three old men were for paying titles and places for her little hand--and then the end came. We won back to Somerset, spur and whip, lashed along by fear. We hid about, in this cottage and that, while my trusted friend Trigget provisioned his little craft and got together all the folk whom you see here, save D'Antons. After a rough and tiring voyage of three weeks' duration, and just when we were looking out for land, we were met by a French frigate, and forced to haul our wind. A boat-load of armed men left the pirate--yes, that's what she was, a damn pirate--and there was Captain d'Antons seated in the stern-sheets of her, beside the mate. He had not been as long at sea as we had, and he knew all about my trouble, curse him! He left the frigate, which he said was bound on a peaceful voyage of discovery to the West Indies, and joined our expedition. I could not forbid it. I was at his mercy, with his cutthroats alongside and the gallows at the back of it. He has hung to us ever since; and he has acted civil enough, damn him. If he'd show his hoof now and again, I'd like it better--for then we would all be on our guard." "But why does he stay? Why does he live in this place when he might be reaping the harvests common to such husbandmen?" inquired Kingswell. "Has he a stake in the colony?" The baronet gazed reflectively at the young man. "The fellow has kept my secret, and shared our rough lot and dreary exile, and even expended some money on provisions," he replied, deliberately, "for no other reason than that he is in love with my daughter." "He! A buccaneer!" exclaimed Kingswell, warmly. "Even so," answered the baronet. "There, on the high seas, when he had us all in his clutch, when he might have seized by force that for which he now sues, he accepted my word of honour--mark you, he accepted what I had scarce the face to offer--that I would not withstand his suit, nor allow my men to do him any treasonable hurt so long as he kept my hiding-place secret and behaved like a gentleman." "And Mistress Beatrix?" asked the young man, softly. "Ah, who can say?" responded the broken baronet. "At one time I feared that he was appearing as a hero to her. But I do not know. He played his game cleverly at first, but now he is losing patience. I would to God that he would lose it altogether. Then the compact would be broken. But no, he is cautious. He knows that, at a word from the girl, my sword would be out. Then things would go hard with him, even though he should kill me, for my men hate him." "Why not pick a quarrel with him?" asked the headstrong Kingswell. "You do not understand--you cannot understand--how delicate a thing to keep is the word of honour of a man who is branded as being without honour," replied the other, sadly. "And should Mistress Beatrix flout him," said Kingswell, "he would find his revenge in reporting your whereabouts to the garrison at St. John's." "He is well watched," said Sir Ralph, "and this is not an easy place to escape from, even in summer. We are hidden, up here, and not so much as a fishing-ship has sighted us in the two years." "I'll wager that he'd find a way past your vigilance if he set his mind to it," retorted Kingswell. "Gad, but it maddens me to think of being billeted under the roof of such an aspiring rogue! Rip me, but it's a monstrous sin that a lady should be plagued, and a whole body of Englishmen menaced, by a buccaneering adventurer." "My boy," replied Sir Ralph, wearily, "you must curb your indignation, even as the rest of us do. Discretion is the card to play just now. I have been holding the game with it for over two years. Who knows but that Time may shuffle the pack before long?" Just then Mistress Beatrix joined them. She wore one of the gay gowns--in truth somewhat enlarged and remodelled--by which her girlish beauty had been abetted and set off in England. There seemed a brightness and shimmer all about her. The coils of her dark hair were bright. The changing eyes were bright. The lips, the round neck and dainty throat, the buckled shoes, and even the material of bodice and skirt were radiant in the gloom and firelight of that rough chamber. To all appearances, her mood was as bright as her beauty. Sir Ralph watched her with adoring eyes, realizing her bravery. Kingswell joined in her gay chatter, and found it easy to be merry. Ouenwa, silent on the corner of the bench by the hearth, gazed at this vision of loveliness with wide eyes. He could realize, without effort, that Sir Ralph and D'Antons and even his glorious Kingswell were men, even as Tom Bent, and the Triggets, and Black Feather were, but that Mistress Beatrix was a woman--a woman, as were William Trigget's wife and daughter, and Black Feather's squaw--no, he could not believe it! He was even surprised to note a resemblance to other females in the number of her hands and feet. She had, most assuredly, two hands and two feet. Also she had one head. But how different in quality, though similar in number, were the members of this flashing young divinity. "I left Montaw's lodge to behold the wonders of the world," mused the dazzled child of the wilderness, "and already, without crossing the great salt water, I have found the surpassing wonder. Can it be that any more such beings exist? Has even Master Kingswell ever before looked upon such beauty and such raiment?" His spellbound gaze was met by the eyes of the enchantress. To his amazement, the lady moved from her father's side and seated herself on the bench. "You are so quiet," she said, "that I did not notice you before. So you are Master Kingswell's ward?" Her voice was very kind and cheerful, and her silks brushed the lad's hand. He looked at the finery uneasily, but did not answer her question. "You told us he knew English," she said to Kingswell. "He does," replied the young man. Then, to the boy: "Ouenwa, Mistress Westleigh wants to know if you are my friend." "Yes," said the lad. "Good friend." "And my friend, too?" asked the girl. "Yes," replied Ouenwa. "You look so--so--like he called the sky one morning." He pointed at Master Kingswell. "What was that?" she queried. "What morning?" asked Kingswell, leaning forward and smiling. "Five mornings ago, chief," replied Ouenwa. Kingswell laughed. "You are right, lad," he said. "But tell me what you called the sky, sir. Really, this is very provoking. No doubt the boy thinks I look a fright," said Miss Westleigh. "Beatrix," interrupted Sir Ralph, "surely I see Kate with the candles." The girl could not deny it, for the table was spread in the same room,--a rough, square table with a damask cloth, and laid out with a fair show of silver, decanters, and a great venison pasty, which had been cooked in the Triggets' kitchen across the yard. The meal was a delightful one to Kingswell. He had not eaten off china dishes for many months. The food, though plain, was well cooked and well served. The wines were as nectar to his eager palate. And over it all was the magic of Mistress Westleigh's presence--potent magic enough to a young gentleman who had almost forgotten the looks and ways of the women of his own kind. Ouenwa sat as one in a dream, fairly stupefied by the gleam of silver and linen under the soft light of the candles. He ate painfully and slowly, imitating Kingswell. He looked often at the vivacious hostess. Suddenly he exclaimed: "I remember. Yes, it was lovely beautiful, what the chief said!" Kingswell laughed delightedly, and the baronet joined, with reserve, in the mirth. The girl looked puzzled for a moment,--then confused,--then, with a little, indescribable cry of merriment, she patted Ouenwa's shoulder. "Charming lad!" she exclaimed. "I have not received so pretty a compliment for, oh, ever so long." She looked across the table at Kingswell, feeling his gaze upon her. His eyes were very grave, and darkened with thought, though his lips were still smiling. CHAPTER XII. MEDITATION AND ACTION For hours after retiring Kingswell lay awake, reviewing, in his restless brain, the incidents of that crowded day. His couch was luxurious, compared to the resting-places he had known since leaving the _Heart of the West_; but, for all that, sleep evaded him. From the other side of the hearth Ouenwa's deep and regular breathing reached his alert ears. He saw the yellow light blink to darkness above the curtain of skins, when D'Antons extinguished his candle in the other apartment. The red firelight rose and fell, dwindled and flooded high. The core of it contracted and expanded, and a straight log across the middle of the glow was like a heavy eyelid. It was like something alive--like something stirring between sleeping and waking, desiring sleep, yet afraid to forsake a vigil. To the restless explorer beside the hearth it suggested a drowsy servitor nodding and starting in a deserted hall. "What is it waiting for?" he wondered, and smiled at the conceit. "What does it fear? Mayhap the master and mistress are late at a rout, and are people without consideration for the feelings of their servants." From such harmless imagery his mind slipped to the less pleasant subject of Sir Ralph Westleigh. He recalled what he had seen and heard of the days of the baronet's glory--of the great places near Bristol, with their stables that were the envy of dukes, and their routs that lured people weary and dangerous journeys--of the famous Lady Westleigh and her jewels--of Sir Ralph's kindliness to great and small alike. His own father, the merchant-knight of Bristol, had held the baronet in high esteem. Bernard himself, when a child, and later when a well-grown lad, had experienced the hospitality of Randon Hall and Beverly. At the time of his last visit to Beverly, rumour was busy with the baronet's affairs. During Lady Westleigh's life, all had gone well, apparently. After her death, Sir Ralph spent less of his time at home, and more of it in distant London, and even in Paris. Stories went abroad of his heavy gaming and his ruinous bad luck. People said the love of the dice and the cards had settled in the man like a disease, working on him physically to such an extent that he looked a different person when the heat of the play was on him. Also it played the devil with him morally--and perhaps mentally. So things took the turn and started down-hill. Then the run was short and mad, despite warnings of friends, threats of relatives, and the baronet's own numerous clever checks and parries to avoid disaster. There was a season of hope after the sale of Randon. But the lurid clouds gathered again. Then Beverly was impoverished to the last oak and the last horse in the stud. The baronet took his daughter to town, and, by a turn of luck, put in a few merry months. Then a certain Scotch viscount caught him playing as no gentleman, no matter how dissolute, is supposed to play. The Scotchman made a clamour, and was killed for his trouble. That was the last known of Sir Ralph Westleigh and his daughter by any one of the outside world until the _Pelican_ landed her voyagers before the stockade of Fort Beatrix on Gray Goose River. All these matters employed Kingswell's thoughts as he lay awake in Captain d'Antons' cabin and watched the fire on the rough hearth fall lower and lower. Pity for the young girl, who had been born and bred to such a different heritage, pained and fretted him more keenly than a personal loss. The discomfort of it was almost as if his conscience were accusing him of disloyalty to a friend, though that was absurd, as neither he nor his had helped Westleigh in his descent, nor cried out against him when he met disaster at the bottom. But he had never, during those two years after their disappearance, given them more than a passing thought--and they had been friends and neighbours. He had experienced no pity for the young and beautiful girl with whom he had played in the racquet court at Beverly. Like the great world of which he was so insignificant a part, he had forgotten. Two lives, more or less, were of no consequence in such stirring times. He groaned, as if the realization of a great sin had come to him. Then, to the anger against himself was added anger against the world that had dragged Sir Ralph into this oblivion of dishonour, and the innocent girl into exile. What had she done to be driven beyond the bounds of civilization, her safety dependent on the whims of a French buccaneer? Ah, there was the raw spot, sure enough! In the little space of time between two risings of the sun, Kingswell had met a man and marked him for an enemy. Nursing a bitter, though somewhat muddled, resentment, he at last fell asleep, guarded from storm and frost by the roof of the very man who had inspired his anger. For the next few days matters went smoothly at Fort Beatrix. It was evident to even the least experienced of the settlers that the winter had come to stay. The snow lay deep and dry over the frozen earth. The river was already hidden under a skin of gleaming ice, made opaque by the snow that had mingled with the water while it was freezing. The little settlement took up the routine of the dreary months. Axes were sharpened at the great stone in the well-house. The men donned moccasins of deerskin. They tied ingenious racquets, or snow-shoes, to their feet and tramped into the sombre forests. All day the thud, thud of the axes jarred across the air, interrupted ever and anon by the rending, splitting lament of some falling tree. Kingswell put his men under William Trigget's orders, and he and Ouenwa spent much of their time with the choppers. Also, they journeyed with the trappers. Captain d'Antons, who was a skilled and tireless woodsman, led them on many weary marches in quest of game and fur. Most of the caribou had travelled southward, in herds of from ten to one hundred head, at the approach of winter; but a few remained in the sheltered valleys. Fortunately the settlers were familiar with the habits of the deer, and had laid in a supply of dried venison during the summer. However, whenever the hunters managed to make a kill, the fresh meat was enthusiastically received at the fort. Hares and grouse were snared, as were foxes and other small animals. A few wolves and one or two wildcats were shot. The bears were all tucked safely away in their winter quarters, and the beavers were frozen into theirs. On the whole, the hunters had a hard time of it, and no great reward for their toil. But it was work that kept both their brains and sinews employed, and so was of a deal more worth than the bare value of the pelts and dinners it supplied. One day in early December, when Kingswell, D'Antons, the younger Donnelly, and Ouenwa were traversing a drifted expanse of "barren," marching in single file and without undue noise, they came upon another trail of racquet prints. They halted. They regarded this unexpected evidence of the proximity of their fellow man with misgivings--for snow had fallen in abundance, and therefore the trail was new. They glanced uneasily about them, scanning clumps of spruce and fir and mounds of snow-drifted rock with anxious eyes. They strained their ears for some warning sound--or for the twanging of bowstrings. They saw nothing. They heard nothing but the disconsolate chirping of a moose-bird in a thicket close at hand. D'Antons lowered his gaze to the trail. "From the westward, and heading for the river," he said. "Then they are not from the village on Gander Lake." "Big number," remarked Ouenwa. "Ten, twenty, thirty--don't know how much! Whole camp, I think." "Ay," agreed Donnelly, "they sure has packed clear down through two falls o' snow. Ye could trot a pony along the pat' they has made." "Are you on friendly terms with the savages?" inquired Kingswell of Captain d'Antons. The Frenchman smiled uncheerfully and shrugged his lean shoulders. He was not one to speak unconsidered words. "Yes, we are on friendly terms with the people from Gander Lake," he replied, presently. "That is, we have traded with them a number of times, and have exchanged gifts with their chief, and through him with old Soft Hand. But Soft Hand is dead now; and these fellows are evidently from the West. Also, friendship means nothing where these vermin are concerned. Treachery is as the breath of life to them." "Panounia," whispered Ouenwa, excitedly. "Panounia no good for friend. He is a murderer. He is a false chief. He make trade--yes, with war-arrows from the bushes and with knives in the dark. In friendship his hand is under his robe, and his fingers are on the hilt of his knife. Evil warms itself at his heart like an old witch at a fire." D'Antons smiled thinly at the lad. "There is a time for all things," he said--"a time for oratory and another time for action. If you are willing, Master Kingswell, let us now retrace our steps as swiftly and quietly as may be. It would be wise to warn the fort that a band of the sly devils is abroad." Ouenwa glanced uncertainly at the speaker and flushed darkly. Kingswell intimated his willingness to return immediately to Fort Beatrix by a curt nod. It was in his heart to administer a kick to Captain Pierre d'Antons, though just why the desire he could not say. They turned in their tracks and started back along the twisting, seven-mile trail. D'Antons led; and the pace he set was a stiff one. Mile after mile was passed, with no other sound save those of padding racquet and toiling breath. In the hollows their shoulders brushed the snow from the crowding spruce-fronds. Going over the knolls, they crouched low, and scanned the horizon with alert eyes as they ran. At last, all but breathless from the prolonged exertion, the hunters turned aside from the path and ascended the gradual, heavily wooded side of a hill which overlooked the fort from the south. They crossed the naked summit with painful caution, bending double, and taking every advantage of the sheltering thickets. "The choppers are inside," whispered D'Antons to Kingswell, as they peered furtively out between the snow-weighted branches. "See! And the savages are in cover along the river." It was quite evident to Kingswell that the place had been attacked, and was now in a state of siege. The platform in the southeast corner of the stockade was protected by shields composed of bundles of firewood. Men whom he recognized as those who had been working in the woods earlier in the day moved about within the enclosure. The wide, snow-covered clearing that had been so spotless when he had last seen it was trampled and stained here and there by dark patches. Along the fringe of timber that shut the river from the clearing, and extended to within a dozen paces of the southeast corner of the stockade, a Beothic warrior would frequently show himself for a moment, hoot derisively, and let fly a harmless shaft. Presently the watchers on the knoll saw the head and shoulders of William Trigget above the shield of the gun-platform. The master mariner shaded his eyes with his hand and seemed to be scanning the woods along the river and then the timber in which his own comrades were concealed. He lowered his hand and ducked quickly--and not a second too soon; for a flight of arrows rattled against his stronghold, a few stuck, quivering, into the pickets of the stockade, and many fell within the fort. Kingswell turned to D'Antons. "More of them than we thought," he said. "There must have been a hundred arrows in that volley." Captain d'Antons nodded with a preoccupied air. He did not look at his companion, and his brow was puckered in lines of thought. If the Englishman had been able to read the other's mind at that moment, a deal of future trouble would have been spared him. However, as Kingswell was but an adventurous, keen-witted young man, with no superhuman powers, he was content with the Frenchman's nod, and returned his attentions to the fort. Suddenly, from the screen of faggots above which Trigget had so lately exposed his head, burst a flash of yellow flame, a spurt of white smoke, and a clapping bulk of sound. The stockade shook. A spruce-tree shook in the wood by the river, and cries of fear and consternation rang across the frosty air. A score of savages darted from their cover and as quickly sped back again. Flight after flight of arrows broke away and tested every inch of surface of Trigget's shelter. Then, with shrill screams and mad yells of defiance, the whole party of Beothics emerged into the clearing and dashed for the palisade. They drew their bows as they ran, and some hurled clubs and spears. In front, with red feathers in his hair and his right arm bandaged across his breast, Panounia shouted encouragement and led the charge. They were half-way across the open when the second cannon spat forth its message of hate. The ball passed low over the advancing mass and plunged into the timber beyond. For a second or two, the attackers wavered, a few turned back, then they continued their valorous onset. They were already springing at the palisade when the muskets crashed in their faces from half a dozen loopholes. This volley was followed immediately by another. The savages dropped back from their futile leapings against the fortification, hung on their heels for a moment, clamorous and undecided, and then broke for cover. They dragged their dead and wounded with them, and left sanguinary trails on the snow. They were within a few yards of the sheltering trees when one of the little cannon banged again. The ball cut across the mass of crowded warriors like a string through cheese. "Now is our time!" exclaimed Kingswell. "Run for the gate, lads." CHAPTER XIII. SIGNS OF A DIVIDED HOUSE The returning hunters were promptly admitted to the fort. The little garrison welcomed them joyfully. The West Country sailors were, for the moment, cordial even toward D'Antons, whom they usually ignored. The party had taken a hundred chances with death in the crossing of the narrow clearing. Arrows had followed them from the fringe of wood along the river, like bees from an overturned hive. Ouenwa's left arm had been scratched. D'Antons' fur cap had been torn from his head, pierced through and through. A hail of missiles had clattered against the gate as the good timbers swung to behind them. Cries of rage and chagrin, in which Ouenwa's name was repeated many times, rang from the retreat of the defeated warriors. The garrison answered with cheers. Ouenwa's shrill voice carried clear above the tumult, lifted in Beothic insults. Sir Ralph himself was in command of the imperilled fortress. The excitement had stirred him out of his customary gloom. His eyes were bright, and his cheeks flew a patch of colour. His sword was at his side, and he held a musket in his hand. "That was their third attempt to get over the stockade," he said to Kingswell and D'Antons. "They are filled with the very devil to-day. But I scarcely think that they will come back for more, now that Trigget has got his growlers into working order." "How did it begin?" asked the Frenchman. "Why, about three score of them marched up and said they wanted to come in and trade," replied the baronet, "but, as they seemed to have nothing to trade save their bows and spears, Trigget warned them off. Then they went out on the river and began chopping up the _Red Rose_ and the _Pelican_. At that we let off a musket, and they retired to cover, from which they soon emerged with reinforcements and tried to carry the place by weight of numbers." "Hark," said the Frenchman. "What is that they are yelling?" "My name," replied Ouenwa. "They are my enemies." "Ah, and so it is our privilege to fight this gentleman's battles for him," remarked D'Antons, with an exaggerated bow to the lad. "Perhaps this is the explanation of the attack." "I think not," answered Kingswell, crisply. "They are surprised at discovering him here. Also they are surprised and displeased at seeing me again. They have smelled our powder before, as you have heard, I think." "Yes, I have heard the heroic tale, monsieur," replied the captain, smiling his thin, one-sided, Continental smile. The blood mounted in Kingswell's cheek. He turned on his heel without any further words. Ouenwa followed him to the Trigget cabin, whence he was bound for something to eat. Panounia and his braves retreated across the frozen river, and did not show themselves again that day. In the fort every musket was loaded, the improvised gun-shields were repaired and strengthened, and the guns were again got ready for action. In place of round shot, William Trigget charged them with scrap-iron and slugs of lead. "When ye has a lot o' mowin' to do in a short time, cut a wide swath," he remarked to Tom Bent. "Ay, sir," replied Kingswell's boatswain, turning a hawk-like eye on the dark edges of the forest. "Ay, sir, cut a wide swath, an' let the devil make the hay. It be mun's own crop." At the time of the hunters' return, Mistress Beatrix was looking from the doorway of her father's cabin. Now she knelt in her own chamber, sobbing quietly, with her face buried in her hands. All the bitterness and insecurity of her position had come to her with overmastering force. The sight of Captain d'Antons' thin face and uncovered, bedraggled hair, as he leaned on his musket and talked with her father and the young Englishman, had melted the courage in her heart. She prayed confusedly, half her thoughts with the petitions which she made to her God, and half with the desperate state of her affairs and the features and attitude of the buccaneer. She was disturbed by some one entering the outer room. She recognized the footsteps as those of Sir Ralph. She got up from her knees, bathed her face and eyes, touched her hair to order with skilful fingers, and opened the door of her chamber. The baronet looked up at the sound. "Ah, lass," he said, "we've driven the rascals off. They have crossed the river." With that he fell again to his slow pacing of the room. "I do not fear the savages," she cried. "Oh, I do think their knives and arrows would be welcome." "Poor child! poor little lass!" he said, pausing beside her and kissing her tenderly. "You have been weeping," he added, concernedly. "But courage, dear. The fellow is harmless for five long months to come. His fangs are as good as filed, shut off here and surrounded by the snow and the savages." Evidently the sight of his daughter's distress had dimmed the finer conception of his promise to D'Antons. He looked about him uneasily and sighed. She laid her face against his coat and held tight to his sleeves. "I hate him," she whispered. "Oh, my father, I hate him for my own sake as much as I fear him for yours. His every covert glance, his every open attention, stings me like a whip. And yet, out of fear, I must smile and simper, and play the hypocrite." "No--by God!" exclaimed Westleigh, trembling with emotion. Then, more quietly, "Beatrix, I cannot wear this mask any longer. The fellow is hateful to me. I despise him. How such a creation of the devil's can love you so unswervingly is more than I can fathom. I would rather see you dead than married to him. There--I have broken my word again! Let me go." He freed himself from the girl's hands, caught up his hat and cloak, and left the cabin. He crossed over to the well-house, where some of the men were grinding axes and cutlasses, and joined feverishly in their simple talk of work, and battle, and adventure. Their honest faces and homely language drove a little of the bitterness of his shame from him. Presently Kingswell and Ouenwa joined the group about the complaining grindstone. "Come," said Sir Ralph, "and look at the cannon." He plucked Kingswell by the sleeve. Ouenwa followed them. All three ascended the little platform on which the guns were mounted, by way of a short ladder. The pieces, ready loaded, were snugly covered with tarpaulins that could be snatched off in a turn of the hand. "A worthy fellow is William Trigget," remarked the baronet. "Ay, he is true as steel." He laid a caressing hand on the breech of one of the little cannon. "I would trust him, yea, and his good fellows, with anything I possess," he said, "as readily as I trust these growlers to his care." Just then Ouenwa pointed northward to the wooded bluff that cut into the white valley and hid the settlement from the lower reaches of the river. From beyond the point, moving slowly and unsteadily, appeared a solitary human figure. Its course lay well out on the level floor of the stream, and the forest growth along the shore did not conceal it from the watchers. It approached uncertainly, as if without a definite goal, and, when within a few hundred yards of the fort, staggered and fell prone. "What the devil does it mean?" cried Sir Ralph. Kingswell shook his head, and questioned Ouenwa. The lad continued to gaze out across the open. The sun was low over the western hills, and its light was red on the snow. "Hurt," he said, presently. "Maybe starved. He is not of Panounia's band." "How do you know that, lad?" asked the baronet. "I know," replied the boy. "He is a hunter. He is not of the war-party. He is from the salt water." "He is usually right when he maintains that a thing is so, without being able to give a reason for it," said Kingswell, quietly. "And, if he is, it seems a pity to let the man die out there under our very eyes." "God knows I do not want any one to suffer," said the baronet, "but may it not be a trick of this Panounia's, or whatever you call him?" "No trick," replied Ouenwa; and, without so much as "by your leave," he vaulted over the breastwork of faggots and landed lightly on the snow outside the stockade. Without a moment's hesitation, Kingswell followed. Together they started toward the still figure out on the river, at a brisk run. They had reached the bank before Sir Ralph recovered from his astonishment. He quickly descended to the square, and, without attracting any attention, informed William Trigget of what had happened. Trigget and his son immediately ascended to the guns and drew off their tarpaulins. "We'll cover the retreat, sir," said the mariner. They saw their reckless comrades bend over the prostrate stranger. Then Kingswell lifted the apparently lifeless body and started back at a jog trot. Ouenwa lagged behind, with his head continually over his shoulder. The elder Trigget swore a great oath, and smacked a knotty fist into a leathern palm. "Them's well-plucked uns," he added. The baronet and John Trigget agreed silently. They were too intent on the approach of the rescuers to speak. Also, they kept a keen outlook along the woods on the farther shore. But the enemy made no sign; and Kingswell, Ouenwa, and the unconscious stranger reached the stockade in safety. The stranger proved to be none other than Black Feather, the stalwart and kindly brave who had built his lodge beside the old arrow-maker's, above Wigwam Harbour, in the days of peace. He was carried into Trigget's cabin and dosed with French brandy until he opened his eyes. He looked about him blankly for a second or two, and then his lids fluttered down again. He had not recognized either Kingswell or Ouenwa. "Oh, the poor lad, the poor lad," cried Dame Trigget. "Whatever has mun been a-doin' now, to get so distressin' scrawny? An' a fine figger, too, though he be a heathen, without a manner o' doubt." "Never mind his religious beliefs, dame, but get some of your good venison broth inside of him," said Master Kingswell. "That's a treatment that would surely convert any number of heathen." While they were clustered about Black Feather's couch, D'Antons entered. He peered over Dame Trigget's ample shoulders and looked considerably surprised at finding an unconscious, emaciated Beothic the centre of attraction. "What's this?" he asked. "A tragedy or a comedy?" His tone was sour, and too bantering for the occasion. The baronet turned on him with an expression of mouth and eye that did not pass unnoticed by the little group. "Certainly not a comedy, monsieur," he replied, coldly; "and we hope it will not prove a tragedy." CHAPTER XIV. A TRICK OF PLAY-ACTING Meals were not served in Captain d'Antons' cabin. The little settlement possessed but one servant among all its workers, and that one was Maggie Stone, Mistress Westleigh's old nurse. The care of Sir Ralph's establishment was all she could attend to. So the men who had no women-folk of their own to cook for them were fed by Dame Trigget and her sturdy daughter Joyce, or by the Donnelly women. Kingswell and D'Antons took their meals at Dame Trigget's table, and were served by themselves, with every mark of respect. Ouenwa, Tom Bent, Harding, and Clotworthy shared the Donnellys' board. A few hours after Black Feather's rescue, Kingswell and D'Antons sat opposite one another at a small table near the hearth of the Triggets' living-room. A stew of venison and a bottle of French wine stood between them. D'Antons took up the bottle, and made as if to fill the other's glass. "One moment," said Kingswell, raising his hand. The Frenchman looked at him keenly and set down the vintage. The Englishman leaned forward. "Captain d'Antons," he said, scarce above a whisper, "a remark that you made to-day seemed to imply that you considered me a braggart. Your remark was in reference to the brushes between the _Pelican_ and a party of natives during our cruise from the North. Before I take wine with you to-night, I want you to either withdraw or explain your implication." While Kingswell spoke, the other's eyes flashed and calmed again. Now his dark face wore an even look of puzzled inquiry. His fine eyes, clear now of the expression of cynicism which so often marred them, held the Englishman's without any sign of either embarrassment or anger. His hand returned to the neck of the bottle and lingered there. Lord, but the drama lost an exceptionally fine interpreter when the high seas claimed Pierre d'Antons! The thin, clean-shaven lips trembled--or was it the wavering of the candle-light? "My friend," he said, softly, "how unfortunate am I in my stupidity--in my blundering use of the English language. Whatever my words were, when I spoke of having already heard of your fights with the savages, my meaning was such that no one would take exception to. Did I use the word heroic, monsieur? Then heroic, noble, was what I meant. An Englishman would have made use of a smaller, a simpler word, perhaps; or would have refrained from any display of admiration. Ah, I am unfortunate in my heritage of French and Spanish blood--the blood that is outspoken both for praise and blame." Poor, honest Kingswell was shaken with conflicting emotions. His heart told him the man was lying. His eyes assured him that he had been grievously mistaken, not only in the matter of the remark concerning the skirmishes with the Beothics, but in his whole opinion of the Frenchman. His blood surged to his head, and whispered that he was a young fool to be hoodwinked so easily. His brain was sadly uncertain. A twinge of pity for the handsome adventurer--for the love-struck buccaneer--went through him. But it faded at remembrance of Sir Ralph's story. He knew the fellow was playing with him. "Wine, monsieur?" inquired D'Antons, softly, with a smile of infinite sweetness and shy persuasion. With a mumbled apology, the young Englishman pushed forward his glass, and the red wine swam to the brim. And all the while he was inwardly cursing his own weakness and the other's strength. He had not the courage to meet the Frenchman's look when they raised their glasses and clinked them across the table. Lord, what a calf he was! Had he no will of his own? Did he possess neither knowledge of men nor mother wit? Ah, but he rated himself pitilessly as he bent his flushed face over his plate of stew. When the meal was finished, Kingswell returned to Black Feather's couch, and D'Antons went over to his own cabin. By this time Black Feather had recovered consciousness and swallowed some of Dame Trigget's broth; also, he had recognized Ouenwa and murmured a few words to the lad in his own tongue. But, beyond that, he was too weak to disclose anything of what had happened in Wigwam Harbour after the slaying of Soft Hand. He lay very still, apparently lifeless, except for his quick, bright eyes, which moved restlessly in questioning scrutiny of the strange women and bearded men who sat about the room. Ouenwa held one of the transparent hands and smiled assuringly. For half an hour Kingswell sat beside the man he had rescued so courageously from death by starvation. Then, feeling the heat of the room and the confusion of his thoughts too much to entertain calmly, he went out into the cold and darkness and paced up and down. All unknowing, he kicked the snow viciously every step. He was still in a perturbed state of mind and temper when William Trigget approached him through the gloom and touched his elbow. "Askin' your pardon, master," he said, standing close, "but what of that Injun in there? Be he really sick, or be he playing a game?" "He is surely sick, and he is just as surely not playing a game," replied Kingswell. "But why do you ask? The fellow is a friend of Ouenwa's, and was one of old Soft Hand's warriors." "Ay, sir, but maybe mun has changed his coat," said Trigget, "an' has shammed sick just to get carried inside the fort. There be something goin' on outside, for certain." "What?" asked the other. Then Trigget told how he had been startled, while standing under the gun-platform, by a sound of scrambling outside the stockade. He had crawled noiselessly up the ladder and looked over the breastworks about the guns. He had been able to distinguish something darker than the surrounding darkness crouched against the palisade under him. The thing had moved cautiously. He had detached a faggot from one of the bundles beside him, for lack of a better weapon, and had hurled it down at the black form. There had sounded a stifled cry, and the thing had vanished in the night. "It were one o' they savages, I know," concluded Trigget. Kingswell forgot his personal grievance in the face of this menace from the hidden enemy. "The guards should be doubled," he said. "But come, we must let Sir Ralph know of it." They crossed the yard to the baronet's cabin and knocked on the door. Maggie Stone admitted them to the outer room, where Sir Ralph and Mistress Beatrix were seated, the girl reading aloud to her father by the light of one poor candle. But the great fire on the hearth had the place fairly illuminated. William Trigget, undismayed by fog and bad weather, cool in any risk of land or sea, was too abashed at the presence of the lady to tell his story. So Master Kingswell told it for him. "The guards must be doubled," said Sir Ralph. "They be that already, sir," replied Trigget, breaking the spell of the bright eyes that surveyed him. "That is well," answered the baronet. "There is nothing else to be done, at least until morning, but sleep light and keep your muskets handy." Kingswell and the master mariner returned to the darkness without. "I will stake my word," said Kingswell, "that the place is surrounded by the devils even now, and that they will try again to get a man over the wall to unbar the gates." CHAPTER XV. THE HIDDEN MENACE Neither Kingswell nor Trigget found time for sleep that night. D'Antons also kept awake, though he spent only a few hours out-of-doors. His candle burned until daylight. Ouenwa experienced a restless night beside Black Feather's couch. From ten o'clock until two Tom Bent, John Trigget, and the younger Donnelly were on guard, with cutlasses on their hips and half-pikes in their hands--for a musket would have proved but an unsatisfactory weapon to a man engaged in a sudden scuffle in the dark. One man was placed on the gun-platform, another at the gate, and a third on the roof of the storehouse. Kingswell and William Trigget moved continually from one point to another. At two o'clock the elder Donnelly, Clotworthy, and Harding relieved their companions. But the two officers remained at their self-imposed duty. At last dawn outlined the eastern horizon. Kingswell, who had been pacing the length of the riverward stockade for the past hour, sighed with relief, yawned, and was about to retire to D'Antons' cabin, when William Trigget approached him at a run. The master mariner's face was ghastly above his bushy whiskers. "Come this way, sir," he murmured, huskily. Kingswell followed him to the storehouse and up to the roof, by way of a rough ladder that leaned against the wall. There, on the outward slope of the roof, where the snow was trampled and broken, sprawled the body of Peter Clotworthy. "What! Asleep!" exclaimed Kingswell, peering close. The light was not strong enough to disclose the features of the recumbent sentinel. "Ay, an' sound enough, God knows," replied Trigget, "with no chance o' wakin' this side o' the Judgment-Seat." "Dead?" cried the other, sinking to his knees beside the body. He pressed his hand against the mariner's side, held it there for a moment, and withdrew it, wet with blood. He raised it toward the growing illumination of the east, staring at it with wide eyes. "Blood," he murmured. "Stabbed without a squeal--without a whimper, by Heaven!" Then he ripped out an oath, and followed it close with a prayer for his dead comrade's soul. For all his golden curls, this Bernard Kingswell had a hot and ready tongue--and a temper to suit, when occasion offered. The two discoverers of the tragedy remained on the roof of the storehouse for some time. The light strengthened and spread on their right, and, at last, gave them a clear, gray view of the narrow clearing and wooded hummocks to the north. On the snow below them, which was otherwise unmarked, they saw the imprints of one pair of moccasined feet. The marks did not lead to or from the near cover of the woods, but to the south, around the fort. The telltale snow showed how Clotworthy's murderer had approached close under the stockade, and, after his silent deed of violence, had jumped a distance of about twenty feet, from the roof of the store, and landed on all fours. A stain of blood, evidently from the reeking knife in the slayer's hand, smirched the snow where it was broken by his fall. From there the steps returned by the same course, but at a distance of about ten paces from the stockade. Kingswell looked from the tracks in the snow to the colourless, distorted features of the dead seaman. Then his gaze met Trigget's deep-set eyes. He was pale, and his lips were drawn in a hard line, as if the frost had stiffened them. "Poor Clotworthy," he murmured, and swallowed as if his throat were dry. "Poor devil, knifed into eternity without a fighting chance. See, he was clubbed first and then knifed--felled and bled like an ox in a shambles! Ten nights of this hellishness will account for the whole garrison." With a broad, deep-sea oath, Trigget replied that there'd be no ten nights of it. They lifted the stiff body that had, so lately, been animated by the fearless spirit of Richard Clotworthy, able seaman, to the ground and carried it reverently to the Donnelly cabin. The other inmates of the little settlement were deeply affected by the sight, and by Kingswell's story. The younger men were for setting out immediately and driving the Beothics from the woods on the far side of the river. But the wiser heads prevailed against such recklessness, arguing that the only thing to be done was to remain constantly on guard. The women wept. Ouenwa, trembling with sorrow and rage, placed his fine belt and beaded quiver beside the body of his dead comrade, and vowed, in English and Beothic, that he would avenge this murder as he intended to avenge the murders of his father and his grandfather. The day passed without any sign of the hidden enemy. Kingswell slept until noon. By evening Black Feather had recovered enough strength to enable him to tell his pitiful story to Ouenwa. His lodge, and that of Montaw, the arrow-maker, had been torn down by the followers of Panounia shortly after the departure of the _Pelican_ from Wigwam Harbour. Montaw had died fighting. Black Feather, grievously wounded, had been bound and carried far up the River of Three Fires. His wife and children also had been captured and maltreated. The ships in the bay had looked on at the unequal struggle ashore without demonstrations of any kind. Upon reaching the village on the river, Black Feather had been driven to the meanest work--work unbecoming a warrior of his standing--and his wife and children had been led farther up-stream, very likely to Wind Lake. Black Feather had seen the body of Soft Hand lying exposed on the top of a knoll, at the mercy of birds and beasts. He had bided his time. At last he had gnawed the thongs with which his tormentors bound him at night, and had safely made his escape. He could not say how long ago that was. Days and nights had become strangely mixed in his desperate mind. He had lived on such birds and hares as he had been able to kill with sticks. Always he had kept up his journey, shaping his course toward the salt water, in the hope of meeting some tribesmen who might have remained loyal to the murdered chief. But he had met with nobody in all that desolate journey, until, only the day before, he had recovered consciousness in Fort Beatrix. That night, John Trigget was attacked at his post on the gun-platform, and in the struggle that ensued was cut shrewdly about the arm. So sudden and noiseless was the onslaught out of the dark that he fought in silence, only remembering to shout for help after the savage had squirmed from his embrace and escaped. His arm was bandaged by Sir Ralph, and Tom Bent and Ouenwa took his place. But daylight arrived without any further demonstration on the part of the enemy. By this time the little garrison was bitten by a restlessness that would not be denied. Even Kingswell and William Trigget were for making some sort of attack upon the hidden band beyond the river. D'Antons, contrary to his habit, had nothing to say either for or against an aggressive movement. Sir Ralph was for quietly and cautiously awaiting development; but, seeing the spirit of the men, he agreed that five of the garrison should sally forth in search of the enemy. "Whom I have not a doubt you'll find," concluded the baronet, wearily, "though what the devil you'll do with them then is more than I can venture to predict." Under William Trigget's supervision, one of the cannon was taken from the platform and mounted on a heavy and solid flat of logs, and that, in turn, was placed on a sled. On the same sled were fastened rammers and mops and bags of powder and shot. The daring party was made up of Master Kingswell, William Trigget, Ouenwa, Tom Bent, and the younger Donnelly. D'Antons did not volunteer his services on the expedition. The men were all well armed with muskets and cutlasses, and all save Ouenwa had fastened steel breastplates under their coats. As they marched away, Mistress Westleigh waved them "Godspeed" with a scarf of Spanish lace, from where she stood in the open gate between her father and Captain d'Antons. The little party moved down the bank and across the river slowly and with commendable caution. Trigget and Kingswell walked ahead, and kept a sharp lookout on the dark edges of the forest. Donnelly and Tom Bent followed about ten paces behind, dragging the gun. Ouenwa scouted along on the left, with a musket and a lighted match, which he feared far worse than he did any number of Beothic warriors. The river was crossed without accident on the wide trail left by the enemy's retreat. CHAPTER XVI. THE CLOVEN HOOF Sir Ralph Westleigh was in the storehouse, Maggie Stone was gossiping with Dame Trigget, and Beatrix was alone by the fire when Captain d'Antons rapped on the cabin door, and entered without waiting for a summons. He was dressed in his bravest suit and finest boots. After closing the door behind him, he bowed low to the girl at the farther end of the room. She instantly stood up and curtseyed with a deal of grace, but no warmth whatever. "My father is not in, Captain d'Antons," she said. He smiled and approached her with every show of deference. "Ah, mademoiselle," he murmured, "I have not come to see the good baronet. I have come to learn my fate from the dearest lips in the world." The girl blushed crimson, with a tumult of emotions that almost forced the tears past her lids. Fear, hate, and a reckless joy at the thought that she was done with pretence struggled in her heart. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, and accomplished nothing but a dry sob. D'Antons' eyes shone with ardour. The hope which had been somewhat clouded of late flashed clear again. "Beatrix," he cried, softly, "I have wooed you long. Is it not that I have won at last beyond peradventure? Do not deny it, my sweet." He caught her to him, and attempted to kiss her bright lips; but, with a low cry and a quite unexpected display of strength, she wrenched herself from his embrace. She did not try to leave the room. She did not call for help. She faced him, with flashing eyes and angry cheeks and clinched hands. The fellow stood uncertain for a moment, showing his chagrin and amazement like any country clown. But his recovery was quick. His mouth took on a thin smile; his eyes darkened with sinister shadows. He looked the girl coolly up and down. He laughed softly. "This feigned anger adds to your beauty, Beatrix," he said. "I beg you to leave me, sir," she replied, trembling. "Your presence is distasteful to me." "A sudden turn," said he. "Now a month ago, or even a week ago, you seemed of a different mind. As for the days of our first meeting in merry London--ah, then your lips were not so unattainable." "I hate you," she murmured. "I despise you. I loath you. You taint the air for me. Dog, to make a boast of having filched a kiss from a light-hearted girl--who did not know you for the common fellow that you are." "Beatrix," cried the man, "this is no stage comedy. We are not players. I have asked you, too many times, to be my wife. I ask you once more. You know that your father's life is in my hands. Tell me now, will you promise to marry me, or will you let your father go to the gallows in the spring, and this plantation be put to the torch? Whatever your choice, my beauty, you will accompany me to New Spain next summer. It is for you to say whether you go as my wife or my mistress." At that the girl's face went white as paper. But her eyes were steady. D'Antons lowered his gaze. He was half-ashamed, nay, more than that, of his words. "It would be hard to say," she replied, very softly, "which would be the most dishonourable position for an English gentlewoman to occupy. That of your wife, I think, monsieur--for, as your wife, she would be known by your name." His shame leaped to anger at that soft-spoken insult. He caught her roughly by the wrists. "Nay," she said, "you must be more gentle. You seem to forget that you are not sacking a defenceless town. Also, you forget that you have not a friend or a follower in this wilderness, and that any man or woman in the fort would shoot you down like a dog at a word from me." For a little while they eyed each other steadily enough--her face still beautiful despite the bantering cruelty of lips and eyes, and the loathing in every line of it; his the face of a devil. Then, with a muttered oath, he closed his fingers on her tender flesh, pressing with all his strength. "Ah, my fine lady," he cried, harshly, "you think yourself strong enough to flout Pierre d'Antons, do you? Strong enough to spurn the protection of a soldier and a gentleman! Cry now for your girl-faced Kingswell--for your golden-haired fellow countryman." By that even her lips were colourless, and her eyes were wet. "There is no need," she said, bravely, "for I hear my father at the door." D'Antons dropped her wrists and took a backward step. In doing so, his heel struck the leg of a stool, and the scabbard of his sword rang discordantly. He reeled, recovering himself just as Sir Ralph crossed the threshold. Before either of the men had time to speak, Beatrix darted forward and struck the Frenchman savagely across the face with her open hand. Then, without a word of either explanation or greeting to her father, she passed D'Antons swiftly, sped down the length of the room, and entered her own chamber. "What does this mean, captain?" inquired the baronet, coldly. D'Antons, scarcely recovered from the blow, strode toward him. "What does it mean?" he cried. "It means, my fine old cock, that your neck will be pulled out of joint when we get away from this God-forgotten desolation. Ah, you liar, why did I not have you strung up to a yard-arm when you were safely in my power? Stab me, but I've been too soft--and my reward is insults from the wench of an exiled card-cheat and murderer." His voice was raised almost to a scream. His face quivered with passion. He thrust it within a few inches of the baronet's. "Liar and cheat," he cried, furiously. "Softly, softly," replied Sir Ralph. "I cannot abide being bawled at in my own house, especially by such scum of a French muck heap as you. Keep your distance, fellow, or, by God, I'll do you a hurt. What's this! You'd presume?" They withdrew on the instant. The two swords came clear in the same second of time. "_Gabier de potence_," cried D'Antons. "_Canaille_," replied the baronet, blandly. Evidently the rasp of the steel had mended his temper. He even smiled a little at his adoption of his adversary's mother-tongue. The men were excellently matched as swordsmen. But not more than half a dozen passes had been made and parried before Beatrix ran into the room, crying to them to put up their swords. "Go back," said the baronet, with his eyes on D'Antons, "go back to your room, my daughter, and make a prayer for this fellow's soul. It will soon stand in need of a petition for God's mercy." The girl went softly back and closed the door, in an effort to shut out the rasping and metallic striking of the blades. She prayed, but for strength to her father's wrist and not for the Frenchman's soul. She was afraid--desperately afraid. The truth of her father's skill in French sword-play had been kept from her. To her he was but a courteous, middle-aged gentleman who needed her care, and who had been maligned and robbed by the world into which he had been born. He was a good father. He had been a loving and considerate husband. She knelt beside her bed and beseeched God to succour him in this desperate strait. In the meantime the fight went on in the outer room with more the air of a harmless bout for practice than a duel to the death. It was altogether a question of point and point, in the Continental manner, perfectly free from the swinging attack and clanging defence of the English style. The combatants were cool, to judge by appearances. Neither seemed in any hurry. The thrusts and lunges, though in fact as quick as thought, were delivered with a manner suggestive of elegant leisure. "I believe you have the advantage of me by about three inches of steel," remarked the baronet, diverting a lightning thrust from its intended course. "A chance of the game," replied D'Antons, smiling grimly. Just then the baronet's foot slipped on the edge of a book of verses which Mistress Beatrix had left on the floor. For a second he was swerved from his balance; and, when he recovered, it was to feel the warm blood running down his breast from a slight incision in his left shoulder. But his recovery was as masterly as it was swift, and the Frenchman found himself more severely pressed than before, despite the advantage he possessed in the superior length of his sword. The little wound counted for nothing. Just what the outcome of the fight would have been, if an untimely interruption in the person of Maggie Stone had not intervened, it is hard to say. Perhaps D'Antons' youth would have claimed the victory in the long run, or perhaps the baronet's excellent composure. In skill they were nicely matched, though the Englishman displayed superiority enough to even the difference in the length of the blades. But why take time for idle surmises? Maggie Stone, looking in, all unheeded, at the open door, saw her beloved master engaged in a desperate combat with a person whom she despised as well as feared. She saw the sodden stain of blood on her master's doublet. In her hand she held a skillet which she had just borrowed from Dame Trigget. Without waiting to announce herself, she rushed into the room and dealt Captain d'Antons a resounding whack on the head with the iron bowl of the utensil. The long sword fell from the benumbed fingers and clanged on the floor. With a low, guttural cry, the Frenchman followed it, and sprawled, unconscious, at the feet of the surprised and indignant baronet. CHAPTER XVII. THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH Master Kingswell and his party returned from their daring reconnoitre early in the afternoon. They had not met with the enemy, though they had found the camp and torn down the temporary lodges. After that they had followed the broad trail of the retreat for several miles, and had discharged the cannon twice into the inscrutable woods. Their daring had been rewarded by the capture of about two hundred pounds of smoked salmon and dried venison. Both Kingswell and William Trigget were unable to account for the fact that the savages had not attacked them in the cover of the woods. In reality they owed their bloodless victory to the presence of the little cannon. That third and last discharge of slugs, on the day of the big fight, had killed three of the braves, wounded five more, and inspired an hysterical terror in the hearts of the rest. But for that, the hidden enemy would not have been content with playing a waiting game and with the attempted killing of one man each night; and neither would they have retired, so undemonstratively, before the advance of the five. But, despite their fear of the cannon, they had no intention of giving up the siege of the fort. They placed trust in the darkness of night and their own cunning. Kingswell and the elder Trigget were drawn aside by Sir Ralph. The baronet looked less care-haunted than he had for years. "D'Antons and I have broken our truce," he whispered, "and behold, the heavens have not fallen,--nor even the poor defences of this plantation." He smiled cheerfully. "The great captain alone has come to grief," he added. "Maggie Stone saved him from my hand by felling him herself with some sort of stew-pan. I was frantically angry at the time, but am glad now that I did not have to kill the rogue." "Such cattle are better dead, sir," remarked Trigget, coolly. "I grant you that, my good William," replied Sir Ralph, "but he is harmless as a new-born babe, after all--and we'll see that he remains so." Then he told them the story of the duel, and of what had led to it. Kingswell flushed and paled. "God's mercy!" he cried, "but I would I had been in your boots, sir." "You'd have died in them, more than likely," replied the baronet, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "D'Antons has a rare knowledge of swordsmanship, and eye and wrist to back it with." "Even so," replied Kingswell, "it would have been--it would have been a pleasure to die in such a cause." He blushed, and hurriedly added, "But I doubt if he'd have killed me, for all his gimcrackery and side-stepping. I've seen such gentry hopping and poking for hours, when one good cut from the shoulder would have ended their tricks." The baronet smiled kindly, though with a tinge of sadness. "Ah, what a fine thing is the heart of youth," he said, "and the confidence of youth. I even bow to the ignorance of youth. But, my dear boy, valour and confidence are not more than half the battle, after all. The edge is a fine thing, and has spilled a deal of blood since the hammering of the first sword; but the point becomes no less deadly simply because one stout young Englishman is ignorant of its potency. Lad, if it were not that I have won the distinction--beside many a less enviable one--of being the best swordsman in England, I could not have withstood D'Antons' play for long enough to make sure of the colour of his eyes." Kingswell felt like a fool, and did not know which way to turn his abashed countenance. Both Sir Ralph and Trigget felt sorry for him. "But I can assure you, Bernard," said the former, "that, if it came to a matter of cutlasses, neither the Frenchman nor I would stand up for long against either you or Trigget." "It is kind of you to say so," replied Kingswell, staring over the baronet's shoulder at nothing in particular, "but I haven't a doubt that even Maggie Stone, with her stew-pan, would be more than a match for me." William Trigget laughed boisterously at that. "We must ease the young gentleman's temper, sir," he said to the baronet. "I have a pair of singlesticks." "Get them," said the baronet. He slipped his hand under Kingswell's arm and led him into the cabin. Beatrix welcomed him cordially, with a shy compliment to his bravery thrown in. The youth immediately felt better in his pride. "Say nothing of D'Antons, or the duel," Sir Ralph whispered in his ear. "He is safe in his own bed, being nursed conscientiously, if not over-tenderly, by Maggie Stone." Kingswell seated himself beside Mistress Beatrix on the bench by the fire. He noticed that she had been weeping. Her eyes seemed all the brighter for it. He gave her a detailed account of the brief expedition from which he had just returned. He told of the cluster of lodges, the cooking-fires still burning, the utensils and food scattered about, and not a human being in sight. "And what if you had seen the savages?" she asked. "Surely, four Englishmen and a lad could do nothing against such a host?" "We would have fallen in the first flight of arrows," replied Kingswell. "Then why did you risk it?" The young man shook his head and laughed. "Some one must take risks," he said, "else all warfare would come to a standstill." The girl was looking down at her hands, and reflectively twisting a jewelled ring around and around on one slim finger. "And I wish it would with all my heart," she sighed. "Warfare and bloodshed--they are the devil's inventions, and strike innocent and guilty alike." "Nay," replied Kingswell, "there is more harm done to the innocent in courts and fine assemblies, and at the sheltered card-tables, than on all the battle-fields of the world. War is a good surgeon, and, if he sometimes lets the good blood with the bad, why, that's just a risk we must accept." Beatrix raised a flushed face, and eyed him squarely. "You preach like a Puritan," she said, "with your condemnation of courts and play. You should give my father the benefit of some of your wisdom. His friends have all been generous with such help." Kingswell bit his lip, and for an awkward minute studied the toes of his moccasins. Presently he looked up. "I am sorry," he said. Her glance softened. "I am as ignorant of battle-fields as I am of courts," he added. "I am ignorant of everything." His voice was low and bitter. Beatrix laughed softly. "Pray do not take it so much to heart," she said. "Nothing is so easily mended as ignorance." He looked at her gravely. "I am going to ask Sir Ralph to give me lessons in French sword-play," he said. "Is there nothing that you would teach me?" "Embroidery," she replied, "and how to brew a Madeira punch." At that moment the baronet opened the door and admitted William Trigget. The master mariner carried a pair of stout oak sticks with basket-work guards under his arm. "Does your education commence so soon?" inquired Beatrix of Kingswell. "Somebody's does," he replied, with a return of his old confidence. With the lady's permission and Sir Ralph's assistance, Trigget and Kingswell cleared the middle of the floor of rugs and the table. They removed their outer coats. Trigget was the taller, as well as the heavier, of the two. Without further preliminaries, they fell on, and the dry whacking of the sticks against one another, varied occasionally by the muffled thud of wood against cloth, filled the cabin. It was a fine display of the English style--slash, cut, and guard, with never a side-step nor retreat. After ten minutes of it, Trigget cried "enough," and stumbled out of the danger zone. His right arm was numb. His shoulders and sides ached, and his head swam; Kingswell was without a touch. Neither Beatrix nor Sir Ralph, nor yet Trigget, for that matter, concealed their astonishment at the result of the bout. "And now, sir," said Kingswell, "I should like a lesson in the other style." The baronet took down a pair of light, edgeless blades with blunted points. After a few words as to the manner of standing, they crossed the lithe weapons. In a second Kingswell's was jerked from his hand and sent bounding across the room. He recovered it without a word and returned to the combat. By this time the light was failing. After about a dozen passes, he was again disarmed. His gray eyes danced, and he laughed gaily as he picked up his weapon. "I see the way of that trick," he said. He returned to the one-sided engagement with, if possible, more energy and eagerness than before. Already he had the attitude and stamping manner of attack to perfection. Sir Ralph tested his defence again and again without slipping through. Three times he tried the circular, twisting stroke with which he had disarmed the novice before without success. Wondering, and slightly irritated, he put out fresh efforts, and forgot all about his defence. The blades rasped, and rang, and whispered. The blunted point was at Kingswell's breast, at his throat, at his eyes; but it never touched. And, just as Mistress Beatrix was about to bid the combatants cease their exertions, because of the gathering dusk, Kingswell's point touched the insignificant but painful wound on the baronet's shoulder. With an exclamation, in which disgust, pain, and amusement were queerly blended, Sir Ralph dropped his foil to the floor. CHAPTER XVIII. EVENTS AND REFLECTIONS Captain Pierre d'Antons' injury kept him indoors for ten days. During that time he saw nobody but Maggie Stone, Bernard Kingswell, and Ouenwa. Kingswell could not help feeling sorry for him, in spite of the enmity and distrust in his heart. D'Antons made no mention of how he came by his cut head to the young Englishman. He knew that the other knew--and sometimes he wondered how much. He accepted such attentions at Kingswell's hand as any fair-hearted man will make to any invalid, with what seemed gratitude and humility. But under the mask his blood was raging. If his hand trembled while receiving a glass of water from the Englishman, it was as much from the effort of restraining an outburst of hate as from weakness. Kingswell, clear-sighted by now, suspected the real state of the other's feelings. During the days of D'Antons' inactivity, the Beothics made three night attacks on the fort. Two were repetitions of the one-man demonstrations of cunning, in which Clotworthy had met his death and young Trigget had received the cut on his arm. Happily both had failed. The third was an attack in force, made in that darkest hour just before the first stirrings of dawn. By good fortune, both William Trigget and Kingswell were dressed and about at the time of the first alarm. They both ran to the gun-platform, and there found Tom Bent desperately engaged with two savages, who had scaled the stockade over the massed shoulders of their fellows. The intruders were speedily hurled backward, they and a portion of the breastworks falling on the devoted heads below. At the moment, Dame Trigget puffed valiantly up the ladder and handed a torch to her husband. In a second the coverings were pulled from the guns. The muzzles of the little weapons were declined as far as they would go, and the fuses were ignited. Comprehending the trend of affairs, some of the enemy let fly their arrows at the little group in the torch's illumination. Both William Trigget and Tom Bent were hit, and fell to their knees. In the same instant of time the guns belched their flame and screaming missiles into the wavering mass of savages. A yell of terror and pain, made up of many individual cries, followed the reports of the guns like an echo. But along the opposite stockade, things were not going so well for the settlers. About a dozen of the enemy had gained foothold on the roof of the storehouse, and from there had jumped into the yard, driving Peter Harding before them. They were immediately engaged by the Donnellys. Torches and lanterns glowed and swung about the edges of the conflict. Matters were looking serious for the defenders (who by that time were joined by Sir Ralph, Ouenwa, and the redoubtable Maggie Stone) when the discharge of artillery across the square turned the courage of the attackers to water, and their victory to defeat. Six of them were cut down while endeavouring to escape by way of the ladder against the wall of the storehouse. The rest got away, but none of them unscathed. With that the fight ended, though the defenders kept to their posts until broad daylight. In the morning it was discovered that one of the six warriors who remained within the fort was still alive. Sir Ralph had him carried to D'Antons' cabin, and his wounds attended to. They were not of a serious nature. Black Feather, who was a convalescent by now, recognized a bitter enemy in the disabled captive. He was for despatching him straightway, recalling the bitter days of his slavery and the loss of wife and children. He was dragged away by Kingswell, and Ouenwa remonstrated with him at some length. The little garrison had suffered in the brief engagement. William Trigget had halted three arrows with his big body. Only one had reached the flesh, thanks to his thick garments of wool and hide; but that one had cut deep into the muscles of his chest, and the others had bruised his ribs. Tom Bent was more seriously injured, with a gaping slash in the side of his neck. Young Peter Harding was laid on his back with a cracked rib, dealt him by a stone-headed axe, and seemed in a fair way to remain on the sick-list for some time to come. The dead Beothics were carried out and buried in a shallow grave near the honest Clotworthy's desolate resting-place. It was evident, from the smoke above the woods, that the enemy were still maintaining the siege, and at even closer range than before. The continual sight of that evidence of their presence, and the idleness due to confinement within a few hundred yards of the stockade, began to tell on the spirits of the settlers. It became a matter of difficulty to forget the wounded men in such restricted quarters. Bandages and salves, gruels and plasters, seemed to pervade every corner. Every one who was not an invalid was a nurse. In addition, the lack of fresh meat was beginning to be felt. Sir Ralph, who had seemed more cheerful just after his affair with D'Antons, was fallen back on his black moods. Mistress Beatrix's cheeks and eyes were losing something of their radiance, though she carried herself bravely and cheerfully. Master Kingswell, who had a knack with bandages and such, found his time fully occupied. He inspected all the wounded twice a day, and he and Ouenwa took entire charge of D'Antons and the captured Beothic. His only recreation was a few hours of each afternoon or evening spent with the Westleighs. He and the baronet fenced, if the visit happened to be paid during the day; if in the evening, they sometimes played chess, or, better still, the baronet paced the room in uneasy meditation, and the youth and the maiden bent their young heads above the pieces of carved ivory. Behind the girl's laughter and hospitality, Kingswell detected an aloofness toward him that had not been noticeable during the first days of their acquaintance. The thing was very fine--so fine that it was scarcely a matter of attitude or manner. One of duller perception would have missed it altogether. It was in no wise a physical aloofness, save in a certain reservation in the glance of the eye and the softer notes of the voice. But it worried the young man. He felt that he had failed in something--that she had set a standard for him, and that he had not risen to it. With native shrewdness, he suspected that she considered him crude and conceited. He knew that she considered him brave, and that she admired his courage; but he was equally sure that his prowess with the singlesticks against Trigget, and his increasing dexterity with the rapier, did not tell in his favour in her eyes. "Women are evidently as unreasonable as the poets depict them," he decided, and tried to acquire a modest demeanour. But the ability to do so had not been born in him, and no matter how low and self-abasing his speech, pride shone in his clear eyes and self-confidence was in the carriage of head and shoulders. The baronet's attitude toward Master Kingswell became more affectionate every day. He recognized the sterling qualities in the youth,--the honesty, courage, and loyalty, as well as the physical and mental gifts of quick eye and wrist and clear brain. He derived no little comfort from his presence in the fort. He felt that in this golden-haired son of the Bristol merchant-knight his daughter had a second guardian. He knew that the Kingswell blood, though not noble by the rating of the College of Heralds, was to be depended on as surely as any in England. In happier times he had known and enjoyed a certain amount of familiarity with the elder Kingswell, and had found the broad-minded merchant's heart as sound as his self-imported wines. He remembered the wife, too, as a person of distinction and kindliness. For his own part, the baronet realized more surely, with the passing of each narrow day, that life offered no further allurement to him. The slight exhilaration that had followed the defiance and defeat of D'Antons was of no more lasting a quality than the flavour of a vintage. The Frenchman was harmless, poor devil, like the rest of them; and in as fair a way as himself to leave his bones in the wilderness. Yes, he felt a twinge of pity for him! He could understand that, to an adventurer like D'Antons, unrequited love was the very devil,--worse, perhaps, than the fever of the gaming-table. But of course he felt no regret for having put an end (as he believed) to the fellow's audacious suit. His regret--if, indeed, he entertained any concerning so recent an event in his career--was that he had not pricked the buccaneer's bubble of false power months before--despite the promise he had made him. But as things had turned out,--as Time had dealt the cards, to use his own words,--the other's behaviour had allowed him to strike without too flagrant a breach of his word of honour. He was thankful for that. CHAPTER XIX. TWO OF A KIND When Pierre d'Antons was able to move about again, he found himself shunned, without disguise, by every one of the inmates of the fort save Bernard Kingswell. The West Country sailors, no longer under orders to treat him with respect and obedience, simply grunted inaudibly and turned their backs when he addressed them. Of course, the door of Sir Ralph's habitation was closed against him. He spent almost all his time in his own cabin, with the captured and slowly convalescing Beothic for companion. He read a great deal, and thought more. Now and again, in a fit of chagrin, he would stamp about the room, cursing, crying out for a chance of revenge, with clinched hands uplifted. During such paroxysms, the Beothic would watch him closely, with understanding in his gaze. The savage was no linguist; but hate burns the same signals in eyes of every nationality. D'Antons continued to suffer from his infatuation for Mistress Westleigh. The blow of the skillet had changed nothing of that. Whatever his passion lacked in the higher attributes of love, it lacked nothing in vitality. It was a madness. It was a bitter desire. How gladly he would risk death, fighting for her--and yet he would not have hesitated a moment about killing her happiness, to win his own, had an opportunity offered. Self-sacrifice, worshipful devotion, and tenderness were things apart from what he considered his love for the beautiful English girl. In this state of mind he built a hundred wild dreams of carrying her away, and of ultimately imprisoning her, should she still be averse to his love, in a Southern stronghold. Then a realization of his position would come over him and set him stamping and raving. To Kingswell, despite the fire in his heart, he showed a contrite and friendly exterior. He wondered if he could not turn the young man to some use. He gave the matter his attention. One evening D'Antons told a plaintive story to Kingswell. All through it the Englishman was itching to be gone; for he spent no more of his time than was absolutely necessary under the Frenchman's roof. But the narrator held him with a mournful eye. The tale was an alleged history of Pierre d'Antons' youth. It dealt with a great family that had fallen upon lean years; with a ruinous château, a proud and studious father, and a saintly mother; with a boyhood of noble dreams and few pleasures; with a youth of hard and honourable soldiering wherever the banners of France led the way; and with an early manhood of high adventure and achievement in the Western colonies. Kingswell listened coldly, though the other's voice fairly trembled with emotion. He believed no more of the tale than if he had already heard the truth of the matter--which was, in plain English, that D'Antons was the bastard of a blackleg nobleman by a Spanish dancer; that he had spent his youth as a pot-boy on French ships, and had won, by courage and cunning, to the position of a captain of buccaneers in early manhood. The achievements in the Western colonies had been matters of the wrecking and plundering of what others had built; the high adventures--God spare me the telling of them! After Kingswell left him, the pirate fell into one of his reddest moods. He was sure that the pink-cheeked youth had not believed a word of his story--had been laughing up his sleeve at the most touching passages. He was sorry that he had not twisted the lad's neck instead of concluding the narrative. It was a sheer waste of breath, this artistic lying to such a pig's head! He jumped to his feet, with a violence that almost startled the Beothic to outcry, and flung himself about the room like a madman. He kicked the stolid logs of the walls. He knocked the few pieces of furniture out of his erratic course, and spilled his books and papers, quills and ink, to the floor: all this without any ringing oaths or blistering curses. His rage worked inward, as bodily wounds sometimes bleed. It played the devil with his limbs, his features, and his hands, but found no ease in articulation. A trickle of blood ran down his chin, from where he had set a tooth into his lower lip. Withal, he was such a daunting spectacle that Red Cloud, the Beothic, crouched fearfully against the wall, and followed his movements with wide eyes; for, though a mighty warrior in his own estimation, Red Cloud was a craven at heart. Presently the tumult of the madness ceased, and the victim of it sank languidly into a chair beside the Beothic's couch. He groaned and shivered. For awhile he sat limp, with his thin face hidden between his hands. Looking up, his eyes met the eyes of the native. In their furtive regard, he read that which suggested a new move. Though, owing to an inborn caution, he had never displayed a knowledge of the Beothic language to his fellow settlers, and had refrained from using any words of it before Ouenwa, he had picked up a fair idea of it during his sojourn at Fort Beatrix. Hitherto he had paid but scant attention to Red Cloud, for he entertained the Spanish attitude of intolerance toward uncivilized peoples; but now he leaned forward and spoke kindly to his companion. It was late when Kingswell and Ouenwa returned to D'Antons' cabin. Under the new order of things, Ouenwa had volunteered his services as assistant night-guard of the two prisoners--for the Frenchman was virtually a prisoner. It was their custom to keep watch turn and turn about, in two hours' vigils, one sleeping while the other sat in a comfortable chair by the hearth. Their couch was also by the hearth. This precaution was taken for fear of some treachery on the part of Red Cloud. When the two entered the outer room, the fire was burning brightly, and by its ruddy light they saw the muffled figure of the Beothic, face to the wall, in the far corner. They shot the bar of the door. When the morning was well advanced, they opened windows and door, and replenished the fire. Kingswell drew aside the curtain between the rooms, and looked in to see how D'Antons was faring. His fire was out and he was still abed. Kingswell moved noiselessly across the floor and peered close. What an awkward figure the graceful buccaneer cut in his sleep! He laid his hand on the shapeless shoulder. It encountered nothing but yielding pelts and blankets. He dragged the things to the floor frantically. His exclamation brought Ouenwa to his side. The Englishman pointed a finger of dismay at the demolished dummy. "Tricked!" he cried. "Rip me, but what a fine jailer I am!" They rushed back to the other room and investigated the figure on the Beothic's couch. That, too, proved to be a shape of rolled furs and bedding. Red Cloud also had faded away. News of the disappearance of D'Antons and the savage went through the fort like an electric current. The settlers were more interested and surprised over it than concerned. Even the invalids sat up and conjectured on the captain's object in fleeing to the outer wilderness, and the doubtful but inevitable reception by the natives. They could hardly bring themselves to the belief that he and Red Cloud had gone as fellow conspirators, remembering the haughty Frenchman's bearing toward the aborigines with whom he had traded on occasions. William Trigget shook his head when he heard the story, and rated the men who had been on duty along the palisade with unsparing frankness. Sir Ralph looked worried, and Mistress Beatrix looked surprised. "It seems a very simple trick," she murmured, "to bundle up a few blankets into lifelike effigies, and then to slip away while the jailer is elsewhere spending a social evening." Kingswell flushed hotly, and looked at the girl steadily; but he failed to meet her eyes. "Yes," he said, "they slipped away while two men were on guard along the walls, and while the self-appointed jailer, who has not had four hours' sleep in any night in the past three weeks, was playing chess with your ladyship." "I am sure it is no loss to us," interposed the baronet quickly. "We have no use for the savage; and as to D'Antons--why, if the enemy kill him, it will save some one else the trouble. But I cannot help wondering at him taking so dangerous a risk. If he had been on friendly terms with the natives at any time, one would have a clue. But he always treated them like dogs." Kingswell turned a casual shoulder toward the lady, and gave all his attention to the baronet and the affair of the Frenchman. The blush of shame had gone, leaving his face unusually pale. His eyes, also, showed a change--a chilling from blue to gray, with a surface glitter and a shadow behind. "You may be sure," he replied to Sir Ralph, "that D'Antons has taken what he considers the lesser risk. I'll wager he has won the savage to him, hand and heart. I was a fool not to have removed Red Cloud to one of the other huts." "He was kept to D'Antons' cabin by my orders," said the baronet. "I had forgotten that," replied Kingswell. "Then I am not the only scapegrace of the community." The baronet's face lighted whimsically, and he smiled at the young man. But the girl did not receive the implication in the same spirit. She stared at the speaker as if he were some surprising species of bird that had flown in at the window. "Such a remark rings dangerously of insubordination," she exclaimed, "not to mention the impertinence of it." Sir Ralph looked at her, completely puzzled, and murmured a remonstrance. It is a wise father that knows his own daughter. Kingswell turned an expressionless face toward the fire for a moment. Then he bowed to Sir Ralph. "If I am guilty of impertinence, sir, I humbly crave your pardon," he said. "As to insubordination--why, I believe there is nothing to say on that head, as I am a free agent; but I think you understand, sir, that I and my men are entirely at your service, as we have been ever since the day we first accepted the hospitality of Fort Beatrix. My men, at least, have not failed in any duty, whatever my delinquencies." With an exclamation of sincere concern, the baronet stepped close to his friend and placed a hand on either of his shoulders. "Bernard--my dear lad--why all this talk of pardon, and duty, and delinquencies, and God knows what else? If you believe that I consider you guilty of any carelessness, you must think me ungrateful indeed." His voice, his look, his gesture, all convinced Kingswell that the words were sincere, and so did something toward the mending of his injured feelings. To the baronet, his eyes brightened and his manner unbent. He took his departure immediately after. Sir Ralph turned to his daughter as the door closed behind Kingswell. "I do not understand your treatment of him," he said. "Surely you realize that he is a friend--and friends are not so common that we can afford to flout them at every turn." He did not speak angrily, but the girl saw plainly enough that he was seriously displeased. "The boy is so insufferably self-satisfied," she explained, weakly. "How indignation would have burned within him had some one else allowed the prisoners to escape." The baronet gazed at her pensively for several seconds, and then took her hand tenderly between his own. "You do the brave lad an injustice, my sweeting," he said. "What you take for conceit is just youth, and strength, and fearlessness, and a clean conscience. He has nothing of the braggart in him--not a hint of it. I am sorry you like him so little, my daughter, for he is a good lad and well-disposed toward us." CHAPTER XX. BY ADVICE OF BLACK FEATHER For a time after D'Antons' departure into the unknown, the little garrison of Fort Beatrix turned day into night. Not a man indulged in so much as a wink of sleep between the hours of dusk and dawn; but from sunrise until afternoon the place was as if it lay under an enchantment of slumber. On the sixth day after the flight of the Frenchman and Red Cloud, Ouenwa approached Kingswell with a request to be allowed to leave the fort, in company with Black Feather. He told how Black Feather was of the opinion that many of the tribesmen were against the leadership of Panounia, and that, if they could be found, it would be an easy matter for Ouenwa to win their support. He, Ouenwa, was of the blood of the greatest chief they had ever known. They would gather to the totem of the Bear. Assured of the friendship of the English people, they could be brought to the rescue of the settlement. So Black Feather had told the tale to Ouenwa, and so Ouenwa believed. "And you would have to go with Black Feather?" inquired Kingswell, none too cheerfully; for he looked upon the lad as a very dear younger brother. "Truly, my friend-chief, for I am the grandson of Soft Hand," replied the boy. "When they see me, their blood will rise at the memory of Soft Hand's murder. I will talk great words of my love for the English, and of my hatred for Panounia, and of the great trading that will be done at the fort when the night-howlers have been driven away. Thus we shall all be saved--thus Mistress Beatrix shall escape capture." At that Kingswell started and eyed his companion keenly. "You think Panounia can break into the fort?" he inquired. Ouenwa smiled. "Hunger can do it before the snow melts," he replied, "and hunger will fight for Panounia and the black captain." "What do you know of the black captain?" "He is with the night-howlers. He will keep their courage warm. He will struggle many times to bring us to our deaths and to capture the lady. That is all I know." "But how do you know so much, lad?" asked Kingswell. Ouenwa looked surprised. "How could I know less, who dwelt within eyeshot of the black captain for so many days, and who have learned the ways of such wolves?" he asked, in his turn. "You know it already without my telling, friend-chief," he added. "Let us to Sir Ralph for his advice," said the other. Master Kingswell had not crossed the threshold of the baronet's cabin since the time of his rebuff at the hands of Mistress Beatrix. Of course he had seen the baronet frequently, and they had smoked some pipes of tobacco together by the hearth of the departed Frenchman; but from the presence of the lady he had kept off as from a lazaretto. At the voice of duty, however, he sought the baronet in his own house with excellent composure. Anger at the knowledge that a girl could hurt him so nerved him to accept the risk of again seeing the displeasure in her dark eyes. Mistress Beatrix was not in the living-room when they entered. Sir Ralph welcomed them cordially. Upon hearing Ouenwa's and Black Feather's plan for winning some of the tribesmen to the succour of the fort, he was deeply moved. He took a ring from his own hand and slipped it over one of Ouenwa's fingers. He gave the lad a fine hunting-knife for Black Feather, and a Spanish dagger for himself. He told Kingswell to supply them unstintingly from the store, with provisions and clothing for themselves and gifts for the natives whom they hoped to win. "'Tis a chance," said he to Kingswell. "A chance of our salvation, and the only one, as far as I can see." At that moment Mistress Beatrix entered the room. At sight of the visitors by the chimney, she swept a grand curtsey. The visitors bowed low in return. Her father advanced and led her, with the manner of those days, to his own chair beside the hearth. He told her, in a few words, of the venture upon which Ouenwa and Black Feather intended to set forth. The thought of it stirred the girl, and she looked on Ouenwa with shining eyes. "'Tis a deed for the great knights of old," she said. "Lad, where have you learned your bravery?" Unabashed, Ouenwa stood erect before her. "Half of it is the blood of my fathers," he replied, "and half is the teaching of Master Kingswell--and half I gather from your eyes." The girl flushed with suppressed merriment. The baronet concealed his lips with his hand. Kingswell clutched his outspoken friend by the shoulder. "Brother, you have named one-half too many," he said, laughing, "so your reason will carry more weight if you leave out that in which you mention my teaching. But come, we must find Black Feather, and make arrangements to leave as soon as dusk falls." At that Beatrix tightened her hands on the arms of the chair and turned a startled face toward the speaker. "Surely, sir, you do not mean to leave us, too!" she exclaimed. Neither the baronet nor Kingswell were looking at her; but Ouenwa saw the expression of eyes and lips. Kingswell, however, did not miss the note of anxiety in the clear young voice. "I do not go with them, mistress," he said, "because my company would only delay their movements. And perhaps even spoil their plans. I am a poor woodsman--and already our garrison is none too heavily manned." "I am glad you are not going," replied the girl, quietly. "I am sure that my father looks upon you as his right hand, and that the men need you." Sir Ralph looked at his daughter with ill-concealed surprise. Kingswell, murmuring polite acknowledgment of her gracious words, strove to get a clearer view of her half-averted face. He failed. Ouenwa was the only one of the three who knew that the words were sincere; but he had the advantage of his superiors in having caught sight of the sudden fear in the lady's face. Sir Ralph and Kingswell lowered the light packs over the stockade to Ouenwa and the big warrior. When the figures merged into the gloom, heading northward, the two commanders descended from the storehouse and entered the baronet's cabin. Beatrix was by the fire, radiant in fine apparel. "I am in no mood for chess," said Sir Ralph. "The thought of those two brave fellows stealing through the dark and cold fidgets me beyond belief." He began his quarter-deck pacing of the floor--up and down, up and down, with his head thrust forward and his hands gripped behind his back. "The wind is rising," said the girl to Kingswell. "It will be bleak in the forest to-night--away from the fire." She shivered, and held her jewelled hands to the blaze. "It is blowing for a storm," replied the young man. "The sky was clouded over when they left. 'Tis safer for them so. The snow will cover their trail and, very likely, will keep the enemy from prowling abroad for a good many hours to come." Mistress Beatrix crossed the room to a cupboard in the wall, and from it produced a violin. Kingswell stood by the chimney, watching her. The baronet continued his nervous pacing of the floor. The girl touched the strings here and there with skilful fingers, resined the bow, and then returned to the hearth and stood with her eyes on the fire. Suddenly she looked up at Kingswell. Her eyes were as he had never seen them before. They were full of firelight and dream. They were brighter than jewels, and yet dark as the heart of a deep water. "Please do not stand," she said, and her voice, though free from any suggestion of indifference, sounded as if her whole being were far from that simple room. Her gaze returned to the fire. Kingswell quietly reseated himself; and at that she nestled her chin to the glowing instrument and drew the bow lightly, lovingly, almost inquiringly, across the strings. A whisper of melody followed the touch and sang clearer and more human than any human voice, and melted into the firelight. At the first strain of the music, the baronet sat down and reclined comfortably with his head against the back of his chair. For awhile he watched his daughter intently; then he turned his eyes to the heart of the fire and journeyed far in a waking dream. The girl played on and on, weaving enchantments of peace with the magic strings. Kingswell, leaning back with his face in the shadow, could not look away from her. The minutes drifted by unheeded behind the singing of the violin. The candles on the table flared at their sockets. The logs on the hearth broke, and the flames sprang to new life. Outside the wind raced and shouldered along the walls. And suddenly the player stilled her hand, and, without a word to either of the men, took up one of the guttering candles from the table and went quickly to her own chamber. She carried the fiddle with her against her young breast, and the bow like a wand in her hand. Sir Ralph started and sat erect in his chair. Kingswell got to his feet with a sigh, and lifted his heavy cloak from the bench. "I must go the rounds," he said. "Good night, sir." With that he went out into the swirling eddies of the storm. The baronet sat still for another hour. The music had uncovered so many ghosts of joy and song, of love and hate and shame. It had rung upon past glories and called up more recent dishonours. And still another matter occupied his mind, and was finally dismissed with a smile and a yawn. It was that Beatrix had indulged in one of her deliriums of music in young Kingswell's presence, and that she had never before played in any mood but the lightest in the hearing of a stranger. Kingswell paced beside the sentry at the drifted gate; but he kept his thoughts to the picture of the girl, the glowing fiddle, and the music and firelight that had seemed to pulse and spread together about the long room. Again he saw the candle flames leap high and waver, as if lured from their tethers by the crying of the instrument. But clearest of all was the player's face. His heart was filled to suffocation at the memory of it. Had other men seen her so beautiful? Had other men heard her soul and her dear heart singing and crying from the strings of the violin? CHAPTER XXI. THE SEEKING OF THE TRIBESMEN Ouenwa and Black Feather turned their faces from the little fort and the hostile camp beyond the white river, and set bravely forward into the darkness. Black Feather led the way, avoiding hummocks, bending and twisting through the coverts, crossing the open glades like a shadow--and all without any noise except the scarcely audible padding of his stringed shoes. Ouenwa trod close after. They had not gone far before the snow began to fall and puff around them in blinding clouds. The trees bent tensely under the lash of the wind. More than one frost-embrittled spire came crashing down. Still the warrior and the lad held on their journey, for they were both fresh and strong, and eager to widen the spaces of wilderness between themselves and the camp of Panounia. Shortly before dawn they dug a trench in the snow on the leeward side of a thicket of low spruces, broke fir-branches for a bed, built a fire between the walls of white, and cooked and ate a frugal repast, and then rolled themselves in their rugs of skin and fell asleep. They had no fear that any of Panounia's people would disturb their slumbers. They lay as motionless and unknowing as logs for several hours. Then Ouenwa turned over and yawned, and Black Feather sat up, wide-awake in an instant. The morning was bright and unclouded. The white sun was half-way up the blue shell of the eastern sky. All around the new snow lay in feathery depths. On the dark firs and spruces it clung in even masses, which showed that the wind had died down long before the flakes had ceased to fall. Ouenwa and his comrade ate frugally of cold meat and bread, swallowed some brandy and water, and resumed their journey. Not until the afternoon of the third day following their departure from Fort Beatrix did the travellers sight the smoke of a fire. It was Black Feather, attaining the summit of a ridge a few paces ahead of Ouenwa, who caught the first sight of the thin, melting signal of human life. It wavered up from a wood in a valley a few hundred of yards in front. On their right hand lay the ice-edged gray waters of an arm of the sea. On their left stretched dark forest and empty barren to a mountainous horizon. In front lay hope, and behind the spur of menace. "Is there a village yonder?" asked Ouenwa. Black Feather replied negatively. "The stream is Little Thunder," he said, in his own language, "and there was no lodge there when last I saw it. We will approach under the shelter of those spruces in the hollow. It makes the journey a few paces longer, and perhaps the arrival twenty times safer." Ouenwa nodded his sympathy with the caution expressed by his friend. "But let us hurry," he said. "Remember that around the stockade the black captain is ever stirring the courage of the night-howlers." At last, creeping on all fours, they peered from the screen of brush into a tiny clearing on the north bank of Little Thunder. The stream was not ten yards across at this point. On its white surface ran several trails of snow-shoes. The smoke which had attracted them to the place curled up from the apex of a large, bark-roofed wigwam. As the travellers watched, an old woman appeared in the doorway of the lodge. Ouenwa recognized her as a wise herb-doctor who had been a friend and adviser of Soft Hand. He whispered the information to Black Feather. "Then we may show ourselves," said the other, "for if this woman was the great chief's friend you may be sure that death has only strengthened her loyalty. It is so with women--with the wise and the foolish alike. A man will stand close to his comrade in the days of his glory and in the press of battle; but it is the squaw who keeps the fallen shield freshly painted and the cause of the departed ever before the matters of the present day. A man must have the reward of his friend's praise and the joy of his companionship; but a woman makes a god of the departed spirit and looks for her reward beyond the red gates." Ouenwa had nothing to say to his friend's sage reflections, for all he knew of women was that a radiant creature far back in Fort Beatrix had his heart in thrall. So he led the way from cover, and down the bank, in silence. The old squaw in the doorway of the lodge caught sight of them immediately. She turned into the dark interior of the wigwam, but appeared before they were half-way across the frozen stream, with a bow in her hand and an arrow on the string. Black Feather and the lad raised their right hands, palms forward, above their heads, and continued to advance. The old hag lowered her weapon, but did not relax her attitude of vigilance. Close to the rise of the bank the travellers paused, and the lad called out that he was Ouenwa, grandson of Soft Hand, and that his companion was Black Feather, the adopted son of Montaw, the arrow-maker. At that the guardian of the wigwam forsook her post and advanced to meet them. The herb-doctor, who had been one of Soft Hand's advisers, was not attractive to the eye. She was bent hideously, though still of surprising bodily strength. Her head was uncovered, save for the matted locks of hair that clung about it and fell over her ears and neck like a wig of gray tree-moss. Her eyes were deep and black and fierce. One yellow fang stood like a sentinel in the cavity of her mouth. Her hands were claws. Her skin was no lighter in hue and no finer in texture than was the tanned leather of her high-legged moccasins. Her garments were unusually barbaric--lynx-skins shapelessly stitched together and hung about with belts and charms, and a great knife of flint nearly as long as a cutlass. Her corded, scraggy arms hung naked at her sides, as indifferent to the nip of the frost as to the regard of strange eyes. "Child," she said, "I heard that you were killed--that Panounia's men had slain you and a party of English; but that I knew to be false, for I saw not your spirit with the spirits of your fathers. So I believed that you had crossed the great salt water with the strangers." Ouenwa told his story, to which the old woman listened with the keenest interest and many nods of the head. "It is well," she said. "They are scattered now, some in hiding, some sullenly obedient to Panounia, and some in captivity. Your need will bring them together and awake their sleeping courage. I know of a full score of stout warriors who will draw no bow for Panounia, and who are all within a day's journey of this spot, but sadly scattered,--yea, scattered in every little hollow, like frightened hares." "Do you live in this great lodge all by yourself?" inquired Black Feather. "My sons are in the forest, seeing to their snares," replied the woman, eying the tall brave sharply, "but within are a sick woman and a small child who escaped, ten days ago, from one of Panounia's camps." She stood aside and motioned them to enter the lodge. Ouenwa went ahead, with Black Feather close at his heels. Within, it took them several seconds to adjust their eyes to the gloom of smoke and shadow. Presently they made out a couch of fir-branches and skins beyond the fire, and on it a woman, half-reclining, with her arm about a child. Both the woman and the child were gazing at the visitors. The child began to whimper. Black Feather uttered a low cry, and sprang over the fire. He had found his squaw and one of his lost children. The sickness of Black Feather's wife was nothing but the result of hardship and ill-treatment. Already, under the herb-doctor's care, she was greatly improved. The meeting with her warrior went far to complete the cure of the old woman's broths and soft furs. The child was well; but the woman knew nothing of the whereabouts of their elder offspring. Ouenwa and Black Feather did not tarry long at the lodge beside Little Thunder. With the younger of their aged hostess's sons for guide, they set out that same day to find the hidden warriors who were against the leadership of Panounia. CHAPTER XXII. BRAVE DAYS FOR YOUNG HEARTS Back at Fort Beatrix the time passed in weary suspense. The wounded men recovered slowly. The enemy remained inactive beyond the river and the dark forest. Only the haze of their cooking-fires, melting against the sky, told of their presence. The inaction ate into the courage of the English men and women like rust. The boat-building and the iron-working at the forge were carried on listlessly, and without the old-time spurs of song and laughter. Even William Trigget and Tom Bent displayed sombre faces to their little world. Bernard Kingswell, however, found life eventful. He was not blind to the danger of their position, and he continued to do double duty in everything; but for all that he awoke each day with keen anticipation for whatever might befall, and, sleeping, dreamed of other things than the poised menace and the monotony. Why should he regret Bristol, or any other city of the outer world, when Beatrix Westleigh was domiciled within the rough walls of the fort on Gray Goose River? His heart would not descend to those depths of despondency in which lurk fear and hopeless anxiety. What power of man, in that wilderness, could break down his guard and harm the most wonderful being in the world? The girl's brief season of unkindness toward him was as a cloud that her later friendliness had dispersed as the sun disperses the morning fog. He had caught a glimpse of her heart in her music, in her eyes, in her voice, and on several occasions something that had set his heart thumping in the touch of her hand. At least she was neither averse nor indifferent to his society, and the glances of her magnificent eyes were open to translations that set him looking out upon life and that wilderness through a golden haze. Let a dozen black-visaged D'Antons draw their rapiers upon him--he would out-thrust, out-play, and out-stamp them all! Let a hundred fur-clad savages howl about the fort--he, Bernard Kingswell, with his lady's favour on his breast, would scatter them like straw! And all this because, for the first time in his life of twenty-one years, he was bitten with love for a woman,--and twenty-one was a fair, manly age in those days. He had won to it unknowingly, by the brave paths of adventure and the sea. So let not even the oldest of us criticize his attitude toward life. A man's emotions cannot always be herded and driven by the outward circumstances of need and danger, like a flock of sheep at the mercy of a dog and a dull countryman. That to which cautious Worldliness has given the name of madness, from the earliest times, is nothing but a spark of God's own courage and imagination in the heart of youth: the years having not yet smothered it with the ashes of cowardice and calculation. Bernard Kingswell had never displayed any but an assured front to the world. Now this love that had him so irresistibly in its services only heightened the confidence of his address toward men and events; but in the presence of its inspiration it clothed him in unaccustomed and unconscious meekness. You may be sure that Beatrix had been quick to notice the change. It pleased her mightily, of course; for was it not a greater and a more pleasant matter to have brought a high-hearted, adventure-bred youth like this to bondage and slavery than to have a dozen idle courtiers bowing before one, and a dozen sentimental poets mouthing verses that could, with equal sincerity, be applied to any charming lady? So Mistress Beatrix decided, and could not find it in her heart to regret the beaux of London Town. But she did not know her heart as the man knew his--and as she knew his. One morning they walked together along the river-bank, before the open gate of the fort. The air was clearer than any crystal. The shadows along the snow were bluer than the dome of the sky. The girl talked cheerily; for in the bright daytime, with the sounds of peaceful labour rising from the fort so close at hand, and with a strong and worshipping man, sword-girt, within arm's length, it was hard to remember the menace concealed by the southern woods. Her eyes were very bright, and the blood mantled under the clear skin of her cheeks at the wind's caress. Now and then, for a bar or two, she broke into song. Their path was one that Kingswell had beaten firm with his snow-shoes, after the last storm, expressly as a promenade for Mistress Westleigh. It was about a hundred yards in length, and broad enough for two persons to walk in abreast, and firm enough to make the wearing of snow-shoes unnecessary. It ran north and south, parallel with the stockade and the course of the river at that point. When the turn was made at either end of the beat, Kingswell's glance searched the horizon and every tree, every knoll, and hollow. It was done almost unconsciously, as a traveller instinctively loosens his sword in its sheath at the sound of voices ahead of him on a dark road. After a time the girl noticed her companion's vigilance. "What do you expect to see?" she asked, touching his arm lightly and swiftly with her gloved hand. For a moment he was confused, but recovered his wits with an effort. "Nothing," he replied, "or surely we would not be walking here." She smiled at that. "Are you afraid?" she inquired. He looked down at her, displayed the desperate condition of his heart in his eyes, and then looked back again to the strip of woods that approached them along the back. "I am not afraid," he said--and then, with a gasp of dismay, he caught her and swung her behind him. She did not resist, but cowered against his sheltering back. "We must return to the fort," he said. "Something is going on in that covert." "Come! We will run!" she whispered, pulling at his elbows to turn him around. "No," he replied. "I shall walk backwards, and you must keep behind me, and guide me. It is no great matter to avoid an arrow, if one knows in what quarter to look for it." She made no reply. They began the retreat along the narrow branch path that led to the gate of the fort, he stepping cautiously, heels first, and she pulling at his belt and gazing fearfully past his shoulder at the woods. They were within a few yards of the gate when he suddenly put his arms behind him, caught her close, and lurched to one side. The unexpected movement threw the girl to her knees in the deep snow beside the path. Her cry of dismay brought her father and two others from the fort. They found Kingswell staggering and confusedly apologizing to Beatrix for his roughness. In the thickness of his left shoulder stuck a war-arrow. Supporting Kingswell and fairly dragging the frightened girl, they rushed back to safety and closed and barred the gate. Hour after hour passed without the hidden warriors of Panounia making any further signs of hostility, or even of their existence. The watchers on the stockade scanned the woods in vain for any movement. A shot was fired into the nearest cover from one of the cannon, but without apparent effect. Kingswell was on duty again within an hour of the receiving of his wound. The ragged cut caused him a deal of pain; but the salve that really took the sting and ache out of it was the thought that he had been serving Beatrix as a shield when the arrow struck him. He went the rounds of the stockades with a glowing heart and dauntless bearing, and his air of calm assurance put courage into the men. He saw to the strengthening of several points of the defence, cleared the loopholes of drifted snow, and gave out an extra supply of powder and ball. It was dusk of that day before Kingswell again saw Mistress Westleigh. He was passing the baronet's cabin, and she opened the door and called to him shyly. He turned and stepped close to her, the better to see her face in the gathering twilight. She extended her hands to him, with a quick gesture of invitation. He dropped his heavy gloves on the snow before clasping them in eager fingers. "But you must not stand here, without anything 'round your shoulders," he said; but, for all his solicitude, he maintained his firm hold of her hands. She laughed, very softly, and a slight pressure of her fingers drove his anxiety to the winds. He would have nothing of evil befall her, God knows!--nay, not so much as a chill--but how could he keep it in his mind that she wore no cloak when his whole being was a-thrill with love and worship? So he stood there, speechless, gazing into her flushed face. Presently her eyes lowered before his ardent regard. "I called to you to thank you for saving my life," she murmured. He had nothing to say to that. Perhaps he had saved her life--and again, perhaps he had not. At that moment he was the last person in the world to decide the question. His heart and mind were altogether with the immediate present. He realized that her hands were strong and yet tender to the touch of his. The faint fragrance of her hair was in his brain like some divine vintage. The sweet curves of cheek and lips--how near they were! She had called to him with more than kindness in her voice. God had made a high heaven of this fort in the wilderness. "You were very brave," she said, leaning nearer ever so slightly. Sweet madness completely overthrew the lad's native caution, and he was about to catch her to him bodily, when she slipped nimbly into the cabin, and left him standing with arms extended in silent invitation toward the figure of the imperturbed Sir Ralph. "Well, my lad?" inquired the baronet, calmly. "Good evening to you, Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, hiding his chagrin and confusion with exceeding skill. "You looked just now as if you were expecting me," said the elder. "Come in, come in. We can talk better by the fire." Kingswell's blushes were safe in the dusk. He picked up his gloves from the trampled snow by the threshold, and silently followed the baronet into the fire-lit living-room. Beatrix was not there--which fact the lover noticed with a sinking of the heart. He was alone with her father, and evidently under marked suspicion,--a fearful matter to a young man who aspires to the hand of an angel, and has not yet his line of action quite laid down. He took a deep breath, trembled at thought of his presumption, called the respectability of his parents and his income to his aid, and was ready for the baronet when that gentleman turned and faced him in front of the fire. "I love your daughter," he said, with his voice not quite so cool and manly as he had intended it to be. Sir Ralph bowed, but said nothing. His back was to the fire, and so his face was in heavy shadow. "I love her very dearly," continued the other. "I believe no man could love a woman more, for it is with my whole heart, and with every fibre of my being. I know, sir, that my rank is not exalted, and that she is the--" The baronet raised his hand sharply. The gesture silenced Kingswell in the middle of his sentence more effectively than a clap of thunder would have done it. "Yes," said Sir Ralph, harshly, "she is the daughter of a blackleg. She is the daughter of a criminal exile. She is the daughter of a broken gamester. Ay, Bernard, you do indeed look high,--you, the son of a humble merchant of Bristol." Kingswell was dismayed for the moment. Then, with a hardy oath, he slapped his hand to his hip. "Though she were the daughter of the devil himself," he began, and came to a lame stop. The baronet's smile passed unseen. It was a kindly smile, and yet a bitter one by the same tokens. Kingswell gave up all attempt at politic speech. He had his own feelings to express. "Your daughter, sir, is the best and the loveliest," he said, huskily. "Whatever your backslidings and misfortunes have been, they can reflect in no way on her sweetness, and wisdom, and virtue. But, sir, I do not mean to sit in judgment on any man, and last of all on the father of the most glorious woman in the world. I remember you in your strength,--the greatest man in the county and my father's noble friend. The world has taken a twirl since then, but you may be sure that, whatever betide, my heart is with you warmer than my worthy father's ever was." CHAPTER XXIII. BETROTHED That Bernard Kingswell had accepted the baronet's own estimation of his (the baronet's) character so frankly, in the heat of sentimental disclosure, did not trouble Sir Ralph by more than a pang or two. What else could he expect of even this true friend? He was a broken gamester and a criminal exile by all the signs and by the verdict of the law; but whether or not he was a blackleg was a matter of opinion and the exact definition of that word. He knew that Kingswell was well disposed toward him, and that he believed nothing vile or cowardly of him; but, best of all, he was sure that, in Kingswell's love, his daughter was fortunate beyond his hoping of the past two years. Should they get clear of the besieging natives and out of the wilderness, her future happiness, safety, and position would be assured. As Mistress Bernard Kingswell, she would live close to the colour and finer things of life again, gracing some fair house as a former Beatrix had done in other days--to wit, the great houses of Beverly and Randon. The mist blurred his eyes at that memory and dimmed his vision against the rough log walls around him. Another thought came to the broken baronet, as he sat alone by the falling fire, after Kingswell's departure, and awaited his supper and the reappearance of his daughter. The thought was like a black shadow between his face and the comforting fir sticks--between his heart and the knowledge of a good man's love and protection for Beatrix. Knowing the girl as he did, he felt sure that she would never leave him, her exiled father, even at the call of a more compelling love; and, as a return to his own country meant prison or death to him, she would hold to the wilderness, thereby leaving the new-found happiness untouched. On the other hand, should death come to him soon, and in the wilderness,--by the arrows of the enemy, for choice,--his daughter's fetters would be filed for ever. He sank his face between his hands. The desire to live out one's time clings about a man's vitals against all reason. Even an exiled and broken gamester, stockaded in a nameless wilderness and hemmed in by savages, finds a certain zest in day and night and the winds of heaven. With nothing to live for--even with the scales decidedly the other way--Death still presents an uninviting face. It may be the inscrutable mask of him that fills with distrust the heart of the man who contemplates the Long Journey. In that inevitable yet mysterious figure, showing as no more than a shadow between the bed and the window, it is hard for the sinful mortal, no matter how repentant, to read clear the promise of eternal peace. What dark deed might not be perpetrated by the shrouded messenger between the death-bed and Paradise? Sir Ralph bowed his head between his palms, and hid the commonplace, beautiful radiance of the hearth-fire from his eyes; and so, while he waited for his supper of stewed venison, he reasoned and planned for his daughter's future to the bitter end, seeing clearly that, should the chances of battle turn in favour of the little plantation, he must readjust his sentiments toward death. A man of lower breeding and commoner courage would have groaned in the travail of that thought, and cursed the alternative; but the baronet sat in silence until he heard his daughter at the door, and then stood up and hummed softly the opening bars of a Somerset hunting-song. Beatrix tripped close to her father and raised her face to him. He bent and kissed her tenderly. For a little while they stood without speaking, hand in hand, on the great caribou skin before the hearth. Suddenly the girl pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "What was it," she whispered, breathlessly,--"the matter that held you and Bernard in such serious converse?" "And has your heart given you no hint of it?" he laughed. "And why, dear father? What has my heart to do with your talk of guards and ammunition and supplies,--save that it is with you in everything?" The baronet released her hand and, instead, placed his arm about her slender and rounded waist. "It is a story that I cannot tell you, sweet,--I, who am your father," he said. "But I think that you shall not have to wait long for the telling of it, for both youth and love are impatient. And here comes the good Maggie with the candles." During the meal the baronet was more lively and entertaining than Beatrix had seen him for years, and Beatrix, in her turn, was unusually untalkative and preoccupied. The girl wanted to give her undivided attention to the quiet voice of her heart. The man was equally anxious to avoid introspection as she to court it. But he, for all his laughter and gay stories of gay times spent, displayed a colourless face and haunted eyes behind the candle-light; while she, sitting in silence, glowed like a rare flower. Her dark, massed tresses, her eyes of unnamable colour, her throat and lips and brow, were all radiant with the magic fire at her heart. Sir Ralph, after bringing a disjointed tale to a vague ending, sipped his wine, put down the glass clumsily, and suddenly turned away from the table. The bitterness of his lot had caught him by the throat. But she noticed nothing of his change of manner; and presently they left the table and moved to the fire. He busied himself with heaping faggots across the dogs. Then she filled his tobacco-pipe for him, and lit it with a coal from the hearth, puffing daintily. He had just got it in his hand when a knocking sounded on the door, and Maggie Stone opened to Kingswell. Upon Kingswell's entrance, Sir Ralph, after greeting him cordially but quietly, donned his cloak and hat, and begged to be excused for a few minutes. "I have a word for Trigget," he said. Then he pulled on his gloves, pushed open the door, and stepped out to the dark. Two candles burned on the table. Maggie Stone snuffed them, surveyed the room and its inmates with a comprehensive glance, and at last forced her unwilling feet kitchenward again. Her heart was as sentimental as heroic, was Maggie Stone's, and her nature was of an inquisitive turn. She sighed plaintively as she left the presence of the young couple. The door leading to the kitchen had no more than closed behind the servant than Bernard, without preliminaries, dropped on one knee before the lady of his adoration, and lifted both her hands to his lips. She did not move, but stood between the candles and the firelight, all a-gleam in her beauty and her fine raiment, and gazed down at the golden head. Her lips smiled, but her eyes were grave. "Dear heart," murmured the lad, without lifting his face or altering his position,--"dear heart, can it be true?" She bent her head a little lower. Her heart seemed as if it was about to break away from its bonds in her side. She could not speak; but, almost unconsciously, she closed her fingers upon his. "Tell me," he cried. And again, with a note of fear in his voice: "Tell me if I may win you! Tell me if your heart has any promise?" Before she could control her agitation sufficiently to answer him, the outer door of the cabin was swung open without ceremony, and Sir Ralph stamped in. He caught Kingswell by the wrist and wrenched it sharply. "We are attacked," he cried. "They have piled heaps of dry brush along the palisades--and they have set the stuff on fire! It burns like mad. Lord, but it looks more like hell than ever!" Even as he spoke, the fragrant, biting odour of the smoke from the burning evergreen-needles invaded the room. Kingswell got quickly to his feet, still holding the girl's hands. He did not look at the baronet. For a second he paused and peered, questioning, into her wonderful eyes. "Oh, I love you, dear heart," she cried, faintly. "I love you, Bernard." He stooped quickly (and how eagerly every lover knows), and even while the first brief and tremulous kiss was sweet on their lips, the muskets clapped deafeningly, savage shouts rang high, and the baronet thrust sword and hat into Bernard's hands. "Come! For God's grace, lad, come and rally the men!" he shouted. Then the lover turned from his mistress and saw the shrewd work that awaited him. He ran to it with a leaping heart. CHAPTER XXIV. A FIRE-LIT BATTLE. OUENWA'S RETURN The heaps of brush outside the palisades burned with a long-drawn roaring, like the note of a steady wind. It was a terrifying sound. The glare of the conflagration lit the interior of the fort, staining the trampled snow of the yard to an awful hue, staining the faces of the desperate settlers as if with foreshadowing of blood, and painting the walls of the cabins as if for a carnival. The platform upon which the guns stood was a mass of flame before any use could be made of the pieces. The breastwork of faggots burned with leapings and roarings, flinging orange and crimson showers to the black dome above. The savages skirmished behind the girdle of flames, like imps along the blood-coloured snow. The settlers discharged their muskets through the singed loopholes, firing low, and taking the chances with heroic fortitude. Sir Ralph and Bernard Kingswell were here and there, with their swords in their hands and encouragement in speech and bearing. Both knew that this engagement would be a fight to the finish; and both felt reasonably sure that a shrewder and braver commander than Panounia was against them. The ammunition was carried from the storehouse to the shed over the well, for the fire was already crackling against the log walls of the buildings. Suddenly a sharp report and a high shower of sparks and burning fragments broke from the gun-platform; and, for the moment, the warriors were scattered from that side. One of the cannon had exploded. That corner of the stockade immediately fell and settled to the snow. Next instant the second gun was fired by the flames. It sent its whole charge into the uncertain Beothics, scattering them to cover in yelling disorder. At that the Englishmen cheered, and set about fighting back the encroaching flames. Inspiration, or a font of courage to be drawn upon at need, must have dwelt behind the shelter of the spruces; for within a very few minutes of the retreat, all the warriors, save the wounded, were about the fort again. Kingswell took note of it, and suspected the inspiration to be nothing else than Pierre d'Antons' insinuating presence and dazzling smile. A spur, too, he suspected--the spur of the mongrel Frenchman's evil sneer and black temper. He knew enough of the aboriginal character to feel that it would prove but a plaything for such a personality as the buccaneer's. He looked across the glowing, smoking breach in the fortifications with hard eyes. He voiced his desire to have the fellow by the throat, or at the point of his sword, in tones that rang like a curse. Suddenly Kingswell left his post and ran to the well-house. He knew where the _Pelican's_ powder lay among the stores, done up in five canvas bags of about twelve pounds each. With two of these under his cloak, he returned to his place a few paces from the subsiding red barrier that still held the enemy from the interior of the fort. By this time the back of Trigget's cabin was smouldering. The roofs of the cabins, deep with snow, were safe; but the rear walls were all in a fair way of being ignited by the crackling brushwood, which the warriors of Panounia diligently piled against them. Kingswell left the protection of the rest of the square to Sir Ralph, William Trigget, and all the men of the garrison save Tom Bent. The old boatswain was, by this time, a very active convalescent. Kingswell whispered a word or two in his ear. They kept a sharp lookout across the wreckage of the fallen corner of the stockade. They saw a party of the enemy gather ominously close to the glowing edge of the breach. Kingswell passed one of the bags of powder to his companion. "When I give the word," he said. Suddenly the black knot of warriors dashed into the obstruction, brandishing spears and clubs, and screaming like maniacs. Kingswell uttered a low, quick cry, tossed his bag of powder into the glowing coals under the feet of the enemy, and ran for the shelter of the well-house at top speed. Tom Bent followed his movements on the instant. Together they reached the narrow shelter; and, before they could turn about, the air shook and reeled, as if a bolt of wind had broken upon them, a blinding flash seemed to consume the whole night, and a puffing, thumping report stunned their ears. They stumbled against the sides of the shed, clawed desperately, and fell to the ground. When Bernard Kingswell and the trusty boatswain regained their senses (which had left them for only a few seconds), they crawled from the well-house and stared about them. The square was not so bright as it had been, and, save for a few huddled shapes on the snow, was empty. By the shouting and mixed tumult, they knew that the fighting was now farther away--that the settlers had sallied forth on the offensive. They could not understand such recklessness; but they decided, without hesitation, to take the risk. They ran to the now black gap in the palisades. Fire, coals, wreckage, and even the snow had been hurled and blown broadcast. They crossed the torn ground and headed for the tumult in the fitfully illuminated spaces beyond. Native war-whoops and English shouts mixed and clashed in the frosty air. On the very edge of the shifting conflict, the old sailor clutched his master's arm. "Hark!" he cried. "D'ye hear that now? It be the yell o' that young Ouenwa, sir, or ye can call me a Dutcher!" At the same moment, before Kingswell could reply to Bent's statement, a club, thrown by a retreating warrior, caught the gentleman on the side of the head and felled him like a thing of wood. He moaned, as he toppled over. Then he lay still on the ruddy snow. Beatrix had a dozen candles alight in the living-room of the baronet's cabin. Word had reached her that Ouenwa and Black Feather had arrived in time to take advantage of the rebuff dealt the enemy by the explosions of the bags of powder. When victory had seemed to be hopelessly in the hands of the determined savages, Ouenwa and his followers, though spent from their journey, had made a timely and successful rear attack. The girl was radiant. She moved up and down the room, eagerly awaiting the return of Bernard Kingswell. She questioned herself as to that, and laughed joyously. Yes, it was Bernard, beyond peradventure, whom heart, hands, and lips longed to recover and reward. A month ago, a week ago, it would have been her father--even a night ago he would have shared, equally with the lover, in her sweet and eager concern. But now she sped from hearth to door, and peered out into the blackness, with no thought of any of those brave fellows save the lad of Bristol. The burning brush had all been trampled out, and the fires in the walls and stockade had been quenched with water. The little square was dark, save for the subdued fingers of light from windows and doors. Beatrix peered from the open door, regardless of the cold. She was outlined black against the warm radiance inside the room. Her silken garments clung about her, pressed gently by a breath of wind. She rested a hand on either upright of the doorway, and leaned forward as if, at a whim, she would fly out from the threshold. Presently shadowy figures took shape in the gloom, and she heard her father's voice, and William Trigget's, and the high pipe of Ouenwa. But she caught no sound of Bernard Kingswell's clear tones. A sudden fear caught her, and she stepped out upon the trampled snow and called to Sir Ralph. In a moment he was at her side, and had an arm about her. "Sweeting," he said, "you must stay within for a little. The night is bitterly cold, and--" "But where is Bernard?" she whispered, staring past him. "He is with the others," replied the baronet,--"with Ouenwa and his brave fellows, and the dauntless Trigget." He spoke quickly and uneasily, and led her back to the cabin at the same time. He closed the door, and laid a wet sword across a stool. "What is it?" she cried, facing him, with wide eyes and bloodless cheeks. "Tell me! Tell me!" "The lad is hurt," admitted Sir Ralph. "Hurt?" repeated the girl, vaguely. "Hurt? How should he be hurt?" She shivered, and gripped her hand desperately. Could it be that the High God had been deaf to her prayers? Sir Ralph's face went as pale as hers; for all he knew of Kingswell's condition was that he still breathed, and that his hat had saved his head from being cut. Whether the skull was broken or not, he did not know. He braced himself, and smiled. "My dear," he said, "he is not seriously hurt, so do not stand like that--for God's sake!" At the last words his voice lost its note of composure, and broke shrilly. He caught her to him. "Rip me," he cried, "but if you act so when he is simply knocked over, what will you do if he ever gets a real wound!" The girl was comforted. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the blood returned to her cheeks. She clung to the baronet and sobbed against his shoulder. Presently she looked up. "Take me to him," she begged, "or bring him here." "So you love this Bernard Kingswell?" inquired her father, looking steadily into her face. Her gleaming eyes did not waver from his gaze. "Yes," she replied, quietly. The man turned away, took his blood-wet sword from the stool, eyed it dully, and leaned it against the wall. He was trying to imagine what the lad's death would mean to his daughter's future; but he could only see that it would mean a few more years for himself. He started guiltily, and returned to his daughter. His face was desperately grim. "Wait for me," he said. "I'll see how the lad is doing now; and shall return immediately." Sir Ralph crossed to the cottage that had been built for D'Antons, and which had passed on to Kingswell. He opened the door softly and stepped within. He found the wounded gentleman lying prone on his couch, half-undressed, and with bandaged head. Ouenwa, gaunt and blood-stained, was beside the still figure. "He opened his eyes," whispered the boy; "but see, he has closed them again. His spirit waits at the spreading of the trails." Sir Ralph bent down and examined the linen dressings on Kingswell's head. They were exceedingly well arranged. He saw that the hair had been cut away from the place of the wound. "Your work, Ouenwa?" he inquired. The boy nodded. The baronet felt his friend's pulse. "It beats strong," he said. "The heart seems sure enough of the path to take." Ouenwa's face lighted quickly. "He has chosen," he said, gravely. "He has seen the hunting-grounds shining beyond the west, but the beauty of them has not lured him along that trail." The baronet smiled quickly into the Beothic's eyes. "You are a brave lad, and we are deep in debt to you," he exclaimed. "Your bravery and wit have saved the fort and all our lives. Watch your friend a few minutes longer; I but go to bring another nurse to help you. Then you may sleep." CHAPTER XXV. FATE DEALS CARDS OF BOTH COLOURS IN THE LITTLE FORT From that brisk fight, in which Ouenwa and his twenty braves and the little garrison of Fort Beatrix defeated Panounia, Black Feather brought a confirmation of Pierre d'Antons' concern in the last attacks upon the settlement. It consisted of a sword-belt and an empty scabbard. He had torn them from the person of a tall antagonist during a brief hand-to-hand encounter. The owner of the gear had won free, Black Feather regretted to say. Sir Ralph, too, felt the escape of his enemy, and sincerely hoped that the defeat had ended his power over Panounia, and brought down that wolfish chief's hatred instead. On the morning after the battle, the little plantation presented a busy though sombre appearance to those of its people who were in condition to view it. Along the woods and rising ground to the north, the snow and frozen soil were being hollowed to receive the bodies of those slain in the fight. The dead of the enemy had been carried far into the woods, and piled together with scant ceremony. The settlers had lost three of their number,--young Donnelly, Harding, and the younger Trigget. Four of the rescuing party were dead and wounded. Tom Bent was on his back again, and Kingswell's head was ringing like a sea-shell. William Trigget was cut about the face and sore all over; but he kept on his feet. After the graves were chipped in the iron earth, and the shrouded bodies lowered therein and covered, the tribesmen, under Black Feather's orders, set about building themselves lodges outside the stockade. It had been decided that, for mutual support, the friendly Beothics should camp near the fort, at least for the remainder of the winter. With axes borrowed from the settlement, they soon had the forest ringing with the noise of their labour. Though they had travelled light, in their hurry to rescue the friends of Ouenwa and Black Feather, they had dragged along with them a few sled-loads of deerskins and birch bark, with which to cover their wigwams. So the shelters sprang up quickly about the torn and scorched palisades; for it was a small matter to trim the poles and fit the pliable roofs across the conical frames. The dusk gathered over the wilderness, dimming the edges of white barren and black forest and round hill. The stars shone silver above, and the fires of the victorious men of the totem of the Bear glowed red below. In the outer room of the cabin that had been Pierre d'Antons', Beatrix sat alone by Kingswell's bed. Her eyes were on the leaping flames in the chimney, and his were on the fair lines of her averted face. The top of his head was so swathed in bandages that he looked like a turbaned Turk. Cheeks and chin were white as paper in the unstable light. His eyes were bright with a touch of fever brought on by his suffering. His mind was in a fitful mood, for a minute or two steady enough and concerned with the present and the room in which he lay, and then wandering abroad, exploring vague trails of remembrance and imagining. Sometimes he murmured words and sentences, but in such a gabbling style that his nurse could have made nothing of what was passing in his brain even if she had taken such advantage of his condition as to try. After a long spell of uneasy mutterings, followed by a profound silence, he suddenly flung out one arm. The movement startled Beatrix from her dreaming, and she turned her face back to him from the fire. "Twenty days without water," he whispered, distinctly. "Twenty days--and that beast Trowley is laughing to see my tongue between my teeth like a squeezed rag." The girl caught up a mug of water and held it to his lips. He drank greedily, and then took hold of her hand. His head was against the hollow of her arm; for, to give him the drink, she had knelt beside his low bed. "Beatrix," he said, gravely, "let us pretend that you love me." She was strangely moved at that, and bent closer to see his eyes. "Why pretend, dear heart?" she answered. "I do love you, as you very well know. Sleep again, Bernard, with your head so--pressed close." "I feel your heart," he said, simply as a child. The fever was as a fine haze across the mirror of his brain. "It beats only for you," she murmured, pressing her lips to his cheek. The lad's eyes shone with a clearer light at that. "Tell me that this is no vision of fever," he said. "Tell me, or strength will bring nothing but sorrow. Better death than to find your kisses a trick of dreaming." "Is it not a pleasant dream?" she asked, softly, smiling a little. "Ay; to dream so, a man would gladly have done with waking," he replied. "If it were not in life that Beatrix were mine, then would I follow the vision through eternal sleep--as God is my judge." "Hush, dear lad," she murmured, "for the heart and the body of Beatrix are of right Somersetshire stuff, to fade not at any whim of fever--and the love she gives you will outlast life--as God is our judge and love His handiwork." And she kissed him again, blushing sweetly at her daring. And so they remained, she kneeling beside the couch, and he with his bandaged head against her lovely shoulder, until Sir Ralph entered the cabin, fumbling discreetly at the latch. The days passed slowly in the heart of that frozen wilderness between the white river and the long graves. Stockade and wall were repaired. Fresh meat was trapped and shot in sheltered valley and rough wood. The forge rang again with the clanging of sledges, and the tracts of timber with the swinging axes. Hope reawoke in hearts long dismayed, and blood ran more redly to the stir of work and freedom. Master Kingswell gained fresh strength with the rounding of every day, and Mistress Westleigh recovered all her glory of eyes and lips and hair. Ouenwa, honoured by all, carried himself like a gentleman and a warrior. Black Feather, with his wife and his surviving child in a snug lodge, felt again the zest and peace of living. Only Sir Ralph seemed to find no ray of comfort in the days of security. He brooded alone, avoiding even his daughter. His face grew thinner, and his shoulders lost something of their youthful vigour. The desolation and bitterness had, at last, dimmed his courage and his philosophy. The very relief at Panounia's defeat and D'Antons' supposed overthrow had, somehow, weakened his gallant endurance. He counted it a grievance that God had not led him to his death in the last fight, as he had prayed so earnestly. He had been eager then. Now he must plan it over again--over and over--in cold reasoning and cold blood, and alone by the fire. A foolish, causeless anger got hold upon him at times; and again he would be all repentance, telling his heart that, no matter how bitter his fate, it was fully deserved. And so, day by day, the shadows grew behind his brain, and a little seed of madness germinated and took root. For a time Beatrix did not notice the change in her father's manner and habits. The thing disclosed itself so gradually, and she was so intent upon the nursing of her lover; and yet again, the baronet had been variable in his moods, to a certain extent, ever since the beginning of his troubles--years enough ago. It was Ouenwa who first saw that something had gone radically wrong in the broken gentleman's mind, and his knowledge had come about in this wise. The young Beothic, though an ardent sportsman and warrior, was a still more ardent seeker after bookish wisdom. Kingswell, before his hurt, had taught him something of the art of reading. Later, Mistress Westleigh had carried it further. By the time that Kingswell was safely on the road to his old health and a mended head, Ouenwa could spell out a page of English print very creditably. His primer was one of those volumes of Master Will Shakespeare's plays, which the Frenchman had left behind him. One day Beatrix entered the cabin to take her turn at tending the invalid, and found Ouenwa with the drama in his hands, and his youthful brow painfully furrowed with thought. She took the book from him and fluttered the pages, pausing here and there to read a line or two. "Run away," said she, "and on a shelf beside our chimney you will find a book with easier words than this contains. There is matter here, I think, that is beyond a beginner." At that Kingswell raised himself to his elbow and nodded his sore head eagerly. "Ay, lad, run and find yourself an easier book," he said. Nothing loath, for his quest of learning was sincere,--as was everything about him,--Ouenwa left the presence of the lovers and ran across the snow to Sir Ralph's cabin. He told his errand to the baronet. That gentleman looked at him long and keenly, so that the boy trembled and wished himself out of the house. Then, with a sudden start and a harsh laugh, "Help yourself, lad," said Sir Ralph. Ouenwa found the shelf of books, and, kneeling before it, was soon busy looking over the divers volumes and broad-sheets with which it was piled high. He found a rhymed and pictured chap-book greatly to his liking. He was spelling out the first verses when a movement behind his back brought him to a sense of his whereabouts. He turned quickly. There stood the baronet, with a walking-cane in his hand, making lunge and thrust at a spot of resin on the log wall. The poor gentleman stamped and straddled, pinked the unseen swordsman, and parried the unseen blade, with a dashing air. There was a light in his eyes and a twist of the lips that struck Ouenwa's heart cold in his side. The light was that which, when seen in the eyes of a man of a primitive people, divides that man from the laws and responsibilities that are the portion of his fellows. It was the gleam of idiocy--that sinister sheen that cuts a man from his birthright. The boy knelt there, motionless with fear, with his face turned over his shoulder. He watched every movement of the fantastic exhibition with fascinated eyes. He fairly held his breath, so terrible was the display in that quiet, dim-lit room. Suddenly the baronet lowered the point of the modish cane smartly to the floor, and turned upon the lad with a smile, an embarrassed flush on his thin cheeks, and sane eyes. "'Tis a pretty art--this of the French rapier," he said, "and I make a point of keeping my wrist limber for it." "Yes, sir," said Ouenwa. Sir Ralph flung the walking-cane aside, and sat down despondently in the nearest chair. Ouenwa saw, at a glance, that his presence was already forgotten. With furtive movements and such haste as he could manage, he began replacing some of the books and selecting others to carry away with him. "Sweeting," said the baronet, "a pipe of tobacco would rest me." Ouenwa realized that the gentleman, in his strange mood, believed that Mistress Beatrix was in the room; but Ouenwa had tact enough not to point out the little mistake. He got up noiselessly and filled the bowl of a long pipe from a great jar on the chimney-piece. He took a splinter of wood from the basket by the hearth and lit it at the fire. Stepping softly to the baronet's side, he placed the pipe in his hand, and held the light to the tobacco while the baronet puffed reflectively and unseeingly. Then the lad gathered up his books and left the cabin. Fear of Sir Ralph's wild manner was cold in his veins. CHAPTER XXVI. PIERRE D'ANTONS PARRIES ANOTHER THRUST And now to tell something of the movements of Pierre d'Antons, which, of late, have been carried on behind the screen of the forest and beyond the ken of the reader. The defeat of Panounia's warriors, on that night of fire and blood, knocked the adventurer's fortunes flatter than they had ever been. You may believe that he cursed Ouenwa bitterly, and wished that he had killed him long ago, when the lad threw his followers into the battle. It was then that D'Antons himself left his post beyond the scuffle, and, with desperate efforts, tried to turn the reverse back to victory. His swordsmanship and energy availed him nothing. He missed capture only by slipping the buckle of his sword-belt. Then, a fugitive from both sides, he ran to the woods, avoiding the scattered and retreating warriors who had so lately been struggling in his behalf as fearfully as he would have avoided William Trigget or Sir Ralph Westleigh. One of his late comrades, trailing wounded limbs along the snow, hurled a Beothic curse after him. Another, better prepared, let fly a war-club, and missed him by an inch. He slashed on, through the underbrush, the drifts, and the dark, sure that capture by any of the defeated savages would mean death and perhaps torture. The black captain did not run on any vague course, despite his haste. He knew where a possibility of help awaited him. He had given his wits to more than plans of revenge and kidnapping during his sojourn with Panounia. In winning the men to him, he knew that his hold upon them would not outlast defeat; but in winning the love of the Beothic maiden Miwandi, he had laid up store against an evil day. But he had not won her heart simply on a chance of defeat--far from it, for he had not dreamed of such a chance. It was a pleasant thing in itself to be the lover of that nut-brown, lithe-limbed, warm-hearted young girl--for Miwandi suspected nothing of his desire for, and plans concerning, the lady in the fort. She loved the tall foreigner quickly and surely. She was extravagantly proud of his power over the warriors of her people. He was her brave, and as such she cherished him openly, to the envy rather than the criticism of the other women of the encampment. Miwandi was the daughter of a lesser chief of Panounia's faction. She was seventeen years of age. Her skin was ruddy brown, darker than the skins of some of her people and lighter than that of others. Her hair was brown and of a silken texture, very unlike the straight locks of the savages of the great continent to the westward. Her features were good, and her eyes were full of life and warmth. D'Antons' conquest rankled in the breasts of more than one of the young bucks of the camp. Pierre d'Antons, fleeing from the fighting men of both parties, shaped his course for the lodge in which Miwandi dwelt. As he ran, with fear at his heels, he forgot to regret the girl in the fort; instead, a pang of honest affection for the comely young woman toward whom he was flying for help stirred in him. He stumbled into the lodge, and Miwandi caught him in her arms. In a few quick words, he told her of the defeat, and of the anger of Panounia's warriors toward him. She kissed him once, passionately, and then fell to collecting a few things--a quiver of arrows, a bow, furs, and some food. She pressed a bundle into his arms. He accepted it without a word. She bound her snow-shoes to her feet, and retied the wrenched thongs of his. Then they slipped from the dark lodge to the darker woods; and his sheathless sword, damp with blood, was still in his hand. They heard the cries of the wounded behind them, and other cries that inspired them to flight. They fled for hours, without pausing to ease their breathing. Of the two, it was the man who sometimes lagged, who often stumbled, and who cried once that he would rather be captured than strain limb and lung to another effort. D'Antons had been actively employed throughout the day, and again during the most desperate passages of the battle, and his strength was well-nigh exhausted. At last he fell and lay prone. In an instant the girl was beside him, pillowing his head and shielding his body from the cold, and revived him with brandy from the scanty supply in his flask. By that time the dawn was breaking gray under the stars, and all sounds of the chase had died away. She cut an armful of fir-branches, and with them and the skins she and D'Antons had carried, she made a rude bed and a yet ruder shelter. So they lay until high noon, fugitives in a desolate wilderness, with death, in half a dozen guises, lurking on either hand. Behind D'Antons and Miwandi, the broken band of Panounia's followers soon gave up the hunt. Matters were not in condition to be mended by killing a long-faced Frenchman and a pretty girl. The defeated savages had their own wounds to see to, and already too many dead to hide under the snow. A matter of sentiment, like the torturing and killing of their false leader D'Antons, would have to wait. Now, of all those valorous warriors who had menaced the little fort since the very beginning of winter, only ten remained unhurt. Panounia was dead. He had breathed his last in the edge of the woods, while the battle was still raging, and had been carried farther in by one of his men. Thus his death had remained unknown to the victors; as had also the deaths of many more of the besiegers. Wolf Slayer, that courageous savage lad who had once boasted of his deeds to Ouenwa, was desperately hurt. Painfully and hopelessly, those of the wounded who could move at all, the women, and the unhurt of the band, retreated toward farther and surer fastnesses. The wounded who could not drag themselves along were left to perish in the snow. Some were frozen stiff before morning. Some bled to death within the same time. A few lived until they were discovered by Ouenwa's men in the bright daytime,--they were reported as having been found dead. D'Antons and Miwandi travelled, by forced marches, until they reached a wooded valley and a narrow, frozen river. Along this they journeyed inland and southward. At last they found a spot that promised shelter from the bleak winds as well as from prying eyes. There they built a wigwam of such materials as were at hand. Game was fairly plentiful in the protected coverts around. They soon had a comfortable retreat fashioned in that safe and voiceless place. "It will do until summer brings the ships," remarked D'Antons, busy with plans whereby he might give Dame Fortune's wheel another twirl. Sometimes he spent whole hours in telling Miwandi brave tales of far and beautiful countries. He spoke of white towns above green harbours, of high forests with strange, bright birds flying through their tops, and of wide savannahs, whereon roved herds of great, sharp-horned beasts of more weight than a stag caribou. "Oh, but you do not mean to leave me, Heart-of-Life," she cried. So he swore, by a dozen saints, that she, Miwandi, should be his queen in a palace of white stone above a tropic sea. CHAPTER XXVII. A GRIM TURN OF MARCH MADNESS Day by day, Sir Ralph Westleigh's mental sickness increased. It strengthened in the dark, like a blight on corn. Very gradually, and day by day, it grew over the bright surface of his mind and spirit. The sureness of its advance was a fearful thing to watch. By the time March was over the wilderness, with a hint of spring in the morning skies, the baronet's condition was noticeable to even the dullest inmate of the settlement. The poor gentleman spoke little--and that little was seldom to the point. It seemed as if he had forgotten how to smile, or even to make a pretence at mirth. He walked alone for hours on the frozen river and through the woods. The Beothics of the camp before the fort stood in awe of him. At times he treated Beatrix and Bernard Kingswell as strangers; but he always knew Maggie Stone, and chided her often on the scantiness of his dinners. All day, indoors and out, he wore a rapier at his side. In the cabin he spent half of the time inert by the fire, without book, or cards, or chess, and the rest of it in sword-play with an imaginary antagonist. It was well for Beatrix that she had found Bernard's love before the fresh misfortune descended upon her. But even with that comfort and inspiration, her father's derangement affected her bitterly. They had been such friends; and now he had blank eyes and deaf ears for all her actions and words. It was twenty times harder for her than to have seen him struck down by knife or arrow. Death seemed an honest thing compared to that coldness and vagueness of spirit that gathered more thickly about him with the passing of each day. It was as if another life, another spirit, had taken possession of the familiar body and beloved features. After two weeks neither her kisses nor her tears had any potency to break through the awful estrangement. Her prayers, her fond recollections of their old companionship, brought no gleam to the dull eye. By the end of March the busy boat-builders and smiths of the settlement--and every man save Sir Ralph was either one or the other--had two new boats all but completed. They were staunch crafts, of about the capacity and model of the _Pelican_. They were intended for fishing on the river and the great bays and for exploration cruises. William Trigget, who was a master shipbuilder as he was a master mariner, entertained great ideas of fishing and trading more openly than Sir Ralph had sanctioned in the past. He was for carving out a real home in the wilderness, and his wife was of the same mind. "We couldn't bear to leave the boy's grave," he said. Kingswell promised that, should he win back to Bristol, and find his affairs in order, he would use his influence in behalf of the settlement on Gray Goose River. Donnelly, too, was all for holding to the new land. "It be rough, God knows," he said, "but it be sort o' hopeful, too. If they danged savages leaves us alone, an' trade's decent, I be for spendin' the balance o' my days alongside o' Skipper Trigget. There be a grave yonder the missus an' me wouldn't turn our backs on, not if we could help it." Kingswell himself was not building any dreams of fixing his lot in that desolate place; and neither was old Tom Bent, though he spoke little on the subject. Ouenwa's ambitions continued to point overseas. Beatrix, now despondent at her father's trouble, and again happy in her love, gave little thought to the future of the settlement, or to any plans for the days to come, save vague dreamings of an English home. March wore along, and in open spaces the snow shrank inch by inch. Then rain fell; and after that a time of tingling cold held all the wilderness in a ringing white imprisonment. A man could run over the snow-fields and the bed of the river without snow-shoes; for the surface was tough as wood, white as the shield of that sinless knight, Sir Galahad, and glistening as a thousand diamonds. The mornings lifted clear silver and pale gold along the east. The evenings faded out in crimson and saffron, and the twilights, even when the stars were lit, made of the dome of heaven a bubble of thinnest green. And back of it all, despite the frost, hung a suggestion of sap-reddened twigs and blossoming trees. The lure of the season touched every one in the fort, and the camp beside it. It ran in Sir Ralph's blood like some fabled wine--for what vintage of France or Spain is the stuff of which the poets sing. It mounted to his head with a high, unregretting recklessness, and doubled the madness that already lurked there. Something of his old manner returned, and for a whole evening he sat with Beatrix and Kingswell and talked rationally and hopefully. Also, that same night, he played a game of chess. He spoke of the future as one who sees into it clearly and without fear. He recalled the past without any sign of embarrassment. But Kingswell, meeting his eyes by chance, caught a light of derision in them. Very early in the morning, while the stars still glinted overhead, and the promise of day was no more than a strip of pearl along the east, Sir Ralph Westleigh unbarred the door of his cabin and slipped out. He was warmly and carefully dressed in furs and moccasins. He carried his sword free under his arm. Very cautiously he scaled the palisade and dropped to the frozen crust of snow outside. The Beothic encampment lay around the corner of the fort, so he was safe from detection from that quarter. He looked about and behind with a cunning smile. Then he ran lightly into the woods. Sir Ralph followed his aimless course for miles, and his soft-shod feet left no mark on the hard surface of the snow. Then the sun slid up and over, and in the warmth of high noon the frozen crust of the wilderness thawed a little, and here and there the baronet's feet broke through. At that he began to feel fatigue and a disconcerting pang of doubt. He flung himself down in a little thicket of spruces, and called for Maggie Stone to bring him food and drink. He called again and again. He shouted other names than that of the old servant. In a sudden agony of fear, he jumped to his feet and plunged through the evergreens. At every third step he sank to his knee, or half-way up his thigh. He screamed the name of his daughter, "Beatrix, Beatrix"--or was it his dead wife he was calling? He cried for guidance to many great gentlemen of England who had been his boon companions in the old days, forgetting that death had taken some of them away from him, and that the rest, to a man, had turned of their own accord. Presently he ceased his foolish outcry and plodded along, with no thought of the course, sobbing the while like a lost child. The sun began its downward journey, and still the baronet, with his sheathed sword under his arm, staggered across the voiceless wilderness. Toward mid-afternoon the thawing crust froze again, and he travelled with less difficulty. Ever and anon his poor eyes pictured a running figure in an edge of blue shadow before him. At times it was the figure of the nobleman he had killed in England, in the dispute at the gaming-table, and again it was a friend,--Kingswell or Trigget, or another of the fort,--and yet again it was Pierre d'Antons. But no matter how he strove to run down the lurker, he lost him every time. Thirst plagued him, and he ate the clear ice and snow off the fronds of the spruces. Hunger gnawed him awhile, but passed gradually. The west took on the flame and glory of sunset. The east darkened. The stars pricked through the high shell of the sky. Night gathered her cloudless darkness over the wilderness; and still the demented baronet followed his aimless quest. Toward evening of the day following Sir Ralph Westleigh's departure from Fort Beatrix, Pierre d'Antons and Miwandi were startled by the sudden and noiseless appearance of a gaunt and wild-eyed person in the doorway of their lodge. The woman cried out, and ran to the farthest corner of the wigwam. D'Antons staggered back, and his face turned gray as the ashes around the fire-stone. The unexpected visitor drew his blade, flung the sheath behind him on the snow, and advanced upon the fugitive adventurer. D'Antons sprang back and caught up his own sword from where it lay on a couch of branches and skins. He swore, more in wonder than anger. "Westleigh!" he cried. "What brings you here, you fool--and how many follow you?" The baronet halted and glanced quickly over his shoulder. He reeled a little, but his eyes changed in their light and colour. "I am alone," he said. "Yes, I am alone." His voice was quiet. He seemed sorely puzzled. D'Antons' face regained its swarthy tints, and he laughed harshly. "So you have hunted me down, old cock," he said, smiling. "You'll find that the quarry has fangs--in his own den." The red of madness returned to Sir Ralph's eyes. He advanced his rapier. In a second the fight was on. For a few minutes the strength of insanity supported the baronet's starving muscles and reeling brain. Then his thrusts began to go wide, and his guard to waver. A clean lunge dropped him in the door of the lodge without a cry. The life-blood of the last baronet of Beverly and Randon made a vivid circle of red on the snow of that nameless wilderness. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE RUNNING OF THE ICE It was Beatrix who first discovered her father's flight; but that was four hours after its occurrence. The fort was soon astir with the news. Men set out in all directions, in search of the missing one. Half a dozen of the friendly Beothics joined in the hunt. They went east and west, north and south. The sharpest eyes could detect no trail of the madman's feet. Beatrix insisted upon accompanying Bernard and Ouenwa. She tried to show a brave face; but something in her heart told her to expect the worst. The three travelled southward, and shortly before sunset returned to the fort, unsuccessful. They found that all the other searchers had got back, save Black Feather and a young brave named Kakatoc, who had set out together. By the merest chance Black Feather and his companion happened upon the place where the baronet had first broken through the melting crust. With but little effort they found where he had rested and taken up his journey again. Farther on, the faintness of the trail put an edge to their determination to find the unfortunate gentleman. It was a challenge to their woodcraft, and they accepted it eagerly. But within two hours of finding the marks, they lost them again. They ranged wide; and at last Black Feather discovered a footprint in a little pad of snow beside a stunted spruce. In several places the branches of the tree showed where the snow had been broken away, as if by a man's hand. It was enough to keep them to the quest. Not in the next day, but in the early morning after that, the two Beothics happened upon a sheltered valley and a snow-cleared space, with a fire-stone in the middle of it, where a lodge had lately stood. As for signs of blood, there were none. Snow had been deftly spread and trampled over it. All around the so evident site of a human habitation the hard crust gleamed unbroken, save for a little path that ran down to a hole in the ice of the stream. After considering the place, and shaking their heads, the two ate the last of the food they had in their pouches and turned their feet back to the fort. They passed within a few paces of a dense thicket, in the heart of which the baronet's body lay uncovered. But how were they to know it, when even the prowling foxes had not yet found it out! For several days the search was continued by the settlers and their allies, but all in vain. It was not even suspected that the deserted camping-place which Black Feather and Kakatoc had seen had so lately been warmed by the feet of Pierre d'Antons and the blood of the lost baronet. For a few days longer the business of the settlement lagged, and the place wore an air of mourning, despite the ever-brightening and mellowing season. Then the axes struck up their chant again, and the little duties of the common day erased the forebodings of Eternity from the minds of the pioneers. Only Mistress Beatrix could see nothing of the reawakening of life and hope for the sorrow in her heart and the mist across her eyes. She had loved her father deeply and faithfully, with a love that had been strengthened by his misfortunes. She had felt toward him the combined affections of daughter and sister and friend. She had made allowances for the weaknesses of his later years that equalled the ever charitable devotion of a parent for a best-loved child. She had not been, and was not now, blind to the passion of gaming that had forced him to exile and an unknown death; but she had forgiven it long ago. As to the alleged murder that had made such an evil odour in London, she believed--and rightly--that hot blood and overmuch wine had been to blame, and that her father's sword had been drawn after the victim's. Bernard Kingswell did all in his power to comfort the bereaved girl. He urged her to spend much of her time out-of-doors. He told his plans for their future, and to cheer her he built them even more hopefully than he felt; for he realized that many difficulties were yet to be overcome before Bristol was safely reached. With Ouenwa, the two often went on long tramps through the woods. Their evenings were always spent together. Sometimes he read aloud to her, and sometimes they played at chess. One evening she got her violin, and played as wonderfully as she had on that other occasion; but instead of leaving him afterward without a word, as she had done, she laid the fiddle aside and nestled into his arms. He held her tenderly, patting the bright hair against his shoulder, and murmuring broken assurances of his love and sympathy. She wept quietly for a little while; but when she kissed him at the door, her face and eyes shone with something of their old light. By mid-April knobs of rock and moss pierced through the shrinking snow in the open places; but in the woods the drifts continued to withstand the wasting breath of the spring winds. Gray Goose River was no longer a broad path of spotless white. Its surface was mottled with patches of sodden gray; and an attentive listener on the bank might hear a myriad of tiny voices, some sibilant and some tinkling and liquid, in and under the enfeebled ice. Up and down the valley, between the knolls and wooded hills, the little streams were already snarling and roaring, and here and there flashing brown shoulders to the sunlight. Through all the wilderness ran a tingling whisper; and twilight, midnight, and dawn were stirred by the falling cries of wild-fowl on the wing. A faint, alluring fragrance was in the air--the scent of millions of swelling buds and crimson willow-stems. About that time three warriors of the following of the dead Panounia arrived at the fort, with prayers for peace on their lips and gifts in their hands. They were received by Kingswell, William Trigget, and Ouenwa from the fort, and Black Feather and two of his chiefs from the camp. A lengthy business was gone through with, and much strong Virginian tobacco was burned. Documents were written in English and in the picture-writing of the natives, and read aloud, by Ouenwa, in both languages. Then they were solemnly signed by all present, and peace was restored to the great tribe of the North, and protection, trade, and lands were granted for all time to the inhabitants of Fort Beatrix and their descendants. The three visitors went back to their people with rolls of red cloth and packets of glass beads, pot-metal knives, and other useless trinkets on their shoulders. Shortly after their departure from the fort, a storm of rain blew up from the sou'east. All day the great drops thumped on the roofs of the cabins, on the skies of the lodges, and spattered on the sodden snow. The firs and spruces gleamed clean and black under the drenching showers. A veil of smoke-gray mist lay above the farther woods and along the black tangles of alders and gray fringes of willows. All night the warm rain continued to fall and drift. When morning lifted along the pearly east, a cry rang from the camp to the fort that the ice in the river was moving. The settlers hastened to the flat before the stockade. Beatrix was with them. "See how the torn edge of ice overtops the bank," said Kingswell, pointing eagerly. "And there is an open space. Ah, it has closed again! How slowly it grinds along!" "It will run faster before night," replied the girl, and Ouenwa, who was versed in the ways of his northern rivers, nodded silently. While they watched, admiring the swelling, swinging, ponderous advance of the great surface, and harkening to the booming thunder of its agony that filled the air, a breathless runner joined the group and spoke a few quick words to Black Feather. That chief approached Ouenwa and whispered in his ear. The boy glanced quickly at Beatrix and Kingswell, and then questioned Black Feather anxiously. Presently he turned back to the lovers. "The ice is stuck down-stream," he said. "Blue Cloud has seen it. He fears that the water will rise over the flat--and the fort." The river continued to rise until evening. After that the waters subsided a little, great cakes of rotten ice hung stranded along the crest of the bank, and the main body ceased to run downward. But from up the valley the thunder of a hidden disturbance still boomed across the windless air. "The jam had broken down-stream," said Ouenwa. Kingswell, unused to the ways of running ice, was satisfied, and retired to his couch with an easy mind. He slept soundly until, in the gray of the dawn, Ouenwa shook him roughly, and all but dragged him to the floor. "Wake up, wake up," cried the boy. "Damn, but you sleep like a bear! The fort is in danger! We must run for higher land." "Rip me!" exclaimed Kingswell, springing to his feet, "but what is the trouble? Are we attacked?" "The river is all but empty of water," replied Ouenwa. "The ice sags in the channel, like an empty garment. The water hangs above, behind the third point where we cut the timber for the boats." Kingswell, all the while, was busily employed pulling on his heavy clothes. Though he did not fully understand the threatening danger, he felt that it was real enough. While he tied the thongs of his deerhide leggins, Ouenwa told him that warning had reached the fort but a few minutes before. "How?" inquired Kingswell, hurriedly bestowing a wallet of gold coins and some other valuables about his person. Ouenwa, already loaded down with his friend's possessions, threw open the door and stepped out. "Wolf Slayer brought it," he said, over his shoulder. "And I do not understand," he added, "for Wolf Slayer hates us all." The other, close at his heels, made no comment on that intelligence. He scarcely heard it, so anxious was he for the safety of Mistress Beatrix. The whole fort was astir; but Kingswell ran straight to his sweetheart's door. It was opened by the maiden herself. She and the old servant were all ready to leave. An hour passed; load after load of stores and household goods was carried to the low hills behind the fort; and still the river lay empty, with its marred sheet of ice sagging between the banks; and still the unseen jam held back the gathering freshet. The women wept at the thought that their little homes were in danger of being broken and torn and whirled away. But Beatrix was dry-eyed. "It will be no great matter for them to build new cabins in a safer place," she said to Kingswell. He was looking at the natives dragging their rolled-up lodges to higher ground. He turned, smiling gravely. "You have no love for the wilderness?" he asked, "and yet but for this forsaken place, you and I might never have met." She laid her hand on his arm, and lifted a flushed face to his tender regard. "So it has served my turn," she said. "Now that I have you, I could well spare these wastes of black wood and empty barren." Kingswell had been waiting patiently and in silence for that confession ever since their betrothal. Hitherto she had not once spoken with any assurance of their future together. She had treated the subject vaguely, as if her thoughts were all with the past and with the tragedy of her father's death. "Would you face the homeward voyage in one of the little boats?" he asked, softly. "Ay, with you at the tiller," she replied. "Dear girl," he said, "I think that a stout ship called the _Heart of the West_ will be setting sail from Bristol, for this wilderness, before many days." "Would the fellow dare return?" she asked; for she had heard the story of Trowley's treachery. "He will think himself safe enough," replied Kingswell. "No doubt he owns the ship now--has bought it from my mother for the price of a skiff, after telling her how recklessly he battled with the savages to save her son's life." He laughed softly. "The old rogue will be surprised when I step aboard," he added. Before she could answer him a booming report shook the sunlit air. It was followed, in a second, by a long-drawn tumult--a grinding and crashing and roaring--as if the firmament had fallen and overthrown the everlasting hills. The sagging ice below them reared, domed upward, and split with clapping thunders. It broke its plunging masses, which were hurled down the stream and over the flats. A thing of brown water and sodden gray lumps tore the alders and swung across the meadow where the Beothic encampment had stood an hour before. The eastern stockade of the fort went down beneath its inevitable, crushing onslaught. All day cakes and pans of sodden ice and snow raced down the river, and the air hummed and vibrated with their clamour. But the weight of the released waters had passed; and the fort had suffered by no more than an exposed side. CHAPTER XXIX. WOLF SLAYER COMES AND GOES; AND TROWLEY RECEIVES A VISITOR Wolf Slayer, who had brought warning of the menace of the freshet to Fort Beatrix, soon showed his evil hand. He had arrived at the fort in a starving condition and still weak from wounds received in the battle in which his father had been killed. Had he been well and filled with meat, he would undoubtedly have let the inmates of the fort and the camp lie in ignorance of the danger. For ten days he was fed and cared for by the settlers. By the end of that time, he felt himself again. The old arrogance burned in his eyes; the old sneer returned to his lips. Ouenwa read the signs and wondered how the deviltry would show itself under such unpropitious circumstances. Ouenwa's sleep was light and fitful on the tenth night after the overflowing of the river. About midnight he awoke, turned over, and could not get back to his dreams. So he lay wide-awake, thinking of the future. He could hear Bernard Kingswell's peaceful breathing. He thought of his friend, and his heart warmed to him with gratitude and comrade-love. He thought of Beatrix, smiled wistfully in the darkness, and put the bright vision away from him. What was that? He breathed more softly and lifted his head. Was it fancy, or--or what? He shifted noiselessly to the farther edge of the couch. A hand brushed along his pillow of folded blanket. Next moment he gripped an unseen wrist and closed with a silent enemy. Minutes passed before the wrestlers stumbled against a stool, with a clatter that startled Kingswell to his feet. The Englishman leaped to the hearth, kicked the fallen coals to life, and threw a roll of birch bark on top of them. Then he stepped aside until the yellow flame lighted the room. The illumination was just in time, for Wolf Slayer had the lighter boy on the floor and the knife raised, when Kingswell saw his way to the rescue. He recognized the youth, and in a fit of English indignation at such a return for hospitality caught him by neck and belt and hurled him bodily from the prostrate Ouenwa. Wolf Slayer alighted on his feet, snatched open the door (which he had left ajar), and fled into the darkness. A morning of late May brought a friendly native to Fort Beatrix, with word that three English ships were in Wigwam Harbour. Then Ouenwa and Tom Bent made the journey and returned, in due season, with the welcome news that one of the vessels was the _Heart of the West_. Both the new boats and the old _Pelican_ were made ready for the expedition. Kingswell commanded the _Pelican_, with Ouenwa and six natives for crew. Tom Bent was put in charge of the second boat, and Black Feather of the third. William Trigget and Donnelly were left to see that no harm came to Mistress Westleigh--and, as the boats stole down-stream, in the gray of the dawn, William Trigget treasured in his hand a duly witnessed document, in which Bernard Kingswell, gentleman, of Bristol, bequeathed and willed all his earthly goods to Beatrix Westleigh, spinster, of Fort Beatrix, in the Newfounde Land, and late of Beverly and Randon, in Somersetshire, England. The parting between Beatrix and her lover had been a fond one, but the man had noticed (and in his heart regretted) the fortitude with which she bade him farewell and godspeed. He worried about it in his sleep, and again, as he looked longingly at her cabin in the bleak dawn. He tried to comfort himself with memories of a hundred incidents that placed the sincerity of her love beyond a shadow of doubt. But, for all that, she might have shed a few tears. Surely she realized the chances of danger?--the risk he was running, for her sake? Love is edged and barbed by just such little and unreasonable questionings. A white mist wreathed along the surface of Gray Goose River when the three boats swung down with the current. The Beothics were armed with English knives. There were no firearms aboard any of the little vessels. Kingswell and Ouenwa had swords at their belts, and Spanish daggers for their left hands. Tom Bent was armed with his oft-proved cutlass. The sun did not get above the horizon until the little fleet was clear of the river's mouth. There a breath of wind sighed through the cordage, and the sails flapped up and rounded softly. Kingswell leaned forward and looked under the square canvas of the _Pelican's_ big wing. "An extra man," he remarked to Ouenwa, sharply. "Who has taken it upon himself to improve on my orders?" A blanket-swathed figure, forward of the mast, turned and crawled aft. Then the blanket fell away, and Mistress Westleigh, rigged out in an amazing mixture of masculine and feminine attire, laughed up at the commander. "Promise to shield me from the wrath of Maggie Stone, when we go back," she whispered, in mock concern. For a moment Bernard stared, with wonder and embarrassment in his eyes, the while Ouenwa hid a smile. Then he doffed his hat and caught the queer figure to his knee; and in the flush of the morning, under the grave regard of the Beothic warriors, he kissed her on lips and brow. "What authority has Maggie Stone?" he cried. "If any one has a right to control your actions, surely it is I." She slipped to the seat beside him. "And you told me I could not accompany you--that it would not be safe," she replied. "Ay, but it was my duty to bid you remain behind," he said. "God knows it hurt me to refuse your so--so flattering a wish. But you accepted it calmly, dear heart." "I accepted it for what it was worth," she laughed. "I could not shed tears over a parting which I felt certain was not to take place." Her face changed quickly from merriment to gravity. "I could not have stayed in the fort without you," she whispered. "Dear lad, I am afraid to death whenever you are out of my sight. I do believe this love has made a coward of me!" For a little while there was no sound aboard the _Pelican_ save the tapping of the reef-points on the swelling breast of the sail, and the slow creak of the tiller. Ouenwa, leaning far to one side, gazed ahead, while the warriors crouched on the thwarts. Then the man stooped his head close to the girl's. "But on this trip," he whispered, "you must obey me--for both our sakes, dearest. It would be mutiny else." "I shall always obey you," she replied--"always, always--so long as you do not again leave me alone in Fort Beatrix." "William Trigget was there," he ventured. "And Maggie Stone." She laughed at that. "Poor Maggie!" she sighed. "Poor Maggie! She will rate me soundly for my boldness. She has ever a thousand discourses on the proprieties ready on the tip of her tongue." "Ah, the proprieties," murmured Bernard, as if caught by a new and somewhat disconcerting idea. "Rip me, but I've never given them a thought!" Beatrix laughed delightedly. "You must not let them trouble you now," she said. "When we get back to Bristol, I will guard myself with a dozen staid companions, and--" She paused, and blushed crimson. "I forget that I am penniless," she added. Kingswell's left hand closed over hers where it lay in her lap. "How long, think you, shall you stand in need of chaperons in Bristol?" he asked. The three boats sought shelter in a tiny, hidden bay, and Kingswell, Mistress Westleigh, Ouenwa, and Tom Bent made an overland trip to a wooded hill overlooking Wigwam Harbour. There lay the _Heart of the West_, close in at her old anchorage after the day's fishing. Work was going briskly forward on the stages at the edge of the tide. The other vessels, which were much smaller than Trowley's command, lay nearer the mouth of the river harbour. The declining sun stained spars and furled sails to a rosy tint above the green water. "Hark!" whispered Kingswell, touching the girl's arm, as she crouched beside him in the fringe of spruces. A bellowing voice, loud and harsh in abuse, reached their ears. "'Tis Trowley," he said, and chuckled. "How will he sound to-night, I wonder?" "You will not be rash, Bernard,--for my sake," pleaded the girl. He assured her that he would be discreet. It was dark when they got back to the little cove in which the boats were beached. About midnight, with no light save the vague illumination of the scattered stars, they rowed out with muffled oars. They moved with such caution that it took them two hours to reach Wigwam Harbour. They passed the outer ships unchallenged. Then Beatrix was transferred from the _Pelican_ to Black Feather's boat, and Tom Bent joined the commander. A veil of drifting cloud shut out even such feeble light as had disclosed the course to the voyagers. Before them the _Heart of the West_ loomed dark, a thing of massed shadows and a few yellow lights. The new-built boats lay about thirty yards aft and seaward of the ship. The _Pelican_ stole in under the looming stern, with no more noise than a fish makes when he breaches in shallow water. The crew steadied her beside the groaning rudder with their hands. Kingswell stood on a thwart and peered in at the cabin window, as Ouenwa had peered on a night of the preceding season. The low, oak-ceiled room was empty. A lantern hung from the starboard bulkhead, and two candles, in silver sticks that bore the Kingswell crest, burned, with bending flames, on the table. On the locker under the lantern lay a cutlass in its sheath, and a boat-cloak in an untidy heap. The edge of the table was within two feet of the square stern-window. For a little while Kingswell listened with guarded breath. Then, swiftly and lightly, he pulled himself across the ledge of the window, scrambled through, and crouched behind the table. Very cautiously he drew his rapier with his right hand and his dagger with his left. For a minute or two he squatted in the narrow quarters, breathing regularly and deeply, and harkening to the innumerable creaking voices of the decks and bulkheads, and the muffled voices and laughter from forward. For the occasion he had donned the hat, coat, breeches, and boots--all now stained and faded--in which Master Trowley had last seen him. Suddenly a heavy, uncertain step sounded on the companion ladder just forward of the cabin door. A volley of stout Devonshire oaths boomed above the lesser sounds. The door flew open, smote the bulkhead with a resounding crack, and swung, trembling. The bulky figure of Trowley entered, and the heady voice of the old sea-dog cursed the door, and big, red hands slammed it shut again. Kingswell drew a deep breath, and composed his dancing nerves and galloping blood as best he could. His emotions were disconcertingly mixed. The masterful old pirate (for such he surely was, deny the charge if you like) seemed to fill the cabin to overflowing with his lurching, great body. He tossed boat-cloak and cutlass on the deck, and yanked up the top of the locker. With muttered revilings at the excessive cost of West Indies rum, he produced a bottle of no mean capacity from its hiding-place, and a fine glass sparkled in the candle-light like diamonds. Kingswell recognized the glass as one from which he had often drunk his grog--a rare piece from his house in Bristol. Those articles the mariner placed on the table, scarcely a foot from the watcher's head. Next he loaded himself a china pipe with black tobacco, and lit it at one of the candles. In doing so, Master Bernard heard the puffings and gruntings with which the deed was accomplished, like half a gale in his ear. At last the fellow sat down with a thud, squared his elbows on the table, gazed for a second at the square window that opened on to the mysterious gloom of the night, and tipped the bottle. The liquor gulped and gurgled in its passage to the glass. The reek of it permeated the air. "Dang it," grumbled the mariner, "d'ye call this rum! Sink me, but it be half water!" However, he swallowed the dose with gusto, and smacked his lips at the end of it as he never would have after a draught of water. Very steadily and quietly Bernard Kingswell arose to his feet and looked down at Master Trowley with inscrutable eyes shadowed by his wide, stained hat. The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds, but to the staring mariner it seemed a matter of hours. He sprawled on his low stool, open-mouthed, red-eyed, with his big hands nerveless on the table, and the lighted pipe unheeded at his feet. "Traitor!" said Kingswell, coldly; and leaning across the table he tweaked the purple tip of Trowley's nose between thumb and finger. To do so, he laid his dagger on the edge of the mahogany for a second. The indignity called forth no more than a gurgle of terror from the master mariner. Kingswell plucked up the thin blade and flashed it within an inch of the whiskered face. Still the fellow sagged on his stool, unable to stir a muscle. Kingswell whistled three low notes. Ouenwa crawled through the port, with a coil of light rope in his hand. Tom Bent followed. Trowley threw off the spell of the supposed ghostly visitation and got to his feet with a bellow of rage and fear. In an instant he was flat on his back, with a gagging hand across his mouth and another at his throat. He was soon bound hand and foot, and securely gagged with a strip of his own boat-cloak. Ouenwa stuck his head through the open port, and whispered a word or two. One by one, four of his braves entered, with their knives unsheathed. Kingswell motioned them to follow, and softly opened the cabin door. On the port side of the alley-way, beside the companion ladder, Trowley's mate lay asleep in his bunk. Kingswell bent over him and saw that he was a stranger. He nodded significantly; and in an amazingly short time the mate of the _Heart of the West_ was as neatly trussed up as the master. Fifteen minutes later, Tom Bent hung over the rail, aft, and waved a lantern in three half-circles. And not long after that, Mistress Westleigh, Master Kingswell, and Ouenwa filled glasses with Canary wine, in the cabin of the _Heart of the West_. In the waist of the ship the stout English sailors and the skin-clad Beothics drained their pannikins, and eyed each other with good-natured curiosity. Old Tom Bent was toast-master; and also he told them an amazing story. CHAPTER XXX. MAGGIE STONE TAKES MUCH UPON HERSELF Shortly before midnight, Tom Bent went quietly about the task of waking both watches and the Beothics. The three boats from Fort Beatrix were manned, with the muffling oars. The two small anchors by which the _Heart of the West_ swung in the tide were fished into two of the boats by hand. It was a tough job; but, when it was accomplished, the ship was free without so much as a clank of cable or a turn of the noisy capstan. Hawsers were passed from the small craft over the bows of the ship, and at a signal from a lantern in Kingswell's hand, the men bent their backs to the oars. Then all lights aboard the _Heart of the West_ were covered, and in the darkness, beside the great tiller, Kingswell caught his inspiration and his reward to his heart again. The girl did not leave the commander's side, but kept watch on the high poop-deck throughout the journey. Until dawn the rowers held to their toil, and after them, drawn by lines that were sometimes taut and sometimes under water, but always invisible in the darkness, the ship stole like a shape of cloud and dream. It was hard work, and slow. With the breaking of dawn, the leviathan took on signs of life. By that time she was hidden from Wigwam Harbour by more than one bluff headland. The pulling boats drifted to her bows, the capstan was manned, and the anchors were lifted to their places on the forecast rail. Headsails were set, and the square mizzen was run up. The boats dropped astern and were made fast, and the weary men climbed aboard the ship. All day the _Heart of the West_ threaded the green waterways of the great Bay of Exploits. A light and favourable breeze lent itself to the venture. After the midday meal, Beatrix, wrapped in a blanket, lay down by the mizzen and fell asleep. She was tired. The easy motion of the ship, and the song of the wind in ropes and canvas, sank her fathoms deep in slumber, with the magic of a fairy lullaby. Kingswell rigged a piece of sail-cloth from the bulwarks to the mast to shade her face from the sun. At last the wide estuary, which ends in Gray Goose River, was reached. By sunset the mouth of the river was entered. Just then the wind failed. The boats were manned again, and the ship taken in tow. Still Mistress Westleigh slumbered peacefully, with the rough blanket about her dainty body and her head pillowed on Kingswell's folded coat. Kneeling beside her, Kingswell peered under the shelter of canvas, and saw that she was smiling in her dreams. How white were her dropped eyelids, and how clear and rose-tinted her small face. Her lips were parted a little, as if to whisper some sweet secret. A strand of her bright, dark hair was across her forehead, and one arm, clear of the blanket and the deerskin on which she lay, rested on the deck. The rosy palm was upturned. Kingswell stooped lower and kissed it softly. Standing up, he found Tom Bent beside him. The mahogany-hued mariner grinned sheepishly, and gave a hitch to his belt. "Beggin' the lady's pardon," he whispered, "but, if the angels in heaven be half so sweet to look at as herself, I'm for going to heaven, in spite o' the devil. Sink me, but I'd play one o' they golden harps with a light heart if--if the equals of herself were a-listenin' on the quarter-deck." Kingswell blushed and smiled. "You, too?" said he. "You are in love, Tom Bent." "Ay, sir," replied the boatswain, "for it can't be helped. I'm in love and awash, and danged near to sinkin'. Might as well expect a man to keep sober in the 'Powdered Admiral' on Bristol dock as within ten knots, to win'ward or lee'ard, o' your sweetheart, sir." "I agree with you," replied the gentleman, bowing gravely. Tom Bent pulled his scant forelock, and rolled away about his duty. He was mightily pleased with himself at having expressed his admiration for his young commander's choice in such felicitous terms. He prided himself on his eye for feminine beauty, no matter what the race or the rank of the fair one,--and a fairer than Mistress Westleigh he swore by all the gods of the Seven Seas he had never laid eyes on. The long spring twilight was gathering into dusk when the toiling boats and the tall ship rounded the point, and opened the fort to the view of the daring cruisers. Directly in front of the stockade the anchors plunged into the brown current. The rattle of the cables through the hawse-holes awoke Beatrix. She had been dreaming of a great garden in Somerset, and of walking along box-hedged paths with her father on one side and her lover on the other. Opening her eyes upon the canvas shelter which Kingswell had spread above her, and with the clangour of the running cables in her ears, for a second she did not know where she was. A vague fear oppressed her for a little. Then she recalled the incidents of the last two days, and was about to crawl from her resting-place, when the edge of the shelter was lifted, and Kingswell looked down at her. "Wake up," he said. "We are at the fort, and Trigget and Maggie Stone are coming off in a canoe." "Nay, then I'll stay here until you explain matters," she replied. "You must bear the brunt of Maggie Stone's displeasure for my sake." She sat up, laughing softly, and lifted her face in a way that only a dunce could fail to comprehend. Under cover of the strip of sail-cloth, he kissed the warm lips and the bright hair. "Trust me," he laughed; and at that moment Trigget and the servant climbed to the poop by way of the ladder from the ship's waist. He advanced to meet them. He saw that Trigget held a folded paper in his hand, and that the honest eyes of that bold mariner were red and moist. "What is it?" he inquired; for he had entirely forgotten, for the time being, the manner of Mistress Westleigh's joining with the expedition. "Here be your will, sir," said Trigget, handing him the paper. "It--it--well, maybe it'll not be o' any use now." "Of course not," replied Kingswell, cheerfully, tearing it across. Maggie Stone burst into tears. "Jus' the way Sir Ralph went," she sobbed. "Oh, my beautiful little lady--an' her fit mate for any nobleman of London town!" "What the devil do you mean?" cried Kingswell. Then the truth dawned in his preoccupied brain. "Dry your eyes," he said. "She is safe and sound." "Thank God for that," exclaimed William Trigget, devoutly. "What--the mistress be safe, d'ye say?" cried Maggie Stone, with a sudden change of face. Kingswell nodded curtly. He did not like being bawled at on the poop of his recaptured ship, even by an old serving maid. "Your mistress is safe--and in my care," he said. "Indeed, sir?" she queried. "An' may I make so bold as to ax when ye married Sir Ralph Westleigh's daughter?" William Trigget murmured something to the effect that his presence was required forward, and took his departure. Kingswell bit his lip and stared haughtily at the woman; but he was at a loss for words fully expressive of his feelings. His indignation brought a flush to his cheeks which even the dusk of evening could not hide. "Ye may well redden," cried Maggie Stone. "Ay, ye may well redden, after sailin' away with an unprotected lass, an' near terrifyin' her old nurse into fits." The gentleman recovered his power of speech. "My good girl," he said (and she was a full twenty years older than his mother), "your joy at hearing of your mistress's safety takes a wondrous queer and unseemly way of expressing itself. You seem to forget that you, the lady's servant, are addressing the lady's betrothed husband." The old maid glared and drew her scanty skirts about her. "Maybe so," she retorted. "'Twould never have happened in Somerset." At that moment Mistress Beatrix appeared suddenly from the other side of the mizzen. "How dare you!" she cried. "How dare you speak so to Master Kingswell!" Anger--quick, scathing anger--rang in her voice. Standing there in her short skirt, high, beaded moccasins, and blue cloth jacket, she looked like an indignant boy, save for her coiled hair and bright beauty. "I am ashamed of you," she added; and then, turning quickly, she flung herself into Kingswell's ever ready embrace. Maggie Stone was flustered and somewhat awed by the sudden attack. She had not been spoken to so for years and years. Would she resort to tears again, or would she answer back? She was jealous of the girl's love for Kingswell--and yet she had thanked God many times that that love had been won by the young Englishman instead of by the swarthy D'Antons. She sniffed, and mopped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she changed her mind and bridled. "What would the countess, your aunt, say to such behaviour?" she asked. "Her who watched over ye like a guardian angel in London town." Beatrix turned, and, still holding her lover's hands, faced the carping critic. "And who turned me out of her house at the last of it," she cried, scornfully. "Who is she, or who was she ever, to question my behaviour? And who are you, woman, to insult your mistress and the gentleman who saved you from the knives of the savages? Go back to the fort." Maggie Stone saw that she had made a serious mistake,--a mistake which, perhaps, would alienate the lady's affection for ever. She turned, a pitiable figure, and made to descend the steep ladder which stood close to the starboard side of the ship, and led to the waist. Her foot caught in a loop of rope that had not been properly stopped up to its belaying-pin. She lurched against the line that ran from the break of the poop to the bulwarks below, made a blind effort to right herself, and pitched over into the shadowed water below. She did not even scream. Kingswell dropped his sweetheart's hands, ran to the side and jumped after the foolish old woman. By that time the twilight had left the river. The current carried him swiftly down-stream, close under the side of the ship. The water was uncomfortably cold, and his thick clothes dragged at his limbs. He cleared his hair from his eyes. A disturbance appeared on the surface of the stream a few yards ahead. With a quick stroke or two, he reached it, and caught Maggie Stone by a thin shoulder. She struggled desperately, mad with fright. Both were pulled over the gunwale of the _Pelican_ not a moment too soon. CHAPTER XXXI. WHILE THE SPARS ARE SCRAPED It is difficult to imagine the feelings of the skippers and crews of the good ship _Plover_ and _Mary and Joyce_, when the gray light of dawn disclosed the fact that the _Heart of the West_ had vanished completely. What a rubbing of eyes must have taken place! What a dropping of whiskered jaws and ripping of sea oaths! "Sunk," said one heavy-shouldered mariner. "Then where be her spars?" inquired a messmate. "Cut an' run," suggested another. "Then the devil must have been after her! Ol' Trowley'd run from nothin' else," replied the cook of the _Plover_. The captain of the _Mary and Joyce_ scanned the inner harbour and what he could see of the outer bay. Then he turned his brass telescope upon the cliffs and hills and inland woods. "Maybe the French has towed mun out," he said at last. No fishing was done that day. The neighbouring bays and coves were searched, and even the "River of Three Fires" was investigated, with a deal of trouble, for several miles up its swift current. That night the skippers of the two vessels decided, over several hot glasses, that Wigwam Harbour was no safe place for honest English sailor men. Next morning found them sailing northward in search of another haven from which to reap the harvest of the great bay. To Fort Beatrix journeyed all the Beothics from many miles around, for a great trade was going on. Influenced by Maggie Stone's foolish outbreak, Beatrix and Bernard had decided to seek a priest in the port of St. John's on their way to England, and so cross the ocean as man and wife, to the bitter chagrin of Bristol scandal-mongers. Though the idea had not occurred to either of the lovers before the old woman's outcry in the name of suffering propriety, it was none the less to their liking now that they had accepted it. "And it will please poor Maggie Stone," said the girl. "I was not thinking of her," replied Kingswell, lifting the glowing face to his by a hand beneath the rounded chin. "Nor I, dear heart," she replied. To the others of that wilderness the trading seemed a greater matter than that romantic attachment of a man and a maid. Blankets, trinkets, inferior weapons, and even the spare clothing of the settlers were bartered for pelts of beaver, mink, marten, otter, musquash, and red, patched, and black fox, to make up a cargo for the _Heart of the West_. The price of an axe-head was twice its weight in beaver skins. Even Maggie Stone, with an eye to adding to her nest-egg, traded a skillet (the identical implement with which she had floored D'Antons) for a beautiful foxskin. Only Trowley had no finger in the trading. Sullen and silent, he wandered about the fort, and a few paces behind him a brawny Beothic always stalked. The storehouse of the fort was replenished from the well-stocked pantries and lazaret of the ship. Kingswell smiled grimly when, during the overhauling of the cabin lockers, he discovered choice wines, cheeses, and pots of jam which his lady mother had given to Master Trowley as a slight mark of her gratitude for his services to her son. He forced an admittance of these things from the old rascal himself. It had been as he had hinted to Beatrix. The fellow had told the tearful and credulous lady that he had risked his life in her son's defence, during an engagement with the savages; and she, grateful heart, had made such an unbusiness-like agreement with him for the sailing of the ship that, had the voyage run its anticipated course, even a full load of fish would not have saved her from a shrewd loss. Happily for Trowley, Master Kingswell was far too happy for such trivial matters to really anger him. "The old rogue staked his soul and lost on the last throw," he said to Beatrix, "and I staked my heart, and won all that the world holds of joy. Surely I should be a low fellow to add to his misfortunes, poor devil. I can afford to be charitable now." They were seated on the grassy edge of the river meadow, looking out at the anchored ship, where sailors were repairing the rigging and scraping the spars. The girl did not seem keenly interested in Trowley's underhand behaviour to Dame Kingswell. As to his treachery toward Kingswell, to tell the truth, she was very grateful to the old thief for having sailed away and left her lover in the wilderness. Such thoughts flitted pleasantly through her mind. "When did you stake your heart?" she asked, as if that were the core of the whole thing. "I cannot tell you the date exactly," replied Kingswell, "but I was in Pierre d'Antons' company at the time, and--and I was mightily surprised to find Somersetshire people in this country. Lord, but your eyes were bright." "Do you mean that you--do you mean that it happened on the first day of your arrival at the fort?" she queried. "Surely," said he. "And you loved me then?" He nodded, smiling across toward the busy mariners in the rigging of his ship. His memories of those perilous days were fragrant as an English rose-garden. "Do you know," she whispered, "that, though I felt sure I had made an impression on you then, I began to doubt it later. You were so self-satisfied that you shook my faith in my own powers to charm." He laughed softly, and with a note of wonder. Then, for a little while, they were silent. "Tell me," she said, suddenly. "Did you really love me that first day you came to the fort, or was it just--just surprise at seeing a--a civilized girl in so forsaken a place?" He considered the question gravely and at some length. "I wanted to kill D'Antons," he answered, presently, "and I would gladly have given ten years of my life for a kiss from your lips, a caress from your hands. Was that love, think you?" "I should call it a right hopeful beginning," she replied, brightly; but tears which she could not explain shone in her eyes. Across the hurrying water drifted the song of the men at work upon the tall masts of the _Heart of the West_. "In a week's time," said Kingswell, "she will fill her sails for St. John's--and then for home." The girl nestled closer to his side. Looking down, he saw that she was weeping. "God grant that we find a parson in that harbour," he added. She nodded, and choked with a sob she could not stifle. "Why do you weep, dearest?" he asked. "For those whom we must leave behind," she whispered. He had no answer to make to that. Together they looked beyond the anchored ship and the bright river to the inscrutable wilderness that held the fate of the mad baronet so securely. CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIRST STAGE OF THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE IS BRAVELY ACCOMPLISHED At nine o'clock of the morning of the twenty-second day of June, the bow of the _Heart of the West_ was towed around and pointed down-stream by willing boats and canoes; a light wind filled such sails as were set, and the voyage was begun. Trigget fired a salute from a new gun which Kingswell had given him from the armament of the ship. It was answered by the barking of cannon and the fluttering of sails. Ouenwa stood with Mistress Westleigh, Kingswell, and Maggie Stone, aft by the tiller, which was in the hands of Tom Bent. The lad was fairly wild with excitement. Now, it seemed to him, his great dreams were assured; and yet a pang of homesickness went through the joy like the blade of a knife, as he watched the faces of the clustered people along the meadow and in the boats grow dim,--the faces of William Trigget and Black Feather, and of a dozen more who were dear to him. He shouted back to them in English and in his native tongue, and waved his cap frantically. The faces blurred and wavered. The ship swam around the wooded point, and meadow and stockade and camp of wigwams vanished like a picture withdrawn. The lad turned and glanced at Mistress Westleigh. Then he walked forward to the break of the poop, and blinked very hard at nothing in particular in the belly of the maintopsail. Soon the wooded banks fell away on either side, and the water changed its tint of amber for wind-roughened green. The gray, purple, and brown shores of the roadstead widened and dropped lower, and azure uplands shone beyond their frowning brows. The wind freshened, and white flakes of foam whipped from crest to crest across the ever-shifting, ever-vanishing valleys of green. Along the fading cliffs white sea-birds circled and settled like flakes of snow. A few great gulls winged around the ship, fleeing to leeward like bolts of mist, and beating up again with quivering pinions. Kingswell had taken the duties of sailing-master upon himself. He was as good a deep-sea navigator as any man on the whole width of the North Atlantic. When the outer bay was reached, yards were swung around, and the stout bark headed due east at his orders. To see old Tom Bent push the tiller over, and other seasoned mariners man brace and sheet, at the command of that gold-haired youth, made the heart of Beatrix Westleigh flutter with pride. Her dark eyes, already bright and lovely beyond power of description, shone yet more brightly; and her cheeks, already flushed to clear flame by the wind, deepened their glow. As the ship answered to his will, so would he answer to her whim. It was a pleasant reflection to the lady; and to realize it she called softly. Without a glance at the straining sails, he turned and hastened to her side. The voyage from Fort Beatrix to the wonderful harbour and brave little town of St. John's was made without accident, though not without incident. In Bonavista Bay, at a gray hour of the morning, the stump of a great iceberg was narrowly avoided. A day later, a large vessel that was evidently employed at fishing evinced an undesirable interest in the business of the _Heart of the West_. She was not a quarter of a mile distant when first sighted, for a light fog was on the water. She flew no flag, and changed her course and altered her speed with sinister promptness. Kingswell, and every man of the ship's company, knew that pirates of many nationalities infested those waters during summer. The worst of the thieves were Turks; and the fishing-ship or store-ship that was overhauled by those gentry usually lost more than its cargo. Frenchmen, Englishmen, and Spaniards also had a weakness for playing the part of the bald eagle, with their heavy metalled and wide-sailed craft, to the rôle of the fishhawk so unwillingly played by the merchantmen. Happily for Kingswell's command, the stranger was inshore and to leeward. Both watches were piped up by Tom Bent. The gunners went to their quarters. Sail after sail unfurled about the already straining masts and yards. The brave little ship answered willingly to the pressure, and her cutwater broke the flanks of the waves into sibilant foam. A rumour of the chase reached Mistress Beatrix and her old maid, in the seclusion of that snug cabin in which Master Trowley was, at one time, wont to revel. Maggie Stone drew the curtains across the thick glass of the after-port (as if fearing that the eagle glance of one of the pirates might pierce the privacy of her retreat), and then devoted herself to tearful prayer. Beatrix completed her toilet, threw a cloak over her shoulders, and climbed the companion. She joined Kingswell by the tiller, and, after saluting him tenderly and with a composure that took no heed of the sailor at the helm, watched the chase with interest. "They outsail us," she said, presently. Kingswell nodded. "But she'll never get near us on that course," he replied. "She is for heading us off, and getting to windward. If she gets to windward of us--Lord, but I scarce think she will." He said a word of preparation to the man at the tiller, and then gave a few quick orders from the break of the poop. In half a minute the _Heart of the West_ headed out on an easy tack. When every sail was drawing to his liking, he returned to the girl. "How glorious!" she cried. "A good horse, a singing pack, and an old fox make but slow sport compared to this." "We are the fox on this hunting morning," smiled Kingswell. "With teeth," she hinted. He noticed that the unwelcome stranger was shouldering the wind on the new course. He looked at the girl. "Ay, we have teeth, sweeting," he said, "and soon we'll be gnashing them." Though the _Heart of the West_ sailed well, to windward, the big craft astern sailed even better. The ships, crowded with canvas, the dancing blue water and cloudless sky, and the brown and azure coast to leeward, made a fine picture under the white sun. As the stranger drew near and nearer, excitement increased aboard the merchantman. Old Trowley bawled to be set free, that he might not die in the sail-locker like a rat in a hole. Tom Bent spat on his hard hands, and pulled his belt an inch shorter. Ouenwa lugged up shot and powder, and was for opening fire at an impossible range. Beatrix roused Maggie Stone from her devotions, and took her forward to a place of greater safety in the men's quarters. Along either side of the after-cabin of the _Heart of the West_ ran a narrow passage. Each passage ended in a blind port, and behind each port crouched a gun of unusual size for so peaceful an appearing ship. Now Kingswell blessed the day that a youthful love of warlike gear and a heart for adventure had led him to add these pieces to the armament of his ship. He remembered, with a contented smile, how Master Trowley had growled at the delay caused by getting the great guns aboard and partitioning off the passage. Even his mother had urged him to put more faith in the great ship which the king was so gracious as to send to Newfounde Land each spring, as a convoy to the fishing fleet. But Master Bernard, spoiled child, had had his way; and now he thanked the gods of war for it. Both ships sailed as close to the wind as their models and rigging and the laws of nature would allow. They went about often on ever shortening tacks. The hunter outsailed the hunted, though it is safe to say that her seamanship was no better. Suddenly she luffed until her sails quivered, and from her bows broke two puffs of smoke with inner cores of flame. Both shots flew high, and fell ahead of the quarry in brief spouts of torn water. At that, the blind ports in the stern of the merchantman opened up, and the sinister muzzles of the guns were run out with a gust of English cheering. Then their sudden voices boomed defiance, and the smoke rolled along the water and clung to the leaping waves. Kingswell felt the deck jump under his feet. His pulses leaped with the good planks. "Hit!" he cried--and sure enough, one of the enemy's upper spars, with its burden of flapping canvas, tottered desperately, and then swooped down on the clustered buccaneers beneath. Half an hour later the _Heart of the West_ was spinning along on her old course, and far astern the stranger lay to and nursed her wound. Three days later, at high noon, the Narrows opened in the sheer brown face of the cliffs, and the people of the _Heart of the West_ caught a glimpse of the harbour and the shipping beyond. Then the rocky portals seemed to close, and the spray flew like smoke along the unbroken ramparts. The ship was put about, and again the magic entrance opened and shut. "I knows the channel, sir," said Tom Bent. "Ye needn't wait for no duff-headed pilot." So the stout ship went 'round again, with a brisk shouting of men at the braces and a booming of canvas aloft. Her colours flew bravely in the sunlight, answering the colours of the fort and the battery on Signal Hill. She raced at the towering cliff as if she would try to overthrow it with her cocked-up bowsprit. Even Kingswell caught his breath. Beatrix looked away, so fearful was the sight of the unbroken rock that seemed to swim toward them with a voice of thunder and the smoking surf along its foot. Ouenwa wondered if Tom Bent were mad. But the boatswain gripped the big tiller, and squinted under the yards, and cocked an eye aloft at the flags and men on the cliff. Then, of a sudden, the narrow passage of green water, spray-fringed, opened under their bows, and the walls of rock slid aside and let them in. CHAPTER XXXIII. IN THE MERRY CITY The _Heart of the West_ was boarded by a lieutenant of infantry, inside the Narrows, and was quickly piloted to a berth on the north side of the great harbour, where her anchors were merrily let go. The lieutenant welcomed Master Kingswell in the governor's name, and vowed to Mistress Westleigh that the old shellback (with so little respect will a subaltern sometimes speak of his superior into safe ears) would never have allowed his gout to keep him ashore had he guessed that the new arrival carried such a passenger. "But his Excellency is a sailor," he added, "so, after all, he'd blink his old eyes at you unmoved. These sailors, ecod, are not the worshippers of beauty that the poets would have us believe." He bowed again, very fine in his new uniform and powdered hair. Beatrix shot a glance at Kingswell, who seemed in no wise conscious of the dimness of his own attire and the rents in the silk facings of his coat. Then she smiled upon the soldier. "Both the army and navy have my esteem," she said, "but my particular fancy is for the Church." The lieutenant seemed overwhelmed. "Say you so?" he cried. "And to think, mistress, that I refused to take Holy Orders, despite the combined persuasion of both my parents and my uncle, the Bishop of Bath. Stab me, but why did not my heart give me a hint of your preference?" "Perhaps you have a parson ashore," suggested Kingswell. "Ay, we have a parson--a ranting old missionary," replied the lieutenant. "He'll serve my turn," said Beatrix, "so long as he can read the marriage service." "Ay, he'll serve our turn," said Kingswell. The soldier sighed, and smiled whimsically from the one to the other. He was not much older than Bernard Kingswell, and of a pleasant, boyish countenance. "You have a story," he said, "with which I hope you will honour us in the governor's house. A brave tale, too, I'll stake my sword." He smiled good-naturedly at Master Kingswell. "But d'ye know," he added, gazing at Mistress Westleigh, "I had quite set my heart on it that you two were brother and sister." The governor received them in his best coat, with one foot in a boot, and the other swathed to the bulk of a soldier's knapsack. His face was of the tint of russet leather, and, roughened by many inclement winds and darkened by high living. His voice was of a rancorous quality, as if he had frayed it by too much shouting through fogs and against gales. His hands were big, knotted, and tremulous, and his eyes not unlike those of a new-jigged codfish. Altogether he was a figure of a man for his place as king's representative. He led Mistress Beatrix to a chair with such grace as he could command, and presented a ponderous snuff-box to Master Kingswell. Then he called for refreshments. The lieutenant made himself at home beside the lady, and waited upon her with wine and cakes. When the servants were gone and the door closed, Kingswell stated his name and degree. "Let me shake your hand again, young sir," cried his Excellency, extending an unsteady hand. "Your honoured father dined and wined me more than once in his great house in Bristol,--ay, and treated the poor sailor like a peer of the realm." Kingswell leaned sideways in his chair and gave a brief account of Sir Ralph Westleigh's and Mistress Westleigh's sojourn in the wilderness, and of the baronet's death. He did not mention the fact that the fort was still inhabited, nor did he give a very definite idea of its whereabouts. It was well to be cautious in regard to unchartered plantations in those days of greedy fishermen. He mentioned the brief engagement with the buccaneer. He told of his betrothal to Mistress Westleigh, and of their anxiety to be married immediately. The governor was deeply affected by the story of Sir Ralph Westleigh's last days. He murmured an oath. "And the day was," he said, "that not a duke in England was more looked up to than that same baronet of Somerset. Well do I recall the pride that inflated me when Lady Westleigh--ay, the young lady's mother--bowed to me in Hyde Park. Only once had she met me, and that in a crush to which I'd been invited through my commander. And she was as beautiful as she was gracious, sir. 'Twas after her death that Sir Ralph threw over his ballast, poor devil." Kingswell nodded, and remembered the winter of alarms and loneliness. "They were bitter years for the daughter," he said, softly. "Motherless, and with a father whom she loved letting slip his old pride and honour day by day, she shared his downfall and his exile with fortitude, sir, I can assure you." "Ay, as became her brave beauty," replied the governor, with a gleam in his staring eyes. Now fate would have it at that time the only divine in the great island, the Reverend Thomas Aldrich, M. A., was away from the little town of St. John's, on a preaching tour among the English fishermen in Conception Bay. He might be back in a day's time; he was more likely not to return within the week. "In the meantime," said the honest governor, "my house is at Mistress Westleigh's service. Let her send for her maid and her boxes. My good housekeeper will tidy up the best chamber. Gad, Master Kingswell, but we'll cheer this God-forsaken, French-pestered hole in the rock with a touch of gaiety." His Excellency's hospitality was accepted, and for eight days the little settlement gave itself over to merrymaking. There were dances in the governor's house every night, at which Beatrix was the only lady. There were great dinners, during which Beatrix sat on his Excellency's right and Kingswell on his left. There were inspections of the fort, boating parties on the harbour, and outings among the woods and natural gardens that graced the valley at the head of the beautiful basin. The beauty and graciousness of Mistress Westleigh, and the knowledge of her loyalty to her father, and her bravery won the heart of that rude village. From the governor to the youngest sailor lad, every man in the harbour was her humble and devoted servant. Before the kindly soldiers and merchants and adventurers, she was always merry. The main street along the water-front took on a light of distant England did she but appear in it for a minute. The three officers of the garrison swore that they preferred it to the most fashionable promenade on London. But, alone, or with her lover, she eased, with tears, the grief for her father's fate, which all the junketing and gaiety but seemed to uncover. On the eighth day after the arrival of the _Heart of the West_ in the harbour of St. John's, the parson returned from his preaching among the boisterous fishing-ships in Conception Bay. He shook his head at the state in which he found his home flock; for he was of that gloomy persuasion known as low church, and held little with frivolity. But, after meeting Beatrix, he thawed, and even went so far as to attempt a pun on his willingness to marry her. The sally of wit was received by the lady with so lovely a smile that the divine forgot his austerity so far as to poke Kingswell in the ribs, and call him a sly dog. The ceremony took place in the little church behind the governor's house; and, after it was over, his Excellency, the parson, the officers of the garrison, the merchants, the captains of the ships, and many more, accompanied the happy couple aboard the _Heart of the West_, where sound wines were drunk by the quality, and rum and beer by the commonalty. All the shipping, the premises of the merchants, and the forts flew bunting, as if for a demonstration to royalty itself. At noon farewells were said, and a dozen willing boats towed the _Heart of the West_ down the harbour and through the Narrows. CHAPTER XXXIV. PIERRE D'ANTONS SIGNALS HIS OLD COMRADES, AND AGAIN PUTS TO SEA The wilderness, that grim thing of naked rock, brown barren, gray marsh, and black wood, which had claimed the mad baronet so surely, was unable to keep Pierre d'Antons in its spacious prison. With the return of summer, the dark adventurer and the Beothic girl deserted their inland retreat, and set out for a certain grim cape which thrusts far into the Atlantic. The crown of that cape affords an uninterrupted view to seaward and north and south across the waters of two great bays. A fire at night, or a column of smoke in the day, glowing or streaming upward from that vantage place, would be sighted from the deck of a passing ship at a distance of many miles. The journey proved a long and trying one, through swamps and barrens, and over rock-tumbled knolls. Streams were forded, lakes circumambulated, and rivers crossed on insecure rafts. Through it all, the native girl, Miwandi, kept a brave heart and bright face. D'Antons, however, was preoccupied in his manner, and even gloomy at times. The hardships of that wild existence had begun to tell on his body, and the loneliness to fret his nerves. His infatuation for Mistress Westleigh had dimmed and faded out altogether, leaving only a mean desire for the salve of revenge with which to soothe his injured pride. He would wound her through Kingswell. Sometimes a fear oppressed him that his men might have forgotten his mastery by this time, and might fail, after the two seasons of silence, to continue their cruising of those northern waters throughout June and July, as he had commanded. But that doubt only troubled him in his darkest moods. The loyalty of his subordinate buccaneers of the _Cristobal_ was not to be questioned seriously, for it had been tested in many tight places. Comradeship often forms as trusty ties between the hearts of pirates as between the hearts of honest gentlemen. Once grown beyond the temptations of greed and treachery, it is a safe thing, this loyalty of desperate men for their messmates. It was Pierre d'Antons' dream to regain the deck of the _Cristobal_ (with Miwandi, of course), and to appear, some fine day, before the little fort of Gray Goose River; to put the settlers to the sword, the buildings to the torch, and to carry the English beauty away with him. He felt that his passion for the proud lady might be easily and pleasantly refired. But he made no mention of Mistress Westleigh to Miwandi, the Beothic girl. After more than a week of hard travelling, the two ascended the wooded ridge which runs seaward to the bleak and elevated acres of the grim cape of their desire. In a shaggy grove they set up their lodge. At the extremity of the headland, high above the wheeling, screaming gulls and noddies, D'Antons built a circular fireplace of the stones that lay about. Completed, it looked like an altar reared by some benighted priesthood to the gods of the wind and the sea. But no such thought occurred to its architect. His case was too desperate to allow his mind to indulge in such whimsical fancies. While the woman went in quest of food--fish, flesh, or fowl, what did it matter which?--the man gathered wood and piled it near the queer hearth. He worked without intermission until Miwandi returned from her foraging with a string of bright trout in her hand. Then he built a modest fire within the rough walls of his furnace, and helped the girl clean and cook the fish. By that time the glow of the afternoon was centred behind the gloomy hills, and a clear twilight was over the sea; but as yet the atmosphere held no suggestion of dusk. No sail broke the wide expanse of dark blue ocean with its flake of gray; but to the nor'east a whale breached and blew its little fountain of spray across the still line of the horizon. D'Antons and Miwandi noted these things as they ate, but made no comment upon them. For several days after the arrival of the two upon the overseeing headland, D'Antons made no other use of his furnace than for the cooking of meals. For that purpose it served admirably, for the walls protected the flame from the ever-flying winds that prevailed over that exposed spot. The adventurer knew that he was early for the _Cristobal_. Several sails were detected; but of them the only heed taken was the precaution of blanketing the little fire in the hearth with damp soil. The Frenchman did not desire a visit from fishermen of any nationality whatever. He might find it difficult to explain his presence in so unfavourable a spot for either a fishery or a settlement. No doubt they would persist in rescuing him, and, in that case, what reason could he give for wishing to stay in his cheerless camp? So he lay low and watched the passing of more than one stout craft without a sign. The time arrived when he must set his signals, despite the risk of attracting unwelcome visitors. So he closed the front of the furnace with a boulder, built a brisk fire within, which he heaped with damp moss and punk, and then laid a large, flat stone over the opening in the top of the unique structure. By removing the flat stone, he allowed a column of dense smoke to issue into the air, stream aloft and scatter in the wind. By replacing the stone, the smoke was cut short off. Finding that the contrivance worked to his satisfaction, he let the smoke stream up, uninterrupted. The signalling would only be resorted to when a vessel, which might possibly be the _Cristobal_, should be sighted. When darkness fell, the fire was allowed to die down. A night signal was unnecessary, as the _Cristobal_, should she keep the tryst at all, was sure to make an examination of the cape by daylight. D'Antons' last orders had been strictly and particularly to that effect. A week passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept by the fugitives on the brow of the cape, and the signal of smoke was operated a dozen times without the desired effect. In fact, a large vessel, attracted by the smoke (which was due to D'Antons' tardy realization that the approaching ship was not the _Cristobal_) altered her course, sailed close in, and sent a boat ashore to investigate. D'Antons and Miwandi had just enough time, with not a minute to spare, to roll up their wigwam and hide it in the bushes, gather together their most valuable belongings, and flee inland to a shelter of tangled spruces and firs. The boat's crew was composed of peaceful fishermen, who were free from suspicion and malice. They climbed to the brow of the promontory with fine hardihood, but once there did little but examine the marks where the lodge had so lately stood and partially overthrow the queer fireplace. They believed that structure to be an altar, built to the glory of some unorthodox god. Then they retraced their perilous way to the little cove under the cliff, and rowed back to the ship. D'Antons stole from his retreat and crawled to the edge of the cliff. He felt a glow of satisfaction when the big vessel stood away on her northward course. Another week drifted along, and hope wavered in the buccaneer heart. His gloomy moods began to wear on the young squaw's spirits. She begged him to return to the inland rivers--to make peace with her people--to cease his unprofitable staring at the sea. "The sorrow of the great salt water has entered your heart," she said, "and the moaning of it has deafened your ears to my voice." He did not turn his eyes from the undulations of the gray horizon. "Would you have me rot in this place for the remainder of my life?" he asked, harshly, in her language. The poor girl sobbed for an hour after that, and reproved her heart for the image of a god it had set up. She tried to overthrow the idol from its inner shrine; she tried to change it to a grim symbol of hate; she pressed her face to the coarse herbage, and tore the sod with her fingers. "Miwandi! Come to me, little one," cried the man from the edge of the cliff. Her anger, her bitterness, vanished like thinnest smoke. She sprang up and ran to him. He drew her to his side, and with his right hand pointed southward across the glinting deep. "The _Cristobal_!" he cried. "Good God, I'll stake my life on it!" So intense was his satisfaction at the sight of those unmistakable topsails that his selfish affection for the woman lighted again. He pressed his lips to the tear-wet cheek; and immediately the simple creature was in the seventh heaven of bliss. While the gray flake of sail expanded on the horizon, Pierre d'Antons and the woman hurriedly and roughly rebuilt the walls of the fireplace, lit and fed a blaze, and piled it high with moss and rotten bark. The thick pillar of smoke arose like a tree, and bent in the moderate wind. Miwandi busied herself with breaking the wood to the required length and carrying damp moss. For several minutes the smoke was allowed to ascend in an unbroken shaft. Then D'Antons cut it off for a few seconds, let it rise again, broke it again, and again let it stream aloft, uninterrupted. He had signalled his name according to the code of the _Cristobal_. The welcome ship gradually enlarged to the eager eyes of the watchers on the cape. North, east, and south there was no other sail in sight. At last three flags ran up to the topforemast and fluttered out. The question was read instantly by D'Antons, who returned to his fire and interrupted the stream of smoke five times in quick succession. The translation of that was "All's well. You may approach without danger." A message of congratulation appeared promptly against the bellying foresail of the _Cristobal_; and the watchers saw the rolls of white foam gleaming like wool under the forging of the bow. D'Antons was cordially welcomed aboard the _Cristobal_. Miwandi was received without question. The acting commander of the ship was a grizzled Spanish mariner by the name of Silva,--a fellow steeped in crime and uncertain of temper, yet possessed of a marvellous devotion for D'Antons, which was due to an act of kindness performed by the Frenchman years before, in the town of Panama. Silva was delighted to find his captain alive and ready for the high seas again. He asked no questions concerning his adventures until more than one bottle of wine had been emptied, and the captain's travel-stained garments had been exchanged for the best the cabin lockers contained. Miwandi, too, was reclothed; and the beauty and softness of the silks that were presented to her fairly turned her little head. She did not know that the fair French lady for whom they had been made, in gay Paris, and who had worn them only three months ago, was somewhere in the dredge of emerald tides between the Bahaman reefs. She knew only that the texture and colours delighted her skin and her eyes. So, in her narrow room, she attired herself in the finery, toiling at the ties and lacing with unfamiliar fingers. In the captain's cabin D'Antons motioned to his friend to close the door. He had consumed a soup, and was still engaged with the wine. Silva returned to his seat at the table, after a final reassuring push on the bolt of the door. It is always wise to be sure that the door you considered fastened is fastened indeed. Then, with their elbows on the table and their heads close together, the more salient incidents of D'Antons' sojourn in the wilderness were rehearsed and keenly listened to. Silva displayed a prodigious indignation at the story of the captain's failure to win the affections of Mistress Westleigh. At word of Sir Ralph's death (and the murder became a desperate duel in the telling), a crooked smile of satisfaction distorted his face. As to what he heard of Kingswell--ah, but oaths in two languages were quite inadequate for the expression of his feelings. "We'll inspect the heart of that cockerel--and the gizzard as well," said he, and drank off his wine. "Leave him to my hand," replied D'Antons, darkly. Silva nodded, with a sinister leer. "So it's 'bout ship and blow the little stockade into everlasting damnation," he said. "Ay, but the lady must come to no harm in the attack," warned the captain. So the _Cristobal_ headed northward, and the evil-looking rascals of her crew were informed that the morrow would bring them some work to limber their muscles. The information was received with cheers, in which hearty English voices were not lacking. However, in the early morning, Fate, in the shape of the _Heart of the West_, turned the danger away from the little fort. "She looks like a likely prize," said D'Antons, when he sighted the ship. The old fever awoke in his blood. He longed for the old excitement. "Give chase," he ordered. "The fort can well do without the honour of our attentions for a little while." So the chase was carried on, as has been described in a previous chapter, and went merrily enough for the _Cristobal_ until the unexpected shot from the stern of the quarry brought down her foretopmast and its weight of sail. But before that had happened, D'Antons, unrecognizable himself in new clothes and a great hat, marked Bernard Kingswell on the poop of the _Heart of the West_. He cursed like a madman, or a true-bred pirate, when his ship was crippled. "The fort may rot of old age in the midst of its desolation," he cried to Silva, "for what I would have is aboard that cursed craft ahead." A few days later, with their spars repaired, they picked up a small fishing-boat, and learned from the skipper that a great ship from the north had entered the harbour of St. John's. So, knowing the virtue of precaution, they impressed the master and crew and scuttled the little vessel. Then, with admirable patience, they cruised up and down, far to seaward of the brown cliffs which guarded that hospitable port. CHAPTER XXXV. THE BRIDEGROOM ATTENDS TO OTHER MATTERS THAN LOVE The dainty bride leaned on her husband's arm, and together they looked back and waved farewell. Flags answered them from the battery above the cliff. Then she turned to the bridegroom and gazed into his eyes with so radiant and tender a smile that, all forgetful of the abashed salt at the tiller, he drew her to him and kissed her on brow and lips. "Dear wife," he murmured, and could say no more. Both were brave in marriage finery,--she in a pearl gown of brocaded silk, a scarlet cloak lined with white fur, and a feathered hat, and he in buff and blue from the wardrobe of the commandant of St. John's. They gazed astern, across the dancing azure, to the brown and purple rocks beautified by the sunlight and crystal air. "Homeward bound," she whispered, happily, and turned her face from the mellowing coast of the wilderness to the wide east. Together they walked forward to the break of the high deck. A fair wind bellied the sails. The tarred rigging and scraped spars shone like polished metal. The men, in their brightest sashes and cleanest shirts (in honour of the occasion), went about their duties briskly. The mates wore their side-arms; both watches were on deck, with the gaiety of the days ashore still in their hearts. Not a soul was below save the cook (who sorted provisions in the forward lazaret), Maggie Stone (who sulked in her mistress's cabin because she had not been asked to act as bridesmaid), and old Trowley, with wrists and legs in irons and a dawning repentance in his sullen blood. An hour later Ouenwa ascended the starboard ladder from the waist, and stood beside Master and Mistress Kingswell. He wore a dashing outfit, which had been made to his shape by the garrison tailor in the days preceding the marriage. A sword was at his belt; lace hung at his wrists; his dark hair, slightly curled, fell to his shoulders. His tanned cheeks were flushed with the excitement passed and the adventures anticipated. Only the dark alertness of his eyes and the litheness of his actions bespoke his primitive upbringing. Though he had been named "dreamer" by his people, he gave promise now of a life of deeds rather than of dreams. "Do you mourn the little stockade and the great river, lad?" queried Kingswell, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. Ouenwa shook his head emphatically and glanced knowingly aloft. "Why should I mourn them?" he asked. "Am I not bound for castles and great houses, for books in number as the leaves of the birch-tree, and for villages filled all day with warriors, and with ladies almost as fair as Mistress Beatrix? Shall I not read in the books, and see horses, greater than caribou, bearing gentlemen upon their backs? Then why would you have me mourn? The land behind us is not a good land. My fathers were brave and wise, and led their warriors to a hundred victories; but they were murdered by their own people. I care not for such a country." "True, lad," replied Kingswell, "and yet, even in glorious England, you may find ingratitude as black as that of Panounia. Even kings and queens have been guilty of ingratitude." Beatrix patted the moralist's arm. "Why think of it now?" she said, gently, "and why fill the dear lad with doubt? Only if he climbs high need he fear disloyalty. As a plain soldier, he shall never lack the protection of such humble friends as ourselves." Just then a lookout warned them of a sail on the larboard bow. Kingswell and Ouenwa went forward to the forecastle-head. Tom Bent (now of the rank of chief gunner) was already there, peering away under the lift of the jibs. The second mate was with him. "A large vessel," remarked Kingswell. "Ay, and we's spoke mun afore now, sir," replied Bent. He was too intent on gazing ahead to see the question in the captain's face. But the mate saw it and answered it. "She's run up a new spar, sir, an' mended her for'ard riggin'," said he, "an' like enough she thinks she'll take the cost of damages out o' us." "Ah!" exclaimed Kingswell, with a note of relish. Then he remembered Beatrix, and a shadow darkened his eyes for a moment. "Pipe both watches," he said, quietly. "Arm all hands. Clear decks for action. Master Gunner, you must fight your barkers to-day for more than the glory of England." He returned to his wife and told her of the menace. She heard the news with an inward sickening, but with no outward tremor. All her fear was for him. "Promise me that you will go to our cabin when I give the word," he asked. She nodded and smiled wistfully. "Your obedient, humble wife, my lord," she whispered, with a brave attempt at gaiety. He caught her hands quickly to his shoulders and kissed her lips. He felt them tremble against his. "I must help with the preparations, dear heart," he murmured, and hurried away. He consulted the mates and Tom Bent as to the advisability of beating back for St. John's. The mariners shook their heads. They held that the _Heart of the West_ could make a better fight on her present course; and that the battle would be decided, one way or another, before the garrison could send them any help. As if to confirm their views, the wind freshened to such a degree, and held so fair astern, that to beat to windward would require all hands at the sails, and put gunnery out of the question. "Like enough they be double our strength in men," said Tom Bent, "but we equals 'em in guns and seamanship, sir, an' ye may lay to that." So the _Heart of the West_ held on her course under a press of canvas. After Kingswell and Beatrix had talked together for some time, they went forward, hand in hand, to the break of the poop. Tom Bent called the ship's company to attention. The brave fellows, stripped to their breeches and shirts in readiness for the approaching encounter, looked up, and such as wore caps doffed them respectfully. "My brave lads," cried the lady, in a voice that rang clear above the stir of wind and wave and tugging cordage, "but this morning you made merry for my sake; and now, in so little a while, you will risk your lives in defending your ship and me from that pirate whom we have already encountered. My husband,--your captain,--like a true-bred English sailor, is already sure of victory. A generous mariner, he has promised me the prize; and now I promise it to you. In a few weeks' time, my lads, we shall sell our enemy in Bristol docks. Not a penny of her price shall go to owner or captain; but all into the pockets of this brave company. And should any man fall in the encounter, I pledge my word that those dependent upon him shall lack nothing that money can give them during the remainder of their lives. Now, fight well, for God and for England." She looked down at them, smiling divinely. "And for the Lady Beatrix," shouted a youthful seaman. Cheers rang aloft; bearded lips and shaven lips bawled her name; and great, toil-seared hands were brandished, and stark blades gleamed in the sunlight. "God bless you, lady," they roared. She leaned forward and blew a kiss from her lips with both dainty hands. "God strengthen you, brave hearts," she cried, softly; and the nearer of the loyal mariners saw the tears shimmering beneath her lashes. The _Heart of the West_ held on her course, breaking the waves in fountains from her forging bow. The _Cristobal_ raced down upon her with the wind square abeam. It was evidently her intention to cross the merchantman's bows and rake her with a broadside. Aboard the _Heart of the West_ every man was at his post, and the matches were like pale stars in the hands of the gunners. The second mate was on the forecastle-head, beside the bow-chaser. The first mate stood in the waist. Kingswell paced the poop, fore and aft. Each measured and calculated the brisk approach of the _Cristobal_ with unwinking eyes, and considered the straining sails overhead and the speed of the wind. Still the pirate boiled down upon them, leaning over in the press of the half-gale. It was evident to Kingswell that she would pass across his bows within a distance of a hundred yards, unless something was done to prevent it. He spoke quietly to the men at the tiller, and called an order to the officer amidships. Twenty seconds later he gave the signal. The tiller was pushed over, the yards were hauled around, and the good ship swung to the north and took the wind on her larboard beam. Now the vessels leaned on the same course, and were not two hundred yards apart. Almost at the same moment they exchanged broadsides, and the challenging shouts of men mingled with the roaring of the little cannonades. The smoke from the merchantman's ports blew down, in a stifling cloud, upon the enemy. The _Cristobal_ fell off before the wind in an unaccountable manner. The _Heart of the West_ luffed, in the hope of bringing her heavy after-battery to bear, saw that the manoeuvre could not be accomplished, and flew about on her old course. "Her tiller is shot away," cried Kingswell. A cheer rang along the decks and penetrated the cabins fore and aft. Beatrix heard it, and thanked God. Old Trowley heard it, and, beating his manacled wrists against the bulkhead, roared to be cast loose that he might bear a hand in the fight. From that first exchange of round-shot, the _Heart of the West_ escaped without hurt, owing to the fact that the enemy's guns, elevated by the pressure of the gale upon her windward side, sent their missiles high between the upper spars of the merchantman. The _Cristobal_, however, was hulled by two balls, and had her tiller carried away by a third; for, just as her guns were elevated to harmlessness by the list of the deck, so were the merchantman's depressed to a deadly aim by the list of hers. Taking every advantage which a sound tiller and perfectly trimmed sails gave her over her enemy, the _Heart of the West_ raced after the buccaneer. Passing close astern, she raked her with her three larboard guns. Running on, and slanting across the wind's course more and more, she presently had her two after-guns to bear on the three-quarter target of the _Cristobal's_ starboard side. The range was middling; but, even so, the gunners sent up a prayer to Luck, so violent were the soarings and sinkings of the deck. The shots were followed by a tottering of high sails above the _Cristobal_, and with a flapping and rending, the mizzenmast fell forward and stripped the main of three of her yards. Now the disabled, tillerless _Cristobal_, kept before the wind by a great sweep, fled heavily. Her decks were cluttered with snarled wreckage. Half a dozen of her crew were injured. Her commander and Master Silva were mad with rage at the unexpected turn of events. Aboard the _Heart of the West_, Ouenwa had just pointed out to Kingswell the dashing figure of Pierre d'Antons. "I take it that this is his last play," remarked the young captain, with a grim smile. For another hour the merchantman sailed about the pirate at her will, pouring broadside after broadside into hull and rigging, and sustaining but little damage herself. Now and then musket-shots were exchanged. Two of Kingswell's men were wounded, and were promptly carried below, where their hurts were tenderly bandaged by Mistress Kingswell and Maggie Stone. In a lull of the firing, the cook came running to the poop, with word that Trowley was in a fair way to make matchwood of his surroundings. "What ails him now?" inquired Kingswell. "He be shoutin' for a chance at the Frenchers," replied the cook. Kingswell considered the matter, with a calculating eye on the enemy. "Cast him loose," said he, "and give him a chance to prove himself an English sailor man." Trowley appeared on deck just as a shot from the _Cristobal_ struck the teakwood rail of the _Heart of the West_ amidships. A flying splinter whirred past his head. He brandished his cutlass, and bawled a threat across the rocking water. The men at the guns welcomed him with laughter and cheers. "Ye be in for the kill, master," cried one. Kingswell beckoned the ex-commander aft, and met him at the top of the ladder. Trowley looked guiltily this way and that. "I have let you up, my man," said the captain, "that you may bear a hand in the fight. I am willing to forget your knaveries of the past, and remember only your actions of to-day." Trowley nodded, and for an instant his eyes met Kingswell's. "You can see what we have done to the enemy," said the other. "But I am in no mind to break her up with this everlasting cannonading. What would you suggest?" Trowley straightened his great shoulders and lifted his head. "Lay her aboard, sir," said he, "an' make fast." CHAPTER XXXVI. OVER THE SIDE With a fearful grinding of timbers and rattling of spars, the merchantman's larboard bow scraped along the enemy's side. Boarding-irons were thrown across from the forecastle-deck. With a yell, the men of Devon sprang from rail to rail, and hurled themselves upon the mongrels who clustered to repulse them. Cutlasses skirred in the air; and some struck clanging metal, and some met with a softer resistance. Screams of rage and pain, and shouts of grim exultation, rang above the conflict. Old Trowley hacked a place for himself in the thickest of the press, and laid about him with such desperate fury and such fearful oaths that the buccaneers hustled each other to get out of his way. Kingswell, in the waist of the _Cristobal_, encountered D'Antons, and claimed him for his own. As their blades rasped together, D'Antons began the story of Sir Ralph Westleigh's death in the wilderness. Kingswell heard it without comment. The tumult about them gradually subsided, as man after man of the pirate crew was cut down or bound. Sail was shortened on both vessels, and the victors, sound and wounded alike, gathered about the two swordsmen. A strained silence took possession of the watchers. The rough fellows understood that their captain had an old score to settle with the buccaneer. They were fascinated by the lightning play of the rapiers. They noted every movement of foot and hand, blade and eye. When D'Antons snarled an insulting taunt at his adversary, they cursed softly. When their captain pricked the pirate's shoulder, a husky murmur of admiration went through them. So intent were they on the fight that they failed to notice the approach of Miwandi, the Beothic woman, until she was in their midst. But they became aware of her presence when she screamed with rage and flung herself upon Kingswell. "Pull the wench off," they cried, and made a futile grab at the mad figure. Kingswell, quick as a cat for all his Saxon colouring, wrenched himself clear of her, avoided the slash of her knife by a half-inch, and lunged through D'Antons' guard. The buccaneer pitched forward so suddenly and heavily that the rapier was wrenched from the Englishman's hand. The hilt struck the deck. The slim blade darted out between D'Antons' shoulders a full two-thirds of its length. He sprawled on his face, gulping his last breath; and the hilt of Kingswell's weapon knocked spasmodically on the red planking of the deck. The woman, stunned with grief, was led away by two of the seamen. By the time the duel was over, the long, northern twilight was drawing to a close. The decks of the _Cristobal_ were cleared of the dead bodies and the wreckage of guns and spars. The torn rigging was partially repaired; a few sails were set; and the shattered tiller was replaced. The prisoners (wounded and bound together, they did not number a dozen) were divided between the ships. A prize-crew of seven, under the first mate's command, went aboard the _Cristobal_. Then the boarding-irons were cast loose, and the vessels fell away from each other to a safe distance. Miwandi's grief was desperate. Beatrix strove to comfort her, but failed signally. Her position was evident enough to every one who had seen her frantic attempt to assist D'Antons in the encounter with Kingswell. Beatrix guessed the story. Her face burned at remembrance of her one-time companionship with D'Antons--of the days before she fully knew his nature, and often sat at cards and chess with him in the little cabin in the wilderness--and of the days before that, when he was one of her admirers in London. Even now she did not know him for her father's murderer. Kingswell had decided to keep that to himself, until some day in the happy future, when the wilderness should be fainter than the memory of a dream in his wife's mind. For three days the ships kept within sight of each other. On the fourth, a gale of wind drove them apart; but Kingswell felt no anxiety for the prize, for she had received no serious damage to her hull in the bitter encounter that had befallen on his wedding-day. Aboard the _Heart of the West_ the wounded improved daily; the prisoners cursed their irons and their luck; the crew never pulled on a rope without a song to lighten the task; old Trowley, promoted from imprisonment to the position of second mate, worked like a Trojan, and Beatrix and Bernard sped the hours in the high and golden atmosphere of love and youth. The Beothic woman, however, felt no response in her heart to the stir and happiness about her. Her world had fallen in a desolation of emptiness, and her very soul was weary of the sequence of day and night, night and day. She would not eat. She sobbed quietly, without rest, in her darkened berth. Her ears were deaf to words of comfort, even when they were spoken in her own language by Ouenwa. She asked no questions. Ever since that first outbreak, at sight of her lover's danger, she accepted the will of her pitiless gods without signs of either anger or wonder. One still night, when the waves rocked under the faint light of the stars without any breaking of foam, and the wind was just sufficient to swell the sails from the yards, the man at the tiller was startled from his reveries by a splash close alongside. He called to the officer of the watch, who had heard nothing, and told him of the sound. They scanned the sea on all sides and listened intently. They saw only the black, vanishing crests. They heard only the whispering of the ship on her way. "A fish," said the mate. The other agreed with him. In the morning Miwandi's berth was discovered to be empty,--no trace of her was found alow or aloft. The remaining days of the passage slipped by without any especial incident. Winds served. Seas were considerate of the good ship's safety. No fogs endangered the young lovers' homeward voyage. Every night there was fiddling in the forecastle and the chanting of rude ballads. And sometimes in the cabin a violin sang and sang, as if the very heart of happiness were under the sounding-board, and Love himself in the strings. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MOTHER Dame Kingswell, the widow of that good merchant of Bristol whom Queen Elizabeth had knighted in her latter days, sat in her chamber and looked down upon a pleasant garden beneath the window. She was alone. Her garments, though of rich materials, were sombre in hue. She wore no personal ornaments save two rings on her left hand, and a chain of gold, bearing a small cross of the same metal, at her breast. Her thick hair was snow-white. In her youth it had been as black as her husband's had been flaxen. Her complexion held scarcely more colour than her hair. On her knees a book of devotional poetry, splendidly illuminated about the margins, lay open. But her thin hands were folded over the page, and her gaze was upon the shrubbery of the garden. The time was early evening. The sunlight was mellow gold. The hedges, shrubs, and fountain on the lawns threw eastward shadows. The chamber in which the widow sat was large and scantily furnished. A few portraits, by masters of the brush, hung along the walls. A prayer-desk, with a red hassock before it, stood in a corner. A light rapping sounded on the door. The lady turned her eyes from the bright garden below her window. She saw the door open, and a beautiful girl in cloak and hat enter the room. The stranger advanced quickly, in a whispering of silks, and in her glowing hands took the widow's bloodless fingers. "My dear," said the elder woman, kindly, "I fear my memory is flitting. I do not recall your winsome face. Can it be that you are one of Sir Felix Brown's lasses, grown to such a fine young lady in London?" The girl sank on her knees and kissed the pale hands lightly and prettily. "My name is Beatrix Kingswell," she murmured. The good dame was sorely puzzled. She tried, in vain, to connect this lovely creature with any branches of the late knight's family. "Then you are a kinswoman of mine?" she queried. "Pray do not kneel there, my dear. Come sit in the window and tell me who you are." But the stranger did not move. "I am your daughter," she said. "And--oh, do not swoon, my mother--Bernard is at the door, awaiting your permission to enter." The widow closed her eyes for a second, leaning back in her chair. She recovered herself swiftly and clutched the skirts of the girl, who was now standing, ready to run to the door and admit her husband. "What story is this?" she cried, incredulous. "I have no daughter. And Bernard, my son, has lain dead in a far land these weary months." "Nay, dear madam," replied the girl. "Nay, he is not dead. But let me go to the door, and you will see him with your own eyes. He waits at your threshold, happy and well." The older woman maintained her hold of her visitor's gown. "And who are you, to bring me word of my son's return?" she asked, with a ring of shrewdness and suspicion in her voice. Dimly, she feared that she was affording sport to some heartless person; for this sudden tale of her son's safety, brought by this gay young lady, had broken upon her pensive reveries like an impossible scene out of a play. "I am his wife," replied Beatrix. With an effort, she pulled her skirts away from the clutching fingers, and sped to the door. Throwing it open, she admitted Bernard. The youth sprang to where his mother sat, and caught her up from her chair against his breast. With a glad, inarticulate cry, she slipped her arms around his neck and clung hysterically. Five days after the arrival of the _Heart of the West_, the _Cristobal_ sailed into port. By that time the story of her capture was well known in the town, and a crowd of citizens gathered on the docks to welcome her. Master Kingswell put her up for sale. In the end, he bought her himself, for something more than she was worth. Every penny of the money Beatrix gave to the brave fellows who had fought and sailed their ship so valorously on her eventful wedding-day. Only that rugged and wayward master mariner, John Trowley, failed to show himself for a share of the gold. He had not the courage to run a chance of another meeting with Lady Kingswell. Of the future of Bernard, Beatrix, and the lad Ouenwa, something is written in the old records in an exceeding dry vein. Of the fate of the little fort on Gray Goose River, little is known. Some chroniclers maintain that the French overpowered it; others are as certain that the settlers moved to Conception Bay, and there established themselves so securely that, even to-day, descendants of those Triggets and those Donnellys cultivate their little crops, cure their fish, and sail their fore-and-afters around the coast to St. John's. THE END. 
22372	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22372-h.htm or 22372-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/3/7/22372/22372-h/22372-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/3/7/22372/22372-h.zip) +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ +-------------------------------------------------+ | By Wilfred T. Grenfell | | | | | | A LABRADOR DOCTOR. The Autobiography of | | Wilfred Thomason Grenfell. Illustrated. | | | | LABRADOR DAYS. Tales of the Sea Toilers. | | With frontispiece. | | | | TALES OF THE LABRADOR. With frontispiece. | | | | THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE. | | | | ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN. Illustrated. | | | | HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY | | BOSTON AND NEW YORK | +-------------------------------------------------+ A LABRADOR DOCTOR The Autobiography of Wilfred Thomason Grenfell [Illustration: (signed) Wilfred Grenfell] A LABRADOR DOCTOR The Autobiography of Wilfred Thomason Grenfell M.D. (Oxon.), C.M.G. With Illustrations [Illustration] Boston and New York Houghton Mifflin Company The Riverside Press Cambridge Copyright, 1919, by Wilfred T. Grenfell All Rights Reserved PREFACE I have long been resisting the strong pressure from friends that would force me to risk having to live alongside my own autobiography. It seems still an open question whether it is advisable, or even whether it is right--seeing that it calls for confessions. In the eyes of God the only alternative is a book of lies. Moreover, sitting down to write one's own life story has always loomed up before my imagination as an admission that one was passing the post which marks the last lap; and though it was a justly celebrated physician who told us that we might profitably crawl upon the shelf at half a century, that added no attraction for me to the effort, when I passed that goal. Thirty-two years spent in work for deep-sea fishermen, twenty-seven of which years have been passed in Labrador and northern Newfoundland, have necessarily given me some experiences which may be helpful to others. I feel that this alone justifies the writing of this story. To the many helpers who have coöperated with me at one time or another throughout these years, I owe a debt of gratitude which will never be forgotten, though it has been impossible to mention each one by name. Without them this work could never have been. To my wife, who was willing to leave all the best the civilized world can offer to share my life on this lonely coast, I want to dedicate this book. Truth forces me to own that it would never have come into being without her, and her greater share in the work of its production declares her courage to face the consequences. CONTENTS I. EARLY DAYS 1 II. SCHOOL LIFE 15 III. EARLY WORK IN LONDON 37 IV. AT THE LONDON HOSPITAL 64 V. NORTH SEA WORK 99 VI. THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR 119 VII. THE PEOPLE OF LABRADOR 139 VIII. LECTURING AND CRUISING 159 IX. THE SEAL FISHERY 171 X. THREE YEARS' WORK IN THE BRITISH ISLES 183 XI. FIRST WINTER AT ST. ANTHONY 197 XII. THE COÖPERATIVE MOVEMENT 215 XIII. THE MILL AND THE FOX FARM 226 XIV. THE CHILDREN'S HOME 241 XV. PROBLEMS OF EDUCATION 254 XVI. "WHO HATH DESIRED THE SEA?" 270 XVII. THE REINDEER EXPERIMENT 288 XVIII. THE ICE-PAN ADVENTURE 304 XIX. THEY THAT DO BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS 315 XX. MARRIAGE 331 XXI. NEW VENTURES 344 XXII. PROBLEMS ON LAND AND SEA 357 XXIII. A MONTH'S HOLIDAY IN ASIA MINOR 376 XXIV. THE WAR 384 XXV. FORWARD STEPS 403 XXVI. THE FUTURE OF THE MISSION 411 XXVII. MY RELIGIOUS LIFE 424 INDEX 435 ILLUSTRATIONS WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL _Frontispiece_ VIEW FROM MOSTYN HOUSE, THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHPLACE, PARKGATE, CHESHIRE 2 OXFORD UNIVERSITY RUGBY UNION FOOTBALL TEAM 44 THE LABRADOR COAST 120 ESKIMO WOMAN AND BABY 128 ESKIMO MAN 128 ESKIMO GIRLS 132 BATTLE HARBOUR 140 A LABRADOR BURIAL 156 THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN SUMMER 164 THE STRATHCONA 192 THREE OF THE DOCTOR'S DOGS 198 A KOMATIK JOURNEY 202 THE FIRST COÖPERATIVE STORE 218 ST. ANTHONY 226 INSIDE THE ORPHANAGE 250 FISH ON THE FLAKES 272 DRYING THE SEINES 272 A PART OF THE REINDEER HERD 296 REINDEER TEAMS MEETING A DOG TEAM 296 A SPRING SCENE AT ST. ANTHONY 304 DOG RACE AT ST. ANTHONY 304 ICEBERGS 320 COMMODORE PEARY ON HIS WAY BACK FROM THE POLE, 1909 340 THE INSTITUTE, ST. JOHN'S 354 DOG TRAVEL 368 THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN WINTER 406 ENTRANCE TO ST. ANTHONY HARBOUR 418 A LABRADOR DOCTOR CHAPTER I EARLY DAYS To be born on the 28th of February is not altogether without its compensations. It affords a subject of conversation when you are asked to put your name in birthday books. It is evident that many people suppose it to be almost an intrusion to appear on that day. However, it was perfectly satisfactory to me so long as it was not the 29th. As a boy, that was all for which I cared. Still, I used at times to be oppressed by the danger, so narrowly missed, of growing up with undue deliberation. The event occurred in 1865 in Parkgate, near Chester, England, whither my parents had moved to enable my father to take over the school of his uncle. I was always told that what might be called boisterous weather signalled my arrival. Experience has since shown me that that need not be considered a particularly ominous portent in the winter season on the Sands of Dee. It is fortunate that the selection of our birthplace is not left to ourselves. It would most certainly be one of those small decisions which would later add to the things over which we worry. I can see how it would have acted in my own case. For my paternal forbears are really of Cornish extraction--a corner of our little Island to which attaches all the romantic aroma of the men, who, in defence of England, "swept the Spanish Main," and so long successfully singed the Bang of Spain's beard, men whose exploits never fail to stir the best blood of Englishmen, and among whom my direct ancestors had the privilege of playing no undistinguished part. On the other hand, my visits thither have--romance aside--convinced me that the restricted foreshore and the precipitous cliffs are a handicap to the development of youth, compared with the broad expanses of tempting sands, which are after all associated with another kinsman, whose songs have helped to make them famous, Charles Kingsley. My mother was born in India, her father being a colonel of many campaigns, and her brother an engineer officer in charge during the siege of Lucknow till relieved by Sir Henry Havelock. At the first Delhi Durbar no less than forty-eight of my cousins met, all being officers either of the Indian military or civil service. To the modern progressive mind the wide sands are a stumbling-block. Silting up with the years, they have closed the river to navigation, and converted our once famous Roman city of Chester into a sleepy, second-rate market-town. The great flood of commerce from the New World sweeps contemptuously past our estuary, and finds its clearing-house under the eternal, assertive smoke clouds which camouflage the miles of throbbing docks and slums called Liverpool--little more than a dozen miles distant. But the heather-clad hills of Heswall, and the old red sandstone ridge, which form the ancient borough of the "Hundred of Wirral," afford an efficient shelter from the insistent taint of out-of-the-worldness. Every inch of the Sands of Dee were dear to me. I learned to know their every bank and gutter. Away beyond them there was a mystery in the blue hills of the Welsh shore, only cut off from us children in reality by the narrow, rapid water of the channel we called the Deep. Yet they seemed so high and so far away. The people there spoke a different language from ours, and all their instincts seemed diverse. Our humble neighbours lived by the seafaring genius which we ourselves loved so much. They made their living from the fisheries of the river mouth; and scores of times we children would slip away, and spend the day and night with them in their boats. [Illustration: VIEW FROM MOSTYN HOUSE, THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHPLACE, PARKGATE, CHESHIRE] While I was still quite a small boy, a terrible blizzard struck the estuary while the boats were out, and for twenty-four hours one of the fishing craft was missing. Only a lad of sixteen was in charge of her--a boy whom we knew, and with whom we had often sailed. All my family were away from home at the time except myself; and I can still remember the thrill I experienced when, as representative of the "Big House," I was taken to see the poor lad, who had been brought home at last, frozen to death. The men of the opposite shores were shopkeepers and miners. Somehow we knew that they couldn't help it. The nursery rhyme about "Taffy was a Welshman; Taffy was a thief," because familiar, had not led us to hold any unduly inflated estimate of the Welsh character. One of my old nurses did much to redeem it, however. She had undertaken the burden of my brother and myself during a long vacation, and carried us off bodily to her home in Wales. Her clean little cottage stood by the side of a road leading to the village school of the State Mining District of Festiniog. We soon learned that the local boys resented the intrusion of the two English lads, and they so frequently chased us off the village green, which was the only playground offered us, that we at last decided to give battle. We had stored up a pile of slates behind our garden wall, and luring the enemy to the gates by the simple method of retiring before their advance, we saluted them with artillery fire from a comparatively safe entrenchment. To my horror, one of the first missiles struck a medium-sized boy right over the eye, and I saw the blood flow instantly. The awful comparison of David and Goliath flashed across my terror-stricken mind, and I fled incontinently to my nurse's protection. Subsequently by her adroit diplomacy, we were not only delivered from justice, but gained the freedom of the green as well. Far away up the river came the great salt-water marshes which seemed so endless to our tiny selves. There was also the Great Cop, an embankment miles long, intended to reach "from England to Wales," but which was never finished because the quicksand swallowed up all that the workmen could pour into it. Many a time I have stood on the broken end, where the discouraged labourers had left their very shovels and picks and trucks and had apparently fled in dismay, as if convicted of the impiousness of trying to fill the Bottomless Pit. To my childish imagination the upturned wheelbarrows and wasted trucks and rails always suggested the banks of the Red Sea after the awful disaster had swept over Pharoah and his host. How the returning tide used to sweep through that to us fathomless gulch! It made the old river seem ever so much more wonderful, and ever so much more filled with adventure. Many a time, just to dare it, I would dive into the very cauldron, and let the swirling current carry me to the grassy sward beyond--along which I would run till the narrowing channel permitted my crossing to the Great Cop again. I would be drying myself in the sunshine as I went, and all ready for my scanty garments when I reached my clothing once more. Then came the great days when the heavy nor'westers howled over the Sands--our sea-front was exposed to all the power of the sea right away to the Point of Ayr--the days when they came in with big spring tides, when we saw the fishermen doubling their anchors, and carefully overhauling the holding gear of their boats, before the flooding tide drove them ashore, powerless to do more than watch them battling at their moorings like living things--the possessions upon which their very bread depended. And then this one would sink, and another would part her cable and come hurtling before the gale, until she crashed right into the great upright blocks of sandstone which, riveted with iron bands to their copings, were relied upon to hold the main road from destruction. Sometimes in fragments, and sometimes almost entire, the craft would be slung clean over the torturing battlements, and be left stranded high and dry on our one village street, a menace to traffic, but a huge joy to us children. The fascination of the Sands was greatly enhanced by the numerous birds which at all times frequented them, in search of the abundant food which lay buried along the edges of the muddy gutters. There were thousands of sandpipers in enormous flocks, mixed with king plovers, dunlins, and turnstones, which followed the ebb tides, and returned again in whirling clouds before the oncoming floods. Black-and-white oyster-catchers were always to be found chattering over the great mussel patches at low water. With their reddish bills, what a trophy a bunch of them made as we bore them proudly home over our shoulders! Then there were the big long-billed curlews. What a triumph when one outwitted them! One of my clearest recollections is discovering a place to which they were flighting at night by the water's edge; how, having no dog, I swam out for bird after bird as they fell to my gun--shooting some before I had even time to put on my shirt again; and my consequent blue-black shoulder, which had to be carefully hidden next day. There were wild ducks, too, to be surprised in the pools of the big salt marshes. From daylight to dark I would wander, quite alone, over endless miles, entirely satisfied to come back with a single bird, and not in the least disheartened if I got none. All sense of time used to be lost, and often enough the sandwich and biscuit for lunch forgotten, so that I would be forced occasionally to resort to a solitary public house near a colliery on our side of the water, for "tea-biscuits," all that they offered, except endless beer for the miners. I can even remember, when very hard driven, crossing to the Welsh side for bread and cheese. These expeditions were made barefoot as long as the cold was not too great. A diary that I assayed to keep in my eighth year reminds me that on my birthday, five miles from home in the marshes, I fell head over heels into a deep hole, while wading out, gun in hand, after some oyster-catchers which I had shot. The snow was still deep on the countryside, and the long trot home has never been quite forgotten. My grief, however, was all for the gun. There was always the joy of venture in those dear old Sands. The channels cut in them by the flowing tides ran deep, and often intersected. Moreover, they changed with the varying storms. The rapidly rising tide, which sent a bore up the main channel as far as Chester, twelve miles above us, filled first of all these treacherous waterways, quite silently, and often unobserved. To us, taught to be as much at home in the water as on the land, they only added spice to our wanderings. They were nowhere very wide, so by keeping one's head, and being able to swim, only our clothes suffered by it, and they, being built for that purpose, did not complain. One day, however, I remember great excitement. The tide had risen rapidly in the channel along the parade front, and the shrimp fishermen, who used push-nets in the channels at low tide, had returned without noticing that one of their number was missing. Word got about just too late, and already there was half a mile of water, beyond which, through our telescopes, we could see the poor fellow making frantic signals to the shore. There was no boat out there, and a big bank intervening, there seemed no way to get to him. Watching through our glasses, we saw him drive the long handle of his net deep into the sand, and cling to it, while the tide rose speedily around him. Meanwhile a whole bevy of his mates had rowed out to the bank, and were literally carrying over its treacherous surface one of their clumsy and heavy fishing punts. It was a veritable race for life; and never have I watched one with keener excitement. We actually saw his post give way, and wash downstream with him clinging to it, just before his friends got near. Fortunately, drifting with the spar, he again found bottom, and was eventually rescued, half full of salt water. I remember how he fell in my estimation as a seaman--though I was only a boy at the time. There were four of us boys in all, of whom I was the second. My next brother Maurice died when he was only seven, and the fourth, Cecil, being five years younger than I, left my brother Algernon and myself as the only real companions for each other. Moreover, an untoward accident, of which I was the unwitting cause, left my younger brother unable to share our play for many years. Having no sisters, and scarcely any boy friends, in the holidays, when all the boys in the school went home, it might be supposed that my elder brother and I were much thrown together. But as a matter of fact such was not the case, for our temperaments being entirely different, and neither of us having any idea of giving way to the other, we seldom or ever found our pleasures together. And yet most of the worst scrapes into which we fell were coöperative affairs. Though I am only anxious to shoulder my share of the responsibility in the escapades, as well as in every other line of life, my brother Algernon possessed any genius to which the family could lay claim, in that as in every other line. He was my father over again, while I was a second edition of my mother. Father was waiting to get into the sixth form at Rugby when he was only thirteen years old. He was a brilliant scholar at Balliol, but had been compelled to give up study and leave the University temporarily owing to brain trouble. He never published anything, but would reel off brilliant short poems or essays for friends at a moment's notice. I used always to remark that in whatever company he was, he was always deferred to as an authority in anything approaching classics. He could read and quote Greek and Latin like English, spoke German and French fluently, while he was an excellent geologist, and Fellow of the Geographical Society. Here is quite a pretty little effusion of his written at eight years of age: O, Glorious Sun, in thy palace of light, To behold thee methinks is a beautiful sight. O, Glorious Sun, come out of thy cloud, No longer thy brightness in darkness shroud. Let thy glorious beams like a golden Flood Pour over the hills and the valleys and wood. See! Mountains of light around him rise, While he in a golden ocean lies: O, Glorious Sun, in thy Palace of Light To behold thee methinks is a beautiful sight. Algernon Sydney Grenfell Aged eight years Some of my brother's poems and hymns have been published in the school magazine, or printed privately; but he, too, has only published a Spanish grammar, a Greek lexicon, and a few articles in the papers. While at Oxford he ran daily, with some friends, during one "eights week" a cynical comic paper called "The Rattle," to boost some theories he held, and which he wished to enforce, and also to "score" a few of the dons to whom he objected. This would have resulted in his being asked to retire for a season from the seat of learning at the request of his enemies, had not our beloved provost routed the special cause of the whole trouble, who was himself contributing to a London society paper, by replying that it was not to be wondered at if the scurrilous rags of London found an echo in Oxford. Moreover, a set of "The Rattle" was ordered to be bound and placed in the college archives, where it may still be seen. My father having a very great deal of responsibility and worry during the long school terms, as he was not only head master, but owned the school as well, which he had purchased from his great-uncle, used to leave almost the day the holidays began and travel abroad with my mother. This partly accounts for the very unusual latitude allowed to us boys in coming and going from the house--no one being anxious if now and again we did not return at night. The school matron was left in charge of the vast empty barracks, and we had the run of play-field, gymnasium, and everything else we wanted. To outwit the matron was always considered fair play by us boys, and on many occasions we were more than successful. One time, when we had been acquiring some new lines of thought from some trashy boys' books of the period, we became fired with the desire to enjoy the ruling passion of the professional burglar. Though never kept short of anything, we decided that one night we would raid the large school storeroom while the matron slept. As always, the planning was entrusted to my brother. It was, of course, a perfectly easy affair, but we played the whole game "according to Cavendish." We let ourselves out of the window at midnight, glued brown paper to the window panes, cut out the putty, forced the catch, and stole sugar, currants, biscuits, and I am ashamed to say port wine--which we mulled in a tin can over the renovated fire in the matron's own sanctum. In the morning the remainder was turned over to fishermen friends who were passing along shore on their way to catch the early tide. I had no share in two other of my brother's famous escapades, though at the time it was a source of keen regret, for we were sent to different public schools, as being, I suppose, incompatible. But we heard with pride how he had extracted phosphorus from the chemical laboratory and while drawing luminous ghosts on the wall for the benefit of the timorous, had set fire to the large dormitory and the boys' underclothing neatly laid out on the beds, besides burning himself badly. Later he pleaded guilty to beeswaxing the seat of the boys in front of him in chapel, much to the detriment of their trousers and the destruction of the dignity of Sunday worship. During the time that my parents were away we never found a moment in which to be lonely, but on one occasion it occurred to us that the company of some friends would add to our enjoyment. Why we waited till my father and mother departed I do not know, but I recall that immediately they had gone we spent a much-valued sixpence in telegraphing to a cousin in London to come down to us for the holidays. Our message read: "Dear Sid. Come down and stay the holidays. Father has gone to Aix." We were somewhat chagrined to receive the following day an answer, also by wire: "Not gone yet. Father." It appeared that my father and mother had stayed the night in London in the very house to which we had wired, and Sid. having to ask his father's permission in order to get his railway fare, our uncle had shown the invitation to my father. It was characteristic of my parents that Sid. came duly along, but they could not keep from sharing the joke with my uncle. During term-time some of our grown-up relatives would occasionally visit us. But alas, it was only their idiosyncrasies which used to make any impression upon us. One, a great-uncle, and a very distinguished person, being Professor of Political Economy at Oxford, and a great friend of the famous Dr. Jowett, the chancellor, was the only man we knew who ever, at any time, stood up long to my father in argument. It was only on rare occasions that we ever witnessed such a contest, but I shall never forget one which took place in the evening in our drawing-room. My great-uncle was a small man, rather stout and pink, and almost bald-headed. He got so absorbed in his arguments, which he always delivered walking up and down, that on this occasion, coming to an old-fashioned sofa, he stepped right up onto the seat, climbed over the back, and went on all the time with his remarks, as if only punctuating them thereby. Whether some of our pranks were suggested by those of which we heard, I do not remember. One of my father's yarns, however, always stuck in my memory. For once, being in a very good humour, he told us how when some distinguished old lady had come to call on his father--a house master with Arnold at Rugby--he had been especially warned not to interrupt this important person, who had come to see about her son's entering my grandfather's "House." It so happened that quite unconsciously the lady in question had seated herself on an old cane-bottomed armchair in which father had been playing, thus depriving him temporarily of a toy with which he desired to amuse himself. He never, even in later life, was noted for undue patience, and after endeavouring in vain to await her departure, he somehow secured a long pin. With this he crawled from behind under the seat, and by discreetly probing upwards, succeeded suddenly in dislodging his enemy. Our devotions on Sunday were carried out in the parish church of the village of Neston, there being no place of worship of the Established Church in our little village. In term-time we were obliged to go morning and evening to the long services, which never made any concessions to youthful capacities. So in holiday-time, though it was essential that we should go in the morning to represent the house, we were permitted to stay home in the evening. But even the mornings were a time of great weariness, and oft-recurrent sermons on the terrible fate which awaited those who never went to church, and the still more untoward end which was in store for frequenters of dissenting meeting-houses, failed to awaken in us the respect due to the occasion. On the way to church we had generally to pass by those who dared even the awful fate of the latter. It was our idea that to tantalize us they wore especially gorgeous apparel while we had to wear black Etons and a top hat--which, by the way, greatly annoyed us. One waistcoat especially excited our animosity, and from it we conceived the title "specklebelly," by which we ever afterwards designated the whole "genus nonconformist." The entrance to the chapel (ours was the Church!) was through a door in a high wall, over which we could not see; and my youthful brain used to conjure up unrighteous and strange orgies which we felt must take place in those precincts which we were never permitted to enter. Our Sunday Scripture lessons had grounded us very familiarly with the perverse habits of that section of the Chosen People who _would_ serve Baal and Moloch, when it obviously paid so much better not to do so. But although we counted the numbers which we saw going in, and sometimes met them coming out, they seemed never to lessen perceptibly. On this account our minds, with the merciless logic of childhood, gradually discounted the threatened calamities. This must have accounted for the lapse in our own conduct, and a sort of comfortable satisfaction that the Almighty contented Himself in merely counting noses in the pews. For even though it was my brother who got into trouble, I shall never forget the harangue on impiety that awaited us when a most unchristian sexton reported to our father that the pew in front of ours had been found chalked on the back, so as to make its occupants the object of undisguised attention from the rest of the congregation. As circumstantial evidence also against us, he offered some tell-tale squares of silver paper, on which we had been cooking chocolates on the steam pipes during the sermon. In all my childhood I can only remember one single punishment, among not a few which I received, which I resented--and for years I never quite forgot it. Some one had robbed a very favourite apple tree in our orchard--an escapade of which I was perfectly capable, but in this instance had not had the satisfaction of sharing. Some evidence had been lodged against me, of which I was not informed, and I therefore had no opportunity to challenge it. I was asked before a whole class of my schoolmates if I had committed the act, and at once denied it. Without any hearing I was adjudged guilty, and promptly subjected to the punishment of the day--a good birching. On every occasion on which we were offered the alternative of detention, we invariably "plumped" for the rod, and got it over quickly, and, as we considered, creditably--taking it smiling as long as we could. But that one act of injustice, the disgrace which it carried of making me a liar before my friends, seared my very soul. I vowed I would get even whatever it cost, and I regret to say that I hadn't long to wait the opportunity. For I scored both the apples and the lie against the punishment before many months. Nor was I satisfied then. It rankled in my mind both by day and by night; and it taught me an invaluable lesson--never to suspect or condemn rashly. It was one of Dr. Arnold's boys at Rugby, I believe, who summed up his master's character by saying, "The head was a beast, but he was always a just beast." At fourteen years of age my brother was sent to Repton, to the house of an uncle by marriage--an arrangement which has persuaded me never to send boys to their relatives for training. My brother's pranks were undoubtedly many, but they were all boyish and legitimate ones. After a time, however, he was removed at his own request, and sent to Clifton, where he was head of the school, and the school house also, under Dr. Percival, the late Bishop of Hereford. From there he took an open scholarship for Oxford. It was most wisely decided to send us to separate schools, and therefore at fourteen I found myself at Marlborough--a school of nearly six hundred resident boys, on entering which I had won a scholarship. CHAPTER II SCHOOL LIFE Marlborough "College," as we say in England for a large University preparatory school, is situated in Wiltshire, in a perfectly beautiful country, close to the Savernake Forest--one of the finest in all England. As everything and everybody was strange to me on my arrival, had I been brought up to be less self-reliant the events of my first day or two would probably have impressed themselves more deeply on my memory than is the case. Some Good Samaritan, hearing that I was bound for a certain house, allowed me to follow him from the station to the inn--for a veritable old inn it was. It was one of those lovely old wayside hostels along the main road to the west, which, with the decline of coaching days, found its way into the market, and had fallen to the hammer for the education of youth. Exactly how the adaptation had been accomplished I never quite understood. The building formed the end of a long avenue of trees and was approached through high gates from the main road. It was flanked on the east side by other houses, which fitted in somewhat inharmoniously, but served as school-rooms, dining-hall, chapel, racquets and fives courts, studies, and other dwelling-houses. The whole was entirely enclosed so that no one could pass in or out, after the gates were shut, without ringing up the porter from his lodge, and having one's name taken as being out after hours. At least it was supposed that no one could, though we boys soon found that there were more ways than one leading to Rome. The separate dwelling-houses were named A, B, and C. I was detailed to C House, the old inn itself. Each house was again divided into three, with its own house master, and its own special colour and badges. Our three were at the time "Sharps," "Upcutts," and "Bakers." Our particular one occupied the second floor, and was reached by great oak staircases, which, if you were smart, you could ascend at about six steps at a time. This was often a singular desideratum, because until you reached the fifth form, according to law you ascended by the less direct back stairway. Our colours were white and maroon, and our sign a bishop's mitre--which effigy I still find scribbled all over the few book relics which I have retained, and which emblem, when borne subsequently on my velvet football cap, proved to be the nearest I ever was to approach to that dignified insignia. My benefactor, on the night of my arrival, having done more for me than a new boy could expect of an old one, was whirled off in the stream of his returning chums long before I had found my resting-place for the night. The dormitory to which I at last found myself assigned contained no less than twenty-five beds, and seemed to me a veritable wilderness. If the coaches which used to stop here could have ascended the stairs, it might have accommodated several. What useful purpose it could have served in those far-off days I never succeeded in deciding. The room most nearly like it which I can recall is the old dining-hall of a great manor, into which the knights in armour rode on horseback to meals, that being far less trouble than removing one's armour, and quite as picturesque. More or less amicably I obtained possession of a bed in a good location, under a big window which looked out over the beautiful gardens below. I cannot remember that I experienced any of those heart-searchings or forebodings which sentiment deplores as the inevitable lot of the unprotected innocent. One informal battle during the first week with a boy possessed of the sanctity of having come up from the lower school, and therefore being an "old boy," achieved for me more privileges than the actual decision perhaps entitled one to enjoy, namely, being left alone. I subsequently became known as the "Beast," owing to my belligerent nature and the undue copiousness of my hair. The fact that I was placed in the upper fourth form condemned me to do my "prep" in the intolerable barrack called "Big School"--a veritable bear-garden to which about three hundred small boys were relegated to study. Order was kept by a master and a few monitors, who wandered to and fro from end to end of the building, while we were supposed to work. For my part, I never tried it, partly because the work came very easy to me, while the "repetition" was more readily learned from a loose page at odd times like dinner and chapel, and partly because, winning a scholarship during the term, I was transferred to a building reserved for twenty-eight such privileged individuals until they gained the further distinction of a place in the house class-room, by getting their transfer into the fifth form. Besides those who lived in the big quad there were several houses outside the gates, known as "Out-Houses." The boys there fared a good deal better than we who lived in college, and I presume paid more highly for it. Our meals were served in "Big Hall," where the whole four hundred of us were fed. The meals were exceptionally poor; so much so that we boys at the beginning of term formed what we called brewing companies--which provided as far as possible breakfasts and suppers for ourselves all term. As a protection against early bankruptcy, it was our custom to deposit our money with a rotund but popular school official, known always by a corruption of his name as "the Slug." Every Saturday night he would dole out to you your deposit made on return from the holidays, divided into equal portions by the number of weeks in the term. Once one was in the fifth form, brewing became easy, for one had a right to a place on the class-room fire for one's kettle or saucepan. Till then the space over gas stoves in Big School being strictly limited, the right was only acquired "vi et armis." Moreover, most of the fourth form boys and the "Shells," a class between them and the fifth, if they had to work after evening chapel, had to sit behind desks around the house class-room facing the centre, in which as a rule the fifth form boys were lazily cooking and devouring their suppers. Certain parts of those repasts, like sausages, we would import ready cooked from the "Tuck Shop," and hence they only needed warming up. Breakfast in Big School was no comfort to one, and personally I seldom attended it. But at dinner and tea one had to appear, and remain till the doors were opened again. It was a kind of roll-call; and the penalty for being late was fifty lines to be written out. As my own habits were never as regular as they should have been, whenever I was able to keep ahead, I possessed pages of such lines, neatly written out during school hours and ready for emergencies. On other occasions I somewhat shamefacedly recall that I employed other boys, who devoted less time to athletics than was my wont, to help me out--their only remuneration being the "joy of service." The great desire of every boy who could hope to do so was to excel in athletics. This fact has much to commend it in such an educational system, for it undoubtedly kept its devotees from innumerable worse troubles and dangers. All athletics were compulsory, unless one had obtained permanent exemption from the medical officer. If one was not chosen to play on any team during the afternoon, each boy had to go to gymnasium for drill and exercises, or to "flannel" and run round the Aylesbury Arms, an old public house three quarters of a mile distant. Any breach of this law was severely punished by the boys themselves. It involved a "fives batting," that is, a "birching" carried out with a hardwood fives bat, after chapel in the presence of the house. As a breach of patriotism, it carried great disgrace with it, and was very, very seldom necessary. Experience would make me a firm believer in self-government--determination is the popular term now, I believe. No punishments ever touched the boys one tenth part as much as those administered by themselves. On one occasion two of the Big School monitors, who were themselves notorious far more for their constant breaches of school law than for their observance of it, decided to make capital at the expense of the sixth form. One day, just as the dinner-bell rang, they locked the sixth form door, while a conclave was being held inside. Though everyone was intended to know to whom the credit belonged, it was understood that no one would dream of giving evidence against them. But it so happened that their voices had been recognized from within by one of the sixth form boys--and "bullies" and unpopular though the culprits were, they wouldn't deny their guilt. Their condign punishment was to be "fives-batted" publicly in Big School--in which, however, they regained very considerable popularity by the way they took a "spanking" without turning a hair, though it cost no less than a dozen bats before it was over. The publicity of Big School was the only redemption of such a bear-garden, but that was a good feature. It served to make us toe the line. After tea, it was the custom to have what we called "Upper School Boxing." A big ring was formed, boxing-gloves provided, and any differences which one might have to settle could be arranged there. There was more energy than science about the few occasions on which I appeared personally in the ring, but it was an excellent safety-valve and quite an evolutionary experience. The exigency of having to play our games immediately after noon dinner had naturally taught the boys at the head of athletic affairs that it was not wise to eat too much. Dinner was the one solid meal which the college provided, and most of us wanted it badly enough when it came along, especially the suet puddings which went by the name of "bollies" and were particularly satisfying. But whenever any game of importance was scheduled, a remorseless card used to be passed round the table just after the meat stage, bearing the ominous legend "No bolly to-day." To make sure that there were no truants, all hands were forced to "Hooverize." Oddly enough, beer in large blue china jugs was freely served at every dinner. We called it "swipes," and boys, however small, helped themselves to as much as they liked. Moreover, as soon as the game was over, all who had their house colours might come in and get "swipes" served to them freely through the buttery window. Both practices, I believe, have long since fortunately fallen into desuetude. To encourage the budding athlete there was an excellent custom of classifying not only the players who attained the first team; but beyond them there were "the Forty" who wore velvet caps with tassels, "the Sixty" who wore velvet caps with silver braid, "the Eighty," and even "the Hundred"--all of whom were posted from time to time, and so stimulated their members to try for the next grade. Like every other school there were bounds beyond which one might not go, and therefore beyond which one always wanted to go. Compulsory games limited the temptation in that direction very considerably; and my own breaches were practically always to get an extra swim. We had an excellent open-air swimming pool, made out of a branch of the river Kenneth, and were allowed one bathe a day, besides the dip before morning chapel, which only the few took, and which did not count as a bathe. The punishment for breaking the rule was severe, involving a week off for a first offence. But one was not easily caught, for even a sixth-former found hundreds of naked boys very much alike in the water, and the fact of any one having transgressed the limit was very hard to detect. Nor were we bound to incriminate ourselves by replying to leading questions. "Late for Gates" was a more serious crime, involving detention from beloved games--and many were the expedients to which we resorted to avoid such an untoward contingency. I remember well waiting for an hour outside the porter's view, hoping for some delivery wagon to give me a chance to get inside. For it was far too light to venture to climb the lofty railings before "prep" time. Good fortune ordained, however, that a four-wheel cab should come along in time, containing the parents of a "hopeful" in the sick-room. It seemed a desperate venture, for to "run" the gate was a worse offence than being late and owning up. But we succeeded by standing on the off step, unquestioned by the person inside, who guessed at once what the trouble was, and who proved to be sport enough to engage the porter while we got clear. Later on a scapegrace who had more reason to require some by-way than myself, revealed to me a way which involved a long détour and a climb over the laundry roof. Of this, on another occasion, I was sincerely glad to avail myself. One of the older boys, I remember, made a much bolder venture. He waited till dusk, and then boldly walked in through the masters' garden. As luck would have it, he met our form master, whom we will call Jones, walking the other way. It so happened he possessed a voice which he knew was much like that of another master, so simply sprinting a little he called out, "Night, night, Jones," and got by without discovery. Our chapel in those days was not a thing of beauty; but since then it has been rebuilt (out of our stomachs, the boys used to say) and is a model work of art. Attendance at chapel was compulsory, and no "cuts" were allowed. Moreover, once late, you were given lines, besides losing your chapel half-holiday. So the extraordinary zeal exhibited to be marked off as present should not be attributed to religious fervour. The chapel was entered from quad by two iron gates, with the same lofty railings which guarded the entrance on each side. The bell tolled for five minutes, then was silent one minute, and then a single toll was given, called "stroke." At that instant the two masters who stood by the pillars guarding each gate, jumped across, closing the gates if they could, and every one outside was late. Those inside the open walk--the length of the chapel that led to the doors at the far end--then continued to march in. During prayers each form master sat opposite his form, all of which faced the central aisle, and marked off those present. Almost every morning half-dressed boys, with shirts open and collars unbuttoned, boots unlaced, and jumping into coats and waistcoats as they dashed along, could be seen rushing towards the gate during the ominous minute of silence. There was always time to get straight before the mass of boys inside had emptied into chapel; and I never remember a gate master stopping a boy before "stroke" for insufficiency of coverings. Many were the subterfuges employed to get excused, and naturally some form masters were themselves less regular than others, though you never could absolutely count on any particular one being absent. Twice in my time gates were rushed--that is, when "stroke" went such crowds of flying boys were just at the gate that the masters were unable to stop the onslaught, and were themselves brushed aside or knocked down under the seething mass of panic-stricken would-be worshippers. On one of these occasions we were forgiven--"stroke" was ten seconds early; on the other a half-holiday was stopped, as one of the masters had been injured. To trip one's self up, and get a bloody nose, and possibly a face scratched on the gravel, and then a "sick cut" from the kindly old school doctor, was one of the more common ways boys discovered of saving their chapel half--when it was a very close call. The school surgery was presided over in my day by a much-beloved old physician of the old school, named Fergus, which the boys had so long ago corrupted into "Fungi" that many a lad was caught mistakenly addressing the old gentleman as Dr. Fungi--an error I always fancied to be rather appreciated. By going to surgery you could very frequently escape evening chapel--a very desirable event if you had a "big brew" coming off in class-room, for you could get things cooked and have plenty of room on the fire before the others were out. But one always had to pay for the advantage, the old doctor being very much addicted to potions. I never shall forget the horrible tap in the corner, out of which "cough mixture" flowed as "a healing for the nations," but which, nasty as it was, was the cheapest price at which one could purchase the cut. Some boys, anxious to cut lessons, found that by putting a little soap in one's eye, that organ would become red and watery. This they practised so successfully that sometimes for weeks they would be forbidden to do lessons on account of "eye-strain." They had to use lotions, eye-shades, and every spectacle possible was tried, but all to no avail. Sometimes they used so much soap that I was sure the doctor would suspect the bubbles. I had two periods in sick-room with a worrying cough, where the time was always made so pleasant that one was not tempted to hasten recovery. Diagnosis, moreover, was not so accurate in those days as it might have been, and the dear old doctor took no risks. So at the age of sixteen I was sent off for a winter to the South of France, with the diagnosis of congestion of the lungs. One of my aunts, a Miss Hutchinson, living at Hyères in the South of France, was delighted to receive me. With a widowed friend and two charming and athletic daughters, she had a very pretty villa on the hills overlooking the sea. My orders--to live out of doors--were very literally obeyed. In light flannel costumes we roamed the hills after moths and butterflies, early and late. We kept the frogs in miniature ponds in boxes covered with netting, providing them with bamboo ladders to climb, and so tell us when it was going to be wet weather. We had also enclosures in which we kept banks of trap-door spiders, which used to afford us intense interest with their clever artifices. To these we added the breeding of the more beautiful butterflies and moths, and so, without knowing that we were learning, we were taught many and valuable truths of life. There were horses to ride also, and a beautiful "plage" to bathe upon. It was always sunny and warm, and I invariably look back on that winter as spent in paradise. I was permitted to go over with a young friend to the Carnival at Nice, where, disguised as a clown, and then as a priest, with the _abandon_ of boys, we enjoyed every moment of the time--the world was so big and wonderful. The French that I had very quickly learned, as we always spoke it at our villa, stood me on this occasion in good stead. But better still, I happened, when climbing into one of the flower-bedecked carriages parading in the "bataille de fleurs"--which, being in costume, was quite the right thing to do--to find that the owner was an old friend of my family, one Sir William Hut. He at once carried me to his home for the rest of the Carnival, and, of course, made it doubly enjoyable. A beautiful expedition, made later in that region which lives in my memory, was to the gardens at La Mortola, over the Italian line, made famous by the frequent visits of Queen Victoria to them. They were owned by Sir Thomas Hanbury, whose wife was my aunt's great friend. The quaintness of the memories which persist longest in one's mind often amuse me. We used, as good Episcopalians, to go every Sunday to the little English Church on the rue des Palmiers. Alas, I can remember only one thing about those services. The clergyman had a peculiar impediment in his speech which made him say his _h_'s and _s_'s, both as _sh_. Thus he always said _sh_uman for _h_uman, and invariably prayed that God might be pleased to "shave the Queen." He nearly got me into trouble once or twice through it. About the middle of the winter I realized that I had made a mistake. In writing home I had so enthusiastically assured my father that the place was suiting my health, that he wrote back that he thought in that case I might stand a little tutoring, and forthwith I was despatched every morning to a Mr. B., an Englishman, whose house, called the "Hermitage," was in a thick wood. I soon discovered that Mr. B. was obliged to live abroad for his health, and that the coaching of small boys was only a means to that end. He was a good instructor in mathematics, a study which I always loved, but he insisted on my taking Latin and French literature, for neither of which I had the slightest taste. I consequently made no effort whatever to improve my mind, a fact which did not in the least disturb his equanimity. The great interest of those journeys to the Hermitage were the fables of La Fontaine--which I learned as repetition and enjoyed--and the enormous number of lizards on the walls, which could disappear with lightning rapidity when seen, though they would stay almost motionless, waiting for a fly to come near, which they then swallowed alive. They were so like the stones one could almost rub one's nose against them without seeing them. Each time I started, I used to cut a little switch for myself and try to switch them off their ledges before they vanished. The attraction to the act lay in that it was almost impossible to accomplish. But if you did they scored a bull's-eye by incontinently discarding their tails, which made them much harder to catch next time, and seemed in no way to incommode them, though it served to excuse my conscience of cruelty. At the same time I have no wish to pose as a protector of flies. Returning to Marlborough School the following summer, I found that my father, who knew perfectly the thorough groundwork I had received in Greek and Latin, had insisted on my being given a remove into the lower fifth form "in absentia." Both he and I were aware that I could do the work easily; but the form master resented it, and had already protested in vain. I believe he was a very good man in his way, and much liked by those whom he liked. But alas, I was not one of them; and never once, during the whole time I was in his form, did I get one single word of encouragement out of him. My mathematical master, and "stinks," or chemical master, I was very fond of, and in both those departments I made good progress. The task of keeping order in a chemistry class of boys is never easy. The necessary experiments divert the master's eye from the class, and always give opportunity for fooling. Added to this was the fact that our "stinks" master, like many scientific teachers, was far too good-natured, and half-enjoyed himself the diversion which his experiments gave. When obliged to punish a boy caught "flagrante delicto," he invariably looked out for some way to make it up to him later. It was the odd way he did it which endeared him to us, as if apologizing for the kindness. Thus, on one occasion, suddenly in most righteous anger, just as if a parenthesis to the remark he was making, he interposed, "Come and be caned, boy. My study, twelve o'clock." When the boy was leaving, very unrepentant after keeping the appointment, in the same parenthetical way the master remarked, "Go away, boy. Cake and wine, my room, five o'clock"--which proved eventually the most effective part of the correction. To children there always appears a gap between them and "grown-ups" as impassable as that which Abraham is made to describe as so great that they who would pass to and fro cannot. As we grow older, we cease to see it, but it exists all the same. As I write, five children are romping through this old wood on broom-handle horses. One has just fallen. A girl of twelve at once retorts, "Do get up, Willy, your horse is always throwing you off." The joys of life lie in us, not in things; and in childhood imagination is so big, its joys so entirely uncloyed. Sometimes grown-ups are apt to grudge the time and trouble put into apparently transient pleasures. A trivial strawberry feast, given to children on our dear old lawn under the jasmine and rose-bushes, something after the order of a New England clam-bake, still looms as a happy memory of my parents' love for children, punctuated by the fact that though by continuing a game in spite of warning I broke a window early in the afternoon, and was banished to the nursery "as advised," my father forgave me an hour later, and himself fetched me down again to the party. To teach us independence, my father put us on an allowance at a very early age, with a small bank account, to which every birthday he added five pounds on our behalf. We had no pony at that time, indeed had not yet learned to ride, so our deposits always went by the name of "pony money." This was an excellent plan, for we didn't yet value money for itself, and were better able to appreciate the joy of giving because it seemed to postpone the advent of our pony. However, when we were thought to have learned to value so sentient a companion and to be likely to treat him properly, a Good Samaritan was permitted to present us with one of our most cherished friends. To us, she was an unparalleled beauty. How many times we fell over her head, and over her tail, no one can record. She always waited for you to remount, so it didn't much matter; and we were taught that great lesson in life, not to be afraid of falling, but to learn how to take a fall. My own bent, however, was never for the things of the land, and though gallops on the Dee Sands, and races with our cousins, who owned a broncho and generally beat us, had their fascination, boats were the things which appealed most to me. Having funds at our disposal, we were allowed to purchase material, and under the supervision of a local carpenter, to build a boat ourselves. To this purpose our old back nursery was forthwith allocated. The craft which we desired was a canoe that would enable us to paddle or drift along the deep channels of the river, and allow us to steal upon the flocks of birds feeding at the edges. Often in memory I enjoy those days again--the planning, the modelling, the fitting, the setting-up, and at last, the visit of inspection of our parents. Alas, stiff-necked in our generation, we had insisted on straight lines and a square stern. Never shall I forget the indignation aroused in me by a cousin's remark, "It looks awful like a coffin." The resemblance had not previously struck either of us, and father had felt that the joke was too dangerous a one to make, and had said nothing. But the pathos of it was that we now saw it all too clearly. My brother explained that the barque was intended to be not "seen." Ugliness was almost desirable. It might help us if we called it the "Reptile," and painted it red--all of which suggestions were followed. But still I remember feeling a little crestfallen, when after launching it through the window, it lay offensively resplendent against the vivid green of the grass. It served, however, for a time, ending its days honourably by capsizing a friend and me, guns and all, into the half-frozen water of the lower estuary while we were stalking some curlew. I had to run home dripping. My friend's gun, moreover, having been surreptitiously borrowed from my cousin's father, was recovered the following day, to our unutterable relief. Out of the balance of the money spent on the boat, we purchased a pin-fire, breech-loading gun, the pride of my life for many days. I was being kept back from school at the time on account of a cold, but I was not surprised to find myself next day sitting in a train, bound for Marlborough, and "referred once more to my studies." A little later my father, not being satisfied, took me away to read with a tutor for the London matriculation, in which without any trouble, I received a first class. A large boarding-school in England is like a miniature world. One makes many acquaintances, who change as one gets pushed into new classes, so at that stage one makes few lasting friends. Those who remain till they attain the sixth form, and make the school teams, probably form more permanent friendships. I at least think of that period as one when one's bristles were generally up, and though many happy memories linger, and I have found that to be an old Marlburian is a bond of friendship all the world over, it is the little oddities which one remembers best. A new scholarship boy had one day been assigned to the closed corporation of our particular class-room. To me he had many attractions, for he was a genius both in mathematics and chemistry. We used to love talking over the problems that were set us as voluntary tasks for our spare time; and our united excursions in those directions were so successful that we earned our class more than one "hour off," as rewards for the required number of stars given for good pieces of work. My friend had, however, no use whatever for athletics. He had never been from home before, had no brothers, and five sisters, was the pet of his parents, and naturally somewhat of a square plug in a round hole in our school life. He hated all conventions, and was always in trouble with the boys, for he entirely neglected his personal appearance, while his fingers were always discoloured with chemicals, and he would not even feign an interest in the things for which they cared. I can remember him sitting on the foot of my bed, talking me to sleep more than once with some new plan he had devised for a self-steering torpedo or an absolutely reliable flying machine. He had received the sobriquet of "Mad G.," and there was some justice in it from the opposition point of view. I had not realized, however, that he was being bullied--on such a subject he would never say a syllable--till one day as he left class-room I saw a large lump of coal hit him square on the head, and a rush of blood follow it that made me hustle him off to surgery. Scalp wounds are not so dangerous as they are bloody to heads as thick as ours. His explanation that he had fallen down was too obvious a distortion of truth to deceive even our kindly old doctor. But he asked no further question, seeing that it was a point of honour. The matter, however, forced an estrangement between myself and some of my fellows that I realized afterwards was excellent for me. Forthwith we moved my friend's desk into my corner of the room which was always safe when I was around, though later some practices of the others to which I took exception led to a combination which I thought of then as that made by the Jews to catch Paul, and which I foiled in a similar way, watchfully eluding them when they were in numbers together, but always ready to meet one or two at a time. The fact that I had just taken up "racquets" impressed it on my memory, for considering the class-room temporarily unsafe for "prep" work, I used that building as a convenient refuge for necessary study. It would have been far better to have fought it out and taken, if unavoidable, whatever came to me--had it been anywhere else I should probably have done so. But the class-room was a close corporation for Foundation scholars, and not one of my chums had access to it to see fair play. My friendship for "Mad G." was largely tempered by my own love for anything athletic, and eccentricities paid a very heavy price among all boys. Thus, though I was glad to lend my protection to my friend, we never went about together--as such boys as he always lived the life of hermits in the midst of the crowd. I well remember one other boy, made eccentric by his peculiar face and an unfortunate impediment of speech. No such boy should have been sent to an English public school as it was in my day. His stutter was no ordinary one, for it consisted, not in repeating the first letter or syllable, but in blowing out both cheeks like a balloon, and making noises which resembled a back-firing motor engine. It was the custom of our form master to make us say our repetition by each boy taking one line, the last round being always "expressed"--that is, unless you started instantly the boy above you finished, the next boy began, and took your place. I can still see and hear the unfortunate J. getting up steam for his line four or five boys ahead of time, so that he might explode at the right moment, which desirable end, however, he but very rarely accomplished, and never catching up, he used, like the man in the parable, always to "begin with shame to take the lowest place." Sometimes the master in a merciful mood allowed us to write the line; but that was risky, for it was considered no disgrace to circumvent him, and under those circumstances it was very easy for the next boy to write his own and then yours, and pass it along if he saw you were in trouble. There was, and I think with some reason, a pride among the boys on their appearance on certain occasions. It went by the name of "good form." Thus on Sundays at morning chapel, we always wore a button-hole flower if we could. My dear mother used to post me along a little box of flowers every week--nor was it by any means wasted energy, for not only did the love for flowers become a hobby and a custom with many of us through life, and a help to steer clear of sloppiness in appearance, but it was a habit quite likely to spread to the soul. But beyond that, the picture of my dear mother, with the thousand worries of a large school of small boys on her hands, finding time to gather, pack, address, and post each week with her own hands so fleeting and inessential a token of her love, has a thousand times arisen to my memory, and led me to consider some apparently quite unnecessary little labour of love as being well worth the time and trouble. It is these deeds of love--not words, however touching--that never fade from the soul, and to the last make their appeal to the wandering boy to "arise" and do things. Like everything else this fastidiousness can be overdone, and I remember once a boy's legal guardian showing me a bill for a hundred pounds sterling that his ward had incurred in a single term for cut flowers. Yet "form" is a part of the life of all English schools, and the boys think much more of it than sin. At Harrow you may not walk in the middle of the road as a freshman; and in American schools and universities, such regulations as the "Fence" laws at Yale show that they have emulated and even surpassed us in these. It was, however, a very potent influence, and we were always ridiculously sensitive about breaches of it. Thus, on a certain prize day my friend "Mad G.," having singularly distinguished himself in his studies, his parents came all the way from their home, at great expense to themselves, to see their beloved and only son honoured. I presume that, though wild horses would not drag anything out of the boy at school, he had communicated to them the details of some little service rendered. For to my horror I was stopped by his mother, whom I subsequently learned to love and honour above most people, and actually kissed while walking in the open quad--strutting like a peacock, I suppose, for I remember feeling as if the bottom had suddenly fallen out of the earth. The sequel, however, was an invitation to visit their home in North Wales for the Christmas holidays, where there was rough shooting,--the only kind I really cared for,--boating, rock-climbing, bathing, and the companionship of as lively a family as it was possible to meet anywhere. Many a holiday afterwards we shared together, and the kindness showered upon me I shall never be able to forget, or, alas, return; for my dear friend "Mad G." has long ago gone to his rest, and so have both his parents, whom I loved almost as my own. Another thing for which I have much to thank my parents is the interest which they encouraged me to take in the collecting and study of natural objects. We were taught that the only excuse that made the taking of animal life honourable was for some useful purpose, like food or study or self-preservation. Several cases of birds stuffed and set up when we were fourteen and sixteen years of age still adorn the old house. Every bit had to be done by ourselves, my brother making the cases, and I the rock work and taxidermy. The hammering-up of sandstone and granite; to cover the glue-soaked brown paper that we moulded into rocks, satisfied my keenest instinct for making messes, and only the patience of the old-time domestics would have "stood for it." My brother specialized in birds' eggs, and I in butterflies and moths. Later we added seaweeds, shells, and flowers. Some of our collections have been dissipated; and though we have not a really scientific acquaintance with either of these kingdoms, we acquired a "hail-fellow-well-met" familiarity with all of them, which has enlivened many a day in many parts of the world as we have journeyed through life. Moreover, though purchased pictures have other values, the old cases set on the walls of one's den bring back memories that are the joy and solace of many idle moments later in life--each rarer egg, each extra butterfly picturing some day or place of keen triumph, otherwise long since forgotten. Here, for instance, is a convolvulus hawk father found killed on a mountain in Switzerland; there an Apollo I caught in the Pyrenees; here a "red burnet" with "five eyes" captured as we raced through the bracken on Clifton Downs; and there are "purple emperors" wired down to "meat" baits on the Surrey Downs. Many a night at school have I stolen into the great forest, my butterfly net under my coat, to try and add a new specimen to my hoard. We were always supplied with good "key-books," so that we should be able to identify our specimens, and also to search for others more intelligently. One value of my own specialty was that for the moths it demanded going out in the night, and the thrills of out of doors in the beautiful summer evenings, when others were "fugging" in the house or had gone to bed, used actually to make me dance around on the grass. The dark lantern, the sugaring of the tree stems with intoxicating potions, and the subsequent excitement of searching for specimens, fascinated me utterly. Our breeding from the egg, through the caterpillar stage, taught us many things without our knowing that we were learning. One of our holidays was memorable, because as soon as our parents left we invited my friend and two sisters as well to come and stay with us. They came, fully expecting that mother had asked them, but were good enough sports to stay when they found it was only us two boys. They greatly added to the enjoyment of the days, and if they had not been such inveterate home letter-writers--a habit of which we were very contemptuous--it would have saved us boys much good-humoured teasing afterwards, for the matron would have been mum and no one the wiser. CHAPTER III EARLY WORK IN LONDON In 1883 my father became anxious to give up teaching boys and to confine himself more exclusively to the work of a clergyman. With this in view he contemplated moving to London where he had been offered the chaplaincy of the huge London Hospital. I remember his talking it over with me, and then asking if I had any idea what I wanted to do in life. It came to me as a new conundrum. It had never occurred to me to look forward to a profession; except that I knew that the heads of tigers, deer, and all sorts of trophies of the chase which adorned our house came from soldier uncles and others who hunted them in India, and I had always thought that their occupation would suit my taste admirably. It never dawned on me that I would have to earn my bread and butter--that had always come along. Moreover, I had never seen real poverty in others, for all the fisher-folk in our village seemed to have enough. I hated dress and frills, and envied no one. At school, and on the Riviera, and even in Wales, I had never noticed any want. It is true that a number of dear old ladies from the village came in the winter months to our house once or twice a week to get soup. They used to sit in the back hall, each with a round tin can with a bucket handle. These were filled with hot broth, and the old ladies were given a repast as well before leaving. As a matter of fact I very seldom actually saw them, for that part of the house was cut off entirely by large double green-baize covered doors. But I often knew that they must have been there, because our Skye terrier, though fed to overflowing, usually attended these séances, and I presume, while the old ladies were occupied with lunch, sampled the cans of soup that stood in rows along the floor. He used to come along with dripping whiskers which betrayed his excursion, and the look of a connoisseur in his large round eyes--as if he were certifying that justice had been done once more in the kitchen. While I was in France the mother of my best chum in school had been passing through Marseilles on her way home from India, and had most kindly taken me on a jolly trip to Arles, Avignon, and other historical places. She was the wife of a famous missionary in India. She spoke eight languages fluently, including Arabic, and was a perfect "vade mecum" of interesting information which she well knew how to impart. She had known my mother's family all her life, they being Anglo-Indians in the army service. About the time of my father's question, my friend's mother was staying in Chester with her brother-in-law, the Lord Lieutenant of Denbighshire. It was decided that as she was a citizeness of the world, no one could suggest better for what profession my peculiar talents fitted me. The interview I have long ago forgotten, but I recall coming home with a confused idea that tiger hunting would not support me, and that she thought I ought to become a clergyman, though it had no attraction for me, and I decided against it. None of our family on either side, so far as I can find out, had ever practised medicine. My own experience of doctors had been rather a chequered one, but at my father's suggestion I gladly went up and discussed the matter with our country family doctor. He was a fine man, and we boys were very fond of him and his family, his daughter being our best girl friend near by. He had an enormous practice, in which he was eminently successful. The number of horses he kept, and the miles he covered with them, were phenomenal in my mind. He had always a kind word for every one, and never gave us boys away, though he must have known many of our pranks played in our parents' absence. The only remaining memory of that visit was that the old doctor brought down from one of his shelves a large jar, out of which he produced a pickled human brain. I was thrilled with entirely new emotions. I had never thought of man's body as a machine. That this weird, white, puckered-up mass could be the producer or transmitter of all that made man, that it controlled our physical strength and growth, and our responses to life, that it made one into "Mad G." and another into me--why, it was absolutely marvellous. It attracted me as did the gramophone, the camera, the automobile. My father saw at once on my return that I had found my real interest, and put before me two alternative plans, one to go to Oxford, where my brother had just entered, or to join him in London and take up work in the London Hospital and University, preparatory to going in for medicine. I chose the latter at once--a decision I have never regretted. I ought to say that business as a career was not suggested. In England, especially in those days, these things were more or less hereditary. My forbears were all fighters or educators, except for an occasional statesman or banker. Probably there is some advantage in this plan. The school had been leased for a period of seven years to a very delightful successor, it being rightly supposed that after that time my brother would wish to assume the responsibility. Some of the subjects for the London matriculation were quite new to me, especially "English." But with the fresh incentive and new vision of responsibility I set to work with a will, and soon had mastered the ten required subjects sufficiently to pass the examination with credit. But I must say here that Professor Huxley's criticisms of English public school teaching of that period were none too stringent. I wish with all my heart that others had spoken out as bravely, for in those days that wonderful man was held up to our scorn as an atheist and iconoclast. He was, however, perfectly right. We spent years of life and heaps of money on our education, and came out knowing nothing to fit us for life, except that which we picked up incidentally. I now followed my father to London, and found every subject except my chemistry entirely new. I was not familiar with one word of botany, zoölogy, physics, physiology, or comparative anatomy. About the universe which I inhabited I knew as little as I did about cuneiform writings. Except for my mathematics and a mere modicum of chemistry I had nothing on which to base my new work; and students coming from Government free schools, or almost anywhere, had a great advantage over men of my previous education; I did not even know how to study wisely. Again, as Huxley showed, medical education in London was so divided, there being no teaching university, that the curriculum was ridiculously inadequate. There were still being foisted upon the world far too many medical men of the type of Bob Sawyer. There were fourteen hospitals in London to which medical schools were attached. Our hospital was the largest in the British Isles, and in the midst of the poorest population in England, being located in the famous Whitechapel Road, and surrounded by all the purlieus of the East End of the great city. Patients came from Tilbury Docks to Billingsgate Market, and all the river haunts between; from Shadwell, Deptford, Wapping, Poplar, from Petticoat Lane and Radcliffe Highway, made famous by crime and by Charles Dickens. They came from Bethnal Green, where once queens had their courts, now the squalid and crowded home of poverty; from Stratford and Bow, and a hundred other slums. The hospital had some nine hundred beds, which were always so full that the last surgeon admitting to his wards constantly found himself with extra beds poked in between the regulation number through sheer necessity. It afforded an unrivalled field for clinical experience and practical teaching. In my day, however, owing to its position in London, and the fact that its school was only just emerging from primeval chaos, it attracted very few indeed of the medical students from Oxford and Cambridge, who are obliged to come to London for their last two or three years' hospital work--the scope in those small university towns being decidedly limited. Looking back I am grateful to my alma mater, and have that real affection for her that every loyal son should have. But even that does not conceal from me how poor a teaching establishment it was. Those who had natural genius, and the advantages of previous scientific training, who were sons of medical men, or had served apprenticeships to them, need not have suffered so much through its utter inefficiency. But men in my position suffered quite unconsciously a terrible handicap, and it was only the influences for which I had nothing whatever to thank the hospital that saved me from the catastrophes which overtook so many who started with me. To begin with, there was no supervision of our lives whatever. We were flung into a coarse and evil environment, among men who too often took pride in their shame, just to sink or swim. Not one soul cared which you did. I can still remember numerous cases where it simply meant that men paid quite large sums for the privilege of sending the sons they loved direct to the devil. I recall one lad whom I had known at school. His father lavished money upon him, and sincerely believed that his son was doing him credit and would soon return to share his large practice, and bring to it all the many new advances he had learned. The reports of examinations successfully passed he fully accepted; and the non-return of his son at vacation times he put down to professional zeal. It was not till the time came for the boy to get his degree and return that the father discovered that he had lived exactly the life of the prodigal in the parable, and had neither attended college nor attempted a single examination of any kind whatever. It broke the father's heart and he died. Examinations for degrees were held by the London University, or the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons, never by the hospital schools. These were practically race committees; they did no teaching, but when you had done certain things, they allowed you to come up and be examined, and if you got through a written and "viva voce" examination you were inflicted on an unsuspecting public "qualified to kill"--often only too literally so. It is obvious on the face of it that this could be no proper criterion for so important a decision as to qualifications; special crammers studied the examiners, their questions, and their teachings, and luck had a great deal to do with success. While some men never did themselves justice in examinations, others were exactly the reverse. Thus I can remember one resident accoucheur being "ploughed," as we called it, in his special subject, obstetrics--and men to whom you wouldn't trust your cat getting through with flying colours. Of the things to be done: First you had to be signed up for attending courses of lectures on certain subjects. This was simply a matter of tipping the beadle, who marked you off. I personally attended only two botany lectures during the whole course. At the first some practical joker had spilled a solution of carbon bisulphide all over the professor's platform, and the smell was so intolerable that the lecture was prorogued. At the second, some wag let loose a couple of pigeons, whereupon every one started either to capture them or stir them up with pea-shooters. The professor said, "Gentlemen, if you do not wish to learn, you are at liberty to leave." The entire class walked out. The insignificant sum of two and sixpence secured me my sign-up for the remainder of the course. Materia medica was almost identical; and while we had better fortune with physiology, no experience and no apparatus for verifying its teachings were ever shown us. Our chemistry professor was a very clever man, but extremely eccentric, and his class was pandemonium. I have seen him so frequently pelted with peas, when his head was turned, as to force him to leave the amphitheatre in despair. I well remember also an unpopular student being pushed down from the top row almost on to the experiment table. There was practically no histology taught, and little or no pathology. Almost every bit of the microscope which I did was learned on my own instrument at home. Anatomy, however, we were well taught in the dissecting-room, where we could easily obtain all the work we needed. But not till Sir Frederick Treves became our lecturer in anatomy and surgery was it worth while doing more than pay the necessary sum to get signed up. In the second place we had to attend in the dispensary, actually to handle drugs and learn about them--an admirable rule. Personally I went once, fooled around making egg-nogg, and arranged with a considerate druggist to do the rest that was necessary. Yet I satisfied the examiners at the College of Physicians and Surgeons, those of the London University at the examinations for Bachelor of Medicine--the only ones which they gave which carried questions in any of these subjects. In the athletic life of the University, however, I took great interest, and was secretary in succession of the cricket, football, and rowing clubs. I helped remove the latter from the old river Lea to the Thames, to raise the inter-hospital rowing championship and start the united hospitals' rowing club. I found time to row in the inter-hospital race for two years and to play on the football team in the two years of which we won the inter-hospital football cup. A few times I played with the united hospitals' team; but I found that their ways were not mine, as I had been taught to despise alcohol as a beverage and to respect all kinds of womanhood. For three years I played regularly for Richmond--the best of the London clubs at the time--and subsequently for Oxford, being put on the team the only term I was in residence. I also threw the hammer for the hospital in the united hospitals' sports, winning second place for two years. Indeed, athletics in some form occupied every moment of my spare time. It was in my second year, 1885, that returning from an out-patient case one night, I turned into a large tent erected in a purlieu of Shadwell, the district to which I happened to have been called. It proved to be an evangelistic meeting of the then famous Moody and Sankey. It was so new to me that when a tedious prayer-bore began with a long oration, I started to leave. Suddenly the leader, whom I learned afterwards was D.L. Moody, called out to the audience, "Let us sing a hymn while our brother finishes his prayer." His practicality interested me, and I stayed the service out. When eventually I left, it was with a determination either to make religion a real effort to do as I thought Christ would do in my place as a doctor, or frankly abandon it. That could only have one issue while I still lived with a mother like mine. For she had always been my ideal of unselfish love. So I decided to make the attempt, and later went down to hear the brothers J.E. and C.T. Studd speak at some subsidiary meeting of the Moody campaign. They were natural athletes, and I felt that I could listen to them. I could not have listened to a sensuous-looking man, a man who was not a master of his own body, any more than I could to a precentor, who coming to sing the prayers at college chapel dedication, I saw get drunk on sherry which he abstracted from the banquet table just before the service. Never shall I forget, at the meeting of the Studd brothers, the audience being asked to stand up if they intended to try and follow Christ. It appeared a very sensible question to me, but I was amazed how hard I found it to stand up. At last one boy, out of a hundred or more in sailor rig, from an industrial or reformatory ship on the Thames, suddenly rose. It seemed to me such a wonderfully courageous act--for I knew perfectly what it would mean to him--that I immediately found myself on my feet, and went out feeling that I had crossed the Rubicon, and must do something to prove it. [Illustration: OXFORD UNIVERSITY RUGBY UNION FOOTBALL TEAM W.T. Grenfell at left of bottom row] We were Church of England people, and I always attended service with my mother at an Episcopal church of the evangelical type. At her suggestion I asked the minister if I could in any way help. He offered me a class of small boys in his Sunday School, which I accepted with much hesitation. The boys, derived from houses in the neighbourhood, were as smart as any I have known. With every faculty sharpened by the competition of the street, they so tried my patience with their pranks that I often wondered what strange attraction induced them to come at all. The school and church were the property of a society known by the uninviting title of the "Episcopal Society for the promotion of Christianity among the Jews." It owned a large court, shut off from the road by high gates, around which stood about a dozen houses--with the church facing the gates at one end of a pretty avenue of trees. It was an oasis in the desert of that dismal region. It possessed also an industrial institution for helping its converts to make a living, when driven out of their own homes; and its main work was carried on for the most part by superannuated missionaries. One was from Bagdad, I remember, and one from Palestine, both themselves Jews by extraction. These missionaries were paid such miserable salaries that in their old age they were always left very poor. One instance of a baptism I have never forgotten. I was then living in the court, having hired a nice separate house under the trees after my father had died and my mother had moved to Hampstead. In such a district the house was a Godsend. One Sunday I was strolling in the court when the clergyman came rushing out of the church and called to me in great excitement, "The church is full of Jews. They are going to carry off Abraham. Can't you go in and help while I fetch the police?" My friend and I therefore rushed in as directed to a narrow alleyway between high box pews which led into the vestry, into which "Abraham" had been spirited. The door being shut and our backs put to it, it was a very easy matter to hold back the crowd, who probably supposed at first that we were leading the abduction party. There being only room for two to come on at once, "those behind cried forward, and those in front back," till after very little blood spilt, we heard the police in the church, and the crowd at once took to flight. I regret to say that we expedited the rear-guard by football rather than strictly Christian methods. His friends then charged Abraham with theft, expecting to get him out of his place of refuge and then trap him, as we were told they had a previous convert. We therefore accompanied him personally through the mean streets, both to and fro, spoiling for more fun. But they displayed more discretion than valour, and to the best of my belief he escaped their machinations. My Sunday-School efforts did not satisfy me. The boys were few, and I failed to see any progress. But I had resolved that I would do no work on Sundays except for others, so I joined a young Australian of my class in hospital in holding services on Sunday nights in half a dozen of the underground lodging-houses along the Radcliffe Highway. He was a good musician, so he purchased a fine little portable harmonium, and whatever else the lodgers thought of us, they always liked the music. We used to meet for evening tea at a place in the famous Highway known as "The Stranger's Rest," outside of which an open-air service was always held for the sailors wandering up and down the docks. At these a number of ladies would sing; and after the meetings a certain number of the sailors were asked to come in and have refreshments. There were always some who had spent their money on drink, or been robbed, or were out of ships, and many of them were very fine men. Some were foreigners--so much so that a bit farther down the road a Norwegian lady carried on another similar work, especially for Scandinavians. A single story will illustrate the good points which some of these men displayed. My hospital chief, Sir Frederick Treves, had operated on a great big Norwegian, and the man had left the hospital cured. As a rule such patients do not even know the name of their surgeon. Some three weeks later, however, this man called at Sir Frederick Treves's house late one dark night. Having asked if he were the surgeon who had operated on him and getting a reply in the affirmative, he said he had come to return thanks, that since he left hospital he had been wandering about without a penny to his name, waiting for a ship, but had secured a place on that day. He proceeded to cut out from the upper edge of his trousers a gold Norwegian five-kronen piece which his wife had sewed in there to be his stand-by in case of absolute need. He had been so hungry that he had been tempted to use it, but now had come to present it as a token of gratitude--upon which he bowed and disappeared. Sir Frederick said that he was so utterly taken aback that he found himself standing in the hall, holding the coin, and bowing his visitor out. He said he could no more return it than you could offer your teacher a "tip," and he has preserved it as a much-prized possession. The underground lodging-house work did me lots of good. It brought me into touch with real poverty--a very graveyard of life I had never surmised. The denizens of those miserable haunts were men from almost every rank of life. They were shipwrecks from the ocean of humanity, drifted up on the last beach. There were large open fireplaces in the dens, over which those who had any food cooked it. Often while the other doctor or I was holding services, one of us would have to sit down on some drunken man to keep him from making the proceedings impossible; but there was always a modicum who gathered around and really enjoyed the singing. We soon found that there were no depths of contemptible treachery which some among these new acquaintances would not attempt. We became gradually hardened to the piteous tales of ill luck, of malignant persecution, and of purely temporary embarrassments, and learned soon to leave behind us purses, and watches, and anything else of value, and to keep some specially worn clothing for this service. There was always a narrow passage from the front door to the staircase which led down into those huge underground basements. The guardians had a room inside the door, with a ticket window, where they took five or possibly eight cents from the boarders for their night's lodging. At about eleven o'clock a "chucker out" would go down and clear out all the gentlemen who had not paid in advance for the night. This was always a very melancholy period of the evening, and in spite of our hardened hearts, we always had a score against us there. That, however, had to be given in person, for there were plenty among our audiences who had taken special courses in imitative calligraphy. I.O.U.'s on odd bits of paper were a menace to our banking accounts till we sorrowfully abandoned that convenient way of helping often a really deserving case. In those houses, somewhat to my astonishment, we never once received any physical opposition. We knew that some considered us harmless and gullible imbeciles; but the great majority were still able to see that it was an attempt, however poor, to help them. Drink, of course, was the chief cause of the downfall of most; but as I have already said, there were cases of genuine, undeserved poverty--like our sailor friend, overtaken with sickness in a foreign port. We induced some to sign the pledge and to keep it, if only temporarily, but I think that we ourselves got most out of the work, both in pleasure and uplift. I recall one clergyman, one doctor, and many men from the business world and clerk's life in the flotsam and jetsam. One poor creature, in the last stage of poverty and dirt, proved to be an honours man in Oxford. We looked up his record in the University. He assured us that he intended to begin again a new life, and we agreed to help start him. We took him to a respectable, temperance lodging-house, paid for a bed, a bath, and a supper, and purchased a good second-hand outfit of clothing for him. We were wise enough only to give this to him after we had taken away his own while he was having a bath in the tub. We did not give him a penny of money, fearing his lack of control. Next morning, however, when we went for him, he was gone--no one knew where. We had the neighbouring saloons searched, and soon got track of him. Some "friend" in the temperance house had given him sixpence. The barman offered him the whiskey; his hands trembled so that he could not lift the glass to his mouth, and the barman kindly poured it down his throat. We never saw him again. In this lodging-house work a friend, now a well-known artist and successful business man, often joined us two doctors. My growing experience had shown me that there was a better way to the hearts of my Sunday-School boys than merely talking to them. Like myself, they worshipped the athlete, whether he were a prize-fighter or a big football player. There were no Y.M.C.A.'s or other places for them to get any physical culture, so we arranged to clear our dining-room every Saturday evening, and give boxing lessons and parallel-bar work: the ceiling was too low for the horizontal. The transformation of the room was easily accomplished. The furniture was very primitive, largely our own construction, and we could throw out through the window every scrap of it except the table, which was soon "adapted." We also put up a quoit pitch in our garden. This is no place to discuss the spiritual influences of the "noble art of boxing." Personally I have always believed in its value; and my Sunday-School class soon learned the graces of fair play, how to take defeat and to be generous in victory. They began at once bringing "pals" whom my exegesis on Scripture would never have lured within my reach. We ourselves began to look forward to Saturday night and Sunday afternoon with an entirely new joy. We all learned to respect and so to love one another more--indeed, lifelong friendships were developed and that irrespective of our hereditary credal affiliations. The well-meaning clergyman, however, could not see the situation in that light, and declining all invitations to come and sample an evening's fun instead of condemning it unheard, or I should say, unseen, he delivered an ultimatum which I accepted--and resigned from his school. My Australian friend was at that time wrestling with a real ragged school on the Highway on Sunday afternoons. The poor children there were street waifs and as wild as untamed animals. So, being temporarily out of a Sunday job, I consented to join him. Our school-room this time owed no allegiance to any one but ourselves, and the work certainly proved a real labour of love. If the boys were allowed in a minute before there was a force to cope with them, the room would be wrecked. Everything movable was stolen immediately opportunity arose. Boys turned out or locked out during session would climb to the windows, and triumphantly wave stolen articles. On one occasion when I had "chucked out" a specially obstreperous youth, I was met with a shower of mud and stones as I passed through a narrow alley on my return home. The police were always at war with the boys, who annoyed them in similar and many other ways. I remember two scholars whose eyes were blacked and badly beaten by a "cop" who happened to catch them in our doorway, as they declared, "only waiting for Sunday School to open." Old scores were paid off by both parties whenever possible. My own boys did not stay in the old school long after I left, but came and asked me to keep a class on Sunday in our dining-room--an arrangement in which I gladly acquiesced, though it involved my eventually abandoning the ragged school, which was at least two miles distant. With the night work at the lodging-houses, we used to combine a very aggressive total abstinence campaign. The saloon-keepers as a rule looked upon us as harmless cranks, and I have no doubt were grateful for the leaflets we used to distribute to their customers. These served admirably for kindling purposes. At times, however, they got ugly, and once my friend, who was in a saloon talking to a customer, was trapped and whiskey poured into his mouth. On another occasion I noticed that the outer doors were shut and a couple of men backed up against them while I was talking to the bartender over the counter, and that a few other customers were closing in to repeat the same experiment on me. However, they greatly overrated their own stock of fitness and equally underrated my good training, for the scrimmage went all my own way in a very short time. If ever I told my football chums (for in those days I was playing hard) of these adventures in a nether world, they always wanted to come and coöperate; but I have always felt that reliance on physical strength alone is only a menace when the odds are so universally in favour of our friend the enemy. At this time also at St. Andrew's Church, just across the Whitechapel Road from the hospital, the clergyman was a fine athlete and good boxer. He was a brother of Lord Wenlock, and was one night returning from a mission service in the Highway when he was set upon by footpads and robbed of everything, including the boots off his feet. Meantime "Jack the Ripper" was also giving our residential section a most unsavoury reputation. My long vacations at this time were always taken on the sea. My brother and I used to hire an old fishing smack called the "Oyster," which we rechristened the "Roysterer." This we fitted out, provisioned, and put to sea in with an entirely untrained crew, and without even the convention of caring where we were bound so long as the winds bore us cheerily along. My brother was always cook--and never was there a better. We believed that he would have made a mark in the world as a chef, from his ability to satisfy our appetites and cater to our desires out of so ill-supplied a galley. We always took our departure from the north coast of Anglesea--a beautiful spot, and to us especially attractive as being so entirely out of the run of traffic that we could do exactly as we pleased. We invariably took our fishing gear with us, and thus never wanted for fresh food. We could replenish our bread, milk, butter, and egg supply at the numerous small ports at which we called. The first year the crew consisted of my brother and me--skipper, mate, and cook between us--and an Oxford boating friend as second mate. For a deckhand we had a young East London parson, whom we always knew as "the Puffin," because he so closely resembled that particular bird when he had his vestments on. We sailed first for Ireland, but the wind coming ahead we ran instead for the Isle of Man. The first night at sea the very tall undergraduate as second mate had the 12 P.M. to 4 A.M. night watch. The tiller handle was very low, and when I gave him his course at midnight before turning in myself, he asked me if it would be a breach of nautical etiquette to sit down to steer, as that was the only alternative to directing the ship's course with his ankles. No land was in sight, and the wind had died out when I came on deck for my 4 A.M. to 8 A.M. watch. I found the second mate sitting up rubbing his eyes as I emerged from the companion hatch. "Well, where are we now? How is her head? What's my course?" "Don't worry about such commonplace details," he replied. "I have made an original discovery about these parts that I have never seen mentioned before." "What's that?" I asked innocently. "Well," he replied, "when I sat down to steer the course you gave brought a bright star right over the topmast head and that's what I started to steer by. It's a perfect marvel what a game these heavenly bodies play. We must be in some place like Alice in Wonderland. I just shut my eyes for a second and when next I opened them the sun was exactly where I had left that star--" and he fled for shelter. It is a wonder that we ever got anywhere, for we had not so much as a chronometer watch, and so in spite of a decrepit sextant even our latitude was often an uncertain quantity. However, we made the port of Douglas, whence we visited quite a part of the historic island. As our parson was called home from there, we wired for and secured another chum to share our labours. Our generally unconventional attire in fashionable summer resorts was at times quite embarrassing. Barelegged, bareheaded, and "tanned to a chip," I was carrying my friend's bag along the fashionable pier to see him off on his homeward journey, when a lady stopped me and asked me if I were an Eskimo, offering me a job if I needed one. I have wondered sometimes if it were a seat in a sideshow which she had designed for me. We spent that holiday cruising around the island. It included getting ashore off the north point of land and nearly losing the craft; and also in Ramsey Harbour a fracas with the harbour authorities. We had run that night on top of the full spring tide. Not knowing the harbour, we had tied up to the first bollard, and gone incontinently to sleep. We were awakened by the sound of water thundering on top of us, and rushing up found to our dismay that we were lying in the mud, and a large sewer was discharging right on to our decks. Before we had time to get away or clean up, the harbour master, coming alongside, called on us to pay harbour duties. We stoutly protested that as a pleasure yacht we were not liable and intended to resist to the death any such insult being put upon us. He was really able to see at once that we were just young fellows out for a holiday, but he had the last word before a crowd of sight-seers who had gathered on the quay above us. "Pleasure yacht, pleasure yacht, indeed!" he shouted as he rode away, "I can prove to any man with half an eye that you are nothing but one of them old coal or mud barges." The following year the wind suited better the other way. We were practically all young doctors this time, the cook being a very athletic chum in whose rooms were collected as trophies, in almost every branch of athletics, over seventy of what we called silver "pots." As a cook he proved a failure except in zeal. It didn't really interest him, especially when the weather was lively. On one occasion I reported to the galley, though I was the skipper that year, in search of the rice-pudding for dinner--Dennis, our cook, being temporarily indisposed. Such a sight as met my view! Had I been superstitious I should have fled. A great black column the circumference of the boiler had risen not less than a foot above the top rim, and was wearing the iron cover jauntily on one side as a helmet. It proved to be rice. He had filled the saucepan with dry rice, crowded in a little water, forced the lid on very tight and left it to its own devices! Nor, in his subsequent capacity as deckhand, did he redeem in our eyes the high qualities of seamanship which we had anticipated from him. Our tour took us this time through the Menai Straits, _via_ Carnarvon and the Welsh coast, down the Irish Channel to Milford Haven. In the region of very heavy tides and dangerous rocks near the south Welsh coast, we doubled our watch at night. One night the wind fell very light, and we had stood close inshore in order to pass inside the Bishop Rocks. The wind died out at that very moment, and the heavy current driving us down on the rocky islands threatened prematurely to terminate our cruise. The cook was asleep, as usual when called, and at last aroused to the nature of the alarm, was found leaning forward over the ship's bows with a lighted candle. When asked what he was doing, he explained, "Why, looking for those bishops, of course." No holiday anywhere could be better sport than those cruises. There was responsibility, yet rest, mutual dependence, and a charming, unconventional way of getting acquainted with one's own country. We visited Carnarvon, Harlech, and other castles, lost our boat in a breeze of wind off Dynllyn, climbed Snowden from Pwllheli Harbour, and visited a dozen little out-of-the-world harbours that one would otherwise never see. Fishing and shooting for the pot, bathing and rowing, and every kind of healthy out-of-doors pleasure was indulged in along the road of travel. Moreover, it was all made to cost just as much or as little as you liked. Another amusing memory which still remains with me was at one little seaport where a very small man not over five feet high had married a woman considerably over six. He was an idle, drunken little rascal, and I met her one day striding down the street with her intoxicated little spouse wrapped up in her apron and feebly protesting. One result of these holidays was that I told my London boys about them, using one's experiences as illustrations; till suddenly it struck me that this was shabby Christianity. Why shouldn't these town cagelings share our holidays? Thirteen accompanied me the following summer. We had three tents, an old deserted factory, and an uninhabited gorge by the sea, all to ourselves on the Anglesea coast, among people who spoke only Welsh. Thus we had all the joys of foreign travel at very little cost. Among the many tricks the boys "got away with" was one at the big railway junction at Bangor, where we had an hour to wait. They apparently got into the baggage-room and stole a varied assortment of labels, which they industriously pasted over those on a large pile of luggage stacked on the platform. The subsequent tangle of destinations can better be imagined than described. Camp rules were simple--no clothing allowed except short blue knickers and gray flannel shirts, no shoes, stockings, or caps except on Sundays. The uniform was provided and was as a rule the amateur production of numerous friends, for our finances were strictly limited. The knickers were not particularly successful, the legs frequently being carried so high up that there was no space into which the body could be inserted. Every one had to bathe in the sea before he got any breakfast. I can still see ravenous boys staving off the evil hour till as near midday as possible. No one was allowed in the boats who couldn't swim, an art which they all quickly acquired. There was, of course, a regular fatigue party each day for the household duties. We had no beds--sleeping on long, burlap bags stuffed with hay. A very favourite pastime was afforded by our big lifeboat, an old one hired from the National Lifeboat Society. The tides flowed very strongly alongshore, east on the flood tide and west on the ebb. Food, fishing lines, and a skipper for the day being provided, the old boat would go off with the tide in the morning, the boys had a picnic somewhere during the slack-water interim, and came back with the return tide. When our numbers grew, as they did to thirty the second year, and nearly a hundred in subsequent seasons, thirty or more boys would be packed off daily in that way--and yet we never lost one of them. If they had not had as many lives as cats it would have been quite another story. The boat had sufficient sails to give the appearance to their unfamiliar eyes of being a sailing vessel, but the real work was done with twelve huge oars, two boys to an oar being the rule. At nights they used to come drifting homeward on the returning tides singing their dirges, like some historic barge of old. There was one familiar hymn called "Bringing in the Sheaves," which like everything else these rascals adapted for the use of the moment; and many a time the returning barge would be announced to us cooking supper in the old factory or in the silent gorge, by the ringing echoes of many voices beating with their oars as they came on to the words: "Pulling at the sweeps, Pulling at the sweeps; Here we come rejoicing, Pulling at the sweeps." As soon as the old boat's keel slid up upon the beach, there would be a rush of as appreciative a supper party as ever a cook had the pleasure of catering for. An annual expedition was to the top of Mount Snowdon, the highest in England or Wales. It was attempted by land and water. Half of us tramped overland in forced marches to the beautiful Menai Straits, crossed the suspension bridge, and were given splendid hospitality and good beds on the straw of the large stables at the beautiful country seat of a friend at Treborth. Here the boat section who came around the island were to meet us, anchoring their craft on the south side of the Straits. Our second year the naval division did not turn up, and some had qualms of conscience that evil might have overtaken them. Nor did they arrive until we by land had conquered the summit, travelling by Bethesda and the famous slate quarries, and returning for the second evening at Treborth. We then found that they had been stranded on the sands in Red Wharf Bay, so far from shore that they could neither go forward nor back; had thus spent their first night in a somewhat chilly manner in old bathing machines by the land wash, and supped off the superfluous hard biscuit which they had been reserving for the return voyage. They were none the worse, however, our genial host making it up to them in an extra generous provision and a special evening entertainment. One of my smartest boys (a Jew by nationality, for we made no distinctions in election to our class), in recounting his adventures to me next day, said: "My! Doctor, I did have some fun kidding that waiter in the white choker. He took a liking to me so I let him pal up. I told him my name was Lord Shaftesbury when I was home, but I asked him not to let it out, and the old bloke promised he wouldn't." The "old bloke" happened to be our host, who was always in dress-clothes in the evening, the only time we were at his house. These holidays were the best lessons of love I could show my boys. It drew us very closely together; and to make the boys feel it less a charitable affair, every one was encouraged to save up his railway fare and as much more as possible. By special arrangement with the railway and other friends, and by very simple living, the per caput charges were so much reduced that many of the boys not only paid their own expenses, but even helped their friends. The start was always attended by a crowd of relatives, all helping with the baggage. The father of one of my boys was a costermonger, and had a horse that he had obtained very cheap because it had a disease of the legs. He always kept it in the downstairs portion of his house, which it entered by the front door. It was a great pleasure to him to come and cart our things free to the station. The boys used to load his cart at our house, and I remember one time that they made him haul unconsciously all the way to the big London terminal at Euston half our furniture, including our coal boxes. His son, a most charming boy, made good in life in Australia and bought a nice house in one of the suburbs for his father and mother. I had the pleasure one night of meeting them all there. The father was terribly uneasy, for he said he just could not get accustomed to it. All his old "pals" were gone, and his neighbours' tastes and interests were a great gulf between them. I heard later that as soon as his son left England again the old man sold the house, and returned to the more congenial associations of a costermonger's life, where I believe he died in harness. The last two years of my stay in London being occupied with resident work at hospital, I could not find time for such far-off holidays, and at the suggestion of my chief, Sir Frederick Treves, himself a Dorsetshire man, we camped by permission of our friends, the owners, in the grounds of Lulworth Castle, close by the sea. The class had now developed into a semi-military organization. We had acquired real rifles--old-timers from the Tower of London--and our athletic clubs were portions of the Anglesey Boys' Brigade, which antedated the Boys' Brigade of Glasgow, forerunner of the Church Lads' Brigade, and the Boy Scouts. One of the great attractions of the new camping-ground was the exquisite country and the splendid coast, with chalk cliffs over which almost any one could fall with impunity. Lulworth Cove, one of the most picturesque in England, was the summer resort of my chief, and he being an expert mariner and swimmer used not only very often to join us at camp, but always gave the boys a fine regatta and picnic at his cottage. Our water polo games were also a great feature here, the water being warm and enabling us easily to play out the games. There are also numerous beautiful castles and country houses all the way between Swanage and Weymouth, and we had such kindness extended to us wherever we went that every day was a dream of joy to the lads. Without any question they acquired new visions and ideals through these experiences. We always struck camp at the end of a fortnight, having sometimes arranged with other friends with classes of their own to step into our shoes. The present head master of Shrewsbury and many other distinguished persons shared with us some of the educative joys of those days. Among the many other more selfish portions of the holidays none stand out more clearly in my memory than the August days when partridge and grouse shooting used to open. Most of my shooting was done over the delightful highlands around Bishop's Castle in Shropshire, on the outskirts of the Welsh hills, in Clun Forest, and on the heather-covered Longmynds. How I loved those days, and the friends who made them possible--the sound of the beaters, the intelligent setters and retrievers, the keepers in velveteens, the lunches under the shade of the great hedges or in lovely cottages, where the ladies used to meet us at midday, and every one used to jolly you about not shooting straight, and you had to take refuge in a thousand "ifs." As one looks back on it all from Labrador, it breathes the aroma of an old civilization and ancient customs. Much of the shooting was over the old lands of the Walcotts of Walcott Hall, a family estate that had been bought up by Earl Clive on his return from India, and was now in the hands of his descendant, an old bachelor who shot very little, riding from one good stand to another on a steady old pony. There were many such estates, another close by being that of the Oakovers of Oakover, a family that has since sold their heritage. A thousand time-honoured old customs, only made acceptable by their hoary age, added, and still continue to add in the pleasures of memory, to the joys of those days, with which golf and tennis and all the wonderful luxury of the modern summer hotel seem never able to compete. It is right, however, that such eras should pass. The beautiful forest of Savernake, that in my school days I had loved so well, and which meant so much to us boys, spoke only too loudly of the evil heirloom of the laws of entail. Spendthrift and dissolute heirs had made it impossible for the land to be utilized for the benefit of the people, and yet kept it in the hands of utterly undeserving persons. Being of royal descent they still bore a royal name even in my day; but it was told of them that the last, who had been asked to withdraw from the school, on one occasion when, half drunk, he was defending himself from the gibes and jeers of grooms and 'ostlers whom he had made his companions, rose with ill-assumed dignity and with an oath declared that he was their king by divine right if only he had his dues. Looking back it seems to me that the germs of democratic tendencies were sown in me by just those very incidents. CHAPTER IV AT THE LONDON HOSPITAL I have never ceased to regret that there was not more corporate life in our medical school, but I believe that conditions have been greatly improved since my day. Here and there two or three classmates would "dig" together, but otherwise, except at lectures or in hospitals, we seldom met unless it was on the athletic teams. We had no playground of our own, and so, unable to get other hospitals to combine, when a now famous St. Thomas man and myself hired part of the justly celebrated London Rowing Club Headquarters at Putney for a united hospitals' headquarters, we used to take our blazers and more cherished possessions home with us at night for fear of distraint of rent. They were great days. Rowing on the Thames about Putney is not like that at Oxford on a mill-pond, or as at Cambridge on what we nicknamed a drain that should be roofed over. Its turgid waters were often rough enough to sink a rowing shell, and its busy traffic was a thing with which to reckon. But it offered associations with all kinds of interesting places, historical and otherwise, from the Star and Garter at Richmond and the famous Park away to Boulter's Lock and Cleveden Woods, to the bathing pools about Taplow Court, the seat of the senior branch of our family, and to Marlow and Goring where our annual club outings were held. Twice I rowed in the inter-hospital race from Putney to Mortlake, once as bow and again as stroke. During those early days the "London" frequently had the best boat on the river. Having now finished my second year at hospital and taken my preliminary examinations, including the scientific preliminary, and my first bachelor of medicine for the University of London degree, I had advanced to the dignity of "walking the hospitals," carried a large shining stethoscope, and spent much time following the famous physicians and surgeons around the wards. Our first appointment was clerking in the medical wards. We had each so many beds allotted to us, and it was our business to know everything about the patients who occupied them, to keep accurate "histories" of all developments, and to be ready to be quizzed and queried by our resident house physician, or our visiting consultant on the afternoon when he made his rounds, followed by larger or smaller crowds of students according to the value which was placed upon his teaching. I was lucky enough to work under the famous Sir Andrew Clark, Mr. Gladstone's great physician. He was a Scotchman greatly beloved, and always with a huge following to whom he imparted far more valuable truths than even the medical science of thirty years ago afforded. His constant message, repeated and repeated at the risk of wearying, was: "Gentlemen, you must observe for yourselves. It is your observation and not your memory which counts. It is the patient and not the disease whom you are treating." Compared with the methods of diagnosis to-day those then were very limited, but Sir Andrew's message was the more important, showing the greatness of the man, who, though at the very top of the tree, never for a moment tried to convey to his followers that his knowledge was final, but that any moment he stood ready to abandon his position for a better one. On one occasion, to illustrate this point, while he was in one of the largest of our wards (one with four divisions and twenty beds each) he was examining a lung case, while a huge class of fifty young doctors stood around. "What about the sputum, Mr. Jones?" he asked. "What have you observed coming from these lungs?" "There is not much quantity, sir. It is greenish in colour." "But what about the microscope, Mr. Jones? What does that show?" "No examination has been made, sir." "Gentlemen," he said, "I will now go to the other ward, and you shall choose a specimen of the sputum of some of these cases. When I return we will examine it and see what we can learn." When he returned, four specimens awaited him, the history and diagnoses of the cases being known only to the class. The class never forgot how by dissolving and boiling, and with the microscope, he told us almost more from his examination of each case than we knew from all our other information. His was real teaching, and reminds one of the Glasgow professor who, in order to emphasize the same point of the value of observation, prepared a little cupful of kerosene, mustard, and castor oil, and calling the attention of his class to it, dipped a finger into the atrocious compound and then sucked his finger. He then passed the mixture around to the students who all did the same with most dire results. When the cup returned and he observed the faces of his students, he remarked: "Gentlemen, I am afraid you did not use your powers of obsairvation. The finger that I put into the cup was no the same one that I stuck in my mouth afterwards." Sir Stephen Mackenzie, who operated on the Emperor Frederick, was another excellent teacher under whom we had the good fortune to study. Indeed, whatever could be said against the teaching of our college, in this much more important field of learning, the London Hospital was most signally fortunate, and, moreover, was famed not only in London, but all the world over. Our "walking class" used to number men from the United States to Australia, insomuch that the crowds became so large that the teachers could not get room to pass along. It was this fact which led to the practice, now almost universal, of carrying the patient in his bed with a nurse in attendance into the theatre for observation as more comfortable and profitable for all concerned. On changing over to the surgical side in the hospital, we were employed in a very similar manner, only we were called "dressers," and under the house surgeon had all the care of a number of surgical patients. My good fortune now brought me under the chieftaincy of Sir Frederick Treves, the doyen of teachers. His great message was self-reliance. He taught dogmatically as one having authority, and always insisted that we should make up our minds, have a clear idea of what we were doing, and then do it. His ritual was always thought out, no detail being omitted, and each person had exactly his share of work and his share of responsibility. It used greatly to impress patients, and he never underestimated the psychical value of having their complete confidence. Thus, on one occasion asking a dresser for his diagnosis, the student replied: "It might be a fracture, sir, or it might be only sprained." "The patient is not interested to know that it might be measles, or it might be toothache. The patient wants to know what is the matter, and it is your business to tell it to him or he will go to a quack who will inform him at once." All his teachings were, like Mark Twain's, enhanced by such over-emphasis or exaggeration. He could make an article in the "British Medical Journal" on Cholecystenterostomy amusing to a general reader, and make an ordinary remark as cutting as an amputation knife. He never permitted laxity of any kind in personal appearance or dress, or any imposing on the patients. His habit of saying openly exactly what he meant made many people fear, as much as they respected, him. However, he was always, in spite of it, the most popular of all the chiefs because he was so worth while. One incident recurs to my mind which I must recount as an example when psychology failed. A Whitechapel "lady," suffering with a very violent form of delirium tremens, was lying screeching in a strait-jacket on the cushioned floor of the padded room. With the usual huge queue of students following, he had gone in to see her, as I had been unable to get the results desired with a reasonable quantity of sedatives and soporifics. It was a very rare occasion, for cases which did not involve active surgery he left strictly alone. After giving a talk on psychical influence he had the jacket removed as "a relic of barbarism," and in a very impressive way looking into her glaring eyes and shaking his forefinger at her, he said: "Now, you are comfortable, my good woman, and will sleep. You will make no more disturbance whatever." There was an unusual silence. The woman remained absolutely passive, and we all turned to follow the chief out. Suddenly the "lady" called out, "Hi, hi,"--and some perverse spirit induced Sir Frederick to return. Looking back with defiant eyes she screamed out, "You! You with a faice! You do think yerself ---- ---- clever, don't yer?" The strange situation was only relieved by his bursting into a genuine fit of laughter. Among other celebrated men who were admired and revered was Mr. Harry Fenwick on the surgical side, for whom I had the honour of illustrating in colours his prize Jacksonian essay. Any talent for sketching, especially in colours, is of great value to the student of medicine. Once you have sketched a case from nature, with the object of showing the peculiarity of the abnormality, it remains permanently in your mind. Besides this, it forces you to note small differences; in other words, it teaches you to "obsairve." Thus, in the skin department I was sent to reproduce a case of anthrax of the neck, a rare disease in England, though all men handling raw hides are liable to contract it. The area had to be immediately excised; yet one never could forget the picture on one's mind. On another occasion a case of genuine leprosy was brought in, with all the dreadful signs of the disease. The macula rash was entirely unique so far as I knew, but a sketch greatly helped to fix it on one's memory. The poor patient proved to be one of the men who was handling the meat in London's greatest market at Smithfield. A tremendous hue and cry spread over London when somehow the news got into the paper, and vegetarianism received a temporary boost which in my opinion it still badly needs for the benefit of the popular welfare. Among the prophets of that day certainly should be numbered another of our teachers, Dr. Sutton, an author, and very much of a personality. For while being one of the consulting physicians of the largest of London hospitals, he was naturally scientific and strictly professional. He was very far, however, from being the conventionalist of those days, and the younger students used to look greatly askance at him. His message always was: "Drugs are very little use whatever. Nature is the source of healing. Give her a chance." Thus, a careful history would be read over to him; all the certain signs of typhoid would be noted--and his comment almost always was: "This case won't benefit by drugs. We will have the bed wheeled out into the sunshine." The next case would be acute lobar pneumonia and the same treatment would be adopted. "This patient needs air, gentlemen. We must wheel him out into the sunshine"--and so on. How near we are coming to his teaching in these days is already impressing itself upon our minds. Unfortunately the fact that the doctors realize that medicines are not so potent as our forbears thought has not left the public with the increased confidence in the profession which the infinitely more rational treatment of to-day justifies, and valuable time is wasted and fatal delays incurred, by a return of the more impressionable public to quacks with high-sounding titles, or to cults where faith is almost credulity. Truly one has lived through wonderful days in the history of the healing art. The first operations which I saw performed at our hospitals were before Lord Lister's teaching was practised; though even in my boyhood I remember getting leave to run up from Marlborough to London to see my brother, on whom Sir Joseph Lister had operated for osteomyelitis of the leg. Our most famous surgeon in 1880 was Sir Walter Rivington; and to-day there rises in memory the picture of him removing a leg at the thigh, clad in a blood-stained, black velvet coat, and without any attempt at or idea of asepsis. The main thing was speed, although the patient was under ether, and in quickly turning round the tip of the sword-like amputation knife, he made a gash in the patient's other leg. The whole thing seemed horrible enough to us students, but the surgeon smiled, saying, "Fortunately it is of no importance, gentlemen. The man will not live." The day came when every one worked under clouds of carbolic steam which fizzed and spouted from large brass boilers over everything; and then the time when every one was criticizing the new, young surgeon, Treves, who was daring to discard it, and getting as good results by scrupulous cleanliness. His aphorism was, "Gentlemen, the secret of surgery is the nailbrush." Now with blood examinations, germ cultures, sera tests, X-rays, and a hundred added improvements, one can say to a fisherman in far-off Labrador arriving on a mail steamer, and to whom every hour lost in the fishing season spells calamity, "Yes, brother, you can be operated on and the wound will be healed and you will be ready to go back by the next steamer, unless some utterly unforeseen circumstance arises." The fallibility of diagnosis was at this very impressionable time fixed upon my mind--a fact that has since served me in good stead. For what can be more reactionary in human life than the man who thinks he knows it all, whether it be in science, philosophy, or religion? During my Christmas vacation I was asked to go north and visit my father's brother, a well-known captain in Her Majesty's Navy, who was also an inventor in gun machinery and sighting apparatus, and who had been appointed the naval head of Lord Armstrong's great works at Yarrow-on-the-Tyne. All that I was told was that he had been taken with such severe pains in the back that he needed some one with him, and my new-fledged dignity of "walking the hospitals" was supposed to qualify me especially for the post. Already my uncle had seen many doctors in London and had been ordered to the Continent for rest. After some months, not a bit improved, he had again returned to London. This time the doctor told his wife that it was a mental trouble, and that he should be sent to an asylum. This she most indignantly denied, and yet desired my company as the only medical Grenfell, who at such a crisis could stay in the house without being looked upon as a warder or keeper. Meantime they had consulted Sir C.P., who had told my uncle that he had an aneurism of his aorta, and that he must be prepared to have it break and kill him any minute. His preparations were accordingly all made, and personally I fully anticipated that he would fall dead before I left. He put up a wonderful fight against excruciating pain, of which I was frequently a witness. But the days went by and nothing happened, so I returned to town and another young doctor took my place. He also got tired of waiting and suggested it might be some spinal trouble. He induced them once more to visit London and see Sir Victor Horsley, whose work on the brains of animals and men had marked an epoch in our knowledge of the central nervous system. Some new symptoms had now supervened, and the famous neurologist at once diagnosed a tumour in the spinal canal. Such a case had never previously been operated on successfully, but there was no alternative. The operation was brilliantly performed and a wonderful success obtained. The case was quoted in the next edition of our surgical textbooks. A little later my father's health began to fail in London, the worries and troubles of a clergyman's work among the poor creatures who were constantly passing under his care utterly overwhelming him. We had agreed that a long change of thought was necessary and he and I started for a fishing and sight-seeing tour in Norway. Our steamer was to sail from the Tyne, and we went up to Newcastle to catch it. There some evil fiend persuaded my father to go and consult a doctor about his illness, for Newcastle has produced some well-known names in medicine. Thus, while I waited at the hotel to start, my father became persuaded that he had some occult disease of the liver, and must remain in Newcastle for treatment. I, however, happened to be treasurer of the voyage, and for the first time asserting my professional powers, insisted that I was family physician for the time, and turned up in the evening with all our round-trip tickets and reservations taken and paid for. In the morning I had the trunks packed and conveyed aboard, and we sailed together for one of the most enjoyable holidays I ever spent. We travelled much afoot and in the little native carriages called "stolkjærre," just jogging along, staying anywhere, fishing in streams, and living an open-air life which the increasing flood of tourists in after years have made much less possible. We both came back fitter in body and soul for our winter's work. My father's death a year later made a great difference to me, my mother removing to live with my grandmother at Hampstead, it being too lonely and not safe for her to live alone in East London. Twice our house had been broken into by burglars, though both times fruitlessly. The second occasion was in open daylight during the hour of evening service on a Sunday. Only a couple of maids would have been in the house had I not been suffering from two black eyes contracted during the Saturday's football game. Though I had accompanied the others out, decidedly my appearance might have led to misinterpretations in church, and I had returned unnoticed. The men escaped by some method which they had discovered of scaling a high fence, but I was close behind following them through the window by which they had entered. Shortly afterward I happened to be giving evidence at the Old Bailey on one of the many cases of assault and even murder where the victims were brought into hospital as patients. London was ringing with the tale of a barefaced murder at Murray Hill in North London, where an exceedingly clever piece of detective work, an old lantern discovered in a pawnbroker's shop in Whitechapel--miles away from the scene of the crime--was the means of bringing to trial four of the most rascally looking villains I ever saw. The trial preceded ours and we had to witness it. One of the gang had turned "Queen's evidence" to save his own neck. So great was the hatred of the others for him and the desire for revenge that even in the court they were hand-cuffed and in separate stands. Fresh from my own little fracas I learned what a fool I had been, for in this case also the deed was done in open daylight, and the lawn had tight wires stretched across it. The young son, giving chase as I did, had been tripped up and shot through his abdomen for his pains. He had, however, crawled back, made his will, and was subsequently only saved by a big operation. He looked in terrible shape when giving evidence at the trial. The giving of expert evidence on such occasions was the only opportunity which the young sawbones had of earning money. True we only got a guinea a day and expenses, but there were no other movie shows in those days, and we learned a lot about medical jurisprudence, a subject which always greatly interested me. It was no uncommon sight either at the "London" or the "Poplar," at both of which I did interne work, to see a policeman always sitting behind the screen at the foot of the patient's bed. One man, quite a nice fellow when not occupied in crime, had when furiously drunk killed his wife and cut his own throat. By the curious custom of society all the skill and money that the hospital could offer to save a most valuable life was as usual devoted to restoring this man to health. He was weaned slowly back from the grave by special nurses and treatment, till it began to dawn upon him that he might have to stand his trial. He would ask me if I thought he would have to undergo a long term, for he had not been conscious of what he was doing. As he grew better, and the policeman arrived to watch him, he decided that it would probably be quite a long time. He had a little place of his own somewhere, and he used to have chickens and other presents sent up to fellow patients, and would have done so to the nurses, only they could not receive them. I was not personally present at his trial, but I felt really sorry to hear that they hanged him. Many of these poor fellows were only prevented from ending their own lives by our using extreme care. The case of one wretched man, driven to desperation, I still remember. "Patient male; age forty-five; domestic trouble--fired revolver into his mouth. Finding no phenomena of interest develop, fired a second chamber into his right ear. Still no symptoms worthy of notice. Patient threw away pistol and walked to hospital." Both bullets had lodged in the thick parts of his skull, and doing no damage were left there. A subsequent note read: "Patient to-day tried to cut his throat with a dinner-knife which he had hidden in his bed. Patient met with no success." Another of my cases which interested me considerably was that of a professional burglar who had been operated upon in almost every part of the kingdom, and was inclined to be communicative, as the job which had brought him to hospital had cost him a broken spine. Very little hope was held out to him that he would ever walk again. He was clear of murder, for he said it was never his practice to carry firearms, being a nervous man and apt to use them if he had them and got alarmed when busy burglaring. He relied chiefly on his extraordinary agility and steady head to escape. His only yarn, however, was his last. He and a friend had been detailed by the gang to the job of plundering one of a row of houses. The plans of the house and of the enterprise were all in order, but some unexpected alarm was given and he fled upstairs, climbed through a skylight onto the roof, and ran along the gables of the tiles, not far ahead of the police, who were armed and firing at him. He could easily have gotten away, as he could run along the coping of the brick parapet without turning a hair, but he was brought up by a narrow side street on which he had not counted, not having anticipated, like cats, a battle on the tiles. It was only some twelve or fifteen feet across the gap, and the landing on the other side was a flat roof. Taking it all at a rush he cleared the street successfully, but the flat roof, black with ages of soot, proved to be a glass skylight, and he entered a house in a way new even to him. His falling on a stone floor many feet below accounted for his "unfortunate accident"! After many months in bed, the man took an unexpected turn, his back mended, and with only a slight leg paralysis he was able to return to the outside world. His long suffering and incarceration in hospital were accepted by the law as his punishment, and he assured me by all that he held sacred that he intended to retire into private life. Oddly enough, however, while on another case, I saw him again in the prisoner's dock and at once went over and spoke to him. "Drink this time, Doctor," he said. "I was down on my luck and the barkeeper went out and left his till open. I climbed over and got the cash, but there was so little space between the bar and the wall that with my stiff back I couldn't for the life of me get back. I was jammed like a stopper in a bottle." Among many interesting experiences, one especially I shall never forget. Like the others, it occurred during my service for Sir Frederick Treves as house-surgeon, and I believe he told the story. A very badly burned woman had been brought into hospital. Her dress had somehow got soaked in paraffin and had then taken fire. Her terribly extensive burns left no hope whatever of her recovery, and only the conventions of society kept us from giving the poor creature the relief of euthanasia, or some cup of laudanum negus. But the law was interested. A magistrate was brought to the bedside and the husband sent for. The nature of the evidence, the meaning of an oath, the importance of the poor creature acknowledging that her words were spoken "in hopeless fear of immediate death," were all duly impressed upon what remained of her mind. The police then brought in the savage, degraded-looking husband, and made him stand between two policemen at the foot of the bed, facing his mangled wife. The magistrate, after preliminary questions, asked her to make her dying statement as to how she came by her death. There was a terrible moment of silence. It seemed as if her spirit were no longer able to respond to the stimuli of life on earth. Then a sudden rebound appeared to take place, her eyes lit up with a flash of light, and even endeavouring to raise her piteous body, she said, "It was an accident, Judge. I upset the lamp myself, so help me God"; and just for one moment her eyes met those of her miserable husband. It was the last time she spoke. Tragedy and comedy ran hand in hand even in this work. St. Patrick's Day always made the hospital busy, just as Christmas was the season for burned children. Beer in an East London "pub" was generally served in pewter pots, as they were not easily broken. A common head injury was a circular scalp cut made by the heavy bottom rim, a wound which bled horribly. A woman was brought in on one St. Patrick's Day, her scalp turned forward over her face and her long hair a mass of clotted blood from such a stroke, made while she was on the ground. When the necessary readjustments had been made and she was leaving hospital cured, we asked her what had been the cause of the trouble. "'Twas just an accidint, yer know. Sure, me an' another loidy was just havin' a few words." On another occasion late at night, we were called out of bed by a cantankerous, half-drunken fellow whom the night porter could not pacify. "I'm a regular subscriber to this hospital, and I have never had my dues yet," he kept protesting. A new drug to produce immediate vomiting had just been put on the market, and as it was exactly the treatment he required, we gave him an injection. To our dismay, though the medicine is in common use to-day, either the poison which he had been drinking or the drug itself caused a collapse followed by head symptoms. He was admitted, his head shaved and icebags applied, with the result that next day he was quite well again. But when he left he had, instead of a superabundance of curly, auburn hair, a polished white knob oiled and shining like a State House at night. We debated whether his subscription would be as regular in future, though he professed to be profoundly grateful. I have digressed, but the intimacy which grew up between some of my patients and myself seemed worth while recounting, for they showed me what I never in any other way could have understood about the seamy side of life in great cities, of its terrible tragedies and pathos, of how much good there is in the worst, and how much need of courage, and what vast opportunities lie before those who accept the service of man as their service to God. It proved to me how infinitely more needed are unselfish deeds than orthodox words, and how much the churches must learn from the Labour Party, the Socialist Party, the Trades-Union, before tens of thousands of our fellow beings, with all their hopes and fears, loves and aspirations, have a fair chance to make good. I learned also to hate the liquor traffic with a loathing of my soul. I met peers of the realm honoured with titles because they had grown rich on the degradation of my friends. I saw lives damned, cruelties of every kind perpetrated, jails and hospitals filled, misery, want, starvation, murder, all caused by men who fattened off the profits and posed as gentlemen and great people. I have seen men's mouths closed whose business in life it was to speak out against this accursed trade. I have seen men driven from the profession of priests of God, making the Church a stench in the nostrils of men who knew values just as well as those trained in the universities do, all through alcohol, alcohol, alcohol. This awful war has been dragging its weary course for over four years now, and yet England has not tackled this curse which is throttling her. We sing "God save the King," and pretend to believe in the prayer, and yet we will not face this glaring demon in our midst. Words may clothe ideas, but it takes deeds to realize them. * * * * * My parents having gone, it became necessary for me to find lodgings--which I did, "unfurnished," in the house of a Portuguese widow. Her husband, who had a good family name, had gone down in the world, and had disappeared with another "lady." The eldest son, a mathematical genius, had been able to pay his way through Cambridge University by the scholarships and prizes which he had won. One beautiful little dark-eyed daughter of seven was playing in a West End Theatre as the dormouse in "Alice in Wonderland." She was second fiddle to Alice herself, also, and could sing all her songs. Her pay was some five pounds a week, poor enough for the attraction she proved, but more than all the rest of the family put together earned. At that time I never went to theatres. Acquaintances had persuaded me that so many of the girls were ruined on the stage that for a man taking any interest in Christian work whatever, it was wrong to attend. Moreover, among my acquaintances there were not a few theatre fans, and I had nothing in common with them. The "dormouse," however, used to come up and say her parts for my benefit, and that of occasional friends, and was so modest and winsome, and her earnings so invaluable to the family, that I entirely altered my opinion. Then and there I came to the conclusion that the drama was an essential part of art, and that those who were trying to elevate and cleanse it, like Sir Henry Irving, whose son I had met at Marlborough, must have the support of a public who demanded clean plays and good conditions both in front and behind the screen. When I came to London my father had asked me not to go to anything but Shakespearian or equally well-recognized plays until I was twenty-one. Only once did I enter a music hall and I had plenty to satisfy me in a very few minutes. Vaudevilles are better than in those days. The censor does good work, but it is still the demand which creates the supply, and whatever improvement has occurred has been largely due to the taste of the patrons. Medical students need all the open air they can get in order to keep body and soul fit, and our contempt for the theatre fan was justifiable. My new lodgings being close to Victoria Park afforded the opportunity for training if one were unconventional. To practise throwing the sixteen-pound hammer requires rough ground and plenty of space, and as I was scheduled for that at the inter-hospital sports, it was necessary to work when not too many disinterested parties were around. Even an East-Ender's skull is not hammer-proof, as I had seen when a poor woman was brought into hospital with five circular holes in her head, the result of blows inflicted by her husband with a hammer. The only excuse which the ruffian offered for the murder was that she had forgotten to wake him, he had been late, and lost his job. A number of the boys in my class were learning to swim. There was only one bathing lake and once the waters were troubled we drew the line at going in to give lessons. So we used to meet at the gate at the hour of opening in the morning, and thus be going back before most folks were moving. Nor did we always wait for the park keeper, but often scaled the gates and so obtained an even more exclusive dip. Many an evening we would also "flannel," and train round and round the park, or Hackney Common, to improve one's wind before some big event. For diet at that time I used oatmeal, milk, and eggs, and very little or no meat. It was cheaper and seemed to give me more endurance; and the real value of money was dawning on me. Victoria Park is one of those open forums where every man with a sore spot goes out to air his grievance. On Sundays there were little groups around the trees where orators debated on everything from a patent medicine to the nature of God. Charles Bradlaugh and Mrs. Annie Besant were associated together in iconoclastic efforts against orthodox religion, and there was so much truth in some of their contentions that they were making no little disturbance. Hanging on their skirts were a whole crowd of ignorant, dogmatic atheists, who published a paper called "The Freethinker," which, while it was a villainous and contemptible rag, appealed to the passions and prejudices of the partially educated. To answer the specious arguments of their propaganda an association known as the Christian Evidence Society used to send out lecturers. One of them became quite famous for his clever arguments and answers, his ready wit, and really extensive reading. He was an Antiguan, a black man named Edwards, and had been a sailor before the mast. I met him at the parish house of an Episcopal clergyman of a near-by church, who, under the caption of Christian socialism, ran all kinds of social agencies that really found their way to the hearts of the people. His messages were so much more in deeds than in words that he greatly appealed to me, and I transferred my allegiance to his church, which was always well filled. I particularly remember among his efforts the weekly parish dance. My religious acquaintances were apt to class all such simple amusements in a sort of general category as "works of the Devil," and turn deaf ears to every invitation to point out any evil results, being satisfied with their own statement that it was the "thin edge of the wedge." This good man, however, was very obviously driving a wedge into the hearts of many of his poor neighbours who in those days found no opportunity for relief in innocent pleasures from the sordid round of life in the drab purlieus of Bethnal Green. This clergyman was a forerunner of his neighbour, the famous Samuel Barnett of Mile End, who thought out, started, and for many years presided over Toynbee House, the first big university settlement in East London. His workers preached their gospel through phrases and creeds which they accepted with mental reservations, but just exactly in such ways as they believed in absolutely. At first it used to send a shiver down my spine to find a church worker who didn't believe in the Creed, and stumbled over all our fundamentals. At first it amazed me that such men would pay their own expenses to live in a place like Whitechapel, only to work on drain committees, as delinquent landlord mentors, or just to give special educational chances to promising minds, or physical training to unfit bodies. Yet one saw in their efforts undeniable messages of real love. Personally I could only occasionally run up there to meet friends in residence or attend an art exhibition, but they taught me many lessons. Exactly opposite the hospital was Oxford House, only two minutes distant, which combined definite doctrinal religion with social work. Being an Oxford effort it had great attractions for me. Moreover, right alongside it in the middle of a disused sugar refinery I had hired the yard, converted it into a couple of lawn-tennis courts, and ran a small club. There I first met the famous Dr. Hensley Henson, now Bishop of Hereford, and also the present Bishop of London, Dr. Winnington-Ingram--a good all-round athlete. He used to visit in our wards, and as we had a couple of fives courts, a game which takes little tune and gives much exercise, we used to have an afternoon off together, once a week, when he came over to hospital. Neither of these splendid men were dignitaries in those days, or I am afraid they would have found us medicals much more stand-offish. I may as well admit that we had not then learned to have any respect for bishops or church magnates generally. We liked both of these men because they were unconventional and good sports, and especially in that they were not afraid to tackle the atheist's propaganda in the open. I have seen Dr. Henson in Whitechapel debating alone against a hall full of opponents and with a fairness and infinite restraint, convincing those open to reason that they were mistaken. Moreover, I have seen Dr. Ingram doing just the same thing standing on a stone in the open park. It may all sound very silly when one knows that by human minds, or to the human mind, the Infinite can never be demonstrated as a mathematical proposition. But the point was that these clergy were proving that they were real men--men who had courage as well as faith, who believed in themselves and their message, who deserved the living which they were supposed to make out of orthodoxy. This the audience knew was more than could be said of many of the opponents. Christ himself showed his superb manhood in just such speaking out. Indelibly impressed on my mind still is an occasion when one of the most blatant and vicious of these opponents of religion fell ill. A Salvation Army lass found him deserted and in poverty, nursed and looked after him and eventually made a new man of him. Far and away the most popular of the Park speakers was the Antiguan. His arguments were so clever it was obvious that he was well and widely read. His absolute understanding of the crowd and his witty repartee used frequently to cause his opponents to lose their tempers, and that was always their undoing. The crowd as a rule was very fair and could easily distinguish arguments from abuse. Thus, on one Sunday the debate was as to whether nature was God. The atheist representative was a very loud-voiced demagogue, who when angry betrayed his Hibernian origin very markedly. Having been completely worsted and the laugh turned against him by a clever correction of some one's, he used the few minutes given him to reply in violent abuse, ending up that "ladies and gentlemen did not come out on holidays to spend their time being taught English by a damned nigger." "Sir," Edwards answered from the crowd, "I am a British subject, born on the island of Antigua, and as much an Englishman as any Irishman in the country." Edwards possessed an inexhaustible stock of good-humour and his laugh could be heard halfway across the Park. As soon as his turn came to mount the stone, he got the crowd so good-natured that they became angry at the interruptions of the enemy, and when some one suggested that if nature were that man's God, the near-by duckpond was the natural place for him, there was a rush for him, and for several subsequent Sundays he was not in evidence. Edwards was a poor man, his small salary and incessant generosity left him nothing for holidays, and he was killing himself with overwork. So we asked him to join us in the new house which we were fitting up in Palestine Place. He most gladly did so and added enormously to our fun. Unfortunately tuberculosis long ago got its grip upon him, and removed a valuable life from East London. It was a queer little beehive in which we lived in those days, and a more cosmopolitan crowd could hardly have been found: one young doctor who has since made his name and fortune in Australia; another in whose rooms were nearly a hundred cups for prowess in nearly every form of athletics, and who also has "made good" in professional life, besides several others who for shorter or longer periods were allotted rooms in our house. Among the more unusual was the "C.M.," a Brahmin from India, a priest in his youth, who had been brought back to England by some society to be educated in medical missionary work, but whom for some reason they had dropped. For a short time a clever young Russian of Hebrew extraction who was studying for the Church helped to render our common-room social engagements almost international affairs. As I write this I am at Charleston, South Carolina, and I see how hard it will be for an American to understand the possibility of such a motley assembly being reasonable or even proper. It seems to me down here that there must have been odd feelings sometimes in those days. I can only say, however, that I never personally even thought of it. East London is so democratic that one's standards are simply those of the value of the man's soul as we saw it. If he had been yellow with pink stripes it honestly would not have mattered one iota to most of us. It so happened that there was at that time in hospital under my care a patient known as "the elephant man." He had been starring under that title in a cheap vaudeville, had been seen by some of the students, and invited over to be shown to and studied by our best physicians. The poor fellow was really exceedingly sensitive about his most extraordinary appearance. The disease was called "leontiasis," and consisted of an enormous over-development of bone and skin on one side. His head and face were so deformed as really to resemble a big animal's head with a trunk. My arms would not reach around his hat. A special room in a yard was allotted to him, and several famous people came to see him--among them Queen Alexandra, then the Princess of Wales, who afterward sent him an autographed photograph of herself. He kept it in his room, which was known as the "elephant house," and it always suggested beauty and the beast. Only at night could the man venture out of doors, and it was no unusual thing in the dusk of nightfall to meet him walking up and down in the little courtyard. He used to talk freely of how he would look in a huge bottle of alcohol--an end to which in his imagination he was fated to come. He was of a very cheerful disposition and pathetically proud of his left side which was normal. Very suddenly one day he died--the reason assigned being that his head fell forward and choked him, being too heavy for him to lift up. In 1886 I passed my examinations and duly became a member of the College of Physicians and of the Royal College of Surgeons of England; and sought some field for change and rest, where also I could use my newly acquired license to my own, if to no one else's, benefit. Among the patients who came to the London Hospital, there were now and again fishermen from the large fishing fleets of the North Sea. They lived out, as it were, on floating villages, sending their fish to market every day by fast cutters. Every two or three months, as their turn came round, a vessel would leave for the home port on the east coast, being permitted, or supposed to be permitted, a day at home for each full week at sea. As the fleets kept the sea summer and winter and the boats were small, not averaging over sixty tons, it was a hazardous calling. The North Sea is nowhere deeper than thirty fathoms, much of it being under twenty, and in some places only five. Indeed, it is a recently sunken and still sinking portion of Europe, so much so that the coasts on both sides are constantly receding, and when Heligoland was handed over by the English to the Kaiser, it was said that he would have to keep jacking it up or soon there would be none left. Shallow waters exposed to the fierce gales which sweep the German Ocean make deep and dangerous seas, which readily break and wash the decks of craft with low freeboard, such as the North Sea vessels are obliged to have in order to get boats in and out to ferry their fish to the cutter. There being no skilled aid at hand, the quickest way to get help used to be to send an injured man to market with the fish. Often it was a long journey of many days, simple fractures became compound, and limbs and faculties were often thus lost. It so happened that Sir Frederick Treves had himself a love for navigating in small sailing craft. He had made it a practice to cross the English Channel to Calais in a sailing lugger every Boxing Day--that is, the day after Christmas. He was especially interested in those "that go down to the sea in ships" and had recently made a trip among the fishing fleets. He told me that a small body of men, interested in the religious and social welfare of the deep-sea fishermen, had chartered a small fishing smack, sent her out among the fishermen to hold religious services of a simple, unconventional type, in order to afford the men an alternative to the grog vessels when fishing was slack, and to carry first aid, the skipper of the vessel being taught ambulance work. They wanted, however, very much to get a young doctor to go out, who cared also for the spiritual side of the work, to see if they could use the additional attraction of proper medical aid to gain the men's sympathies. His advice to me was to go and have a look at it. "If you go in January you will see some fine seascapes, anyhow. Don't go in summer when all of the old ladies go for a rest." I therefore applied to go out the following January, and that fall, while working near the Great London docks, I used often to look at the tall East Indiamen, thinking that I soon should be aboard just such a vessel in the North Sea. It was dark and raining when my train ran into Yarmouth, and a dripping, stout fisherman in a blue uniform met me at that then unattractive and ill-lighted terminus. He had brought a forlorn "growler" or four-wheeled cab. Climbing in we drove a mile or more along a deserted road, and drew up at last apparently at the back of beyond. "Where is the ship?" I asked. "Why, those are her topmasts," replied my guide, pointing to two posts projecting from the sand. "The tide is low and she is hidden by the quay." "Heavens!" I thought; "she's no tea clipper, anyhow." I climbed up the bank and peered down in the darkness at the hull of a small craft, a little larger than our old Roysterer. She was just discernible by the dim rays of the anchor light. I was hesitating as to whether I shouldn't drive back to Yarmouth and return to London when a cheery voice on deck called out a hearty welcome. What big things hang on a smile and a cheery word no man can ever say. But it broke the spell this time and I had my cabby unload my bags on the bank and bade him good-night. As his wheels rumbled away into the rain and dark, I felt that my cables were cut beyond recall. Too late to save me, the cheery voice shouted, "Mind the rigging, it's just tarred and greased." I was already sliding down and sticking to it as I went. Small as the vessel was she was absolutely spotless. Her steward, who cooked for all hands, was smart and in a snow-white suit. The contrast between-decks and that above was very comforting, though my quarters were small. The crew were all stocky, good-humoured, and independent. Democratic as East London had made me, they impressed me very favourably, and I began to look forward to the venture with real pleasure. Drink was the worst enemy of these men. The quaysides of the fisherman's quarters teemed with low saloons. Wages were even paid off in them or their annexes, and grog vessels, luring the men aboard with cheap tobacco and low literature, plied their nefarious calling with the fleets, and were the death, body and soul, of many of these fine specimens of manhood. There was never any question as to the real object of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen. The words "Heal the sick" carved in large letters adorned the starboard bow. "Preach the Word" was on the port, and around the brass rim of the wheel ran the legend, "Jesus said, Follow me and I will make you fishers of men." Thirty years ago we were more conventional than to-day, and I was much surprised to learn from our skipper that we were bound to Ostend to ship four tons of tobacco, sent over from England for us in bond, as he might not take it out consigned to the high seas. In Belgium, however, no duty was paid. The only trouble was that our vessel, to help pay its expenses, carried fishing gear, and as a fishing vessel could not get a clearance in Belgium. Our nets and beams, therefore, had to go out to the fishing grounds in a friendly trawler while we passed as a mercantile marine during the time we took on our cargo. So bitter was the cold that in the harbour we got frozen in and were able to skate up the canals. We had eventually to get a steamer to go around us and smash our ice bonds when we were again ready for sea. During the next two months we saw no land except Heligoland and Terschelling--or Skilling, as the fishermen called it--far away in the offing. Nor was our deck once clear of ice and snow during all the time. Our duty was to visit as many fleets as we could, and arrange with some reliable vessel to take a stock of tobacco for the use of their special fleet. The ship was to carry about six feet of blue bunting on her foretopmast stay, a couple of fathoms above her bowsprit end, so that all the fleet might know her. She was to sell the tobacco at a fixed price that just covered the cost, and undersold the "coper" by fifty per cent. She was to hoist her flag for business every morning, while the small boats were out boarding fish on the carrier, and was to lie as far to leeward of the coper as possible so that the men could not go to both. Nineteen such floating depots were eventually arranged for, with the precaution that if any one of them had to return to port, he should bring no tobacco home, but hand over his stock and accounts to a reliable friend. These deep-sea fisheries were a revelation to me, and every hour of the long trip I enjoyed. It was amazing to me to find over twenty thousand men and boys afloat--the merriest, cheerfullest lot which I had ever met. They were hail-fellow-well-met with every one, and never thought of deprivation or danger. Clothing, food, customs, were all subordinated to utility. They were the nearest possible thing to a community of big boys, only needing a leader. In efficiency and for their daring resourcefulness in physical difficulties and dangers, they were absolutely in a class by themselves, embodying all the traits of character which make men love to read the stories of the buccaneers and other seamen of the sixteenth-century period. Each fleet had its admiral and vice-admiral, appointed partly by the owner, and partly by the skippers of the vessels. The devil-may-care spirit was always a great factor with the men. The admiral directed operations by flags in the daytime and by rockets at night, thus indicating what the fleet was to do and where they were to fish. Generally he had the fastest boat, and the cutters, hunting for the fleet always lay just astern of the admiral, the morning after their arrival. Hundreds of men would come for letters, packages, to load fish, to get the news of what their last assignment fetched in market. Moreover, a kind of Parliament was held aboard to consider policies and hear complaints. At first it was a great surprise to me how these men knew where they were, for we never saw anything but sky and sea, and not even the admirals carried a chronometer or could work out a longitude; and only a small percentage of the skippers could read or write. They all, however, carried a sextant and could by rule of thumb find a latitude roughly. But that was only done at a pinch. The armed lead was the fisherman's friend. It was a heavy lead with a cup on the bottom filled fresh each time with sticky grease. When used, the depth was always called out by the watch, and the kind of sand, mud, or rock which stuck to the grease shown to the skipper. "Fifteen fathoms and coffee grounds--must be on the tail end of the Dogger. Put her a bit more to the westward, boy," he would remark, and think no more about it, though he might have been three or four days looking for his fleet, and not spoken to a soul since he left land. I remember one skipper used to have the lead brought down below, and he could tell by the grit between his teeth after a couple of soundings which way to steer. It sounds strange even now, but it was so universal, being just second-nature to the men, who from boyhood had lived on the sea, that we soon ceased to marvel at it. Skippers were only just being obliged to have certificates. These they obtained by _viva voce_ examinations. You would sometimes hear an aspiring student, a great black-bearded pirate over forty-seven inches around the chest, and possibly the father of eight or ten children, as he stamped about in his watch keeping warm, repeating the courses--"East end of the Dogger to Horn S.E. by E. ½ and W. point of the island [Heligoland] to Barkum S. ½ W. Ower Light to Hazebrough N.N.W."--and so on. Their memories were not burdened by a vast range of facts, but in these things they were the nearest imaginable to Blind Tom, the famous slave musician. Our long round only occupied us about a month, and after that we settled down with the fleet known as the Great Northerners. Others were the Short Blues, the Rashers (because they were streaked like a piece of bacon), the Columbia, the Red Cross, and so on. Sometimes during the night while we were fishing into the west, a hundred sail or more of vessels, we would pass through another big fleet coming the other way, and some of our long trawls and warps would tangle with theirs. Beyond the beautiful spectacle of the myriads of lights bobbing up and down often enough on mighty rough seas--for it needed good breezes to haul our trawls--would be the rockets and flares of the entangled boats, and often enough also rockets and flares from friends, and from cutters. One soon became so friendly with the men that one would not return at night to the ship, but visit around and rejoin the Mission ship boarding fish next day, to see patients coming for aid. Though it was strictly against sea rules for skippers to be off their vessels all night, that was a rule, like all others on the North Sea, as often marked in the breach as in the observance. A goodly company would get together yarning and often singing and playing games until it was time to haul the trawl and light enough to find their own vessel and signal for the boat. The relation of my new friends to religion was a very characteristic one. Whatever they did, they did hard. Thus one of the admirals, being a thirsty soul, and the grog vessels having been adrift for a longer while than he fancied, conceived the fine idea of holding up the Heligoland saloons. So one bright morning he "hove his fleet to" under the lee of the island and a number of boats went ashore, presumably to sell fish. Altogether they landed some five hundred men, who held up the few saloons for two or three days. As a result subsequently only one crew selling fish to the island was allowed ashore at one time. The very gamble of their occupation made them do things hard. Thus it was a dangerous task to throw out a small boat in half a gale of wind, fill her up with heavy boxes of fish, and send her to put these over the rail of a steamer wallowing in the trough of a mountainous sea. But it was on these very days when less fish was sent to market that the best prices were realized, and so there were always a number of dare-devils, who did not care if lives were lost so long as good prices were obtained and their record stood high on the weekly list of sales which was forwarded to both owners and men. I have known as many as fourteen men upset in one morning out of these boats; and the annual loss of some three hundred and fifty men was mostly from this cause. Conditions were subsequently improved by the Board of Trade, who made it manslaughter against the skipper if any man was drowned boarding fish, unless the admiral had shown his flags to give the fleet permission to do so. In those days, however, I often saw twenty to thirty boats all tied up alongside the cutter at one time, the heavy seas every now and again rolling the cutter's sail right under water, and when she righted again it might come up under the keels of some of the boats and tip them upside down. Thus any one in them was caught like a mouse under a trap or knocked to pieces trying to swim among the rushing, tossing boats. As a rule we hauled at midnight, and it was always a fresh source of wonder, for the trawl was catholic in its embrace and brought up anything that came in its way. To emphasize how comparatively recently the Channel had been dry land, many teeth and tusks of mammoths who used to roam its now buried forests were given up to the trawls by the ever-shifting sands. Old wreckage of every description, ancient crockery, and even a water-logged, old square-rigger that must have sunk years before were brought one day as far as the surface by the stout wire warp. After the loss of a large steamer called the Elbe many of the passengers who had been drowned were hauled up in this way; and on one occasion great excitement was caused in Hull by a fisher lad from that port being picked up with his hands tied behind his back and a heavy weight on his feet. The defence was that the boy had died, and was thus buried to save breaking the voyage--supported by the fact that another vessel had also picked up the boy and thrown him overboard again for the same reason. But those who were a bit superstitious thought otherwise, and more especially as cruelty to these boys was not unknown. These lads were apprenticed to the fishery masters largely from industrial or reformatory schools, had no relations to look after them, and often no doubt gave the limit of trouble and irritation. On the whole, however, the system worked well, and a most excellent class of capable seamen was developed. At times, however, they were badly exploited. During their apprenticeship years they were not entitled to pay, only to pocket money, and yet sometimes the whole crew including the skipper were apprentices and under twenty-one years of age. Even after that they were fitted for no other calling but to follow the sea, and had to accept the master's terms. There were no fishermen's unions, and the men being very largely illiterate were often left victims of a peonage system in spite of the Truck Acts. The master of a vessel has to keep discipline, especially in a fleet, and the best of boys have faults and need punishing while on land. These skippers themselves were brought up in a rough school, and those who fell victims to drink and made the acquaintance of the remedial measures of our penal system of that day were only further brutalized by it. Religion scarcely touched the majority; for their brief periods of leave ashore were not unnaturally spent in having a good time. To those poisoned by the villainous beverages sold on the sordid grog vessels no excess was too great. Owners were in sympathy with the Mission in trying to oust the coper, because their property, in the form of fish, nets, stores, and even sails, were sometimes bartered on the high seas for liquor. On one occasion during a drunken quarrel in the coper's cabin one skipper threw the kerosene lamp over another lying intoxicated on the floor. His heavy wool jersey soaked in kerosene caught fire. He rushed for the deck, and then, a dancing mass of flames, leaped overboard and disappeared. Occasionally skippers devised punishments with a view to remedying the defects of character. Thus one lad, who through carelessness had on more than one occasion cooked the "duff" for dinner badly, was made to take his cinders on deck when it was his time to turn in, and go forward to the fore-rigging. Then he had to take one cinder, go up to the cross-tree, and throw it over into the sea, come down the opposite rigging and repeat the act until he had emptied his scuttle. Another who had failed to clean the cabin properly had one night, instead of going to bed, to take a bucketful of sea water and empty it with a teaspoon into another, and so to and fro until morning. On one occasion a poor boy was put under the ballast deck, that is, the cabin floor, and forgotten. He was subsequently found dead, drowned in the bilge water. It was easy to hide the results of cruelty, for being washed overboard was by no means an uncommon way of disappearing from vessels with low freeboards in the shallow water of the North Sea. A very practical outcome in the mission work was the organization of the Fisher Lads' Letter-Writing Association. The members accepted so many names of orphan lads at sea and pledged themselves to write regularly to them. Also, if possible, they were to look them up when they returned to land, and indeed do for them much as the War Camp Community League members are to-day trying to accomplish for our soldiers and sailors. As every practical exposition of love must, it met with a very real response, and brought, moreover, new interests and joys into many selfish lives. I remember one lady whose whole care in life had been her own health. She had nursed it, and worried over it, and enjoyed ill health so long, that only the constant recourse to the most refined stimulants postponed the end which would have been a merciful relief--to others. The effort of letter-writing remade her. Doctors were forgotten, stimulants were tabooed, the insignia of invalidism banished, and to my intense surprise I ran across her at a fishing port surrounded by a bevy of blue-jerseyed lads, who were some of those whom she was being blessed by helping. The best of efforts, however, sometimes "gang aft agley." One day I received a letter, evidently written in great consternation, from an elderly spinster of singularly aristocratic connections and an irreproachableness of life which was almost painful. The name sent to her by one of our skippers as a correspondent who needed help and encouragement was one of those which would be characterized as common--let us say John Jones. By some perverse fate the wrong ship was given as an address, and the skipper of it happened to have exactly the same name. It appeared that lack of experience in just such work had made her letter possibly more affectionate than she would have wished for under the circumstances which developed. For in writing to me she enclosed a ferocious letter from a lady of Billingsgate threatening, not death, but mutilation, if she continued making overtures to "her John." CHAPTER V NORTH SEA WORK I have dwelt at length upon the experiences of the North Sea, because trivial as they appear on the surface, they concern the biggest problem of human life--the belief that man is not of the earth, but only a temporary sojourner upon it. This belief, that he is destined to go on living elsewhere, makes a vast difference to one's estimate of values. Life becomes a school instead of a mere stage, the object of which is that our capacities for usefulness should develop through using them until we reach graduation. What life gives to us can only be of permanent importance as it develops our souls, thus enabling us to give more back to it, and leaves us better prepared for any opportunities than may lie beyond this world. The most valuable asset for this assumption is love for the people among whom one lives. The best teachers in life are far from being those who know most, or who think themselves wisest. Show me a schoolmaster who does not love his boys and you show me one who is of no use. Our faith in our sonship of God is immensely strengthened by the puzzling fact that even God cannot force goodness into us, His sons, because we share His nature. These convictions, anyhow, were the mental assets with which I had to begin work, and no others. A scientific training had impressed upon me that big and little are very relative terms; that one piece of work becomes unexpectedly permanent and big, while that which appears to be great, but is merely diffuse, will be temporary and ineffective. Experience has taught me that one human life has its limits of direct impetus, but that its most lasting value is its indirect influence. The greatest Life ever lived was no smaller for being in a carpenter's shop, and largely spent among a few ignorant fishermen. The Scarabee had a valid _apologia pro vita sua_ in spite of Dr. Holmes. Tolstoy on his farm, Milton without his sight, Bunyan in his prison, Pasteur in his laboratory, all did great things for the world. There is so much that is manly about the lives of those who follow the sea, so much less artificiality than in many other callings, and with our fishermen so many fewer of what we call loosely "chances in life," that to sympathize with them was easy--and sympathy is a long step toward love. Life at sea also gives time and opportunity for really knowing a man. It breaks down conventional barriers, and indeed almost compels fellowship and thus an intelligent understanding of the difficulties and tragedies of the soul of our neighbour. That rare faculty of imagination which is the inspiration of all great lovers of men is not alone indispensable. Hand in hand with this inevitably goes the vision of one's own opportunity to help and not to hinder others, even though it be through the unattractive medium of the collection box--for that gives satisfaction only in proportion to the sacrifice which we make. In plain words the field of work offered me was attractive. It seemed to promise me the most remunerative returns for my abilities, or, to put it in another way, it aroused my ambitions sufficiently to make me believe that my special capacities and training could be used to make new men as well as new bodies. Any idea of sacrifice was balanced by the fact that I never cared very much for the frills of life so long as the necessities were forthcoming. The attention that Harold Begbie's book "Twice-Born Men" received, was to me later in life a source of surprise. One forgets that the various religions and sects which aimed at the healing of men's souls have concerned themselves more with intellectual creeds than material, Christ-like ends. At first it was not so. Paul rejoiced that he was a new man. There can be no question but that the Gospels show us truly that the change in Christ's first followers was from men, the slaves of every ordinary human passion, into men who were self-mastered--that Christ taught by what he was and did rather than by insistence on creeds and words. It has been seeing these changes in men's lives, not only in their surroundings, though those improve immediately, that reconcile one to our environment, and has induced me to live a life-time in the wilds. Another movement that was just starting at this time also interested me considerably. A number of keen young men from Oxford and Cambridge, having experienced the dangers that beset boys from big English public schools who enter the universities without any definite help as to their attitude toward the spiritual relationships of life, got together to discuss the question. They recognized that the formation of the Boys' Brigade in our conservative social life only touched the youth of the poorer classes. Like our English Y.M.C.A., it was not then aristocratic enough for gentlemen. They saw, however, that athletic attainments carried great weight, and that all outdoor accomplishments had a strong attraction for boys from every class. Thus it happened that an organization called the Public School Camps came into being. Its ideal was the uplift of character, and the movement has grown with immense strides on both sides of the Atlantic. An integral part of my summer holidays during these years was spent as medical officer at one of these camps. For many reasons it was wise in England to run them on military lines, for besides the added dignity, it insured the ability to maintain order and discipline. Some well-known commandant was chosen who was a soldier also in the good fight of faith. Special sites were selected, generally on the grounds of some big country seat which were loaned by the interested lord of the manor, and every kind of outdoor attraction was provided which could be secured. Besides organized competitive games, there was usually a yacht, good bathing, always a gymkhana, and numerous expeditions and "hikes." Not a moment was left unoccupied. All of the work of the camp was done by the boys, who served in turn on orderly duty. The officers were always, if possible, prominent athletes, to whom the boys could look up as being capable in physical as well as spiritual fields. There was a brief address each night before "taps" in the big marquee used for mess; and one night was always a straight talk on the problems of sex by the medical officers, whom the boys were advised to consult in their perplexities. These camps were among the happiest memories of my life, and many of the men to-day gratefully acknowledge that the camps were the turning-point of their whole lives. The secret was unconventionality and absolute naturalness with no "shibboleths." The boys were allowed to be boys absolutely in an atmosphere of sincere if not omniscient fervour. On one occasion when breaking up camp, a curly-headed young rascal in my tent, being late on the last morning--unknown to any one--went to the train in his pajamas, hidden only by his raincoat. At a small wayside station over a hundred miles from London, whither he was bound, leaving his coat in the carriage, he ventured into the refreshment stall of the waiting-room. Unfortunately, however, he came out only to find his train departed and himself in his nightclothes on the platform without a penny, a ticket, or a friend. Eluding the authorities he reached the huge Liverpool terminus by night to find a faithful friend waiting on the platform for him with the sorely needed overgarment. No one was ever ashamed to be a Christian, or of what Christ was, or what he did and stood for. However, to ignore the fact that the mere word "missionary" aroused suspicion in the average English unconventional mind--such as those of these clean, natural-minded boys--would be a great mistake. Unquestionably, as in the case of Dickens, a missionary was unpractical if not hypocritical, and mildly incompetent if not secretly vicious. I found myself always fighting against the idea that I was termed a missionary. The men I loved and admired, especially such men as those on our athletic teams, felt really strongly about it. Henry Martyn--as a scholar--was a hero to those who read of him, though few did. Moreover, who does not love Charles Kingsley? Even as boys, we want to be "a man," though Kingsley was a "Parson Lot." It always seemed that a missionary was naturally discounted until he had proved his right to be received as an ordinary being. Once after being the guest of a bank president, he told me that my stay was followed by that of their bishop, who was a person of great importance. When the bishop had gone, he asked his two boys one day. "Well, which do you like best, the bishop or the doctor?" "Ach," was the reply, "the bishop can't stand on his head." On another occasion during a visit--while lecturing on behalf of the fishermen--and doing my usual evening physical drill in my bedroom, by a great mischance I missed a straight-arm-balance on a chair, fell over, and nearly brought the chandelier of the drawing-room down on the heads of some guests. That a so-called "missionary" should be so worldly as to wish to keep his body fit seemed so unusual that I heard of that trifle a hundred times. The Church of Christ that is coming will be interested in the forces that make for peace and righteousness in this world rather than in academic theories as to how to get rewards in another. That will be a real stimulus to fitness and capacity all round instead of a dope for failures. It is that element in missions to-day, such as the up-to-date work of the Rockefeller Institute and other medical missions in China and India, which alone holds the respect of the mass of the people. The value of going out merely to make men of different races think as we think is being proportionately discounted with the increase of education. Our North Sea work grew apace. Vessel after vessel was added to the fleet. Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, became interested, and besides subscribing personally toward the first hospital boat, permitted it to be named in her honour. According to custom the builders had a beautiful little model made which Her Majesty agreed to accept. It was decided that it should be presented to her in Buckingham Palace by the two senior mission captains. The journey to them was a far more serious undertaking than a winter voyage on the Dogger Bank. However, arrayed in smart blue suits and new guernseys and polished to the last degree, they set out on the eventful expedition. On their return every one was as anxious to know "how the voyage had turned out" as if they had been exploring new fishing grounds around the North Cape in the White Sea. "Nothing to complain of, boys, till just as we had her in the wind's eye to shoot the gear," said the senior skipper. "A big swell in knee-breeches opened the door and called out our names, when I was brought up all standing, for I saw that the peak halliard was fast on the port side. The blame thing was too small for me to shift over, so I had to leave it. But, believe me, she never said a word about it. That's what I call something of a lady." At this time we had begun two new ventures, an institute at Yarmouth for fishermen ashore and a dispensary vessel to be sent out each spring among the thousands of Scotch, Manx, Irish, and French fishermen, who carried on the herring and mackerel fishery off the south and west coast of Ireland. The south Irish spring fishery is wonderfully interesting. Herring and mackerel are in huge shoals anywhere from five to forty miles off the land, and the vessels run in and out each day bringing back the catch of the night. Each vessel shoots out about two miles of net, while some French ones will shoot out five miles. Thus the aggregate of nets used would with ease stretch from Ireland to New York and back. Yet the undaunted herring return year after year to the disastrous rendezvous. The vessels come from all parts. Many are the large tan-sailed luggers from the Scottish coasts, their sails and hulls marked "B.F." for Banff, "M.E." for Montrose, "C.N." for Campbelltown, etc. With these come the plucky little Ulster boats from Belfast and Larne, Loch Swilly and Loch Foyle; and not a few of the hereditary seafaring men from Cornwall, Devon, and Dorset. Others also come from Falmouth, Penzance, and Exmouth. Besides these are the Irish boats--few enough, alas, for Paddy is not a sailor. A good priest had tried to induce his people to share this rich harvest by starting a fishery school for boys at Baltimore, where net-making and every other branch of the industry was taught. It was to little purpose, for I have met men hungry on the west coast, who were trying to live on potato-raising on that bog land who were graduates of Father D.'s school. There was one year when we ourselves were trying out the trawling in Clew Bay and Blacksod, and getting marvellous catches; so much so that I remember one small trawler from Grimsby on the east coast of England making two thousand dollars in two days' work, while the Countess of Z. fund was distributing charity to the poverty-stricken men who lived around the bay itself. The Government of Ireland also made serious efforts to make its people take up the fishery business. About one million dollars obtained out of the escheated funds of the Church of England in Ireland, when that organization was disestablished by Mr. Gladstone, was used as a loan fund which was available for fishermen, resident six months, at two per cent interest. They were permitted to purchase their own boat and gear for the fishery out of the money thus provided. While we lay in Durham Harbour at the entrance to Waterford Harbour, we met many Cornishmen who were temporarily resident there, having come over from Cornwall to qualify for borrowing the money to get boats and outfit. During one week in which we were working from that port, there were so many saints' days on which the Irish crews would not go out fishing, but were having good times on the land, that the skippers, who were Cornishmen, had to form a crew out of their own numbers and take one of their boats to sea. One day we had landed on the Arran Islands, and I was hunting ferns in the rock crevices, for owing to the warmth of the Gulf current the growth is luxuriant. On the top of the cliffs about three hundred feet high, I fell in with two Irishmen smoking their pipes and sprawling on the edge of the precipice. The water below was very deep and they were fishing. I had the fun of seeing dangling codfish hauled leisurely up all that long distance, and if one fell off on the passage, it was amusing to note the absolute insouciance of the fishermen, who assured me that there were plenty more in the sea. It has always been a puzzle to me why so few tourists and yachtsmen visit the south and west coast of Ireland. Its marvellous wild, rock scenery, its exquisite bays,--no other words describe them,--its emerald verdure, and its interesting and hospitable people have given me, during the spring fishing seasons that I spent on that coast, some of the happiest memories of my life. On the contrary, most of the yachts hang around the Solent, and the piers of Ryde, Cowes, and Southampton, instead of the magnificent coast from Queenstown to Donegal Cliffs, and from there all along West Scotland to the Hebrides. About this time our work established a dispensary and social centre at Crookhaven, just inside the Fastnet Lighthouse, and another in Tralee on the Kerry coast, north of Cape Clear. Gatherings for worship and singing were also held on Sundays on the boats, for on that day neither Scotch, Manx, nor English went fishing. The men loved the music, the singing of hymns, and the conversational addresses. Many would take some part in the service, and my memories of those gatherings are still very pleasant ones. On this wild coast calls for help frequently came from the poor settlers as well as from the seafarers. A summons coming in one day from the Fastnet Light, we rowed out in a small boat to that lovely rock in the Atlantic. A heavy sea, however, making landing impossible, we caught hold of a buoy, anchored off from the rock, and then rowing in almost to the surf, caught a line from the high overhanging crane. A few moments later one was picked out of the tumbling, tossing boat like a winkle out of a shell, by a noose at the end of a line from a crane a hundred and fifty feet above, swung perpendicularly up into the air, and then round and into a trap-door in the side of the lighthouse. On leaving one was swung out again in the same fashion, and dangled over the tumbling boat until caught and pulled in by the oarsmen. Another day we rowed out nine miles in an Irish craft to visit the Skerry Islands, famous for the old Beehive Monastery, and the countless nests of gannets and other large sea-birds. The cliffs rise to a great height almost precipitously, and the ceaseless thunder of the Atlantic swell jealously guards any landing. There being no davit or crane, we had just to fling ourselves into the sea, and climb up as best we could, carrying a line to haul up our clothing from the boat and other apparatus after landing, while the oarsmen kept her outside the surf. To hold on to the slippery rock we needed but little clothing, anyhow, for it was a slow matter, and the clinging power of one's bare toes was essential. The innumerable gannets sitting on their nests gave the island the appearance of a snowdrift; and we soon had all the eggs that we needed lowered by a line. But some of the gulls, of whose eggs we wanted specimens also, built so cleverly onto the actual faces of the cliffs, that we had to adopt the old plan of hanging over the edge and raising the eggs on the back of one's foot, which is an exploit not devoid of excitement. The chief difficulty was, however, with one of our number, who literally stuck on the top, being unable to descend, at least in a way compatible with comfort or safety. The upshot was that he had to be blindfolded and helped. One of our Council, being connected at this time with the Irish Poor-Relief Board and greatly interested in the Government efforts to relieve distress in Ireland, arranged that we should make a voyage around the entire island in one of our vessels, trying the trawling grounds everywhere, and also the local markets available for making our catch remunerative. There has been considerable activity in these waters of late years, but it was practically pioneer work in those days, the fishery being almost entirely composed of drift nets and long lines. It was supposed that the water was too deep and the bottom too uneven and rocky to make trawling possible. We had only a sailing vessel of about sixty tons, and the old heavy beam trawl, for the other trawl and steam fishing boats were then quite in their infancy. The quantity and variety of victims that came to our net were prodigious, and the cruise has remained as a dream in my memory, combined as it was with so many chances of helping out one of the most interesting and amiable--if not educated--peoples in the world. It happened to be a year of potato scarcity; as one friend pointed out, there was a surplus of Murphys in the kitchen and a scarcity of Murphys in the cellar--"Murphys" being another name for that vegetable which is so large a factor in Irish economic life. As mentioned before, a fund, called the Countess of Z.'s fund, had been established to relieve the consequent distress, and while we were fishing in Black Sod Bay, the natives around the shore were accepting all that they could secure. Yet one steam trawler cleared four hundred pounds within a week; and our own fine catches, taken in so short a while, made it seem a veritable fishermen's paradise for us, who were accustomed to toil over the long combers and stormy banks of the North Sea. The variety of fish taken alone made the voyage of absorbing interest, numbering cod, haddock, ling, hake, turbot, soles, plaice, halibut, whiting, crayfish, shark, dog-fish, and many quaint monsters unmarketable then, but perfectly edible. Among those taken in was the big angler fish, which lives at the bottom with his enormous mouth open, dangling an attractive-looking bait formed by a long rod growing out from his nose, which lures small victims into the cavern, whence, as he possesses row upon row of spiky teeth which providentially point down his throat, there is seldom any returning. Among the many memories of that coast which gave me a vision of the land question as it affected the people in those days, one in particular has always remained with me. We had made a big catch in a certain bay, a perfectly beautiful inlet. To see if the local fishermen could find a market within reach of these fishing grounds, with one of the crew, and the fish packed in boxes, we sailed up the inlet to the market town of Bell Mullet. Being Saturday, we found a market day in progress, and buyers, who, encouraged by one of the new Government light railways, were able to purchase our fish. That evening, however, when halfway home, a squall suddenly struck our own lightened boat, which was rigged with one large lugsail, and capsized her. By swimming and manoeuvring the boat, we made land on the low, muddy flats. No house was in sight, and it was not until long after dark that we two shivering masses of mud reached an isolated cabin in the middle of a patch of the redeemed ground right in the centre of a large bog. A miserably clad woman greeted us with a warm Irish welcome. The house had only one room and accommodated the live-stock as well as the family. A fine cow stood in one corner; a donkey tied to the foot of the bed was patiently looking down into the face of the baby. Father was in England harvesting. A couple of pigs lay under the bed, and the floor space was still further encroached upon by a goodly number of chickens, which were encouraged by the warmth of the peat fire. They not only thought it their duty to emphasize our welcome, but--misled by the firelight--were saluting the still far-off dawn. The resultant emotions which we experienced during the night led us to suggest that we might assist toward the erection of a cattle pen. Before leaving, however, we were told, "Shure t' rint would be raised in the fall," if such signs of prosperity as farm buildings greeted the land agent's arrival. The mouth of Loch Foyle, one of the most beautiful bays in Ireland, gave us a fine return in fish. Especially I remember the magnificent turbot which we took off the wild shore between the frowning basalt cliffs of the Giant's Causeway, and the rough headlands of Loch Swilly. We sold our fish in the historic town of Londonderry, where we saw the old gun Mons Meg, which once so successfully roared for King William, still in its place on the old battlements. By a packet steamer plying to Glasgow, we despatched some of the catch to that greedy market. At Loch Foyle there is a good expanse of sandy and mud bottom which nurses quite a harvest of the sea, though--oddly enough--close by off Rathlin Island is the only water over one hundred fathoms deep until the Atlantic Basin is reached. The Irish Sea like the North Sea is all shallow water. Crossing to the Isle of Man, we delayed there only a short while, for those grounds are well known to the Fleetwood trawlers, who supply so much fish to the dense population of North Central England. We found little opportunity of trawling off the west of Scotland, the ocean's bottom being in no way suited to it. On reaching the Western Hebrides, however, we were once more among many old friends. From Stornaway on the Isle of Lewis alone some nine hundred drifters were pursuing the retreating armies of herring. The German hordes have taught us to think of life in large numbers, but were the herring to elect a Kaiser, he would dominate in reality an absolutely indestructible host. For hundreds of years fishermen of all countries have without cessation been pursuing these friends of mankind. For centuries these inexhaustible hordes have followed their long pathways of the sea, swimming by some strange instinct always more or less over the same courses--ever with their tireless enemies, both in and out of the water, hot foot on their tracks. Sharks, dog-fish, wolf-fish, cod, and every fish large enough to swallow them, gulls, divers, auks, and almost every bird of the air, to say nothing of the nets set now from steam-propelled ships, might well threaten their speedy extermination. This is especially true when we remember that even their eggs are preyed upon in almost incalculable bulk as soon as they are deposited. But phoenix-like they continue to reappear in such vast quantities that they are still the cheapest food on the market. Such huge numbers are caught at one time that they have now and again to be used for fertilizer, or dumped overboard into the sea. The great bay of Stornaway Harbour was so deeply covered in oil from the fish while we lay there, that the sailing boats raced to and fro before fine breezes and yet the wind could not even ripple the surface of the sea, as if at last millennial conditions had materialized. Many times we saw nets which had caught such quantities of fish at once that they had sunk to the bottom. They were only rescued with great difficulty, and then the fish were so swollen by being drowned in the net that it took hours of hard work and delay to shake their now distended bodies out again. The opportunities for both holding simple religious services and rendering medical help from our dispensary were numerous, and we thought sufficiently needed to call for some sort of permanent effort; so later the Society established a small mission room in the harbour. Alcohol has always been a menace to Scotch life, though their fishermen were singularly free from rioting and drunkenness. Indeed, their home-born piety was continually a protest to the indulgence of the mixed crowd which at that time followed King Henry. Scores of times have I seen a humble crew of poor fishermen, who themselves owned their small craft, observing the Sunday as if they were in their homes, while the skippers of large vessels belonging to others fished all the week round at the beck of their absent owners, thinking they made more money in that way. In 1891 the present Lord Southborough, then Mr. Francis Hopwood, and a member of the Mission Board, returned from a visit to Canada and Newfoundland. He brought before the Council the opportunities for service among the fishermen of the northwest Atlantic, and the suggestion was handed on to me in the form of a query. Would I consider crossing the Atlantic in one of our small sailing vessels, and make an inquiry into the problem? Some of my older friends have thought that my decision to go was made under strong religious excitement, and in response to some deep-seated conviction that material sacrifices or physical discomforts commended one to God. I must, however, disclaim all such lofty motives. I have always believed that the Good Samaritan went across the road to the wounded man just because he wanted to. I do not believe that he felt any sacrifice or fear in the matter. If he did, I know very well that I did not. On the contrary, there is everything about such a venture to attract my type of mind, and making preparations for the long voyage was an unmitigated delight. The boat which I selected was ketch-rigged--much like a yawl, but more comfortable for lying-to in heavy weather, the sail area being more evenly distributed. Her freeboard being only three feet, we replaced her wooden hatches, which were too large for handling patients, by iron ones; and also sheathed her forward along the water-line with greenheart to protect her planking in ice. For running in high seas we put a large square sail forward, tripping the yard along the foremast, much like a spinnaker boom. Having a screw steering gear which took two men to handle quickly enough when she yawed and threatened to jibe in a big swell, it proved very useful. It was not until the spring of 1892 that we were ready to start. We had secured a master with a certificate, for though I was myself a master mariner, and my mate had been in charge of our vessel in the North Sea for many years, we had neither of us been across the Atlantic before. The skipper was a Cornishman, Trevize by name, and a martinet on discipline--an entirely new experience to a crew of North Sea fishermen. He was so particular about everything being just so that quite a few days were lost in starting, though well spent as far as preparedness went. Nothing was wanting when at last, in the second week of June, the tugboat let us go, and crowds of friends waved us good-bye from the pier-head as we passed out with our bunting standing. We had not intended to touch land again until it should rise out of the western horizon, but off the south coast of Ireland we met with heavy seas and head winds, so we ran into Crookhaven to visit our colleagues who worked at that station. Our old patients in that lonely corner were almost as interested as ourselves in the new venture, and many were the good eggs and "meals of greens" which they brought down to the ship as parting tokens. Indeed, we shrewdly guessed that our "dry" principles alone robbed us of more than "one drop o' potheen" whose birth the light of the moon had witnessed. As we were not fortunate in encountering fair winds, it was not until the twelfth day that we saw our first iceberg, almost running into it in a heavy fog. The fall in the temperature of the sea surface had warned us that we were in the cold current, and three or four days of dense fog emphasized the fact. As it was midsummer, we felt the change keenly, when suddenly on the seventeenth day the fog lifted, and a high evergreen-crowned coast-line greeted our delighted eyes. A lofty lighthouse on a rocky headland enabled us almost immediately to discover our exact position. We were just a little north of St. John's Harbour, which, being my first landfall across the Atlantic, impressed me as a really marvellous feat; but what was our surprise as we approached the high cliffs which guard the entrance to see dense columns of smoke arising, and to feel the offshore wind grow hotter and hotter as the pilot tug towed us between the headlands. For the third time in its history the city of St. John's was in flames. The heat was fierce when we at last anchored, and had the height of the blaze not passed, we should certainly have been glad to seek again the cool of our icy friends outside. Some ships had even been burned at their anchors. We could count thirteen fiercely raging fires in various parts of the city, which looked like one vast funeral pyre. Only the brick chimneys of the houses remained standing blackened and charred. Smoke and occasional flame would burst out here and there as the fickle eddies of wind, influenced, no doubt, by the heat, whirled around as if in sport over the scene of man's discomfitures. On the hillside stood a solitary house almost untouched, which, had there been any reason for its being held sacred, might well have served as a demonstration of Heaven's special intervention in its behalf. As it was, it seemed to mock the still smouldering wreck of the beautiful stone cathedral just beside it. Among the ruins in this valley of desolation little groups of men darted hither and thither, resembling from the harbour nothing so much as tiny black imps gloating over a congenial environment. I hope never again to see the sight that might well have suggested Gehenna to a less active imagination than Dante's. Huts had been erected in open places to shelter the homeless; long queues of hungry human beings defiled before temporary booths which served out soup and other rations. Every nook and corner of house-room left was crowded to overflowing with derelict persons and their belongings. The roads to the country, like those now in the environs of the towns in northern France, were dotted with exiles and belated vehicles, hauling in every direction the remnants of household goods. The feeling as of a rudely disturbed antheap dominated one's mind, and yet, in spite of it all, the hospitality and welcome which we as strangers received was as wonderful as if we had been a relief ship laden with supplies to replace the immense amount destroyed in the ships and stores of the city. Moreover, the cheerfulness of the town was amazing. Scarcely a "peep" or "squeal" did we hear, and not a single diatribe against the authorities. Every one had suffered together. Nor was it due to any one's fault. True, the town water-supply had been temporarily out of commission, some stranger was said to have been smoking in the hay loft, Providence had not specially intervened to save property, and hence this result. Thus to our relief it was a city of hope, not of despair, and to our amazement they were able to show most kindly interest in problems such as ours which seemed so remote at the moment. None of us will ever forget their kindness, from the Governor Sir Terence O'Brien, and the Prime Minister, Sir William Whiteway, to the humblest stevedore on the wharves. I had expected to spend the greater part of our time cruising among the fishing schooners out of sight of land on the big Banks as we did in the North Sea; but I was advised that owing to fog and isolation, each vessel working separately and bringing its own catch to market, it would be a much more profitable outlay of time, if we were to follow the large fleet of over one hundred schooners, with some thirty thousand fishermen, women, and children which had just sailed North for summer work along the coast of Labrador. To better aid us the Government provided a pilot free of expense, and their splendid Superintendent of Fisheries, Mr. Adolph Nielsen, also accepted the invitation to accompany us, to make our experiment more exhaustive and valuable by a special scientific inquiry into the habits and manner of the fish as well as of the fishermen. Naturally a good deal of delay had occurred owing to the unusual congestion of business which needed immediate attention and the unfortunate temporary lack of facilities; but we got under way at last, and sailing "down North" some four hundred miles and well outside the land, eventually ran in on a parallel and made the Labrador coast on the 4th of August. The exhilarating memory of that day is one which will die only when we do. A glorious sun shone over an oily ocean of cerulean blue, over a hundred towering icebergs of every fantastic shape, and flashing all of the colours of the rainbow from their gleaming pinnacles as they rolled on the long and lazy swell. Birds familiar and strange left the dense shoals of rippling fish, over which great flocks were hovering and quarrelling in noisy enjoyment, to wave us welcome as they swept in joyous circles overhead. CHAPTER VI THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR Twenty years have passed away since that day, and a thousand more important affairs which have occurred in the meantime have faded from my memory; but still its events stand out clear and sharp. The large and lofty island, its top covered with green verdure, so wonderful a landmark from the sea, its peaks capped with the fleecy mist of early morning, rose in a setting of the purest azure blue. For the first time I saw the faces of its ruddy cliffs, their ledges picked out with the homes of myriad birds. Its feet were bathed in the dark, rich green of the Atlantic water, edged by the line of pure white breakers, where the gigantic swell lazily hurled immeasurable mountains of water against its titanic bastions, evoking peals of sound like thunder from its cavernous recesses--a very riot of magnificence. The great schools of whales, noisily slapping the calm surface of the sea with their huge tails as in an _abandon_ of joy, dived and rose, and at times threw the whole of their mighty carcasses right out of water for a bath in the glorious morning sunshine. The shoals of fish everywhere breaching the water, and the silver streaks which flashed beneath our bows as we lazed along, suggested that the whole vast ocean was too small to hold its riches. When we realized that practically no man had ever lived there, and few had even seen it, it seemed to overwhelm us, coming as we did from the crowded Island of our birth, where notices not to trespass haunted even the dreams of the average man. A serried rank of range upon range of hills, reaching north and south as far as the eye could see from the masthead, was rising above our horizon behind a very surfeit of islands, bewildering the minds of men accustomed to our English and North Sea coast-lines. In a ship just the size of the famous Matthew, we had gone west, following almost the exact footsteps of the great John Cabot when just four hundred years before he had fared forth on his famous venture of discovery. We seemed now almost able to share the exhilaration which only such experiences can afford the human soul, and the vast potential resources for the blessing of humanity of this great land still practically untouched. At last we came to anchor among many schooners in a wonderful natural harbour called Domino Run, so named because the Northern fleets all pass through it on their way North and South. Had we been painted scarlet, and flown the Black Jack instead of the Red Ensign, we could not have attracted more attention. Flags of greeting were run up to all mastheads, and boats from all sides were soon aboard inquiring into the strange phenomenon. Our object explained, we soon had calls for a doctor, and it has been the experience of almost every visitor to the coast from that day to this that he is expected to have a knowledge of medicine. [Illustration: Cape Uivuk THE LABRADOR COAST] [Illustration: The Tickle Anchorage THE LABRADOR COAST] One impression made on my mind that day undoubtedly influenced all my subsequent actions. Late in the evening, when the rush of visitors was largely over, I noticed a miserable bunch of boards, serving as a boat, with only a dab of tar along its seams, lying motionless a little way from us. In it, sitting silent, was a half-clad, brown-haired, brown-faced figure. After long hesitation, during which time I had been watching him from the rail, he suddenly asked: "Be you a real doctor?" "That's what I call myself," I replied. "Us hasn't got no money," he fenced, "but there's a very sick man ashore, if so be you'd come and see him." A little later he led me to a tiny sod-covered hovel, compared with which the Irish cabins were palaces. It had one window of odd fragments of glass. The floor was of pebbles from the beach; the earth walls were damp and chilly. There were half a dozen rude wooden bunks built in tiers around the single room, and a group of some six neglected children, frightened by our arrival, were huddled together in one corner. A very sick man was coughing his soul out in the darkness of a lower bunk, while a pitiably covered woman gave him cold water to sip out of a spoon. There was no furniture except a small stove with an iron pipe leading through a hole in the roof. My heart sank as I thought of the little I could do for the sufferer in such surroundings. He had pneumonia, a high fever, and was probably tubercular. The thought of our attractive little hospital on board at once rose to my mind; but how could one sail away with this husband and father, probably never to bring him back. Advice, medicine, a few packages of food were only temporizing. The poor mother could never nurse him and tend the family. Furthermore, their earning season, "while the fish were in," was slipping away. To pray for the man, and with the family, was easy, but scarcely satisfying. A hospital and a trained nurse was the only chance for this bread-winner--and neither was available. I called in a couple of months later as we came South before the approach of winter. Snow was already on the ground. The man was dead and buried; there was no provision whatever for the family, who were destitute, except for the hollow mockery of a widow's grant of twenty dollars a year. This, moreover, had to be taken up in goods at a truck store, less debts _if_ she owed any. Among the nine hundred patients that still show on the records of that long-ago voyage, some stand out more than others for their peculiar pathos and their utter helplessness. I shall never forget one poor Eskimo. In firing a cannon to salute the arrival of the Moravian Mission ship, the gun exploded prematurely, blowing off both the man's arms below the elbows. He had been lying on his back for a fortnight, the pathetic stumps covered only with far from sterile rags dipped in cold water. We remained some days, and did all we could for his benefit; but he too joined the great host that is forever "going west," for want of what the world fails to give them. It is not given to every member of our profession to enjoy the knowledge that he alone stands between the helpless and suffering or death, for in civilization modern amenities have almost annihilated space and time, and the sensations of the Yankee at the Court of King Arthur are destroyed by the realization of competitors, "just as good," even if it often does leave one conscious of limitations. The successful removal of a molar which has given torture for weeks in a dentistless country, gains one as much gratitude as the amputation of a limb. One mere boy came to me with necrosis of one side of his lower jaw due to nothing but neglected toothache. It had to be dug out from the new covering of bone which had grown up all around it. The whimsical expression of his lop-sided face still haunts me. Deformities went untreated. The crippled and blind halted through life, victims of what "the blessed Lord saw best for them." The torture of an ingrowing toe-nail, which could be relieved in a few minutes, had incapacitated one poor father for years. Tuberculosis and rickets carried on their evil work unchecked. Preventable poverty was the efficient handmaid of these two latter diseases. There was also much social work to be done in connection with the medical. Education in every one of its branches--especially public health--was almost nonexistent--as were many simple social amenities which might have been so easily induced. At one village a woman with five children asked us if we could marry her to her husband. They had never been together when a parson happened along, and they now lived in a lonely cove three miles away. This seemed a genuine case of distress; and as it happened a parson was taking a passage with us, we sent two of our crew over in a boat to round up the groom. Apparently he was not at all anxious, but being a very small man and she a large woman, he discreetly acquiesced. The wedding was held on board our ship, every one entering into the spirit of the unusual occasion. The main hold was crammed with guests, bells were rung and flags flown, guns fired, and at night distress rockets were sent up. We kept in touch with the happy couple for years, till once more they moved away to try their luck elsewhere. Obviously the coast offered us work that would not be done unless we did it. Here was real need along any line on which one could labour, in a section of our own Empire, where the people embodied all our best sea traditions. They exhibited many of the attractive characteristics which, even when buried beneath habits and customs the outcome of their environment, always endear men of the sea to the genuine Anglo-Saxon. They were uncomplaining, optimistic, splendidly resourceful, cheerful and generous--and after all in one sense soap and water only makes the outside of the platter clean. I confess that we had greatly enjoyed the adventure _qua_ adventure. Mysterious fjords which wound out of sight into the fastnesses of unknown mountains, and which were entirely uncharted, fairly shouted an invitation to enter and discover what was round the next corner. Islands by the hundred, hitherto never placed on any map, challenged one's hydrographic skill. Families of strange birds, which came swinging seaward as the season advanced, suggested a virgin field for hunting. Berries and flowering plants, as excellent as they were unfamiliar, appealed for exploration. Great boulders perched on perilous peaks, torn and twisted strata, with here and there raised beaches, and great outcrops of black trap-rock piercing through red granite cliffs in giant vertical seams--all piqued one's curiosity to know the geology of this unknown land. Some stone arrow-heads and knives, brought to me by a fisherman, together with the memories that the Norse Vikings and their competitors on the scroll of discovery made their first landfall on this the nearest section of the American coast to Europe, excited one's curiosity to know more of these shores. The dense growth of evergreen trees abounding in every river valley, and the exquisite streams with trout and salmon and seals attracted one whose familiarity with sport and forests was inseparably connected with notices to trespassers. It only wanted an adventure such as we had one day while sailing up a fjord on a prosaic professional call, when we upset our cutter and had to camp for the night, to give spice to our other experiences, and made us wish to return another year, better equipped, and with a more competent staff. I am far from being the only person from the outside world who has experienced what Wallace describes as "the Lure of the Labrador." It was a genuine surprise to me one morning to find ice on deck--a scale of sparkling crystals most beautifully picking out the water-line of our little craft. It was only then that I realized that October had come. The days, so full of incident, had passed away like ships in the night. Whither away was the question? We could not stay even though we felt the urgent call to remain. So "Heigho for the southward bar" and a visit to St. John's to try and arouse interest in the new-discovered problems, before we should once more let go our stern lines and be bowling homeward before the fall nor'westers to dear old England. Home-going craft had generously carried our story before us to the city of St. John's. The Board of Trade commended our effort. The papers had written of the new phenomenon; the politicians had not refrained from commendation. His Excellency the Governor made our path plain by calling a meeting in Government House, where the following resolution was passed: "That this meeting, representing the principal merchants and traders carrying on the fisheries, especially on the Labrador coast, and others interested in the welfare of this colony, desires to tender its warmest thanks to the directors of the Deep-Sea Mission for sending their hospital ship Albert to visit the settlement on the Labrador coast. "Much of our fishing industry is carried on in regions beyond the ordinary reach of medical aid, or of charity, and it is with the deepest sense of gratitude that this meeting learns of the amount of medical and surgical work done.... "This meeting also desires to express the hope that the directors may see their way to continue the work thus begun, and should they do so, they may be assured of the earnest coöperation of all classes of this community." When at last we said good-bye on our homeward voyage, our cabins were loaded with generous souvenirs for the journey, and no king on his throne was happier than every man of the crew of the good ship Albert. Our report to the Council in London, followed by the resolution sent by the Newfoundland Committee, induced the Society to repeat the experiment on a larger scale the following spring. Thus, with two young doctors, Elliott Curwen of Cambridge and Arthur Bobardt from Australia, and two nurses, Miss Cawardine and Miss Williams, we again set out the following June. The voyage was uneventful except that I was nearly left behind in mid-Atlantic. While playing cricket on deck our last ball went over the side, and I after it, shouting to the helmsman to tack back. This he did, but I failed to cut him off the first time, as he got a bit rattled. However, we rescued the ball. We had chosen two islands two hundred miles apart for cottage hospitals, one at Battle Harbour, on the north side of the entrance of the St. Lawrence (Straits of Belle Isle), and the other at Indian Harbour, out in the Atlantic at the mouth of the great Hamilton Inlet. Both places were the centres of large fisheries, and were the "bring-ups" for numberless schooners of the Labrador fleet on their way North and South. The first, a building already half finished, was donated by a local fishery firm by the name of Baine, Johnston and Company. This was quickly made habitable, and patients were admitted under Dr. Bobardt's care. The second building, assembled at St. John's, was shipped by the donors, who were the owners of the Indian Harbour fishery, Job Brothers and Company. Owing to difficulties in landing, this building was not completed and ready for use until the following year, so Dr. Curwen took charge of the hospital ship Albert, and I cruised as far north as Okkak (lat. 57°) in the Princess May, a midget steam launch, eight feet wide, with a cook and an engineer. As there was no coal obtainable in the North, we used wood, and her fire-box being small the amount of cutting entailed left a permanent impression on our biceps. A friend from Ireland had presented this little boat, which I found lying up on the Chester Race-Course, near our home on the Sands of Dee. We had repaired her and steamed her through the canal into the Mersey, where, somewhat to our humiliation, she had been slung up onto the deck of an Allan liner for her trans-Atlantic passage, as if she were nothing but an extra hand satchel. Nor was our pride restored when on her arrival it was found that her funnel was missing among the general baggage in the hold. We had to wait in St. John's for a new one before starting on our trip North. The close of the voyage proved a fitting corollary. In crossing the Straits of Belle Isle, the last boat to leave the Labrador, we ran short of fuel, and had to burn our cabin-top to make the French shore, having also lost our compass overboard. Here we delayed repairing and refitting so long that the authorities in St. John's became alarmed and despatched their mail steamer in search of us. I still remember my astonishment, when, on boarding the steamer, the lively skipper, a very tender-hearted father of a family, threw both arms around me with a mighty hug and exclaimed, "Thank God, we all thought you were gone. A schooner picked up your flagpole at sea." Poor fellow, he was a fine Christian seaman, but only a year or two later he perished with his large steamer while I still rove this rugged coast. That summer we visited the stations of the Moravian Brethren, who were kindness personified to us. Their stations, five in number, dated back over a hundred and thirty years, yet they had never had a doctor among them. It would scarcely be modest for me to protest that they were the worse off for that circumstance. Each station was well armed with homoeopathic pills, and at least those do no harm; while one old German house-father had really performed with complete success craniotomy and delivery of a child _en morcellement_, in the case of a colleague's wife. During our stay they gave us plenty of work among their Eskimos, and were good enough to report most favourably of our work to their home Committee. As there was no chart of any use for the coast north of Hopedale, few if any corrections having been made in the topographic efforts of the long late Captain Cook, of around-the-world reputation, one of the Brethren, Mr. Christopher Schmidt, joined the Princess May to help me find their northern stations among the plethora of islands which fringe the coast in that vicinity. Never in my life had I expected any journey half so wonderful. We travelled through endless calm fjords, runs, tickles, bays, and straits without ever seeing the open sea, and with hardly a ripple on the surface. We passed high mountains and lofty cliffs, crossed the mouths of large rivers, left groves of spruce and fir and larches on both sides of us, and saw endless birds, among them the Canada goose, eider duck, surf scoters, and many commoner sea-fowl. As it was both impossible and dangerous to proceed after dark, when no longer able to run we would go ashore and gather specimens of the abundant and beautiful sub-arctic flora, and occasionally capture a bird or a dish of trout to help out our diminutive larder. [Illustration: ESKIMO WOMAN AND BABY] [Illustration: ESKIMO MAN] Among the Eskimos I found a great deal of tuberculosis and much eye trouble. Around the Moravian Mission stations wooden houses had largely replaced the former "tubiks," or skin tents, which were moved as occasion required and so provided for sanitation. These wooden huts were undrained, dark and dirty to a remarkable degree. No water supply was provided, and the spaces between the houses were simply indescribable garbage heaps, presided over by innumerable dogs. The average life was very short and infant mortality high. The best for which we could hope in the way of morals among these people was that a natural unmorality was some offset to the existing conditions. The features of the native life which appealed most to us were the universal optimism, the laughing good-nature and contentment, and the Sunday cleanliness of the entire congregation which swarmed into the chapel service, a welcome respite from the perennial dirt of the week days. Moreover, nearly all had been taught to read and write in Eskimo, though there is no literature in that language to read, except such books as have been translated by the Moravian Brethren. At that time a strict policy of teaching no English had been adopted. Words lacking in the language, like "God," "love," etc., were substituted by German words. Nearly every Eskimo counted "ein, zwei, drei." In one of my lectures, on returning to England, I mentioned that as the Eskimos had never seen a lamb or a sheep either alive or in a picture, the Moravians, in order to offer them an intelligible and appealing simile, had most wisely substituted the kotik, or white seal, for the phrase "the Lamb of God." One old lady in my audience must have felt that the good Brethren were tampering unjustifiably with Holy Writ, for the following summer, from the barrels of clothing sent out to the Labrador, was extracted a dirty, distorted, and much-mangled and wholly sorry-looking woolly toy lamb. Its _raison d'être_ was a mystery until we read the legend carefully pinned to one dislocated leg, "Sent in order that the heathen may know better." Their love for music and ability to do part-playing and singing also greatly impressed us, and we spent many evenings enjoying their brass bands and their Easter and Christmas carols. We made some records of these on our Edison phonograph, and they were overpowered with joy when they heard their own voices coming back to them from the machine. The magic lantern also proved exceedingly popular, and several tried to touch the pictures and see if they could not hold them. We were also able to show some hastily made lantern slides of themselves, and I shall never forget their joyful excitement. The following season, in giving them some lantern views, we chanced to show a slide of an old Eskimo woman who had died during the winter. The subsequent commotion caused among the "little people" was unintelligible to us until one of the Moravian Brethren explained that they thought her spirit had taken visible form and returned to her own haunts. I happened to be in the gardens at Nain when a northerly air made it feel chilly and the thermometer stood only a little above freezing. A troop of Eskimo women came out to cover up the potatoes. Every row of potatoes is covered with arched sticks and long strips of canvas along them. A huge roll of sacking is kept near each row and the whole is drawn over and the potatoes are tucked in bed for the night. I could not resist the temptation to lift the bedclothes and shake hands and say good-night to one of the nearest plants, whereat the merry little people went off into convulsions of laughter. At Hopedale there was a large Danish ship with over six hundred tons of cargo for the new Moravian buildings. The Brethren do not build as we are doing from coast material. In order to save time and also to have more substantial buildings, they are cut out and built in Germany, photographed, and each piece marked. Then they are taken to pieces, shipped, and sent out here for erection. Some years ago in Germany, when the Socialists were wearing beards and mustaches, all respectable people used to shave. Therefore the missionaries being Germans insisted on the Eskimos shaving as they did. The result is that at one store at least a stock of ancient razors are left on hand, for now neither missionary nor Eskimo shaves in the inhospitable climate of this country. A small stock of these razors was, therefore, left on my account in some graves from which one or two Eskimos were good enough to go and get us a few ancient stone implements. It is a marvellous thing how superstition still clings around the very best of native Christian communities. The Moravian Mission is a trading mission. This trading policy in some aspects is in its favour. It is unquestionably part of a message of real love to a brother to put within his reach at reasonable rates those adjuncts of civilized life that help to make less onerous his hard lot. Trade, however, is always a difficult form of charity, and the barter system, common to this coast, being in vogue at the Moravian Mission stations also, practically every Eskimo was in debt to them. In reality this caused a vicious circle, for it encouraged directly the outstanding fault of the Eskimo, his readiness to leave the morrow to care for itself so long as he does not starve to-day. Like a race of children, they need the stimulus of necessity to make them get out and do their best while the opportunity exists. In the past twenty-six years I have made many voyages to one and another of the stations of the Brethren, and have learned to love them all very sincerely as individuals, though their mission policies are their own and not mine. I remember once in Nain the slob ice had already made ballicaters and the biting cold of winter so far north had set in with all its vigour. There was a heavy sea and a gale of wind. One of two boats which had been out all day had not come in. The sea was so rough and the wind so strong that the occupants of the first boat could not face it, and so had run in under the land and walked all the way round, towing their boat by a long line from the shore. Night came on and the second boat had not appeared. Next morning the Nain folk knew that some accident must have happened. Some men reported that the evening before they had seen through a glass the boat trying to beat against the storm, and then disappear. The Eskimos gathered together to see what could be done and then decided that it was kismet--and went their way. The following evening a tiny light was seen on the far shore of the bay--some one must be alive there. There was no food or shelter there, and it was obvious that help was needed. The gale was still blowing in fury and the sea was as rough as ever, and Eskimos and missionaries decided that in their unseaworthy boats they could do nothing. There was one dissentient voice--Brother Schmidt; and he went and rescued them. One was nearly spent. When their boat had capsized, one man, a woman, and a lad had been drowned, but two men had succeeded in getting into their kajaks and floated off when the disaster happened. [Illustration: ESKIMO GIRLS] With October came the necessity for returning South, and the long dark nights spent at the little fishing stations as we journeyed from place to place proved all too short. The gatherings for lantern meetings, for simple services, for spinning yarns, together with medicine and such surgery as we could accomplish under the circumstances, made every moment busy and enjoyable. One outstanding feature, however, everywhere impressed an Englishman--the absolute necessity for some standard medium of exchange. Till one has seen the truck system at work, its evil effects in enslaving and demoralizing the poor are impossible to realize. All the length and breadth of the coast, the poorer people would show me their "settling up" as they called their account, though many never got as far as having any "settling up" given them--so they lived and died in debt to their merchant. They never knew the independence of a dollar in their pockets and the consequent incentive and value of thrift. It was incredible to me that even large concerns like the Hudson Bay Company would not pay in cash for valuable furs, and that so many dealers in the necessities of life should be still able to hold free men in economic bondage. It seemed a veritable chapter from "Through the Looking Glass," to hear the "grocer" and "haberdasher" talking of "my people," meaning their patrons, and holding over them the whip of refusal to sell them necessities in their hour of need if at any time they dealt with outsiders, however much to their advantage such a course might be. This fact was first impressed upon me in an odd way. Early in the summer an Eskimo had come aboard the hospital ship with a bear skin and a few other furs to sell. We had not only been delighted with the chance to buy them, but had spread them all around the cabin and taken a picture of him in the middle. Later in the season, while showing my photograph album to a trader, he had suddenly remarked, "Why, what's ---- doing here?" "Selling me some beautiful furs," I replied. "Oh! was he?" said the man. "I'll make him sing for selling the furs for which I supplied him." It was no salve to his fretfulness when I assured him that I had paid in good English gold, and that his "dealer" would be as honest with the money as the system had made him. But the trader knew that the truck system creates slippery, tricky men; and the fisherman openly declares war on the merchant, making the most of his few opportunities to outwit his opponent. A few years later a man brought a silver fox skin aboard my ship, just such a one as I had been requested by an English lady to secure for her. As fulfilling such a request would involve me in hostilities (which, however, I do not think were useless), I asked the man, who was wretchedly poor, if he owed the skin to the trader. "I am in debt," he replied, "but they will only allow me eight dollars off my account for this skin, and I want to buy some food." "Very well," I answered. "If you will promise to go at once and pay eight dollars off your debt, I will give you eight gold sovereigns for this skin." To this he agreed, and faithfully carried out the agreement--while the English lady scored a bargain, and I a very black mark in the books of my friend the trader. On another occasion my little steamer had temporarily broken down, and to save time I had journeyed on in the jolly-boat, leaving the cook to steer the vessel after me. I wanted to visit a very poor family, one of whose eight children I had taken to hospital for bone tuberculosis the previous year, and to whom the Mission had made a liberal grant of warm clothing. As the steamer had not come along by night, I had to sleep in the tiny one-roomed shack which served as a home. True, since it stood on the edge of the forest, there was little excuse that it was no larger; but the father, a most excellent, honest, and faithful worker, was obviously discouraged. He had not nearly enough proper food for his family; clothing was even more at a discount; tools with which to work were almost as lacking as in a cave man's dwelling; the whole family was going to pieces from sheer discouragement. The previous winter on the opposite bank of the same river, called Big River, a neighbour had in desperation sent his wife and eldest boy out of the house, killed his young family, and then shot himself. When night came five of the children huddled together for warmth in one bed, and the parents and balance of the family in the other. I slept on the floor near the door in my sleeping-bag, with my nose glued to the crack to get a breath of God's cold air, in spite of the need for warmth--for not a blanket did the house possess. When I asked, a little hurt, where were the blankets which we had sent last year, the mother somewhat indignantly pointed to various trousers and coats which betrayed their final resting-place, and remarked, "If you'se had five lads all trying to get under one covering to onct, Doctor, you'd soon know what would happen to that blanket." Early in the morning I made a boiling of cocoa, and took the two elder boys out for a seal hunt while waiting for my steamer. I was just in time to see one boy carefully upset his mug of cocoa, when he thought I was not looking, and replace it with cold spring water. "I 'lows I'se not accustomed to no sweetness" was his simple explanation. It was raw and damp as we rowed into the estuary at sunrise in search of the seals. I was chilly even in a well-lined leather coat. But the two shock-headed boys, clad in ancient cotton shirts, and with what had once been only cotton overall jackets, were as jolly as crickets, and apparently almost unduly warm. The Labrador has taught me one truth, which as a physician I never forget, that is, coddling is the terrible menace of civilization, and "to endure hardness" is the best preparation for a "good soldier." On leaving, I promised to send to those boys, whose contentment and cheerfulness greatly endeared them to me, a dozen good fox traps in order to give them a chance for the coming winter. Such a gift as those old iron rat traps seemed in their eyes! When at last they arrived, and were really their own possessions, no prince could have been prouder than they. The next summer as I steamed North, we called in at D---- B----'s house. The same famine in the land seemed to prevail; the same lack of apparently everything which I should have wanted. But the old infective smile was still presented with an almost religious ceremonial, and my friend produced from his box a real silver fox skin. "I kept it for you'se, Doctor," he said, "though us hadn't ne'er a bit in t' house. I know'd you'd do better 'n we with he." I promised to try, and on my way called in at some northern islands where my friend, Captain Bartlett, father of the celebrated "Captain Bob" of North Pole fame, carried on a summer trade and fishery. He himself was a great seal and cod fisherman, and a man known for his generous sympathy for others. "Do your best for me, Captain Will," I asked as I handed over the skin--and on coming South I found a complete winter diet laid out for me to take to D---- B----'s little house. It was a veritable full load for the small carrying capacity of my little craft. When we arrived at the house on the promontory, however, it was locked up and the family gone. They were off fishing on the outer islands, so all we could do was to break in the door, pile up the things inside, bar it up again, affixing a notice warning off bears, dogs, and all poachers, and advising Dick that it was the price of his pelt. In the note we also told him to put all the fur he caught the following winter in a barrel and "sit on it" till we came along, if he wanted a chance to get ahead. This he did almost literally. We ourselves took his barrel to the nearest cash buyer, and ordered for him goods for cash in St. John's to the full amount realized. The fur brought more than his needs, and he was able to help out neighbours by reselling at cash prices. This he did till the day of his death, when he left me, as his executor, with a couple of hundred good dollars in cash to divide among his children. It was experiments like this which led me in later years to start the small coöperative distributive stores, in spite of the knowledge of the opposition and criticism it would involve. How can one preach the gospel of love to a hungry people by sermons, or a gospel of healing to underfed children by pills, while one feels that practical teaching in home economics is what one would most wish if in their position? The more broad-minded critics themselves privately acknowledged this to me. One day a Northern furrier, an excellent and more intelligent man than ordinary, came to me as a magistrate to insist that a trading company keep its bargain by paying him in cash for a valuable fox skin. They were trying to compel him to take flour and supplies from them at prices far in excess of those at which he could purchase the goods in St. John's, _via_ the mail steamer. When asked to act as a justice of the peace for the Colony, I had thought it my duty to accept the responsibility. Already it had led me into a good deal of trouble. But that I should be forced to seize the large store of a company, and threaten an auction of goods for payment, without even a policeman to back me up, had never entered my mind. It was, however, exactly what I now felt called upon to do. To my intense surprise and satisfaction the trader immediately turned round and said: "You are quite right. The money shall be paid at once. The truck system is a mistaken policy, and loses us many customers." It was Saturday night. We had decided to have a service for the fishermen the next day, but had no place in which to gather. Therefore, after we had settled the business I took my pluck in my hands, and said: "It's Sunday to-morrow. Would you lend us your big room for prayers in the morning?" "Why, certainly," he replied; and he was present himself and sang as heartily as any man in the meeting. Nor did he lose a good customer on account of his open-mindedness. CHAPTER VII THE PEOPLE OF LABRADOR Since the publication of the book "Labrador, the Country and the People," the means of transportation to the coast have been so improved that each year brings us an increasing number of visitors to enjoy the attractions of this sub-arctic land. So many misconceptions have arisen, however, as to the country and its inhabitants, and one is so often misrepresented as distorting conditions, that it seems wise at this point to try and answer a few questions which are so familiar to us who live on the coast as to appear almost negligible. The east coast of Labrador belongs to Newfoundland, and is not part of the territory of Canada, although the ill-defined boundary between the two possessions has given rise to many misunderstandings. Newfoundland is an autonomous government, having its own Governor sent out from England, Prime Minister, and Houses of Parliament in the city of St. John's. Instead of being a province of Canada, as is often supposed, and an arrangement which some of us firmly believe would result in the ultimate good of the Newfoundlanders, it stands in the same relationship to England as does the great Dominion herself. Labrador is owned by Newfoundland, so that legally the Labradormen are Newfoundlanders, though they have no representation in the Newfoundland Government. At Blanc Sablon, on the north coast in the Straits of Belle Isle, the Canadian Labrador begins, so far as the coast-line is concerned. The hinterland of the Province of Ungava is also a Canadian possession. The original natives of the Labrador were Eskimos and bands of roving Indians. The ethnologist would find fruitful opportunities in the country. The Eskimos, one of the most interesting of primitive races, have still a firm foothold in the North--chiefly around the five stations of the Moravian Brethren, upon whose heroic work I need not now dilate. The Montagnais Indians roam the interior. They are a branch of the ancient Algonquin race who held North America as far west as the Rockies. They are the hereditary foes of the Eskimos, whole settlements of whom they have more than once exterminated. Gradually, with the influx of white settlers from Devon and Dorset, from Scotland and France, the "Innuits" were driven farther and farther north, until there are only some fifteen hundred of them remaining to-day. Among them the Moravians have been working for the past hundred and thirty-five years. A few bands of Indians still continue to rove the interior, occasionally coming out to the coast to dispose of their furs, and obtain such meagre supplies as their mode of life requires. The balance of the inhabitants of the country are white men of our own blood and religion--men of the sea and dear to the Anglo-Saxon heart. During the past years it has been the experience of many of my colleagues, as well as myself, that as soon as one mentions the fact that part of our work is done on the north shore of Newfoundland, one's audience loses interest, and there arises the question: "But Newfoundland is a prosperous island. Why is it necessary to carry on a charitable enterprise there?" There is a sharp demarcation between main or southern Newfoundland and the long finger of land jutting northward, which at Cape Bauld splits the polar current, so that the shores of the narrow peninsula are continuously bathed in icy waters. The country is swept by biting winds, and often for weeks enveloped in a chilly and dripping blanket of fog. The climate at the north end of the northward-pointing finger is more severe than on the Labrador side of the Straits. Indeed, my friend, Mr. George Ford, for twenty-seven years factor of the Hudson Bay Company at Nakvak, told me that even in the extreme north of Labrador he never really knew what cold was until he underwent the penetrating experience of a winter at St. Anthony. The Lapp reindeer herders whom we brought over from Lapland, a country lying well north of the Arctic Circle, after spending a winter near St. Anthony, told me that they had never felt anything like that kind of cold, and that they really could not put up with it! The climate of the actual Labrador is clear, cold, and still, with a greater proportion of sunshine than the northern peninsula of Newfoundland. As a matter of fact, our station at St. Anthony is farther north and farther east than two of our hospitals on the Labrador side of the Straits of Belle Isle. Along that north side the gardens of the people are so good that their produce affords a valuable addition to the diet--but not so here. [Illustration: BATTLE HARBOUR] The dominant industry of the whole Colony is its fisheries--the ever-recurrent pursuit of the luckless cod, salmon, herring, halibut, and lobster in summer, and the seal fishery in the month of March. It is increasingly difficult to overestimate the importance, not merely to the British Empire, but to the entire world, of the invaluable food-supply procured by the hardy fishermen of these northern waters. Only the other day the captain of a patrol boat told me that he had just come over from service on the North Sea, and in his opinion it would be years before those waters could again be fished, owing to the immense numbers of still active mines which would render such an attempt disproportionately hazardous. From this point of view, if from no other more disinterested angle, we owe a great and continuous debt to the splendid people of Britain's oldest colony. It was among these white fishermen that I came out to work primarily, the floating population which every summer, some twenty thousand strong, visits the coasts of Labrador; and later including the white resident settlers of the Labrador and North Newfoundland coasts as well. The conditions prevailing among some of the people at the north end of Newfoundland and of Labrador itself should not be confused with those of their neighbours to the southward. Chronic poverty is, however, very far from being universally prevalent in the northern district. Some of the fishermen lead a comfortable, happy, and prosperous life; but my old diaries, as well as my present observations, furnish all too many instances in which families exist well within the danger-line of poverty, ignorance, and starvation. The privations which the inhabitants of the French or Treaty shore and of Labrador have had to undergo, and their isolation from so many of the benefits of civilization, have had varying effects on the residents of the coast to-day. While a resourceful and kindly, hardy and hospitable people have been developed, yet one sometimes wonders exactly into what era an inhabitant of say the planet Mars would place our section of the North Country if he were to alight here some crisp morning in one of his unearthly machines. For we are a reactionary people in matters of religion and education; and our very "speech betrays us," belonging as so many of its expressions do to the days when the Pilgrims went up to Canterbury, or a certain Tinker wrote of another and more distant pilgrimage to the City of Zion. The people are, naturally, Christians of a devout and simple faith. The superstitions still found among them are attributable to the remoteness of the country from the current of the world's thought, the natural tendency of all seafaring people, and the fact that the days when the forbears of these fishermen left "Merrie England" to seek a living by the harvest of the sea, and finally settled on these rocky shores, were those when witches and hobgoblins and charms and amulets were accepted beliefs. Nevertheless, to-day as a medical man one is startled to see a fox's or wolf's head suspended by a cord from the centre, and to learn that it will always twist the way from which the wind is going to blow. One man had a barometer of this kind hanging from his roof, and explained that the peculiar fact was due to the nature of the animals, which in life always went to windward of others; but if you had a seal's head similarly suspended, it would turn from the wind, owing to the timid character of that creature. Moreover, it surprises one to be assured, on the irrefutable and quite unquestioned authority of "old Aunt Anne Sweetapple," that aged cats always become playful before a gale of wind comes on. "I never gets sea boils," one old chap told me the other day. "How is that?" I asked. "Oh! I always cuts my nails on a Monday, so I never has any." There is a great belief in fairies on the coast. A man came to me once to cure what he was determined to believe was a balsam on his baby's nose. The birthmark to him resembled that tree. More than one had given currency if not credence to the belief that the reason why the bull's-eye was so hard to hit in one of our running deer rifle matches was that we had previously charmed it. If a woman sees a hare without cutting out and keeping a portion of the dress she is then wearing, her child will be born with a hare-lip. When stripping a patient for examination, I noticed that he removed from his neck what appeared to be a very large scapular. I asked him what it could be. It was a haddock's fin-bone--a charm against rheumatism. The peculiarity of the fin consists in the fact that the fish must be taken from the water and the fin cut out before the animal touches anything whatever, especially the boat. Any one who has seen a trawl hauled knows how difficult a task this would be, with the jumping, squirming fish to cope with. Protestant and Catholic alike often sew up bits of paper, with prayers written on them, in little sacks that are worn around the neck as an amulet; and green worsted tied around the wrist is reported to be a never-failing cure for hemorrhage. Every summer some twenty thousand fishermen travel "down North" in schooners, as soon as ever the ice breaks sufficiently to allow them to get along. They are the "Labrador fishermen," and they come from South Newfoundland, from Nova Scotia, from Gloucester, and even Boston. Some Newfoundlanders take their families down and leave them in summer tilts on the land near the fishing grounds during the season. When fall comes they pick them up again and start for their winter homes "in the South," leaving only a few hundreds of scattered "Liveyeres" in possession of the Labrador. We were much surprised one day to notice a family moving their house in the middle of the fishing season, especially when we learned that the reason was that a spirit had appropriated their dwelling. Stephen Leacock would have obtained much valuable data for his essay on "How to Become a Doctor" if he had ever chanced to sail along "the lonely Labrador." In a certain village one is confidently told of a cure for asthma, as simple as it is infallible. It consists merely of taking the tips of all one's finger-nails, carefully allowed to grow long, and cutting them off with sharp scissors. In another section a powder known as "Dragon's Blood" is very generally used as a plaster. It appears quite inert and harmless. A little farther south along the coast is a baby suffering from ophthalmia. The doctor has only been called in because blowing sugar in its eyes has failed to cure it. A colleague of mine was visiting on his winter rounds in a delightful village some forty miles south of St. Anthony Hospital. The "swiles" (seals) had struck in, and all hands were out on the ice, eager to capture their share of these valuable animals. But snow-blindness had incontinently attacked the men, and had rendered them utterly unable to profit by their good fortune. The doctor's clinic was long and busy that night. The following morning he was, however, amazed to see many of his erstwhile patients wending their way seawards, each with one eye treated on his prescription, but the other (for safety's sake) doctored after the long-accepted methods of the talent of the village--tansy poultices and sugar being the acknowledged favourites. The consensus of opinion obviously was that the stakes were too high for a man to offer up both eyes on the altar of modern medicine. In the course of many years' practice the methods for the treatment and extraction of offending molars which have come to my attention are numerous, but none can claim a more prompt result than the following: First you attach a stout, fine fish-line firmly to the tooth. Next you lash the other end to the latch of the door--we do not use knobs in this country. You then make the patient stand back till there is a nice tension on the line, when suddenly you make a feint as if to strike him in the eye. Forgetful of the line, he leaps back to avoid the blow. Result, painless extraction of the tooth, which should be found hanging to the latch. Although there have been clergyman of the Church of England and Methodist denominations on the coast for many years past--devoted and self-sacrificing men who have done most unselfish work--still, their visits must be infrequent. One of them told me in North Newfoundland that once, when he happened to pass through a little village with his dog team on his way South, the man of one house ran out and asked him to come in. "Sorry I have no time," he replied. "Well, just come in at the front door and out at the back, so we can say that a minister has been in the house," the fisherman answered. Even to-day, to the least fastidious, the conditions of travel leave much to be desired. The coastal steamers are packed far beyond their sleeping or sitting capacity. On the upper deck of the best of these boats I recall that there are two benches, each to accommodate four people. The steamer often carries three hundred in the crowded season of the fall of the year. One retires at night under the misapprehension that the following morning will find these seats still available. On ascending the companionway, however, one's gaze is met by a heterogeneous collection of impedimenta. The benches are buried as irretrievably as if they "had been carried into the midst of the sea." Almost anything may have been piled on them, from bales of hay--among which my wife once sat for two days--to the nucleus of a chicken farm, destined, let us say, for the Rogues' Roost Bight. As the sturdy little steamer noses her way into some picturesque harbour and blows a lusty warning of her approach, small boats are seen putting off from the shore and rowing or sculling toward her with almost indecorous rapidity. Lean over the rail for a minute with me, and watch the freight being unloaded into one of these bobbing little craft. The hatch of the steamer is opened, a most unmusical winch commences operations--and a sewing machine emerges _de profundis_. This is swung giddily out over the sea by the crane and dropped on the thwarts of the waiting punt. One shudders to think of the probably fatal shock received by the vertebræ of that machine. One's sympathies, however, are almost immediately enlisted in the interest and fortunes of a young and voiceful pig, which, poised in the blue, unwillingly experiences for the moment the fate of the coffin of the Prophet. Great shouting ensues as a baby is carried down the ship's ladder and deposited in the rocking boat. A bag of beans, of the variety known as "haricot," is the next candidate. A small hole has been torn in a corner of the burlap sack, out of which trickles a white and ominous stream. The last article to join the galaxy is a tub of butter. By a slight mischance the tub has "burst abroad," and the butter, a golden and gleaming mass,--with unexpected consideration having escaped the ministrations of the winch,--is passed from one pair of fishy hands to another, till it finds a resting-place by the side of the now quiescent pig. We pass out into the open again, bound for the next port of call. If the weather chances to be "dirty," the sufferers from _mal-de-mer_ lie about on every available spot, be it floor or bench, and over these prostrate forms must one jump as one descends to the dining-saloon for lunch. It may be merely due to the special keenness of my professional sense, but the apparent proportion of the halt, lame, and blind who frequent these steamers appears out of all relation to the total population of the coast. Across the table is a man with an enormous white rag swathing his thumb. The woman next him looks out on a blue and altered world from behind a bandaged eye. Beside one sits a young fisherman, tenderly nursing his left lower jaw, his enjoyment of the fact that his appetite is unimpaired by the vagaries of the North Atlantic tempered by an unremitting toothache. But the cheerful kindliness and capability of the captain, the crew, and the passengers, on whatever boat you may chance to travel, pervades the whole ship like an atmosphere, and makes one forget any slight discomfort in a justifiable pride that as an Anglo-Saxon one can claim kinship to these "Vikings of to-day." Life is hard in White Bay. An outsider visiting there in the spring of the year would come to the conclusion that if nothing further can be done for these people to make a more generous living, they should be encouraged to go elsewhere. The number of cases of tubercle, anæmia, and dyspepsia, of beri-beri and scurvy, all largely attributable to poverty of diet, is very great; and the relative poverty, even compared with that of the countries which I have been privileged to visit, is piteous. The solution of such a problem does not, however, lie in removing a people from their environment, but in trying to make the environment more fit for human habitation. The hospitality of the people is unstinted and beautiful. They will turn out of their beds at any time to make a stranger comfortable, and offer him their last crust into the bargain, without ever expecting or asking a penny of recompense. But here, as all the world over, the sublime and the ridiculous go hand in hand. On one of my dog trips the first winter which I spent at St. Anthony, the bench on which I slept was the top of the box used for hens. This would have made little difference to me, but unfortunately it contained a youthful and vigorous rooster, which, mistaking the arrival of so many visitors for some strange herald of morning, proceeded every half-hour to salute it with premature and misdirected zeal, utterly incompatible with unbroken repose just above his head. It was possible, without moving one's limbs much, to reach through the bars and suggest better things to him; but owing to the inequality which exists in most things, one invariably captured a drowsy hen, while the more active offender eluded one with ease. Lighting matches to differentiate species under such exceptional circumstances in the pursuit of knowledge was quite out of the question. A visit to one house on the French shore I shall not easily forget. The poor lad of sixteen years had hip disease, and lay dying. The indescribable dirt I cannot here picture. The bed, the house, and everything in it were full of vermin, and the poor boy had not been washed since he took to bed three or four months before. With the help of a clergyman who was travelling with me at the time, the lad was chloroformed and washed. We then ordered the bedding to be burned, provided him with fresh garments, and put him into a clean bed. The people's explanation was that he was in too much pain to be touched, and so they could do nothing. We cleansed and drained his wounds and left what we could for him. Had he not been so far gone, we should have taken him to the hospital, but I feared that he would not survive the journey. Although at the time it often seemed an unnecessary expenditure of effort in an already overcrowded day, one now values the records of the early days of one's life on the coast. In my notebook for 1895 I find the following: "The desolation of Labrador at this time is easy to understand. No Newfoundlanders were left north of us; not a vessel in sight anywhere. The ground was all under snow, and everything caught over with ice except the sea. I think that I must describe one house, for it seems a marvel that any man could live in it all winter, much less women and children. It was ten feet by twenty, one storey high, made of mud and boards, with half a partition to divide bedroom from the sitting-room kitchen. If one adds a small porch filled with dirty, half-starved dogs, and refuse of every kind, an ancient and dilapidated stove in the sitting part of the house, two wooden benches against the walls, a fixed rude table, some shelves nailed to the wall, and two boarded-up beds, one has a fairly accurate description of the furnishings. Inside were fourteen persons, sleeping there, at any rate for a night or two. The ordinary regular family of a man and wife and four girls was to be increased this winter by the man's brother, his wife, and four boys from twelve months to seven years of age. His brother had 'handy enough flour,' but no tea or molasses. The owner was looking after Newfoundland Rooms, for which he got flour, tea, molasses, and firewood for the winter. The people assure me that one man, who was aboard us last fall just as we were going South, starved to death, and many more were just able to hold out till spring. The man, they tell me, ate his only dog as his last resource." I sent one day a barrel of flour and some molasses to a poor widow with seven children at Stag Islands. She was starving even in summer. She was just eating fish, which she and her eldest girl caught, and drinking water--no flour, no tea, nothing. Two winters before she and her eldest girl sawed up three thousand feet of planking to keep the wolf from the little ones. The girl managed the boat and fished in summer, drove the dogs and komatik and did the shooting for which they could afford powder in winter. A man, having failed to catch a single salmon beyond what he was forced to eat, left in his little boat to row down to the Inlet to try for codfish. To get a meal--breakfast--and a little flour to sustain life on the way, he had to sell his anchor before he left. The life of the sea, with all its attractions, is at best a hazardous calling, and it speaks loud in the praise of the capacity and simple faith of our people that in the midst of a trying and often perilous environment, they retain so quiet and kindly a temper of mind. During my voyage to the seal fishery I recall that one day at three o'clock the men were all called in. Four were missing. We did not find them till we had been steaming for an hour and a half. They were caught on pans some mile or so apart in couples, and were in prison. We were a little anxious about them, but the only remark which I heard, when at last they came aboard, was, "Leave the key of your box the next time, Ned." To those who claim that Labrador is a land of plenty I would offer the following incident in refutation. At Holton on a certain Sunday morning the leader of the church services came aboard the hospital steamer and asked me for a Bible. Some sacrilegious pigs which had been brought down to fatten on the fish, driven to the verge of starvation by the scarcity of that article, had broken into the church illicitly one night, and not only destroyed the cloth, but had actually torn up and eaten the Bible. In reply to inquiry I gave it as my opinion that it would be no sin to eat the pork of the erring quadrupeds. Once when I was cruising on the North Labrador coast I anchored one day between two desolate islands some distance out in the Atlantic, a locality which in those days was frequented by many fishing craft. My anchors were scarcely down when a boat from a small Welsh brigantine came aboard, and asked me to go at once and see a dying girl. She proved to be the only woman among a host of men, and was servant in one of the tiny summer fishing huts, cooking and mending for the men, and helping with the fish when required. I found her in a rude bunk in a dark corner of the shack. She was almost eighteen, and even by the dim light of my lantern and in contrast with the sordid surroundings, I could see that she was very pretty. A brief examination convinced me that she was dying. The tender-hearted old captain, whose aid had been called in as the only man with a doctor's box and therefore felt to be better qualified to use it than others, was heart-broken. He had pronounced the case to be typhoid, to be dangerous and contagious, and had wisely ordered the fishermen, who were handling food for human consumption, to leave him to deal with the case alone. He told me at once that he had limited his attentions to feeding her, and that though helpless for over a fortnight, and at times unconscious, the patient had not once been washed or the bed changed. The result, even with my experience, appalled me. But while there is life in a young patient there is always hope, and we at once set to work on our Augean task. By the strangest coincidence it was an inky dark night outside, with a low fog hanging over the water, and the big trap boat, with a crew of some six men, among them the skipper's sons, had been missing since morning. The skipper had stayed home out of sympathy for his servant girl, and his mind was torn asunder by the anxiety for the girl and his fear for his boys. When night fell, the old captain and I were through with the hardest part of our work. We had new bedding on the bed and the patient clean and sleeping quietly. Still the boat and its precious complement did not come. Every few minutes the skipper would go out and listen, and stare into the darkness. The girl's heart suddenly failed, and about midnight her spirit left this world. The captain and I decided that the best thing to do was to burn everything--and in order to avoid publicity to do it at once. So having laboriously carried it all out onto the edge of the cliff, we set a light to the pile and were rewarded with a bonfire which would have made many a Guy Fawkes celebration. Quite unintentionally we were sending out great streams of light into the darkness over the waters away down below us, and actually giving the longed-for signal to the missing boat. Her crew worked their way in the fog to life and safety by means of the blazing and poor discarded "properties" of the soul preceding us to our last port. Although our work has lain almost entirely among the white population of the Labrador and North Newfoundland coasts, still it has been our privilege occasionally to come in contact with the native races, and to render them such services, medical or otherwise, as lay within our power. Our doctor at Harrington on the Canadian Labrador is appointed by the Canadian Government as Indian Agent. Once, when my own boat was anchored in Davis Inlet, a band of roving Indians had come to the post for barter and supplies. Our steamer was a source of great interest to them. Our steam whistle they would gladly have purchased, after they had mastered their first fears. At night we showed them some distress rockets and some red and blue port flares. The way those Indians fled from the port flares was really amusing, and no one enjoyed it more than they did, for the shouting and laughter, after they had picked themselves out of the scuppers where they had been rolling on top of one another, wakened the very hills with their echoes. Next morning one lonely-looking brave came on board, and explained to me by signs and grunts that during the entertainment a white counter, or Hudson Bay dollar, had rolled out of the lining of his hat into our woodpile. An elaborate search failed to reveal its whereabouts, but as there was no reason to doubt him, I decided to make up the loss to him out of our clothes-bag. Fortunately a gorgeous purple rowing blazer came readily to hand, and with this and a helmet, both of which he put on at once, the poor fellow was more than satisfied. Indeed, on the wharf he was the envy of the whole band. At night they slept in the bunkhouse, and they presented a sight which one is not likely to forget--especially one lying on his back on the table, with his arms extended and his head hanging listlessly over the edge. One felt sorely tempted to put a pin into him to see if he really were alive, but we decided to abstain for prudential reasons. We had among the garments on board three not exactly suited to the white settlers, so I told the agent to let the Indians have a rifle shooting match for them. They were a fox huntsman's red broadcloth tail-coat, with all the glory of gilt buttons, a rather dilapidated red golf blazer, and a white, cavalryman's Eton coat, with silver buttons, and the coat-of-arms on. Words fail me to paint the elation of the winner of the fox hunting coat; while the wearer of the cavalry mess jacket was not the least bit daunted by the fact that when he got it on he could hardly breathe. I must say that he wore it over a deerskin kossak, which is not the custom of cavalrymen, I am led to believe. The coast-line from Ramah to Cape Chidley is just under one hundred miles, and on it live a few scattered Eskimo hunters. Mr. Ford knew every one of them personally, having lived there twenty-seven years. It appears that a larger race of Eskimos called "Tunits," to whom the present race were slaves, used to be on this section of the coast. At Nakvak there are remains of them. In Hebron, the same year that we met the Indians at Davis Inlet, we saw Pomiuk's mother. Her name is Regina, and she is now married to Valentine, the king of the Eskimos there. I have an excellent photograph of a royal dinner party, a thing which I never possessed before. The king and queen and a solitary courtier are seated on the rocks, gnawing contentedly raw walrus bones--"ivik" they call it. The Eskimos one year suffered very heavily from an epidemic of influenza--the germ doubtless imported by some schooner from the South. Like all primitive peoples, they had no immunity to the disease, and the suffering and mortality were very high. It was a pathetic sight as the lighter received its load of rude coffins from the wharf, with all the kindly little people gathered to tow them to their last resting-place in the shallow sand at the end of the inlet. The ten coffins in one grave seemed more the sequence of a battle than of a summer sickness in Labrador. Certainly the hospital move on the part of the Moravians deserved every commendation; though I understand that at their little hospital in Okkak they have not always been able to have a qualified medical man in residence. One old man, a patient on whose hip I had operated, came and insisted that I should examine the scars. Oddly enough during the operation the Eskimo, who was the only available person whom I had been able to find to hold the light, had fainted, and left me in darkness. I had previously had no idea that their sensibilities were so akin to ours. At Napatuliarasok Island are some lovely specimens of blue and green and golden Labradorite, a striated feldspar with a glorious sheen. Nothing has ever really been done with this from a commercial point of view; moreover, the samples of gold-bearing quartz, of which such good hopes have been entertained, have so far been found wanting also. In my opinion this is merely due to lack of persevering investigation--for one cannot believe that this vast area of land can be utterly unremunerative. On one of the old maps of Labrador this terse description is written by the cartographer: "Labrador was discovered by the English. There is nothing in it of any value"; and another historian enlarges on the theme in this fashion: "God made the world in five days, made Labrador on the sixth, and spent the seventh throwing stones at it." It is so near and yet so far, so large a section of the British Empire and yet so little known, and so romantic for its wild grandeur, and many fastnesses still untrodden by the foot of man! The polar current steals from the unknown North its ice treasures, and lends them with no niggard hand to this seaboard. There is a never-wearying charm in these countless icebergs, so stately in size and so fantastic in shape and colouring. [Illustration: A LABRADOR BURIAL] The fauna and flora of the country are so varied and exquisite that one wonders why the world of science has so largely passed us by. Perhaps with the advent of hydroplanes, Labrador will come to its own among the countries of the world. Not only the ethnologist and botanist, but the archæologist as well reaps a rich harvest for his labours here. Many relics of a recent stone age still exist. I have had brought to me stone saucepans, lamps, knives, arrow-heads, etc., taken from old graves. It is the Eskimo custom to entomb with the dead man all and every possession which he might want hereafter, the idea being that the spirit of the implement accompanies the man's spirit. Relics of ancient whaling establishments, possibly early Basque, are found in plenty at one village, while even to-day the trapper there needing a runner for his komatik can always hook up a whale's jaw or rib from the mud of the harbour. Relics of rovers of the sea, who sought shelter on this uncharted coast with its million islands, are still to be found. A friend of mine was one day looking from his boat into the deep, narrow channel in front of his house, when he perceived some strange object in the mud. With help he raised it, and found a long brass "Long Tom" cannon, which now stands on the rocks at that place. Remains of the ancient French occupation should also be procurable near the seat of their deserted capital near Bradore. My friend, Professor Reginald Daly, head of the Department of Geology at Harvard University, after having spent a summer with me on the coast, wrote as follows: "We crossed the Straits of Belle Isle once more, homeward bound. Old Jacques Cartier, searching for an Eldorado, found Labrador, and in disgust called it the 'Land of Cain.' A century and a half afterward Lieutenant Roger Curtis wrote of it as a 'country formed of frightful mountains, and unfruitful valleys, a prodigious heap of barren rock'; and George Cartwright, in his gossipy journal, summed up his impressions after five and twenty years on the coast. He said, 'God created this country last of all, and threw together there the refuse of his materials as of no use to mankind.' "We have learned at last the vital fact that Nature has set apart her own picture galleries where men may resort if for a time they would forget human contrivances. Such a wilderness is Labrador, a kind of mental and moral sanitarium. The beautiful is but the visible splendor of the true. The enjoyment of a visit to the coast may consist not alone in the impressions of the scenery; there may be added the deeper pleasure of reading out the history of noble landscapes, the sculptured monuments of elemental strife and revolutions of distant ages." CHAPTER VIII LECTURING AND CRUISING We had now been coming for some two years to the coast, and the problem was assuming larger proportions than I felt the Society at home ought to be called on to finance. It seemed advisable, therefore, to try and raise money in southern Newfoundland and Canada. So under the wing of the most famous seal and fish killer, Captain Samuel Blandford, I next visited and lectured in St. John's, Harbour Grace, and Carbonear. The towns in Newfoundland are not large. Its sectarian schools and the strong denominational feeling between the churches so greatly divide the people that united efforts for the Kingdom of God were extremely rare before the war. Even now there is no Y.M.C.A. or Y.W.C.A. in the Colony. The Boys' Brigade, which we initiated our first year, divided as it grew in importance, into the Church Lads Brigade, the Catholic Cadet Corps, and the Methodist Guards. Dr. Bobardt, my young Australian colleague, and I now decided to cross over to Halifax. We had only a certain amount of money for the venture; it was our first visit to Canada, and we knew no one. We carried credentials, however, from the Marquis of Ripon and other reputable persons. If we had had experience as commercial travellers, this would have been child's play. But our education had been in an English school and university; and when finally we sat at breakfast at the Halifax hotel we felt like fish out of water. Such success as we obtained subsequently I attribute entirely to what then seemed to me my colleague's colonial "cheek." He insisted that we should call on the most prominent persons at once, the Prime Minister, the General in charge of the garrison, the Presidents of the Board of Trade and University, the Governor of the Province, and all the leading clergymen. There have been times when I have hesitated about getting my anchors for sea, when the barometer was falling, the wind in, and a fog-bank on the horizon--but now, years after, I still recall my reluctance to face that ordeal. But like most things, the obstacles were largely in one's own mind, and the kindness which we received left me entirely overwhelmed. Friends formed a regular committee to keep a couple of cots going in our hospital, to collect supplies, and sent us to Montreal with introductions and endorsements. Some of these people have since been lifelong helpers of the Labrador Mission. By the time we reached Montreal, our funds were getting low, but Dr. Bobardt insisted that we must engage the best accommodations, even if it prevented our travelling farther west. The result was that reporters insisted on interviewing him as to the purpose of an Australian coming to Montreal; and I was startled to see a long account which he had jokingly given them published in the morning papers, stating that his purpose was to materialize the All Red Line and arrange closer relations between Australia and Canada. According to his report my object was to inspect my ranch in Alberta. Life to him, whether on the Labrador Coast, in an English school, or in his Australian home, was one perpetual picnic. Naturally, our most important interview was with Lord Strathcona. He was President of the Hudson Bay Company, the Canadian Pacific Railroad, and the Bank of Montreal. As a poor Scotch lad named Donald Smith he had lived for thirteen years of his early life in Labrador. There he had found a wife and there his daughter was born. From the very first he was thoroughly interested in our work, and all through the years until his death in 1914 his support was maintained, so that at the very time he died we were actually due to visit him the following month at Knelsworth. We hired the best hall and advertised Sir Donald as our chairman. To save expense Dr. Bobardt acted in the ticket-box. When Sir Donald came along, not having seen him previously, he insisted on collecting fifty cents from him as from the rest. When Sir Donald strongly protested that he was our chairman, the shrewd young doctor merely replied that several others before him had made the same remark. Every one in the city knew Sir Donald; and when the matter was explained to him in the greenroom, he was thoroughly pleased with the business-like attitude of the Mission. As we had never seen Canada he insisted that we must take a holiday and visit as far west as British Columbia. All of this he not only arranged freely for us, but even saw to such details as that we should ride on the engine through the Rocky Mountains, and be entertained at his home called "Silver Heights" while in Winnipeg. It was during this trip that I visited "Grenfell Town," a queer little place called after Pascoe Grenfell, of the Bank of England. The marvel of the place to me was the thousands and thousands of acres of splendid farmland on which no one lived. I promised that I would send the hotel-keeper the Grenfell crest. Lord Strathcona later presented the Mission with a fine little steamer, the Sir Donald, purchased and equipped at his expense through the Committee in Montreal. We went back to England very well satisfied with our work. Dr. Bobardt left me and entered the Navy, while I returned the following year and steamed the new boat from Montreal down the St. Lawrence River and the Straits to Battle Harbour. There the Albert, which had sailed again from England with doctors, nurses, and supplies, was to meet me. We had made a fine voyage, visiting all along the coast as we journeyed, and had turned in from sea through the last "run," or passage between islands. We had polished our brass-work, cleaned up our decks, hoisted our flags, all that we might make a triumphant entry on our arrival a few minutes later--when suddenly, _Buff--Bur-r--Buff_, we rose, staggered, and fell over on a horrible submerged shoal. Our side was gored, our propeller and shaft gone, our keel badly splintered, and the ship left high and dry. When we realized our mistake and the dreadful position into which we had put ourselves, we rowed ashore to the nearest island, walked three or four miles over hill and bog, and from there got a fisherman with a boat to put us over to Battle Harbour Island. The good ship Albert lay at anchor in the harbour. Our new colleagues and old friends were all impatiently waiting to see our fine new steamer speed in with all her flags up--when, instead, two bedraggled-looking tramps, crestfallen almost to weeping, literally crept aboard. Sympathy took the form of deeds and a crowd at once went round in boats with a museum of implements. Soon they had her off, and our plucky schooner took her in tow all the three hundred miles to the nearest dry-dock at St. John's. Meanwhile Sir Thomas Roddick, of Montreal, an old Newfoundlander, had presented us with a splendid twenty-foot jolly-boat, rigged with lug-sail and centre-boom. In this I cruised north to Eskimo Bay, harbouring at nights if possible, getting a local pilot when I could, and once being taken bodily on board, craft and all, by a big friendly fishing schooner. It proved a most profitable summer. I was so dependent on the settlers and fishermen for food and hospitality that I learned to know them as would otherwise have been impossible. Far the best road to a seaman's heart is to let him do something for you. Our impressions of a landscape, like our estimates of character, all depend on our viewpoint. Fresh from the more momentous problems of great cities, the interests and misunderstandings of small isolated places bias the mind and make one censorious and resentful. But from the position of a tight corner, that of needing help and hospitality from entire strangers, one learns how large are the hearts and homes of those who live next to Nature. If I knew the Labrador people before (and among such I include the Hudson Bay traders and the Newfoundland fishermen), that summer made me love them. I could not help feeling how much more they gladly and freely did for me than I should have dreamed of doing for them had they come along to my house in London. I have sailed the seas in ocean greyhounds and in floating palaces and in steam yachts, but better than any other I love to dwell on the memories of that summer, cruising the Labrador in a twenty-footer. That year I was late returning South. Progress is slow in the fall of the year along the Labrador in a boat of that capacity. I was weather-bound, with the snow already on the ground in Square Island Harbour. The fishery of the settlers had been very poor. The traders coming South had passed them by. There were eight months of winter ahead, and practically no supplies for the dozen families of the little village. I shall never forget the confidence of the patriarch of the settlement, Uncle Jim, whose guest I was. The fact that we were without butter, and that "sweetness" (molasses) was low, was scarcely even noticed. I remember as if it were yesterday the stimulating tang of the frosty air and the racy problem of the open sea yet to be covered. The bag of birds which we had captured when we had driven in for shelter from the storm made our dry-diet supper sweeter than any Delmonico ten-course dinner, because we had wrested it ourselves from the reluctant environment. Then last of all came the general meeting in Uncle Jim's house at night to ask the Lord to open the windows of heaven for the benefit of the pathetic little group on the island. Next morning the first thing on which our eyes lighted was the belated trader, actually driven north again by the storm, anchored right in the harbour. Of course Uncle Jim knew that it would be there. Personally, I did not expect her, so can claim no credit for the telepathy; but if faith ever did work wonders it was on that occasion. There were laughing faces and happy hearts as we said good-bye, when my dainty little lady spread her wings to a fair breeze a day or so later. The gallant little Sir Donald did herself every credit the following year, and we not only visited the coast as far north as Cape Chidley, but explored the narrow channel which runs through the land into Ungava Bay, and places Cape Chidley itself on a detached island. There were a great many fishing schooners far north that season, and the keen pleasures of exploring a truly marvellous coast, practically uncharted and unknown, were redeemed from the reproach of selfishness by the numerous opportunities for service to one's fellow men. [Illustration: THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN SUMMER] Once that summer we were eleven days stuck in the ice, and while there the huge mail steamer broke her propeller, and a boat was sent up to us through the ice to ask for our help. The truck on my mastheads was just up to her deck. The ice was a lot of trouble, but we got her into safety. On board were the superintendent of the Moravian Missions and his wife. They were awfully grateful. The great tub rolled about so in the Atlantic swell that the big ice-pans nearly came on deck. My dainty little lady took no notice of anything and picked her way among the pans like Agag "treading delicately." We had five hours' good push, however, to get into Battle Harbour. It was calm in the ice-field, only the heavy tide made it run and the little "alive" steamer with human skill beat the massive mountains of ice into a cocked hat. At Indian Tickle there is a nice little church which was built by subscription and free labour the second year we came on the coast. There is one especially charming feature about this building. It stands in such a position that you can see it as you come from the north miles away from the harbour entrance, and it is so situated that it leads directly into the safe anchorage. There are no lights to guide sailors on this coast at all, and yet during September, October, and November, three of the most dangerous months in the year, hundreds of schooners and thousands of men, women, and children are coming into or passing through this harbour on their way to the southward. By a nice arrangement the little east window points to the north--if that is not Irish--and two large bracket lamps can be turned on a pivot, so that the lamps and their reflectors throw a light out to sea. The good planter, at his own expense, often maintains a light here on stormy or dark nights, and "steering straight for it" brings one to safety. While cruising near Cape Chidley, a schooner signalling with flag at half-mast attracted our attention. On going aboard we found a young man with the globe of one eye ruptured by a gun accident, in great pain, and in danger of losing the other eye sympathetically. Having excised the globe, we allowed him to go back to his vessel, intensely grateful, but full of apprehension as to how his girl would regard him on his return South. It so happened that we had had a gift of false eyes, and we therefore told him to call in at hospital on his way home and take his chance on getting a blue one. While walking over the hill near the hospital that fall I ran into a crowd of young fishermen, whose schooner was wind-bound in the harbour, and who had been into the country for an hour's trouting. One asked me to look at his eye, as something was wrong with it. Being in a hurry, I simply remarked, "Come to hospital, and I'll examine it for you"; whereupon he burst out into a merry laugh, "Why, Doctor, I'm the boy whose eye you removed. This is the glass one you promised. Do you think it will suit her?" Another time I was called to a large schooner in the same region. There were two young girls on board doing the cooking and cleaning, as was the wont in Newfoundland vessels. One, alas, was seriously ill, having given birth to a premature child, and having lain absolutely helpless, with only a crew of kind but strange men anywhere near. Rolling her up in blankets, we transferred her to the Sir Donald, and steamed for the nearest Moravian station. Here the necessary treatment was possible, and when we left for the South a Moravian's good wife accompanied us as nurse. The girl, however, had no wish to live. "I want to die, Doctor; I can never go home again." Her physical troubles had abated, but her mind was made up to die, and this, in spite of all our care, she did a few days later. The pathos of the scene as we rowed the poor child's body ashore for interment on a rocky and lonely headland, looking out over the great Atlantic, wrapped simply in the flag of her country, will never be forgotten by any of us--the silent but unanswerable reproach on man's utter selfishness. Many such scenes must rise to the memory of the general practitioner; at times, thank God, affording those opportunities of doing more for the patients than simply patching up their bodies--opportunities which are the real reward for the "art of healing." Some years later I revisited the grave of this poor girl, marked by the simple wooden cross which we had then put up, and bearing the simple inscription: Suzanne "Jesus said, Neither do I condemn thee." The fall trip lasted till late into November, without our even realizing the fact that snow was on the ground. Indeed the ponds were all frozen and we enjoyed drives with dog teams on the land before we had finished our work and could think of leaving. We had scarcely left Flowers Cove and were just burying our little steamer--loaded to the utmost with wood, cut in return for winter clothing--in the dense fog which almost universally maintains in the Straits, and were rounding the hidden ledges of rock which lie half a mile offshore, when we discovered a huge trans-Atlantic liner racing up in our wake. We instantly put down our helm and scuttled out of the way to avoid the wash, and almost held our breath as the great steamer dashed by at twenty miles an hour, between us and the hidden shoal. She altered her helm as she did so, no doubt catching her first sight of the lighthouse as she emerged from the fog-bank, but as it was, she must have passed within an ace of the shoal. We expected every minute to see her dash on the top of it, and then she passed out of sight once more, her light-hearted passengers no doubt completely unconscious that they had been in any danger at all. The last port of call was Henley, or Château, where formerly the British had placed a fort to defend it against the French. We had carried round with us a prospective bridegroom, and we were privileged to witness the wedding, a simple but very picturesque proceeding. A parson had been fetched from thirty miles away, and every kind of hospitality provided for the festive event. But in spite of the warmth of the occasion the weather turned bitterly cold, the harbour "caught over," and for a week we were prisoners. When at last the young ice broke up again, we made an attempt to cross the Straits, but sea and wind caught us halfway and forced us to run back, this time in the thick fog. The Straits' current had carried us a few miles in the meanwhile--which way we did not know--and the land, hard to make out as it was in the fog, was white with snow. However, with the storm increasing and the long dark night ahead, we took a sporting chance, and ran direct in on the cliffs. How we escaped shipwreck I do not know now. We suddenly saw a rock on our bow and a sheer precipice ahead, twisted round on our heel, shot between the two, and we knew where we were, as that is the only rock on a coast-line of twenty miles of beach--but there really is no room between it and the cliff. All along the coast that year we noticed a change of attitude toward professional medical aid. Confidence in the wise woman, in the seventh son and his "wonderful" power, in the use of charms like green worsted, haddock fins, or scrolls of prayer tied round the neck, had begun to waver. The world talks still of a blind man made to see nineteen hundred years ago; but the coast had recently been more thrilled by the tale of a blind man made to see by "these yere doctors." One was a man who for seventeen years had given up all hope; and two others, old men, parted for years, and whose first occasion of seeing again had revealed to them the fact that they were brothers. Some lame had also been made to walk--persons who had abandoned hope quite as much as he who lay for forty years by the Pool of Siloam, or for a similar period at the Golden Gate. One of my first operations had been rendered absolutely inescapable by the great pain caused by a tumour in the leg. The patient had insisted on having five men sit on her while the operation proceeded, as she did not believe it was right to be put to sleep, and, moreover, she secretly feared that she might not wake up again. But now the conversion of the coast had proceeded so far that many were pleading for a winter doctor. At first we did not think it feasible, but my colleague, Dr. Willway, finally volunteered to stay at Battle Harbour. We loaded him up with all our spare assets against the experiment, the hospital being but very ill-equipped for an Arctic winter. When the following summer we approached the coast, it was with real trepidation that I scanned the land for signs of my derelict friend. We felt that he would be gravely altered at least, possibly having grown hair all over his face. When an alert, tanned, athletic figure, neatly tonsured and barbered, at last leaped over our rail, all our sympathy vanished and gave way to jealousy. One detail, however, had gone wrong. We had anchored our beautiful Sir Donald in his care in a harbour off the long bay on the shores of which he was wintering. He had seen her once or twice in her ice prison, but when he came to look for her in the spring, she had mysteriously disappeared. The ice was there still. There wasn't a vestige of wreckage. She must have sunk, and the hole frozen up. Yet an extended period of "creeping" the bottom with drags and grapples had revealed nothing, and, anyhow, the water not being deep, her masts should have been easily visible. It was not till some time later that we heard from the South that our trusty craft had been picked up some three hundred miles to the southward and westward, well out in a heavy ice-pack, and right in amongst a big patch of seals, away off on the Atlantic. The whole of the bay ice had evidently gone out together, taking the ship with it, and the bay had then neatly frozen over again. The seal hunters laughingly assured me that they found a patch of old "swiles" having tea in the cabin. As the hull of the Sir Donald was old, and the size of the boat made good medical work aboard impossible, we decided to sell her and try and raise the funds for a more seaworthy and capable craft. Years of experience have subsequently emphasized the fact that if you are reasonably resistant, and want to get tough and young again, you can do far worse than come and winter on "the lonely Labrador." CHAPTER IX THE SEAL FISHERY Returning South in the fall of 1895, business necessitated my remaining for some time in St. John's, where as previously the Governor, Sir Terence O'Brien, very kindly entertained me. It proved to be a most exciting time. There were only two banks in the Colony, called respectively the Union and the Commercial. These issued all the notes used in the country and except for the savings bank had all the deposits of the fishermen and people. Suddenly one day I was told, though with extreme secrecy, that the two banks were unsound and would not again open after Monday morning. This was early on Saturday. Business went on as usual, but among the leaders of the country consternation was beginning to spread. The banks closed at their usual hour--three o 'clock on Saturday, and so far as I knew no one profited by the secret knowledge, though later accusations were made against some people. The serious nature of the impending disaster never really dawned on me, not being either personally concerned in either bank or having any experience of finance. When the collection came around at the cathedral on Sunday my friend whispered to me, "That silver will be valuable to-morrow." It so happened that on Sunday I was dining with the Prime Minister, who had befriended all our efforts, and his tremendously serious view of the position of the Colony sent me to bed full of alarms for my new friends. We were to have sailed for England next day and I went down after breakfast to buy my ticket. The agent sold it, but remarked, "I am not sure if Newfoundland money is good any longer. It is a speculation selling you this ticket." Before we sailed the vessel was held up by the Government, as only a few of the ships were taking notes at face value. Those of the Commercial Bank were only fetching twenty cents. Besides the banks quite a number of commercial firms also closed. The directors of the banks were all local merchants, and many were heavily indebted to them for supplies given out to their "planters," as they call the fishermen whom they supply with goods in advance to catch fish for them. It was a sorry mix-up, and business was very difficult to carry on because we had no medium of exchange. Even the Governor to pay his gardener had to give I.O.U. orders on shops--there simply being no currency available. Matters have long since adjusted themselves, though neither bank ever reopened. Larger banks of good standing came in from Canada, and no one can find anything of which to complain in the financial affairs of the "oldest Colony," even in these days of war. Newfoundland has a large seal as well as cod fishery. The great sealing captains are all aristocrats of the fishermen and certainly are an unusually fine set of men. The work calls for peculiar training in the hardest of schools, for great self-reliance and resource, besides skill in handling men and ships. In those days the doyen of the fleet was Captain Samuel Blandford. He fired me with tales of the hardships to be encountered and the opportunities and needs for a doctor among three hundred men hundreds of miles from anywhere. The result was a decision to return early from my lecture tour and go out with the seal hunters of the good ship Neptune. I look back on this as one of the great treats of my life; though I believe it to be an industry seriously detrimental to the welfare of the people of the Colony and the outside world. For no mammal bringing forth but one young a year can stand, when their young are just born and are entirely helpless, being attacked by huge steel-protected steamers carrying hundreds of men with modern rifles or even clubs. Advantage is also taken of the maternal instinct to get the mothers as well as the young "fat," if the latter is not obtainable in sufficient quantities. Meanwhile the poor scattered people of the northern shores of Newfoundland are being absolutely ruined and driven out. They need the seals for clothing, boots, fresh food, and fats. They use every portion of the few animals which each catches, while the big steamers lose thousands which they have killed, by not carrying them at once to the ship and leaving them in piles to be picked up later. Moreover, in the latter case all the good proteid food of their carcasses is left to the sharks and gulls. At twelve o'clock of March 10, 1896, the good ship Neptune hauled out into the stream at St. John's Harbour, Newfoundland, preparatory to weighing anchor for the seal fishery. The law allows no vessels to sail before 2 P.M. on that day, under a penalty of four thousand dollars fine--nor may any seals be killed from the steamers until March 14, and at no time on Sundays. The whole city of St. John's seemed to be engrossed in the one absorbing topic of the seal fishery. It meant if successful some fifty thousand pounds sterling at least to the Colony--it meant bread for thousands of people--it meant for days and even weeks past that men from far-away outports had been slowly collecting at the capital, till the main street was peopled all day with anxious-looking crowds, and all the wharves where there was any chance of a "berth" to the ice were fairly in a state of siege. Now let us go down to the dock and visit the ship before she starts. She is a large barque-rigged vessel, with auxiliary steam, or rather one should say a steamer with auxiliary sails. The first point that strikes one is her massive build, her veritable bulldog look as she sits on the water. Her sides are some eighteen inches thick, and sheathed and resheathed with "greenheart" to help her in battering the ice. Inside she is ceiled with English oak and beech, so that her portholes look like the arrow slits of the windows of an old feudal castle. Her bow is double-stemmed--shot with a broad band of iron, and the space of some seventeen feet between the two stems solid with the choicest hardwoods. Below decks every corner is adapted to some use. There are bags of flour, hard bread, and food for the crew of three hundred and twenty men; five hundred tons of coal for the hungry engine in her battle with the ice-floe. The vessel carries only about eighteen hundred gallons of water and the men use five hundred in a day. This, however, is of little consequence, for a party each day brings back plenty of ice, which is excellent drinking after being boiled. This ice is of very different qualities. Now it is "slob" mixed with snow born on the Newfoundland coast. This is called "dirty ice" by the sealers. Even it at times packs very thick and is hard to get through. Then there is the clearer, heavy Arctic ice with here and there huge icebergs frozen in; and again the smoother, whiter variety known as "whelping ice"--that is, the Arctic shore ice, born probably in Labrador, on which the seals give birth to their pups. The masters of watches are also called "scunners"--they go up night and day in the forebarrel to "scun" the ship--that is, to find the way or leads through the ice. This word comes from "con" of the conning tower on a man-of-war. When the morning of the 10th arrives, all is excitement. Fortunately this year a southwest wind had blown the ice a mile or so offshore. Now all the men are on board. The vessels are in the stream. The flags are up; the whistles are blowing. The hour of two approaches at last, and a loud cheering, renewed again and again, intimates that the first vessel is off, and the S.S. Aurora comes up the harbour. Cheers from the ships, the wharves, and the town answer her whistle, and closely followed by the S.S. Neptune and S.S. Windsor, she gallantly goes out, the leader of the sealing fleet for the year. There have been two or three great disasters at the seal fishery, where numbers of men astray from their vessels in heavy snow blizzards on the ice have perished miserably. Sixteen fishermen were once out hunting for seals on the frozen ice of Trinity Bay when the wind changed and drove the ice offshore. When night came on they realized their terrible position and that, with a gale of wind blowing, they could not hope to reach land in their small boats. Nothing but an awful death stared them in the face, for in order to hunt over the ice men must be lightly clad, so as to run and jump from piece to piece. Without fire, without food, without sufficient clothing, exposed to the pitiless storm on the frozen sea, they endured thirty-six hours without losing a life. Finally, they dragged their boats ten miles over the ice to the land, where they arrived at last more dead than alive. It is the physical excitement of travelling over broken loose ice on the bosom of the mighty ocean, and the skill and athletic qualities which the work demands, that makes one love the voyage. Jumping from the side of the ship as she goes along, skurrying and leaping from ice-pan to ice-pan, and then having killed, "sculped," and "pelted" the seal, the exciting return to the vessel! But it has its tragic side, for it takes its regular tribute of fine human life. A Mr. Thomas Green, of Greenspond, while a boy, with his father and another man and a 'prentice lad, was tending his seal nets when a "dwey" or snowstorm came on, and the boat became unmanageable and drifted off to sea. They struck a small island, but drifted off again. That night the father and the 'prentice lad died, and next morning the other man also. The son dressed himself in all the clothes of the other three, whose bodies he kept in the boat. He ate the flesh of an old harp seal they had caught in their net. On the third day by wonderful luck he gaffed an old seal in the slob ice. This he hauled in and drank the warm blood. On the fifth day he killed a white-coat, and thinking that he saw a ship he walked five miles over the floe, leaving his boat behind. The phantom ship proved to be an island of ice, and in the night he had to tramp back to his open punt. On the seventh day he was really beginning to give up hope when a vessel, the Flora, suddenly hove in sight. He shouted loudly as it was dark, whereupon she immediately tacked as if to leave him. Again he shouted, "For God's sake, don't leave me with my dead father here!" The words were plainly heard on board, and the vessel hove to. The watch had thought that his previous shouting was of supernatural origin. He and his boat with its pitiful load were picked up and sent back home by a passing vessel. On this particular voyage we were lucky enough to come early into the seals. From the Conner's barrel, in which I spent a great deal of time, we saw one morning black dots spread away in thousands all over the ice-floes through which we were butting, ramming, and fighting our way. All hands were over the side at once, and very soon patients began needing a doctor. Here a cut, there a wrench or sprain, and later came thirty or forty at a time with snow-blindness or conjunctivitis--very painful and disabling, though not fatal to sight. One morning we had been kept late relieving these various slight ailments, and the men being mostly out on the ice made me think that they were among the seals; so I started out alone as soon as I could slip over the side to join them. This, however, I failed to do till late in the afternoon, when the strong wind, which had kept the loose ice packed together, dropped, and in less than no time it was all "running abroad." The result naturally is that one cannot get along except by floating on one piece to another, and that is a slow process without oars. It came on dark and a dozen of us who had got together decided to make for a large pan not far distant; but were obliged to give it up, and wait for the ship which had long gone out of sight. To keep warm we played "leap-frog," "caps," and "hop, skip, and jump"--at which some were very proficient. We ate our sugar and oatmeal, mixed with some nice clear snow; and then, shaving our wooden seal bat handles, and dipping them into the fat of the animals which we had killed, we made a big blaze periodically to attract the attention of the ship. It was well into the night before we were picked up; and no sooner had we climbed over the rail than the skipper came and gave us the best or worst "blowing-up" I ever received since my father spanked me. He told me afterwards that his good heart was really so relieved by our safe return that he was scarcely conscious of what he said. Indeed, any words which might have been considered as unparliamentary he asked me to construe as gratitude to God. Our captain was a passenger on and prospective captain of the S.S. Tigris when she picked up those members of the ill-fated Polaris expedition who had been five months on the ice-pans. He had gone below from his watch and daylight was just breaking when the next watch came and reported a boat and some people on a large pan, with the American flag flying. A kayak came off and Hans, an Eskimo, came alongside and said, "Ship lost. Captain gone." Boats were immediately lowered and nineteen persons, including two women and one baby, born on the ice-pan, came aboard amidst cheers renewed again and again. They had to be washed and fed, cleaned and clothed. The two officers were invited to live aft and the remainder of the rescued party being pestered to death by the sealing crew in the forecastle, it was decided to abandon the sealing trip, and the brave explorers were carried to St. John's, the American people eventually indemnifying the owners of the Tigris. In hunting my patients I started round with a book and pencil accompanied by the steward carrying a candle and matches. The invalids were distributed in the four holds--the after, the main, forecastle, and foretop-gallant-forecastle. I never went round without a bottle of cocaine solution in my pocket for the snow-blind men, who suffered the most excruciating pain, often rolling about and moaning as if in a kind of frenzy, and to whom the cocaine gave wonderful relief. Very often I found that I must miss one or even both holds on my first rounds, for the ladders were gone and seals and coals were exchanging places in them during the first part of the day. Once down, however, one shouts out, "Is there any one here?" No answer. Louder still, "Is there any one here?" Perhaps a distant cough answers from some dark recess, and the steward and I begin a search. Then we go round systematically, climbing over on the barrels, searching under sacks, and poking into recesses, and after all occasionally missing one or two in our search. It seems a peculiarity about the men, that though they will lie up, they will not always say anything about it. The holds were very damp and dirty, but the men seemed to improve in health and fattened like the young seals. It must have been the pork, doughs, and excellent fresh meat of the seal. We had boiled or fried seal quite often with onions, and I must say that it was excellent eating--far more palatable than the dried codfish, which, when one has any ice work, creates an intolerable thirst. The rats were making a huge noise one night and a barrel man gave it as his opinion that we should have a gale before long; but a glorious sunshine came streaming down upon us next morning, and we decided perforce the rats were evidently a little previous. On Sunday I had a good chance to watch the seals. They came up, simply stared at the ship; now from sheer fat rolling on their backs, and lying for a few seconds tail and flippers beating the air helpless. These baby seals resemble on the ice nothing so much as the South Sea parrot fish--that is, a complete round head, with somewhere in the sphere two huge black dots for eyes and a similar one for a nose. These three form the corners of a small triangle, and except for the tail one could not easily tell which was the back and which the belly of a young white-coat--especially in stormy weather. For it is a well-ascertained fact that Nature makes the marvellous provision that in storm and snow they grow fattest and fastest. I have marvelled greatly how it is possible for any hot-blooded creature to enjoy so immensely this terribly cold water as do these old seals. They paddle about, throw themselves on their backs, float and puff out their breasts, flapping their flippers like paws over their chests. Sunday morning we were lying off Fogo Island when some men came aboard and reported the wreck of the S.S. Wolf in the ice. She got round the island, a wind offshore having cleared the ice from the land. Three other vessels were behind her. Hardly, however, had she got round when the northerly wind brought the ice back. The doomed ship now lay between the main or fixed frozen shore ice and the immense floe which was impelled by the north wind acting on its whole irregular surface. The force was irresistible. The Wolf backed and butted and got twenty yards into a nook in the main ice, and lay there helpless as an infant. On then swept the floe, crashed into the fixed ice, shattered its edge, rose up out of water over it, which is called "rafting," forced itself on the unfortunate ship, rose over her bulwarks, crushed in her sides, and only by nipping her tightly avoided sinking her immediately. Seeing that all was lost, Captain Kean got the men and boats onto the pans, took all they could save of food and clothes, but before he had saved his own clothing, the ice parted enough to let her through and she sank like a stone, her masts catching and breaking in pieces as she went. A sorrowful march for the shore now began over the ice, as the three hundred men started for home, carrying as much as they could on their backs. Many would have to face empty cupboards and hard times; all would have days of walking and rowing and camping before they could get home. One hundred miles would be the least, two and even three hundred for some, before they could reach their own villages. Some of these poor fellows had walked nearly two hundred miles to get a chance of going on the lost ship, impelled by hunger and necessity. Alas, we felt very sad for them and for Captain Kean, who had to face almost absolute ruin on account of this great loss. The heaving of the great pans, like battering-rams against the sides of the Neptune, made a woesome noise below decks. I was often glad of her thirty-six inches of hardwood covering. Every now and then she steamed ahead a little and pressed into the ice to prevent this. I tried to climb on one of the many icebergs, but the heavy swell made it dangerous. At every swell it rolled over and back some eight feet, and as I watched it I understood how an iceberg goes to wind. For it acted exactly like a steam plough, crashing down onto one large pan as it rolled, and then, as it rolled back, lifting up another and smashing it from beneath. A regular battle seemed to be going on, with weird sounds of blows and groanings of the large masses of ice. Sometimes as pieces fell off the water would rush up high on the side of the berg. For some reason or other the berg had red-and-white streaks, and looked much like an ornamental pudding. At latitude 50.18, about Funk Island, is one of the last refuges of the great auk. A few years ago, the earth, such as there is on these lonely rocks, was sifted for the bones of that extinct bird, and I think three perfect skeletons, worth a hundred pounds sterling each, were put together from the remnants discovered. One day the captain told me that he held on there in a furious gale for some time. Masses of ice, weighing thirty or forty tons, were hurled high up and lodged on the top of the island. Some men went out to "pan" seals on a large pan. Seven hundred of the animals had been placed on one of them, and the men had just left it, when a furious breaking sea took hold of the pan and threw it completely upside down. I am never likely to forget the last lovely Sunday. We had nearly "got our voyage"; at least no one was anxious now for the credit of the ship. The sunshine was blazing hot as it came from above and below at the same time, and the blue sky over the apparently boundless field of heaving "floe" on which we lay made a contrast which must be seen to be appreciated. I had brought along a number of pocket hymn-books and in the afternoon we lay out on the high fore-deck and sang and talked, unworried by callers and the thousand interruptions of the land. Then we had evening prayers together, Catholic and Protestant alike; and for my part I felt the nearness of God's presence as really as I have felt it in the mysterious environment of the most magnificent cathedral. Eternal life seemed so close, as if it lay just over that horizon of ice, in the eternal blue beyond. CHAPTER X THREE YEARS' WORK IN THE BRITISH ISLES In the spring of 1897 I was asked by the Council to sail to Iceland with a view to opening work there, in response to a petition sent in to the Board by the Hearn longliners and trawlers, who were just beginning their vast fishery in those waters from Hull and Grimsby. Having chosen a smaller vessel, so as to leave the hospital ship free for work among the fleets, we set sail for Iceland in June. The fight with the liquor traffic which the Mission had been waging had now been successful in driving the sale of intoxicants from the North Sea by international agreement; but the proverbial whiskey still continued its filibustering work in the Scotch seaports. As our men at times had to frequent these ports we were anxious to make it easier for them to walk straight while they were ashore. We therefore called at Aberdeen on the way and anchored off the first dock. The beautiful Seaman's Home there was on the wrong side of the harbour for the vessels, and was not offering exactly what was needed. So we obtained leave to put a hull in the basin, with a first-aid equipment, refreshments, lounge and writing-rooms, and with simple services on Sunday. This boat commenced then and there, and was run for some years under Captain Skiff; till she made way for the present homely little Fishermen's Institute exactly across the road from the docks before you came to the saloons. I shall not soon forget our first view of the cliffs of the southern coast of Iceland. We had called at Thorshaven in the Faroë group to see what we could learn of the boats fishing near Rockall; but none were there at the time. As we had no chronometers on our own boat we were quite unable to tell our longitude--a very much-needed bit of information, for we had had fog for some days, and anyhow none of us knew anything about the coast. We brought up under the shadow of the mighty cliffs and were debating our whereabouts, when we saw an English sailing trawler about our own size, with his nets out close in under the land. So we threw out our boat and boarded him for information. He proved to be a Grimsby skipper, and we received the usual warm reception which these Yorkshire people know so well how to give. But to my amazement he was unable to afford us the one thing which we really desired. "I've been coming this way, man and boy, for forty years," he assured me. "But I can't read the chart, and I knows no more of the lay of the land than you does yourself. I don't use no chart beyond what's in my head." With this we were naturally not content, so we sent back to the boat for our own sheet chart to try and get more satisfactory information. But when it lay on the table in this old shellback's cabin all he did was to put down on it a huge and horny thumb that was nearly large enough to cover the whole historic island, and "guess we were somewhere just about here." Our cruise carried us all round the island--the larger part of our time being spent off the Vestmann Islands and the mouth of Brede Bugt, the large bay in which Reikyavik lies. It was off these islands that Eric the Red threw his flaming sticks into the sea. The first brand which alighted on the land directed him where to locate his new headquarters. Reikyavik means "smoking village," so called from the vapours of the hot streams which come out of the ground near by. There is no night on the coast in summer; and even though we were a Mission ship we found it a real difficulty to keep tab of Sundays. The first afternoon that I went visiting aboard a large trawler, the extraordinary number of fish and the specimens of unfamiliar varieties kept me so interested that I lost all count of time, and when at last hunger prompted me to look at my watch I found that it was exactly 1.30 A.M. At that time so many plaice and flatfish were caught at every haul, and they were so much more valuable than cod and haddock, that it was customary not to burden the vessel on her long five days' journey to market with round fish at all. These were, however, hauled up so rapidly to the surface from great depths that they had no time to accommodate the tension in their swimming bladders to the diminished pressure, with the result that when thrown overboard they were all left swimming upside down. A pathetic wake of white-bellied fish would stretch away for half a mile behind the vessel, over which countless screaming gulls and other birds were fighting. A sympathy for their horribly unprotected helplessness always left an uneasy sinking feeling at the pit of my own stomach. The waste has, however, righted itself in the course of years by the simple process of an increasing scarcity of the species, making it pay to save all haddock, cod, hake, ling, and other fish good for food, formerly so ruthlessly cast away. One had many interesting experiences in this voyage, some of which have been of no small value subsequently. But the best lesson was the optimism and contentment of one's fellows, who had apparently so few of the things that only tyrannize the lives of those who live for them. They were a simple, kindly, helpful people, living in a country barren and frigid beyond all others, with no trees except in one extreme corner of the island. The cows were literally fed on salt codfish and the tails of whales, and the goats grazed on the roofs of the houses, where existed the only available grass. There were dry, hard, and almost larval deposits over the whole surface of the land which is not occupied by perpetual snow and ice. The hot springs which abound in some regions only suggest a forlorn effort on the part of Nature at the last moment to save the situation. The one asset of the country is its fisheries, and of these the whale and seal fisheries were practically handed over to Norwegians; while large French and English boats fell like wolves on the fish, which the poor natives had no adequate means of securing for themselves. We were fishing one day in Seyde Fjord on the east coast, when suddenly with much speed and excitement the great net was hauled, and we started with several other trawlers to dash pell-mell for the open sea. The alarm of masts and smoke together on the horizon had been given--the sign manual of the one poor Danish gunboat which was supposed to control the whole swarm of far smarter little pirates, which lived like mosquitoes by sucking their sustenance from others. The water was as a general rule too deep outside the three-mile limit for legitimate fishing. The mention of Iceland brings to every one's mind the name of Pierre Loti. We saw many of the "pêcheurs d'islande" whom he so effectively portrays; and often felt sorry enough for them, fishing as they still were from old square-rigged wind-jammers. On some of these which had been months on the voyage, enough green weed had grown "to feed a cow"--as the mate put it. On our return home we reported the need of a Mission vessel on the coast, but the difficulty of her being where she was wanted at the right time, over such an extended fishery ground, was very considerable. We decided that only a steam hospital trawler would be of any real value--unless a small cottage hospital could be started in Seyde Fjord, to which the sick and injured could be taken. It was now thought wise that I should take a holiday, and thus through the kindness of my former chief, Sir Frederick Treves, then surgeon to the King, whose life he had been the means of saving, I found myself for a time his guest on the Scilly Islands. There we could divert our minds from our different occupations, conjuring up visions of heroes like Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who lost his life here, and of the scenes of daring and of death that these beautiful isles out in the Atlantic have witnessed. Nor did we need Charles Kingsley to paint for us again the visit of Angus Lee and Salvation Yeo, for Sir Frederick, as his book, "The Cradle of the Deep," shows, is a past-master in buccaneer lore. Besides that we had with us his nephew, the famous novel writer, A.E.W. Mason. Treves, with his usual insatiable energy, had organized a grand regatta to be held at St. Mary's, at which the Governor of the island, the Duke of Wellington, and a host of visiting big-wigs were to be present. One event advertised as a special attraction was a life-saving exhibition to be given by local experts from the judges' stage opposite the grand stand on the pier. This, Mason and I, being little more than ornaments in the other events, decided to try and improve upon. Dressed as a somewhat antiquated lady, just at the psychological moment Mason fell off the pier head with a loud scream--when, disguised as an aged clergyman, wildly gesticulating, and cramming my large beaver hat hard down on my head, I dived in to rescue him. A real scene ensued. We were dragged out with such energy that the lady lost her skirt, and on reaching the pier fled for the boat-house clad only in a bonnet and bodice over a bathing-suit. Although the local press wrote up the affair as genuine, the secret somehow leaked out, and we had to make our bow at the prize distribution the following evening. Only parts of the winter seasons could be devoted to raising money. The general Mission budget had to be taken care of as well as the special funds; besides which one had to superintend the North Sea work. Thus the summer of 1897 was spent in Iceland as above described, and some of the winter in the North Sea. The spring, summer, and part of the fall of 1898 were occupied by the long Irish trip, which established work among the spring herring and mackerel men from Crookhaven. On leaving England for one of these North Sea trips I was delayed and missed the hospital ship, so that later I was obliged to transfer to her on the high seas from the little cutter which had kindly carried me out to the fishing grounds. Friends had been good enough to give me several little delicacies on my departure, and I had, moreover, some especially cherished personal possessions which I desired to have with me on the voyage. These choice treasures consisted of some eggs, a kayak, a kodak, a chronometer, and a leg of mutton! After I was safely aboard the Mission hospital ship I found to my chagrin that in my anxiety to transfer the eggs, the kayak, the kodak, the chronometer, and especially the leg of mutton to the Albert, I had forgotten my personal clothing. I appreciated the fact that a soaking meant a serious matter, as I had to stay in bed till my things, which were drenched during my passage in the small boat, were dry again. It was on this same voyage that a man, badly damaged, sent off for a doctor. It was a dirty dark morning, "thick o' rain," and a nasty sea was running, but we were really glad of a chance of doing anything to relieve the monotony. So we booted and oil-skinned, sou'-westered and life-jacketed, till we looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and felt much as I expect a German student does when he is bandaged and padded till he can hardly move, preparatory to his first duel. The boat was launched and eagerly announcing the fact by banging loudly and persistently on the Albert's side. Our two lads, Topsy and Sam, were soon in the boat, adopting the usual North Sea recipe for transit: (1) Lie on the rail full length so as not to get your legs and hands jammed. (2) Wait till the boat bounces in somewhere below you. (3) Let go! It is not such a painful process as one might imagine, especially when one is be-padded as we were. The stretcher was now handed in, and a bag of splints and bandages. "All gone!" shouted simultaneously the mate and crew, who had risked a shower bath on deck to see us off; and after a vicious little crack from the Albert's quarter as we dropped astern, we found ourselves rushing away before the rolling waters, experiencing about the same sensation one can imagine a young sea-gull feels when he begins to fly. While the skipper was at work in the tobacco locker one morning he heard a fisherman say that he had taken poison. "Where did you get it?" "I got it from the Albert." "Who gave it to you?" "Skipper ----" mentioning the skipper's name. At this the skipper came out trembling, wondering what he had done wrong now. "Well, you see it was this way. Our skipper had a bad leg, so as I was going aboard for some corf mixture, he just arst me to get him a drop of something to rub in. Well, the skipper here gives me a bottle of red liniment for our skipper's leg, and a big bottle of corf mixture for me, but by mistake I drinks the liniment and gave the corf mixture to our skipper to rub in his leg. I only found out that there yesterday, so I knew I were poisoned, and I've been lying up ever since." "How long ago did you get the medicine?" "About a fortnight." This man had got it into his head that he was poisoned, and nothing on earth would persuade him to the contrary, so he was put to bed in the hospital. For three meals he had nothing but water and a dose of castor oil. By the next time dinner came round the patient really began to think he was on the mend, and remarked that "he began to feel real hungry like." It was just marvellous how much better he was before tea. He went home to his old smack, cured, and greatly impressed with the capacity of the medical profession. The first piece of news that reached us in the spring was that the Sir Donald had been found frozen in the floe ice far out on the Atlantic. No one was on board her, and there was little of any kind in her, but even the hardy crew of Newfoundland sealers who found her, as they wandered over the floating ice-fields in search of seals, did not fail to appreciate the weird and romantic suggestions of a derelict Mission steamer, keeping her lonely watch on that awful, deathlike waste. She had been left at Assizes Harbour, usually an absolutely safe haven of rest. But she was not destined to end her chequered career so peacefully, for the Arctic ice came surging in and froze fast to her devoted sides, then bore her bodily into the open sea, as if to give her a fitting burial. The sealing ship Ranger passed her a friendly rope, and she at length felt the joyful life of the rolling ocean beneath her once more, and soon lay safely ensconced in the harbour at St. John's. Here she was sold by auction, and part of the proceeds divided as her ransom to her plucky salvors. The money which could be especially devoted to the new steamer for Labrador, over and above the general expenses, was not forthcoming until 1899, when the contract for building the ship was given to a firm at Dartmouth in Devon. The chief donor of the new boat was again Lord Strathcona, after whom she was subsequently named. On June 27, 1899, the Strathcona was launched, and christened by Lady Curzon-Howe. When the word was given to let go, without the slightest hitch or roll the ship slid steadily down the ways into the water. The band played "Eternal Father," "God save the Queen," and "Life on the Ocean Wave." Lord Curzon-Howe was formerly commodore upon the station embracing the Newfoundland and Labrador coast. Lord Strathcona regretted his enforced absence and sent "Godspeed" to the new steamer. She arrived at Gorleston July 18, proving an excellent sea-boat, with light coal consumption. She is larger than the vessel in which Drake sailed round the world, or Dampier raided the Spanish Main, or than the Speedy, which Earl Dundonald made the terror of the French and Spanish. In the fall of 1899 the hull of the Strathcona was completely finished, and I brought her round, an empty shell, to fit her up at our Yarmouth wharf; after which, in company with a young Oxford friend, Alfred Beattie, we left for the Labrador, crossing to Tilt Cove, Newfoundland, direct from Swansea in an empty copper ore tanker, the Kilmorack. On this I was rated as purser at twenty-five cents for the trip. Most tramps can roll, but an empty tanker going west against prevailing winds in the "roaring forties" can certainly give points to the others. Her slippery iron decks and the involuntary sideways excursions into the scuppers still spring into my mind when a certain Psalm comes round in the Church calendar, with its "that thy footsteps slip not." We were a little delayed by what is known as wind-jamming, and we used to kill time by playing tennis in the huge empty hold. This occupation, under the circumstances, supplied every kind of diversion. The mine at Tilt Cove is situated in a hole in the huge headland which juts out far into the Atlantic, in the northern end of Newfoundland. Communication in these days was very meagre. No vessel would be available for us to get North for a fortnight. It so happened, however, that the Company's doctor had long been waiting a chance to get married, but his contract never allowed him to leave the mine without a medical man while it was working. I therefore found myself welcomed with open arms, and incidentally practising in his place the very next day--he having skipped in a boat after his bride. The exchange had been ratified by the captain of the mine on the assurance that I would not leave before he returned. It was absolutely essential that I should not let the next north-bound steamer go by. The season was already far advanced; and yet when the day on which she was due arrived, there was no sign of the doctor and his wife. It was a kind of Damon and Pythias experience--only Pythias got back late by a few hours in spite of all his efforts, and Damon would have had to pay the piper if the captain of the mine had not permitted me to proceed. [Illustration: THE STRATHCONA] The narrow road around the cavernous basin in the cliffs leaves only just room for the line of houses between the lake in the middle and the precipice behind. Only a few years later an avalanche overwhelmed the house of Captain Williams, and he and his family perished in it. During the days I was at the mine the news travelled by grapevine telegraph that the Mission doctor from England had come to the village, and every one took advantage of it. The plan there was to pay so much per month, well or ill, for the doctor. The work was easy at first, but by the time I left every living being seemed to me to have contracted some disease. For each succeeding day my surgery got fuller, until on the last morning even the yard and road contained waiting patients. Whose fault it was has always been a problem to me; but it added a fresh reason for wishing to leave punctually, so that one might not risk outliving one's reputation. In October, 1899, I wrote to my mother: "We have just steamed into Battle Harbour and guns and flags gave us a welcome after our three years' absence. The hospital was full and looked splendid. What a change from the day, now seven years ago, that we first landed and had only a partially finished house! What an oasis for patients from the bleak rocks outside! I never thought to remain so long in this country." Here we boarded the little Mission steamer, but no human agency is perfect, and even the Julia Sheriden had her faults. Her gait on this fall voyage was suggestive of inebriety, and at times gave rise to the anxious sensations one experiences when one sees a poor victim of the saloon returning home along a pavement near much traffic. While in England we had received letters from the north coast of Newfoundland, begging us to again include their shores in our visits, and especially to establish a definite winter station at St. Anthony. The people claimed, and rightly, to be very poor. One man with a large family, whom I knew well, as he had acted guide for me on hunting expeditions, wrote: "Come and start a station here if you can. My family and I are starving." Dr. Aspland wrote that every one was strongly in favour of our taking up a Mission hospital in North Newfoundland. We felt that we should certainly reach a very large number of people whom we now failed to touch, and that careful inquiries should be made. Life on the French shore has been a struggle with too many families to keep off actual starvation. For instance, one winter at St. Anthony a man with a large family, and a fine, capable, self-respecting fellow, was nine days without tasting any flour or bread, or anything besides roast seal meat. Others were even worse off, for this man was a keen hunter, and with his rickety old single-barrel, boy's muzzle-loading gun used to wander alone far out over the frozen sea, with an empty stomach as well, trying to get a seal or a bird for his family. At last he shot a square flipper seal and dragged it home. The rumour of his having killed it preceded his arrival, and even while skinning it a crowd of hungry men were waiting for their share of the fat. Not that any was due to them, but here there is a delightful semi-community of goods. Fish was then only fetching two or three dollars a hundredweight, salted and dried. The price of necessities depended on the conscience of the individual supplier and the ignorance of the people. The truck system was universal; thrift at a discount--and the sin of Ananias an all too common one; that is, taking supplies from one man and returning to him only part of the catch. The people in the north end of Newfoundland and Labrador were very largely illiterate; the sectarian schools split up the grants for teachers--as they still most unfortunately do--and miserable salaries, permitting teachers only for a few months at a time, were the rule. I had once spent a fortnight at St. Anthony, having taken refuge there in the Princess May when I was supposed to be lost by those who were cut off from communication with us. I had also looked in there each summer to see a few patients. My original idea was to get a winter place established for our Indian Harbour staff, and I proposed opening up there each October when Indian Harbour closed, and closing in June when navigation was reopened, Battle Harbour again accessible, and when the man-of-war doctors are more on this section of the coast. The snow was deep on the ground long before our voyage ended. There is always a romantic charm about cruising in the fall of the year on the Labrador. The long nights and the heavy gales add to the interest of the day's work. The shelter of the islands becomes a positive joy; the sense of safety in the harbours and fjords is as real a pleasure as the artificial attractions of civilization. The tang of the air, the young ice that makes every night, the fantastic midnight dances of the November auroras in the winter sky, all make one forget the petty worries of the daily round. As Beattie agreed to stay with me it was with real keenness to sample a sub-arctic winter that in November we disembarked from the Julia Sheriden. We made only the simplest preparations, renting a couple of rooms in the chief trader's house and hiring my former guide as dog-driver. CHAPTER XI FIRST WINTER AT ST. ANTHONY Not one of the many who have wintered with us in the North has failed to love our frozen season. To me it was one long delight. The dog-driving, the intimate relationships with the people on whom one was so often absolutely dependent, the opportunity to use to the real help of good people in distress the thousand and one small things which we had learned--all these made the knowledge that we were shut off from the outside world rather a pleasure than a cause for regret. Calls for the doctor were constant. I spent but three Sundays at home the whole time, and my records showed fifteen hundred miles covered with dogs. The Eskimo dog is so strong and enduring that he is the doyen of traction power in the North, when long distances and staying qualities are required. But for short, sharp dashes of twenty to thirty miles the lighter built and more vivacious Straits dog is the speedier and certainly the less wolfish. We have attempted crossbreeding our somewhat squat-legged Eskimo dogs with Kentucky wolf hounds, to combine speed with endurance. The mail-carrier from Fullerton to Winnipeg found that combination very desirable. With us, however, it did not succeed. The pups were lank and weedy and not nearly so capable as the ordinary Straits breed. The real Labrador dog is a very slightly modified wolf. A good specimen stands two feet six inches, or even two feet eight inches high at the shoulder, measures over six feet six inches from the tip of the nose to the tip of the tail, and will scale a hundred pounds. The hair is thick and straight; the ears are pointed and stand directly up. The large, bushy tail curves completely over on to the back, and is always carried erect. The colour is generally tawny, like that of a gray wolf, with no distinctive markings. The general resemblance to wolves is so great that at Davis Inlet, where wolves come out frequently in winter, the factor has seen his team mixed with a pack of wolves on the beach in front of the door, and yet could not shoot, being unable to distinguish one from the other. The Eskimo dog never barks, but howls exactly like a wolf, in sitting posture with the head upturned. The Labrador wolf has never been known to kill a man, but during the years I have spent in that country I have known the dogs to kill two children and one man, and to eat the body of another. Our dogs have little or no fear, and unlike the wolves, will unhesitatingly attack even the largest polar bear. No amount of dry cold seems to affect the dogs. At 50° F. below zero, a dog will lie out on the ice and sleep without danger of frost-bite. He may climb out of the sea with ice forming all over his fur, but he seems not to mind one iota. I have seen his breath freeze so over his face that he had to rub the coating off his eyes with his paws to enable him to see the track. The dogs have a wonderful instinct for finding their way under almost insurmountable difficulties, and they have oftentimes been the means of saving the lives of their masters. Once I was driving a distance of seventy miles across country. The path was untravelled for the winter, and was only a direction, not being cut or blazed. The leading dog had been once across the previous year with the doctor. The "going" had then been very bad; with snow and fog the journey had taken three days. A large part of the way lay across wide frozen lakes, and then through woods. As I had never been that way before I had to leave it to the dog. Without a single fault, as far as we knew, he took us across, and we accomplished the whole journey in twelve hours, including one and a half hours for rest and lunch. [Illustration: THREE OF THE DOCTOR'S DOGS] The distance travelled and the average speed attained depends largely on other factors than the dog power. We have covered seventy-five miles in a day with comfort; we have done five with difficulty. Ordinary speed would be six miles an hour, but I once did twenty-one miles in two hours and a quarter over level ice. Sails can sometimes be used with advantage on the komatik as an adjunct. The whole charm of dog-team driving lies in its infinite variety of experiences, the personal study of each dog, and the need for one's strength, courage, and resourcefulness. South and north of the little village of St. Anthony where we had settled were other similar villages; and we decided that we could make a round tour every second month at least. We soon found, however, a great difficulty in getting started, because we always had some patients in houses near about, whom we felt that we could not leave. So we selected a motherly woman, whom we had learned that we could trust to obey orders and not act on her own initiative and judgment, and trained her as best we could to deal with some of these sick people. Then, having borrowed and outfitted a couple of rooms in a friend's house, we left our serious cases under her care, and started for a month's travel with all the optimism of youth. Weight on your komatik is a vital question, and not knowing for what you may be called upon, makes the outfitting an art. I give the experience of years. The sledge should be eleven feet long. Its runners should be constructed of black spruce grown in the Far North where wood grows slowly and is very tough, and yet quite light. The runners should be an inch thick, eleven inches high, and about twenty-six inches apart, the bottoms rising at the back half an inch, as well as at the front toward the horns. The laths are fastened on with alternate diagonal lashings, are two inches wide, and close together. Such a komatik will "work" like a snake, adapting itself to the inequalities of the ground, and will not spread or "buckle." Long nails are driven up right through the runners, and clinched on the top to prevent splitting. The runners should be shod with spring steel, one inch wide; and a second runner, two and a half inches wide, may be put between the lower one and the wood, to hold up the sledge when the snow is soft. Thus one has on both a skate and a snowshoe at once. The dogs' traces should be of skin and fastened with toggles or buttons to the bowline. Dog food must be distributed along the komatik trail in summer--though the people will make great sacrifices to feed "the Doctor's team." Clothing must be light; to perspire in cold weather is unpardonable, for it will freeze inside your clothes at night. Fortunately warmth depends only on keeping heat in; and we find an impervious, light, dressed canvas best. The kossak should be made with, so to speak, no neck through which the heat which one produces can leak out. The headpiece must be attached to the tunic, which also clips tight round the wrists and round the waist to retain the heat. The edges may be bound with fur, especially about the hood, so as to be soft and tight about the face, and to keep the air out. The Eskimo cuts his own hair so as to fill that function. Light sealskin boots are best for all weathers, but in very cold, dry seasons, deerskin dressed very soft is warmer. The skin boot should be sewn with sinew which swells in water and thus keeps the stitches water-tight. These skin boots are made by the Eskimo women who chew the edges of the skin to make them soft before sewing them with deer sinew. The little Eskimo girls on the North Labrador coast are proficient in the art of chewing, as they are brought up from childhood to help their mothers in this way, the women having invariably lost their teeth at a very early age. A light rifle should always be lashed on the komatik, as a rabbit, a partridge, or a deer gives often a light to the eyes with the fresh proteids they afford, like Jonathan's wild honey. In these temperatures, with the muscular exercise required, my strictest of vegetarian friends should permit us to bow in the House of Rimmon. One day while crossing a bay I noticed some seals popping up their heads out of the water beyond the ice edge. I had a fine leading dog bearing the unromantic name of Podge, and pure white in colour. But he was an excellent water dog, trained not only to go for birds, but to dive under water for sunken seals. Owing to their increasing fat in winter, seals as a rule float, though they invariably sink in summer. On this particular occasion, having hitched up the team we crept out to the ice edge, Podge following at my heels. Lying still on the ice, and just occasionally lifting and waggling one's leg when the seal put up his head, he mistook one for a basking brother, and being a very curious animal, he again dived, and came up a few feet away. We shot two, both of which Podge dived after and retrieved, to the unbounded joy both of ourselves and his four-footed chums, who more than gladly shared the carcasses with him later. A friend, returning from an island, was jogging quietly along on the bay ice, when his team suddenly went wild. A bear had crossed close ahead, and before he could unlash his rifle the komatik had dashed right onto the animal, who, instead of running, stood up and showed fight. The team were all around him, rapidly snarling themselves up in their own traces. He had just time to draw his hunting knife across the traces and so save the dogs, caring much more for them than he did for the prey. Whilst his dogs held the attention of the bear, he was able, though only a few feet away, to unlash his rifle at his leisure, and very soon ended the conflict. A gun, however, is a temptation, even to a doctor, and nearly cost one of my colleagues his life. He was crossing a big divide, or neck of land, between bays, and was twenty miles from anywhere, when his dogs took the trail of some deer, which were evidently not far off. Being short of fresh food, he hitched up his team, and also his pilot's team, leaving only his boy driver in charge, while the men pursued the caribou. He enjoined the boy very strictly not to move on any account. By an odd freak a sudden snowstorm swept out of a clear sky just after they left. They missed their way, and two days later, starving and tired out, they found their first refuge, a small house many miles from the spot where they had left the sledges. When, however, they sent a relief team to find the komatiks, they discovered the boy still "standing by" his charge. When crossing wide stretches of country we are often obliged to camp if it comes on dark. It is quite impossible to navigate rough country when one cannot see stumps, windfalls, or snags; and I have more than once, while caught in a forest looking for our tilt, been obliged to walk ahead with a light, and even to search the snow for tracks with the help of matches, when one's torch has carelessly been left at home. On one occasion, having stopped our team in deep snow at nightfall, we left it in the woods to walk out to a village, only five or six miles distant, on our snowshoes. We entirely lost our way, and ended up at the foot of some steep cliffs which we had climbed down, thinking that our destination lay at their feet. The storm of the day had broken the sea ice from the land, and we could not get round the base of the cliffs, though we could see the village lights twinkling away, only a mile or two across the bay. Climbing steep hills through dense woods in deep snow in the dark calls for some endurance, especially as a white snow-bank looks like an open space through the dark trees. I have actually stuck my face into a perpendicular bluff, thinking that I was just coming out into the open. Oddly enough, when after much struggling we had mounted the hill, we heard voices, and suddenly met two men, who had also been astray all day, but now knew the way home. They were "all in" for want of food, and preferred camping for the night. A good fire and some chunks of sweet cake so greatly restored them, however, that we got under way again in a couple of hours, further stimulated to do so by the bitter cold, against which, in the dark, we could not make adequate shelter. Moreover, we had perspired with the violent exercise and our clothes were freezing from the inside out. [Illustration: A Hilly Trail A KOMATIK JOURNEY] [Illustration: Crossing a Brook A KOMATIK JOURNEY] You must always carry an axe, not only for firewood, but for getting water--unless you wish to boil snow, which is a slow process, and apt to burn your kettle. Also when you have either lost the trail or there is none, you must have an axe to clear a track as you march ahead of your dogs. Then there is, of course, the unfortunate question of food. Buns baked with chopped pork in them give one fine energy-producing material, and do not freeze. A sweet hard biscuit is made on the coast which is excellent in one's pocket. Cocoa, cooked pork fat, stick chocolate, are all good to have. Our sealers carry dry oatmeal and sugar in their "nonny bags," which, mixed with snow, assuage their thirst and hunger as well. Pork and beans in tins are good, but they freeze badly. I have boiled a tin in our kettle for fifteen minutes, and then found a lump of ice in the middle of the substance when it was turned out into the dish. Winter travelling on this coast oftentimes involves considerable hardships, as when once our doctor lost the track and he and his men had to spend several nights in the woods. They were so reduced by hunger that they were obliged to chew pieces of green sealskin which they cut from their boots and to broil their skin gloves over a fire which they had kindled. One great joy which comes with the work is the sympathy one gets with the really poor, whether in intelligence, physical make-up, or worldly assets. One learns how simple needs and simple lives preserve simple virtues that get lost in the crush of advancing civilization. Many and many a time have the poor people by the wayside refused a penny for their trouble. On one occasion I came in the middle of the night to a poor man's house. He was in bed and the lights out, and it was bitter cold. He got out of bed in a trice and went down to his stage carrying an old hurricane lantern to feed my dogs, while his wife, after he had lit a fire in the freezing cold room, busied herself making me some cocoa. Milk and sugar were provided, and not till long afterwards did I know that it was a special little hoard kept for visitors. Later I was sent to bed--quite unaware that the good folk had spent the first part of the night in it, and were now themselves on the neighbouring floor. Nor would a sou's return be asked. "It's the way of t' coast," the good fellow assured me. Another time my host for the night had gone when I rose for breakfast. I found that he had taken the road which I was intending to travel to the next village, some fourteen miles distant, just to break and mark a trail for us as we did not know the way; and secondly to carry some milk and sugar to "save the face" of my prospective host for the next day, who had "made a bad voyage" that year. Still another time no less than forty men from Conche marched ahead on a twenty-mile track to make it possible for our team to travel quickly to a neighbouring settlement. Often I have thought how many of these things would I do for my poorer friends. We who speak glibly of the need of love for our neighbours as being before that for ourselves, would we share a bed, a room, or give hospitality to strangers even in our kitchens, after they had awakened us in the middle of the night by slinging snowballs at our bedroom windows? One day that winter a father of eight children sent in from a neighbouring island for immediate help. His gun had gone off while his hand was on the muzzle, and practically blown it to pieces. To treat him ten miles away on that island was impossible, so we brought him in for operation. To stop the bleeding he had plunged his hand into a flour barrel and then tied it up in a bag, and as a result the wounded arm was poisoned way up above the elbow. He preferred death to losing his right arm. Day and night for weeks our nurse tended him, as he hovered between life and death with general blood poisoning. Slowly his fine constitution brought him through, and at last a secondary operation for repair became possible. We took chances on bone-grafting to form a hand; and he was left with a flipper like a seal's, able, however, to oppose one long index finger and "nip a line" when he fished. But there was no skin for it. So Dr. Beattie and I shared the honours of supplying some. Pat--for that was his name--has been a veritable apostle of the hospital ever since, and has undoubtedly been the means of enabling others to risk the danger of our suspected proselytizing. For though he had English Episcopal skin on the palm of his hand and Scotch Presbyterian skin on the back, the rest of him still remained a devout Roman Catholic. Another somewhat parallel case occurred the following year, when a dear old Catholic lady was hauled fifty miles over the snow by her two stalwart sons, to have her leg removed for tubercular disease of the ankle. She did exceedingly well, and the only puzzle which we could not solve was where to raise the necessary hundred dollars for a new leg--for her disposition, even more than her necessity, compelled her to move about. While lecturing that winter in America, I asked friends to donate to me any of their old legs which they no longer needed, and soon I found myself the happy possessor of two good wooden limbs, one of which exactly suited my requirements. A departed Methodist had left it, and the wife's clergyman, a Congregationalist, had handed it to me, an Episcopalian, and I had the joy of seeing it a real blessing to as good a Roman Catholic as I know. As the priest says, there is now at least one Protestant leg established in his parish. We once reached a house at midnight, found a boy with a broken thigh, and had to begin work by thawing out frozen board in order to plane it for splints, then pad and fix it, and finally give chloroform on the kitchen table. On another occasion we had to knock down a partition in a tiny cottage, make a full-length wooden bath, pitching the seams to make it water-tight, in order to treat a severe cellulitis. Now it would be a maternity case, now a dental one, now a gunshot wound or an axe cut with severed tendons to adjust, now pneumonia, when often in solitary and unlearned homes, we would ourselves do the nursing and especially the cooking, as that art for the sick is entirely uncultivated on the coast. The following winter I lectured in England and then crossed in the early spring to the United States and lectured both there and in Canada, receiving great kindness and much help for the work. As I have stated in the previous chapter we had raised, largely through the generosity of Lord Strathcona, the money for a suitable little hospital steamer, and she had been built to our design in England. I had steamed her round to our fitting yard at Great Yarmouth, and had her fitted for our work before sailing. While I was in America, my old Newfoundland crew went across and fetched her over, so that June found us once more cruising the Labrador coast. While working with the large fleet of schooners, which at that time fished in August and September from Cape Mugford to Hudson Bay Straits, I visited as usual the five stations of the Moravian Brethren. They were looking for a new place to put a station, and at their request I took their representative to Cape Chidley in the Strathcona. This northern end of Labrador is extremely interesting to cruise. The great Appalachian Mountain Range runs out here right to the water edge, and forms a marvellous sea-front of embattled cliffs from two thousand to three thousand feet in height. The narrow passages which here and there run far into the mountains, and represent old valleys scooped out by ice action, are dominated all along by frowning peaks, whose pointed summits betray the fact that they overtopped the ice stream in the glacial age. The sharp precipices and weather-worn sides are picked out by coloured lichens, and tiny cold-proof Arctic plants, and these, with the deep blue water and unknown vistas that keep constantly opening up as one steams along the almost fathomless fjords, afford a fascination beyond measure. Once before in the Sir Donald we had tried to navigate the narrow run that cuts off the island on which Cape Chidley stands from the mainland of Labrador, but had missed the way among the many openings, and only noted from a hilltop the course we should have taken, by the boiling current which we saw below, whose vicious whirlpools like miniature maelstroms poured like a dashing torrent from Ungava Bay into the Atlantic. It was, however, with our hearts somewhere near our mouths that we made an attempt to get through this year, for we knew nothing of the depth, except that the Eskimos had told us that large icebergs drove through at times. We could steam nine knots, and we essayed to cover the tide, which we found against us, as we neared the narrowest part, which is scarcely one hundred yards wide. The current carried us bodily astern, however, and glad enough we were to drive stern foremost into a cove on one side and find thirteen fathoms of water to hold on in till the tide should turn. When at last it did turn, and got under way, it fairly took us in its teeth, and we shot through, an impotent plaything on the heaving bosom of the resistless waters. We returned safely, with a site selected and a fair chart of the "Tickle" (Grenfell Tickle). When winter closed in, I arranged for an old friend, a clerk of the Hudson Bay Company, to stay with me at St. Anthony, and once more we settled down in rooms hired in a cottage. We had a driver, a team of dogs, and an arrangement with a paternal Government to help out by making an allowance of twenty-five cents for medicine for such patients as could not themselves pay that amount, and in those days the number was quite large. When early spring came the hospital question revived. An expedition into the woods was arranged, and with a hundred men and thrice as many dogs, we camped in the trees, and at the end of the fortnight came home hauling behind us the material for a thirty-six by thirty-six hospital. Being entirely new to us it proved a very happy experience. We were quartermasters and general providers. Our kitchen was dug down in thick woods through six feet of snow, and our main reliance was on boiled "doughboys"--the "sinkers" among which, with a slice of fat pork or a basin of bird soup, were as popular as lobster à la Newburg at Delmonico's or Sherry's. The next summer we had trouble with a form of selfishness which I have always heartily hated--the liquor traffic. Suppose we do allow that a man has a right to degrade his body with swallowing alcohol, he certainly has no more right to lure others to their destruction for money than a filibuster has a right to spend his money in gunpowder and shoot his fellow countrymen. To our great chagrin we found that an important neighbour near one of our hospitals was selling intoxicants to the people--girls and men. One girl found drunk on the hillside brought home to me the cost of this man's right to "do as he liked." We promptly declared war, and I thanked God who had made "my hands to war, and my fingers to fight"--when that is the only way to resist the Devil successfully and to hasten the kingdom of peace. This man and I had had several disagreements, and I had been warned not to land on the premises on pain of being "chucked into the sea." But when I tested the matter out by landing quite alone from a row-boat, after a "few wor-r-r-ds" his coast-born hospitality overcame him, and as his bell sounded the dinner call, he promptly invited me to dine with him. I knew that he would not poison the food, and soon we were glowering at one another over his own table--where his painful efforts to convince me that he was right absolutely demonstrated the exact opposite. My chance came that summer. We were steaming to our Northern hospital from the deep bay which runs in a hundred and fifty miles. About twenty miles from the mouth a boat hailed us out of the darkness, and we stopped and took aboard a wrecked crew of three men. They had struck our friend's well-insured old steam launch on a shoal and she had sunk under them. We took them aboard, boat and all, wrote down carefully their tale of woe, and then put the steamer about, pushed as near the wreck as we dared and anchored. Her skipper came forward and asked me what I intended doing, and I told him I was going to survey the wreck. A little later he again came to ask permission to go aboard the wreck to look for something he had forgotten. I told him certainly not. Just before sunrise the watch called me and said that the wrecked crew had launched their boat, and were rowing toward the steamer. "Launch ours at once, and drive them back" was an order which our boys obeyed with alacrity and zest. It was a very uneasy three men who faced me when they returned. They were full of bluff at what they would do for having their liberties thus interfered with, but obviously uneasy at heart. With some labour we discovered that the water only entered the wreck at low tide and forward; so by buoying her with casks, tearing up her ballast deck, and using our own pumps as well as buckets--at which all hands of my crew worked with a good will, we at last found the hole. It was round. There were no splinters on the inside. We made a huge bung from a stick of wood, plugged the opening, finished pumping her out, and before dark had her floating alongside us. Late that night we were once more anchored--this time opposite the dwelling-house of my friend the owner. We immediately went ashore and woke him up. There is a great deal in doing things at the psychological moment; and by midnight I had a deed duly drawn up, signed and sealed, selling me the steamer for fifty cents. I still see the look in his eyes as he gave me fifty cents change from a dollar. He was a self-made man, had acquired considerable money, and was keen as a ferret at business. The deed was to me a confession that he was in the plot for barratry, to murder the boat for her insurance. On our trip South we picked up the small steamer, and towing her to a Hudson Bay Company's Post we put her "on the hard," photographed the hole, with all the splintering on the outside, and had a proper survey of the hull made by the Company's shipwright. The unanimous verdict was "wilful murder." In the fall as her own best witness, we tried to tow her to St. John's, but in a heavy breeze of wind and thick snow we lost her at sea--and with her our own case as well. The law decided that there was no evidence, and my friend, making out that he had lost the boat and the insurance, threatened to sue me for the value. The sequel of the story may as well be told here. A year or so later I had just returned from Labrador. It used to be said always that our boat "brought up the keel of the Labrador"; but this year our friend had remained until every one else had gone. Just as we were about to leave for England, the papers in St. John's published the news of the loss of a large foreign-going vessel, laden with fish for the Mediterranean, near the very spot where our friend lived. On a visit a little later to the shipping office I found the event described in the graphic words of the skipper and mate. Our friend the consignee had himself been on board at the time the "accident" occurred. After prodigies of valour they had been forced to leave the ship, condemn her, and put her up for sale. Our friend, the only buyer at such a time on the coast, had bought her in for eighty dollars. It was the end of November, and already a great deal of ice had made. The place was six hundred miles north. The expense of trying to save the ship would be great. But was she really lost? The heroics sounded too good to be true. All life is a venture. Why not take one in the cause of righteousness? That night in a chartered steam trawler, with a trusty diver, we steamed out of the harbour, steering north. Our skipper was the sea rival of the famous Captain Blandford; and the way he drove his little craft, with the ice inches thick from the driving spray all over the bridge and blocking the chart-room windows, made one glad to know that the good sea genius of the English was still so well preserved. When our distance was run down we hauled in for the land, but had to lay "hove to" (with the ship sugared like a Christmas cake), as we were unable to recognize our position in the drifting snow. At length we located the islands, and never shall I forget as we drew near hearing the watch call out, "A ship's topmasts over the land." It was the wreck we were looking for. It took some hours to cut through the ice in which she lay, before ever we could get aboard; and even the old skipper showed excitement when at last we stood on her deck. Needless to say, she was not upside down, nor was she damaged in any way, though she was completely stripped of all running gear. The diver reported no damage to her bottom, while the mate reported the fish in her hold dry, and the hatches still tightly clewed, never having been stirred. With much hearty good-will our crew jettisoned fish enough into our own vessel to float the craft. Fearing that so late in the year we might fail to tow her safely so far, and remembering the outcome of our losing the launch, we opened the stores on the island, and finding both block and sails, neatly labelled and stowed away, we soon had our prize not only refitted for sea, but also stocked with food, water, chart, and compass and all essentials for a voyage across the Atlantic, if she were to break loose and we to lose her. The last orders were to the mate, who was put on board her with a crew, "If not St. John's then Liverpool." No such expedient, however, proved necessary. Though we had sixty fathoms of anchor chain on each of our wire cables to the ship, we broke one in a seaway and had to haul under the lee of some cliffs and repair damages. Often for hours together the vessel by day and her lights by night would disappear, and our hearts would jump into our mouths for fear we might yet fail. But at last, with all our bunting up, and both ships dressed as if for a holiday, we proudly entered the Narrows of St. John's, the cynosure of all eyes. The skipper and our friend had gone to England, so the Government had them extradited. The captain, who was ill with a fatal disease, made a full confession, and both men were sent to prison. That was how we "went dry" in our section of Labrador. CHAPTER XII THE COÖPERATIVE MOVEMENT Being a professional and not a business man, and having no acquaintance with the ways of trade, the importance of a new economic system as one of the most permanent messages of helpfulness to the coast was not at first obvious to me. But the ubiquitous barter system, which always left the poor men the worst end of the bargain, is as subtle a danger as can face a community--subtle because it impoverishes and enslaves the victims, and then makes them love their chains. As a magistrate I once heard a case where a poor man paid one hundred dollars in cash to his trader in the fall to get him a new net. The trader could not procure the twine, and when spring arrived the man came to get on credit his usual advance of "tings." From the bill for these the trader deducted the hundred dollars cash, upon which the man actually came to me as a justice of the peace to have him punished! Lord Strathcona told me that in his day on this coast, when a man had made so good a hunt that he had purchased all he could think of, he would go round to the store again asking how much money was still due him. He would then take up purchases to exceed it by a moderate margin, saying that he liked to keep his name on the Company's books. In those days the people felt that they had the best part of the bargain if they were always a little in debt. The tendency to thrift was thus annihilated. The fishermen simply turned in all their catch to the merchant, and took what was coming to them as a matter of course. Many even were afraid to ask for certain supplies. This fact often became evident when we were trying to order special diets--the patient would reply, "Our trader won't give out that." Naturally the whole system horrified us, as being the nearest possible approach to English slavery, for the poor man was in constant fear that the merchant "will turn me off." On the other hand, the traders took precautions that their "dealers" should not be able to leave them, such as not selling them traps outright for furring, or nets for fishing, but only loaning them, and having them periodically returned. This method insured their securing all the fur caught, because legally a share of the catch belonged to them in return for the loan of the trap. They thus completely minimized the chance for competition, which is "the life of trade." Soon after my arrival on the coast I saw the old Hudson Bay Company's plan of paying in bone counters of various colours; and a large lumber company paying its wages in tin money, stamped "Only valuable at our store." If, to counteract this handicap, the men sold fish or fur for cash to outsiders, and their suppliers found it out, they would punish them severely. On another occasion, sitting by me on a gunning point where we were shooting ducks as they flew by on their fall migration, was a friend who had given me much help in building one of our hospitals. I suddenly noticed that he did not fire at a wonderful flock of eiders which went right over our heads. "What's the matter, Jim?" I asked. "I settled with the merchant to-day," he replied, "and he won't give me nothing for powder. A duck or two won't matter. 'Tis the children I'm minding." The fishery had been poor, and not having enough to meet his advances, he had sold a few quintals of fish for cash, so as to get things like milk which he would not be allowed on winter credit, and had been caught doing so. He was a grown man and the father of four children. We went to his trader to find out how much he was in debt. The man's account on the books was shown us, and it read over three thousand dollars against our friend. It had been carried on for many years. A year or two later when the merchant himself went bankrupt with a debt of $686,000 to the bank of which he was a director, the people of that village, some four hundred and eleven souls in all, owed his firm $64,000, an asset returned as value nil. The whole thing seemed a nightmare to any one who cared about these people. In Labrador no cereals are grown and the summer frosts make potato and turnip crops precarious, so that the tops of the latter are practically all the green food to which we can aspire--except for the few families who remain at the heads of the long bays all summer, far removed from the polar current. Furthermore, until some one invents a way to extract the fishy taste from our fish oils, we must import our edible fats; for the Labrador dogs will not permit cows or even goats to live near them. I have heard only this week that a process has just been discovered in California for making a pleasant tasting butter out of fish oil. Our "sweetness" must all be imported, for none of our native berries are naturally sweet, and we can grow no cultivated fruits. The same fact applies to cotton and wool. Thus nearly all our necessities of life have to be brought to us. Firewood, lumber, fish and game, boots or clothing of skins, are all that we can provide for ourselves. On the other hand, we must export our codfish, salmon, trout, whales, oil, fur, and in fact practically all our products. An exchange medium is therefore imperative; and we must have some gauge like cash by which to measure, or else we shall lose on all transactions; for all the prices of both exports and imports fluctuate very rapidly, and besides this, we had then practically no way to find out what prices were maintaining in our markets. Government relief had failed to stop the evils of the barter system. In the opinion of thinking men it only made matters worse. We were therefore from every point of view encouraged to start the coöperative plan which had proved so successful in England. I still believe that the people are honest, and that the laziness of indolence, from the stigma of which it is often impossible to clear them, is due to despair and inability to work properly owing to imperfect nourishment. Things went from bad to worse as the years went by. The fact of the sealing steamers killing the young seals before they could swim greatly impoverished the Labrador inshore seal fishery. The prices of fish were so low that a man could scarcely catch enough to pay for his summer expenses out of it. With us the matter came to a head in a little fishing village called Red Bay, on the north side of the Straits of Belle Isle. When we ran in there on our last visit one fall, we found some of our good friends packed up and waiting on their stages to see if we would remove them from the coast. A meeting was called that night to consider the problem, and it was decided that the people must try to be their own merchants, accepting the risks and sharing the profits. The fisherman's and trapper's life is a gamble, and naturally, therefore, they like credit advances, for it makes the other man carry the risks. We then and there decided, however, to venture a coöperative store, hiring a schooner to bring our freight and carry our produce straight to market; and if necessary eat grass for a year or so. Alas, after a year's saving the seventeen families could raise only eighty-five dollars among them for capital, and we had to loan them sufficient to obtain the first cargo. A young fisherman was chosen as secretary, and the store worked well from the beginning. That was in 1905. He is still secretary, and to-day in 1918 the five-dollar shares are worth one hundred and four dollars each, by the simple process of accumulation of profits. The loan has been repaid years ago. Not a barrow load of fish leaves the harbour except through the coöperative store. Due to it, the people have been able to tide over a series of bad fisheries; and every family is free of debt. [Illustration: THE FIRST COÖPERATIVE STORE] At the time of the formation one most significant fact was that every shareholder insisted that his name must not be registered, for fear some one might find out that he owned cash. They were even opposed to a label on the building to signify that it was a store. However, I chalked all over its face "Red Bay Coöperative Store." The whole effort met with very severe criticism, not to say hostility, at the hands of the smaller traders, but the larger merchants were most generous in their attitude, and though doubtful of the possibility of realizing a cash basis, were without exception favourable to the attempt. This store has been an unqualified success, only limited in its blessings by its lack of larger capital. It has enabled its members to live independently, free of debt and without want; while similar villages, both south and east and west, have been gradually deleted by the people being forced to leave through inability to meet their needs. During my first winter at St. Anthony, the young minister of the little church on more than one occasion happened to be visiting on his rounds in the very house where we were staying on ours, and the subject of coöperation was frequently discussed over the evening pipe with the friends in the place. He had himself been trading, and had so disliked the methods that he had retired. He would certainly help us to organize a store on the Newfoundland side of the Straits. At last the day arrived for the initial meeting. We gave notice everywhere. The chosen rendezvous was in a village fourteen miles north. The evening before, however, the minister sent word that he could not be present, as he had to go to a place twenty miles to the northwest to hold service. Knowing for how much his opinion counted in the minds of some of the people, this was a heavy blow, especially as the traders had notified me that they would all be on hand. Fortunately an ingenious suggestion was made--"He doesn't know the way. Persuade his driver, after starting out, to gradually work round and end up at the coöperative meeting." This was actually done, and our friend was present willy-nilly. He proved a broken reed, however, for in the face of the traders he went back on coöperation. As fortune would have it, our own komatik fell through the ice in taking a short cut across a bay, and we arrived late, having had to borrow some dry clothing from a fisherman on the way. Our trader friends had already appeared on the scene, and were joking the parson for being tricked, saying that evidently we had made a mistake and were really at Cape Norman, the place to which he had intended to go. It was a dark evening, crisp and cold, and hundreds of dogs that had hauled people from all over the countryside to the meeting made night dismal outside. We began our meeting with prayer for guidance, wisdom, and good temper, for we knew that we should need them all--and then we came down to statistics, prices, debts, possibilities, and the story of coöperation elsewhere. The little house was crammed to overflowing. But the fear of the old régime was heavy on the meeting. The traders occupied the whole time for speaking. Only one old fisherman spoke at all. He had been an overseas sailor in his early days, and he surprised himself by turning orator. His effort elicited great applause. "Doctor--I means Mr. Chairman--if this here copper store buys a bar'l of flour in St. John's for five dollars, be it going to sell it to we fer ten? That's what us wants to know." Outside, after the meeting, Babel was let loose. The general opinion was that there must be something to it or the traders would not have so much to say against the project. The upshot of the matter was that for a long time no one could be found who would take the managership; but at length the best-beloved fisherman on the shore stepped into the breach. He was not a scholar--in fact could scarcely read, write, and figure--but his pluck, optimism, and unselfishness carried him through. That little store has been preaching its vital truths ever since. It is a still small text, but it has had vast influences for good. There has proved to be one difficulty. It is the custom on the coast to give all meals to travellers free, both men and dogs, and lodging to boot. Customers came from so far away that they had to stay overnight at least, and of course it was always Harry's house to which they went. The profit on a twenty-five cent purchase was slender under these circumstances, and as cash was scarce in those days, a twenty-five-cent purchase was not so rare as might be supposed. We therefore printed, mounted, framed, and sent to our friend the legend, "No more free meals. Each meal will cost ten cents." Later we received a most grateful reply from him in his merry way, saying that he had hung up the card in his parlour, but begging us not to defer visits if we had not the requisite amount, as he was permitted to give credit to that extent. But when next we suddenly "blew in" to Harry's house, the legend was hanging with its face to the wall. Our third store was seventy-five miles to the westward at a place called Flowers Cove. Here the parson came in with a will. Being a Church of England man, he was a more permanent resident, and, as he said, "he was a poor man, but he would sell his extra pair of boots to be able to put one more share in the store." What was infinitely more important he put in his brains. Every one in that vicinity who had felt the slavery of the old system joined the venture. One poor Irishman walked several miles around the coast to catch me on my next visit, and secretly give me five dollars. "'Tis all I has in the world, Doctor, saving a bunch of children, but if it was ten times as large, you should have every cent of it for the store." "Thanks, Paddy, that's the talking that tells." For some years afterwards, every time that he knew I was making a visit to that part of the coast, he would come around seeking a private interview, and inquire after the health of "the copper store"; till he triumphantly brought another five dollars for a second share "out of my profits, Doctor." That store is now a limited liability company with a capital of ten thousand dollars owned entirely by the fishermen, it has paid consistently a ten per cent dividend every year, and is located in fine premises which it bought and owns outright. A fourth store followed near the lumber mill which we started to give winter labour at logging; but owing to bad management and lack of ability to say "no" to men seeking credit, it fell into debt and we closed it up. Number five almost shared the same fate. Unable to get local talent to manage it, we hired a Canadian whose pretensions proved unequal to his responsibility. He was, however, found out in time to reorganize the store; but the loss which he had caused was heavy, and it was his notice of leaving for Canada which alone betrayed the truth to us. The most serious aspect of the matter was that many of the local fishermen lost confidence in the ability of the store to succeed, and returning to the credit system, they found it modified enough to appear to them a lamb instead of a wolf. However, number five is growing all the time again and will yet be a factor in the people's deliverance. Numbers six and seven were in poor and remote parts of Labrador, very small, and with insufficient capital and brains. One has closed permanently. They were simply small stores under the care of one settler, who guaranteed to charge the people only a fixed percentage over St. John's prices for goods, as the return for his responsibility. Number eight was the result of a night spent in a miserable shack on a lonely promontory called Adlavik. God forbid that I should judge traders or doctors or lawyers or priests by their profession or their intellectual attitude. There are noble men in all walks of life. Alas, some are more liable than others to yield to temptation, and the temptations to which they are exposed are more insistent. Number nine was on the extreme northern edge of the white settlers at Ford's Harbour. The story of it is too long to relate, but the trade there, in spite of many difficulties, still continues to preach a gospel and spell much blessing to poor people. To help out, we have sent north to this station three of our boys from the orphanage, as they grew old enough to go out into the world for themselves. One disaster, in the form of a shipwreck, overtook the fine fellow in charge of this most northerly venture. For the first time in his life he came south, to seek a wife, his former wife having succumbed to tuberculosis. He brought with him his year's products of fur and skin boots. The mail steamer on which he was travelling struck a rock off Battle Harbour, and most of his goods were lost uninsured, he himself gladly enough escaping with his life. It remained for our tenth venture to bring the hardest battle, and in a sense the greatest measure of success. Spurred by the benefits of the Red Bay store, the people of a little village about forty miles away determined to combine also. The result was a fine store near our hospital at Battle Harbour--which during the first year did sixty thousand dollars' worth of business. This served to put a match to the explosive wrath of those whose opposition hitherto had been that of rats behind a wainscot. They secured from their friends a Government commission appointed to inquire into the work of the Mission as "a menace to honest trade." The leading petitioner had been the best of helpers to the first venture. When the traders affected by it had first boycotted the fish, he had sent his steamer and purchased it from the company. Now the boot was on the other leg. The Commission and even the lawyers have all told me that they were prejudiced against the whole Mission by hearsay and misinterpretations, before they even began their exhaustive inquiry. Their findings, however, were a complete refutation of all charges, and the best advertisement possible. It would not be the time to say that the whole coöperative venture has been an unqualified success; but the causes of failure in each case have been perfectly obvious, and no fault of the system. Lack of business ability has been the main trouble, and the lack of courage and unity which everywhere characterizes mankind, but is perhaps more emphasized on a coast where failure means starvation, and where the coöperative spirit has been rendered very difficult to arouse owing to mistrust born of religious sectarianism and denominational schools. These all militate very strongly against that unity which alone can enable labour to come to its own without productive ability. There is one aspect for which we are particularly grateful. Politics, at any rate, has not been permitted to intrude, and the stress laid on the need of brotherliness, forbearance, and self-development--if ever these producers are to reap the rewards of being their own traders--has been very marked. Only thus can they share in the balance of profit which makes the difference between plenty and poverty on this isolated coast. CHAPTER XIII THE MILL AND THE FOX FARM The argument for coöperation had been that life on the coast was not worth living under the credit system. A short feast and a long famine was the local epigram. If our profits could be maintained on the coast, and spent on the coast, then the next-to-nature life had enough to offer in character as well as in maintenance to attract a permanent population, especially with the furring in winter. For the actual figures showed that good hunters made from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars in a season, besides the salmon and cod fishery. There was, moreover, game for food, free firewood, water, homes, and no taxation except indirect in duties on their goods. These same conditions prevailed on the long, narrow slice of land known as the "French shore" in northern Newfoundland. There the people were more densely settled, the hinterland was small, and many therefore could not go furring. Moreover, the polar current, entering the mouth of the Straits of Belle Isle, makes this section of land more liable to summer frosts, with a far worse climate than the Labrador bays, and gardening is less remunerative. We puzzled our brains for some way to add to our earning capacities, some coöperative productive as well as distributive enterprise. The poverty which I had witnessed in Canada Bay in North Newfoundland, some sixty miles south of St. Anthony Hospital, had left me very keen to do something for that district which might really offer a solution of the problem. I had been told that there was plenty of timber to justify running a mill in the bay; but that no sawmills paid in Newfoundland. This was emphasized in St. John's by my friends who still own the only venture out of the eleven which have operated in that city that has been able to continue. They have succeeded by adopting modern methods and erecting a factory for making furniture, so as to supply finished articles direct to their customers. We knew that in our case labour would be cheaper than ordinarily, for our labour in winter had generally to go begging. It was mainly this fact which finally induced us to make the attempt. [Illustration: ST. ANTHONY] Having talked the matter over with the people we secured from the Government a special grant, as the venture, if it succeeded, would relieve them of the necessity of having poor-relief bills. The whole expense of the enterprise fell upon myself, for the Mission Board considered it outside their sphere; and already we had built St. Anthony Hospital in spite of the fact that they thought that we were undertaking more than they would be able to handle, and had discouraged it from the first. The people had no money to start a mill, and the circumstances prohibited my asking aid from outside, so it was with considerable anxiety that we ordered a mill, as if it were a pound of chocolates, and arranged with two young friends to come out from England as volunteers, except for their expenses, to help us through with the new effort. At the same time there was three hundred dollars to pay for the necessary survey and line cutting, and supplies of food for the loggers for the winter. Houses must also be erected and furnished. Ignorance undoubtedly supplied us with the courage to begin. Personally I knew nothing whatever of mills, having never even seen one. Nor had I seen the grant of land, or selected a site for the building. This was left entirely to the people themselves; and as none of them had ever seen a mill either, we all felt a bit uneasy about our capacities. I had left orders with the captain of the Coöperator (our schooner) to fetch the mill and put it where the people told him; but when I heard that there was one piece which included the boiler which weighed three tons, it seemed to me that they could never handle it. We had no wharf ready to receive it and no boat capable of carrying it. I woke many times that summer wondering if it had not gone to the bottom while they were attempting the landing. There was no communication whatever with them as we were six hundred miles farther north on our summer cruise; and we had not the slightest control over the circumstances in which we might become involved. It was late in the season and the snow was already deep on the ground when eventually we were piloted to the spot selected. It was nine miles up the bay on a well-wooded promontory of a side inlet. The water was deep to the shore and the harbour as safe as a house. The boys from England had arrived, and a small cottage had been erected, tucked away in the trees. It was very small, and very damp, the inside of the walls being white with frost in the morning until the fire had been under way for some time. But it was a merry crowd, emerging from various little hutlets around among the trees, which greeted the Strathcona. The big boiler, the "bugaboo" of my dreams all summer, lay on the bank. "How did you get it there?" was my first query. "We warped the vessel close to the land, and then hove her close ashore and put skids from the rocks off to her. On these we slid the boiler, all hands hauling it up with our tackles." Having left the few supplies which we had with us, for the Strathcona has no hold or carrying space, we returned to the hospital, mighty grateful for the successful opening of the venture. The survey had been completed and accepted by the Government, and though unfortunately it was but very poorly marked, and we have had lots of trouble since,--as we have never been able to say exactly where our boundaries lie, nor even to find marks enough to follow over the original survey again,--yet it enabled us to get to work, which was all that we wanted at the moment. The fresh problems at the hospital, and the constant demands on our energies, made Christmas and New Year go by with our minds quite alienated from the cares of the new enterprise. But when after Christmas the dogs had safely carried us over many miles of snow-covered wastes, and our immediate patients gave us a chance to look farther afield, I began to wonder if we might not pay the mill a visit. By land it was only fifty miles distant to the southward, possibly sixty if we had to go round the bays. The only difficulty about the trip was that there were no trails, and most of the way led through virgin forest, where windfalls and stumps and dense undergrowth mixed with snow made the ordinary obstacle race a sprint in the open in comparison. We knew what it meant, because in our eagerness to begin our dog-driving when the first snow came, we had wandered over small trees crusted with snow, fallen through, and literally floundered about under the crust, unable to climb to the top again. It was the nearest thing to the sensations of a man who cannot swim struggling under the surface of the water. Moreover, on a tramp with the minister, he had gone through his snow racquets and actually lost the bows later, smashing them all up as he repeatedly fell through between logs and tree-trunks and "tuckamore." His summons for help and the idea that there were still eight miles to go still haunted me. On that occasion we had cut down some spruce boughs and improvised some huge webbed feet for ourselves, which had saved the situation; but whether they would have served for twenty or thirty miles, we could not tell. Not so long before a man named Casey, bringing his komatik down the steep hill at Conche, missed his footing and fell headlong by a bush into the snow. The heavy, loaded sledge ran over him and pressed him still farther into the bank. Struggling only made him sink the deeper, and an hour later the poor fellow was discovered smothered to death. No one knew the way. We could not hear of a single man who had ever gone across in winter, though some said that an old fellow who had lived farther south had once carried the mails that way. At length we could stand it no longer, and arranging with four men and two extra teams, we started off. We hoped to reach the mill in two days, but at the end of that time we were still trying to push through the tangle of these close-grown forests. To steer by compass sounded easy, but the wretched instrument seemed persistently to point to precipitous cliffs or impenetrable thickets. There were no barren hilltops after the first twenty miles. Occasionally we would stop, climb a tree, and try to get a view. But climbing a conifer whose boughs are heavily laden with ice and snow is no joke, and gave very meagre returns. At last, however, we struck a high divide, and from an island in the centre of a lake, occupied only by two lone fir trees, we got a view both ways, showing the Cloudy Hills which towered over the south side of the bay in which the mill stood. A very high, densely wooded hill lay, however, directly in our path; and which way to get round it best none of us knew. We "tossed up" and went to the eastward--the wrong side, of course. We soon struck a river, and at once surmised that if we followed it, it must bring us to the head of the bay, which meant only three miles of salt water ice to cover. Alas, the stream proved very torrential. It leaped here and there over so many rapid falls that great canyons were left in the ice, and instead of being able to dash along as when first we struck it, we had painfully to pick our way between heavy ice-blocks, which sorely tangled up our traces, and our dogs ran great danger of being injured. Nor could we leave the river, for the banks were precipitous and utterly impassable with undergrowth. At length when we came to a gorge where the boiling torrent was not even frozen, and as prospects of being washed under the ice became only too vivid, we were forced to cut our way out on the sloping sides. The task was great fun, but an exceedingly slow process. It was altogether an exciting and delightful trip. Now we have a good trail cut and blazed, which after some years of experience we have gradually straightened out, with two tilts by the roadside when the weather makes camping imperative, or when delay is caused by having helpless patients to haul, till now it is only a "joy-ride" to go through that beautiful country "on dogs." There is always a challenge, however, left in that trail--just enough to lend tang to the toil of it. Once, having missed the way in a blizzard, we had to camp on the snow with the thermometer standing at twenty below zero. The problem was all the more interesting as we struck only "taunt" timberwoods with no undergrowth to halt the wind. On another occasion we attempted to cross Hare Bay, and one of the dogs fell through the ice. There was a biting wind blowing, and it was ten degrees below zero. When we were a mile off the land I got off the sledge to try the ice edge, when suddenly it gave way, and in I fell. It did not take me long to get out--the best advice being to "keep cool." I had as hard a mile's running as ever I experienced, for my clothing was fast becoming like the armour of an ancient knight; and though in my youth I had been accustomed to break the ice in the morning to bathe, I had never run in a coat of mail. Never shall I forget dragging ourselves in among those big trees with our axes, and tumbling to sleep in a grave in the snow, in spite of the elements. In this hole in a sleeping-bag, protected by the light drift which blew in, one rested as comfortably as in a more conventional type of feather bed. Nor, when I think of De Quincey's idea of supreme happiness before the glowing logs, can I forget that gorgeous blaze which the watch kept up by felling trees full length into the fire, so that our Yule logs were twenty feet long, and the ruddy glow and crackling warmth went smashing through the hurtling snowdrift. True, it was cold taking off our dripping clothing, which as it froze on us made progress as difficult as if we were encased in armour. But dancing up and down before a huge fire in the crisp open air under God's blue sky gave as pleasing a reaction as doing the same thing in the dusty, germ-laden atmosphere of a ballroom in the small hours of the night, when one would better be in bed, if the joys of efficiency and accomplishment are the durable pleasure of life. It was a real picnic which we had at the mill. Our visit was as welcome as it was unexpected, and we celebrated it by the whole day off, when all hands went "rabbiting." When at the end, hot and tired, we gathered round a huge log fire in the woods and discussed boiling cocoa and pork buns, we all agreed that it had been a day worth living for. Logging had progressed favourably. Logs were close at hand; and the whole enterprise spelled cash coming in that the people had never earned before. The time had also arrived to prepare the machinery for cutting the timber; boxes were being unpacked, and weird iron "parts" revealed to us, that had all the interest of a Chinese puzzle, with the added pleasure of knowing that they stood for much if we solved the problems rightly. When next we saw the mill it was spring, and the puffing smoke and white heaps of lumber that graced the point and met our vision as we rounded Breakheart Point will not soon be forgotten. Only one trouble had proved insurmountable. The log-hauler would not deliver the goods to the rotary saw. Later, with the knowledge that the whole apparatus was upside down, it did not seem so surprising after all. One accident also marred the year's record. While a party of children had been crossing the ice in the harbour to school, a treacherous rapid had caused it to give way and leave a number of them in the water. One of my English volunteers, being a first-class athlete, had by swimming saved five lives, but two had been lost, and the young fellow himself so badly chilled that it had taken the hot body of one of the fathers of the rescued children, wrapped up in bed with him in lieu of a hot-water bottle, to restore his circulation. The second fall was our hardest period. The bills for our lumber sold had not been paid in time for us to purchase the absolutely essential stock of food for the winter; and if we could not get a store of food, we knew that our men could not go logging. It was food, not cash, which they needed in the months when their own slender stock of provisions gave out, and when all communication was cut off by the frozen sea. For a venture which seemed to us problematical in its outcome, we did not dare to borrow money or to induce friends to invest; and of course Mission funds were not available. For the day has not yet arrived when all those who seek by their gifts to hasten the coming of the Kingdom of God on earth recognize that to give the opportunity to men to provide decently for their families and homes is as effective work for the Master, whose first attribute was love, as patching up the unfortunate victims of semi-starvation. The inculcation of the particular intellectual conception which the donor may hold of religion, or as to how, after death, the soul can get into heaven, is, as the result of the Church teaching, still considered far the most important line of effort. The emphasis on hospitals is second, partly at least because, so it has seemed to me as a doctor of medicine, the more obvious personal benefit thereby conferred renders the recipients more impressionable to the views considered desirable to promulgate. Yet only to-day, as I came home from our busy operating-room, I felt how little real gain the additional time on earth often is either to the world outside or even to the poor sufferers themselves. In order to have one's early teachings on these matters profoundly shaken, one has only to work as a surgeon in a country where tuberculosis, beri-beri, and other preventable diseases, and especially the chronic malnutrition of poverty fills your clinic with suffering children, who at least are victims and not responsible spiritually for their "punishment." Of course, the magnitude of service to the world of every act of unselfishness, and much more of whole lives of devotion, such as that of Miss Sullivan, the teacher of Miss Helen Keller, can never be rightly estimated by any purely material conception of human life. Love is dangerously near to sentimentality when we actually prefer remedial to prophylactic charity--and I personally feel that it is false economy even from the point of view of mission funds. The industrial mission, the educational mission, and the orphanage work at least rank with and should go hand in hand with hospitals in any true interpretation of a gospel of love. In subsequent years the nearest attempt to finance such commonly called "side issues of the work" has been with us through the medium of a discretionary fund. Into this are put sums of money specially given by personal friends, who are content to leave the allocation of their expenditure in the hands of the worker on the actual field. This fund is, of course, paid out in the same way as other mission funds, and is as strictly supervised by the auditors. While it leaves possibly more responsibility than some of us are worthy of, it enables individuality to play that part in mission business which every one recognizes to be all-important in the ordinary business of the world. No money, however, from this fund has ever gone into the mill or in assisting the coöperative stores. Sorry as one feels to confess it, I have seen money wasted and lost through red tape in the mission business. And after all is not mission business part of the world's business, and must not the measure of success depend largely on the same factors in the one case as in the other? Has one man more than another the right to be called "missionary," for of what use is any man in the world if he has no mission in it? Christ's life is one long emphasis on the point that in the last analysis, when something has to be done, it is the individual who has to do it. It is, we believe, a fact of paramount importance for efficiency and economy; and the loyalty of God in committing such trust to us, when He presumably knows exactly how unworthy we are of it, is the explanation of life's enigma. When at last our food and freight were purchased for the loggers for the winter and landed by the mail steamer nine miles from the mill, the whole bay was frozen and five miles of ice already over six inches thick. The hull of the Strathcona was three eighths of an inch soft steel; but there was no other way to transport the goods but on her, excepting by sledges--a very painful and impracticable method. It was decided that as we could not possibly butt through the ice, we must butt over it. The whole company of some thirty men helped us to move everything, including chains and anchors, to the after end of the ship, and to pile up the barrels of pork, flour, sugar, molasses, etc., together with boats and all heavy weights, so that her fore foot came above the water level and she looked as if she were sinking by the stern. We then proceeded to crash into the ice. Up onto it we ran, and then broke through, doing no damage whatever to her hull. The only trouble was that sometimes she would get caught fast in the trough, and it was exceedingly hard to back her astern for a second drive. To counteract this all hands stood on one rail, each carrying a weight, and then rushed over to the other side, backward and forward at the word of command, thus causing the steamer to roll. It was a very slow process, but we got there, though in true Biblical fashion, literally "reeling to and fro like drunken men." While the mill was in its cradle, we in the Strathcona were cruising the northern Labrador waters. We witnessed that year, off the mighty Kaumajets, the most remarkable storm of lightning that I have ever seen in those parts. Inky masses hid the hoary heads of those tremendous cliffs. Away to the northwest, over the high land called Saeglek, a lurid light just marked the sharp outline of the mills. Ahead, where we were trying to make the entrance to Hebron Bay, an apparently impenetrable wall persisted. Seaward night had already obscured the horizon; but the moon, hidden behind the curtain of the storm, now and again fitfully illuminated some icebergs lazily heaving on the ocean swell. Almost every second a vivid flash, now on one side, now on the other, would show us a glimpse of the land looming darkly ahead. The powers of darkness seemed at play; while the sea, the ice, the craggy cliffs, and the flashing heavens were advertising man's puny power. An amusing incident took place in one isolated harbour. A patient came on board for medicine, and after examining him I went below to make it up. When I came on deck again I gave the medicine to one I took to be my man, and then sent him ashore to get the twenty-five cent fee for the Mission which he had forgotten. No sooner had he gone than another man came and asked if his medicine was ready. I had to explain to him that the man just climbing over the rail had it. The odd thing was that the latter, having paid for it, positively refused to give it up. True, he had not said that he was ill, but the medicine looked good (Heaven save the mark!) and he "guessed that it would suit his complaint all right." At the mill we found that quite a large part of the timberland was over limestone, while near our first dam there was some very white marble. We fully intended to erect a kiln, using our refuse for fuel, for the land is loaded with humic acid, and only plants like blueberries, conifers, and a very limited flora flourish on it. Some friends in England, however, hearing of marble in the bay, which it was later discovered formed an entire mountain, commenced a marble mine near the entrance. The material there is said to be excellent for statuary. Even this small discovery of natural resources encouraged us. For having neither road, telegraph, nor mail service to the mill, we hoped that the development of these things might help in our own enterprise. For ten years the little mill has run, giving work to the locality, better houses, a new church and school, and indeed created a new village. The only trouble with this North country's own peculiar winter work, fur-hunting, is that its very nature limits its supply. In my early days in the country, fur in Labrador was very cheap. Seldom did even a silver fox fetch a hundred dollars. Beaver, lynx, wolverine, wolves, bears, and other skins were priced proportionately. Still, some men lived very well out of furring. We came to the conclusion that the only way to improve conditions in this line was to breed some of the animals in captivity. We did not then know of any enterprise of that kind, but I remembered in the zoölogical gardens at Washington seeing a healthy batch of young fox pups born in captivity. Life is short. Things have to be crowded into it. So we started that year an experimental fox farm at St. Anthony. A few uprights from the woods and some rolls of wire are a fox farm. We put it close by the hospital, thinking that it would be less trouble. The idea, we rejoice to know, was perfectly right; but we had neither time, study, nor experience to teach us how to manage the animals. Very soon we had a dozen couples, red, white, patch, and one silver pair. Some of the young fox pups were very tame, for I find an old record written by a professor of Harvard University, while he was on board the Strathcona on one trip when we were bringing some of the little creatures to St. Anthony. He describes the state of affairs as follows: "Dr. Grenfell at one time had fifteen little foxes aboard which he was carrying to St. Anthony to start a fox farm there. Some of these little animals had been brought aboard in blubber casks, and their coats were very sticky. After a few days they were very tame and played with the dogs; were all over the deck, fell down the companionway, were always having their tails and feet stepped on, and yelping for pain, when not yelling for food. The long-suffering seaman who took care of them said, 'I been cleaned out that fox box. It do be shockin'. I been in a courageous turmoil my time, but dis be the head smell ever I witnessed.'" When the farm was erected, every schooner entering the harbour was interested in it, and a deep-cut pathway soon developed as the crews went up to see the animals. The reds and one patch were very tame, and always came out to greet us. One of the reds loved nothing better than to be caught and hugged, and squealed with delight like a child when you took notice of it. The whites, and still more the silvers, were always very shy; and though we never reared a single pup, there were some born and destroyed by the old ones. As the years passed we decided to close up the little farm, particularly after a certain kind of sickness which resembled strychnine poisoning had attacked and destroyed three of the animals which were especial pets. We then converted the farm into a garden with a glass house for our seedling vegetables. Meanwhile the industry had been developed by a Mr. Beetz in Quebec Labrador with very marked economic success; and in Prince Edward Island with such tremendous profit that it soon became the most important industry in the Province. Enormous prices were paid for stock. I remembered a schooner in the days of our farm (1907) bringing me in four live young silvers, and asking two hundred dollars for the lot. We had enough animals and refused to buy them. In 1914 one of our distant neighbours, who had caught a live slut in pup, sold her with her little brood for ten thousand dollars. We at once started an agitation to encourage the industry locally, and the Government passed regulations that only foxes bred in the Colony could be exported alive. The last wild one sold was for twenty-five dollars to a buyer, and resold for something like a thousand dollars by him. A large number of farms grew up and met with more or less success, one big one especially in Labrador, which is still running. We saw there this present year some delightful little broods, also some mink and marten (sables), the prettiest little animals to watch possible. For some reason the success of this farm so far has not been what was hoped for it. Indeed, even in Prince Edward Island the furor has somewhat died down owing to the war; though at the close of the war it is anticipated that the industry will go on steadily and profitably. Are not sheep, angora goats, oxen, and other animals just the result of similar efforts? If fox-farming some day should actually supersede the use of the present sharp-toothed leg trap, no small gain would have been effected. A fox now trapped in those horrible teeth remains imprisoned generally till he perishes of cold, exhaustion, or fear. Though the fur trapper as a rule is a most gentle creature, the "quality of mercy is not strained" in furring. CHAPTER XIV THE CHILDREN'S HOME "What's that schooner bound South at this time of year for?" I asked the skipper of a fishing vessel who had come aboard for treatment the second summer I was on the coast. "I guess, Doctor, that that's the Yankee what's been down North for a load of Huskeymaws. What do they want with them when they gets them?" "They'll put them in a cage and show them at ten cents a head. They're taking them to the World's Fair in Chicago." * * * * * People of every sort crowded to see the popular Eskimo Encampment on the Midway. The most taking attraction among the groups displayed was a little boy, son of a Northern Chieftain, Kaiachououk by name; and many a nickel was thrown into the ring that little Prince Pomiuk might show his dexterity with the thirty-foot lash of his dog whip. One man alone of all who came to stare at the little people from far-off Labrador took a real interest in the child. It was the Rev. C.C. Carpenter, who had spent many years of his life as a clergyman on the Labrador coast. But one day Mr. Carpenter missed his little friend. Pomiuk was found on a bed of sickness in his dark hut. An injury to his thigh had led to the onset of an insidious hip disease. The Exhibition closed soon after, and the Eskimos went north. But Pomiuk was not forgotten, and Mr. Carpenter sent him letter after letter, though he never received an answer. The first year the band of Eskimos reached as far north as Ramah, but Pomiuk's increasing sufferings made it impossible for them to take him farther that season. Meanwhile in June, 1895, we again steamed out through the Narrows of St. John's Harbour, determined to push as far north as the farthest white family. A dark foggy night in August found us at the entrance of that marvellous gorge called Nakvak. We pushed our way cautiously in some twenty miles from the entrance. Suddenly the watch sang out, "Light on the starboard bow!" and the sound of our steamer whistle echoed and reëchoed in endless cadences between those mighty cliffs. Three rifle shots answered us, soon a boat bumped our side, and a hearty Englishman sprang over the rail. It was George Ford, factor of the Hudson Bay Company at that post. During the evening's talk he told me of a group of Eskimos still farther up the fjord having with them a dying boy. Next day I had my first glimpse of little Prince Pomiuk. We found him naked and haggard, lying on the rocks beside the tiny "tubik." The Eskimos were only too glad to be rid of the responsibility of the sick lad, and, furthermore, he was "no good fishing." So the next day saw us steaming south again, carrying with us the boy and his one treasured possession--a letter from a clergyman at Andover, Massachusetts. It contained a photograph, and when I showed it to Pomiuk he said, "Me even love him." A letter was sent to the address given, and some weeks later came back an answer. "Keep him," it said. "He must never know cold and loneliness again. I write for a certain magazine, and the children in 'The Corner' will become his guardians." Thus the "Corner Cot" was founded, and occupied by the little Eskimo Prince for the brief remainder of his life. On my return the following summer the child's joyful laughter greeted me as he said, "Me Gabriel Pomiuk now." A good Moravian Brother had come along during the winter and christened the child by the name of the angel of comfort. In a sheltered corner of a little graveyard on the Labrador coast rests the tiny body of this true prince. When he died the doctor in charge of the hospital wrote me that the building seemed desolate without his smiling, happy face and unselfish presence. The night that he was buried the mysterious aurora lit up the vault of heaven. The Innuits, children of the Northland, call it "the spirits of the dead at play." But it seemed to us a shining symbol of the joy in the City of the King that another young soldier had won his way home. * * * * * The Roman Catholic Church is undoubtedly correct in stating that the first seven years of his life makes the child. Missions have always emphasized the importance of the children from a purely propaganda point of view. But our Children's Home was not begun for any such reason. Like Topsy, "it just grow'd." I had been summoned to a lonely headland, fifty miles from our hospital at Indian Harbour, to see a very sick family. Among the spruce trees in a small hut lived a Scotch salmon fisher, his wife and five little children. When we anchored off the promontory we were surprised to receive no signs of welcome. When we landed and entered the house we found the mother dead on the bed and the father lying on the floor dying. Next morning we improvised two coffins, contributed from the wardrobes of all hands enough black material for a "seemly" funeral, and later, steaming up the bay to a sandy stretch of land, buried the two parents with all the ceremonies of the Church--and found ourselves left with five little mortals in black sitting on the grave mound. We thought that we had done all that could be expected of a doctor, but we now found the difference. It looked as if God expected more. An uncle volunteered to assume one little boy and we sailed away with the remainder of the children. Having no place to keep them, we wrote to a friendly newspaper in New England and advertised for foster parents. One person responded. A young farmer's wife wrote: "I am just married to a farmer in the country, and miss the chance to teach children in Sunday-School, or even to get to church, it is so far away. I think that I can feed two children for the Lord's sake. If you will send them along, I will see that they do not want for anything." We shipped two, and began what developed into our Children's Home with the balance of the stock. We had everything to learn in the rearing of children, having had only the hygienic side of their development to attend to previously. One of the two which we kept turned out very well, becoming a fully trained nurse. The other failed. Both of those who went to New England did well, the superior discipline of their foster mother being no doubt responsible. The following fall I made a special journey to see the latter. It was a small farm on which they lived, and a little baby had just arrived. Only high ideals could have persuaded the woman to accept the added responsibility. The children were as bright and jolly as possible. Among the other functions which have fallen to my lot to perform is the ungrateful task of unpaid magistrate, or justice of the peace. In this capacity a little later I was called on to try a mother, who in a Labrador village had become a widow and later married a man with six children who refused to accept her three-year-old little girl. When I happened along, the baby was living alone in the mother's old shack, a mud-walled hut, and she or the neighbours went in and tended it as they could. None of the few neighbours wanted permanently to assume the added expense of the child, so dared not accept it temporarily. It was sitting happily on the floor playing with a broken saucer when I came in. It showed no fear of a stranger; indeed, it made most friendly overtures. I had no right to send the new husband to jail. I could not fine him, for he had no money. There was no jail in Labrador, anyhow. My special constable was a very stout fisherman, a family man, who proposed to nurse the child till I could get it to some place where it could be properly looked after. When we steamed away, we had the baby lashed into a swing cot. It became very rough, and the baby, of course, crawled out and was found in the scuppers. It did everything that it ought not to do, but which we knew that it would. But we got it to the hospital at last and the nurse received it right to her heart. In various ways my family grew at an alarming rate, once the general principle was established. On my early summer voyage to the east coast of Labrador I found at Indian Harbour Hospital a little girl of four. In the absence of her father, who was hunting, and while her mother lay sick in bed, she had crawled out of the house and when found in the snow had both legs badly frozen. They became gangrenous halfway to the knee, and her father had been obliged to chop them both off. An operation gave her good stumps; but what use was she in Labrador with no legs? So she joined our family, and we gave her such good new limbs that when I brought her into Government House at Halifax, where one of our nurses had taken her to school temporarily, and she ran into the room with two other little girls, the Governor could scarcely tell which was our little cripple Kirkina. The following fall as we left for the South our good friend, the chief factor of the Hudson Bay Company, told me that on an island in the large inlet known to us as Eskimo Bay a native family, both hungry and naked, were living literally under the open sky. We promised to try and find them and help them with some warm clothing. Having steamed round the island and seen no signs of life, we were on the point of leaving when a tiny smoke column betrayed the presence of human life--and with my family-man mate we landed as a search party. Against the face of a sheer rock a single sheet of light cotton duck covered the abode of a woman with a nursing baby. They were the only persons at home. The three boys and a father comprised the remainder of the family. We soon found the two small boys. They were practically stark naked, but fat as curlews, being full of wild berries with which their bodies were stained bright blues and reds. They were a jolly little couple, as unconcerned about their environment as Robinson Crusoe after five years on his island. Soon the father came home. I can see him still--the vacant brown face of a very feeble-minded half-breed, ragged and tattered and almost bootless. He was carrying an aged single-barrelled boy's gun in one hand and a belated sea-gull in the other, which bird was destined for the entire evening meal of the family. A half-wild-looking hobbledehoy boy of fifteen years also joined the group. It was just beginning to snow, a wet sleet. Eight months of winter lay ahead. Yet not one of the family seemed to think a whit about that which was vivid enough to the minds of the mate and myself. We sat down for a regular pow-wow beside the fire sputtering in the open room, from which thick smoke crept up the face of the rock, and hung over us in a material but symbolic cloud. It was naturally cold. The man began with a plea for some "clodin." We began with a plea for some children. How many would he swap for a start in clothing and "tings for his winter"? He picked out and gave us Jimmie. The soft-hearted mate, on whose cheeks the tears were literally standing, grabbed Jimmie--as the latter did his share of the gull. But we were not satisfied. We had to have Willie. It was only when a breaking of diplomatic relations altogether was threatened that Willie was sacrificed on the altar of "tings." I forget the price, but I think that we threw in an axe, which was one of the trifles which the father lacked--and in this of all countries! The word was no sooner spoken than our shellback again excelled himself. He pounced on Willie like a hawk on its prey, and before the treaty was really concluded he was off to our dory with a naked boy kicking violently in the vice of each of his powerful arms. The grasping strength of our men, reared from childhood to haul heavy strains and ponderous anchors, is phenomenal. Whatever sins Labrador has been guilty of, Malthusianism is not in the category. Nowhere are there larger families. Those of Quebec Labrador, which is better known, are of almost world-wide fame. God is, to Labrador thinking, the Giver of all children. Man's responsibility is merely to do the best he can to find food and clothing for them. A man can accomplish only so much. If these "gifts of God" suffer and are a burden to others that is kismet. It is the animal philosophy and makes women's lives on this coast terribly hard. The opportunity for service along child-welfare lines is therefore not surprising from this angle also. One day, passing a group of islands, we anchored in a bight known as Rogues' Roost. It so happened that a man who many years before had shot off his right arm, and had followed up his incapacity with a large family of dependants, had just died. Life cannot be expected to last long in Labrador under those conditions. There were four children, one being a big boy who could help out. The rest were offered as a contribution to the Mission. A splendid Newfoundland fisherman and his wife had a summer fishing station here, and with that generous open-heartedness which is characteristic of our seafarers, they were only too anxious to help. "Of course, she would make clothing while I was North"--out of such odd garments as a general collection produced. "She wouldn't think of letting them wear it till I came along South, not she." She would "put them in the tub as soon as she heard our whistle." When after the long summer's work we landed and went up to her little house, three shining, red, naked children were drying before a large stove, in which the last vestige of connection with their past was contributing its quota of calories toward the send-off. A few minutes later we were off to the ship with as sweet a batch of jolly, black-haired, dark-eyed kiddies as one could wish for. Our good friend could not keep back the tears as she kissed them good-bye on deck. The boy has already put in three years on the Western Front. The girls have both been educated, the elder having had two years finishing at the Pratt Institute in New York. A grimy note saying, "Please call in to Bird Island as you pass and see the sick," brought me our next donation. "There be something wrong with Mrs. B's twins, Doctor," greeted me on landing. "Seems as if they was like kittens, and couldn't see yet a wink." It was only too true. The little twin girls were born blind in both eyes. What could they do in Labrador? Two more for our family without any question. After leaving our Orphanage, these two went through the beautiful school for the blind at Halifax, and are now able to make their own living in the world. So the roll swelled. Some came because they were orphans; some because they were not. Thus, poor Sammy. The home from which he came was past description. From the outside it looked like a tumble-down shed. Inside there appeared to be but one room, which measured six by twelve feet, and a small lean-to. The family consisted of father and mother and three children. The eldest boy was about twelve, then came Sam, and lastly a wee girl of five, with pretty curly fair hair, but very thin and delicate-looking. She seemed to be half-starved and thoroughly neglected. The father was a ne'er-do-well and the mother an imbecile who has since died of tuberculosis. The filth inside was awful. The house was built of logs, and the spaces in between them were partly filled in with old rags and moss. The roof leaked. The room seemed to be alive with vermin, as were also the whole family. The two boys were simply clothed in a pair of men's trousers apiece and a dilapidated pair of boots between them. The trousers they found very hard to keep on and had to give them frequent hoists up. They were both practically destitute of underclothing. To hide all deficiencies, they each wore a woman's long jacket of the oldest style possible and green with age, which reached down to their heels. Round their waists they each wore a skin strap. They were stripped of their rags, and made to scrub themselves in the stream and then indoors before putting on their new clean clothes. Sammy and the little sister joined the family. One of our boys is from Cape Chidley itself; others come from as far south and west as Bay of Islands in South Newfoundland. So many erroneous opinions seem to persist regarding the difference between Newfoundland and Labrador that I am constantly asked: "But why do you have a Children's Home in Newfoundland? Can't the Newfoundlanders look out for themselves and their dependent children?" As I have tried to make clear in a previous chapter North and South Newfoundland should be sharply differentiated as to wealth, education, climate, and opportunity. Though for purposes of efficiency and economy the actual building of the Home is situated in the north end of the northern peninsula of Newfoundland, the children who make up the family are drawn almost entirely from the Labrador side of the Straits; unless, as is often the case, the poverty and destitution of a so-called Newfoundland family on the south side of Belle Isle makes it impossible to leave children under such conditions. It is obvious that something had to be built to accommodate the galaxy; and some one secured who understood the problem of running the Home. She--how often it is "she"--was found in England, a volunteer by the name of Miss Eleanor Storr. She was a true Christian lady and a trained worker as well. The building during the years grew with the family, so that it is really a wonder of odds and patches. The generosity of one of our volunteers, Mr. Francis Sayre, the son-in-law of President Wilson, doubled its capacity. But buildings that are made of green wood, and grow like Topsy, are apt to end like Topsy--turvy. Now we are straining every nerve to obtain a suitable accommodation for the children. We sorely need a brick building, economically laid out and easily kept warm, with separate wings for girls and boys and a crêche for babies. Miss Storr was obliged to leave us, and now for over six years a splendid and unselfish English lady, Miss Katie Spalding, has been helping to solve this most important of all problems--the preparation of the next generation to make their land and the world a more fit place in which to live. Miss Spalding's contribution to this country has lain not only in her influence on the children and her unceasing care of them, but she has given her counsel and assistance in other problems of the Mission, where also her judgment, experience, and wisdom have proven invaluable. [Illustration: INSIDE THE ORPHANAGE] There is yet another side of the orphanage problem. We have been obliged, due to the lack of any boarding-school, to accept bright children from isolated homes so as to give them a chance in life. It has been the truest of love messages to several. The children always repay, whether the parents pay anything or not; and as so much of the care of them is volunteer, and friends have assumed the expenses of a number of the children, the budget has never been unduly heavy. They do all their own work, and thanks to the inestimably valuable help of the Needlework Guild of America through its Labrador branch, the clothing item has been made possible. In summer we use neither boots nor stockings for the children unless absolutely necessary. Our harbour people still look on that practice askance; but ours are the healthiest lot of children on the coast, and their brown bare legs and tough, well-shaped feet are a great asset to their resistance to tuberculosis, their arch-enemy, and no small addition to the attraction of their merry faces and hatless heads. Even though Gabriel, Prince Pomiuk, never lived within its walls, the real beginning of the idea of our Children's Home was due to him; and one feels sure that his spirit loves to visit the other little ones who claim this lonely coast as their homeland also. The one test for surgery which we allow in these days is its "end results." Patients must not be advertised as cured till they have survived the treatment many years. Surely that is man's as well as God's test. Certainly it is the gauge of the outlay in child life. What is the good of it all? Does it pay? In the gift of increasing joy to us, in its obvious humanity and in its continuous inspiration, it certainly does make the work of life here in every branch the better. The solution of the problem of inducing the peace of God and the Kingdom of God into our "parish" is most likely to be solved by wise and persevering work among the children. For in them lies the hope of the future of this country, and their true education and upbringing to fit them for wise citizenship have been cruelly neglected in this "outpost of Empire." Another menace to the future welfare of the coast has been the lack of careful instruction and suitable opportunities for the development, physical, mental, and spiritual, of its girls. Without an educated and enlightened womanhood, no country, no matter how favored by material prosperity, can hope to take its place as a factor in the progress of the world. In our orphanage and educational work we have tried to keep these two ideas constantly before us, and to offer incentives to and opportunities for useful life-work in whatever branch, from the humblest to the highest, a child showed aptitude. Through the vision, ability, and devotion of Miss Storr, Miss Spalding, and their helpers, in training the characters as well as the bodies of the children at the Home, and by the generous support of friends of children elsewhere, we have been able to turn out each year from its walls young men and women better fitted to cope with the difficult problems of this environment, and to offer to its service that best of all gifts--useful and consecrated personalities. CHAPTER XV PROBLEMS OF EDUCATION Every child should be washed. Every child should be educated. The only question is how to get there. The "why's" of life interest chiefly the academic mind. The "how's" interest every one. It is a pleasure sometimes to be out in dirty weather on a lee shore; it permits you to devote all your energies to accomplishing something. When secretary for our hospital rowing club on the Thames, a fine cup was given for competition by Sir Frederick Treves on terms symbolic of his attitude to life. The race was to be in ordinary punts with a coxswain "in order that every ounce of energy should be devoted to the progress of the boat." That is the whole trouble with the Newfoundland Labrador. All moneys granted for education are handed to the churches for sectarian schools. It is almost writing ourselves down as still living in the Middle Ages, when the Clergy had a monopoly of polite learning. In more densely populated countries this division of grants need not be so disastrous. Here it means that one often finds a Roman Catholic, a Church of England, a Methodist, and a Salvation Army school, all in one little village--and no school whatever in the adjoining place. The denominational spirit, fostered by these sectarian schools and societies, is so emphasized that Catholic and Protestant have little in common. Some preferred to let their children or themselves suffer pain and inefficiency, rather than come for relief to a hospital where the doctors were Protestant. This has in some measure passed away, but it was painfully real at first--so much so that once a rickety, crippled child, easily cured, though he actually came to the harbour, was forbidden to land and returned home to be a cripple for life. The salaries available offer no attraction to enter the teaching profession in this island; and there is no compulsory education law to assist those who with lofty motives remain loyal to the profession when "better chances" come along. Gauged rightly, there is no such thing as a better chance for fulfilling life's purposes than an education; and modern conditions concede the right of a decent living wage to all who render service to the world in whatever line. In the little village where are our headquarters there was already a Church of England and a Methodist school when we came there, and a Salvation Army one has since been added. Threats of still another "institution of learning" menaced us at one time--almost like a new Egyptian plague, with more permanency of results thrown in. If the motor power of the school boat is dissipated in sectarian religious education, not to say focussed on it, the arrival of the cargo must be seriously handicapped. The statistical returns may show a majority of our fishermen as "able to read and write"; but as a matter of fact the illiteracy and ignorance of North Newfoundland and Labrador is the greatest handicap in the lives of the people. My first scholar came from North Labrador, long before we aspired to a school of our own. He was a lad of Scotch extraction and name, and came aboard the hospital ship one night, as she lay at anchor among some northern islands, with the request that we would take him up with us to some place where he could get an hour's schooling a day. He offered to work all the rest of the time in return for his food and clothing. To-day he holds a Pratt certificate, is head of our machine shop, has a sheet-metal working factory of his own which fills a most valuable purpose on the shore, is general consultant for the coast in matters of engineering, as well as being the Government surveyor for his district. He is also chief musician for the church, having fitted himself for both those latter posts in his "spare time." The inspiration which his life has been is in itself an education to many of us--a reflex result which is the really highest value of all life. As each transferred individual has come back North for service, desire has at once manifested itself for similar privileges in young people who had not previously shown even interest enough to attend our winter night schools. This is the best evidence that inroads are being made into that natural apathy which is content with mediocrity or even inferiority. This is everywhere the world's most subtle enemy. Even if selfishness or envy has been the motive, the fact remains that they have often kindled that discontent with the past which Charles Kingsley preached as necessary to all progress. Nowhere could the pathology of the matter be more easily traced than in these concrete examples carrying the infection which could come from no other quarter into our isolation. It has been in very humble life an example of the return of the "Yankee to the Court of King Arthur." There was a time when Lord Haldane proposed that every English child, who in the Board schools had proved his ability to profit by it, should be given a college or university education at the expense of the State--as a remunerative outlay for the nation. This proposal was turned down as being too costly, though the expenditure for a single day's running of this war would have gone a long way to provide such a fund. We now know that it can be done and must be done as a sign manual of real freedom, which is not the leaving of parents or forbears, incompetent for any reason, free to damn their country with a stream of stunted intellects. America has already honoured herself forever by being a pioneer in this movement for the higher education of the people. Religion surely need not fear mental enlightenment. The dangers of life lie in ignorance, and after all is not true religion a thing of the intellect as well as of the heart? Can that really be inculcated in "two periods of forty minutes each week devoted to sectarian teaching," which was one of the concessions demanded of us in our fight for a free public or common school at St. Anthony? My own mental picture of myself at the age of seven sitting on a bench for forty minutes twice every week learning to be "religious" made me sympathize with Scrooge when the Ghost of the Past was paying him a visit. One thing was certain. The young lives entrusted to us were having as good medical care for their bodies as we could provide; and if we could compass it, we were going to have that paralleled for their minds. The parents of the village children could do as they liked with those committed to them--and they did it. There is nothing so thoroughly reactionary that I know of as religious prejudice well ground in. As regards the treatment of physical ailments the prejudices of what Dr. Holmes called "Homoeopathy and Kindred Delusions" always are strong in proportion as they are impregnated with some religious bias. Our efforts to combine the local schools having failed, we had to provide a building of our own. This we felt must be planned for the future. For some day the halcyon days of peace on earth shall be permitted in our community, and the true loyalty of efficient service to our brothers will, it is to be hoped, become actually the paramount object of our Christian religion. Perhaps this terrible war will have convinced the world that the loftiest aspirations of mankind are no more to save yourself hereafter than here. Is it not as true as ever that if we are not ourselves possessors of Christ's spirit, ourselves we cannot save? The only schoolhouse available, anyhow, was not nearly so good a building as that which we have since provided for the accommodation of our pigs! Fat pork is considered an absolute essential "down North"; and it was cheaper and safer, according to Upton Sinclair, to raise pigs than buy the salted or tinned article. So we had instituted what we deemed a missionary enterprise in that line. (_Pace_ our vegetarian friends.) As soon as a sum of three thousand dollars had been raised, architect friends at the Pratt Institute sent down to us competitive designs, and one of our Labrador boys, who had studied there, erected the building. Having at the beginning no funds whatever for current expenses, we had to look for volunteer teachers. One denomination helped with part of its harbour grant, but the Government would not make any special donation toward the union school project. Even the caput grant, to which we had hoped that we were entitled for our own orphanage children, had by law to go to the denomination to which their parents had belonged. This was not always easy to decide correctly. On the occasion of taking the last census in Labrador, a well-dressed stranger suddenly visited one of our settlements on the east coast. It so happened that a very poor man with a large and growing family of eight children under ten years, who resided there, was not so loyal to his church as we are taught we ought to be. When the stranger entered his tilt a vision of material favours to be obtained was the dominant idea in the fisherman's mind. He was therefore on tenterhooks all the while that the questioning was going on lest some blunder of his might alienate the sympathy on which he was banking for "getting his share." At length it came to the momentous point of "What denomination do you belong to?"--a very vital matter when it comes to sympathy and sharing up. In some hesitation he gazed at the row of his eight unwashed and but half-clad offspring, whose treacly faces gaped open-mouthed at the visitor. Then with sudden inspiration he decided to play for safety, and replied, "Half of them is Church of England, and half is Methodist!" Being an unrecognized school, and so far off, some years went by before the innovation of bringing up scholars from our northern district entered our heads. We realized at length, however, that we should close one channel of criticism to the enemy if we proved that we could justify our school by their standard of annual examinations. Our teachers, being mostly volunteers, had to come from outside the Colony. Having no funds to purchase books and other supplies, we made use of books also sent us from outside. The real value of the local examination becomes questionable as a standard of success when far more highly educated teachers, and at least as cleverly laid-out study books, prevented the children in our school from passing them. Moreover, further to waken their faculties, we had included in our facilities a large upper hall of the school building and a library of some thousands of books collected from all quarters. The former afforded the stimulus which entertainments given by the children could carry, and also space for physical drill; the latter, that greatest incentive of all, access to books which lure people to wish to read them. In summer the parents and older children are busy with the fisheries day and night, and the little children run more or less wild, so this form of occupation was doubly desirable. The generous help of summer volunteers, especially a trained kindergartner, Miss Olive Lesley, gave us a regular summer school. All the expensive outfit needed was also donated. Eye and hand were enlisted in the service of brain evolution; while a piano, which it is true had seen better days, pressed the ear and the imagination into the service as well. One of the great gaps in child development in Labrador had been the almost entire lack of games. The very first year of our coming the absence of dolls had so impressed itself upon us that the second season we had brought out a trunkful. Even then we found later that the dolls were perched high up on the walls as ornaments, just out of reach of the children. In one little house I found a lad playing with some marbles. For lack of better these were three-quarter-inch bullets which "Dad had given him," while the alley was a full-inch round ball, which belonged to what my host was pleased to call "the little darlint"--a hoary blunderbuss over six feet in length. The skipper informed me that he had plenty of "fresh" for the winter, largely as a result of the successful efforts of the "darlint"; though it appeared to have exploded with the same fatal effect this year as the season previous. "I hear that you made a good shot, the other day, Uncle Joe," I remarked. "Nothing to speak on," he answered. "I only got forty-three, though I think there was a few more if I could have found them on the ice." The pathos of the lack of toys and games appealed especially to the Anglo-Saxon, who believes that if he has any advantage over competitors, it is not merely in racial attributes, but in the reaction of those attributes which develop in him the ineradicable love of athletics and sport. The fact that he dubs the classmate whom he admires most "a good sport," shows that he thinks so, anyway. So organized play was carefully introduced on the coast. It caught like wildfire among the children, and it was delightful to see groups of them naïvely memorizing by the roadside school lessons in the form of "Ring-of-Roses," "Looby-Loo," "All on the Train for Boston." To our dismay in the minds of the local people the very success of this effort gave further evidence of our incompetence. Our people have well-defined, though often singular, ideas as to what Almighty God does and does not allow; and among the pursuits which are irrevocably condemned by local oracles is dancing. The laxity of "foreigners" on this article of the Creed is proverbial. At the time there were two ministers in the place, and realizing that the people considered that our kindergarten was introducing the thin edge of the wedge, and that our whole effort might meet with disaster unless the rumours were checked, I went in search of them without delay. Three o'clock found us knocking at the kindergarten door. The teacher and source of the reputed scandal seemed in no way disconcerted by the visitation. The first game was irreproachable--every child was sitting on the floor. But next the children, were choosing partners, and though the boys had chosen boys, and the girls girls, the suspicions of the vigilance committee were aroused. No danger, however, to the three R's transpired, and we were next successfully piloted clear of condemnation through a game entitled "Piggie-wig and Piggie-wee." Our circulation was just beginning to operate once more in its normal fashion when we were told that the whole company would now "join hands and move around in a circle" to music. The entire jury sensed that the crucial moment had come. We saw boys and girls alternating, hand held in hand--and all to the undeniably secular libretto of "Looby-Loo." It was, moreover, noted with inward pain that many of the little feet actually left the ground. We adjourned to an adjacent fish stage to discuss the matter. I need not dilate on the vicissitudes of the session. It was clear that all but "Looby-Loo" could obviously be excluded from the group of "questionables"--but the last game was of a different calibre and must be put to vote. My readers will be relieved to learn that the resultant ballot was unanimously in favour of non-interference, and that from the pulpit the following Sunday the clergy gave to the kindergarten the official sanction of the Church. Other outsiders now began telling the people that we could not pass the Colony's examinations because we wasted our efforts on teaching "foolishness"; and the denomination which had hitherto lent us aid withdrew it, and tried again to run a midget sectarian school right alongside. The first occasion, however, on which this institution came seriously to my attention was when the minister and another young man came to call during the early weeks of our winter school session. The stranger was their special teacher. He was undoubtedly a smart lad; he had passed the preliminary examination. But he was only sixteen, and in temperament a very young sixteen at that. He was engaged at a more generous salary than usual, and was perfectly prepared to revolutionize our records. But, alas, not only was their little building practically unfit for habitation, but after a week's waiting not one single scholar had come to his school. The contrast between the two opportunities was too great--except for frothing criticism. Gladly, to help our neighbours out of a difficulty, we divided a big classroom into two parts, added a third teacher to our school, and were thus able to make an intermediate grade. The great majority of the whole reconstruction and work of the school was made possible by the generous and loving interest of a lady in Chicago. Added to the other anxieties of meeting our annual budget, we did not feel able to bear the additional burden for which this venture called. One cannot work at one's best at any time with an anxious mind. The lady, however, was generous enough to give sufficient endowment to secure two teachers among other things, though she absolutely refused to let even her name be known in connection with the school. Our consolation is that we know that she has vision enough to realize the value of her gift and to accept that as a more than sufficient return. Seeing that some of our older scholars were able to find really useful and remunerative employment in teaching, and as only for those who held certificates of having passed the local examinations were augmentation grants available, we decided to make special efforts to have our scholars pass by the local standards. We, therefore, thanks to the endowment, engaged teachers trained in the country, and instituted the curriculum of the Colony. These teachers told us that our school was better than almost any outside St. John's. Four scholars have passed this year; and now we have as head mistress a delightful lady who holds the best percentage record for passing children through the requirements of the local examinations of any in the country. So much more deeply, however, do idle words sink into some natures than even deeds, that one family preferred to keep their children at home to risk sending them to our undenominational school; and there is no law to compel better wisdom with us here in the North. On the other hand, we had already obtained a scale of our own for grading success. For a number of our most promising boys and girls we had raised the money for them to get outside the country what they could never get in it, namely, the technical training which is so much needed on a coast where we have to do everything for ourselves, and the breadth of view which contact with a more progressive civilization alone can give them. The faculty of Pratt Institute gave us a scholarship, and later two of them; and with no little fear as to their ability to keep up, we sent two young men there. The newness of our school forced us to select at the beginning boys who had only received teaching after their working hours. Both boys and girls have always had to earn something to help them on their way through. But they have stood the test of efficiency so well that we look forward with confidence to the future. A girl who took the Domestic Economy course at the Nasson Institute told me only to-day, "It gave me a new life altogether, Doctor"; and she is making a splendid return in service to her own people here. The real test of education is its communal effect; and no education is complete which leaves the individual ignorant of the things that concern his larger relationship to his country, any more than he is anything beyond a learned animal if he knows nothing of his opportunities and responsibilities as a son of God. But though example is a more impelling factor than precept, undoubtedly the most permanent contributions conferred on the coast by the many college students, who come as volunteers every summer to help us in the various branches of our work, is just this gift of their own personalities. Strangely enough, quite a number of these helpers who have to spend considerable money coming and returning, just to give us what they can for the sole return of what that means to their own lives, have not been the sons of the wealthy, but those working their way through the colleges. These men are just splendid to hold up as inspirational to our own. The access to books, as well as to sermons, may not be neglected. Our faculties, like our jaws, atrophy if we do not use them to bite with. The Carnegie libraries have emphasized a fact that is to education and the colleges what social work is to medicine and the hospitals. We were running south some years ago on our long northern trip before a fine leading wind, when suddenly we noticed a small boat with an improvised flag hoisted, standing right out across our bows. Thinking that it was at least some serious surgical case, we at once ordered "Down sail and heave her to," annoying though it was to have the trouble and delay. When at last she was alongside, a solitary, white-haired old man climbed with much difficulty over our rail. "Good-day. What's the trouble? We are in a hurry." The old man most courteously doffed his cap, and stood holding it in his hand. "I wanted to ask you, Doctor," he said slowly, "if you had any books which you could lend me. We can't get anything to read here." An angry reply almost escaped my lips for delaying a steamer for such a purpose. But a strange feeling of humiliation replaced it almost immediately. Which is really charity--skilfully to remove his injured leg, if he had one, or to afford him the pleasure and profit of a good book? Both services were just as far from his reach without our help. "Haven't you got any books?" "Yes, Doctor, I've got two, but I've read them through and through long ago." "What kind are they?" "One is the 'Works of Josephus,'" he answered, "and the other is 'Plutarch's Lives.'" I thought that I had discovered the first man who could honestly and truthfully say that he would prefer for his own library the "best hundred books," selected by Mr. Ruskin and Dr. Eliot, without even so much as a sigh for the "ten best sellers." He was soon bounding away over the seas in his little craft, the happy possessor of one of our moving libraries, containing some fifty books, ranging from Henty's stories to discarded tomes from theological libraries. Each year the hospital ship moves these library boxes one more stage along the coast. As there are some seventy-five of them, they thus last the natural life of books, since we have only rarely enjoyed the help of a trained librarian enabling us to make the most use of these always welcome assets for our work. Later, some librarian friends from Brooklyn, chief among whom was Miss Marion Cutter, came down to help us; but our inability to have continuity when the ladies cannot afford to give their valuable services, has seriously handicapped the efficiency of this branch of the work. This, however, only spells opportunity, and when this war releases the new appreciation of service, we feel confident that somehow we shall be able to fill the gap, and some one will be found to come and help us again to meet this great need. The coöperation of teachers and librarians more than doubles the capacity of each alone, and we believe sincerely that they do that of doctors, as they unquestionably do that of the clergy. All the world's workers have infinitely more to gain by coöperation than they often suspect. And indeed we who are apostles of coöperation, as essential for economy in distribution and efficiency in production, realize that groups of workers pulling together always increase by geometrical progression the result obtained. None of our methods, however, tackled the smallest settlements, hidden away here and there in these fjords, especially those unreached by the mail steamers and devoid of means of transportation. Mahomet just could not come to the mountain, so it had to go to him. A lady and a Doctor of Philosophy, Miss Ethel Gordon Muir, whose life had been spent in teaching, and who would have been excused for discontinuing that function during her long vacations, came down at her own cost and charges to carry the light to one of these lonely settlements. She has with loyal devotion continued to carry on and enlarge that work ever since, till finally she has built up a work that the clergyman of the main section of coast affected, and also the Superintendent of Education, have declared is the most effective branch of our Mission. Her band of teachers are volunteers. They come down to these little hamlets for the duration of their summer vacations. They live with the fishermen in their cottages and gather their pupils daily wherever seems best. Lack of proper accommodation and pioneer conditions throughout in no way deter them. We expected that their criticism would be, "It is not worth while." That has never been the case. Before the war they came again and again, as a testimony to their belief in the value of the effort. Some have given promising children a chance for a complete education in the States. Indeed, one such lad, taken down some years ago by one of the students, entered Amherst College last year; while several were fighting with the American boys "Over There." The only real joy of possession is the power which it confers for a larger life of service. Has it been the reader's good fortune ever to save a human life? A cousin of mine, an officer in the submarine service of the Royal Engineers, told me a year or two before the war that he was never quite happy because he had spent all his life acquiring special capacities which he never in the least expected to be able to put to practical use. This war has given to him, at least, what possessions could never have offered. It almost requires the fabulous Jack to overcome the hoary giants of prejudice and custom, or the irrepressible energy of the Gorgon. It has been helpful to remember away "down North" the stand which Archbishop Ireland took for public schools. When the Episcopal clergyman for Labrador, whom we had been influential in bringing out from England, decided to start an undenominational boarding-school on his section of the coast, we began to hope that we might yet live to see our sporadic effort become a policy. Laymen in St. John's, led by the Rev. Dr. Edgar Jones, a most progressive clergyman, sympathized in dollars, and we were able to back the effort. A splendid volunteer head teacher will arrive in the spring to begin work. The effort still needs much help; but I am persuaded that a chain of undenominational schools can be started that will react on the whole country. Already a scheme for a similar uplift for the west coast is being promulgated. In a letter written to my wife some years ago I find that my convictions on the subject of education were no less firm than they are to-day. One came to the conclusion that "ignorance is the worst cause of suffering on our coast, and our 'religion' is fostering it. True, it has denominational schools, but these are to bolster up special ecclesiastical bodies, and are not half so good as Government schools would be. The 'goods delivered' in the schools are not educational in the best sense, and are all too often inefficiently offered. Instead of making the children ambitious to go on learning through life, they make them tired. There is no effort to stimulate the play side; and in our north end of the Colony's territory there are no trades taught, no new ideas, no manual training--it is all so-called 'arts' and Creeds." CHAPTER XVI "WHO HATH DESIRED THE SEA?" We are somewhat superstitious down here still, and not a few believe that shoals and submerged rocks are like sirens which charm vessels to their doom. On one occasion, as late in the fall we were creeping up the Straits of Belle Isle in the only motor boat then in use there, our new toy broke down, and with a strong onshore wind we gradually drifted in toward the high cliffs. It was a heavy boat, and though we rowed our best we realized that we must soon be on the rocks, where a strong surf was breaking. So we lashed all our lines together and cast over our anchors, hoping to find bottom. Alas, the water was too deep. Darkness came on and the prospect of a long, weary night struggling for safety made us thrill with excitement. Suddenly a schooner's lights, utterly unexpected, loomed up, coming head on toward us. Like Saul and his asses, we no longer cared about our craft so long as we escaped. At once we lashed the hurricane light on the boat-hook and waved it to and fro on high to make sure of attracting attention. To our dismay the schooner, now almost in hail, incontinently tacked, and, making for the open sea, soon left us far astern. We fired our guns, we shouted in unison, we lit flares. All to no purpose. Surely it must have been a phantom vessel sent to mock us. Suddenly our amateur engineer, who had all the time been working away at the scrap-heap of parts into which he had dismembered the motor, got a faint kick out of one cylinder--a second--a third, then two, three, and then a solitary one again. It was exactly like a case of blocked heart. But it was enough with our oars to make us move slowly ahead. By much stimulating and watchful nursing we limped along on the one cylinder, and about midnight found ourselves alongside the phantom ship, which we had followed into the harbour "afar off." Angry enough at their desertion of us in distress, we went aboard just to tell them what we thought of their behaviour. But their explanation entirely disarmed us. "Them cliffs is haunted," said the skipper. "More'n one light's been seen there than ever any man lit. When us saw you'se light flashing round right in on the cliffs, us knowed it was no place for Christian men that time o' night. Us guessed it was just fairies or devils trying to toll us in." We had no lighthouses on Labrador in those days, and though hundreds of vessels, crowded often with women and children, had to pass up and down the coast each spring and fall, still not a single island, harbour, cape, or reef had any light to mark it, and many boats were unnecessarily lost as a result. Most of the schooners of this large fleet are small. Many are old and poorly "found" in running gear. Their decks are so crowded with boats, barrels, gear, wood, and other impedimenta, that to reef or handle sails on a dark night is almost impossible; while below they were often so crowded with women and children going North with their men for the summer fishing on the Labrador shore, that I have had to crawl on my knees to get at a patient, after climbing down through the main hatch. These craft are quite unfitted for a rough night at sea, especially as there always are icebergs or big pans about, which if touched would each spell another "vessel missing." So the craft all creep North and South in the spring and fall along the land, darting into harbours before dark, and leaving before dawn if the night proves "civil." Yet many a time I have seen these little vessels with their precious cargoes becalmed, or with wind ahead, just unable to make anchorage, and often on moonless nights when the barometer has been low and the sky threatening. As there were no lights on the land, it would have been madness to try and make harbours after sundown. I have known the cruel, long anxiety of heart which the dilemma involved. It has been our great pleasure sometimes to run out and tow vessels in out of their distress. I can still feel the grip of one fine skipper, who came aboard when the sea eased down. The only harbour available for us had been very small, and the water too deep for his poor gear. So when he started to drift, we had given him a line and let him hold on to us through the night, with his own stern only a few yards from the cliffs under his lee, and all his loved ones, as well as his freighters, a good deal nearer heaven than he wished them to be. We had frequently written to the Government of this neglect of lights for the coast. But Labrador has no representative in the Newfoundland Parliament, and legislators who never visited Labrador had unimaginative minds. Year after year went by and nothing was done. So I spoke to many friends of the dire need for a light near Battle Harbour Hospital. Practically every one of the Northern craft ran right by us many times as they fished first in the Gulf and later on the east coast, and so had to go past that corner of land. I have seen a hundred vessels come and anchor near by in a single evening. When the money was donated, our architect designed the building, and a friend promised to endow the effort, so that the salary of the light-keeper might be permanent. The material was cut and sent North, when we were politely told that the Government could not permit private ownership of lights--a very proper decision, too. They told us that the year before money had been voted by the House for lights, and the first would be erected near Battle Harbour. This was done, and the Double Island Light has been a veritable Godsend to me as well as to thousands of others many times since that day. [Illustration: FISH ON THE FLAKES] [Illustration: DRYING THE SEINES] One hundred miles north of Indian Tickle, a place also directly in the run of all the fishing schooners, a light was much needed. On a certain voyage coming South with the fleet in the fall, we had all tried to make the harbour, but it shut down suddenly before nightfall with a blanket of fog which you could almost cut with a knife, and being inside many reefs, and unable to make the open, we were all forced to anchor. Where we were exactly none of us knew, for we had all pushed on for the harbour as much as we dared. There were eleven riding-lights visible around us when a rift came in the fog. We hoped against hope that we had made the harbour. A fierce northeaster gathered strength as night fell, and a mighty sea began to heave in. Soon we strained at our anchors in the big seas, and heavy water swept down our decks from bow to stern. Our patients were dressed and our boats gotten ready, though it all had only a psychological value. Gradually we missed first one and then another of the riding-lights, and it was not difficult to guess what had happened. When daylight broke, only one boat was left--a large vessel called the Yosemite, and she was drifting right down toward us. Suddenly she touched a reef, turned on her side, and we saw the seas carry her over the breakers, the crew hanging on to her bilge. Steaming to our anchors had saved us. All the vessels that went ashore became matchwood. But before we could get our anchors or slip them, our main steam pipe gave out and we had to blow down our boilers. It was now a race between the engineers trying to repair the damage and the shortening hours of daylight. On the result depended quite possibly the lives of us all. I cannot remember one sweeter sound than the raucous voice of the engineer just in the nick of time calling out, "Right for'ard," and then the signal of the engine-room bell in the tell-tale in our little wheel-house. The Government has since put a fine little light in summer on White Point, the point off which we lay. Farther north, right by our hospital at Indian Harbour, is a narrow tickle known as the "White Cockade." Through this most of the fleet pass, and here also we had planned for a lighthouse. When we were forbidden to put our material at Battle Harbour, we suggested moving to this almost equally important point. But it fell under the same category, and soon after the Government put a good light there also. The fishermen, therefore, suggested that we should offer our peripatetic, would-be lighthouse to the Government for some new place each year. We have not much now to complain of so far as the needs of our present stage of evolution goes. We have wireless stations, quite a number of lights, not a few landmarks, and a ten times better mail and transport service than the much wealthier and more able Dominion of Canada could and ought to give to her long shore from Quebec to the eastern "Newfoundland" boundary on the Straits Labrador. He is not a great legislator who only makes provision for certainties. True, the West has shown such riches and capacity that it has paid better to develop it first. But there is no excuse now whatever for neglecting the East. The Dominion would have been well advised, indeed, had she years ago built a railway to the east coast, shortening the steamer communication with England to only two nights at sea, and saving twenty-four hours for the mails between London and Toronto. The war has shown how easily she could have afforded it. Most ardently I had hoped that she might have turned some of her German prisoner labour in so invaluable a direction. Had the reindeer installation been handled by the Newfoundland Government years ago as it should have been, Labrador would have yielded to our boys in France a very material assistance in meat and furs. Canada now could and should, if only in the interest of her native population, begin on this problem as soon as peace is declared. The fact that a thing possesses vitality is a guarantee that it will grow if it can. Each new focus will expand, and caterpillar-like cast off its old clothing for better. The first necessity for economy and efficiency in our work has been to get our patients quickly to us or to be able to get to them. Experience has shown us that while boats entirely dependent on motors are cheapest, it is not always safe to do open-sea work in such launches without a secondary and more reliable means of progression. The stories of a doctor's work in these launches would fill a volume by themselves. The first Northern Messenger, a small "hot-head" boat, was replaced and sold to pay part of the cost of Northern Messenger number two. This in its turn was wrecked on an uncharted shoal with Dr. West on board, and her insurance used to help to procure Northern Messenger number three--which is the beautiful boat which now serves Harrington, our most westerly hospital. We are largely indebted for her to Mr. William Bowditch, of Milton, Massachusetts. Dr. Hare, our first doctor at that station, never wrote his own experiences, but one of the Yale volunteers who worked under him wrote a story founded on fact, from which the following incident is suggestive. Once, running home before a wind in the Gulf, the doctor suddenly missed his little son Pat, and looking round saw him struggling in the water, already many yards astern. Dr. Hare, who was at the tiller at the time, instantly jumped over after him. The child was finally disappearing when he reached him at last and held his head above water. Meanwhile the engineer, who had been below, jumped on deck to find the sails flapping in the wind and the boat head to sea. With the intuitive quickness of our people in matters pertaining to the sea, he took in the situation in a second, and though entirely alone manoeuvred the boat so cleverly as to pick them both up before they perished in these frigid waters. Pat's young life was saved, only to be given a short few years later in France for the same fight for the kingdom of righteousness which his home life had made his familiar ideal. The forty-five-foot, "hot-head" yawl Daryl, given us by the Dutch Reformed friends in New York, was sold to the Hudson Bay Company. At first she was naturally called the Flying Dutchman, and was most useful; but here we have learned when a better instrument is available that it is the truest economy to scrap-heap the old. We were to give delivery of the boat in Baffin's Land. There were plenty of volunteers for the task, for the tough jobs are the very ones which appeal to real men. It would be well if the churches realized this fact and that therein lies the real secret of Christianity. The impression that being a Christian is a soft job inevitably brings our religion into contempt. I had been in England that spring, and had been able to arrange that the mail steamer bound for Montreal on which I took passage should stop and drop me off Belle Isle if the crusaders who were to take this launch on her long voyage North would stand out across our pathway. Mr. Marconi personally took an interest in the venture. The launch was to wait at our most easterly Labrador station, and we were to keep telling her our position. The boat was in charge of Mr. John Rowland and Mr. Robert English, both of Yale. It created quite a furor among the passengers on our great ship, when she stopped in mid-ocean, as it appeared to them, and lowered an erratic doctor over the side on to a midget, whose mast-tops one looked down upon from the liner's rail. The sensation was all the more marked as we disappeared over the rail clinging to two large pots of geraniums--an importation which we regarded as very much worth while. With an old Hudson Bay man, Mr. George Ford, to act as interpreter, and a Harvard colleague, who to his infinite chagrin was recalled by a wireless from his parents almost before starting, the little ship and her crew of three disappeared "over the edge" beyond communication. I should mention that the Company had promised an engineer for the launch, but he had begged off when he understood the nature of the projected expedition; so Yale decided that they were men enough to do without any outside help. September had nearly gone, and no news had come from the boys. I owe some one an infinite debt for a temperament which does not go halfway to meet troubles; but even I was a little worried when unkind rumours that we had sold a boat that was not safe were capped by a father's letter to say that he "had heard the reports"! Fortunately, two days later, as the Strathcona lay taking on whale meat for winter dog food at the northernmost factory, the Northern mail steamer came in. On board were our returned wanderers, and papa, who had gone down as far as the Labrador steamer runs to look for them, as proud and happy as a man has a right to be over sons who do things. The boys had not only reached Baffin's Land, but had explored over a hundred miles of its uncharted coast-line, crossed to Cape Wolstenholme, navigated Stupart's Bay--northeast of Ungava--and finally returned to Baffin's Land, coming back to Cartwright on the Hudson Bay Company's steamer Pelican. It was a splendid record, especially when we remember the fierce currents and tremendous rise and fall of tides in that distant land. This latter was so great that having anchored one night in three fathoms of water in what appeared to be a good harbour, they had awakened in the morning to the fact that they were in a pond a full mile in the country, left stranded by the retiring tide. Our last "hot-head," the Pomiuk, in a heavy gale of wind was smashed to atoms on a terrible reef of rocks off Domino Point a mile from land--fortunately with no one aboard. Yet another of our fine yawls, the Andrew McCosh, given us by the students of Princeton, was driven from her anchors on to the dangerous Point Amour, where years ago, H.M.S. Lily was lost, and whose bones still lie bleaching on the rocky foreshore at the foot of the cliffs. Much as I love the sea, it made one rather "sore" that it should serve us such a turn as wrecking the McCosh. I have been on the sea for over thirty years and never lost a vessel while aboard her, but to look on while the waves destroyed so beautiful a handmaid almost reconciled me to the statement that in heaven there shall "be no more sea." It was near this same spot that in November, 1905, a very old vessel, while trying to cross the Straits in a breeze, suddenly sprung a leak which sent her to the bottom in spite of all the pumping which could be done. The six men aboard were able to keep afloat at that time of year in the open Atlantic out of sight of land for five days and nights. They had nothing to eat but dry bread, and no covering of any kind. The winds were heavy and the seas high all the while. By patiently keeping their little boat's head to the wind with the oars, for they had not any sails, day after day and night after night, and backing her astern when a breaker threatened to overwhelm them, they eventually reached land safe and sound. The special interest about the launches has always been the pleasant connection which they have enabled us to maintain with the universities. Yale crews, Harvard crews, Princeton crews, Johns Hopkins crews, College of Physicians and Surgeons crews, and combined crews of many others, have in succeeding years thus become interested. Occasionally these men have taken back some of their Labrador shipmates to the United States for a year's education, and in that and other ways, so they say, have they themselves received much real joy and inspiration. In order to maintain the interest which Canada had taken in our work, it had in some way to be organized. We had volunteer honorary secretaries in a few cities, but no way of keeping them informed of our needs and our progress. In New England a most loyal friend, Miss Emma White, who ever since has been secretary and devoted helper of the Labrador work there, had started a regular association with a board of directors and had taken an office in Beacon Street, Boston. This association now and again published little brochures of our work, or ordered out a few copies of the English magazine called "The Toilers of the Deep." It was suggested that we might with advantage publish a quarterly pamphlet of our own. This was made possible by the generous help of the late Miss Julia Greenshields, of Toronto, who undertook not only to edit, but also personally to finance any loss on a little magazine to be entitled "Among the Deep-Sea Fishers." This has been maintained ever since, and has been responsible for helping to raise many of the funds to enable us to "carry on." We had also begun to get friends in New York. Dr. Charles Parkhurst, famous especially for his plucky exposure of the former rottenness of the police force of that city, had asked me to give an illustrated lecture at his mission in the Bowery. After my talk a gentleman present, to my blank astonishment, gave me a cheque for five hundred dollars. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship with one who has, for all the succeeding years, given far more than money, namely, the constant inspiration of his own attitude to life and his wise counsel--to say nothing of the value of the endorsation of his name. His eldest son, one of the ablest of the rising New York architects, became chairman of the Grenfell Association of America, and gave us both of his time and talent--he being responsible, as voluntary architect, for many of our present buildings, including the Institute at St. John's, Newfoundland. This spread of interest in the United States greatly increased our correspondence, with an odd result. Americans apparently all believed that this Colony was part of Canada, and that the postage was two cents as to the Dominion. This mistake left us six cents to pay on every letter, and sixteen on any which were overweight. On one occasion the postmaster offered me so many taxable letters that I decided to accept only one, and let the others go back. That one contained a cheque for a hundred dollars for the Mission. I naturally took the rest, and found every one of them to be bills, gossip, or from autograph-hunters. On inquiry, our Postmaster-General informed me that it was not possible to arrange a two-cent postal rate with America. It had been tried and abandoned, because Canada wanted a share for carrying the letters through her territory. He told me, however, that he would agree gladly if the United States offered it. On my visit to Washington I had the honour of dining with Lord Bryce, our Ambassador there and an old friend of my father's, and I mentioned the matter to him. He could not, however, commend my efforts to the Government, as I had no credentials as a special delegate. There was nothing to do but take my place in the queue of importunates waiting to interview the Postmaster-General. When at length I had been moved to the top of the bench, I was called in, and very soon explained my mission. I received a most cordial hearing, but merely the information that a note would be made of my request and filed. It suddenly flashed upon me that Americans had equal fishing rights with ourselves on the Labrador coast, and that quite a number visited there every year. Possibly the grant of a two-cent postage would be a welcome little "sop" to them. Mr. Meyer, who was the Postmaster-General at the time, said that it made all the difference if the reduced rate would in any way encourage the American mercantile marine. He bade me draw a careful list of reasons in favour of my proposal, and promised to give it careful attention. It so happened that a few days later I mentioned the matter to Colonel McCook at whose home I was staying in New York. Colonel McCook, known as "Fighting McCook," from the fact that he was the only one of nine brothers not killed in the Civil War, at once took up the cudgels in my behalf, left for Washington the following day, and wired me on the next morning, "All arranged. Congratulations"--and I had the pleasure of telegraphing the Postmaster-General in St. John's that I had arranged the two-cent postage rate with the United States and Newfoundland. A few days later I received a marked copy of a Newfoundland paper saying how capable a Government they possessed, seeing that now they had so successfully put through the two-cent post for the Colony--and that was all the notice ever taken of my only little political intrigue; except that a year or two later, meeting Mr. Meyer in Cambridge, he whispered in my ear, "We were going out of office in four days, or you would never have got that two-cent post law of yours through so easily." * * * * * In the spring of 1907 I was in England, and before I left, my old University was good enough to offer me an honorary degree of Doctor of Medicine of Oxford. As it was the first occasion that that respectable old University had ever given that particular degree to any one, I was naturally not a little gratified. The day of the conferring of it will ever live in my memory. My cousin, the Professor of Paleontology, half of whose life was spent in the desert of Egypt digging for papyri in old dust-heaps, was considered the most appropriate person to stand sponsor for me--a would-be pioneer of a new civilization in the sub-arctic. The words with which the Public Orator introduced me to the Vice-Chancellor, being in Latin, seem to me interesting as a relic rather than as a statement of fact: "Insignissime Vice-Cancellarie vosque egregii Procuratores: Adest civis Britannicus, hujus academiæ olim alumnus, nunc Novum Orbem incolentibus quam nostratibus notus. Hic ille est qui quindecim abhinc annos in litus Labradorium profectus est, ut solivagis in mari Boreali piscatoribus ope medica succurreret; quo in munere obeundo Oceani pericula, quæ ibi formidosissima sunt, contempsit dum miseris et mærentibus solatium ac lumen afferret. Nunc quantum homini licet, in ipsius Christi vestigiis, si fas est dicere, insistere videtur, vir vere Christianus. Jure igitur eum laudamus cujus laudibus non ipse solum sed etiam Academia nostra ornatur. "Præsenta ad vos Wilfredum Thomassum Grenfell, ut admittatur ad gradum Doctoris in Medicina Honoris Causa." As we, the only two Doctors Grenfell extant, marched solemnly back down the aisle side by side, the antithesis of what doctorates called for struck my sense of humour most forcibly. I had hired the gorgeous robes of scarlet box cloth and carmine silk for the occasion, never expecting to wear them again. But some years later, when yet another honorary Doctorate, of Laws, was most generously conferred upon me by a University of our American cousins, I felt it incumbent on me to uphold if possible the British end of the ritual. A cable brought me just in time the box-cloth surtout. Commencement ceremonies in the United States are in June; and the latitude was that of Rome. For years I had spent the hot months always in the sub-arctic. The assembly hall was small and crowded to bursting--not even all the graduating class could get in, much less all their friends. The temperature was in three figures. The scarlet box cloth got hotter and hotter as we paraded in and about the campus. My face outrivalled the gown in colour. I have made many lobster men out of the boiled limbs of those admirable adjuncts of a Northern diet, but I had never expected to pose as one in the flesh. The most lasting impression which the ceremony left on my mind is of my volunteer summer secretary, who stood almost on my toes as he delivered the valedictory address of his class. I still see his gradually wilting, boiled collar, and the tiny rivulet which trickled down his neck as he warmed to his subject. We were the best of friends, but I felt that glow of semi-satisfaction that comes to the man who finds that he is no longer the only one seasick on board. About this time King Edward most graciously presented me, as one of his birthday honours, with a Companionship in the Order of St. Michael and St. George--most useful persons for any man to have as companions, especially in a work like ours, both being famous for downing dragons and devils. My American friends immediately knighted me. The papers and magazines knighted me in both the United States and Canada. But that got me into trouble, for only kings can make pawns into knights, and I had to appeal several times to the Associated Press to save myself being dubbed _poseur_. I have protested at meetings when the chairman has knighted me; at banquets, when the master of ceremonies has knighted me. I gave it up lest accusation should arise against me, when at a semi-religious meeting I uttered a feeble protest against the title to which I have no right, and my introducer merely repeated it the more firmly, informing the audience meanwhile that I was "too modest to use it." There was attached to the conferring of the Order one elective latitude--it could either be sent out or wait till I returned to England and attended a levee with the other recipients. I had a great desire to see the King, and, though it meant a year's waiting, I requested to be allowed to do so. This not only was most courteously granted, but also the permission to let my presence in England be known to the Hereditary Grand Chamberlain, and the King would give me a private audience. When the day arrived, I repaired to Buckingham Palace, where I waited for an hour in the reception room in company with a small, stout clergyman who was very affable. I learned later that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was carrying a fat Bible from Boston, England, I believe, to be presented to the United States of America. At last Sir Frederick Treves, who kindly acted as my introducer, took me up to the King's study--that King whose life his skill had saved. There a most courteous gentleman made me perfectly at home, and talked of Labrador and North Newfoundland and our work as if he had lived there. He asked especially about the American helpers and interest, and laughed heartily when I told him how many freeborn Americans had gladly taken the oath of loyalty to His Majesty, when called up to act as special constables for me in his oldest Colony. He left the impression on my mind that he was a real Englishman in spirit, though he had spoken with what I took to be a slight German accent. The sports and games of the Colony I had noticed interested him very much, and all references to the splendid seafaring genius of the people also found an appreciative echo in his heart. When at last he handed me a long box with a gorgeous medal and ribbon, and bade me good-bye, I vowed I could sing "God save the King" louder than ever if I could do so without harrowing the feelings of my more tuneful neighbours. When later, as a major in an American surgical unit in France, I was serving the R.A.M.C., the ribbon of the Order was actually of real service to me. It undoubtedly opened some closed doors, though it proved a puzzle to every A.D.M.S. to whom I had to explain the anomaly of my position when I had to go and worry him for permission to cross the road or some new imaginary line. In England, and even in America, I found that the fact that the King had recognized one's work was a real material asset. It was a credential--only on a larger scale--like that from our Minister to the Colonies, the Marquis of Ripon, who kindly had given me his blessing in writing when first I visited Canada. How far signs of superiority are permissible is to my mind an open question. Hereditary human superiority does not necessarily exist, because selective precautions are not taken, and the environment of the superior is very apt to enfeeble the physical machine, anyhow. The question of the hereditary superiority of a man's soul, being outside my sphere, I leave to the theologians. History, which is the school of experience, belies the theory, whatever current science may say. As for the giving of hereditary titles, it is significant that they do not as a rule go to scholars or even scientific men, but to physical fighters, being physical rewards for material services. When these are in the possession of offspring no longer capable of rendering such services, it appears ridiculous that they should sail under false colours. To make a man a hereditary duke for being humble and modest, or hereditary marquis for being unselfish and generous, or an earl for being a man of peace, and a benefactor in the things which make for peace, such as a good husband and father and comrade, has, so far as I know, never been tried. Some of the so-called lesser honours, such as knighthood, are reserved for these. However, an order of knightly citizens, so long as they are real knights, is, after all, little more than the gold key of the Phi Beta Kappa, or the red triangle of the Y.M.C.A. worker, or the Red Cross badge of the nurse. We are human, anyhow, and such concessions, seeing that they do have an undoubted stimulating value in the present stage of our development, to an Englishman seem permissible. CHAPTER XVII THE REINDEER EXPERIMENT Labrador will never be a "vineland," a land of corn and wine, or a country where fenced cities will be needed to keep out the milk and honey. But though there may be other sections of the Empire that can produce more dollars, Labrador will, like Norway and Sweden, produce Vikings, and it is said that the man behind the gun is still of some moment. In past years we have made quite extensive experiments in trying to adapt possible food supplies to this climate. I had seventeen bags of the hardiest cereal seeds known sent me. They consisted of barley from Lapland, from Russia, from Abyssinia, Mansbury barley and Finnish oats. All the seeds came from the experimental station at Rampart, Alaska, and were grown in latitude 63° 30', which is two degrees north of Cape Chidley. I find in the notes of one of my earliest voyages my satisfaction at the fact that a storm with lightning and thunder had just passed over the boat and freshened up some rhubarb which I was growing in a box. It had been presented to me by the Governor to carry down to Battle Harbour, and I was very eager that it, my first agricultural venture, should not fail. Everywhere along the coast the inability to get a proper diet, owing to the difficulties of successful farming even on ever so small a scale, had aroused my mind to the necessity of doing something along that line. In one small cottage I saw a poor woman zealously guarding an aged rooster. "Have you got a hen?" I asked her. "No, Doctor; I had one, but she died last year." "Then why ever do you keep that rooster?" "Oh! I hopes some day to get a hen. I've had him five years. The last manager of the mill gave him to me, but you'se sees he can't never go out and walk around because of the dogs, so I just keeps he under that settle." Pathetic as were her efforts at stock farming, I must admit that my sympathies were all with the incarcerated rooster. The problem of the dogs seemed an insurmountable one. The Moravians' records abound in stories of their destructiveness. Mr. Hesketh Pritchard writes: "Dr. Grenfell records two children and one man killed by the dogs. This is fortunately a much less terrible record than that shown farther north by the Moravian Missions. The savage dogs did great harm at those stations one winter." Among other accidents, a boy of thirteen, strong and well, was coming home from his father's kayak to his mother. After some time, as he did not arrive, they went to search for him and found that the dogs had already killed and eaten a good part of him. A full-grown man, driving to Battle Harbour Hospital, was killed by his dogs almost at our doors. The wolves of the country only pack when deer are about. As a contrast to our dogs, wolves have never been known to kill a man in Labrador, so it would be more correct to speak of a doggish wolf than a wolfish dog. It is an odd thing and a fortunate one that in this country, where it is very common to have been bitten by a dog, we never have been able to find any trace of hydrophobia. A visitor returning to New York after a summer on the coast wrote as follows: "One of my lasting remembrances of Battle Harbour will be the dreadful dogs. The Mission team were on an island far removed, but there were a number of settlers' dogs which delighted in making the nights hideous. Never before have I seen dogs stand up like men and grapple with each other in a fight, and when made to move on, renew the battle round the corner." Our efforts at agriculture had taught us not to expect too much of the country. A New Zealand cousin, Martyn Spencer, a graduate of Macdonald College of Agriculture, gave us two years' work. His experience showed that while dogs continued to be in common use, cattle-raising was impossible. Of a flock of forty Herdwick sheep given by Dr. Wakefield, the dogs killed twenty-seven at one time. Angora goats, which we had imported, perished in the winter for lack of proper food. Our land cost so much to reclaim for hay, being soaked in humic acid, that we had always to import that commodity at a cost which made more cows than absolutely essential very inadvisable. Weasels, rats, hawks, and vermin needed a man's whole time if our chickens were to be properly guarded and repay keeping at all. An alfalfa sent us from Washington did well, and potatoes also gave a fair return, though our summer frosts often destroyed whole patches of the latter. Our imported plum and crabapple trees were ringed by mice beneath the snow in winter. At a farm which we cleared nine miles up a bay, so as to have it removed from the polar current, our oats never ripened, and our turnips and cabbage did not flourish in every case. We could not plant early enough, owing to the ground being frozen till July some years. On the other hand, when we looked at the hundreds of thousands of square miles on which caribou could live and increase without any help from man, and indeed in spite of all his machinations, our attention was naturally turned to reindeer farming, and I went to Washington to consult Dr. Sheldon Jackson, the Presbyterian missionary from Alaska. It was he who had pioneered the introduction by the United States Government of domestic reindeer into Alaska. At Washington we received nothing but encouragement. Reindeer could make our wilderness smile. They would cost only the protection necessary. They multiply steadily, breeding every year for eight or ten years after their second season. A selected herd should double itself every three years. The skins are very valuable--there is no better nonconductor of heat. The centre of the hair is not a hollow cylinder, but a series of air bubbles which do not soak water, and therefore can be used with advantage for life-saving cushions. The skins are splendid also for motor robes, and now invaluable in the air service. The meat is tender and appetizing, and sold as a game delicacy in New York. The deer fatten well on the abundant mosses of a country such as ours. Sir William MacGregor, the Governor of Newfoundland at the time, had samples of the mosses collected around the coast and sent to Kew Botanical Gardens for positive identification. The Cladonia Rangiferina, or Iceland moss, proved very abundant. It was claimed, however, that the reindeer would eat any of such plants and shrubs as our coast offers in summer. As long ago as the year 1903 my interest in the domestication of deer had led me to experiment with a young caribou. We had him on the Strathcona nearly all one summer. He was a great pet on board, and demonstrated how easily trained these animals are. He followed me about like a dog, and called after me as I left the ship's side in a boat if we did not take him with us. He was as inquisitive as a monkey or as the black bear which we had had two years before. We twice caught him in the chart-room chewing up white paper, for on his first raid there he had found an apple just magnanimously sent us from the shore as a delicacy. Friends, inspired by Mr. William Howell Reed, of Boston, collected the money for a consignment of reindeer, and we accordingly sent to Lapland to purchase as many of the animals as we could afford. The expense was not so much in the cost of the deer as in the transport. They could not be shipped till they had themselves hauled down to the beach enough moss to feed them on their passage across the Atlantic. Between two hundred and fifty and three hundred were purchased, and three Lapp families hired to teach some of our local people how to herd them. When at last snow enough fell for the sledges to haul the moss down to the landwash, it was dark all day around the North Cape. Fifty years hence in all probability the Lapps will be an extinct race, as even within the past twelve or fifteen years, districts in which thousands of domesticated reindeer grazed, now possess but a few hundreds. The good ship Anita, which conveyed the herd to us, steamed in for southern Newfoundland and then worked her way North as far as the ice would permit. At St. Anthony everything was frozen up, and the men walked out of the harbour mouth on the sea ice to meet the steamer bringing the deer. The whole three hundred were landed on the ice in Crémaillière, some three miles to the southward of St. Anthony Hospital, and though many fell through into the sea, they proved hardy and resourceful enough to reach the land, where they gathered around the tinkling bells of the old deer without a single loss from land to land. One of our workers at St. Anthony that winter wrote that "the most exciting moment was when the woman was lowered in her own sledge over the steamer's side on to the ice, drawn to the shore, and transferred to one of Dr. Grenfell's komatiks, as she had hurt her leg on the voyage. The sight of all the strange men surrounding her frightened her, but she was finally reassured, threw aside her coverings, and clutched her frying-pan, which she had hidden under a sheepskin. When she had it safely in her arms she allowed the men to lift her and put her on the komatik." When the doctor at the hospital advised that her leg would best be treated by operation, the man said, "She is a pretty old woman, and doesn't need a very good leg much longer." She was thirty-five! An Irish friend had volunteered to come out and watch the experiment in our interest--and this he did most efficiently. The deer flourished and increased rapidly. Unfortunately the Lapps did not like our country. They complained that North Newfoundland was too cold for them and they wanted to return home. One family left after the first year. A rise in salary kept three of the men, but the following season they wanted more than we had funds to meet, and we were forced to decide, wrongly, I fear, to let them go. The old herder warned me, "No Lapps, no deer"; but I thought too much in terms of Mission finances, the Government having withdrawn their grant toward the herders' salaries. Trusting to the confidence in their own ability of the locally trained men, I therefore let the Lapp herders go home. The love of the Lapps for their deer is like a fisherman's for his vessel, and seems a master passion. They appeared even to grudge our having any deer tethered away from their care. To us it seemed strange that these Lapps always contended that the work was too hard, and that the only reason that they were always gone from camp was that there were no wolves to keep the herd together. They claimed that we must have a big fence or the deer would go off into the country. They, of course, both when with us and in Lapland as well, lived and slept where the herd was. They told us that the deer no longer obeyed the warning summons of the old does' bells, having no natural enemy to fear; and one told me, "Money no good, Doctor, if herd no increase." Reindeer seemed to be the complement of their souls. Meanwhile the Alaskan experiment was realizing all of Dr. Jackson's happiest hopes; but it had a strong Government grant and backing and plenty of skilled superintendence. The lack of those were our weaknesses. Our deer thrived splendidly and multiplied as we had predicted. We went thirty miles in a day with them with ease. We hauled our firewood out, using half a dozen hauling teams every day. Every fortnight during the rush of patients at the hospital in summer we could afford to kill a deer. The milk was excellent in quality and sweet, and preserved perfectly well in rubber-capped bottles. The cheese was nourishing and a welcome addition to the local diet. At the close of the fourth year we had a thousand deer. A paper of the serious standing of the "Wall Street Journal," writing at about that time, under the title "Reindeer Venison from Alaska," had this to say: "At different times in the past twenty years the Government imported reindeer into Alaska--about twelve hundred in all--in hopes to provide food for the natives in the future. The plan caused some amusement and some criticism at the time. Subsequent developments, however, have justified the attempt. The herds have now increased to about forty thousand animals, and are rapidly becoming still more numerous. The natives own about two thirds of the number. Shipments of meat have been made to the Pacific Coast cities. Last year the sales of venison and skins amounted to $25,000. It is claimed that the vast tundra, or treeless frozen plains of Alaska, will support at least ten million animals. The federal authorities in charge are so optimistic of the future outlook that the prediction is made that within twenty-five years the United States can draw a considerable part of its meat supply from Alaska." What can be done in Alaska can be done in Labrador, and with its better facilities for shipping and handling the product, the greater future ought to be the prize of the latter country. In the spring of 1912 there were five hundred fawns, and at one time we had gathered into our corral for tagging no less than twelve hundred and fifty reindeer. Of these we sold fifty to the Government of Canada for the Peace River District. There they were lost because they were placed in a flat country, densely wooded with alders, and not near the barren lands. We also sold a few to clubs, in order to try and introduce the deer. These sales would have done the experiment no injury, but with the fifty to Canada went my chief herder and two of my other herders from Labrador. This loss, from which we never recovered, coincided with an outbreak of hostility toward the deer among the resident population, who live entirely on the sea edge. Only long afterwards did we find out that it was partly because they feared that we would force deer upon them and do away with their dogs. The local Government official told me only the other day that the second generation from this would have very little good to say of the short-sightedness of these men who let such a valuable industry fail to succeed. With the increasing cares of the enlarging Mission, with Lieutenant Lindsay gone back to Ireland, and no one to superintend the herding, the successful handling of the deer imperceptibly declined. The tags on the ears were no longer put in; the bells were not replaced in the old localities. The herd was driven, not led as before--was paid for, not loved. These differences at the time were marked by increasing poaching on the herd by the people. Here and there at first they had killed a deer unknown to us; and finally we caught one hidden in a man's woodpile, and several offenders were sent to jail. We appealed to the Newfoundland Government for protection, as to be policeman and magistrate for the herd which one held in trust was an anomalous position. I was ordered by them to sit on the bench when these cases were up, as I did not own the deer. The section of land on which we had the animals is a peninsula of approximately one hundred and fifty square miles. It is cut off by a narrow, low neck about eight miles long. During all our years of acquaintance with the coast not a dozen caribou had been killed on it, for they do not cross the neck to the northward. But when we applied for a national preserve, that no deer at all might be killed on the peninsula, and so we might run a big fence across the neck with a couple of herders' houses along the line of it, a petition, signed by part of the "voters," went up to St. John's, against such permission being granted us. The petition stated that the deer destroyed the people's "gardens," that they were a danger to the lives of the settlers, whose dogs went wild when they crossed their path, and they claimed that the herd "led men into temptation," because if there were no reindeer to tempt men to kill them, there would be none killed. The deer thus were supposed to be the cause of making cattle-thieves out of honest men! The result was that a law was passed that no domestic reindeer might be shot north of the line of the neck for which we had applied, and which we intended to fence. This only made matters ten times worse, for if the deer either strayed or else were driven across the line, the killing of them was thus legalized. [Illustration: A PART OF THE REINDEER HERD] [Illustration: REINDEER TEAMS MEETING A DOG TEAM] The deer had cost us, landed, some fifty-one dollars apiece. Three years of herding under the adverse conditions of lack of support from either Government or people had not lessened the per caput expense very materially. If we had shot some one's fifty-dollar cow, our name would have been anathema--but we lost two hundred and fifty deer one winter. In addition to this, when we moved the deer to a spot near another village on a high bluff, over a hundred died in summer, either--according to the report of the herders--from falling over the cliffs driven by dogs, or of a sickness of which we could not discover the nature, though we thought that it resembled a kind of pneumonia. The poaching got so bad that we took every means in our power to catch the guilty parties. But it was a very difficult thing to do. A dead deer lies quiet, keeps for weeks where he falls in our winter climate, and can be surreptitiously removed by day or night. The little Lapp dogs occasionally scented them beneath the snow, and many tell-tale "paunches" showed where deer had been killed and carried off. I had been treating the hunchback boy and only child of a fisherman for whom I had very great respect. His was the home where the Methodist minister always boarded, and he was looked upon as a pillar of piety. After a straightening by frame treatment, the boy's spine had been ankylosed by an operation; and as every one felt sorry for the little fellow, we were often able to send him gifts. One day the father came to me, evidently in great trouble, to have what proved to be a most uncommon private talk. To my utter surprise he began: "Doctor, I can no longer live and keep the secret that I shot two of your reindeer. I have brought you ninety dollars, all the cash that I have, and I want to ask your forgiveness, after all you have done for me." Needless to say, it was freely given, but it made me feel more than ever that the deer must be moved to some other country. It was about this year that the Government for the first time granted us a resident policeman--previously we had had to be our own police. Fortunately the man sent was quite a smart fellow. A dozen or so deer had been killed along the section of our coast, and so skilfully that even though it was done under the noses of the herders no evidence to convict could be obtained. It so happened, however, that while one of the herders was eating a piece of one of the slaughtered animals which he had discovered, and that the thieves had not been able to carry off, his teeth met on a still well-formed rifle bullet of number 22 calibre. This type of rifle we knew was scarcely ever used on our coast, and the policeman at once made a round to take every one. He returned with three, which was really the whole stock. A piece of meat was now placed at a reasonable distance, also some bags of snow, flour, etc., and a number of bullets fired into them. These bullets were then all privately marked, and shuffled up. Our own deductions were made, and a man from twenty miles away summoned, arrested, and brought up. He brought witnesses and friends, apparently to impress the court--one especially, who most vehemently protested that he knew the owner of the rifle, and that he was never out of his house at the time that the deer would have been killed. In court was a man, for twenty-seven years agent in Labrador for the Hudson Bay Company--a crack shot and a most expert hunter. He was called up, given the big pile of bullets, and told to try and sort them, by the groove marks, into those fired by the three different rifles. We then handed him the control bullet, and he put it instantly on one of the piles. It was the pile that had been fired from the rifle of the accused. This man, in testifying, in order to clear himself, had let out the fact that his rifle had not been kept in his house, but in the house of the vociferous witness--whom we now arrested, convicted, and condemned to jail for six months or two hundred dollars fine--the latter alternative being given only because we knew that he had not the necessary sum. Protesting as loudly as he had previously witnessed, he went to jail; but the rest let out threats that they were coming back with others to set him free. We had only a frame wooden jail, and a rheumatic jailer of over seventy years, hired to hobble around by day and see that the prisoners were fed and kept orderly. We announced, therefore, that our Hudson Bay friend, with his rifle loaded, would be night jailer. A few days passed by. The prisoner did not like improving the public thoroughfare for our benefit, while those "who were just as bad as he" went free. Our old jailer took good care that he should hear what good times they were having and laughing at him for being caught. Indeed, he liked it so little that he gave the whole plot away--at least what he called the whole. This landed four more of his friends in the same honest and public-spirited occupation which he was himself pursuing; though all escaped shortly afterwards by paying fines to the Government which aggregated some eight hundred dollars--which sum was largely paid by others for them. There was no way, however, definitely to stop the steady decrease in the numbers of the herd; and though we moved them to new pastures around the coast, and fenced them in such small mobile corrals as we could afford, they were not safe. On several occasions we found dead deer with buckshot in them, which had "fallen over the cliffs." Twice we discovered that deer had even been killed within our own corral. One had been successfully removed, and the other trussed-up carcass had been hidden until a good opportunity offered for it to follow suit. I do not wish to leave the impression on the minds of my readers that every man on this part of the coast is a poacher. Far from it. But the majority of the best men were against the reindeer experiment from the moment that the first trouble arose. A new obligation of social life was introduced. This implied restraint in such trifling things as their having to fence their tiny gardens, protect small stray hay-pooks, and discriminate into what they discharged their ubiquitous blunderbusses. Meanwhile the steadily increasing demand for meat, especially since the war began, caused outside interest in the experiment; and both the owners of Anticosti Island, and a firm in the West who were commencing reindeer farming on a commercial basis, opened negotiations with us for the purchase of our herd. In the original outlay, however, the Canadian Dominion Government had taken an interest to the amount of five thousand dollars, so it was necessary to get their opinion on the subject. Their Department of Indian Affairs happened to be looking for some satisfactory way of helping out their Labrador Indian population. They sent down and made inquiries, and came to the conclusion that they would themselves take the matter up, as they had done with buffalo, elk, and other animals in the West. In 1917 all preparations for transferring the deer were made, but war conditions called their steamer away and transport was delayed until 1918. Again their steamer was called off, so we decided to take the deer across ourselves in our splendid three-masted schooner, the George B. Cluett. She, alas, was delayed in America by the submarine scare, and it was the end of September instead of June when she finally arrived. It was a poor season for our dangerous North coast and a very bad time for moving the deer, whose rutting season was just beginning. My herders, too, were now much reduced in numbers. Most of them had gone to the war, and as one had been sick all summer, practically only two were available. To add to the difficulty, many small herds of reindeer were loose in the country outside the corral. However, we felt that the venture must be attempted at all hazards, even if it delayed our beautiful ship taking a cargo of food to the Allies--as she was scheduled to do as soon as possible--and though it was a serious risk to remain anchored in the shallow open roadstead off the spot where the deer had to be taken aboard. The work was all new to us. The deer, instead of being tame as they had previously been, were wild at best, and wilder still from their breeding season. The days went by, and we succeeded in getting only a few aboard. We were all greenhorns with the lassoes and lariats which we improvised. A gale of wind came on and nothing could be done but lie up. Then followed a fine Sunday morning. It was intensely interesting to note the attitude which my crew could take toward my decision to work all day after morning prayers. We talked briefly over the emphasis laid by the four Evangelists on Christ's attitude toward the day of rest, and what it might mean, if we allowed a rare fine day to go by, to that long section of coast which we had not yet this year visited, and which might thus miss the opportunity of seeing a doctor before Christmas. As since this war has begun I have felt that the Christ whom I wanted to follow would be in France, so now I felt that the Christ of my ideal would go ashore and get those deer in spite of the great breach of convention which it would mean for a "Mission" doctor to work in any way, except in the many ways he has to work every Sunday of his life. The whole crew followed me when I went ashore, saying that they shared my view--all except the mate, who spent his Sunday in bed. Idleness is not rest to some natures, either to body or mind, and when at night we all turned in at ten o'clock, wet through--for it had rained in the evening--and tired out, we were able to say our prayers with just as light hearts, feeling that we had put sixty-eight deer aboard, as if we had enjoyed that foretaste of what some still believe to be the rest of heaven. Rest for our souls we certainly had, and to some of us that is the rest which God calls His own and intends shall be ours also. When later I spoke to some young men about this, it seemed to them a Chestertonian paradox, that we should actually hold a Sunday service and then go forth to render it. They thought that Sunday prayers had to do only with the escaping the consequences of one's sins. I still believe that we were absolutely right in our theory of the introduction of the deer into this North country, and that we shall be justified in it by posterity. That these thousands of miles, now useless to men, will be grazed over one day by countless herds of deer affording milk, meat, clothing, transport, and pleasure to the human race, is certain. They do not by any means destroy the land over which they rove. On the contrary, the deep ruts made by their feet, like the ponies' feet in Iceland, serve to drain the surface water and dry the land. The kicking and pawing of the moss-covered ground with their spade-like feet tear it up, level it, and cut off the dense moss and creeping plants, bring the sub-soil to the top, and over the whole the big herd spreads a good covering of manure. Reindeer-trodden barrens, after a short rest, yield more grass and cattle food than ever before. No domesticated animal can tolerate the cold of this country and find sustenance for itself as can the deer. It can live as far north as the musk-ox. Peary found reindeer in plenty on the shores of the polar sea. The great barren lands of Canada, from Hudson Bay north of Chesterfield Inlet away to the west, carry tens of thousands of wild caribou. Mr. J.B. Tyrrell's photographs show armies of them advancing; the stags with their lordly horns are seen passing close to the camera in serried ranks that seem to have no end. Our own experiment is far from being a failure. It has been a success, even if only the corpse is left in Newfoundland. We have proved conclusively that the deer can live, thrive, and multiply on the otherwise perfectly valueless areas of this North country, and furnish a rapidly increasing domesticated "raw material" for a food and clothing supply to its people. CHAPTER XVIII THE ICE-PAN ADVENTURE On Easter Sunday, the 21st of April, 1908, it was still winter with us in northern Newfoundland. Everything was covered with snow and ice. I was returning to the hospital after morning service, when a boy came running over with the news that a large team of dogs had come from sixty miles to the southward to get a doctor to come at once on an urgent case. A fortnight before we had operated on a young man for acute bone disease of the thigh, but when he was sent home the people had allowed the wound to close, and poisoned matter had accumulated. As it seemed probable that we should have to remove the leg, there was no time to be lost, and I therefore started immediately, the messengers following me with their team. My dogs were especially good ones and had pulled me out of many a previous scrape by their sagacity and endurance. Moody, Watch, Spy, Doc, Brin, Jerry, Sue, and Jack were as beautiful beasts as ever hauled a komatik over our Northern barrens. The messengers had been anxious that their team should travel back with mine, for their animals were slow at best, and moreover were now tired from their long journey. My dogs, however, were so powerful that it was impossible to hold them back, and though I twice managed to wait for the following sledge, I had reached a village twenty miles to the south and had already fed my team when the others caught up. That night the wind came in from sea, bringing with it both fog and rain, softening the snow and making the travelling very difficult. Besides this a heavy sea began heaving into the bay on the shores of which lay the little hamlet where I spent my first night. Our journey the next day would be over forty miles, the first ten lying on an arm of the sea. [Illustration: A SPRING SCENE AT ST. ANTHONY] [Illustration: DOG RACE AT ST. ANTHONY] In order not to be separated too long from my friends I sent them ahead of me by two hours, appointing as a rendezvous the log tilt on the other side of the bay. As I started the first rain of the year began to fall, and I was obliged to keep on what we call the "ballicaters," or ice barricades, for a much longer distance up the bay than I had anticipated. The sea, rolling in during the previous night, had smashed the ponderous layer of surface ice right up to the landwash. Between the huge ice-pans were gaping chasms, while half a mile out all was clear water. Three miles from the shore is a small island situated in the middle of the bay. This had preserved an ice bridge, so that by crossing a few cracks I managed to get to it safely. From that point it was only four miles to the opposite shore, a saving of several miles if one could make it, instead of following the landwash round the bay. Although the ice looked rough, it seemed good, though one could see that it had been smashed up by the incoming sea and packed in tight again by the easterly wind. Therefore, without giving the matter a second thought, I flung myself on the komatik and the dogs started for the rocky promontory some four miles distant. All went well till we were within about a quarter of a mile of our objective point. Then the wind dropped suddenly, and I noticed simultaneously that we were travelling over "sish" ice. By stabbing down with my whip-handle I could drive it through the thin coating of young ice which had formed on the surface. "Sish" ice is made up of tiny bits formed by the pounding together of the large pans by the heavy seas. So quickly had the wind veered and come offshore, and so rapidly did the packed slob, relieved of the inward pressure of the easterly breeze, "run abroad," that already I could not see any pan larger than ten feet square. The whole field of ice was loosening so rapidly that no retreat was possible. There was not a moment to lose. I dragged off my oilskins and threw myself on my hands and knees beside the komatik so as to give a larger base to hold, shouting at the same time to my team to make a dash for the shore. We had not gone twenty yards when the dogs scented danger and hesitated, and the komatik sank instantly into the soft slob. Thus the dogs had to pull much harder, causing them to sink also. It flashed across my mind that earlier in the year a man had been drowned in this same way by his team tangling their traces around him in the slob. I loosened my sheath-knife, scrambled forward and cut the traces, retaining the leader's trace wound securely round my wrist. As I was in the water I could not discern anything that would bear us up, but I noticed that my leading dog was wallowing about near a piece of snow, packed and frozen together like a huge snowball, some twenty-five yards away. Upon this he had managed to scramble. He shook the ice and water from his shaggy coat and turned around to look for me. Perched up there out of the frigid water he seemed to think the situation the most natural in the world, and the weird black marking of his face made him appear to be grinning with satisfaction. The rest of us were bogged like flies in treacle. Gradually I succeeded in hauling myself along by the line which was still attached to my wrist, and was nearly up to the snow-raft, when the leader turned adroitly round, slipped out of his harness, and once more leered at me with his grinning face. There seemed nothing to be done, and I was beginning to feel drowsy with the cold, when I noticed the trace of another dog near by. He had fallen through close to the pan, and was now unable to force his way out. Along his line I hauled myself, using him as a kind of bow anchor--and I soon lay, with my dogs around me, on the little island of slob ice. The piece of frozen snow on which we lay was so small that it was evident we must all be drowned if we were forced to remain on it as it was driven seaward into open water. Twenty yards away was a larger and firmer pan floating in the sish, and if we could reach it I felt that we might postpone for a time the death which seemed inescapable. To my great satisfaction I now found that my hunting knife was still tied on to the back of one of the dogs, where I had attached it when we first fell through. Soon the sealskin traces hanging on the dogs' harnesses were cut and spliced together to form one long line. I divided this and fastened the ends to the backs of my two leaders, attaching the two other ends to my own wrists. My long sealskin boots, reaching to my hips, were full of ice and water, and I took them off and tied them separately on the dogs' backs. I had already lost my coat, cap, gloves, and overalls. Nothing seemed to be able to induce the dogs to move, even though I kept throwing them off the ice into the water. Perhaps it was only natural that they should struggle back, for once in the water they could see no other pan to which to swim. It flashed into my mind that my small black spaniel which was with me was as light as a feather and could get across with no difficulty. I showed him the direction and then flung a bit of ice toward the desired goal. Without a second's hesitation he made a dash and reached the pan safely, as the tough layer of sea ice easily carried his weight. As he lay on the white surface looking like a round black fuss ball, my leaders could plainly see him. They now understood what I wanted and fought their way bravely toward the little retriever, carrying with them the line that gave me yet another chance for my life. The other dogs followed them, and all but one succeeded in getting out on the new haven of refuge. Taking all the run that the length of my little pan would afford, I made a dive, slithering along the surface as far as possible before I once again fell through. This time I had taken the precaution to tie the harnesses under the dogs' bellies so that they could not slip them off, and after a long fight I was able to drag myself onto the new pan. Though we had been working all the while toward the shore, the offshore wind had driven us a hundred yards farther seaward. On closer examination I found that the pan on which we were resting was not ice at all, but snow-covered slob, frozen into a mass which would certainly eventually break up in the heavy sea, which was momentarily increasing as the ice drove offshore before the wind. The westerly wind kept on rising--a bitter blast with us in winter, coming as it does over the Gulf ice. Some yards away I could still see my komatik with my thermos bottle and warm clothing on it, as well as matches and wood. In the memory of the oldest inhabitant no one had ever been adrift on the ice in this bay, and unless the team which had gone ahead should happen to come back to look for me, there was not one chance in a thousand of my being seen. To protect myself from freezing I now cut down my long boots as far as the feet, and made a kind of jacket, which shielded my back from the rising wind. By midday I had passed the island to which I had crossed on the ice bridge. The bridge was gone, so that if I did succeed in reaching that island I should only be marooned there and die of starvation. Five miles away to the north side of the bay the immense pans of Arctic ice were surging to and fro in the ground seas and thundering against the cliffs. No boat could have lived through such surf, even if I had been seen from that quarter. Though it was hardly, safe to move about on my little pan, I saw that I must have the skins of some of my dogs, if I were to live the night out without freezing. With some difficulty I now succeeded in killing three of my dogs--and I envied those dead beasts whose troubles were over so quickly. I questioned if, once I passed into the open sea, it would not be better to use my trusty knife on myself than to die by inches. But the necessity for work saved me from undue philosophizing; and night found me ten miles on my seaward voyage, with the three dogs skinned and their fur wrapped around me as a coat. I also frayed a small piece of rope into oakum and mixed it with the fat from the intestines of my dogs. But, alas, I found that the matches in my box, which was always chained to me, were soaked to a pulp and quite useless. Had I been able to make a fire out there at sea, it would have looked so uncanny that I felt sure that the fishermen friends, whose tiny light I could just discern twinkling away in the bay, would see it. The carcasses of my dogs I piled up to make a windbreak, and at intervals I took off my clothes, wrung them out, swung them in the wind, and put on first one and then the other inside, hoping that the heat of my body would thus dry them. My feet gave me the most trouble, as the moccasins were so easily soaked through in the snow. But I remembered the way in which the Lapps who tended our reindeer carried grass with them, to use in their boots in place of dry socks. As soon as I could sit down I began to unravel the ropes from the dogs' harnesses, and although by this time my fingers were more or less frozen, I managed to stuff the oakum into my shoes. Shortly before I had opened a box containing some old football clothes which I had not seen for twenty years. I was wearing this costume at the time; and though my cap, coat, and gloves were gone, as I stood there in a pair of my old Oxford University running shorts, and red, yellow, and black Richmond football stockings, and a flannel shirt, I remembered involuntarily the little dying girl who asked to be dressed in her Sunday frock so that she might arrive in heaven properly attired. Forcing my biggest dog to lie down, I cuddled up close to him, drew the improvised dogskin rug over me, and proceeded to go to sleep. One hand being against the dog was warm, but the other was frozen, and about midnight I woke up shivering enough, so I thought, to shatter my frail pan to atoms. The moon was just rising, and the wind was steadily driving me toward the open sea. Suddenly what seemed a miracle happened, for the wind veered, then dropped away entirely leaving it flat calm. I turned over and fell asleep again. I was next awakened by the sudden and persistent thought that I must have a flag, and accordingly set to work to disarticulate the frozen legs of my dead dogs. Cold as it was I determined to sacrifice my shirt to top this rude flagpole as soon as the daylight came. When the legs were at last tied together with bits of old harness rope, they made the crookedest flagstaff that it has ever been my lot to see. Though with the rising of the sun the frost came out of the dogs' legs to some extent, and the friction of waving it made the odd pole almost tie itself in knots, I could raise it three or four feet above my head, which was very important. Once or twice I thought that I could distinguish men against the distant cliffs--for I had drifted out of the bay into the sea--but the objects turned out to be trees. Once also I thought that I saw a boat appearing and disappearing on the surface of the water, but it proved to be only a small piece of ice bobbing up and down. The rocking of my cradle on the waves had helped me to sleep, and I felt as well as I ever did in my life. I was confident that I could last another twenty-four hours if my boat would only hold out and not rot under the sun's rays. I could not help laughing at my position, standing hour after hour waving my shirt at those barren and lonely cliffs; but I can honestly say that from first to last not a single sensation of fear crossed my mind. My own faith in the mystery of immortality is so untroubled that it now seemed almost natural to be passing to the portal of death from an ice-pan. Quite unbidden, the words of the old hymn kept running through my head: "My God, my Father, while I stray Far from my home on life's rough way, Oh, help me from my heart to say, Thy will be done." I had laid my wooden matches out to dry and was searching about on the pan for a piece of transparent ice which I could use as a burning-glass. I thought that I could make smoke enough to be seen from the land if only I could get some sort of a light. All at once I seemed to see the glitter of an oar, but I gave up the idea because I remembered that it was not water which lay between me and the land, but slob ice, and even if people had seen me, I did not imagine that they could force a boat through. The next time that I went back to my flag-waving, however, the glitter was very distinct, but my snow-glasses having been lost, I was partially snow-blind and distrusted my vision. But at last, besides the glide of an oar I made out the black streak of a boat's hull, and knew that if the pan held out for another hour I should be all right. The boat drew nearer and nearer, and I could make out my rescuers frantically waving. When they got close by they shouted, "Don't get excited. Keep on the pan where you are." They were far more excited than I, and had they only known as I did the sensations of a bath in the icy water, without the chance of drying one's self afterwards, they would not have expected me to wish to follow the example of the Apostle Peter. As the first man leaped on my pan and grasped my hand, not a word was spoken, but I could see the emotions which he was trying to force back. A swallow of the hot tea which had been thoughtfully sent out in a bottle, the dogs hoisted on board, and we started for home, now forging along in open water, now pushing the pans apart with the oars, and now jumping out on the ice and hauling the boat over the pans. It seems that the night before four men had been out on the headland cutting up some seals which they had killed in the fall. As they were leaving for home, my ice-raft must have drifted clear of Hare Island, and one of them, with his keen fisherman's eyes, had detected something unusual on the ice. They at once returned to their village, saying that something living was adrift on the floe. The one man on that section of coast who owned a good spy-glass jumped up from his supper on hearing the news and hurried over to the lookout on the cliffs. Dusk though it was, he saw that a man was out on the ice, and noticed him every now and again waving his hands at the shore. He immediately surmised who it must be; so little as I thought it, when night was closing in the men at the village were trying to launch a boat. Miles of ice lay between them and me, and the angry sea was hurling great blocks against the land. While I had considered myself a laughing-stock, bowing with my flag at those unresponsive cliffs, many eyes were watching me. By daybreak a fine volunteer crew had been organized, and the boat, with such a force behind it, would, I believe, have gone through anything. After seeing the heavy breakers through which we were guided, as at last we ran in at the harbour mouth, I knew well what the wives of that crew had been thinking when they saw their loved ones depart on such an errand. Every soul in the village was waiting to shake hands as I landed; and even with the grip that one after another gave me, I did not find out that my hands were badly frostburnt--a fact which I have realized since, however. I must have looked a weird object as I stepped ashore, tied up in rags, stuffed out with oakum, and wrapped in the bloody dogskins. The news had gone over to the hospital that I was lost, so I at once started north for St. Anthony, though I must confess that I did not greatly enjoy the trip, as I had to be hauled like a log, my feet being so frozen that I could not walk. For a few days subsequently I had painful reminders of the adventure in my frozen hands and feet, which forced me to keep to my bed--an unwelcome and unusual interlude in my way of life. In our hallway stands a bronze tablet: "To the Memory of Three Noble Dogs Moody Watch Spy Whose lives were given For mine on the ice April 21st, 1908." The boy whose life I was intent on saving was brought to the hospital a day or so later in a boat, the ice having cleared off the coast temporarily; and he was soon on the highroad to recovery. We all love life, and I was glad to have a new lease of it before me. As I went to sleep that night there still rang through my ears the same verse of the old hymn which had been my companion on the ice-pan: "Oh, help me from my heart to say, Thy will be done." CHAPTER XIX THEY THAT DO BUSINESS IN GREAT WATERS Contrary to her ungenerous reputation, even if vessels are lost on the Labrador, her almost unequalled series of harbours--so that from the Straits of Belle Isle to those of Hudson Bay there is not ten miles of coast anywhere without one--enables the crew to escape nearly every time. In 1883, in the North Sea in October, a hurricane destroyed twenty-five of our stout vessels on the Dogger Bank, cost us two hundred and seventy good lives, and left a hundred widows to mourn on the land. In 1889 a storm hit the north coast of Newfoundland, but too late in the season to injure much of the fishing fleet, which had for the most part gone South. But it caused immense damage to property and the loss of a few lives. As one of the testimonials to its fury, I saw the flooring and seats of the church in the mud of the harbour at St. Anthony at low tide even though that church had been founded entirely on a rock. We now concede that it is good economy on our coast to have wire stays to ringbolts leaded into rocky foundations, to anchor small buildings. Our storms are mostly cyclones with wide vortices, and coming largely from the southwest or northwest, are offshore, and therefore less felt. We were once running along at full speed in a very thick fog, framing a course to just clear some nasty shoals on our port bow. There was nothing outside us and we had seen no ice of late, so I went below for some lunch, telling the mate to report land as soon as he saw any, and instructing the man at the wheel, if he heard a shout, to port his helm hard. The soup was still on the table when a loud shouting made us leap on the deck to see the ship going full tilt into an enormous iceberg, which seemed right at the end of the bowsprit. This unexpected monster was on our starboard bow, and the order to avoid the shoal was putting us headfirst into it. Our only chance was full speed and a starboard helm, and we actually grazed along the side of the berg. It seemed almost ludicrous later to pick up a large island and run into a harbour with grassy, sloping sides, out of which the fog was shut like a wall, and then to go ashore and bargain over buying a couple of cows, which were being sold, as the settler was moving to the mainland. Among the records of events of importance to us I find in 1908 that of the second real hurricane which I have ever seen. It began on Saturday, July 28, the height of our summer, with flat calm and sunshine alternating with small, fierce squalls. Though we had a falling barometer, this deceived us, and we anchored that evening in a shallow and unsafe open roadstead about twenty miles from Indian Harbour Hospital. Fortunately our suspicions induced us to keep an anchor watch, and his warning made us get steam at midnight, and we brought up at daylight in the excellent narrow harbour in which the hospital stands. The holding ground there is deep mud in four fathoms of water, the best possible for us. Our only trouble was that the heavy tidal current would swing a ship uneasily broadside against an average wind force. It was blowing so strongly by this time that the hospital yawl Daryl had already been driven ashore from her anchors, but still we were able to keep ours in the water, and getting a line to her, to heave her astern of our vessel with our powerful winch. The fury of the breeze grew worse as the day went on. All the fishing boats in the harbour filled and sank with the driving water. With the increase of violence of the weather we got up steam and steamed to our anchors to ease if possible the strain on our two chains and shore lines--a web which we had been able to weave before it was too late. By Sunday the gale had blown itself entirely away, and Monday morning broke flat calm, with lovely sunshine, and only an enormous sullen ground sea. This is no uncommon game of Dame Nature's; she seemed to be only mocking at the destruction which she had wrought. Knowing that there must be many comrades in trouble, we were early away, and dancing like a bubble, we ran north, keeping as close inshore as we could, and watching the coast-line with our glasses. The coast was littered with remains. Forty-one vessels had been lost; in one uninhabited roadstead alone, some forty miles away from Indian Harbour, lay sixteen wrecks. The shore here was lined with rude shelters made from the wreckage of spars and sails, and the women were busy cooking meals and "tidying up" the shacks as if they had lived there always. We soon set to work hauling off such vessels as would float. One, a large hardwood, well-fastened hull, we determined to save. Her name was Pendragon. The owner was aboard--a young man with no experience who had never previously owned a vessel. He was so appalled at the disaster that he decided to have her sold piecemeal and broken up. We attended the auction on the beach and bought each piece as it came to the hammer. Getting her off was the trouble. We adopted tactics of our own invention. Mousing together the two mastheads with a bight of rope, we put on it a large whoop traveller, and to that fastened our stoutest and longest line. Then first backing down to her on the very top of high water, we went "full speed ahead." Over she fell on her side and bumped along on the mud and shingle for a few yards. By repeated jerks she was eventually ours, but leaking so like a basket that we feared we should yet lose her. Pumps inside fortunately kept her free till we passed her topsail under her, and after dropping in sods and peat, we let the pressure from the outside keep them in place. When night fell I was played out, and told the crew they must let her sink. My two volunteer helpers, Albert Gould, of Bowdoin, and Paul Matheson, of Brown, however, volunteered to pump all night. While hunting for a crew to take her South we came upon the wreck of a brand-new boat, only launched two months previously. She had been the pride of the skipper's life. He was an old friend of mine, and we felt so sorry for him that we not only got him to take our vessel, but we handed it over for him to work out at the cost which we had paid for the pieces. He made a good living out of her for several years, but later she was lost with all hands on some dangerous shoals near St. Anthony on a journey North. With fifty-odd people aboard, and a long trail of nineteen fishing boats we eventually got back to Indian Harbour, where every one joined in helping our friends in misfortune till the steamer came and took them South. They waved us farewell, and, quite undismayed, wished for better luck for themselves another season. The case of one skipper is well worth relating as showing their admirable optimism. He was sixty-seven years old, and had by hard saving earned his own schooner--a fine large vessel. He had arranged to sell her on his return trip and live quietly on the proceeds on his potato patch in southern Newfoundland. His vessel had driven on a submerged reef and turned turtle. The crew had jumped for their lives, not even saving their personal clothing, watches, or instruments. We photographed the remains of the capsized hull floating on the surf. Yet this man, in the four days during which he was my guest, never once uttered a word of complaint. He had done all he could, and he "'lowed that t' Lord knew better than he what was best." "But what will you do now, Skipper?" I asked. "Why, get another," he replied; "I think them'll trust me." One of our older vessels started a plank in a gale of wind in the Atlantic and went to the bottom without warning. In an open boat for six days with only a little dry bread and no covering of any sort, the crew fought rough seas and heavy breezes. But they handled her with the sea genius of our race; made land safely at last, and never said a word about the incident. On another occasion two men, who had been a fortnight adrift, had rowed one hundred and fifty miles, and had only the smallest modicum of food, came aboard our vessel. When I said, "You are hungry, aren't you?" they merely replied, "Well, not over-much"--and only laughed when I suggested that perhaps a month in the open boat might have given them a real appetite. One October, south of St. Anthony, we were lying in the arm of a bay with two anchors and two warps out, one to each side of the narrow channel. The wind piled up the waters, much as it did in Pharaoh's day. We were flung astern yard by yard on the top of the seas, and when it was obvious that we must go ashore, we reversed our engines, slipped our line, and drove up high and dry to escape the bumping on the beach which was inevitable. There we lay for days. Meanwhile I had taken our launch into the river-mouth and was marooned there. For the launch blew right up on the bank in among the trees, and strive as we would, for days we could not even move her out again. Another spring we had a very close squeak of losing the Strathcona. While we were trying one morning to get out of a harbour, a sudden gale of wind came down upon us and pinned us tight, so that we could not move an inch. The pressure of the ice became more severe moment by moment, and meanwhile the ice between us and the shore seemed to be imperceptibly melting away. Naturally we tried every expedient we could think of to keep enough ice between us and the shore rocks to save the vessel being swept over the rocky headland, toward which the irresistible tidal current was steadily forcing us. To make matters worse, we struck our propeller against a pan of ice and broke off one of the flanges close to the shaft. It became breathlessly exciting as the ship drew nearer and nearer to the rocks. We abandoned our boat when we saw that by trying to hold on to it any longer we should be jeopardizing the steamer. Twisting round helplessly as in a giant's arms, we were swept past the dangerous promontory and to our infinite joy carried out into the open Atlantic where there is room for all. Our boat was subsequently rescued from the shore, and we were able to screw on a new blade to the propeller. Just after the big gale in 1908 His Excellency, Sir William MacGregor, then Governor, was good enough to come and spend a short time surveying on our north coast. He was an expert in this line, as well as being a gold-medallist in medicine. Later he changed over from the Strathcona to the Government steamer Fiona. I acted as pilot among other capacities on that journey, and was unlucky enough to run her full tilt onto one of the only sandbanks on the coast in a narrow passage between some islands and the mainland! The little Strathcona, following behind, was in time to haul us off again, but the incident made the captain naturally distrust my ability, and as a result he would not approach the shore near enough for us to get the observations which we needed. Although we went round Cape Chidley into Ungava Bay I could not regain his confidence sufficiently to go through the straits which I had myself sounded and surveyed. So we accomplished it in a small boat, getting good observations. Our best work, however, was done when His Excellency was content to be our guest. The hospital on board was used for the necessary instruments--four chronometers, two theodolites, guns, telescopes, camp furniture, and piles of books and printed forms. Mr. Albert Gould of Bowdoin was my secretary on board that year, and was of very great value to us. [Illustration: ICEBERGS] Though the work of an amateur, Sir William's surveying was accepted by the Admiralty and the Royal Geographical Society--his survey in Nigeria having proved to have not one single location a mile out of place when an official survey was run later. Many a time in the middle of a meal, some desired but unlucky star would cross the prime vertical, and all hands had to go up on deck and shiver while rows of figures were accumulated. Sir William told us that he would rather shoot a star any time than all the game ever hunted. One night my secretary, after sitting on a rock at a movable table from 5 P.M. till midnight, came in, his joints almost creaking with cold, and loaded with a pile of figures which he assured us would crush the life out of most men. My mate that year was a stout and very short, plethoric person. When he stated that he preferred surveying to fishing, as it was going to benefit others so much, and that he was familiar with the joys of service, he was taken promptly at his word. It was a hot summer. The theodolite was a nine-inch one and weighed many pounds. We had climbed the face of a very steep mountain called Cape Mugford, some three thousand feet high--every inch of which distance we had to mount from dead sea-level. When at last Israel arrived on the summit, he looked worried. He said that he had always thought surveying meant letting things drop down over the ship's side, and not carrying ballast up precipices. For his part he could now see that providing food for the world was good enough for him. He distinctly failed to grasp where the joy of this kind of service came in--and noting his condition as he lay on the ground and panted I decided to let it go at that. The Governor was a real MacGregor and a Presbyterian, and was therefore quite a believer in keeping Sunday as a day of rest. But after morning prayers on the first fine day, after nearly a week of fog, he decided that he had had physical rest enough, and to get good observations would bring him the recreation of spirit which he most needed. So he packed up for work, and happened to light on the unhappy Israel to row him a mile or so to the land. "Iz" was taken "all aback." He believed that you should not strain yourself ever--much less on Sundays. So from religious scruples he asked to be excused, though he offered to row any one ashore if he was only going to idle the hours away. After all, however, our Governor represented our King, and I was personally horrified, intending to correct Israel's position with a round turn, and show him that we are especially enjoined to obey "Governors and Rulers"--as better also than the sacrifice of loafing. But the Governor forbade it, quietly unpacked, put his things away, and stayed aboard. Israel subsequently cultivated the habit of remaining in bed on Sundays--thereby escaping being led into temptation, as even Governors would not be likely to go and tempt him in his bunk. I have had others refuse to help in really necessary work on Sunday. One skipper would not get the Strathcona under way in answer to a wireless appeal to come to a woman in danger of dying from hemorrhage forty miles distant. When we prepared to start without him, he told me that he would go, but that it would be at the price of his soul and we would have to be responsible for that loss. We went all the same. Our charts, such as they were, were subsequently accepted by the Royal Geographical Society of England, who generously invited me to lecture before them. They were later good enough to award me the Murchison Prize in 1911. Much of the work was really due to Sir William, and as much of it as I could put on him to the Sabbatarian "Iz." In connection with the scientific work on the coast I well remember the eclipse of October, 1905. All along the land it was perfectly visible. A break in the clouds occurred at exactly the right moment: one fisherman, to console the astronomers, said that he was very sorry, but that he supposed it did not much matter, as there would be another eclipse next week. The scientific explorer, who was devoting his attention to the effect on the earth's magnetism, spent the time of the eclipse in a dark cellar. Most wonderful magnetic disturbances had been occurring almost every night, and the night before the event a far from ordinary storm had upset his instruments, so that the effect of the eclipse on the magnetic indicators was scarcely distinguishable. He had just time after the thing was over to peep out and see the light returning. He had watched his thermometer and found that it fell three degrees during totality. The year 1908 at the mill we had built a new large schooner in honour of that devoted friend of Labrador, our secretary in Boston, and had named the vessel for her, the Emma E. White. She fetched Lloyd's full bounty for an A 1 ship. This was a feather in our caps, since she was designed and built by one of our own men, who was no "scholard," having never learned to read or write. Will Hopkins can take an axe and a few tools into the green woods in the fall, and sail down the bay in a new schooner in the spring when the ice goes. To see him steaming the planking in the open in his own improvised boxes on the top of six feet of snow made me stand and take off my hat to him. He is no good at speech-making; he does not own a dress-suit, and he cannot dance a tango; but he is quite as useful a citizen as some who can, and his type of education is one which endears him to all. He gave me the great pleasure of having our friend come sailing into St. Anthony in the middle of a fine day, seated on the bow of her namesake, the beautiful and valuable product of his skill, just when we were all ready on the wharf to "sketch them both off," as our people call taking a photograph. Our increasing buildings being all of wood, and as the two largest were full of either helpless sick people or an ever-increasing batch of children, we wanted something safer than kerosene lamps to illuminate the rooms. The people here had never seen electric light "tamed," as it were, and to us it seemed almost too big a venture to install a plant of our own. Home outfits were not common in those days even in the States, and we feared in any case that we could not run it regularly enough. No one except the head of the machine shop, a Labrador boy and Pratt graduate, knew the first thing about electricity, and he would not always be available. However, with the help of friends we were able to purchase a hot-head vertical engine to generate our current; for our near-by streams freeze solid in winter. That engine has now been running for over ten years, and has given us electricity in St. Anthony Hospital for operating and X-ray work as well as all our lighting. Until he died, it was run the greater part of the time by an Eskimo boy whom we had brought down from the North Labrador, and who was convalescing from empyema. The installation was efficiently done by a volunteer student from the Pratt Institute, Mr. Hause. On my lecture trip the previous winter a gentleman at whose house I was a guest told me that when quite a youth he had fought in the Civil War, been invalided home, and advised to take a sea voyage for his health. He therefore took passage with some Gloucester fishermen and set sail for the Labrador. The crew proved to be Southern sympathizers, and one day, while my friend was ashore taking a walk, the skipper slipped out and left him marooned. He had with him neither money, spare clothing, nor anything else; and as British sympathies were also with the South, he had many doubts as to how the settlers would receive a penniless stranger and Northerner. So seeing his schooner bound in an easterly direction, he started literally to run along the shore, hoping that he might find where she went and catch her again. Mile after mile he went, tearing through the "tuckamore" or dense undergrowth of gnarled trees, climbing over high cliffs, swimming or wading the innumerable rivers, skirting bays, and now and again finding a short beach along which he could hurry. At night, wet, dirty, tired, hungry, penniless, he came to a fisherman's cottage and asked shelter and food. He explained that he was an American gentleman taking a holiday, but hadn't a penny of money. It spoke well for the people that they accepted his story. He told me that they both fed and clothed him, and one kind-hearted man actually the next day gave him some oilskin clothing and a sou'wester hat--costly articles "on Labrador" in those days. So on and on and on he went, till at last arriving at Red Bay he found his schooner at anchor calmly fishing. He went aboard at once as if nothing had happened, and stayed there (having enjoyed enough pedestrian exercise for the time being) and no one ever referred to his having been left behind. He was now, however, forty years later, anxious to do something for the people of that section of the shore, and he gave me a thousand dollars toward building a small cottage for a district nurse. Forteau was the village chosen, and Dennison Cottage erected as a nursing station and dispensary. The people at first each gave a week toward its upkeep; and even now every man gives three days annually. The house has a good garden, little wards for in-patients, and is the centre of much useful industrial work, especially the making of artificial flowers. For twelve years now, Miss Florence Bailey, a nurse from the Mildmay Institute in London, has presided over its destinies, endeared herself to the people, and done most unselfish and heroic work in that lonely station, which she has greatly enlarged and improved by her untiring efforts. It forms an admirable halfway house between Battle and Harrington Hospitals, each being about a hundred miles distant. A local trader once wrote me: "Sister Bailey did good work last year. That cottage hospital is a blessing to the people of this part of the shore. Who would think that by a little act of kindness done forty-odd years ago to an old soldier, we would now be reaping the benefit of such an act." Only one longer journey on foot on the Labrador coast is on record. The traveller started from Quebec and walked to Battle Harbour. There he turned north and walked to Nakvak Bay. The distance as the crow flies is about fourteen hundred miles. But the man had no boat of his own and only in one or two places accepted a passage. One bay on the east coast runs in for some hundred and fifty miles. Over this he got a boat fifty miles from the mouth. Round Kipokak and Makkovik, and the bays south of Hopedale, he walked most of the way, and these run in for forty miles. He carried practically nothing with him, and depended on what boots and clothing the people gave him, eating berries and whatever else he could find while he was in the country. Those who housed him told me that they did not see any signs of madness about him, except his avoidance of men and refusal to go in boats or mix with others if he could in any way avoid it. He carried no gun. No one knew who he was nor why he went on such a "cruise." Long before he reached the North the theory that he was a murderer fleeing from justice got started, and at some places a very careful watch was kept over him. Arrived at Nakvak, he went to the house of everyone's friend, George Ford. That is one of the most inaccessible places in the world. No mail steamer ever goes there, and no schooner ever anchors nearer than a few miles. It is at the bottom of a fjord twenty-five miles long, with very precipitous cliffs two thousand feet high on each side and bottomless water below. It was then thirty miles from the nearest house, with ranges of mountains between, and was the most northerly house on the Labrador. Here this phenomenon celebrated his arrival by climbing up onto the ridge of the house, when lo! most prosaic of accidents, he fell off and broke his neck. The puzzle has always been why he elected to carry an unbroken neck at such cost all that long distance. Many inexplicable things happen "on Labrador." Thus, one year while visiting at the head of Hamilton Inlet, a Scotch settler came aboard to ask my advice about a large animal that had appeared round his house. Though he had sat up night after night with his gun, he had never seen it. His children had seen it several times disappearing into the trees. The French agent of Révillon Frères, twenty miles away, had come over, and together they had tracked it, measured the footmarks in the mud, and even fenced some of them round. The stride was about eight feet, the marks as of the cloven hoofs of an ox. The children described the creature as looking like a huge hairy man; and several nights the dogs had been driven growling from the house into the water. Twice the whole family had heard the creature prowling around the cottage, and tapping at the doors and windows. The now grown-up children persist in saying that they saw this wild thing. Their house is twenty miles up the large Grand River, and a hundred and fifty miles from the coast. An old fellow called Harry Howell was one winter night missing from his home. He had been hunting, and only too late, after a blizzard set in, was it discovered that he was absent. In the morning the men gathered to make a search, but at that moment in walked "old Harry"! He told me later that he was coming home in the afternoon when the blizzard began. It was dirty, thick of snow, and cold. Suddenly he heard bells ringing, and knew that it was fairies bidding him follow them--because he had followed them before. So off he went, pushing his way through the driving snow. When at last he reached the foot of a gnarled old tree in the forest, the bells stopped, and he knew that was the place where he must stay for the night. So he laid some of the partridges which he had killed into a hole in the snow close to the trunk, crawled down and used them for a seat, and placed the rest of the frozen birds at his feet. Then he pulled up his dickey, or kossak, over his head, and with his back to the tree, went to sleep while the snow was still driving. There was no persuading that man that the ringing bells were in his own imagination. Many years ago a Norwegian captain on the Labrador told me the following story. One day the carpenter of his schooner, a man whom he had known for three voyages, and trusted thoroughly, was steering on the course which the mate had given him. All at once the mate came and found the man steering four points out. When he upbraided him, he answered, "He came and told me to." "Nobody did," replied the mate. "Go northwest." Three times the experience was repeated, and at last the mate reported the matter to the skipper. He immediately suggested, "Well, let us go on running in the direction he insists on taking for a while and see if anything happens." At the end of two hours they came upon a square-rigger with her decks just awash, and six men clinging to her rigging. As they came alongside the sinking vessel the carpenter pointed aghast to one of the rescued crew and cried out, "There's the man who came and told me the skipper said to change the course." In medicine, too, things happen which we professional men are just as unable to explain. A big-bodied, successful fisherman came aboard my steamer one day, saying that he had toothache. This was probable, for his jaw was swollen, his mouth hard to open, and the offending molar easily visible within. When I produced the forceps he protested most loudly that he would not have it touched for worlds. "Why, then, did you come to me?" I asked. "You are wasting my time." "I wanted you to charm her, Doctor," he answered, quite naturally. "But, my dear friend, I do not know how to charm, and don't think it would do the slightest good. Doctors are not allowed to do such things." He was evidently very much put out, and turning round to go, said, "I knows why you'se won't charm her. It's because I'm a Roman Catholic." "Nonsense. If you really think that it would do any good, come along. You'll have to pay twenty-five cents exactly as if you had it pulled out." "Gladly enough, Doctor. Please go ahead." He sat on the rail, a burly carcass, the incarnation of materialism, while the doctor, feeling the size of a sandflea, put one finger into his mouth and touched the molar, while he repeated the most mystic nonsense he could think of, "Abracadabra Tiddlywinkum Umslopoga"--and then jumped the finger out lest the patient might close his ponderous jaw. The fisherman took a turn around the deck, pulled out the quarter, and solemnly handed it to me, saying, "All the pain has gone. Many thanks, Doctor." I found myself standing alone in amazement, twiddling a miserable shilling, and wondering how I came to make such a fool of myself. A month later the patient again came to see me when we happened to be in his harbour. The swelling had gone, the molar was there. "Ne'er an ache out of her since," the patient laughed. I have not reported this end result to the committee of the American College of Surgeons, though much attention is now devoted to the follow-up and end-result department of surgery and medicine. CHAPTER XX MARRIAGE It was now the fall of 1908, and the time had come for me to visit England again and try and arouse fresh interest in our work; and this motive was combined with the desire to see my old mother, who was now nearing her fourscore years. I decided to leave in November and return _via_ America in the spring to receive the honorary degree of LL.D. from Williams College and of M.A. from Harvard, which I had been generously offered. My lecture tour this winter was entrusted to an agency. Propaganda is a recognized necessity in human life, though it has little attraction for most men. To me having to ask personally for money even for other people was always a difficulty. Scores of times I have been blamed for not even stating in a lecture that we needed help. The distaste for beating the big drum, which lecturing for your own work always appears to be, makes me quite unable to see any virtue in not doing it, but just asking the Lord to do it. If I really were convinced that He would meet the expenses whether I worked or not, I should believe that neither would He let people suffer and die untended out here or anywhere else. Indeed, it would seem a work of supererogation to have to remind Him of the necessity that existed. The fact that we have to show pictures of the work which we are doing is tiresome and takes time, but it encourages us to have pictures worth taking and to do deeds which we are not ashamed to narrate. It also stimulates others to give themselves as well as their money to similar kinds of work at their own doorsteps, to see how much like themselves their almoners are. Only to-day my volunteer secretary told me that he honestly expected to meet "a bearded old fogey in spectacles," not a man who can shoot his own dinner from the wing or who enjoys the justifiable pleasures of life. The religion of Christ never permitted me to accept the idea that there is "nothing to do, only believe." Every man ought to earn his own bread and the means to support his family. Why, then, should you have only to ask the Lord to give unasked the wherewithal to feed other people's families? Lecturing for philanthropies, only another word for the means to help along the Kingdom of God on earth, is in England usually carried on through the ordinary missionary meetings; and in my previous experience they were not generally much credit to the splendid objects in view. The lectures were often patronized by small audiences largely composed of women and children. That particular winter in England I had the privilege of addressing all sorts of workmen's clubs and city lecture-course audiences, people who would have "the shivers" almost if one had asked them to attend a "missionary" lecture. The collection, or even the final monetary outcome, is far from being the test of the value of the address. To commend Christ's religion by minimizing in any way the prerogative He gave men of carrying on the work of His kingdom in their human efforts is to sap the very appeal that attracts manhood to Him. I never wanted to sing, "Oh! to be nothing, nothing." I always wished to sing, "Oh! make me something, something"--that shall leave some footprints on the sands of time, and have some record of talents gained to offer a Master whom we believe to be righteous. When spring came and the lectures were over, a new idea suddenly dawned upon me. If I were going to America to festive gatherings and to have some honours conferred, why leave the mother behind? Seventy-eight years is not old. She was born in India, had lived in England, and suppose anything did happen, why not sleep in America?--she would be just as near God there. The splendid Mauretania not only took us safely over, but gave me also that gift which I firmly believe God designed for me--a real partner to share in my joys and sorrows, to encourage and support in trouble and failures, to inspire and advise in a thousand ways, and in addition to bring into my distant field of work a personal comrade with the culture, wisdom, and enthusiasm of the American life and the training of one of the very best of its Universities. We met on board the second day out. She was travelling with a Scotch banker of Chicago and his wife, Mr. W.R. Stirling, whose daughter was her best friend. They were returning from a motor tour through Europe and Algeria. The Mauretania takes only four and a half days in crossing, and never before did I realize the drawbacks of "hustle," and yet the extreme need of it on my part. The degrees of longitude slipped by so quickly that I felt personally aggrieved when one day we made over six hundred miles, and the captain told us in triumph that it was a new record. The ship seemed to be paying off some spite against me. My mother kept mostly to her cabin. Though constantly in to see her, I am afraid I did not unduly worry her to join me on the deck. When just on landing I told her that I had asked a fellow passenger to become my wife, I am sure had the opportunity arisen she would have tumbled down the Mauretania's staircase. When she had the joy of meeting the girl, her equanimity was so far upset as to let an unaccustomed tear roll down her cheek. That, at least, is one of the tears which I have cost her which brings no regrets. For she confesses that it often puzzles her to which of our lives the event has meant most. The constant little activities of my life had so filled every hour of time, and so engrossed my thoughts, that I had never thought to philosophize on the advisability of marriage, nor stopped to compare my life with those of my neighbors. There is no virtue in keeping the Ninth Commandment and not envying your neighbour's condition or goods when it never enters your head or heart to worry about them; and when you are getting what you care about no halo is due you for not falling victim to envy or jealousy of others. I have not been in the habit of praying for special personal providences like fine weather in my section of the earth, or for head wind for the schooners so as to give me a fair wind for my steamer, except so far as one prays for the recognition of God's good hand in everything. I can honestly protest that nothing in my life ever came more "out of the blue" than my marriage; and beyond that I am increasingly certain each day that it did come out of that blue where God dwells. I knew neither whence she came nor whither she was going. Indeed, I only found out when the proposition was really put that I did not even know her name--for it was down on the passenger list as one of the daughters of the friends with whom she was travelling. Fortunately it never entered my head that it mattered. For I doubt if I should have had the courage to question the chaperon, whose daughter she presumably was. It certainly was a "poser" to be told, "But you don't even know my name." Had I not been a bit of a seaman, and often compelled on the spur of the moment to act first and think afterwards, what the consequences might have been I cannot say. Fortunately, I remembered that it was not the matter at issue, and explained, without admitting the impeachment, that the only question that interested me in the least was what I hoped that it might become. Incidentally she mentioned that she had only once heard of me. It was the year previous when I had been speaking at Bryn Mawr and she had refused in no measured terms an invitation to attend, as sounding entirely too dull for her predilections. I have wondered whether this was not another "small providence." A pathological condition of one's internal workings is not unusual even in Britons who "go down to the sea in ships," but such genius as our family has displayed has, so history assures us, shone best on a quarter-deck; and on this occasion it pleased God ultimately to add another naval victory to our credit. It is generally admitted that an abnormal mentality accompanies this not uncommon experience of human life, and I found my lack of appreciation of the rapid voyage paralleled by a wicked satisfaction that my mother preferred the brass four-poster, so thoughtfully provided for her by the Cunard Company, to the risks of the unsteady promenade deck. When the girl's way and mine parted in that last word in material jostlings, the custom-house shed in Manhattan, after the liner arrived, I realized that it was rather an armistice than a permanent settlement which I had achieved. Though there was no father in the case, I learned that there was a mother and a home in Chicago. These were formidable strongholds for a homeless wanderer to assault, but rendered doubly so by the fact that there was neither brother nor sister to leave behind to mitigate the possible vacancy. The "everlasting yea" not having been forthcoming, under the circumstances it was no easy task for me to keep faith with the many appointments to lecture on Labrador which had been made for me. The inexorable schedule kept me week after week in the East. Fortunately the generous hospitality of many old friends who wanted the pleasure of meeting my mother kept my mind somewhat occupied. But I confess at the back of it the forthcoming venture loomed up more and more momentous as the fateful day drew near for me to start for Chicago. This visit to my wife's beautiful country home among the trees on the bluff of Lake Michigan in Lake Forest was one long dream. My mother and I were now made acquainted with the family and friends of my fiancée. Her father, Colonel MacClanahan, a man of six feet five inches in height, had been Judge Advocate General on the Staff of Braxton Bragg and had fought under General Robert E. Lee. He was a Southerner of Scotch extraction, having been born and brought up in Tennessee. A lawyer by training, after the war, when everything that belonged to him was destroyed in the "reconstruction period," and being still a very young man, he had gone North to Chicago and begun life again at his profession. There he met and married, in 1884, Miss Rosamond Hill, who was born in Burlington, Vermont, but who, since childhood and the death of her parents, had lived with her married sister, Mrs. Charles Durand, of Chicago. The MacClanahans had two children--the boy, Kinloch, dying at an early age as the result of an accident. Colonel MacClanahan himself died a few months later, leaving a widow and one child, Anna Elizabeth Caldwell MacClanahan. She and her mother had lived the greater part of the time with Mrs. Durand, who died something more than a year before our engagement. The friends with whom my fiancée had been travelling were almost next-door neighbours in Lake Forest. They made my short stay doubly happy by endless kindnesses; and all through the years, till his death in 1918, Mr. Stirling gave me not only a friendship which meant more to me than I can express, but his loving and invaluable aid and counsel in our work. In spite of my many years of sailor life, I found that I was expected among other things to ride a horse, my fiancée being devoted to that means of progression. The days when I had ridden to hounds in England as a boy in Cheshire stood me in some little stead, for like swimming, tennis, and other pastimes calling for coördination, riding is never quite forgotten. But remembering Mr. Winkle's experiences, it was not without some misgivings that I found a shellback like myself galloping behind my lady's charger. My last essay at horseback riding had been just eleven years previously in Iceland. Having to wait a few days at Reikkavik, I had hired a whole bevy of ponies with a guide to take myself and the young skipper of our vessel for a three days' ride to see the geysers. He had never been on the back of any animal before, and was nevertheless not surprised or daunted at falling off frequently, though an interlude of being dragged along with one foot in the stirrup over lava beds made no little impression upon him. Fodder of all kinds is very scarce in the volcanic tufa of which all that land consists, and any moment that one stopped was always devoted by our ponies to grubbing for blades of grass in the holes. On our return to the ship the crew could not help noticing that the skipper for many days ceased to patronize the lockers or any other seat, and soon they were rejoicing that for some reason he was unable to sit down at all. He explained it by saying that his ponies ate so much lava that it stuck out under their skins, and I myself recall feeling inclined to agree with him. The journey from Lake Forest to Labrador would have been a tedious one, but by good fortune a friend from New York had arranged to come and visit the coast in his steam yacht, the Enchantress, and was good enough to pick me up at Bras d'Or. Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, who had previously shown me much kindness, permitted us to rendezvous at his house, and for a second time I enjoyed seeing some of the experiments of his most versatile brain. His aeroplanes, telephones, and other inventions were all intensely interesting, but among his other lines of work the effort to develop a race of sheep, which had litters just as pigs do, interested me most. Francis Sayre, whom I had heard win the prize at Williams with his valedictory speech, was again to be my summer secretary. On our arrival at St. Anthony we found a great deal going on. The fame as a surgeon of my colleague, Dr. John Mason Little, had spread so widely that St. Anthony Hospital would no longer hold the patients who sought assistance at it. Fifty would arrive on a single mail boat. They were dumped down on the little wharf, having been landed in small punts from the steamer, as in those days we had no proper dock to which the boats could come. The little waiting-room in the hospital at night resembled nothing so much as a newly opened sardine tin; and to cater for the waiting patients was a Sisyphean task without the Hercules. Through the instrumentality of Dr. Little's sister a fund of ten thousand dollars was raised to double the size of the hospital, and the work of building was begun on my return. Although the capacity was greatly increased thereby we have really been unable ever to make our building what it ought to be to meet the problem. The first part, constructed of green lumber hauled from the woods, and other wings added at different periods of growth, the endeavour to blast out suitable heating-plant accommodations--all this has left the hospital building more or less a thing of rags and patches, and most uneconomical to run. We are urgently in need of having it rebuilt entirely of either brick or stone, in order to resist the winter cold, to give more efficiency and comfort to patients and staff and to conserve our fuel, which is the most serious item of expense we have to meet. But at that time with all its capacity for service the new addition was rising, sounding yet one more note of praise in better ability to meet the demands upon us. And _pari passu_ came the beautiful offer of my friend, Mr. Sayre, to double the size of our orphanage, putting up the new wing in memory of his father. This meant that instead of twenty we might now accommodate forty children at a pinch. Life is so short that it is the depths of pathos to be hampered in doing one's work for the lack of a few dollars. Of great interest to my fiancée and myself was the selection of a piece of ground adjoining the Mission land, and the erection for ourselves of the home which we had planned and designed together before I had left Lake Forest. We chose some land up on the hillside and overlooking the sea and the harbour, where the view should be as comprehensive as possible. But we feared that even though our new house was very literally "founded upon a rock," the winds might some day remove it bodily from its abiding-place, and therefore we riveted the structure with heavy iron bolts to the solid bedrock. One excitement of that season was Admiral Peary's return from the North Pole. We were cruising near Indian Harbour when some visitors came aboard to make use of our wireless telegraph, which at that time we had installed on board. It proved to be Mr. Harry Whitney. It was the first intimation that we had had that Peary was returning that year. Whitney had met Cook coming back from the polar sea on the west side of the Gulf, where he had disappeared about eighteen months previously. I had met Dr. Cook several times myself, and indeed I had slept at his house in Brooklyn. He had visited Battle Harbour Hospital in 1893 when he was wrecked in the steamer in which he was conducting a party to visit Greenland. We had again seen him as he went North with Mr. Bradley in the yacht, and he had sent us back some Greenland dogs to mix their blood with our dogs, and so perhaps improve their breed and endurance. These, however, I had later felt it necessary to kill, for the Greenland dogs carry the dangerous tapeworm which is such a menace to man, and of which our Labrador dogs are entirely free so far. The picture of this meeting on the ice between Cook and Whitney gave us the impression of another Nansen and Jackson at Spitzbergen. Whitney had welcomed Cook warmly, had witnessed his troubles at Etah, and his departure by komatik, and had taken charge of his instruments and records to carry South with him when he came home. But his ship was delayed and delayed, and when Peary in the Roosevelt passed on his way South, fearing to be left another winter Whitney had accepted a passage on her at the cost of leaving Cook's material behind. He had met his own boat farther south and had transferred to her. He left the impression very firmly on all our minds that both he and Dr. Cook really believed that the latter had found the long-sought Pole. A little later, while cruising in thick weather in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, my wireless operator came in and said: "There can be no harm telling you, Doctor, that Peary is at Battle Harbour. He is wiring to Washington that he has found the Pole, and also he is asking his committee if he may present the Mission with his superfluous supplies, or whether he is to sell them to you." Seeing that it is not easy to know whence wireless messages come if the sender does not own up to his whereabouts, I at once ordered him to wireless to Peary at Battle the simple words: "Give it to them, of course," and sign it "Washington." I knew that the Commander would see the joke, and if the decision turned out later to be incorrect, it could easily be rectified by purchasing the goods. A tin of his brown bread now lies among my curios and one of his sledges is in my barn. [Illustration: COMMODORE PEARY ON HIS WAY BACK FROM THE POLE, 1909] On our arrival at Battle Harbour we found the Roosevelt lying at the wharf repainting and refitting. A whole host of newspaper men and other friends had come North to welcome the explorer home. Battle was quite a gay place; but it was living up to its name, for Peary not only claimed that he had found the Pole, but also that Cook had not; and he was realizing what a hard thing it is to prove a negative. We had a very delightful time with the party, and greatly enjoyed meeting all the members of the expedition. Among them was the ill-fated Borup, destined shortly to be drowned on a simple canoe trip, and the indomitable and athletic Macmillan who subsequently led the Crocker Land expedition, our own schooner George B. Cluett carrying them to Etah. My secretary, Mr. Sayre, was just about to leave for America, and at Peary's request he transferred to the Roosevelt with his typewriter, to help the Commander with a few of his many notes and records. I dare say that he got an inside view of the question then agitating the world from Washington to Copenhagen; but if so, he has remained forever silent about it. For our part we were glad that some one had found the Pole, for it has been a costly quest in both fine men and valuable time, energy, and money. It has caused lots of trouble and sorrow, and so far at least its practical issues have been few. Our wedding had been scheduled for November, and for the first time I had found a Labrador summer long. In the late fall I left for Chicago on a mission that had no flavour of the North Pole about it. We were married in Grace Episcopal Church, Chicago, on November 18, 1909. Our wedding was followed by a visit to the Hot Springs of Virginia; and then "heigho," and a flight for the North. We sailed from St. John's, Newfoundland, in January. I had assured my wife, who is an excellent sailor, that she would scarcely notice the motion of the ship on the coastal trip of three hundred miles. Instead of five days, it took nine; and we steamed straight out of the Narrows at St. John's into a head gale and a blizzard of snow. The driving spray froze onto every thing till the ship was sugared like a vast Christmas cake. It made the home which we had built at St. Anthony appear perfectly delightful. My wife had had her furniture sent North during the summer, so that now the "Lares and Penates" with which she had been familiar from childhood seemed to extend a mute but hearty welcome to us from their new setting. We have three children, all born at St. Anthony. Our elder son, Wilfred Thomason, was born in the fall of 1910; Kinloch Pascoe in the fall of 1912, two years almost to a day behind his brother; and lastly a daughter, Rosamond Loveday, who followed her brothers in 1917. In the case of the two latter children the honours of the name were divided between both sides of the family, Kinloch and Rosamond being old family names on my wife's side, while, on the other hand, there have been Pascoe and Loveday Grenfells from time immemorial. Nearly ten years have now rolled away since our marriage. The puzzle to me is how I ever got along before; and these last nine years have been so crowded with the activities and worries of the increasing cares of a growing work, that without the love and inspiration and intellectual help of a true comrade, I could never have stood up under them. Every side of life is developed and broadened by companionship. I admit of no separation of life into "secular" and "religious." Religion, if it means anything, means the life and activities of our divine spirit on earth in relation to our Father in heaven. I am convinced from experience of the supreme value to that of a happy marriage, and that "team work" is God's plan for us on this earth. CHAPTER XXI NEW VENTURES No human life can be perfect, or even be lived without troubles. Clams have their troubles, I dare say. A queer sort of sinking feeling just like descending in a fast elevator comes over one, as if trouble and the abdominal viscera had a direct connection. Some one has said that it must be because that is where the average mind centres. Thus, when we lost the little steamer Swallow which we were towing, and with it the evidence of a crime and the road to the prevention of its repetition, it absolutely sickened me for two or three days, or, to be more exact, during two or three nights. It was all quite unnecessary, for we can see now that the matter worked out for the best. The fact that troubles hurt most when one is at rest and one's mind unoccupied, and in the night when one's vitality is lowest, is a great comfort, because that shows how it is something physical that is at fault, and no physical troubles are of very great importance. The summer of 1910 brought me a fine crop of personal worries, and probably deservedly so, for no one should leave his business affairs too much to another, without guarantees, occasionally renewed, that all is well. Few professional men are good at business, and personally I have no liking for it. This, combined with an over-readiness to accept as helpers men whose only qualifications have sometimes been of their own rating, was really spoiling for trouble--and mine came through the series of coöperative stores. To begin with, none of the stores were incorporated, and their liabilities were therefore unlimited. Though I had always felt it best not to accept a penny of interest, I had been obliged to loan them money, and their agent in St. John's, who was also mine, allowed them considerable latitude in credits. It was, indeed, a bolt from the blue when I was informed that the merchants in St. John's were owed by the stores the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, and that I was being held responsible for every cent of it--because on the strength of their faith in me, and their knowledge that I was interested in the stores, having brought them into being, they had been willing to let the credits mount up. Even then I still had all my work to carry on and little time to devote to money affairs. Had I accepted, on first entering the Mission, the salary offered me, which was that of my predecessor, I should have been able to meet these liabilities, and very gladly indeed would I have done so. As it was I had to find some way out. All the merchants interested were told of the facts, and asked to meet me at the office of one of them, go over the accounts with my agent, and try and find a plan to settle. One can have little heart in his work if he feels every one who looks at him really thinks that he is a defaulter. The outcome of the inquiry revealed that if the agent could not show which store owed each debt, neither could the merchants; some had made out their bills to separate stores, some all to one store, and some in a general way to myself, though not one single penny of the debt was a personal one of my own. The next discovery was that the manager of the St. Anthony store, who had been my summer secretary before, and was an exceedingly pious man--whose great zeal for cottage prayer meetings, and that form of religious work, had led me to think far too highly of him--had neglected his books. He had given credit to every one who came along (though it was a cardinal statute under his rules that no credit was to be allowed except at his own personal risk). The St. John's agent claimed that he had made a loss of twelve thousand dollars in a little over a year, in which he professed to have been able to pay ten per cent to shareholders and put by three hundred dollars to reserve. Besides this, the new local store secretary had mixed up affairs by both ordering supplies direct from Canada and sending produce there, which the St. John's agent claimed were owed to the merchants in that city. These two men, instead of pulling together, were, I found, bitter enemies; and it looked as if the whole pack of cards were tumbling about my ears. I cashed every available personal asset which I could. The beautiful schooner, Emma E. White, also a personal possession, arrived in St. John's while we were there with a full load of lumber, but it and she sailed straight into the melting-pot. The merchants, with one exception, were all as good about the matter as men can be. They were perfectly satisfied when they realized that I meant facing the debt squarely. One was nasty about it, saying that he would not wait--and oddly enough in ordinary life he was a man whom one would not expect to be ungenerous, for he too was a religious man. Whether he gained by it or not it is hard to say. He was paid first, anyhow. The standard of what is really remunerative in life is differently graded. The stores have dealt with him since, and his prices are fair and honest; but he was the only one among some twenty who even appeared to kick a man when he was down. I have nothing but gratitude to all the rest. I should add that the incident was not the fault of the people of the coast. Often I had been warned by the merchants that the coöperative stores would fail and that the people would rob me. It is true that there was trouble over the badly kept books, and a number of the fishermen disclaimed their debts charged against them; but with one exception no one came and said that he had had things which were not noted on the bills. I am confident, however, that they did not go back on me willingly, and when my merchant friends said, "I told you so," I honestly was able to state that it was the management, not the people or the system, that was at fault. Indeed, subsequent events have proved this. For five of the stores still run, and run splendidly, and pay handsomer dividends by far than any investment our people could possibly make elsewhere. With the sale of a few investments and some other available property, the liability was so far reduced that, with what the stores paid, only one merchant was not fully indemnified, and he generously told me not to worry about the balance. This same year, on the other hand, one of our most forward steps, so far as the Mission was concerned, was taken, through the generosity of the late Mr. George B. Cluett, of Troy, New York. He had built specially for our work a magnificent three-masted schooner, fitted with the best of gear including a motor launch. She was constructed of three-inch oak plank, sheathed with hardwood for work in the ice-fields. She was also fitted with an eighty horse-power Wolverine engine. The bronze tablet in her bore the inscription, "This vessel with full equipment was presented to Wilfred T. Grenfell by George B. Cluett." He had previously asked me if I would like any words from the Bible on the plate, and I had suggested, "The sea is His and He made it." The designer unfortunately put the text after the inscription; so that I have been frequently asked why and how I came to make it, seeing that it is believed by all good Christians that in heaven "there shall be no more sea." To help out with the expenses of getting her running, our loved friend from Chicago, Mr. W.R. Stirling, agreed to come North on the schooner the first season, bringing his two daughters and three friends. Even though he was renting her for a yachting trip, he offered to bring all the cargo free and make the Mission stations his ports of call. Mr. Cluett's idea was that, as we had big expenses carrying endless freight so far North, and as it got so broken and often lost in transit, and greatly damaged in the many changes involved from rail to steamer, and from steamer to steamer, if she carried our freight in summer, she could in winter earn enough to make it all free, and possibly provide a sinking fund for herself as well. There was also good accommodation in her for doctors, nurses, students, etc., who every summer come from the South to help in various ways in the work of the Mission. All our freight that year arrived promptly and in good condition, which had never happened before. Later the vessel was chartered to go to Greenland by the Smithsonian. On this occasion her engine, never satisfactory, gave out entirely, which so delayed her that she got frozen in near Etah and was held up a whole twelvemonth. Meanwhile the war had broken out, and when she at last sailed into Boston, we were able to sell her, by the generous permission of Mrs. Cluett, and use the money to purchase the George B. Cluett II. Illustrating the advantage of getting our freight direct, among the many instances which have occurred, that of the lost searchlight for the Strathcona comes to my mind. As she had often on dark nights to come to anchor among vessels, and to nose her way into unlit harbours, some friends, through the Professor of Geology at Harvard, who had himself cruised all along our coast in a schooner, presented me with a searchlight for the hospital ship and despatched it _via_ Sydney--the normal freight route. Month after month went by, and it never appeared. Year followed year, and still we searched for that searchlight. At length, after two and a half years, it suddenly arrived, having been "delayed on the way." Had it been provisions or clothing or drugs, or almost anything else, of course, it would have been useless. It has proved to us one of the almost _de luxe_ additions to a Mission steamer. * * * * * For a long time I had felt the need of some place in St. John's where work for fishermen could be carried on, and which could be also utilized as a place of safety for girls coming to that city from other parts of the island. My attention was called one day to the fact that liquor was being sent to people in the outports C.O.D., by a barrel of flour which was being lowered over the side of the mail steamer rather too quickly on to the ice. As the hard bump came, the flour in the barrel jingled loudly and leaked rum profusely from the compound fracture. When our sober outport people went to St. John's, as they must every year for supplies, they had only the uncomfortable schooner or the street in which to pass the time. There is no "Foyer des Pêcheurs"; no one wanted fishermen straight from a fishing schooner in the home; and in those days there were no Camp Community Clubs. As one man said, "It is easy for the parson to tell us to be good, but it is hard on a wet cold night to be good in the open street" and nowhere to go, and harder still if you have to seek shelter in a brightly lighted room, where music was being played. The boarding-houses for the fishermen, where thousands of our young men flocked in the spring to try for a berth in the seal fishery, were ridiculous, not to say calamitous. Lastly, unsophisticated girls coming from the outports ran terrible risks in the city, having no friends to direct and assist them; and the Institute which we had in mind was to comprise also a girls' lodging department. No provision was made for the accommodation of crews wrecked by accident, and our Institute has already proved invaluable to many in such plights. Seeing the hundreds of craft and the thousands of fishermen, and the capital and interest vested against us as prohibitionists, it would have been obviously futile to put up a second-rate affair in a back street. It would only be sneered at as a proselytizing job. I had almost forgotten to mention that there was already an Old Seamen's Home, but it had gradually become a roost for boozers, and when with the trustees we made an inspection of it, it proved to be only worthy of immediate closure. This was promptly done, and the money realized from the sale of it, some ten thousand dollars, was kindly donated to the fund for our new building. After a few years of my collecting funds spasmodically, a number of our local friends got "cold feet." Reports started, not circulated by well-wishers, that it was all a piece of personal vanity, that no such thing was needed, and if built would prove a white elephant, to support which I would be going round with my hat in my hand worrying the merchants. We had at that time some ninety thousand dollars in hand. I laid the whole story before the Governor, Sir Ralph Williams, a man by no means prejudiced in favour of prohibition. He was, however, one who knew what the city needed, and realized that it was a big lack and required a big remedy. A letter which I published in all the St. John's papers, describing my passing fifteen drunken men on the streets before morning service on Christmas Day, brought forth angry denials of the actual facts, and my statement of the number of saloons in the city was also contradicted. But a saloon is not necessarily a place licensed by the Government or city to make men drunk--for the majority are unlicensed, and a couple of experiences which my men had in looking for sailors who had shipped, been given advances, and gone off and got drunk in shebeens, proved the number to be very much higher than even I had estimated it. Sir Ralph thought the matter over and called a public meeting in the ballroom of Government House. He had a remarkable personality and no fear of conventions. After thoroughly endorsing the plan for the Institute, and the need for it, he asked each of the many citizens who had responded to his invitation, "Will you personally stand by the larger scheme of a two hundred thousand dollar building, or will you stand by the sixty thousand dollar building with the thirty thousand dollar endowment fund, or will you do nothing at all?" It was proven that when it came to the point of going on record, practically all who really took the slightest interest in the matter were in favour of the larger plan--if I would undertake to raise the money. My own view, since more than justified, was that only so large a building could ever hope to meet the requirements and only such a comprehensive institution could expect to carry its own expenses. I preferred refunding the ninety thousand dollars to the various donors and dropping the whole business to embarking on the smaller scheme. That meeting did a world of good. It cleared the atmosphere; and it is only fresh air which most of these things really need--just as does a consumptive patient. The plan was now on the shoulders of the citizens; it was no longer one man's hobby. Enemies, like the Scribes and Pharisees of old, knew better than to tackle a crowd, and with the splendid gift of Messrs. Bowring Brothers of a site on the water-side on the main street, costing thirteen thousand dollars, and those of Job Brothers, Harvey and Company, and Macpherson Brothers of twenty-five hundred dollars each, the fund grew like Jonah's gourd; and in the year of 1911, with approximately one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in hand, we actually came to the time for laying the foundation stone. The hostility of enemies was not over. Such an institute is a fighting force, and involves contest and therefore enemies. So we decided to make this occasion as much of an event as we could. Through friends in England we obtained the promise of King George V that if we connected the foundation stone with Buckingham Palace by wire, he would, after the ceremony in Westminster Abbey on his Coronation Day, press a button at three in the afternoon and lay the stone across the Atlantic. The good services of friends in the Anglo-American Telegraph Company did the rest. On the fateful day His Excellency the Governor came down and made an appropriate and patriotic speech. Owing to the difference in time of about three hours and twenty minutes, it was shortly before twelve o'clock with us. The noonday gun signal from the Narrows was fired during His Excellency's address. Then followed a prayer of invocation by His Lordship the Bishop of Newfoundland and Bermuda--and then, a dead silence and pause. Every one was waiting for our newly crowned King to put that stone into place. Only a moment had passed, the Governor had just said, "We will wait for the King," when "Bing, bang, bang," went the gong signifying that His Majesty was at the other end of the wire. Up went the national flag, and slowly but surely the great stone began to move. A storm of cheering greeted the successful effort; and all that was left for our enemies to say was, "It was a fake." They claimed that we had laid the stone ourselves. Nor might they have been so far off the mark as they supposed, for we had a man with a knife under that platform to make that stone come down if anything happened that the wire device did not work. You cannot go back on your King whatever else you do, and to permit any grounds to exist for supposing that he had not been punctual was unthinkable. But fortunately for all concerned our subterfuge was unnecessary. I have omitted so far to state one of the main reasons why the Institute to our mind was so desirable. That was because no undenominational work is carried on practically in the whole country. Religion is tied up in bundles and its energies used to divide rather than to unite men. No Y.M.C.A. or Y.W.C.A. could exist in the Colony for that reason. The Boys' Brigade which we had originally started could not continue, any more than the Boy Scouts can now. Catholic Cadets, Church Lads Brigade, Methodist Guards, Presbyterian Highland Brigade--are all names symbolic of the dividing influences of "religion." In no place of which I know would a Y.M.C.A. be more desirable; and a large meeting held in the Institute this present spring decided that in no town anywhere was a Y.W.C.A. more needed. In another place in this book I have spoken of the problem of alcohol and fishermen. A man does not need alcohol and is far better without it. A man who sees two lights when there is only one is not wanted at the wheel. The people who sell alcohol know that just as well as we do, but for paltry gain they are unpatriotic enough to barter their earthly country as well as their heavenly one, and to be branded with the knowledge that they are cursing men and ruining families. The filibuster deserves the name no less because he does his destructive work secretly and slowly, and wears the emblems of respectability instead of operating in the open with "Long Toms" under the shadow of the "Jolly Roger." As a magistrate on this coast I have been obliged more than once to act as a policeman, and though one hated the ill-feeling which it stored up, and did not enjoy the evil-speaking to which it gave rise, I considered that it was really only like lancing a concealed infection--the ill-feeling and evil-speaking were better tapped and let out. On one occasion at one of our Labrador hospitals a beardless youth, one of the Methodist candidates for college who every year are sent down to look after the interests of that denomination on our North coast, came to inform me that the only other magistrate on the coast, the pillar of the Church of England, and shortly to be our stipendiary, who had many political friends of great influence in St. John's, was keeping a "blind tiger," while many even of his own people were being ruined body and soul by this temptation under their noses. "Well," I replied, "if you will come and give the evidence which will lead to conviction, I will do the rest." "I certainly will," he answered. And he did. So we got the little Strathcona under way, and after steaming some fifteen miles dropped into a small cove a mile or two from the place where our friend lived. In the King's name we constrained a couple of men to come along as special constables. Our visit was an unusual one. To divert suspicion we dressed our ship in bunting as if we were coming for a marriage license. When we anchored as near his stage as possible, we dropped our jolly-boat and made for the store. The door was, however, locked and our friend nowhere to be seen. "He is in the store" was the reply of his wife to our query. We knew then that there was no time to be lost, and even while we battered at the door, we could hear a suspicious gurgle and smell a curious odour. Rum was trickling down through the cracks of the store floor on to the astonished winkles below. But the door quickly gave way before our overtures, and we caught the magistrate _flagrante delicto_. We were threatened with all sorts of big folk in St. John's; but we held the trial on board straightaway just the same. When court was called, the defendant demanded the name of the prosecutor--and to his infinite surprise out popped the youthful aspirant to the Methodist ministry. When he learned that half of his fine of seventy dollars had to be paid to the prosecutor and would be applied toward the building of a Methodist school, his temper completely ran away with him; and we had to threaten auction on the spot of the goods in the store before we could collect the money. We left him breathing out threatenings and slaughter. [Illustration: THE INSTITUTE] Only once was I really caught. Two mothers in a little village had appealed to me because liquor was being sold to their boys who had no money, while people were complaining simultaneously that fish was being stolen from their stages. No one would tell who was selling it, so we had a systematic search made of all the houses, and the guilty man was convicted on evidence discovered under the floor of his sitting-room. The fine of fifty dollars he paid without a murmur and it was promptly divided between the Government and the prosecutor. It so happened, however, that he had obtained from us for a close relative a new artificial leg, and there was fifty dollars owing to us on it. Unknown to us at the time, he had collected that fifty dollars from the said relative and with it paid his fine. To this day we never got a cent for our leg, and so really fined ourselves. Nor could we with any propriety distrain on one of a poor woman's legs! CHAPTER XXII PROBLEMS ON LAND AND SEA The year 1912 was a busy season. The New Year found us in Florida with the donor of the ship George B. Cluett, consulting him concerning its progress and future. Lecturing then as we went west we reached Colorado, visited the Grand Canyon, and lectured all along the Pacific Coast from San Diego to Victoria--finding many old friends and making many new ones. At Berkeley I was asked to deliver the Earle Lectures at the University of California; and I also spoke to an immense audience in the open Greek theatre--a most novel experience. At Santa Barbara a special meeting had been arranged by our good friend Dr. Joseph Andrews, who every year travels all the way from California to St. Anthony at his own expense to afford the fishermen of our Northern waters the inestimable benefits of his skill as a consulting eye specialist. Many blind he has restored to sight who would otherwise be encumbrances to themselves and others. Only last year I received the following communication from an eager would-be patient: "Dear Dr. Grandfield, when is the eye spider coming to St. Anthony? I needs to see him bad." While we were at Tacoma a visitor, saying that he was an old acquaintance of mine, sent up his card to our room. He had driven over in a fine motor car, and was a great, broad-shouldered man. The grip which he gave me assured me that he had been brought up hard, but I utterly failed to place him. With a broad grin he relieved the situation by saying: "The last time that we met, Doctor, was on the deck of a fishing vessel in the North Sea. I was second hand aboard, sailing out from Grimsby." The tough surroundings of that life were such a contrast to his present apparently ample means that I could only say, "How on earth did you get out here?" "A friend," said he, "gave me a little book entitled 'One Hundred Ways to Rise in the World.' The first ninety-nine were no good to me, but the hundredth said, 'Go to Western America,' so I just cleared out and came here." He was exceedingly kind to us, even accompanying us to Seattle, and his story of pluck and enterprise was a splendid stimulus. Six weeks of lecturing nearly every single night in a new town in Canada gave me a real vision of Canadian Western life, and a sincere admiration for its people who are making a nation of which the world is proud. In April a large meeting was held in New York to reorganize the management of the Mission. The English Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen was no longer able or willing to finance, much less to direct, affairs which had gone beyond their control, and was hoping to arrange an organization of an international character to which all the affairs of the enterprise could be turned over. This organization was formed at the house of Mr. Eugene Delano, the head of Brown Brothers, bankers, whose lifelong help has meant for Labrador more than he will ever know. The International Grenfell Association was incorporated to comprise the Labrador branches of the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen as its English component, the Grenfell Association of America and the New England Grenfell Association to represent the American interests, the Labrador Medical Mission as the Canadian name for its Society, and the Newfoundland Grenfell Association for the Newfoundland branch. Each one of these component societies has two members in the Central Council, and together they make up the Board of Directors of the International Grenfell Association. These directors ever since have generously been giving their time and interest in the wise and efficient administration of this work. To these unselfish men Labrador and northern Newfoundland, as well as I, owe a greater debt than can ever be repaid. On the 1st of May I was due to speak at the annual meeting of the English Mission in London, and the swift heels of the Mauretania once more stood us in good stead; for we reached England the evening before May 1, arrived in London at 2 A.M., and I spoke three times that day. After a day or so at my old home with my mother we ran about in a Ford car for a fortnight, lecturing every evening. The little motor saved endless energy otherwise lost in endeavouring to make connections, and gave us the opportunity to see numbers of old friends whom we must otherwise have missed. One day we would be at a meeting of miners at Redmuth in Cornwall, on another at Harrow or Rugby Schools. At the latter, an old college friend, who is now head master there, gave us a royal welcome. During the last fortnight at home a splendid chance was afforded me to visit daily the clinics of an old friend, Sir Robert Jones, England's famous orthopedic surgeon. He is one of the most wonderful and practical of men, and he opened our eyes to the possibility of medical mission work in the very heart of England--for if ever there was an apostle of hope for the deformed and paralyzed he certainly is the man. His Sunday morning free clinics crowded even the street opposite his office door with waiting patients of the poorest class. Equally beneficent also is the large and wonderful hospital built specially for derelict children on the heather-covered hills just above our home in Cheshire. But most unique of all was his Basschurch Hospital, constructed mostly of sheet iron, standing in the middle of a field in the country forty miles away from Liverpool. Every second Sunday, Sir Robert Jones used to motor over there and operate "in the field." No expedition have I ever enjoyed better in my life than when he was good enough to pick us up on his way, and we saw him tackle the motley collection of halt and lame, whom the lady of the hospital, herself a marvellous testimony to his skill, collected from the neighbouring town slums between his visits. The hospital was the nearest thing I know to our little "one-horse shows" scattered along the Labrador coast; and there was a homing feeling in one's heart all the time at these open-air clinics. As commander-in-chief of the orthopedic work of the British Army in the war, I am certain that Colonel Sir Robert Jones has found the experiences of his improvised clinics among the most valuable assets he could have had. One day he has promised that he will bring his magic wand to Labrador; for he is a sportsman in the best sense of the word as well as a healer of limbs. The quickest way back to St. John's being _via_ Canada, we returned by the Allan Line, and lectured in the Maritime Provinces as we passed North. It would appear that one must possess an insatiable love of lecturing. As a matter of fact, nothing is farther from the truth. But the brevity of life is an insistent fact in our existence, and the inability to do good work for lack of help that is so gladly given when the reasonableness of the expenditure is presented, makes one feel guilty if an evening is spent doing nothing. The lecturing is by far the most uncongenial task which I have been called upon to do in life, but in a mission like ours, which is not under any special church, the funds must be raised to a very great extent by voluntary donations, and in order to secure these friends must be kept informed of the progress of the work which their gifts are making possible. For the first seven years of my work I never spent the winters in the country--nor was it my intention ever to do so. Besides the general direction of the whole, my work as superintendent has meant the raising of the necessary funds, and my special charge on the actual coast has been the hospital ship Strathcona. Naturally, owing to our frozen winter sea this is only possible during open water. Since 1902 it has been my custom when possible to spend every other winter as well as every summer in the North. The actual work and life there is a tremendous rest after the nervous and physical tax of a lecture tour. At first I used to wonder at the lack of imagination in those who would greet me, after some long, wearisome hours on the train or in a crowded lecture hall, with "What a lovely holiday you are having!" Now this oft-repeated comment only amuses me. It was just after the first of June when again we found ourselves heading North for St. Anthony, only once more to be caught in the jaws of winter. For the heavy Arctic ice blockaded the whole of the eastern French shore, and we had to be content to be held up in small ice-bound harbours as we pushed along through the inner edge of the floe, till strong westerly winds cleared the way. Having reached St. Anthony and looked into matters there, we once again ran south to St. John's to inspect the new venture of the Institute. To help out expenses we towed for the whole four hundred miles a schooner which had been wrecked on the Labrador coast, having run on the rocks, and knocked a hole in her bottom. She had a number of sacks of "hard bread" on board. These had been thrown into the breach and planking nailed on over them. The bread had swelled up between the two casings and become so hard again that the vessel leaked but little; and though the continual dirge of the pumps was somewhat dismal as we journeyed, we had no reason to fear that she would go to the bottom. Flour resists water in a marvellous way. On one occasion our own vessel in the North Sea was run into by another. The latter's cutwater went through her side and deck almost to the combing of the hatch, and the water began to pour in. By immediately putting the vessel on the other tack, the rent was largely lifted out of water. A heavy topsail was hastily thrown over her side, and eventually hauled under the keel--the inrushing water keeping it there. Then sacks of flour were rammed into the breach. The ship in this condition, favoured by the wind which enabled her to continue on that tack, reached home, two hundred miles distant, with her hand-pumps keeping her comparatively free, though there was the greatest difficulty to keep her afloat directly she was towed into the harbour and lay at the wharf. On another occasion when a Canadian steamer, loaded with provisions, ran into a cliff two hundred feet high in a fog on the northeast end of Belle Isle, and became a total wreck, her flour floated all up and down the Straits. I remember picking up a sack that had certainly been in the water some weeks; and yet only about a quarter of an inch of outside layer was even wet. The opening of the Institute was a great day. Dr. Henry van Dyke had come all the way from New York to give an address. Sir William Archibald, chairman of the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, had travelled from England to bring a blessing from the old home country; and the merchants and friends in St. John's did their best to make it a red-letter day. Sir Edward Morris, the Prime Minister, and other politicians, the Mayor and civic functionaries were all good enough to come and add their quota to the launching of the new ship. There were still pessimistic and croaking individuals, however, as well as joyful hearts, when a few days later we again ran North. We started almost immediately for our Straits trip after reaching St. Anthony. On our way east from Harrington, our most westerly hospital, commenced in 1907, a telegram summoning me immediately to St. John's dropped upon me like a bolt from the blue. Without a moment's delay we headed yet again South, full of anxiety as to what could be the cause of this message. On arrival there we found that trouble had arisen concerning the funds of the Institute and a prosecution was to follow. It was the worst time of my life. Things were readjusted; the money was refunded, punishment meted out--but such damage is not made right by reconstruction. It left permanent scars and made the end of an otherwise splendid year anxious and sorrowful. The work on East Labrador was also extended this year. While walking down the street in New York with a young doctor friend who had once wintered with me, we met a colleague of his at the College of Physicians and Surgeons. In the conversation it was suggested that he should spend a summer in Labrador, and we would place him in a virgin field. As a result Dr. Wiltsie, now in China, came North, started in work with a little school, club, and dispensary, at a place called Spotted Islands, in a very barren group of islands about a hundred miles north of the Straits of Belle Isle. His work became permanent as the summer mission of the Y.M.C.A. of the College, which organization now carries all its expenses. It has a dwelling-house, school, dispensary, small operating room, and accommodation for a couple of patients, all under one roof, and owns a fast motor boat called the P. and S., which has made itself known as an angel of mercy, every summer since, over a hundred miles of coast and islands. It is only a summer work, and is mainly among a schooner population; but as a testimonial to the value of pluck and unselfishness I know of no better example. Among other ways to help Labrador we had always tried to induce tourists and yachtsmen to come and visit us. Mr. Rainey's Surf, Mr. McCready's Enchantress, Dr. Stimson's Fleur de Lys, Mr. Arthur James's Aloha, and a few other yachts had come part of the way, but no one had yet explored north of Hopedale--the latitude at which the fine Northern scenery may be said only to begin. The large power vessels or even the best type of yacht are by no means necessary for a visit to Labrador. For the innumerable fjords and islands make it much more interesting to be in a smaller boat, which allows one to go freely in and out of new by-ways, even when the survey is only that of your own making. The most sporting visits of that kind have been the honeymoon of a Philadelphia friend, who, with his wife, one man, and a canoe, went by river to James's Bay, then _via_ Hudson Bay to Richmond Gulf, then by portage and river to Ungava Bay, and thence home by way of the Hudson Bay Company's steamer; the canoe trips of Mr. Kennedy all along the outside eastern coast, and those of Mr. William Cabot on the section of the northeastern coast between Hopedale and Nain. In this year of 1912 a new little yacht appeared, the Sybil, brought down from Boston by her owner, Mr. George Williams. I had promised that if ever he would sail down to see us in his own boat, we would escort him up a salmon river for a fishing expedition--a luxury which we certainly never anticipated would materialize. But on arriving North, there was the beautiful little boat; and in it we sailed up into the fine salmon stream in the bay close to the hospital. Subsequently Mr. Williams came year after year, pushing farther North each time. The Sybil he eventually gave to the Mission, and built a large boat, the Jeanette, in which I had the pleasure later of exploring with him and roughly charting three hitherto unrecorded bays. One unusual feature of our magisterial work in 1912 was the settlement of a fisherman's strike "down North." It would at first seem difficult to understand how fishermen could engineer a strike, they are so good-natured and so long-suffering. But this time it was over the price of fish, naturally a matter of immense importance to the catcher. The planters, or men who give advances to come and fish around the mouth of Hamilton Inlet, were to ship their fish on a steamer coming direct from England and returning direct--thus saving delay and very great expense. But the price did not please the men, and they knew if they once put the fish on board at $3.50 per quintal, the amount offered, they would never recover the $5, which was the price for which fish was selling in St. John's that year. The more masterful men decided that not only would they not put the fish on board till they had cash orders or Révillon agreements for their price, but they would not allow any of the weaker brethren to do so either. There were but few hard words and no violent deeds, but when one blackleg was seen to go alongside the waiting steamer, which was costing a hundred dollars a day to the fish-carrying merchant, a crowd of boats dashed out from creeks and corners and pounced like a vulture on the big boat, fat with a fine load of fish, and not only towed her away and tied her up, but hauled her out of the water with the cargo and all in her, and dragged her so far up the side of a steep hill that the owner was utterly unable without assistance to get her down again. Each day we had a conference with one side or the other, the Government having asked us to remain and see things settled. While each side was fencing for an advantage, a good-sized schooner sailed into the harbour, brought up alongside the steamer, and was seen to begin unloading dry fish. A dash was made for her by the boats as before; only this time it was the attack of Lilliputians on Gulliver. We on the shore could not help laughing heartily when shortly we saw a string of over a dozen fishing boats harnessed tandem in one long line towing the interloper--as they had the blackleg--away up the inlet where they moored and guarded her. It appeared that the buyer had sent her to a far-off anchorage, and unknown to the strikers had had fish put into her there. The steamer might have followed and got away with the ruse. But the skipper underestimated the enemy, always a fatal mistake, and lost out. The agreement made a day or so later was perfectly peaceful, and perfectly satisfactory to both sides, for the fish turned out a good price, and the buyer did not lose anything on the transaction but the demurrage on his steamer and a little kudos, which I must confess he took in very good spirit. Even if he did have a grasping side to his character, he was fortunate in possessing a sense of humour also. The fall brought yet another call to go South to St. John's, and once more in the little Strathcona we ploughed our way through the long miles to the southward. This time it was for the reorganization of the Institute government, to form a council and to install the new manager from England. This was Mr. Walter Jones, a man whose wide experience among naval "Jackies" had been gained in a large institute of much the same kind. This gave him the credentials which we needed, for he had made it not only a social but an economic success. He has been much sought by the various churches in St. John's as a speaker to men, and his Sunday evening lantern services and lectures at the Institute are a real source of uplift and help to men of every religious denomination. The fall of the year was very busy. Dr. Seymour Armstrong, formerly surgical registrar at the Charing Cross Hospital in London, an able surgeon, and a man of independent means, joined me for that winter at St. Anthony. He had already wintered twice at our Labrador hospitals, and was fully expecting to give us much further help, but two years later the great war found him at the front, where he gladly laid down his life for his country. One sick call that winter lives in my memory. It was a case where a nurse was really more needed than a doctor. The way was long, the wind was cold, and the snow happened to be particularly deep. One of the nurses, however, volunteered for the journey, and I arranged to carry her on a second komatik, while my driver broke the path with our impedimenta. Things did not go altogether well. Since I have enjoyed the luxury of a driver, or a "carter" as we call them, my cunning in wriggling a komatik at full speed down steep mountain-sides through trees has somewhat waned. Comparatively early in the day we looped the loop--and we were both heavy weights. It was nearly dark when we reached the last lap--an enormous bay with a direct run of seven miles over sea ice. We should probably have made it all right, but suddenly fog drifted in from the Straits of Belle Isle, and steering with a small compass and no binnacle, while attending to hauling a heavy nurse over hummocky sea ice in the dark, satisfied all my ambition for problems. At length the nature of the ice indicated that we were approaching either land or the sea edge. We stopped the komatiks, and it fell to my lot to go ahead and explore. Finding nothing I called to the driver, and his voice returned out of the fog right ahead of me, and almost in my ear. I had told them not to move or we might miss our way, and I reminded him of that fact. "Haven't budged an inch" came the reply from the darkness. I had been describing a large circle. I can still hear that nurse laughing. At last we struck the huge blocks of ice, raised on the boulder rocks by the rise and fall of tide in shallow water, and we knew that we should make the land. The perversity of nature made us turn the wrong way for the village toward which we were aiming, and we found ourselves "tangled up" in the Boiling Brooks, a place where some underground springs keep holes open through the ice all winter. Suddenly, while marching ahead with the compass, seeking to avoid these springs, the ground being level enough for the nurse to act as her own helmsman, a tremendous "whurr! whurr!" under my feet restored sufficient leaping power to my weary legs to leave me head down and only my racquets out of the snow--all for a covey of white partridges on which I had nearly trodden. At length we made a tiny winter cottage. The nurse slept on the bench, the doctor on the floor, the driver on a shelf. Our generous host had almost to hang himself on a hook. The dogs went hungry. But as we boiled our kettle, all agreed that we would not have exchanged the experience for ten rides in a Pullman Car. Largely through the zeal of my colleague, Dr. Arthur Wakefield, of Kendal, England, and that of my cousin, Mr. Martyn Spencer, of New Zealand, a band of the Legion of Frontiersmen had been brought into being all along this section of coast, in spite of the scattered nature of the population. The idea was that having to depend so largely on the use of their guns, and being excellent shots with a bullet, the men would make good snipers and scouts if ever there were war. True, most of our people called it "playing soldiers," and no one took seriously that we were ever likely to be called upon to fight; but all Dr. Wakefield's hopes and fears were realized and our lads made both brave soldiers and excellent marksmen. [Illustration: On the Way Home DOG TRAVEL] [Illustration: Carrying a Sick Dog DOG TRAVEL] Dr. and Mrs. Wakefield have given several years of both medical and industrial work for the people of this coast, both in St. Anthony, Forteau, Mud Lake, and Battle Harbour. Alas, the functions of superintendent involved executive duties, and I had once again to run to St. John's, during the following summer, for a meeting of the Board of Directors. With true Christian unselfishness these men come all the way from Ottawa, New York, and Boston, to help with their counsel so relatively unimportant a work as ours. Sir Walter Davidson again lent his heartiest coöperation. The people owe him, Sir Herbert Murray, Sir Henry MacCallum, Sir William MacGregor, Sir Ralph Williams, Sir Alexander Harris, and all the long line of their Governors, more than most of them realize. They bring all the inspiration of the best type of educated, widely experienced, and travelled Englishmen to this Colony. They are specially trained and specially selected men, and can give their counsel and leadership absolutely untrammelled by any local prejudices. One excellent outcome of this particular meeting was the reorganization on a larger scale of the Girls' Committee for the Institute. The success of it has been phenomenal. Together with its protective work it has aimed at that most difficult task of creating in them sufficient ambition to make the girls receiving very small wages want to pay for a better environment. The committee has always been strictly interdenominational, with Mrs. W.C. Job and Mrs. W.E. Gosling as its presidents. It has made a "show place" of the Girls' Department of the Institute, and that department has become self-supporting--a most desirable goal for every philanthropy. The lumber mill and schooner building work were in slings. Our men, made far better off by the winter work thus provided, had acquired gear so much better for fishing than their former equipment that they could not resist engaging in the more remunerative work of the fishery in the summer months. For two years previous they had left before the drive was complete and the logs out of the woods. Now the local manager had also decided to fish during the three summer months--which is really the only time available for mill operations also. I was fortunate enough on my way North to persuade an expert lumber operator from Canada, and an entirely kindred spirit, Mr. Harry Crowe, to come down and help me out with the problem. We spent a few delightful days together, in which he taught me as many things that every mill man should know as he would have had to learn had he been dabbling in pills. Like myself, Mr. Crowe is an ardent believer in Confederation with Canada for this little country. Before Mr. Crowe's efforts on our behalf had materialized, a new friend, Mr. Walter Booth, of New York, well known in American football circles as one of the best of all-American forwards, came North and carried the mill for a year. The one and only fault of his régime was that it was too short. The field of work was one for which he was admirably equipped, but home reasons made him return after his time expired. He has often told me since, however, that he has fits of wishing that he could have put in a life with us in the North, rather than spending it in the more civilized circles of the New York Bar. Many invitations to speak, especially at universities in America, and through a lecture agency in England to numerous societies and clubs, led me to devote the winter of 1913-14 to a lecture tour. My wife induced me also to renew my youth by a holiday of a month on the Continent. A lecture tour includes some of the most delightful experiences of life, bringing one into direct personal contact with so many people whom it is a privilege to know. But it also has its anxieties and worries, and eternal vigilance is the price of avoiding a breakdown at this the most difficult of all my work. One's memory is taxed far beyond its capacity. To forget some things, and some people and some kindnesses, are unforgivable sins. A new host every night, a new home, a new city, a new audience, alone lead one into lamentable lapses. In a car full of people a man asked me one day how I liked Toledo. I replied that I had never been there. "Strange," he murmured, "because you spent the night at my house!" On another occasion at a crowded reception I was talking to a lady on one side and a gentleman on the other. I had been introduced to them, but caught neither name. They did not address each other, but only spoke to me. I felt that I must remedy matters by making them acquainted with each other, and therefore mumbled, "Pray let me present to you Mrs. M-m-m." "Oh! no need, Doctor," he replied. "We've been married for thirty years." Shortly after I noticed at a reception that every one wore his name pinned onto his breast, and I wondered if there were any connection. It is my invariable custom in the North to carry a water-tight box with matches and a compass chained to my belt. One night, being tired, I had turned into bed in a very large, strange room without noting the bearings of the doors or electric switches. My faithful belt had been abandoned for pyjama strings. It so happened that to catch a train I had to rise before daylight, and all my possessions were in a dressing-room. I soon gave up hunting for the electric light. It was somewhere in the air, I knew, but beating the air in the dark with the windows wide open in winter is no better fun in your nightclothes in New York than in Labrador. A tour of inspection discovered no less than five doors, none of which I felt entitled to enter in the dark in _déshabille_. The humour of the situation is, of course, apparent now, but even one's dog hates to be laughed at. An independent life has somehow left me with an instinctive dislike for asking casual acquaintances the way to any place that I am seeking. The aversion is more or less justified by the fact that outside the police force very exceptional persons can direct you, especially if they know the way themselves. On my first visit to New York I could see how easy a city it was to navigate, and returned to my host's house near Eighth Street in good time to dress for dinner after a long side trip near Columbia University and thence to the Bellevue Hospital. "How did you find your way?" my friend asked. "Why, there was sufficient sky visible to let me see the North Star," I answered. I felt almost hurt when he laughed. It is natural for a polar bear not to have to inquire the way home. The aphorism attributed to Dr. John Watson, of "Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush," suggests itself. "My fee is one hundred dollars if I go to a hotel, two hundred if I am entertained, because in the latter event one can only live half so long." I conclude that he made the choice of Achilles, for he died on a lecture tour. So far fate has been kinder to me. The greatest danger is the reporter, especially the emotional reporter, who has not attended your meeting. I owe such debts to the press that this statement seems the blackest of ingratitude. On the contrary, I must plead that doctors are privileged. My controversy with this class of reporters is their generosity, which puts into one's mouth statements that on final analysis may be cold facts, but which, remembering that one is lecturing on work among people whom one loves and respects, it would never occur to me to slur at a public meeting. No one who tries to alter conditions which exist can expect to escape making enemies. I have seen reports of what I have said at advertised meetings, that were subsequently cancelled. I have followed up rumours, and editors have expressed sorrow that they accepted them from men who had been too busy to be present. But "qui s'excuse, s'accuse"; and my conclusion is that the lecturer is practically defenceless. Since our marriage my wife has generously acted as my secretary, having specially learned shorthand and typewriting in order to free me from carrying such a burden, and has helped me enormously ever since on this line. But lecture tours used to make me despair of keeping abreast of correspondence. I sometimes was forced to treat letters as Henry Drummond did--who allowed them to answer themselves--if I wished free mornings in which to visit the hospitals, just at the time that all their professional work was in progress. These clinics are invaluable and almost unique experiences. They persuaded me more than ever how much depends in surgery as well as in medicine on "the man behind the gun"; and that mere mileage is not the real handicap on members of our profession whose fields of work lie away from the centres of learning. They also imbued me with the profoundest spirit of respect for the leaders of the healing art. * * * * * To no one but myself did it seem odd that a plain Englishman should be invited to perform the function of best man at the wedding of the daughter of the President of the United States of America at the White House. The matter was never even noticed either in the press or in conversation. The only citizen to whom I suggested the anomaly merely said, "Well, why not?" My long-time fellow worker and one of my best of friends, Francis B. Sayre, was to be married on November 25, 1913, to Miss Jessie Wilson. Her father, who, when first I had had the honour of his acquaintance, happened to be the President of Princeton University, was now the President of the United States. So we had all the fun of a White House wedding. Not less than fifty of our fishermen friends from Labrador and North Newfoundland were invited, and some members of our staff were present. We started the wedding procession upstairs, and came down to the fanfare of uniformed trumpeters. Our awkwardness in keeping step, though we had rehearsed the whole business several times, only relieved the tension that must exist at so important an event in life. Trying to dodge the reporters added heaps of fun, which I am sure that they shared, for they generally got the better of us; though the thrill of escape from the White House and Washington, so that the honeymoon rendezvous should not be known, was practically a victory for the wedding party. As it would never be safe to use the tactics again, I am permitted after the lapse of many years to give them away. As soon as dark fell, and while the guests were still revelling, the bride and groom were hustled into a secret elevator in the thickness of the wall, whisked up to the robing chambers, and completely disguised. Meanwhile a suitable camouflage of automobiles had arrived ostentatiously at the main entrance, to carry and escort the illustrious couple in fitting pomp to the great station. From the landing the couple were dropped direct to the basement to a prearranged oubliette. The password was the sound of the wheels of an ordinary cab at the kitchen entrance. The moments of suspense were not long. At the sound of the crush on the gravel a silent door was opened, two completely muffled figures crept out, and the conspirators drove slowly along round a few corners where a swift automobile lay panting to add _liberté_ to _égalité_ and _fraternité_. CHAPTER XXIII A MONTH'S HOLIDAY IN ASIA MINOR After the fall spent in America in raising the necessary funds, it was the now famous Carmania which carried us to England. In spite of a few days' rest at my old home, and the stimulus of a Grenfell clan gathering in London, my wife and I were both in need of something which could direct our minds from our problems, and Boxing Day found us bound for Paris, Turin, Milan, and Rome. Just before Christmas I had had a meeting at the famous office of the Hudson Bay Company in London, and attended another of their interesting luncheons where their directors meet. My old friend Lord Strathcona presided. I could not help noting that after all the lapse of years since we first met at Hudson Bay House in Montreal, he still retained his abstemious habits. He was ninety-three, and still at his post as High Commissioner for a great people, as well as leading councillor of a dozen companies. His memory of Labrador and his days there, and his love for it, had not abated one whit. Hearing that the hospital steamer Strathcona needed a new boiler and considerable repairs, he ordered me to have the work undertaken at once and the bill sent to him. He, moreover, insisted that we should spend some days with him at his beautiful country house near London, an invitation which we accepted for our return, but which we were never fated to realize, for before the appointed date that able man had crossed the last bar. It is said to be better to be lucky than rich. We had expected in Rome to do only what the Romans of our pocket-book do. But we fell in with some old acquaintances whose pleasure it is to give pleasure, and New Year's night was made memorable by a concert given by the choir of the Sistine Chapel, to which we were taken by the editor of the "Churchman" and later of the "Constructive Quarterly," an old friend of ours, Dr. Silas McBee. A glimpse into the British Embassy gave us an insight into the problem of Roman modern politics and the factions of the Black and White. Rome is always delightful. One is glad to forget the future and live for the time in the past. Sitting in the Coliseum in the moonlight I could see the gladiators fighting to amuse the civilized man of that period, and gentle women and innocent men dying horrible deaths for truths that have made us what we are, but which we now sometimes regard so lightly. I confess that religious buildings, religious pictures, religious conventions of all kinds very soon pall on my particular temperament. It is possibly a defect in my development, like my inability to appreciate classical music. On the other hand, like Mark Twain, I enjoy an ancient mummy just because he is ancient; and were it not for the irritation of seeing so much religious display associated with such miserable social conditions in so beautiful a country, I should have more sympathy with those who would "see Rome and die." The sanitation of the one-time Mistress of the world suggests that it could not be difficult to accomplish that feat in the hot weather. Brindisi is a household word in almost every English home, especially one like ours with literally dozens of Anglo-Indian relatives. I was therefore glad to pass _via_ Brindisi on the road to Athens. Patras also had its interest to me as a distributing centre for our Labrador fish. We actually saw three forlorn-looking schooners, with cargoes from Newfoundland, lying in the harbour. One poignant impression left on my mind by Greece, as well as Rome, was its diminutive size. I almost resented the fact that a place civilized thousands of years ago, and which had loomed up on my imagination as the land of Socrates, of Plato, of Homer, of Achilles, of Spartan warriors, and immortal poets, all seemed so small. The sense of imposition on my youth worried me. In Athens one saw so many interesting relics within a few hundred yards that it left one with the feeling of having eaten a meal too fast. The scene of the battle of Salamis fascinated me. When we sat in Xerxes' seat and conjured up the whole picture again, and saw the meaning to the world of the great deed for which men so gladly gave their lives to defeat a tyrant seeking for world power, it made me love those old Greeks, not merely admire their art. On Mars Hill we stood on the spot where, to me, perhaps the greatest man in history, save one, pleaded with men to accept love as the only durable source of greatness and power. But every monument, every bas-relief, every tombstone showed that the fighting man was their ideal. The idea of sailing from the Piraeus reconciled us to the very mediocre vessel which carried us to Smyrna. Our visit to Asia Minor we had inadvertently timed to the opening of the International College at Paradise near Smyrna. This college is the gift of Mrs. John Kennedy of New York. Mr. Ralph Harlow, our host and a professor at the college, with Mr. Cass Reid and other friends, made it possible for us to enjoy intelligently our brief visit. It was just a dream of pleasure. Time forbids my describing the marvellous work of that and other colleges. Men of ambition, utterly irrespective of race, colour, creed, or sect, sit side by side as the alumni. The humanity, not the other-worldliness, of the leaders has made even the Turks, steeped in the blood of their innocent Christian subjects, recognize the untold value of these Christian universities, and kept them, their professors, and buildings, safe during the war. Dr. Bliss, of Beyrout, once told us a humorous story about himself. He had just been addressing a large audience in New York, when immediately after his speech the chairman rose and announced, "We will now sing the one hundred and fiftieth hymn, 'From the best bliss that earth imparts, we turn unfilled to Thee again.'" The preservation of Ephesus was a surprise to us, though of late the Turks have been carrying off its precious historic marble to burn for lime for their fields. One large marble font in an old Byzantine baptistry was broken up for that purpose while we were there. We stood on the very rostrum in the theatre where St. Paul and the coppersmith had trouble--while at the time of our visit, the only living inhabitant of that once great city was a hungry ass which we saw harboured in a dressing-room beneath the platform. The anachronism of buzzing along a Roman road, which had not been repaired since the days of the Cæsars, on our way to Pergamos, in the only Ford car in the country, was punctuated by having to get out and shove whenever we came to a cross-drain. These always went over instead of under the road--only on an exaggerated Baltimorian plan. One night at Soma, which is the end of the branch railroad in the direction of Pergamos, we were in the best hotel, which, however, was only half of it for humans. A detachment of Turkish soldiers were billeted below in the quarters for the other animals. Snow was on the ground, and it was bitterly cold. The poor soldiers slept literally on the stone floor. We were cold, and we felt so sorry for them, that after we had enjoyed a hot breakfast, in a fit of generosity we sent them a couple of baskets of Turkish specialties. Later in the day we noticed that wherever we went a Turkish soldier with a rifle followed us. So we turned off into a side street and walked out into the country. Sure enough the soldier came along behind. As guide to speak the many languages for us, we had a Greek graduate of International College, a very delightful young fellow, very proud of a newly acquired American citizenship. At last we stopped and bribed that soldier to tell us what the trouble was. "Our officer thought that you must be spies because you sent gifts to Turkish soldiers." At Pergamos, a Greek Christian--very well off--invited us to be his guests on Greek Christmas Eve. It was the occasion of a large family gathering. There were fine young men and handsome, dark-eyed girls, and all the accessories of a delightful Christian home. When the outer gates had been locked, and the inner doors bolted and blinds drawn down, and all possible loopholes examined for spies, the usual festivities were observed. These families of the conquered race have lived in bondage some four hundred years, but their patriotism has no more dimmed than that of ancient Israel under her oppressors. Before we left they danced for us the famous Souliet Dance--memorial to the brave Greek girls who, driven to their last stand on a rocky hilltop, jumped one by one over the precipice as the dance came round to each one, rather than submit to shame and slavery. From our friends at Smyrna we learned subsequently that when, a few months later, and just before the war, the German general visited the country, making overtures to the Turks, the blow fell on this family like many others, and they suffered the agony of deportation. At Constantinople the kindness of Mr. Morgenthau, the American Ambassador, and the optimism bred by Robert College and the Girls' School, left delightful memories of even the few days in winter that we spent there. The museum alone is worth the long journey to it, and when a teacher from the splendid Girls' School, herself a specialist on the Hittites, was good enough to show it to us, it was like a leap back into the long history of man. It seemed but a step to the Neanderthal skull and our Troglodyte forbears. Owing to shortage of time we returned to England through Bulgaria, passing through Serbia, and stopping for a day at Budapest and two at Vienna. We would have been glad to linger longer, for every hour was delightful. The month's holiday did me lots of good and sent me back to England a new man to begin lecturing again in the interests of the distant Labrador; and with the feeling that, after all, our coast was a very good place for one's life-work. We helped to lessen the tedium of the lectures by doing most of the travelling in an automobile of my brother's, in which we lived, moved, and had our meals by the roadside. The lectures took us everywhere from the drawing-room of a border castle on the line of the old Roman Wall--which Puck of Pook's Hill had made as fascinating for us as he did for the children--to the Embassy in Paris. Once more the Mauretania carried us to America. April was spent partly in lecturing and partly in attending surgical clinics--a very valuable experience being a week's work with Dr. W.R. MacAusland, of Boston, at his orthopedic clinics in and around that city. He and his brother "Andy" had passed a summer with us in Labrador. May found us in Canada visiting our helpers, and stimulating various branches by lectures. While loading the George B. Cluett in early June in St. John's, Newfoundland, we organized an education committee to work with the Institute Committee, to give regular educational lectures throughout the winter. Dr. Lloyd, our present Prime Minister, and Sir Patrick McGrath, always a stanch friend of the Mission, helped materially in this new activity. The Institute at the time was housing some of the crew of the Greenland, who had come through the terrible experiences at the seal fishery in the spring of 1914. Caught on the ice in a fearful blizzard, almost all had perished miserably. Some few had survived to lose limbs and functions from frostburns. The occasion gave the Institute one of the many opportunities for a service rather more dramatic than the routine, which did much to win it popularity. Midsummer's Day and the two following days we were stuck in a heavy ice-jam one hundred miles south of St. Anthony. My wife and boys had arrived in St. Anthony before me, and to find them in our own house, and the hospital full of opportunity for the line of help which I especially enjoy, afforded all that heart could wish. Early in July the Duke of Connaught, the Governor-General of Canada, paid us a long-promised visit. It was highly appreciated by all our people, who would possibly have paid him more undivided attention had he not been kind enough to send his band ashore--the first St. Anthony had ever heard. The resplendent uniforms of the members totally eclipsed that of the Duke, who was in "mufti"; but he readily understood that the division of attention was really not attributable to us. He proved to be a thorough good sport and a most democratic prince. The war having broken out in August, we had only one idea--economy on every side, that we might all be able to do what we could. We had not then begun to realize the seriousness of it sufficiently to dream that we should be welcome ourselves. We closed up all activities not entirely necessary, and even the hospital ship went into winter quarters so early that my fall trip was made from harbour to harbour in the people's own boats or by mail steamer or schooner, as opportunity offered. CHAPTER XXIV THE WAR In the fall of 1915, I was urged by the Harvard Surgical Unit to make one of their number for their proposed term of service that winter at a base hospital in France. Having discussed the matter with my directors, we decided that it was justifiable to postpone the lecture tour which had been arranged for me, in view of this new need. We sailed for England on the Dutch liner New Amsterdam and landed at Falmouth, passing through a cordon of mine-sweepers and small patrols as we neared the English shores. My wife's offer to work in France not being accepted, since I held the rank of Major, we ran down to my old home, where she decided to spend most of her time. My uniform and kit were ready in a few days; and in spite of the multitudinous calls on the War Office officials, I can say in defence of red tape that my papers were made out very quickly. I was thus able to leave promptly for Boulogne, near which I joined the other members of my Unit, who had preceded me by a fortnight. It was Christmas and the snow was on the ground when I arrived in France. There was much talk of trench feet and the cold. Our life in the North had afforded experiences more like those at the front than most people's. We are forced to try and obtain warmth and mobility combined with economy, especially in food and clothing. At the request of the editor, I therefore sent to the "British Medical Journal" a summary of deductions from our Northern experiences. Clothes only keep heat in and damp out. Thickness, not even fur, will warm a statue, and our ideal has been to obtain light, wind-and water-proof material, and a pattern that prevents leakage of the body's heat from the neck, wrists, waist, knees, and ankles. Our skin boots, by being soft, water-tight, and roomy, remove the causes of trench feet. Later when I returned to England I was invited to the War Office to talk over the matter. The defects, either in wet and cold or in hot weather, of woolen khaki cloth are obvious, and when subsequently I visited the naval authorities in Washington about the same subject, I was delighted to be assured that on all small naval craft our patterns were being exclusively used. Who introduced them did not matter. I had also advocated a removable insert of sheet steel in a pocket on the breast of the tunic, this plate to be kept in the trenches and inserted on advancing; and a lobster-tail steel knee-piece in the knickers. Of this latter Sir Robert Jones, the British orthopedic chief, appreciated the value, knowing how many splendid men are put _hors de combat_ by tiny pieces of shell splinters infecting that joint. But the "Journal" censored all these references to armour. A wounded Frenchman at Berck presented me with a helmet heavily dented by shrapnel, and told me that he owed his life to it. Later at General Headquarters, General Sir Arthur Sloggett showed me a collection of a dozen experimental helmets, each of which stood for a saved life. One of the soldiers who came under my care had a bullet wound through the palm of his hand. I happened to ask him where his hand had been when hit. He said, "On my hip. We were mending a break in our barbed wire at night, and a fixed rifle got me, exactly where it got my chum just afterwards, but it went through him." "Where did your bullet go?" "I don't know," he answered. An examination of his trousers showed the bullet in his pocket. It was embedded in three pennies and two francs which he happened to be carrying there, and which his wounded hand had prevented his feeling for afterwards. Pathos and humour, like genius and madness, are close akin. One of the boys told me of a chum who was very "churchy," and always carried an Episcopal Prayer Book in his pocket--for which he was not a little chaffed. For a joke one day he was presented with a second that a messmate had received, but for which he had no use. His scruples about "wasting it" made him put it in his pocket with the other. Soon after this, in an advance, he was shot in the chest. The bullet passed right through the first Prayer Book and lodged in the second, where it was found on his arrival at hospital for another slight wound. He at least will long continue to swear by the Book of Common Prayer. One day, walking with other officers in the country, we stumbled across a tiny isolated farm. As usual the voice of the inevitable Tommy could be heard from within. They were tending cavalry horses, which filled every available nook and corner behind the lines at a period when cavalry was considered useless in action. Having learned that one of these men had been body servant to a cousin of mine, who was a V.C. at the time that he was killed, I asked him for the details of his death. The Germans had broken through on the left of his command, and it was instantly imperative to hold the morale while help from the right was summoned. Jumping on the parapet, my cousin had stood there encouraging the line amid volleys of bullets. At the same time he ordered his servant to carry word to the right at once. Suddenly a bullet passed through his body and he fell into the trench. Protesting that he was all right, he declared that he could hold out till the man should come back. On his return he found that my cousin was dead. But help came, the line held, and the German attack was a costly failure. His servant had collected and turned in all the little personal possessions of any value which he had found on the body. "I think that you should have got a Military Cross," I said. "I did get an M.C.," he answered. "I congratulate you," I replied. "It was a confinement to barracks. A bullet had smashed to pieces a little wrist watch which the captain always carried. It was quite valueless, and I had kept the remnants as a memento of a man whom every one loved. But a comrade got back at me by reporting it to headquarters, and they had to punish me, they said." It is true, "strafing" was at a low ebb at the time that I arrived in France; but even I was not a bit prepared for the amount of leisure time that our duties allowed us. There were in France hundreds of sick and wounded for every one in the lonely North; but in Labrador you are always on the go, being often the only available doctor. Our Unit had at the time only some five hundred beds and a very strong staff, both of doctors and nurses. In spite of lending one of our colonels and several of our staff to other hospitals, we still had not enough beds to keep us fully occupied. It gave me ample time to help out occasionally in Y.M.C.A. activities, and to do some visiting among the poor French families and refugees in Boulogne, close to which city our hospital was located. I could also visit other Units, and give lantern shows, which had, I thought, special value when psychic treatment was badly needed. Shell-shock was but very imperfectly understood at the beginning of the war. The football matches and athletic sports did not need the asset of being an antidote to shell-shock to attract my patronage. Never in my life had I realized quite so keenly what a saving trait the sporting instinct is in the Anglo-Saxon--a strain of it in the Teuton might have even averted this war. My stay in France enabled me to enjoy that which life on the Labrador largely denies one--the contact with many educated minds. It was the custom, if an officer needed a lift along the road, to hail any passing motor. While walking one day, I took advantage of this privilege, and found myself driving with Sir Bertrand Dawson, the King's physician, with whom I thus renewed a most valued acquaintanceship. On another occasion our host or guest might be Sir Almroth Wright, the famous pathologist, or Sir Robert Jones would pay us a visit, or Sir Frederick Treves. In fact, we had chances to meet many of the great leaders of our profession. Sir Arthur Lawley, the head of our Red Cross in France, gave me some delightful evenings. Unquestionably there is an intense pleasure in hearing and seeing personally the men who are doing things. Food grew perceptibly scarcer in Boulogne even during my stay. The _petits gâteaux_ got smaller, the hours during which officers might enter restaurants for afternoon tea became painfully shorter. But they were not a whit less enjoyable, reminding one as they did of the dear old days, long before the war was thought of, and before the war of life had taken me to Labrador. If one had hoped that a life in the wilds had succeeded in eradicating natural desires, those relapses in the midst of war-time completely destroyed any such delusion. Every day was full of excitement. Bombs fell on the city only twice while I was there, and, moreover, we were bitterly disappointed that we did not know it till we read the news in the morning paper. But every day flying machines of all sorts sailed overhead. My interest never failed to respond to the buzzing of some hurrying airship, or the sight of a seaplane dropping out of heaven into the water and swimming calmly ashore, waddling up the beach into its pen exactly like a great duck. One day it was the excitement of watching trawlers from the cliffs firing-up mines; another, hunting along the beach among the silent evidences of some tragedy at sea, or riding convalescent horses that needed exercise, flying along the sands to see some special sight, such as the carcass of a leviathan wrecked by butting into mine-fields. Close to us was a large Canadian Unit. They were changing their location, and for three months had been in the sorry company of those who have no work to do. The matron, however, told me that she found plenty to occupy her time--in such a beehive of officers, with seventy-five nurses to look after. When at the close of the period for which I had volunteered I had to decide whether to sign on again, my whole inclination was to stay just another term; but as my commandant, Colonel David Cheever, informed me that he and a number of the busier men felt that duty called them home, and that there were plenty of volunteers to take our places, my judgment convinced me that I was more needed in Labrador. I shall not say much of the Y.M.C.A. They need no encomium of mine, but I am prepared to stand by them to the last ditch. They were doing, not talking, and were wise enough to use even those agents whom they knew to be imperfect, as God Himself does when He uses us. The folly of judging for all cases by one standard is common and human, but it is not God's way. This conviction was brought home to me in a very odd manner. I had gone to lecture at an English Y.M.C.A. hut at the invitation of the efficient director, who knew me only for a "medical missionary." On my arrival he most hospitably took me to the cupboard which he called "his rooms." It was a raw, cold night, and among other efforts to show his gratitude for my help, to my amazement he offered me "a drop of Scotch." Astonishment so outran good-breeding that I unwittingly let him perceive it. "I am not a regular 'Y' man, Major," he explained. "I'm an Australian, and was living on my little pile when the war began. They turned me down each place I volunteered on account of my age. But I was crazy to do my bit, and I offered to work with the Y.M.C.A. as a stopgap. The War Office has commandeered so many of their men that they had to take me to 'carry on.' I'm afraid I'm a poor apology, but I'm doing my best." The freedom from convention lent another peculiar charm to the life in France. The mess sergeant of a headquarters where I was dining one night, close behind the lines, presented the colonel with a beautifully illustrated monograph on a certain unmentionable and unwelcome member of war camps and trench life. The beautiful work and the evidences of scientific training led me to ask who the mess sergeant might have been in civil life. "Professor of Biology at the University of ----," was the reply. The most inspiring fact about the Channel ports at that time was the regularity with which steamers arrived, crowded with soldiers, and returned with wounded. We could see England on clear days from our quarters, and could follow the boats almost across. The number of trawlers at work all the year round, even in heavy gales that almost blew us off the cliffs, was enough to tell how vigilant a watch was being kept all the while. One morning only we woke to find a large stray steamer, that had entered the roads overnight, sunk across the harbour mouth, her decks awash at low water--torpedoed, we supposed. Another day a small patrol, literally cut in half by a mine, was towed in. But though both in the air and under the sea all the ingenuity of the enemy from as near by as Ostend was unceasingly directed against that living stream, not one single disaster happened the whole winter that I was out. Our mine-fields were constantly being changed. The different courses the traffic took from day to day suggested that. But who did it, and when, no one ever knew. The noise of occasional bomb-firing, once a mine rolling up on the shore, exploding and throwing some incredibly big fragments onto the golf links, the incessant tramp of endless soldiers in the street, the ever-present but silent motors hurrying to and fro, and the nightly arrival of convoys of wounded, were all that reminded us that any war was in progress. Had it been permitted, the beach would have been crowded as usual with invalids, nursemaids, and perambulators. The second marvel was that in spite of the enormous numbers of people coming and going, no secrets leaked out. We gave up looking for news almost as completely as in winter in Labrador. We seemed to be shut off entirely in an eddy of the stream, as we are in our Northern wastes. The spirit of humour in the wounded Briton was as invaluable as the love of sport when he is well. On one occasion a small party were going to relieve a section of the line. The Boches had the range of a piece of the road over which they had to pass, and the men made dashes singly or in small numbers across it. A lad, a well-known athlete, was caught by a shell and blown over a hedge into a field. When they reached him, his leg was gone and one arm badly smashed. He was sitting up smoking a cigarette, and all he said was, "Well, I fancy that's the end of my football days." One very undeveloped man, who had somehow leaked into Kitchener's Army, told me, "Well, you see, Major, I was a bit too weak for a labouring man, so I joined the army. I thought it might do my 'ealth good!" One of the English papers reported that when a small Gospel was sent by post to a prisoner in Germany the Teuton official stamped every page, "Passed by the Censor." The practice of listening to the yarns of the wounded was much discouraged, chiefly for one's own sake, for their knowledge was less accurate than our own, while shell-shock led them to imagine more. The censor had always good yarns to tell. The men showed generally much good-humour and a universal light-heartedness. Our wounded hardly ever "groused." They hid their troubles and cheered their families, seldom or never by pious sentiments. One man writing from a regimental camp close to Boulogne, after a painfully uneventful Channel crossing, announced, "Here we are in the enemies' country right under the muzzles of the guns. We got over quite safely, though three submarines chased us and shelled us all the way. Food here is very short. I haven't looked at a bun for weeks. A bit more of that cake of yours would do nicely, not to talk o' smokes. Your loving husband." Another letter was quoted in the "Daily Mail." It ran: "Dear Mother--This comes hoping that it may find you as it leaves me at present. I have a broken leg, and a bullet in my left lung. Your affectionate son." Yet the men were far from fatalists, and the psychic stimulus of being able to tell your patient that he was ordered to "Blighty" was demonstrable on his history chart. One poor fellow whose right arm was infected with gas bacillus was so anxious to save it that we left it on too long and general blood poisoning set in. He was on the dying list. The Government under these circumstances would pay the expenses of a wife or mother to come over and say the last good-bye. After the message went, it seemed that our friend could not last till their arrival, and the colonel decided as a last chance to try intra-venous injections of Eusol, the powerful antiseptic in use at that time in all the hospitals. On entering the ward the next morning the nurse told me with a smiling face, "B. is ever so much better. I think that he will pull through all right." "Then the Eusol injection has done good, I suppose?" "His wife and mother came last night and sat up with him"--and I saw a twinkle in the corner of her eye. Eusol injections are now considered inert. With so many patients who only remained so short a time, there was an inevitable tendency to relapse into treating men as "cases," not as brothers. To get through their exterior needed tact and experience. But if love is a force stronger than bayonets and guns, it certainly has its place in modern--and all time--surgery. I have a shrewd suspicion that it is better worth exhibiting than quite a number of the drugs still on the world's pharmacopoeias. Many of the nurses kept visitors' books, and in these their patients were asked to write their names or anything they liked. The little fact made them feel more at home, as if some person really cared for them. One could not help noticing how many of them broke out into verse, though most of them were labouring men at home. Although some was not original, it showed that they liked poetry. Some was extempore, as the following: "Good-bye, dear mother, sister, brother, Drive away those bitter tears. For England's in no danger While there are bomb throwers in the Tenth Royal Fusiliers." The following effusion I think was doubtless evolved gradually. It runs: "There's a little dug-out in a trench, Which the rainstorms continually drench. With the sky overhead, and a stone for a bed, And another that acts for a bench. "It's hard bread and cold bully we chew; It is months since we've tasted a stew; And the Jack Johnsons flare through the cold wintry air, O'er my little wet home in the trench. "So hurrah for the mud and the clay, Which leads to 'der Tag,' that's the day When we enter Berlin, that city of sin, And make the fat Berliners pay." I have never been in any sense what is generally understood by the term "faith healer," but I am certain that you can make a new man out of an old one, can save a man who is losing ground, and turn the balance and help him to win out through psychic agencies when all our chemical stimulants are only doing harm. That seemed especially true in those put _hors de combat_ by the almost superhuman horrors of this war. It seemed to me to pay especially to get the confidence of one's patients. Thus one man would be drawn out by the gift of a few flowers, a little fruit, cigarettes, as so many of the kindly visitors discovered. One man with shrapnel splinters in his abdomen expressed a craving for Worcester sauce. It appeared to him so unobtainable in a hospital in France. From the point of view of his recovery I am convinced that the bottle which we procured in Boulogne was a good investment. We eagerly awaited the illustrated papers each week for the same reason. But personal interest shown in themselves, by the time spared for chatting, was far the most appreciated. We had been very rightly warned against listening to the wounded men. It was with them in the base hospitals that the story of the angels of Mons originated. I never met any one personally who saw anything nearer the supernatural than that marvellous fight itself--the pluck and endurance of our "contemptible little army." But some claimed to have seen a spirit but visible army, such as Elijah at Dothan showed to his servant, or Castor and Pollux at Lake Regillus, fighting in front of our lines. A Canadian in command of the C.A.M.C. contingent, who treated thousands of the wounded as they came back from the front, told me that early in the day he heard the rumour, and ordered his men to ask as many as possible if they had seen any such phenomenon. Not one claimed to have done so. Yet a few days later from the base he heard a great many of these same men had declared that they had seen the "angels." He considered that the whole matter arose originally through some hysterical woman, and then was augmented by the suggestion of the question which he himself had put to them, made to men shell-shocked and in abnormal mental conditions. Among other deductions from voluminous notes I judged that the Saxons really did not want to fight, the impression coming from so many different sources. Some said that they let us know, shouting across "No Man's Land," that they did not wish to fight, that they were Christians, had wives and children of their own, that they did not want to kill any one, and would fire in the air when forced to fire, were keen to renew the Christmas "pour-parlers." Our men claimed that it was comparative peace when the Saxons were in the trenches opposite, and they made friendly overtures as often as they dared. They were capable of attributing honour to others, and those who came over into our lines asserted that hundreds were anxious to do so, only they were so watched from behind. Moreover, the outrages committed by the Prussians under flags of truce had made it impossible for our men to allow any one to approach. To sit opposite a Saxon regiment for a month and not exchange shots appeared to be not uncommon. One man told me that they poked up a notice on their bayonets saying, "We are not going to fight"; and another said that once when "strafing" somehow commenced, they shouted from the opposite trenches: "Save your bullets. You'll need them to-night when the Prussian Guard relieves us"--which proved perfectly true. One day an elderly man crawled out of their trench, came to our barbed wire, and called out for bread. We threw him a loaf. He wrapped up something in his cap and threw it over. We tossed it back with more bread, but when he went back he left the watch behind. After an especially brutal piece of treachery, our men were too maddened to give quarter, and one said, "A Saxon might have had a chance with us even then, but a Prussian would have had about as little as a beetle at a woodpecker's prayer meeting!" The Saxons, on the other hand, displayed the individual courage of the Anglo-Saxon that helped to lessen our losses by enabling us to attack in open formation. Every animal will fight when forced to do so. The cowardly wolf will attack only in packs; and one of the main reasons for the wholesale holocausts of mass attacks seems to have been that same lack of real courage in the boastful and militarist element. He dare not advance alone. A colonel in command at the first battle of the Aisne described to me an incident that I at least did not hear elsewhere. He said that the Germans opposite him came on sixteen abreast, arm in arm, rifles at the trail or held anyhow. They were singing wildly, and literally jumping up and down, as if dancing. Fire was reserved till they came within a few hundred yards, when machine guns started to mow them down. Hay-pooks, or rather man-pooks, were immediately formed, and the advancing column, instead of coming straight on, went round and round the ever-increasing stacks. He believed that they had been filled with too much dope or too much doctored grog of some kind. It was my great desire before returning from France to see the conditions at the front. I was told that members of American Units were discouraged from visiting the trenches. Dr. Carrel had twice most kindly invited me to Compiègne to see his new work on wounds, but permission to accept had been denied me. Being a British subject and wearing a British decoration on an American uniform only seemed to worry the authorities. I had almost abandoned hope, when one day an automobile stopped at our headquarters, just at the close of my term of service, and a colonel, a distinguished scientist, jumped out. He told me if I could get to Medical Headquarters, then at St. Omer, he could arrange for me to visit each of the four armies I wished to see. I had no permission to leave the base, though my term of service expired the next day. I had no passes, and our British commandant would not on his own responsibility either give me leave or lend me the necessary outfit. He would only agree to look the other way if I went. Passing the sentries was not difficult, but once arrived in St. Omer, it was essential to have permission from Headquarters before one could enter any house or hotel. I was accordingly dumped in the dark streets of a strange town and told to be at that exact spot again in two hours, waiting my sponsor's return. Nor did he say where he was going, in case we failed to meet, for no one was allowed to mention the whereabouts of the G.H.Q. After two hours were over, I was at the appointed spot with that pleasurable sense of excitement that seldom comes after one has settled down in life. I could then understand better how a spy must feel. The town naturally was unlit for fear of aircraft, and yet there was a queer feeling that every one was looking at you as you walked up and down in the dark. My colonel friend was at the rendezvous with all the precision of a soldier, not only with the necessary papers and arrangements for the tour of inspection, but also a genial invitation to dine at Headquarters. General Sir Arthur Sloggett and his exceedingly able staff opened my eyes very considerably before the evening was out as to the methods of the R.A.M.C. in war-time. It was such a revelation to me that I felt it would be an infinite comfort to those with loved ones in the trenches to realize how marvellously efficient the provision for the care of the soldier's health had become. The main impression on my mind was the extraordinary developments since the days of the Lady of the Lamp. Formerly, so long as he was fit to fight, the soldier was always looked after. Now the soldier unfit to fight had exactly the same rights, just as after the war let us trust that the broken soldier will be "seen through" back into civil life. I was honestly surprised that he no longer depended on voluntary gifts to a charitable society for a bandage when he lay wounded or for a nurse if sickness overtook him. The marvellous system of the medical intelligence department, even the separate medical secret service, worked so efficiently that in spite of the awful conditions the health of the men in the line was twice as good as that when at home in civil life. Even disease approaching from the enemy's side was "spied," and as far as possible forestalled. All sanitary arrangements, all water supplies, and all public health matters from the North Sea to the Swiss border were handled by regular army officers. For the first time in history the medicals were considered so intimate a part of the fighting force that doctors held the same rank as executive officers. I was a major--no longer a surgeon major or just a sanitary official. Those in command were even trusted in advance with information as to what would likely be required of them on any part of the front by some manoeuvre or attack, though I do not think that even the general of the R.A.M.C. was admitted to the council of war. The chart-room of the G.H.Q. was another revelation. The walls from ceiling to floor were occupied with the usual large-scale maps, with flags on pins; while long, weird, crooked lines of all colours made elaborate tracings over the charts, like those used in hospitals. These flags and lines indicated the surgical and medical front, where battles with typhoid, trench feet, and wounds were being waged by the immense army of workers under General Sloggett's direction. Laboratories in motor cars, special surgeons and ambulances were racing here and there, new hospitals for emergencies were being pushed in different directions, so that though within range of the enemies' guns, men wounded in the chest or abdomen could be treated in time to give them a chance for their lives. Typhoid recurring in any section of the line might mean the reprimand of the medical officer there; trench feet became a misdemeanour, so excellent were the precautions devised and carried out by the N.C.O.'s. I ventured at table to say quite truthfully that I, a surgeon from a base hospital, where we saw endless Red Cross motor ambulances, and received so many kindnesses in supplies, and especially luxuries for our wounded from the Red Cross officials, had been under the impression that the R.A.M.C. was a sort of small tail to a very large Red Cross kite, owing to our little army and general unpreparedness when the war broke out. I could see that to my surprised hosts I appeared to be mentally deficient, but I was able to assure them that there were tens of thousands who knew even less than that, and thought that the chances still were that if their loved ones were hurt, they might be left to die because some one had not given their annual contribution to a society. It seemed a very serious omission that the public had not the information that would carry so much consolation with it. The British Red Cross has every one's love and support, but its function in war, as one officer said, must increasingly become, in relation to the R.A.M.C., that of a Sunday-school treat to the staff of the school. The officialdom of Germany and even of France had always contrasted very unfavourably in my mind with our English methods. I was surprised in America that so many hospitals were Government institutions, and yet worked so well. At Melville we turned aside to inspect what was apparently a second Valley of Hinnom. It was a series of furnaces, built out of clay and old cans, efficiently disposing of the garbage of a town and a large section of the line. At West Outre an officer found time to show us his ingenious improvised laundry. His share was to fight the enemy by keeping our boys decently clean; and for this purpose he collected their dirty linen into huge piles. He had diverted the only available brook so as to put a portable building over it. His battalion consisted of the whole female strength of the country-side, and had to be prepared to advance or retire _pari passu_ with the other fighters. The chattering, shouting crowd, almost invisible in the fog of steam as we walked through, made me realize how difficult a command this regiment of washerwomen constituted. The triumph was that they all appeared to be contented and fraternal. As every one knows one of the worst problems of the trenches was vermin. We entered a huge building used in peace-time for the purposes of dyeing. A Jack Johnson had only just exploded in the moat that brought the water to the tanks, but provision was made for trifles of this kind. When we peered over the edge of a steaming vat, it was to discover a platoon of Tommies enjoying the "time of their lives," before they joined the line of naked beings, each scrubbing the now happy man ahead. An endless stream of garments advanced through electric superheaters in parallel columns. There seemed as much excitement about the chance of every man getting his own clothing back as there is in the bran pie at a children's Christmas party. While visiting the mud and squalor of a front trench in Flanders, only a few yards from the enemy's lines, the cheery occupants offered to brew some tea, exactly as we "boil our kettle" and have a good time in the safety of our Northern backwoods. One day I picked up some bright blue crystals. They proved to be "blue-stone," or sulphate of copper. When my pilot noticed that its presence puzzled me, he remarked casually, "There was a regimental dressing-station there a day or so ago. Probably that is the remains of it." On a siding at Calais station a veritable pyramid of filth met my eyes. On inspection it proved to be odd old boots dug from the mud of the battle-fields, and, sorted out from the other endless piles of débris, brought back as salvage. To attack one pair of such boots is depressing. Melancholia alone befitted the pile. Yet I saw close at hand, through a series of sheds, this polluted current entering and coming out at the other end new boots, at the rate of a thousand pairs a day--the talisman not being a Henry Ford of boot-making, but just a smiling English colonel in the sporting trousers of a mounted officer. The ground was still under snow, and we drove over much ice and through much slush as we returned to our base at Boulogne. My colleagues had gone back to America and it was a terribly lonely journey to London, though both steamer and train were crowded. The war was not yet won, and I could not help feeling an intense desire to remain and see it through with the brave, generous-hearted men who were giving their lives for our sakes. Loneliness scarcely describes my sensations; it felt more like desertion. One road to despair would be the awful realization that one is not wanted. The work looming ahead was the only comforting element, with the knowledge that the best of wives and partners was waiting in London to help me out. CHAPTER XXV FORWARD STEPS My return to the work after serving in France was embittered by a violent attack made upon me in a St. John's paper. It was called forth by a report of a lecture in Montreal where I had addressed the Canadian Club. The meeting was organized by Newfoundlanders at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, and the fact that a large number from the Colony were present and moved the vote of thanks at the end should have been sufficient guarantee of the _bona fides_ of my statements. But the over-enthusiastic account of a reporter who unfortunately was not present gave my critics the chance for which they were looking. It was at a time when any criticism whatever of a country that was responding so generously to the homeland's call for help would have been impolitic, even if true. It subsequently proved one factor, however, in obtaining the commission of inquiry from the Government, and so far was really a blessing to our work. In retrospect it is easy to see that all things work together for good, but at the time, oddly enough, even if such reports are absolutely false, they hurt more than the point of a good steel knife. Anonymous letters, on the contrary, with which form of correspondence I have a bowing acquaintance, only disturb the waste-paper basket. The Governor, the representatives of our Council, the Honourable Robert Watson and the Honourable W.C. Job, and my many other fast friends, however, soon made it possible for me to forget the matter. If protest breeds opposition, it in turn begets apposition, and a good line of demarcation--a "no man's land" between friend and foe--and gives a healthy atmosphere in so-called times of peace. In the year 1915 a large coöperative store was established at Cape Charles near Battle Harbour, which bred such opposition amongst certain merchants that it proved instrumental also in obtaining for us the Government commission of inquiry sent down a few months later. After a thorough investigation of St. Anthony, Battle Harbour, Cape Charles, Forteau, Red Bay, and Flowers Cove, summoning every possible witness and tracing all rumours to their source, the commissioners' findings were so favourable to the Mission that on their return to St. John's our still undaunted detractors could only attribute it to supernatural agencies. My colleague at Battle Harbour, Dr. John Grieve, who with his wife had already given us so many years' work there, and whose interest in the coöperative effort at Cape Charles was responsible for its initial success, had worked out a plan for a winter hospital station in Lewis Bay, and had surveyed the necessary land grant. Through the resignation of our business manager, Mr. Sheard, and the selection of Dr. Grieve by the directors as his successor, only that part of the Lewis Bay scheme which enables us to give work in winter providing wood supplies has so far materialized. In 1915 also, at a place called Northwest River, one hundred and thirty miles up Hamilton Inlet from Indian Harbour, a little cottage hospital and doctor's house combined was built, called the "Emily Beaver Chamberlain Memorial Hospital." Thus the work of Dr. and Mrs. Paddon has been converted into a continuous service, for formerly when Indian Harbour Hospital was closed in the fall, they had no place in which they could efficiently carry on their work during the winter months. Before Dr. Paddon came to the coast, Dr. and Mrs. Norman Stewart gave us several years of valuable service, spending their summers at Indian Harbour and returning for the winter to St. Anthony, according to my original plan when I first built St. Anthony Hospital. An old friend and worker at St. Anthony, Mr. John Evans of Philadelphia, who had helped us with our deer and other problems, having married our head nurse, the first whom we had ever had from Newfoundland, found it essential to return and take up remunerative work at home. The increasing number of patients seeking help at St. Anthony made it necessary to provide proportionately increasing facilities. As I have stated elsewhere, the sister of my splendid colleague, Dr. Little, in 1909 had raised the money for the new wing of the hospital for the accommodation of the summer accession of patients. The clinic which had now grown so tremendously, due to Dr. Little's magnificent work, was maintaining a permanent house surgeon, Dr. Louis Fallen, who had faithfully served the Mission at different times at other stations. We had also regular dental and eye departments. The summer of 1917 was saddened for us all by the loss to the work of my beloved and able colleague, Dr. John Mason Little, Jr., who had given ten years of most valuable labour to the people of this coast. He had married, some years before, our delightful and unselfish helper, Miss Ruth Keese, and they now had four little children growing up in St. Anthony. The education of his family and the call of other home ties made him feel that it had become essential for him to terminate his more intimate connection with the North, and he left us to take up medical work in Boston. The loss of them both was a very heavy one to the work and to us personally, and we are only thankful that we have been able to secure Dr. Little's invaluable assistance and advice on our Board of Directors in Boston. This coast and this hospital owe him a tremendous debt which can never be repaid, for it was he who put this clinic in a position to hold up its head among the best of medical work, and offer to this far-off people the grade of skilled assistance which we should wish for our loved ones if they were ill or in trouble. For Dr. Little offered not only his very exceptional skill as a surgeon, but also the gift of his inspiring and devoted personality. The winter of 1917-18 was extremely severe, not only in our North country, but in the United States and Canada also. I was lecturing during this winter in both these latter countries, though during the months of December and January travelling became very difficult owing to the continuous blizzards. I was held up for three days in Racine, Wisconsin, as neither trains, electric cars, or automobiles could make their way through the heavy drifts. Had I had my trusty dog team, however, I should not have missed three important lecture engagements. Life in the North has its compensations. At Toronto I was unfortunate enough to contract bronchitis and pleurisy, and I understand from competent observers that I was an "impossible patient." Be that as it may, so much pressure was brought to bear on me that at last I was forced to obey the doctors and leave for a month's rest in a warmer climate. Owing to ice and war conditions we did not arrive in St. Anthony until the first of July. In arriving late we were all spared a terrible shock. The previous day some of the boys from the Orphanage had gone fishing in the Devil's Pond, about a mile away, and a favourite resort with them. Unfortunately that afternoon they were seized with the brilliant idea of kindling a fire with which to cook their trout. Greatly to the astonishment of the would-be cooks, the fire quickly got beyond the one desired for culinary purposes, and, panic-stricken, they rushed home to give the alarm. Every man ashore and afloat came and worked, and the obliteration of the place was saved by a providential change in the wind and wide fire-breaks cut through few and ill-to-be-spared trees. Everything had been taken from our house--even furniture and linen--and dragged to the wharf head, where terrified children, fleeing patients, and heaps of furnishings from the orphanage and elsewhere were all piled up. Schooners had been hauled in to carry off what was possible, and the patients in the hospital were got ready to be carried away at a moment's notice. Only the most strenuous efforts saved the entire station. Now all our beautiful sky-line is blackened and charred. All day long the gravity of the debt was in our hearts, for if the wooden buildings had once had the clouds of fiery sparks settle upon them, the whole of those dependent upon us would have been homeless. Surely in a country like this, the incident of this fire puts an added emphasis upon our need of brick buildings. Gratitude for our safe return, for all God's mercies to us, and joy over the outcome of the at one time apparently inevitable disaster, made our first day of the season a never-to-be-forgotten event. [Illustration: THE LABRADOR DOCTOR IN WINTER] Mr. W.R. Stirling, our Chicago director, who had personally visited the hospitals, insisted that a water supply must at all costs be secured both for hospital and orphanage. This was not only to avert the reproach of typhoid epidemics, two of which had previously occurred, but also to better our protection for so many helpless lives in old dry wooden buildings, and to economize the great expense of hauling water by dogs every winter, when our little surface reservoir was frozen to the bottom. This water supply has only just been finished; and now we cannot understand how we ever existed without it. But it is an unromantic object to which to give money, and the total cost, even doing the work ourselves, amounted to just upon ten thousand dollars. According to the Government engineer's advice we had a stream to dam and a mile and a quarter of piping to lay six feet underground to prevent the water freezing. It is only in very few places that we boast six feet of soil at all on the rock that forms the frame of Mother Earth here. Hence there was much blasting to do. But the task was accomplished, and by our own boys, and has successfully weathered our bitter winter. The last lap was run by an intensely interesting experiment. The assistant at Emmanuel Church in Boston brought down a number of volunteer Boy Scouts to give their services on the commonplace task of digging the remainder of the trench necessary to complete the water supply. When they first arrived, our Northern outside man, after looking at their clothes of the Boston cut, remarked, "Hm. You'd better give that crowd some softer job than digging." But they did the work, and a whole lot more besides. For their grit and jollity, and above all their readiness to tackle and see through such side tasks as unloading and stowing away some three hundred tons of coal were real "missionary" lessons. The ever-growing demand for doctors as the war dragged on made it harder and harder to man our far-off stations. The draft in America was the last straw, doctors having already been forbidden to leave England or Canada. Dr. Charles Curtis had taken over Dr. Little's work at St. Anthony, and stood nobly by, getting special permission to do so. Dr. West, who had succeeded our colleague, Dr. Mather Hare, at Harrington, when his wife's breakdown had obliged him to leave us, had already given us a year over his scheduled time, for he had accepted work in India at the hands of those who had specially trained him for that purpose. We had been having considerable trouble in the accommodation of the heavy batches of patients that came by the mail boat. They were left on the wharf when she steamed away, and only the floors of our treatment and waiting-rooms were available for their reception. For all could not possibly go into the wards, where children, and often very sick patients, were being cared for. The people around always stretched their hospitality to the limit, but this was a very undesirable method of housing sick persons temporarily. Owing to the generosity of a lady in New Bedford and other friends, we were enabled to meet the problem by the erection of a rest house, with first and second class accommodation. This was built in the spring of 1917, and has been a Godsend to many besides patients. It makes people free to come to St. Anthony and stay and benefit by whatever it has to offer, without the feeling that they have no place to which they can go. Moreover, this hostel has been entirely self-supporting from the day that it opened, and every one who goes and comes has a good word for the rest house. It is run by one of our Labrador orphan boys, whose education was finished in America, and "Johnnie," as every one calls him, is already a feature in the life of the place. Among the advances of the year 1918 must also be noted that more subscribers and subscriptions from local friends have been received than ever before. Our X-ray department has been added to. We have been able also to improve the roads, a thing greatly to be desired. Look where we will, we have nothing but gratitude that in the last year of a long and exhausting war, here in this far-away section of the world, the keynote has been one of progress. CHAPTER XXVI THE FUTURE OF THE MISSION What is the future of this Mission? I have once or twice been an unwilling listener to a discussion on this point. It has usually been in the smoking-room of a local mail steamer. The subtle humour of W.W. Jacobs has shown us that pessimism is an attribute of the village "pub" also. The alcoholic is always a prophet of doom; and the wish is often father to the thought. In our medical work in the wilds we have become a repository of some old instruments discarded on the death of their owners or cast aside by the advancing tide of knowledge. Seeing the ingenuity, time, and expense lavished on many of them, they would make a truly pathetic museum. Personally I prefer the habits of India to those of Egypt concerning the departed. If the Pharaoh of the Persecution could see his mummy being shown to tourists as a cheap side show, I am sure that he would vote for cremation if he had the choice over again. It sounds flippant in one who has devoted his life to this work to say, "Really I don't care what its future may be." I am content to leave the future with God. No true sportsman wants to linger on, a wretched handicap to the cause for which he once stood, like a fake hero with his peg leg and a black patch over one eye. The Christian choice is that of Achilles. Nature also teaches us that the paths of progress are marked by the discarded relics of what once were her corner-stones. The original Moses had the spirit of Christ when he said, "If Thou wilt, forgive their sin--and if not, I pray Thee, blot me out of Thy book." The heroic Paul was willing to be eliminated for the Kingdom of God. It seems to me that that attitude is the only credential which any Christian mission can give for its existence. If I felt that my work had accomplished all it could, I would "lay it down with a will." As in India and China the missionaries of the various societies are uniting to build up a native, national Church which would wish to assume the responsibility of caring for its own problems, so when the Government of this country is willing and able to take over the maintenance of the medical work, this Mission would have justified its existence by its elimination. All lines along which the Mission works should one day become self-eliminating. Until that time arrives I am satisfied that the Mission has great opportunities before it. I am an optimist, and feel certain that God will provide the means to continue as long as the need exists. Some believe that the future of this population depends solely on the attention paid to the development of the resources of the coast. Not only are its raw products more needed than ever, but even supposing that unscientific handling of them has depleted the supply, still there is ample to maintain a larger population than at present. This can only be when science and capital are introduced here, combined with an educated manhood fired by the spirit of coöperation. In large parts of China a famine to wipe out surplus population is apparently a periodical necessity. An orphanage in India for similar reasons does not seem to be as rationally economic as one for the Labrador children. I never see a cliff face from which an avalanche has removed the supersoil and herbage without thinking in pity of the crowded sections of China, where tearing up even the roots of trees for fuel has permitted so much arable land to be denuded by rains that the food supply gets smaller while the population grows larger. The future of all medical work depends on whether people want it and can arrange to get it paid for. If all the world become Christian Scientists, scientific--which we believe to be also Christian--healing will everywhere die a natural death--and possibly the people also. But history suggests that the healing art is one of considerable vitality. My own belief is that in the apparently approaching socialistic age, medicine will be communized and provided by the State free to all. If education for the mind is, why not education for the body? Certain subtle and very vital psychic influences are probably the best stock in trade of the "Doctor of the old school." These qualities appear at present less likely to be "had for hire" in a Government official. The Chinese may yet return the missionary compliment by teaching us to adopt their method of paying the doctor only when and as long as the patient is cured. Out of the taxes, the major part of which is paid by the people of the outport districts in this Colony, the Government provides free medical aid in the Capital, presumably because those who have the spending of the money mostly reside there. The Mission provides it in the farthest off and poorest part of the country, Labrador and North Newfoundland, because there is no chance whatever at present for the poor people to obtain it otherwise. Our _pro rata_ share of the taxes, if judged by the paltry Government grant toward the work, would not provide anything worth having. The people here pay far better in proportion to their ability for hospital privileges than they do in Boston or London; the Government pays a little, and the rest comes from the loving gifts of those who desire nothing better, when they know of real need, than to make sacrifices to meet it. One feels that the Chinese and Japanese and all nations will be able some day to pay for their own doctors, whether they do it on individualistic or communistic principles. In the present state of the world I believe the missionary enterprise to be entirely desirable, or I would not be where I am. But being a Christian with a little faith, I hope that it may not be so forever. If anything will stimulate to better methods, it is example, not precept, and perhaps the best work of this and all missions will be their reflex influences on Governments through the governed. To carry on the bare essentials of this work an endowment of at least a million dollars is necessary. Toward this a hundred and sixty thousand dollars is all that has been contributed, and in addition we can count annually upon a small Government grant. Even if this million dollars were given, it would still leave several thousand dollars to be raised by voluntary subscription each year, a healthy thing for the life of any charitable work. On the other hand, the certainty of being able to meet the main bills is an economy in nerve energy, in time and in money. Among our patients brought in one season to St. Anthony Hospital was the mother of ten children on whom an emergency operation for appendicitis had to be done--the first time in her life that a doctor had ever tended her. She came from a very poor home, for besides her large family her husband had been all his life handicapped by a serious deformity of one leg caused by a fall. She reminded me of how some years before a traveller had left her the rug from his dog sledge, as, without any bedclothes, she was again about to give birth to a child; how she had actually been unable at times to turn over in bed, because her personal clothing had frozen solid to the wall of the one-roomed hut in which she lived. In April, 1906, in northern Newfoundland I found a young mother near St. Anthony. She was twenty-six years old, suffering from acute rheumatic fever, lying in a fireless loft, on a rickety bedstead with no bedclothes. She had only one shoddy black dress to her name, and no underwear to keep her warm in bed in a house like that. The floor was littered with débris, including a number of hard buns which she could not now eat, but which some charitable neighbour had sent her. She had a wizened baby of seven months, which every now and then she was trying to feed by raising herself on one elbow and forcing bread and water pap, moistened with the merest suspicion of condensed milk, down its throat. None of her four previous children had lived so long. She had been under my care three years before for sailor's scurvy. Her present illness lasted only a week, and in spite of all that we could do, she died. The desire of the people to be mutually helpful is undoubted, whether it is to each other or to some "outsider" like ourselves. I question if in the so-called centres of civilization the following incident can be surpassed as evidencing this aspect of their character. In a little Labrador village called Deep Water Creek I was called in one day to see a patient: an old Englishman, who was reported to have had "a bad place this twelvemonth." As I was taken into the tiny cottage, a bright-faced, black-bearded man greeted me. Three children were playing on the hearth with a younger man, evidently their father. "No, Doctor, they aren't ours," replied my host, in answer to my question. "But us took Sam as our own when he was born, and his mother lay dead. These be his little ones. You remember Kate, his wife, what died in hospital." After the cup of hot tea so thoughtfully provided, I said, "Skipper John, let's get out and see the old Englishman." "No need, Doctor. He's upstairs in bed." Upstairs was the triangular space between the roof and the ceiling of the ground floor. At each end was a tiny window, and the whole area, windows included, had been divided longitudinally by a single thickness of hand-sawn lumber. Both windows were open, a cool breeze was blowing through, and a bright paper pasted on the wall gave a cheerful impression. One corner was shut off by a screen of cheap cheesecloth. Sitting bolt upright on a low bench, and leaning against the partition, was a very aged woman, staring fixedly ahead out of blind eyes, and ceaselessly monotoning what was meant for a hymn. No head was visible among the rude collection of bedclothes. "Uncle Solomon, it's the Doctor," I called. The mass of clothes moved, and a trembling old hand came out to meet mine. "No pain, Uncle Solomon, I hope?" "No pain, Doctor, thank the good Lord, and Skipper John. He took us in when the old lady and I were starving." The terrible cancer had so extended its ravages that the reason for the veiled corner was obvious, and also for the effective ventilation. "He suffers a lot, Doctor, though he won't own it," now chimed in the old woman. When the interview was over, I was left standing in a brown study till I heard Skipper John's voice calling me. As I descended the ladder he said: "We're so grateful you comed, Doctor. The poor old creatures won't last long. But thanks aren't dollars. I haven't a cent in the world now. The old people have taken what little we had put by. But if I gets a skin t' winter, I'll try and pay you for your visit anyhow." "Skipper John, what relation are those people to you?" "Well, no relation 'zactly." "Do they pay nothing at all?" "Them has nothing," he replied. "What made you take them in?" "They was homeless, and the old lady was already blind." "How long have they been with you?" "Just twelve months come Saturday." I found myself standing in speechless admiration in the presence of this man. I thought then, and I still think, that I had received one of my largest fees. Ours is primarily a medical mission, and nothing that may have been stated in this book with reference to other branches of the work is meant in any way to detract from what to us as doctors is the basic reason for our being here, though we mean ours to be prophylactic as well as remedial medicine. St. Anthony having so indisputably become the headquarters of the hospital stations, there can be but one answer to the question of the advisability of its closing its doors summer or winter in the days to come. For not only is our largest hospital located there--its scope due in great measure to the reputation gained for it by Dr. Little's splendid services, and continued by Dr. Curtis--but also the Children's Home, our school, machine shop, the headquarters of various industrial enterprises, and lastly a large storehouse to be used in future as a distributing centre for the supplies of the general Mission. Moreover, the population of the environs of St. Anthony, owing to their numbers and the fact that they can profit by the employment given by the Mission, should be able increasingly to assist in the maintenance of this hospital, though a large number of its clinic is drawn from distant parts. These patients come not only from Labrador, the Straits of Belle Isle, and southern Newfoundland, but we have had under our care Syrians, Russians, Scandinavians, Frenchmen, and naturally Americans and Canadians, seamen from schooners engaged in the Labrador fishery. Harrington Hospital, located on the Canadian Labrador, must for many years to come depend on outside support. I am Lloyd Georgian enough to feel that taxation should presuppose the obligation to look after the bodies of the taxed. The Quebec Government gives neither vote, representation, adequate mail service, nor any public health grant for the long section of the coast which it claims to govern, that lies west of the Point des Eskimo. It is to my mind a severe stricture on their qualifications as legislators. That hospital should, we believe, be adequately subsidized and kept open summer and winter. At present we have to thank the Labrador Medical Mission, which is the Canadian branch of the International Grenfell Association, for their generous and continued support of this station. Battle Harbour and Indian Harbour Hospitals can never be anything but summer stations, owing to their geographical positions on islands in frozen seas, on which islands there is practically no population during the winter months. But gifts and grants sufficient to maintain a doctor at Northwest River Cottage Hospital, and one if possible in Lewis Bay, winter supplements to these summer hospitals, are to my thinking more than justifiable. As to the future of our hospital stations at Pilley's Islands, Spotted Islands, and Forteau, that will depend upon the changing demands of local conditions. That the need of medical assistance exists is unquestionable, as is evidenced from the many appeals which I receive to start hospitals or supply doctors in districts at present utterly incapable of obtaining such help. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO ST. ANTHONY HARBOUR] One still indispensable requisite in our scattered field of work is a hospital steamer. In fact, not a few of us think that the Strathcona is the keystone of the Mission. She reaches those who need our help most and at times when they cannot afford to leave home and seek it. Her functions are innumerable. She is our eyepiece to keep us cognizant of our opportunities. She both treats and carries the sick and feeds the hospitals. She enables us to distribute our charity efficiently. The invaluable gifts of clothing which the Labrador Needlework Guild and other friends send us could never be used at all as love would wish, unless the Strathcona were available to enlarge the area reached. In spite of all this, those who would quibble over trifles claim that she is the only craft on record that rolls at dry-dock! Her functions are certainly varied, but perhaps the oddest which I have ever been asked to perform was an incident which I have often told. One day, after a long stream of patients had been treated, a young man with a great air of secrecy said that he wanted to see me very privately. "I wants to get married, Doctor," he confided when we were alone. "Well, that's something in which I can't help you. Won't any of the girls round here have you?" "Oh! it isn't that. There's a girl down North I fancies, but I'm shipped to a man here for the summer, and can't get away. Wouldn't you just propose to her for me, and bring her along as you comes South?" The library would touch a very limited field if it were not for the hospital ship. She carries half a hundred travelling libraries each year. She finds out the derelict children and brings them home. She is often a court of law, trying to dispense justice and help right against might. She has enabled us to serve not only men, but their ships as well; and many a helping hand she has been able to lend to men in distress when hearts were anxious and hopes growing faint. In a thousand little ways she is just as important a factor in preaching the message of love. To-day she is actually loaned for her final trip, before going into winter quarters, to a number of heads of families, who are thus enabled to bring out fuel for their winter fires from the long bay just south of the hospital. Her plates are getting thin. They were never anything but three-eighths-inch steel, and we took a thousand pounds of rust out of her after cabin alone this spring. She leaks a little--and no iron ship should. It will cost two thousand dollars to put her into repair again for future use. Money is short now, but when asked about the future of the Mission I feel that whatever else will be needed for many years to come, the hospital ship at least cannot possibly be dispensed with. The child is potential energy, the father of the future man, and the future state; and the children of this country are integral, determining factors in the future of this Mission. The children who are turned out to order by institutions seem sadly deficient, both in ability to cope with life and in the humanities. The "home" system, as at Quarrier's in Scotland, is a striking contrast, and personally I shall vote for the management of orphanages on home lines every time. This is not a concession to Dickens, whose pictures of Bumble I hope and believe apply only to the dark ages in which Dickens lived; but historically they are not yet far enough removed for me to advocate Government orphanages, though our Government schools are an advance on Dotheboys Hall. The human body is the result of physical causes; breeding tells as surely as it does in dogs or cows, and the probability of defects in the offspring of poverty and of lust is necessarily greater than in well-bred, well-fed, well-environed children. The proportion of mentally and morally deficient children that come to us absolutely demonstrates this fact; and the love needed to see such children through to the end is more comprehensive than the mere sentiment of having a child in the home, and infinitely more than the desire to have the help which he can bring. The Government allows us fifty-two dollars a year toward the expense of a child whose father is dead; nothing if the mother is dead, or if the father is alive but had better be dead. It would be wiser if each case could be judged on its merits by competent officials. But we believe it is a blessing to a community to have the opportunity of finding the balance. Tested by its output and the returns to the country, our orphanage has amply justified itself. One new life resultant from the outlay of a few dollars would class the investment as gilt-edged if graded merely in cash. The community which sows a neglected childhood reaps a whirlwind in defective manhood. In view of these facts--to leave out of consideration my earnest personal desire--there can never be any question in my mind as to the imperative necessity of the Mission's continuance of the work for derelict children. This conclusion seems to me safeguarded by the fact that all nations are placing increasing emphasis on "the child in the midst of them." When Solomon chose wisdom as the gift which he most desired, the Bible tells us that it was pleasing to God. St. Paul holds out the hope that one day we shall know as we are known. But there is a vast difference between knowledge and being wise. In fact, from the New Testament itself we are led to believe that the devils knew far more than even the Disciples. The school is an essential part of the orphanage. Seeing that the village children needed education just as much as those for whom we were more directly responsible, and realizing the value to both of the coöperation, and that the denominational system which still persists in the country is a factor for division and not for unity, it became obviously desirable for us to provide such a bond. Friends made the building possible. The generosity of a lady in Chicago in practically endowing it has, we feel, secured its future. We have now a proper building, three teachers, a graded school, modern appliances for teaching, and vastly superior results. In these days when the expenditure of every penny seems a widow's mite, one welcomes the encouragement of facts such as these to enable one to "carry on." Modern pedagogy has brought to the attention of even the man in the street the realization that education consists not merely in its accepted scholastic aspect, but also that training of the eye and hand which in turn fosters the larger development of the mind. In the latter sense our people are far from uneducated. Taking this aptitude of theirs as a starting-point, some twelve years ago we began our industrial department, first by giving out skin work in the North, and later started other branches under Miss Jessie Luther, who subsequently gave many years of service to the coast. The coöperative movement is the same question seen from another angle, and is almost contemporaneous with our earliest hospitals. It is not unnatural that man, realizing that he is himself like "the grass that to-morrow is cast into the oven," should worry over the permanency of the things on which he has spent himself. Though Christ especially warns us against this anxiety, religious people have been the greatest sinners in laying more emphasis upon to-morrow than to-day. The element which makes most for longevity is always interesting, even if longevity is often a mistake. Almost every old parish church in England maintains some skeleton of bygone efforts which once met real needs and were tokens of real love. The future is a long way off--that future when Christ's Kingdom comes on earth in the consecrated hearts and wills of all mankind, when all the superimposed efforts will be unnecessary. But love builds for a future, however remote; and at present we see no other way than to work for it, and know of no better means than to insure the permanency of the hospitals, orphanage, school, and the industrial and coöperative enterprises, thus to hasten, however little, the coming of Christ in Labrador. CHAPTER XXVII MY RELIGIOUS LIFE No one can write his real religious life with pen or pencil. It is written only in actions, and its seal is our character, not our orthodoxy. Whether we, our neighbour, or God is the judge, absolutely the only value of our "religious" life to ourselves or to any one is what it fits us for and enables us to do. Creeds, when expressed only in words, clothes, or abnormal lives, are daily growing less acceptable as passports to Paradise. What my particular intellect can accept cannot commend me to God. His "well done" is only spoken to the man who "wills to do His will." We map the world out into black and white patches for "heathen" and "Christian"--as if those who made the charts believed that one section possessed a monopoly of God's sonship. Europe was marked white, which is to-day comment enough on this division. A black friend of mine used often to remind me that in his country the Devil was white. My own religious experiences divide my life into three periods. As a boy at school, and as a young man at hospital, the truth or untruth of Christianity as taught by the churches did not interest me enough to devote a thought to it. It was neither a disturbing nor a vital influence in my life. My mother was my ideal of goodness. I have never known her speak an angry or unkind word. Sitting here looking back on over fifty years of life, I cannot pick out one thing to criticize in my mother. What did interest me was athletics. Like most English boys I almost worshipped physical accomplishments. I had the supremest contempt for clothes except those designed for action or comfort. Since no saint apparently ever wore trousers, or appeared to care about football knickers, I never supposed that they could be the same flesh as myself. It was always a barrier between me and the parsons and religious persons generally that they affected clothing which dubbed my ideals "worldly." It was even a barrier between myself and the Christ that I could not think of Him in flannels or a gymnasium suit. At that time I should have considered such an idea blasphemous--whatever that meant. As soon as religious services ceased to be compulsory for me, I only attended them as a concession to others. The prime object of the prayers and lessons did not appear to be that they might be understood. So far as I could see, common sense and plain natural feelings were at a discount. A long heritage of an eager, restless spirit left me uninterested in "homilies," and aided by the "dim religious light," I was enabled to sleep through both long prayers and sermons. Justice forces me to add that the two endless hours of "prep" lessons after tea had very much the same effect upon me. At the request of my mother I once went to take a class at the Sunday School. These were for the "poor only" in England in those days. Little effort was expended on making them attractive. I recall nothing but disgust at the dirty urchins with whom I had to associate for half an hour. An incident which happened on the death of one of the boys at my father's school interested me temporarily in religion. The boy's father happened to be a dissenter, and our vicar refused to allow the gates of the parish churchyard to be opened to enable the funeral cortège to enter. My chum had only a legal right to be buried in the yard. The coffin had therefore to be lifted over the wall and as the church was locked, father conducted the service in the open air. His words at the grave-side gave a touch of reality to religion, and still more so did his walking down the aisle out of church the following Sunday when the vicar referred to the destructive influence of anything that lent colour to dissent. Later when father threw up the school for the far more onerous and less remunerative task of chaplain at the London Hospital, even I realized that religion meant something. Indeed, it was that tax on his sensitive, nervous brain that brought his life to its early close. No man ever had a more generous and soft-hearted father. He never refused us any reasonable request, and very few unreasonable ones, and allowed us an amount of self-determination enjoyed by few. How deeply and how often have I regretted that I did not understand him better. His brilliant scholarship, and the friends that it brought around him, his ability literally to speak Greek and Latin as he could German and French, his exceptionally developed mental as compared with his physical gifts, were undoubtedly the reasons that a very ordinary English boy could not appreciate him. At fourteen years of age, at Marlborough School, I was asked if I wished to be confirmed. Every boy of that age was. It permitted one to remain when "the kids went out after first service." It added dignity, like a football cap or a mustache. All I remember about it was bitterly resenting having to "swat up" the Catechism out of school hours. I counted, however, on the examiner being easy, and he was. I am an absolute believer in boys making a definite decision to follow the Christ; and that in the hands of a really keen Christian man the rite of confirmation is very valuable. The call which gets home to a boy's heart is the call to do things. If only a boy can be led to see that the following of Christ demands a real knighthood, and that true chivalry is Christ's service, he will want all the rites and ceremonies that either proclaim his allegiance or promise him help and strength to live up to it. What I now believe that D.L. Moody did for me was just to show that under all the shams and externals of religion was a vital call in the world for things that I could do. This marks the beginning of the second period of my religious development. He helped me to see myself as God sees the "unprofitable servant," and to be ashamed. He started me working for all I was worth, and made religion real fun--a new field brimming with opportunities. With me the pendulum swung very far. The evangelical to my mind had a monopoly of infallible truth. A Roman Catholic I regarded as a relic of mediævalism; while almost a rigour went down my spine when a man told me that he was a "Unitarian Christian." Hyphenation was loyalty compared to that. I mention this only because it shows how I can now understand intolerance and dogmatism in others. Yes, I must have been "very impossible," for then I honestly thought that I knew it all. About this time I began to be interested in reading my Bible, and I learned to appreciate my father's expositions of it. At prayers he always translated into the vernacular from the original of either the Old or the New Testament. To me he seemed to know every sense of every Greek word in any setting. Ever since I have been satisfied to use an English version, knowing that I cannot improve on the words chosen by the various learned translators. Because I owed so much to evangelical teachers, it worried me for a long while that I could not bring myself to argue with my boys about their intellectual attitude to Christ. My Sunday class contained several Jews whom I loved. I respected them more because they made no verbal professions. I have seen Turkish religionists dancing and whirling in Asia Minor at their prayers. I have seen much emotional Christianity, and I fully realize the value of approaching men on their emotional side. A demonstrative preacher impresses large crowds of people at once. But all the same, I have learned from many disillusionments to be afraid of overdoing emotionalism in religion. Summing up the evidence of men's Christlikeness by their characters, as I look back down my long list of loved and honoured helpers and friends, I am certainly safe in saying that I at least should judge that no section of Christ's Church has any monopoly of Christ's spirit; and that I should like infinitely less to be examined on my own dogmatic theology than I should thirty-five years ago. Combined with this goes the fact that though I know the days of my stay on earth are greatly reduced, I seem to be less rather than more anxious about "the morrow." For though time has rounded off the corners of my conceit, experience of God's dealing with such an unworthy midget as myself has so strengthened the foundations on which faith stood, that Christ now means more to me as a living Presence than when I laid more emphasis on the dogmas concerning Him. This chapter would not be complete without an endeavour to face the task of trying to answer the questions so often asked: "What is your position now? Do you still believe as you did when you first decided to serve Christ?" I am still a communicant member "in good standing" of the Episcopal Church. One hopes that one's religious ideas grow like the rest of one's life. It is fools who are said to rush in where angels fear to tread. The most powerful Christian churches in the world, the Greek and the Roman, recognizing the great dangers threatening, have countered by stereotyping the answer for all time, assuming all responsibility, and permitting no individual freedom in the matter. The numbers of their adherents testify to how vast a proportion of mankind the course appeals. And yet we are sons of God--and at our best value freedom in every department of our being--spirit as well as mind and body. George Adam Smith says: "The great causes of God and humanity are not defeated by the hot assaults of the Devil, but by the slow, crushing, glacier-like mass of thousands and thousands of indifferent nobodies. God's causes are never destroyed by being blown up, but by being sat upon. It is not the violent and anarchical whom we have to fear in the war for human progress, but the slow, the staid, the respectable; and the danger of these lies in their real skepticism. Though it would abhor articulately confessing that God does nothing, it virtually means so by refusing to share manifest opportunities for serving Him." Feeble and devious as my own footsteps have been since my decision to follow Jesus Christ, I believe more than ever that this is the only real adventure of life. No step in life do I even compare with that one in permanent satisfaction. I deeply regret that I did not take it sooner. I do not feel that it mattered much whether I chose medicine for an occupation, or law, or education, or commerce, or any other way to justify my existence by working for a living as every honest man should. But if there is one thing about which I never have any question, it is that the decision and endeavour to follow the Christ does for men what nothing else on earth can. Without stultifying our reason, it develops all that makes men godlike. Christ claimed that it was the only way to find out truth. To me, enforced asceticism, vows of celibacy, denunciation of pleasures innocent in themselves, intellectual monopoly of interpretation of things past or present, written or unwritten, are travesties of common sense, which is to me the Voice within. Not being a philosopher, I do not classify it, but I listen to it, because I believe it to be the Voice of God. That is the first point which I have no fear in putting on record. The extraordinary revelations of some Power outside ourselves leading and guiding and helping and chastening are, I am certain, really the ordinary experiences of every man who is willing to accept the fact that we are sons of God. Only a child, however, who submits to his father can expect to enjoy or understand his dealings. If we look into our everyday life we cannot fail to see that God not only allows but seeks our coöperation in the establishment of His Kingdom. So the second fundamental by which I stand is the certainty of a possible real and close relationship between man and God. Not one qualm assails my intellect or my intuition when I say that I know absolutely that God is my Father. To live "as seeing Him who is invisible" is my one ideal which embraces all the lesser ideals of my life. It has been my lot in life to have to stand by many death-beds, and to be called in to dying men and women almost as a routine in my profession. Yet I am increasingly convinced that their spirits never die at all. I am sure that there is no real death. Death is no argument against, but rather for, life. Eternal life is the complement of all my unsatisfied ideals; and experience teaches me that the belief in it is a greater incentive to be useful and good than any other I know. I have read "Raymond" with great interest. I am neither capable nor willing to criticize those who, with the deductive ability of such men as Sir Oliver Lodge, are brave enough and unselfish enough to devote their talents to pioneering in a field that certainly needs and merits more scientific investigation, seeing that it has possibilities of such great moment to mankind. The experiences on which rest one's own convictions of continuing life are of an entirely different nature. Even though the first and personal reason may seem foolish, it is because I desire it so much. This is a natural passion, common to all human beings. Experience convinces me that such longings are purposeful and do not go unsatisfied. No, we do not know everything yet; and perhaps the critic is a shallower fool than he judges to be the patient delvers into the unknown beyond. The evidence on which our deductions have been based through the ages may suddenly be proven fallible after all. It may be that there is no such thing as matter. Chemists and physicists now admit that is possible. The spiritual may be far more real than the material, in spite of the cocksure conceit of the current science of 1918. Immortality may be the complement of mortality, as water becomes steam, and steam becomes power, and power becomes heat, and heat becomes light. The conclusion that life beyond is the conservation of energy of life here may be as scientific as that great natural law for material things. I see knowledge become service, service become joy. I see fear prohibit glands from secreting, hope bring back colour to the face and tone to the blood. I see something not material make Jekyl into Hyde; and thank God, make Hyde over into Jekyl again, when birch rods and iron bars have no effect whatever. I have seen love do physical things which the mere intellectual convictions cannot--make hearts beat and eyes sparkle, that would not respond even to digitalis and strychnine. I claim that the boy is justified in saying that his kite exists in the heaven, even though it is out of sight and the string leads round the corner, on no other presumption than that he feels it tugging. I prefer to stand with Moses in his belief in the Promised Land, and that we can reach it, than to believe that the Celestial City is a mirage. This attempted analysis of my religious life has revealed to me two great changes in my position toward its intellectual or dogmatic demands, and both of them are reflections of the ever rightly changing attitude of the defenders of our Christian faith. "Tempora mutantur et nos mutamus in illis." Christians should not fret because they cannot escape adapting themselves to the environment of 1918--which is no longer that of 918, or 18. The one and only hope for any force, Christianity no less than others, is its ability to adapt itself to all time. I still study my Bible in the morning and scribble on the margin the lessons which I get out of the portion. I can only do it by using a new copy each time I finish, because it brings new thoughts according to the peculiar experiences, tasks, needs, and environments of the day. I change I know. It does not--and yet it does--for we see the old truths in new lights. That to me is the glory of the Scriptures. Somehow it suits itself always to my developing needs. Christ did not teach as did other teachers. He taught for all time. We find out that our attitude to everything changes, to the things that give us pleasure and to those that give us pain. It is but a sign of healthy evolution (in this chapter, I suppose I should call it "grace") that the great churches have ceased to condemn their leaders who are unsound on points which once spelt fagot and stake. To-day predestination no longer involves the same reaction, even if dropped into a conference of selected "Wee Frees." The American section of the Episcopal Church has omitted to insist on our publicly and periodically declaring that we must have a correct view of three Incomprehensibles, or be damned, as is still the case in our Church of England. I am writing of my religion. The churches are now teaching that religion is action, not diction. There was a time when I could work with only one section of the Church of God. Thank God, it was a very brief period, but I weep for it just the same. Now I can not only work with any section, but worship with them also. If there is error in their intellectual attitudes, it is to God they stand, not to me. Doubtless there is just as much error in mine. To me, he is the best Christian who "judges not." To claim a monopoly of Christian religion for any church, looked at from the point of view of following Jesus Christ, is ridiculous. So I find that I have changed, changed in the importance which I place on what others think and upon what I myself think. Unless a Christian is a witness in his life, his opinions do not matter two pins to God or man. Of course, to-day _we_ should not burn Savonarola, any more than we should actually crucify that brave old fisherman, Peter, or ridicule a Gordon or a Livingstone, or assassinate a Lincoln or a Phillips Brooks, even with our tongues, though they differed from us in their view of what the Christian religion really needs. Oh, of course we shouldn't! Perhaps my change spells more and not less faith in the Saviour of the world. As I love the facts of life more, I care less for fusty commentators. As I see more of Christ's living with us all the days, I care less for arguments about His death. I have no more doubt that He lives in His world to-day than that I do. Why should I blame myself because more and more my mind emphasizes the fact that it is because He lives, and only so far as He lives in me, that I shall live also? THE END INDEX Agriculture, in Labrador, unsuccessful, 217, 290. Alaska, reindeer experiment in, 291, 294-295. Albert, the, hospital ship of Dr. Grenfell, 125, 188, 189. _Among the Deep-Sea Fishers_, magazine, 280. Andrews, Dr. Joseph, eye-specialist, 357. Archibald, Sir William, chairman of the Royal National Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, 362. Armstrong, Dr. Seymour, his work at St. Anthony, 367. Arnold, Thomas, of Rugby, 14. Athletics, Grenfell's fondness of, 21, 32, 44, 50, 51, 53, 81, 424. Bailey, Florence, nurse, 326. Barnett, Samuel, of Mile End, head of Toynbee House, 83. Barter system, the evils of, 131, 132, 133-138, 215-217. Bartlett, Captain, father of "Captain Bob," 136. Battle Harbour, Newfoundland, site of hospital, 126, 162, 165, 169, 193. Beattie, Arthur, 192. Beetz, Mr., 239. Begbie, Harold, _Twice-Born Men_, 101. Bell, Dr. Alexander Graham, 338. Belle Isle, the Straits of, Labrador, 126, 127, 140, 250. Besant, Mrs. Annie, associated with Charles Bradlaugh, 81, 82. Blandford, Captain Samuel, 159, 172. Bobardt, Dr. Arthur, 126, 159-162. Booth, Walter, of New York, 370, 371. Bowditch, William, 275. Boys' Brigade, the, 101, 353. Bradlaugh, Charles, religious radical, 81-82. Cabot, John, 120. Carpenter, Rev. C.C., 241, 242. Carrel, Dr. Alexis, in France, 397. Cartier, Jacques, 158. Cartwright, George, 158. Catholic Cadet Corps, the, 159, 353. Cattle-raising in Labrador unsuccessful, 290. Cawardine, Miss, nurse, 126. Charity, prophylactic, more important than remedial, 235. Cheever, Colonel David, 389. Chester, England, birthplace of Grenfell, 1, 2. Chidley, Cape, Labrador, 164, 207, 208. Children's Home, the, 244-253. Church Lads Brigade, the, 159, 353. Clark, Sir Andrew, doctor, 65. Cluett, George B., of Troy, N.Y., 347, 348. Cook, Captain, 128, 340, 341. Coöperative system, the, 215-225. _Corner_, the, magazine, 242. Crookhaven, seat of a dispensary and social centre, 107. Crowe, Harry, lumber operator, 370. Curtis, Dr. Charles, 408. Curtis, Lieutenant Roger, quoted, 158. Curwen, Dr. Elliott, 126. Curzon-Howe, Lady, 191. Curzon-Howe, Lord, 191. Cutter, Marion, librarian, 266. Daly, Professor Reginald, head of Department of Geology at Harvard University, quoted, 157, 158. Dampier, William, 191. Davis Inlet, Labrador, 154, 155. Dawson, Sir Betrand, 388. Dee, the River, 2, 4. Delano, Eugene, head of Brown Brothers, bankers, 358. Denominationalism, evils of, 264, 269, 353. Dogs, Labrador, ferocity of, 198, 289, 290. Domino Run, Labrador, natural harbour, 120. Drake, Sir Francis, 191. Duke of Connaught, Governor-General of Canada, 382. Durand, Mrs. Charles, aunt of Mrs. Grenfell, 336. Education in Labrador: schools denominational, 254, 269; Grenfell's school, 257-264; moving libraries, 266; founding of undenominational boarding school, 268. Edward VII, King, Grenfell's private audience with, 284, 285. Edwards, Antiguan lecturer of the Christian Evidence Society, 82, 84, 85. Emily Beaver Chamberlain Memorial Hospital, 404. English, Robert, of Yale College, 277, 278. Eskimos, the, Grenfell's work with, 129-136; original natives of Labrador, 140, 141; Valentine, king of, 155; suffering of, 155. Evans, John, worker at St. Anthony, 405. Fallon, Dr. Louis, 405. Faroë Islands, the, 184. Fenwick, Harry, 69. "Fisher Lads' Letter-Writing Association," 97. Fishermen's Institute, 183. Ford, George, factor of Hudson Bay Company, 141, 155, 242, 277, 327. Fox Farm, at St. Anthony, 238-240. George V, King, 352, 353. Gladstone, W.E., 106. Gosling, Mrs. W.E., 370. Gould, Albert, volunteer helper of Grenfell, 318, 321. Great Cop, the, 4. Greenshields, Julia, editor of _Among the Deep-Sea Fishers_, 280. Grenfell, Algernon, brother of W.T.G., 7, 8, 9, 10. Grenfell, Algernon Sydney, father of W.T.G., 8, 9, 11, 12. Grenfell, Cecil, brother of W.T.G., 7. Grenfell, Kinloch Pascoe, son of W.T.G., 342. Grenfell, Maurice, brother of W.T.G., 7. Grenfell, Pascoe, of Bank of England, 161. Grenfell, Rosamond Loveday, daughter of W.T.G., 342. Grenfell, Wilfred Thomason, birth, 1; ancestry, 1, 2; early days, 2-14; school life, 15-36; study of natural objects, 34-36; choice of medical profession, 37-39; college life, 41-44; interest in athletics, 44; religious awakening, 44-46; Sunday-school class and slum work, 46-53; summer cruises, 53-57; camping with boys, 57-63; germination of democratic tendencies, 63; interne in London Hospital, 64-87; father's death, 73; humanitarian ideals, 78, 79; hatred of liquor traffic, 79; association with religious radicals in East London, 81-86; cosmopolitan life, 85; member of College of Physicians and Royal College of Surgeons of England, 87; first work in fisheries of North Sea, 88-98; his religion intensely social, 99-101; medical officer in boys' summer-camps, 102, 103; development of work in North Sea and off Irish coast, 104-114; preparation and departure for America, 113-118; first summer in Labrador, 119-125; success in Labrador, 125; return to England, 126; second voyage to Labrador, 126; founding of cottage hospitals, 126; visits to Moravian Brethren and work among Eskimos, 128-138; lecturing and soliciting in southern Newfoundland and Canada, 159-162; cruising north, 163-170; experience with seal fishery, 173-182; trip to Iceland, 183-187; holiday with Treves on Scilly Islands, 187, 188; third voyage to Newfoundland, 192, 193; requested to establish a winter station at St. Anthony, 194; winter at St. Anthony, 197-214; institution of coöperative system, 218-225; institution of saw-mill in North Newfoundland, 226-238; fox farm at St. Anthony, 238, 239; founding of The Children's Home, 244; founding of common school, 257-265; moving libraries, 266; arrangement of two-cent postal rate, 281, 282; awarded honorary degree of Doctor of Medicine of Oxford, 282; received honorary degree of Doctor of Laws in America, 283; received Companionship in the Order of St. Michael and St. George, 284; reindeer experiment, 288-303; propaganda lecturing in England, 331, 332; courtship, 333-337; enlargement of St. Anthony Hospital, 338, 339; marriage and family, 342, 343; assumption of coöperative store debt, 344-347; founding of Institute at St. John's, 349-353; lecture tour in U.S. and England, 357-361; lecture tour again, 371-374; holiday in Asia Minor, 376-382; winter at base hospital in France (1915), 384-402; attacked by a St. John's newspaper, 403; growth and development of Mission, 404-410; religious life, 424-434. Grenfell, Wilfred Thomason, Jr., 342. Grenfell Association of America, the, 280. Grenfell Town, 161. Grieve, Dr. John, 404. Haldane, Lord, 256. Halifax, visited by Grenfell, 159. Hare, Dr. Mather, work at Harrington, 275-276, 409. Harrington Hospital, Canadian Labrador, 418. Hause, Mr., of Pratt Institute, volunteer student helper, 325. Hearn longliners and trawlers, 183. Heligoland, visited by Grenfell, 90. Henley, or Château, Labrador, 168. Henson, Dr. Hensley, Bishop of Hereford, 83, 84. Home, the Children's, 244-253. Hopedale, Labrador, 128, 131. Horsley, Sir Victor, doctor, 72. Hot-heads, launches used in open sea, 275-279. Hudson Bay Company, the, 133, 216, 276, 376. Huxley, Professor, his criticism of English public school teaching, 40. Hyères, France, 24. Iceland, 183-187. Illiteracy, in Newfoundland and Labrador, 255. Indian Harbour, site of one of Grenfell's hospitals, 126. Indian Tickle, Labrador, site of a church built by Labrador Mission, 165. Ingram, Rt. Rev. A.F. Winnington, Bishop of London, 83, 84. International Grenfell Association the, formation of, 358-359. Ireland, Archbishop, 268. Irish Poor-Relief Board, 109. Irving, Sir Henry, 80. Jackson, Rev. Dr. Sheldon, Presbyterian missionary in Alaska, 290. Job, the Honourable W.C., 403. Job, Mrs. W.C., 370. Jones, Rev. Dr. Edgar, 268. Jones, Sir Robert, orthopedic surgeon. 359, 360, 385, 388. Jones, Mr. Walter, manager of Institute at St. John's, 367. Julia Sheriden, the, Mission steamer, 193, 196. Kean, Captain, of the S.S. Wolf, 180, 181. Keese, Ruth (Mrs. John Mason Little, Jr.), 405. Kingsley, Charles, 2, 103, 187, 256. Komatik, description of a, 202, 203. _Labrador, the Country and the People_, 139. Labrador, inhabitants of, 139, 140; climate of, 140, 141; fishing industry, 141, 142; poverty of people, 142, 148-153; superstition of people, 142-145; natural characteristics of, 156-158. Lake Forest, on Lake Michigan, Mrs. Grenfell's home, 336. Lapps, 292-294. Leacock, Stephen, his essay, _How to Become a Doctor_, 144, 145. Leslie, Olive, kindergartner, 260. Lewis Bay, Labrador, winter hospital station at, 404. Lighthouses, at Battle Harbour, 273; at White Point, 274; at Indian Harbour, 274. Liquor traffic, the, Grenfell's hatred of, 79; his suppression of, at St. Anthony, 209-214; at St. John's, 353-356. Lister, Sir Joseph, 70. Little, Dr. John Mason, 338, 404, 406, 417. Lloyd, Dr., Prime Minister of Newfoundland, 382. Lodge, Sir Oliver, 430, 431. London Hospital and University, Grenfell's father chaplain of, 37; Grenfell's alma mater, 39. Loti, Pierre, 186. Luther, Jessie, 422. MacAusland, Dr. W.R., of Boston, 381. MacClanahan, Anna Elizabeth Caldwell (Mrs. W.T. Grenfell), 336. MacClanahan, Colonel, father-in-law of Grenfell, 336. MacGregor, Sir William, Governor of Newfoundland, 291, 320-323. Mackenzie, Sir Stephen, 66. Marlborough School, 15-24, 27, 30-33. Marquis of Ripon, Minister to the Colonies, 286. Mason, A.E.W., novelist, 187. Matheson, Paul, volunteer helper of Grenfell, 318. McCook, Colonel Anson G., 281, 282. McGrath, Sir Patrick, 382. Methodist guards, the, 159, 353. Meyer, Hon. George von L., Postmaster-General, 281, 282. Mill, the, on the "French Shore," Newfoundland, 326-238. Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, 90. Montreal, visited by Grenfell, 160, 161. Moody, Dwight L., evangelist, 45, 427. Moravian Brethren, the, their work with the Eskimos, 128, 129, 130, 132, 140, 156, 207. Moravian Mission, 129-132. Muir, Ethel Gordon, teacher, 267. Murchison Prize, awarded Grenfell by the Royal Geographical Society, in 1911, 323. Nain, Labrador, 130, 132. Nakvak, Labrador, 141; remains of Tunits there, 155. Napatuliarasok Island, Labrador, noted for its Labradorite, 156. Nasson Institute, 264. Needlework Guild of America, the, 251, 419. Newfoundland, independent colony of England, 139; Labrador owned by, 139; difference between North and South Newfoundland, 250. Nielsen, Adolph, Superintendent of Fisheries off Labrador, 117. O'Brien, Sir Terence, governor at St. John's, 117, 171. Paddon, Dr. and Mrs., 404, 405. Parkhurst, Dr. Charles H., of New York, 280. Peary, Admiral, return of from North Pole, 339-342. Pomiuk, Prince, Eskimo, 241-243. Pratt Institute, 256, 258, 264. Presbyterian Highland Brigade, the, 353. Prince Edward Island, 240. Princess May, the midget steam launch, 127, 128. Public School Camps, 101. R.A.M.C., efficiency of in France, 398-400. _Raymond_, Sir Oliver Lodge, 430, 431. Red Bay, Labrador, 218. Red Bay Coöperative Store, 219. Reed, William Howell, of Boston, 292. Reikyavik, capital of Iceland, 184. Reindeer experiment, the, 290-303. Ripon, Marquis of, 159. Rivington, Sir Walter, surgeon, 70. Roddick, Sir Thomas, 162. Roosevelt, the, Peary's ship, 340, 341. Rowland, John, of Yale College, 277, 278. St. Anthony, Newfoundland, 141; poverty of people, 194, 195; Grenfell's first winter in, 197-214; Grenfell's fight against liquor traffic, 209-214; headquarters of hospital stations, 417. St. John's, burning of, 115, 116; seat of Newfoundland government, 139. Sands of Dee, the, 1-7. Sayre, Francis B., secretary of Grenfell, 250, 338, 339, 341, 342, 374, 375. Scilly Islands, 187. Seal Fishery, the, 172-182. Seyde Fjord, Iceland, visited by Grenfell, 186, 187. Sheard, Mr., 404. Sir Donald, the, mission steamer, 161, 190, 191, 208. Skiff, Captain, 183. Sloggett, Sir Arthur, general, 385, 398, 399. Smith, George Adam, quoted, 429. Southborough, Lord (Mr. Francis Hopwood), 113. Spalding, Katie, of The Children's Home, 251, 253. Spencer, Martyn, 290, 370. Stewart, Dr. and Mrs. Norman, 405. Stirling, W.R., 333, 337, 348, 407. Storr, Eleanor, of The Children's Home, 250, 253. Strathcona, Lord (Donald Smith), patron of Labrador Mission, 160, 161; donor of the Strathcona, 191, 376. Studd, J.E. and C.T., 45. Sutton, Dr., London Hospital, 69. Terschelling, visited by Grenfell, 90. Tickle, the Grenfell, 209. Tigris, the S.S., of the Polaris expedition, 178. Tilt Cove, Newfoundland, 192, 193. _Toilers of the Deep, The_, magazine, 280. Tralee, on Kerry coast, seat of a dispensary, 107. Treves, Sir Frederick, lecturer in anatomy and surgery in London Hospital and University, 43, 67-69, 88, 187, 254, 285, 388; _The Cradle of the Deep_, 187. Trevize, skipper, 114. Truck Acts, 96. Ungava Bay, Labrador, 164, 208. Van Dyke, Dr. Henry, 362. Vestmann Islands, Iceland, visited by Grenfell, 184. Victoria, Queen, 104 Victoria Park, London, 81-82. Wakefield, Dr. Arthur, of England, 368, 369. _Wall Street Journal_, quoted, 294, 295. Watson, the Honourable Robert, 403. Wellington, Duke of, 187. West, Dr., 275, 409. White, Emma E., secretary of Labrador Mission in Boston, 279, 324. White Bay, Labrador, 148. Whitechapel Road, site of London Hospital, 40. Whitney, Harry, 340. Williams, Miss, nurse, 126. Williams, George, 364, 365. Williams, Sir Ralph, governor of Newfoundland, 350-352. Willway, Dr., colleague of Grenfell, 169. Wilson, Jessie, daughter of President Wilson, 374, 375. Wiltsie, Dr., his work in Labrador, 363, 364. Wolf, the S.S., wreck of, 180, 181. Yarmouth, institute for fishermen ashore, and dispensary vessel, 105. Y.M.C.A. in St. John's, 353; in France, 389, 390. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 13: comimg replaced with coming | | Page 96: vicitms replaced with victims | | Page 162: sudddenly replaced with suddenly | | Page 256: runnng replaced with running | | Page 303: Reinder replaced with Reindeer | | Page 332: aften replaced with often | | Page 441: Slogget replaced with Sloggett | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+