VISIONS IN DELIRIUM
There came a terrible day and night when Bobby's life hung in the
balance. A burning fever was upon him. His reason wandered, and he
talked of strange things.
"Mamma! Mamma!" he called, and time and again he plead: "Uncle Robert,
give me a drink of water! Uncle Robert, I'm so thirsty! Oh, I'm so
thirsty!"
And then it would be Abel Zachariah or Mrs. Abel, or Jimmy, or Skipper
Ed himself, who was addressed. Every subject under the sun was running
through Bobby's poor, delirious mind. Sometimes he spoke in Eskimo,
sometimes in English. "Father!" he would cry, "see this cod. He's a fine
one! We'll have a fine catch this season." And so he would ramble along
about the fishing for a time, and then perhaps grow silent, only to
resume, upon some other thought.
After each brief silence there was something new. Perhaps he was warning
Jimmy to run, or declaring that he knew he could get the bear if he only
had time to load. Or perhaps he was telling Mrs. Abel that he was tired,
oh, so tired, and begging her to sing a lullaby to him as she used to do
when he was little.
Skipper Ed, foreseeing this state of affairs, had removed his other
patients, who were now convalescing, to his own tent, where he gave them
strict instructions as to their conduct, and such casual attention as he
could. But for the most part he remained with Bobby. Indeed, during the
day and night of Bobby's delirium he scarcely left Bobby's side for an
instant. And more than once during this period of vigil and fear and
foreboding Skipper Ed fell upon his knees and poured out his soul to the
Great Master in an appeal for his young friend's life.
It was near sunrise on the second morning of his delirium that Bobby
suddenly ceased to speak and lay very quiet--so quiet that an awful
dread came into Skipper Ed's heart. He leaned over the still form and
with fearful apprehension listened for breathing that he could not hear,
and felt for heart beats that were too faint for his discovery.
And then again he fell upon his knees, for he was a God-fearing man and
he had the love of God in his heart, and he prayed that if it were not
too late God in His goodness would again place the breath of life into
Bobby and return him to them. He prayed aloud, and as he prayed the
tears ran down his weather-beaten cheeks.
At last he rose. Bobby's face had assumed an unnatural, peaceful repose.
The color had left the cheeks that had been fever flushed for so long.
The lips were partly open, and there was no movement or sign of life.
Skipper Ed staggered to the tent front, and thrusting the flaps aside
staggered out. The world lay quiet and serene, as though it held no
grief. The waves lapped gently against the rocks. The sky was afire with
radiant beauty.
For a long while Skipper Ed stood there, his face drawn and haggard,
his tall form bent, uncertain which way to turn or what to do. Presently
the fire faded from the sky, a breeze sent a ripple over the calm
waters, and the big sun rose out of the sea, as though to ask him why he
mourned. And then he whispered, "Thy will be done. If it is Thy will to
take him from us, oh God, give us the strength and courage to accept our
bereavement like men."
Then it was that a new, strange peace came upon Skipper Ed, and he
reentered the tent, to stoop again over Bobby's couch, and as he did so
his heart gave a bound of joy, and a lump came into his throat. Bobby
was breathing--ever so softly--but breathing.
With the passing minutes the steady, regular breathing became more
apparent, the pulse asserted itself and grew stronger, and at the end of
an hour, when Bobby at last opened his eyes Skipper Ed saw that reason
had returned to them.
"I've--been--asleep--dreaming--queer--dreams," Bobby murmured faintly.
"Yes," said Skipper Ed, "you've been asleep."
"I--feel--very--weak."
"Yes, you're very weak, for you've been very sick, lad," and Skipper Ed,
choking back his emotion, added cheerily: "But there's better luck for
you now, lad. Better luck."
"May--I--have--a--drink?"
Skipper Ed poured some water into a tin cup, and supporting Bobby's
head, held the cup to his parched lips.
"Father--and mother--and Jimmy--where--are--they?" Bobby feebly asked,
for even in sickness his eye was quick to note their absence.
"They're in my tent. Nearly well, but not well enough to go out and get
chilled, though they're ready enough for it, and tired enough of staying
in," said Skipper Ed.
And then, wearied with the exertion, Bobby fell into deep and
strength-restoring slumber, and Skipper Ed joined the others to cheer
their hearts with the good news that Bobby's illness had passed its
climax, and to rejoice with them over a meager breakfast.
With the passing days Bobby grew rapidly stronger, and the others were
able to be out and at their duties again. And in due time Bobby, too,
was out on the rocks enjoying the sunlight, with his old vigor daily
asserting itself.
But hours of sunshine were few now, and more often than not the sky was
leaden and somber, and the wind blew raw and cold, and already the
clouds were spitting snow. The fishing season had passed almost before
they realized it. The weeks of idleness had been costly ones, and when
the time came for them to return to the cabins at the head of Abel's
Bay, and make ready for winter, they had garnered little of the harvest
that had promised so well.
"Every season can't be a good one for us," remarked Skipper Ed as they
struck their camp. "Better luck next year; better luck. And we should be
mighty thankful we're all alive and all well. That's good luck--good
luck, after all."
But they were to be denied many things that winter that the fish they
had not caught would have brought them. The little luxuries in which
they had always indulged occasionally were not to be thought of; and
pork, which is almost a necessity, was to become a rarity and a luxury
to them, and there were to be times when even the flour barrel would be
empty.
But this was a part of the ups and downs of their life, and one and all
they accepted the condition cheerfully, for who, they said, does not
have to endure privations now and again? And they had always done very
well in other years, and the needs of life are small; and so they had no
complaint to make. Comfort and privation are, after all, measured
largely by contrast, and what to them would have been comfortable and
luxurious living would have seemed to you and me little less than
unendurable hardship.
Bobby and Jimmy were as glad, now, to return to the snug cabins as they
had been to set out for Itigailit Island in the summer, and as they
looked back over the few short weeks, the July day when they had their
adventure with the bear seemed to them a long, long while ago.
And when the boats were loaded Bobby ran up to say good-bye for a
season to the cairn and the dead man mouldering beneath it, and to the
wide open sea, and the misty horizon out of which he had drifted, and
then they hoisted sail and were off.
Another long winter with its bitter cold and drifting snow, its joys and
its hardships and adventures, was at hand.