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Much of the dialogue is dialect. The few spelling mistakes have
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Every Boy's Library--Boy Scout Edition
UNGAVA BOB
A Winter's Tale
by
DILLON WALLACE
Author of _The Lure of the Labrador Wild_
Illustrated by Samuel M. Palmer
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
1907
Third Edition
[Illustration: Three of the men hauled, the other with a pole, kept
it clear of the rocks (_See page 45_)]
_To My Sisters
Annie and Jessie_
CONTENTS
I. HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL" 9
II. OFF TO THE BUSH 26
III. AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR 37
IV. SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS 50
V. THE TRAILS ARE REACHED 56
VI. ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS 68
VII. A STREAK OF GOOD LUCK 76
VIII. MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE 87
IX. LOST IN THE SNOW 96
X. THE PENALTY 108
XI. THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL 115
XII. IN THE HANDS OF THE NASCAUPEES 129
XIII. A FOREBODING OF EVIL 140
XIV. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 153
XV. IN THE WIGWAM OF SISHETAKUSHIN 171
XVI. ONE OF THE TRIBE 187
XVII. STILL FARTHER NORTH 199
XVIII. A MISSION OF TRUST 206
XIX. AT THE MERCY OF THE WIND 226
XX. PRISONERS OF THE SEA 240
XXI. ADRIFT ON THE ICE 254
XXII. THE MAID OF THE NORTH 269
XXIII. THE HAND OF PROVIDENCE 280
XXIV. THE ESCAPE 290
XXV. THE BREAK-UP 304
XXVI. BACK AT WOLF BIGHT 315
XXVII. THE CRUISE TO ST. JOHN'S 333
XXVIII. IN AFTER YEARS 341
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
THREE OF THE MEN HAULED, THE OTHER WITH
A POLE, KEPT IT CLEAR OF THE ROCKS Title
"BOB JUMPED OUT WITH THE PAINTER IN HIS HAND." 21
CHART OF THE TRAILS. 64
"MICMAC JOHN KNEW HIS END HAD COME." 114
"IT WAS DANGEROUS WORK." 173
"SAW HER STANDING IN THE BRIGHT MOONLIGHT." 197
"HE HELD THE VESSEL STEADILY TO HER COURSE." 298
UNGAVA BOB
I
HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL"
It was an evening in early September twenty years ago. The sun was
just setting in a radiance of glory behind the dark spruce forest that
hid the great unknown, unexplored Labrador wilderness which stretched
away a thousand miles to the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay and the
bleak desolation of Ungava. With their back to the forest and the
setting sun, drawn up in martial line stood the eight or ten
whitewashed log buildings of the Hudson's Bay Company Post, just as
they had stood for a hundred years, and just as they stand to-day,
looking out upon the wide waters of Eskimo Bay, which now, reflecting
the glow of the setting sun, shone red and sparkling like a sea of
rubies.
On a clearing to the eastward of the post between the woods and water
was an irregular cluster of deerskin wigwams, around which loitered
dark-hued Indians puffing quietly at their pipes, while Indian women
bent over kettles steaming at open fires, cooking the evening meal,
and little Indian boys with bows shot harmless arrows at soaring gulls
overhead, and laughed joyously at their sport as each arrow fell short
of its mark. Big wolf dogs skulked here and there, looking for bits of
refuse, snapping and snarling ill-temperedly at each other.
A group of stalwart, swarthy-faced men, dressed in the garb of
northern hunters--light-coloured moleskin trousers tucked into the
tops of long-legged sealskin moccasins, short jackets and peakless
caps--stood before the post kitchen or lounged upon the rough board
walk which extended the full length of the reservation in front of the
servants' quarters and storehouses. They were watching a small
sailboat that, half a mile out upon the red flood, was bowling in
before a smart breeze, and trying to make out its single occupant.
Finally some one spoke.
"'Tis Bob Gray from Wolf Bight, for that's sure Bob's punt."
"Yes," said another, "'tis sure Bob."
Their curiosity satisfied, all but two strolled into the kitchen,
where supper had been announced.
Douglas Campbell, the older of the two that remained, was a short,
stockily built man with a heavy, full, silver-white beard, and skin
tanned dark as an Indian's by the winds and storms of more than sixty
years. A pair of kindly blue eyes beneath shaggy white eyebrows gave
his face an appearance at once of strength and gentleness, and an
erect bearing and well-poised head stamped him a leader and a man of
importance.
The other was a tall, wiry, half-breed Indian, with high cheek bones
and small, black, shifting eyes that were set very close together and
imparted to the man a look of craftiness and cunning. He was known as
"Micmac John," but said his real name was John Sharp. He had drifted
to the coast a couple of years before on a fishing schooner from
Newfoundland, whence he had come from Nova Scotia. From the coast he
had made his way the hundred and fifty miles to the head of Eskimo
Bay, and there took up the life of a trapper. Rumour had it that he
had committed murder at home and had run away to escape the penalty;
but this rumour was unverified, and there was no means of learning
the truth of it. Since his arrival here the hunters had lost, now and
again, martens and foxes from their traps, and it was whispered that
Micmac John was responsible for their disappearance. Nevertheless,
without any tangible evidence that he had stolen them, he was treated
with kindness, though he had made no real friends amongst the natives.
When the last of the men had closed the kitchen door behind him,
Micmac John approached Douglas, who had been standing somewhat apart,
evidently lost in his thoughts as he watched the approaching boat, and
asked:
"Have ye decided about the Big Hill trail, sir?"
"Yes, John."
"And am I to hunt it this year, sir?"
"No, John, I can't let ye have un. I told Bob Gray th' day I'd let him
hunt un. Bob's a smart lad, and I wants t' give he th' chance."
Micmac John cast a malicious glance at old Douglas. Then with an
assumed indifference, and shrug of his shoulders as he started to walk
away, remarked:
"All right if you've made yer mind up, but you'll be sorry fer it."
Douglas turned fiercely upon him.
"What mean you, man? Be that a threat? Speak now!"
"I make no threats, but boys can't hunt, and he'll bring ye no fur.
Ye'll get nothin' fer yer pains. Ye'll be sorry fer it."
"Well," said Douglas as Micmac John walked away to join the others in
the kitchen, "I've promised th' lad, an' what I promises I does, an'
I'll stand by it."
Bob Gray, sitting at the tiller of his little punt, _The Rover_, was
very happy--happy because the world was so beautiful, happy because he
lived, and especially happy because of the great good fortune that had
come to him this day when Douglas Campbell granted his request to let
him hunt the Big Hill trail, with its two hundred good marten and fox
traps.
It had been a year of misfortune for the Grays. The previous winter
when Bob's father started out upon his trapping trail a wolverine
persistently and systematically followed him, destroying almost every
fox and marten that he had caught. All known methods to catch or kill
the animal were resorted to, but with the cunning that its prehistoric
ancestors had handed down to it, it avoided every pitfall. The fox is
a poor bungler compared with the wolverine. The result of all this was
that Richard Gray had no fur in the spring with which to pay his debt
at the trading store.
Then came the greatest misfortune of all. Emily, Bob's little sister,
ventured too far out upon a cliff one day to pluck a vagrant wild
flower that had found lodgment in a crevice, and in reaching for it,
slipped to the rocks below. Bob heard her scream as she fell, and ran
to her assistance. He found her lying there, quite still and white,
clutching the precious blossom, and at first he thought she was dead.
He took her in his arms and carried her tenderly to the cabin. After a
while she opened her eyes and came back to consciousness, but she had
never walked since. Everything was done for the child that could be
done. Every man and woman in the Bay offered assistance and
suggestions, and every one of them tried a remedy; but no relief came.
All the time things kept going from bad to worse with Richard Gray.
Few seals came in the bay that year and he had no fat to trade at the
post. The salmon fishing was a flat failure.
As the weeks went on and Emily showed no improvement Douglas Campbell
came over to Wolf Bight with the suggestion,
"Take th' maid t' th' mail boat doctor. He'll sure fix she up." And
then they took her--Bob and his mother--ninety miles down the bay to
the nearest port of call of the coastal mail boat, while the father
remained at home to watch his salmon nets. Here they waited until
finally the steamer came and the doctor examined Emily.
"There's nothing I can do for her," he said. "You'll have to send her
to St. Johns to the hospital. They'll fix her all right there with a
little operation."
"An' how much will that cost?" asked Mrs. Gray.
"Oh," he replied, "not over fifty dollars--fifty dollars will cover
it."
"An' if she don't go?"
"She'll never get well." Then, as a dismissal of the subject, the
doctor, turning to Bob, asked: "Well, youngster, what's the outlook
for fur next season?"
"We hopes there'll be some, sir."
"Get some silver foxes. Good silvers are worth five hundred dollars
cash in St. Johns."
The mail boat steamed away with the doctor, and Bob and his mother,
with Emily made as comfortable as possible in the bottom of the boat,
turned homeward.
It was hard to realize that Emily would never be well again, that she
would never romp over the rocks with Bob in the summer or ride with
him on the sledge when he took the dogs to haul wood in the winter.
There would be no more merry laughter as she played about the cabin.
This was before the days when the mission doctors with their ships and
hospitals came to the Labrador to give back life to the sick and dying
of the coast. Fifty dollars was more money than any man of the bay
save Douglas Campbell had ever seen, and to expect to get such a sum
was quite hopeless, for in those days the hunters were always in debt
to the company, and all they ever received for their labours were the
actual necessities of life, and not always these.
Emily was the only cheerful one now of the three. When she saw her
mother crying, she took her hand and stroked it, and said: "Mother,
dear, don't be cryin' now. 'Tis not so bad. If God wants that I get
well He'll make me well. An' I wants to stay home with you an' see
you an' father an' Bob, an' I'd be _dreadful_ homesick to go off so
far."
Emily and Bob had always been great chums and the blow to him seemed
almost more than he could bear. His heart lay in his bosom like a
stone. At first he could not think, but finally he found himself
repeating what the doctor had said about silver foxes,--"five hundred
dollars cash." This was more money than he could imagine, but he knew
it was a great deal. The company gave sixty dollars _in trade_ for the
finest silver foxes. That was supposed a liberal price--but five
hundred dollars in _cash_!
He looked longingly towards the blue hills that held their heads
against the distant sky line. Behind those hills was a great
wilderness rich in foxes and martens--but no man of the coast had ever
dared to venture far within it. It was the land of the dreaded
Nascaupees, the savage red men of the North, who it was said would
torture to a horrible death any who came upon their domain.
The Mountaineer Indians who visited the bay regularly and camped in
summer near the post, told many tales of the treachery of their
northern neighbours, and warned the trappers that they had already
blazed their trails as far inland as it was safe for them to go. Any
hunter encroaching upon the Nascaupee territory, they insisted, would
surely be slaughtered.
Bob had often heard this warning, and did not forget it now; but in
spite of it he felt that circumstances demanded risks, and for Emily's
sake he was willing to take them. If he could only get traps, _he_
would make the venture, with his parents' consent, and blaze a new
trail there, for it would be sure to yield a rich reward. But to get
traps needed money or credit, and he had neither.
Then he remembered that Douglas Campbell had said one day that he
would not go to the hills again if he could get a hunter to take the
Big Hill trail to hunt on shares. That was an inspiration. He would
ask Douglas to let him hunt it on the usual basis--two-thirds of the
fur caught to belong to the hunter and one-third to the owner. With
this thought Bob's spirits rose.
"'Twill be fine--'twill be a grand chance," said he to himself, "an
Douglas lets me hunt un, an father lets me go."
He decided to speak to Douglas first, for if Douglas was agreeable to
the plan his parents would give their consent more readily. Otherwise
they might withhold it, for the trail was dangerously close to the
forbidden grounds of the Nascaupees, and anyway it was a risky
undertaking for a boy--one that many of the experienced trappers would
shrink from.
The more Bob considered his plan with all its great possibilities, the
more eager he became. He found himself calculating the number of pelts
he would secure, and amongst them perhaps a silver fox. He would let
the mail boat doctor sell them for him, and then they would be rich,
and Emily would go to the hospital, and be his merry, laughing little
chum again. How happy they would all be! Bob was young and an
optimist, and no thought of failure entered his head.
It was too late the night they reached home to see Douglas but the
next morning he hurried through his breakfast, which was eaten by
candle-light, and at break of day was off for Kenemish, where Douglas
Campbell lived. He found the old man at home, and, with some fear of
refusal, but still bravely, for he knew the kind-hearted old trapper
would grant the request if he thought it were wise, explained his
plan.
"You're a stalwart lad, Bob," said Douglas, looking at the boy
critically from under his shaggy eyebrows. "An' how old may you be
now? I 'most forgets--young folks grows up so fast."
"Just turned sixteen, sir."
"An' that's a young age for a lad to be so far in th' bush alone. But
you'll be havin' somethin' happen t' you."
"I'll be rare careful, sir, an' you lets me ha' th' trail."
"An' what says your father?"
"I's said nothin' to he, sir, about it yet."
"Well, go ask he, an' he says yes, meet me at the post th' evenin' an'
I'll speak wi' Mr. MacDonald t' give ye debt for your grub. Micmac
John's wantin' th' trail, but I'm not thinkin' t' let he have un."
At first Bob's parents both opposed the project. The dangers were so
great that his mother asserted that if he were to go she would not
have an easy hour until she saw her boy again. But he put forth such
strong arguments and plead so vigorously, and his disappointment was
so manifest, that finally she withdrew her objections and his father
said:
"Well, you may go, my son, an Douglas lets you have th' trail."
[Illustration: "Bob jumped out with the painter in his hand"]
So Bob, scarcely sixteen years of age, was to do a man's work and
shoulder a man's burden, and he was glad that God had given him
stature beyond his years, that he might do it. He could not remember
when he had not driven dogs and cut wood and used a gun. He had done
these things always. But now he was to rise to the higher plane of a
full-fledged trapper and the spruce forest and the distant hills
beyond the post seemed a great empire over which he was to rule. Those
trackless fastnesses, with their wealth of fur, were to pay tribute to
him, and he was happy in the thought that he had found a way to save
little Emily from the lifelong existence of a poor crippled invalid.
His buoyant spirit had stepped out of the old world of darkness and
despair into a new world filled with light and love and beauty, in
which the present troubles were but a passing cloud.
"Ho, lad! so your father let ye come. I's glad t' see ye, lad. An' now
we're t' make a great hunt," greeted Douglas when the punt ground its
nose upon the sandy beach, and Bob jumped out with the painter in his
hand to make it fast.
"Aye, sir," said Bob, "he an' mother says I may go."
"Well, come, b'y, an' we'll ha' supper an' bide here th' night an' in
th' mornin' you'll get your fit out," said Douglas when they had
pulled the punt up well away from the tide.
Entering the kitchen they found the others still at table. Greetings
were exchanged, and a place was made for Douglas and Bob.
It was a good-sized room, furnished in the simple, primitive style of
the country: an uncarpeted floor, benches and chests in lieu of
chairs, a home-made table, a few shelves for the dishes, two or three
bunks like ship bunks built in the end opposite the door to serve the
post servant and his family for beds, and a big box stove, capable of
taking huge billets of wood, crackling cheerily, for the nights were
already frosty. Resting upon crosspieces nailed to the rough beams
overhead were half a dozen muzzle loading guns, and some dog harness
hung on the wall at one side. Everything was spotlessly clean. The
floor, the table--innocent of a cloth--the shelves, benches and chests
were scoured to immaculate whiteness with sand and soap, and, despite
its meagre furnishings the room was very snug and cozy and possessed
an atmosphere of homeliness and comfort.
A single window admitted the fading evening light and a candle was
brought, though Douglas said to the young girl who placed it in the
centre of the table:
"So long as there's plenty a' grub, Bessie, I thinks we can find a way
t' get he t' our mouths without ere a light."
The meal was a simple one--boiled fresh trout with pork grease to pour
over it for sauce, bread, tea, and molasses for "sweetening." Butter
and sugar were luxuries to be used only upon rare festal occasions.
After the men had eaten they sat on the floor with their backs against
the rough board wall and their knees drawn up, and smoked and chatted
about the fishing season just closed and the furring season soon to
open, while Margaret Black, wife of Tom Black, the post servant, their
daughter Bessie and a couple of young girl visitors of Bessie's from
down the bay, ate and afterwards cleared the table. Then some one
proposed a dance, as it was their last gathering before going to their
winter trails, which would hold them prisoners for months to come in
the interior wilderness. A fiddle was brought out, and Dick Blake
tuned up its squeaky strings, and, keeping time with one foot, struck
up the Virginia reel.
The men discarded their jackets, displaying their rough flannel shirts
and belts, in which were carried sheath knives, chose their partners
and went at it with a will, to Dick's music, while he fiddled and
shouted such directions as "Sashay down th' middle,--swing yer
pardners,--promenade."
Bob led out Bessie, for whom he had always shown a decided preference,
and danced like any man of them. Douglas did not dance--not because he
was too old, for no man is too old to dance in Labrador, nor because
it was beneath his dignity--but because, as he said: "There's not
enough maids for all th' lads, an' I's had my turn a many a time. I'll
smoke an' look on."
Neither did Micmac John dance, for he seemed in ill humour, and was
silent and morose, nursing his discontent that a mere boy should have
been given the Big Hill trail in preference to him, and he sat moody
and silent, taking no apparent interest in the fun. The dance was
nearly finished when Bob, wheeling around the end, warm with the
excitement and pleasure of it all, inadvertently stepped on one of the
half-breed's feet. Micmac John rose like a flash and struck Bob a
stinging blow on the face. Bob turned upon him full of the quick anger
of the moment, then, remembering his surroundings, restrained the hand
that was about to return the blow, simply saying:
"'Twas an accident, John, an' you has no right to strike me."
The half-breed, vicious, sinister and alert, stood glowering for a
moment, then deliberately hit Bob again. The others fell back, Bob
faced his opponent, and, goaded now beyond the power of
self-restraint, struck with all the power of his young arm at Micmac
John. The latter was on his guard, however, and warded the blow. Quick
as a flash he drew his knife, and before the others realized what he
was about to do, made a vicious lunge at Bob's breast.
II
OFF TO THE BUSH
On the left breast of Bob's woollen shirt there was a pocket, and in
this pocket was a small metal box of gun caps, which Bob always
carried there when he was away from home, for he seldom left home
without his gun. It was fortunate for him that it was there now, for
the point of the knife struck squarely over the place where the box
lay. It was driven with such force by the half-breed's strong arm that
it passed clear through the metal, which, however, so broke the blow
that the steel scarcely scratched the skin beneath. Before another
plunge could be made with the knife the men sprang in and seized
Micmac John, who submitted at once without a struggle to the
overpowering force, and permitted himself to be disarmed. Then he was
released and stood back, sullen and defiant. For several moments not a
word was spoken.
Finally Dick Blake took a threatening step towards the Indian, and
shaking his fist in the latter's face exclaimed:
"Ye dirty coward! Ye'd do murder, would ye? Ye'd kill un, would ye?"
"Hold on," said Douglas, "'bide a bit. 'Twill do no good t' beat un,
though he's deservin' of it." Then to the half-breed: "An' what's
ailin' of ye th' evenin', John? 'Twas handy t' doin' murder ye were."
John saw the angry look in the men's eyes, and the cool judgment of
Douglas standing between him and bodily harm, and deciding that tact
was the better part of valour, changed his attitude of defiance to one
of reconciliation. He could not take revenge now for his fancied
wrong. His Indian cunning told him to wait for a better time. So he
extended his hand to Bob, who, dazed by the suddenness of the
unexpected attack, had not moved. "Shake hands, Bob, an' call it
square. I was hot with anger an' didn't know what I was doin'. We
won't quarrel."
Bob, acting upon the motto his mother had taught him--"Be slow to
anger and quick to forgive," took the outstretched hand with the
remark,
"'Twere a mighty kick I gave ye, John, an' enough t' anger ye, an' no
harm's done."
Big Dick Blake would not have it so at first, and invited the
half-breed outside to take a "licking" at his hands. But the others
soon pacified him, the trouble was forgotten and dancing resumed as
though nothing had happened to disturb it.
As soon as attention was drawn from him Micmac John, unobserved,
slipped out of the door and a few moments later placed some things in
a canoe that had been turned over on the beach, launched it and
paddled away in the ghostly light of the rising moon.
The dancing continued until eleven o'clock, then the men lit their
pipes, and after a short smoke and chat rolled into their blankets
upon the floor, Mrs. Black and the girls retired to the bunks, and,
save for a long, weird howl that now and again came from the wolf dogs
outside, and the cheery crackling of the stove within, not a sound
disturbed the silence of the night.
As has been intimated, Douglas Campbell was a man of importance in
Eskimo Bay. When a young fellow he had come here from the Orkney
Islands as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Company. A few years later
he married a native girl, and then left the company's service to
become a hunter.
He had been careful of his wages, and as he blazed new hunting trails
into the wilderness, used his savings to purchase steel traps with
which to stock the trails. Other trappers, too poor to buy traps for
themselves, were glad to hunt on shares the trails Douglas made, and
now he was reaping a good income from them. He was in fact the richest
man in the Bay.
He was kind, generous and fatherly. The people of the Bay looked up to
him and came to him when they were in trouble, for his advice and
help. Many a poor family had Douglas Campbell's flour barrel saved
from starvation in a bad winter, and God knows bad winters come often
enough on the Labrador. Many an ambitious youngster had he started in
life, as he was starting Bob Gray now.
The Big Hill trail, far up the Grand River, was the newest and deepest
in the wilderness of all the trails Douglas owned--deeper in the
wilderness than that of any other hunter. Just below it and adjoining
it was William Campbell's--a son of Douglas--a young man of nineteen
who had made his first winter's hunt the year before our story
begins; below that, Dick Blake's, and below Dick's was Ed Matheson's.
In preparing for the winter hunt it was more convenient for these men
to take their supplies to their tilts by boat up the Grand River than
to haul them in on toboggans on the spring ice, as nearly every other
hunter, whose trapping ground was not upon so good a waterway, was
compelled to do, and so it was that they were now at the trading post
selecting their outfits preparatory to starting inland before the very
cold winter should bind the river in its icy shackles.
The men were up early in the morning, and Douglas went with Bob to the
office of Mr. Charles McDonald, the factor, where it was arranged that
Bob should be given on credit such provisions and goods as he needed
for his winter's hunt, to be paid for with fur when he returned in the
spring. Douglas gave his verbal promise to assume the debt should
Bob's catch of fur be insufficient to enable him to pay it, but Bob's
reputation for energy and honesty was so good that Mr. McDonald said
he had no fear as to the payment by the lad himself.
The provisions that Bob selected in the store, or shop, as they
called it, were chiefly flour, a small bag of hardtack, fat pork, tea,
molasses, baking soda and a little coarse salt, while powder, shot,
bullets, gun caps, matches, a small axe and clothing completed the
outfit. He already had a gray cotton wedge-tent. When these things
were selected and put aside, Douglas bought a pipe and some plugs of
black tobacco, and presented them to Bob as a gift from himself.
"But I never smokes, sir, an' I 'lows he'd be makin' me sick," said
Bob, as he fingered the pipe.
"Just a wee bit when you tries t' get acquainted," answered Douglas
with a chuckle, "just a wee bit; but ye'll come t' he soon enough an'
right good company ye'll find he of a long evenin'. Take un along, an'
there's no harm done if ye don't smoke un--but ye'll be makin' good
friends wi' un soon enough."
So Bob pocketed the pipe and packed the tobacco carefully away with
his purchases.
After a consultation it was decided that the men should all meet the
next evening, which would be Sunday, at Bob's home at Wolf Bight, near
the mouth of the Grand River, and from there make an early start on
Monday morning for their trapping grounds. "I'll have William over
wi' one o' my boats that's big enough for all hands," said Douglas.
"No use takin' more'n one boat. It's easier workin' one than two over
the portages an' up the rapids."
When Bob's punt was loaded and he was ready to start for home, he ran
to the kitchen to say good-bye to Mrs. Black and the girls, for he was
not to see them again for many months.
"Bide in th' tilt when it storms, Bob, an' have a care for the wolves,
an' keep clear o' th' Nascaupees," warned Bessie as she shook Bob's
hand.
"Aye," said he. "I'll bide in th' tilt o' stormy days, an' not go
handy t' th' Nascaupees. I'm not fearful o' th' wolves, for they's
always so afraid they never gives un a chance for a shot."
"But _do_ have a care, Bob. An'--an'--I wants to tell you how glad I
is o' your good luck, an' I hopes you'll make a grand hunt--I _knows_
you will. An'--Bob, we'll miss you th' winter."
"Thank you, Bessie. An' I'll think o' th' fine time I'm missin' at
Christmas an' th' New Year. Good-bye, Bessie."
"Good-bye, Bob."
The fifteen miles across the Bay to Wolf Bight with a fair wind was
soon run. Bob ate a late dinner, and then made everything snug for the
journey. His flour was put into small, convenient sacks, his cooking
utensils consisting of a frying pan, a tin pail in which to make tea,
a tin cup and a spoon were placed in a canvas bag by themselves, and
in another bag was packed a Hudson's Bay Company four-point blanket,
two suits of underwear, a pair of buckskin mittens with a pair of
duffel ones inside them, and an extra piece of the duffel for an
emergency, six pairs of knit woollen socks, four pairs of duffel socks
or slippers (which his mother had made for him out of heavy
blanket-like woollen cloth), three pairs of buckskin moccasins for the
winter and an extra pair of sealskin boots (long legged moccasins) for
wet weather in the spring.
He also laid aside, for daily use on the journey, an adikey made of
heavy white woollen cloth, with a fur trimmed hood, and a lighter one,
to be worn outside of the other, and made of gray cotton. The adikey
or "dikey," as Bob called it, was a seamless garment to be drawn on
over the head and worn instead of a coat. The underclothing and knit
socks had been purchased at the trading post, but every other article
of clothing, including boots, moccasins and mitts, his mother had
made.
A pair of snow-shoes, a file for sharpening axes, a "wedge" tent of
gray cotton cloth and a sheet iron tent stove about twelve inches
square and eighteen inches long with a few lengths of pipe placed
inside of it were likewise put in readiness. The stove and pipe Bob's
father had manufactured.
No packing was left to be done Sunday, for though there was no church
to go to, the Grays, and for that matter all of the Bay people, were
close observers of the Sabbath, and left no work to be done on that
day that could be done at any other time.
Early on Sunday evening, Dick and Ed and Bill Campbell came over in
their boat from Kenemish, where they had spent the previous night. It
had been a short day for Bob, the shortest it seemed to him he had
ever known, for though he was anxious to be away and try his mettle
with the wilderness, these were the last hours for many long weary
months that he should have at home with his father and mother and
Emily. How the child clung to him! She kept him by her side the
livelong day, and held his hand as though she were afraid that he
would slip away from her. She stroked his cheek and told him how
proud she was of her big brother, and warned him over and over again,
"Now, Bob, do be wonderful careful an' not go handy t' th' Nascaupees
for they be dreadful men, fierce an' murderous."
Over and over again they planned the great things they would do when
he came back with a big lot of fur--as they were both quite sure he
would--and how she would go away to the doctor's to be made well and
strong again as she used to be and the romps they were to have when
that happy time came.
"An' Bob," said Emily, "every night before I goes to sleep when I says
my 'Now I lay me down to sleep' prayer, I'll say to God 'an' keep Bob
out o' danger an' bring he home safe.'"
"Aye, Emily," answered Bob, "an' I'll say to God, 'Make Emily fine an'
strong again.'"
Before daybreak on Monday morning breakfast was eaten, and the boat
loaded for a start at dawn. Emily was not yet awake when the time came
to say farewell and Bob kissed her as she slept. Poor Mrs. Gray could
not restrain the tears, and Bob felt a great choking in his
throat--but he swallowed it bravely.
"Don't be feelin' bad, mother. I'm t' be rare careful in th' bush, and
you'll see me well and hearty wi' a fine hunt, wi' th' open water,"
said he, as he kissed her.
"I knows you'll be careful, an' I'll try not t' worry, but I has a
forebodin' o' somethin' t' happen--somethin' that's t' happen t' you,
Bob--oh, I feels that somethin's t' happen. Emily'll be missin' you
dreadful, Bob. An'--'twill be sore lonesome for your father an' me
without our boy."
"Ready, Bob!" shouted Dick from the boat.
"Don't forget your prayers, lad, an' remember that your mother's
prayin' for you every mornin' an' every night."
"Yes, mother, I'll remember all you said."
She watched him from the door as he walked down to the shore with his
father, and the boat, heavily laden, pushed out into the Bay, and she
watched still, until it disappeared around the point, above. Then she
turned back into the room and had a good cry before she went about her
work again.
If she had known what those distant hills held for her boy--if her
intuition had been knowledge--she would never have let him go.
III
AN ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR
The boat turned out into the broad channel and into Goose Bay. There
was little or no wind, and when the sun broke gloriously over the
white-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains it shone upon a sea as
smooth as a mill pond, with scarcely a ripple to disturb it. The men
worked laboriously and silently at their oars. A harbour seal pushed
its head above the water, looked at the toiling men curiously for a
moment, then disappeared below the surface, leaving an eddy where it
had been. Gulls soared overhead, their white wings and bodies looking
very pure and beautiful in the sunlight. High in the air a flock of
ducks passed to the southward. From somewhere in the distance came the
honk of a wild goose. The air was laden with the scent of the great
forest of spruce and balsam fir, whose dark green barrier came down
from the rock-bound, hazy hills in the distance to the very water's
edge, where tamarack groves, turned yellow by the early frosts,
reflected the sunlight like settings of rich gold.
"'Tis fine! 'tis grand!" exclaimed Bob at last, as he rested a moment
on his oars to drink in the scene and breathe deeply the rare,
fragrant atmosphere. "'Tis sure a fine world we're in."
"Aye, 'tis fine enough now," remarked Ed, stopping to cut pieces from
a plug of tobacco, and then cramming them into his pipe. "But," he
continued, prophetically, as he struck a match and held it between his
hands for the sulphur to burn off, "bide a bit, an' you'll find it
ugly enough when th' snows blow t' smother ye, an' yer racquets sink
with ye t' yer knees, and th' frost freezes yer face and the ice
sticks t' yer very eyelashes until ye can't see--then," continued he,
puffing vigorously at his pipe, "then 'tis a sorry world--aye, a sorry
an' a hard world for folks t' make a livin' in."
It was mid-forenoon when they reached Rabbit Island--a small wooded
island where the passing dog drivers always stop in winter to make tea
and snatch a mouthful of hard biscuit while the dogs have a half
hour's rest.
"An' here we'll boil th' kettle," suggested Dick. "I'm fair starved
with an early breakfast and the pull at the oars."
"We're ready enough for that," assented Bill. "Th' wind's prickin' up
a bit from th' east'rd, an' when we starts I thinks we may hoist the
sails."
"Yes, th' wind's prickin' up an' we'll have a fair breeze t' help us
past th' Traverspine, I hopes."
The landing was made. Bob and Ed each took an axe to cut into suitable
lengths some of the plentiful dead wood lying right to hand, while
Dick whittled some shavings and started the fire. Bill brought a
kettle (a tin pail) of water. Then he cut a green sapling about five
feet in length, sharpened one end of it, and stuck it firmly into the
earth, slanting the upper end into position over the fire. On this he
hung the kettle of water, so that the blaze shot up around it. In a
little while the water boiled, and with a stick for a lifter he set it
on the ground and threw in a handful of tea. This they sweetened with
molasses and drank out of tin cups while they munched hardtack.
Bill's prophecy as to the wind proved a true one, and in the half hour
while they were at their luncheon so good a breeze had sprang up that
when they left Rabbit Island both sails were hoisted.
Early in the afternoon they passed the Traverspine River, and now with
some current to oppose made slower, though with the fair wind, good
progress, and when the sun dipped behind the western hills and they
halted to make their night camp they were ten miles above the
Traverspine.
To men accustomed to travelling in the bush, camp is quickly made. The
country here was well wooded, and the forest beneath covered with a
thick carpet of white moss. Bob and Bill selected two trees between
which they stretched the ridge pole of a tent, and a few moments
sufficed to cut pegs and pin down the canvas. Then spruce boughs were
broken and spread over the damp moss and their shelter was ready for
occupancy. Meanwhile Ed had cut fire-wood while Dick started the fire,
using for kindlings a handful of dry, dead sprigs from the branches of
a spruce tree, and by the time Bob and Bill had the tent pitched it
was blazing cheerily, and the appetizing smell of fried pork and hot
tea was in the air. When supper was cooked Ed threw on some more
sticks, for the evening was frosty, and then they sat down to
luxuriate in its genial warmth and eat their simple meal.
For an hour they chatted, while the fire burned low, casting a
narrowing circle of light upon the black wilderness surrounding the
little camp. Some wild thing of the forest stole noiselessly to the
edge of the outer darkness, its eyes shining like two balls of fire,
then it quietly slunk away unobserved. Above the fir tops the blue
dome of heaven seemed very near and the million stars that glittered
there almost close enough to pluck from their azure setting. With a
weird, uncanny light the aurora flashed its changing colours
restlessly across the sky. No sound save the low voices of the men as
they talked, disturbed the great silence of the wilderness.
Many a time had Bob camped and hunted with his father near the coast,
in the forest to the south of Wolf Bight, but he had never been far
from home and with this his first long journey into the interior, a
new world and new life were opening to him. The solitude had never
impressed him before as it did now. The smoke of the camp-fire and
the perfume of the forest had never smelled so sweet. The romance of
the trail was working its way into his soul, and to him the land
seemed filled with wonderful things that he was to search out and
uncover for himself. The harrowing tales that the men were telling of
winter storms and narrow escapes from wild animals had no terror for
him. He only looked forward to meeting and conquering these obstacles
for himself. Young blood loves adventure, and Bob's blood was strong
and red and active.
When the fire died away and only a heap of glowing red coals remained,
Dick knocked the ashes from his pipe, and rising with a yawn,
suggested:
"I 'lows it's time t' turn in. We'll have t' be movin' early in th'
mornin' an' we makes th' Muskrat Portage."
Then they went to the tent and rolled into their blankets and were
soon sleeping as only men can sleep who breathe the pure, free air of
God's great out-of-doors.
Before noon the next day they reached the Muskrat Falls, where the
torrent, with a great roar, pours down seventy feet over the solid
rocks. An Indian portage trail leads around the falls and meets the
river again half a mile farther up. At its beginning it ascends a
steep incline two hundred feet, then it runs away, comparatively
level, to its upper end where it drops abruptly to the water's edge.
To pull a heavy boat up this incline and over the half mile to the
launching place above, was no small undertaking.
Everything was unloaded, the craft brought ashore, and ropes which
were carried for the purpose attached to the bow. Then round sticks of
wood, for rollers, were placed under it, and while Dick and Ed hauled,
Bob and Bill pushed and lifted and kept the rollers straight. In this
manner, with infinite labour, it was worked to the top of the hill and
step by step hauled over the portage to the place where it was to
enter the water again. It was nearly sunset when they completed their
task and turned back to bring up their things from below.
They had retraced their steps but a few yards when Dick, who was
ahead, darted off to the left of the trail with the exclamation:
"An' here's some fresh meat for supper."
It was a porcupine lumbering awkwardly away. He easily killed it with
a stick, and picking it up by its tail, was about to turn back into
the trail when a fresh axe cutting caught his eye.
"Now who's been here, lads?" said he, looking at it closely. "None o'
th' planters has been inside of th' Traverspine, an' no Mountaineers
has left th' post yet."
The others joined him and scrutinized the cutting, then looked for
other human signs. Near by they found the charred wood of a recent
fire and some spruce boughs that had served for a bed within a day or
two, which was proved by their freshly broken ends. It had been the
couch of a single man.
"Micmac John, sure!" said Ed.
"An' what's he doin' here?" asked Bill. "He has no traps or huntin'
grounds handy t' this."
"I'm thinkin' 'tis no good he's after," said Dick. "'Tis sure he, an'
he'll be givin' us trouble, stealin' our fur an' maybe worse. But if
_I_ gets hold o' he, he'll be sorry for his meddlin', if meddlin' he's
after, an' it's sure all he's here for."
They hurried back to pitch camp, and when the fire was made the
porcupine was thrown upon the blaze, and allowed to remain there until
its quills and hair were scorched to a cinder. Then Dick, who
superintended the cooking, pulled it out, scraped it and dressed it.
On either side of the fire he drove a stake and across the tops of
these stakes tied a cross pole. From the centre of this pole the
porcupine was suspended by a string, so that it hung low and near
enough to the fire to roast nicely, while it was twirled around on the
string. It was soon sending out a delicious odour, and in an hour was
quite done, and ready to be served. A dainty morsel it was to the
hungry voyageurs, resembling in some respects roast pig, and every
scrap of it they devoured.
The next morning all the goods were carried over the portage, and a
wearisome fight began against the current of the river, which was so
swift above this point as to preclude sailing or even rowing. A rope
was tied to the bow of the boat and on this three of the men hauled,
while the other stood in the craft and with a pole kept it clear of
rocks and other obstructions. For several days this method of travel
continued--tracking it is called. Sometimes the men were forced along
the sides of almost perpendicular banks, often they waded in the water
and frequently met obstacles like projecting cliffs, around which
they passed with the greatest difficulty.
At the Porcupine Rapids everything was lashed securely into the boat,
as a precaution in case of accident, but they overcame the rapid
without mishap, and finally they reached Gull Island Lake, a
broadening of the river in safety, and were able to resume their oars
again. It was a great relief after the long siege of tracking, and Ed
voiced the feelings of all in the remark:
"Pullin' at th' oars is hard when ye has nothin' harder t' do, but
trackin's so much harder, pullin' seems easy alongside un."
"Aye," said Dick, "th' thing a man's doin's always the hardest work un
ever done. 'Tis because ye forgets how hard th' things is that ye've
done afore."
"An' it's just the same in winter. When a frosty spell comes folks
thinks 'tis th' frostiest time they ever knew. If '_twere_, th'
winters, I 'lows'd be gettin' so cold folks couldn't stand un. I
recollects one frosty spell----"
"Now none o' yer yarns, Ed. Th' Lord'll be strikin' ye dead in His
anger _some day_ when ye're tellin' what ain't so."
"I tells no yarns as ain't so, an' I can prove un all--leastways I
could a proved this un, only it so happens as I were alone. As I was
sayin', 'twere so cold one night last winter that when I was boilin'
o' my kettle an' left th' door o' th' tilt open for a bit while I
steps outside, th' wind blowin' in on th' kettle all th' time hits th'
steam at th' spout--an' what does ye think I sees when I comes in?"
"Ye sees steam, o' course, an' what else could ye see, now?"
"'Twere so cold--that wind--blowin' right on th' spout where th' steam
comes out, when I comes in I looks an' I can't believe what I sees
myself. Well, now, I sees th' steam froze solid, an' a string o' ice
hangin' from th' spout right down t' th' floor o' th' tilt, an' th'
kettle boilin' merry all th' time. That's what I sees, an'----"
"Now stop yer lyin', Ed. Ye knows no un----"
"A bear! A bear!" interrupted Bob, excitedly. "See un! See un there
comin' straight to that rock!"
Sure enough, a couple Of hundred yards away a big black bear was
lumbering right down towards them, and if it kept its course would
pass a large boulder standing some fifty yards back from the river
bank. The animal had not seen the boat nor scented the men, for the
wind was blowing from it towards them.
"Run her in here," said Bob, indicating a bit of bank out of the
bear's range of vision, "an' let me ashore t' have a chance at un."
The instant the boat touched land he grabbed his gun--a
single-barrelled, muzzle loader--bounded noiselessly ashore, and
stooping low gained the shelter of the boulder unobserved.
The unsuspecting bear came leisurely on, bent, no doubt, upon securing
a drink of water to wash down a feast of blueberries of which it had
just partaken, and seemingly occupied by the pleasant reveries that
follow a good meal and go with a full stomach. Bob could hear it
coming now, and raised his gun ready to give it the load the moment it
passed the rock. Then, suddenly, he remembered that he had loaded the
gun that morning with shot, when hunting a flock of partridges, and
had failed to reload with ball. To kill a bear with a partridge load
of shot was out of the question, and to wound the bear at close
quarters was dangerous, for a wounded bear with its enemy within reach
is pretty sure to retaliate.
Just at the instant this thought flashed through Bob's mind the big
black side of the bear appeared not ten feet from the muzzle of his
gun, and before the lad realized it he had pulled the trigger.
Bob did not stop to see the result of the shot, but ran at full speed
towards the boat. The bear gave an angry growl, and for a moment bit
at the wound in its side, then in a rage took after him.
It was not over fifty yards to the boat, and though Bob had a few
seconds the start, the bear seemed likely to catch him before he could
reach it, for clumsy though they are in appearance, they are fast
travellers when occasion demands. Half the distance was covered in a
jiffy, but the bear was almost at his heels. A few more leaps and he
would be within reach of safety. He could fairly feel the bear's
breath. Then his foot caught a projecting branch and he fell at full
length directly in front of the infuriated animal.
IV
SWEPT AWAY IN THE RAPIDS
When Bob went ashore Dick followed as far as a clump of bushes at the
top of the bank below which the boat was concealed, and crouching
there witnessed Bob's flight from the bear, and was very close to him
when he fell. Dick had already drawn a bead on the animal's head, and
just at the moment Bob stumbled fired. The bear made one blind strike
with his paw and then fell forward, its momentum sending it upon Bob's
sprawling legs, Dick laughed uproariously at the boy as he extricated
himself.
"Well, now," he roared, "'twere as fine a race as I ever see--as I
_ever_ see--an' ye were handy t' winnin' but for th' tumble. A rare
fine race."
Bob was rather shamefaced, for an old hunter would scarcely have
forgotten himself to such an extent as to go bear hunting with a
partridge load in his gun, and he did not like to be laughed at.
"Anyhow," said he, "I let un have un first. An' I led un down where
you could shoot un. An' he's a good fat un," he commented kicking the
carcass.
Ed and Bill had arrived now and all hands went to work at once
skinning the bear.
"Speakin' o' bein' chased by bears," remarked Ed as they worked, "onct
I were chased pretty hard myself an' that time I come handy t' bein'
done for sure enough."
"An' how were that?" asked Bob.
"'Twere one winter an' I were tendin' my trail. I stops at noon t'
boil th' kettle, an' just has th' fire goin' fine an' th' water over
when all t' a sudden I hears a noise behind me and turnin' sees a
black bear right handy t' me--th' biggest black bear I ever seen--an'
makin' fer me. I jumps up an' grabs my gun an' lets un have it, but
wi' th' suddenness on it I misses, an' away I starts an' 'twere lucky
I has my racquets on."
"Were this in _winter_?" asked Dick.
"It _were_ in winter."
"Th' bears as _I_ knows don't travel in winter. They sleeps then,
leastways all but white bears."
"Well, this were in winter an' this bear weren't sleepin' much. As I
was sayin'----"
"An' he took after ye without bein' provoked?"