THE FIRST BEAR
Paul had scarcely regained his feet when the gruff voice of Captain
Bluntt exclaimed:
“Well! Well, lad! And what brings you out o’ your snug berth at this
time o’ night?”
“What’s--what’s happened? Are we wrecked?” asked the frightened Paul.
“Wrecked? No, no, lad! Just a bit of ice--just a bit of ice. ’Tis all
right, b’y. Go below and sleep. ’Tis wonderful raw above decks for
them thin clothes you’re wearin’.”
Paul, dressed only in pajamas, his feet bare, was indeed shivering.
Much relieved, he turned down the companionway, glad to tuck himself
in his warm berth, presently to fall asleep to the distant, monotonous
call of the ice pilot, “Port! Starboard! Port! Starboard!” and in
spite of repeated shocks, as the vessel charged the ice, alternately
backing and forging ahead at full speed in her attack upon the pack.
The ice was left behind them during the night, and when morning dawned
a stiff northeast breeze, cold and damp, had sprung up, and a sea was
rising. The ship began to roll disagreeably, and at midday Remington
encountered Paul, deathly pale, unsteadily groping his way to his
stateroom.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” he asked.
“I--I feel sick,” Paul answered.
The call had come for dinner, but Paul was not interested, and retired
to his berth. The fog mist thickened, and all that afternoon and night
the fog horn sounded at regular intervals, a warning to fishing craft
of the vessel’s proximity.
For three days Paul, in the throes of seasickness, was unable to leave
his berth, but on the morning of the fourth day he reappeared on deck,
where his friends greeted him with good-natured jokes.
They were entering Hudson Straits. On their port, near at hand, lay
the rocky, verdureless Button Islands, and far to the southward rose
the rugged, barren peaks of the Torngaek Mountains in northeastern
Labrador. To the northward in hazy outline Resolution Island marked
the southern extremity of Baffin Land.
Here and there, spread over the sea, were small vagrant ice pans,
messengers from the far Arctic, which gave evidence of the high
latitude the ship had attained.
Now and again seals showed their heads above the water for a moment,
quickly to disappear again. Sea gulls, their white wings gleaming in
the sunlight, circled about, but nowhere was a sail or any indication
of human life visible upon the wide horizon.
It was a new world to Paul, and different from anything he had ever
imagined. The utter absence of vessels, the apparently uninhabited and
uninhabitable land, the awful primitive grandeur of it all gave him a
vague, indescribable sense of fear--such a feeling as one ascending
for the first time in a balloon must experience upon peering over the
rim of the basket at the receding earth. This sensation quickly gave
place to one of exultation--the exultation of a wild animal loosed in
its native haunts after long confinement. Paul became possessed of a
desire to shout. His blood tingled through his veins. He drank the
pure atmosphere in great draughts, and it stimulated him like wine. He
felt almost that he could do anything--fly if he wished.
This was the first awakening in Paul of the primitive instinct which
every human has inherited from prehistoric ancestors--an inborn love
of the glorious freedom of the great wide wilderness where individual
man stands supreme in his own right and where he may roam at will
without restraint; where he feels that he is a person and not an atom;
where he may meet nature face to face, and fearlessly match his human
skill against her forces.
Too often this instinct to retreat for a time to the wild places of
the earth, to stand with bared head under the open sky, to breathe
great lungfuls of pure atmosphere undefiled by the smoke of chimneys,
to make the acquaintance of rocks and trees, of mountains and sea--to
renew one’s faith in God--is smothered by the luxuries and pamperings
of civilization. So it had been with Paul.
Standing on the deck of the _North Star_ that bright July morning, in
the midst of nature’s most rugged abode, that primordial instinct
slumbering in his breast had then its first awakening. He seemed to
expand. He felt himself grow. He longed to set foot upon those
mysterious shores--to wrest from them their secrets. Presently he was
to do so. Perhaps, had he known how close to the condition of his
prehistoric ancestors he was to drift, he would have shrunk from his
destiny. It is well for our peace of mind that an all-wise God hides
from us today the happenings of tomorrow.
At length the _North Star_ passed out into the wider waters of Ungava
Bay, and directly after dinner Remington suggested:
“Suppose you bring your rifle, Paul, and I’ll get a box of cartridges.
We’ll try it out and see how you can shoot.”
Paul had been looking forward to this opportunity, and a moment later
he appeared with the rifle.
“Now draw a bead on that bit of ice out there,” said his instructor,
“and we’ll see how you hold. Run your left hand farther forward on the
stock--can’t hold steady with it away back like that--a little farther
out--that’s better. Now you can stand straight and not have to bend
backward like a woman does when she tries to shoot. Do you get the
ice? Look through the notch on the rear sight, and bring the bead on
the front sight in contact with the bottom of your object. Got it? Try
it again. Now we’ll load. Now try it.”
Paul, a loaded rifle in his hands for the first time, took aim, and
pulled the trigger. The shot went wild.
“You closed your eyes at the last moment, and wobbled the gun,” said
Remington.
“Guess I did,” admitted Paul. “I was afraid to be so near the
explosion.”
“Well, throw in another cartridge. That’s right. Throw the lever
forward; now back. Be careful! It leaves it cocked, you see. Always
remember, when you’re not going to shoot again immediately, to put the
hammer down, and never carry a cocked gun. That’s a bad habit some
sportsmen have, but a man that isn’t quick enough to cock his gun
after he sees his game should practice until he can do it, and never
go out with his gun until he can. With a rifle it’s never well to
carry a cartridge in the chamber. You can throw one in as quickly as
you need it. Now try again.”
Bang! The shot struck just beneath the bit of ice.
“Bully! Bully!” exclaimed Remington and Ainsworth together.
Paul flushed with pleasure and excitement. With the next shot he took
more careful aim, and simultaneously with the crack of the rifle bits
of splintered ice flew from the floating cake. This was indeed a good
shot, for by this time the vessel had left the ice well behind.
“How was that?” asked Paul, with conscious pride.
“Good work!” Remington encouraged.
Several more practice shots were fired with varying success, the rifle
cleaned, and Remington and Ainsworth went below to overhaul their
fishing outfit.
Paul, with just pride in his initial achievement with the rifle,
strolled forward to exhibit his gun to Dan, who was splicing a rope
near the foremast, and had been an interested spectator of the target
practice.
“Hello, Dan,” he greeted.
“Hello, Paul. Been ailin’?”
“Ailing! I was awfully sick for two days.”
“We were havin’ a bit of nasty sea. ’Tis bad for the seasickness.”
“You bet it got me, all right. Would you like to see my rifle?”
“Yes, I were wantin’ t’ see un.” Dan took the rifle, looked it over,
threw it up to his shoulder and sighted it, like one accustomed to the
use of firearms.
“She’s a wonderful fine gun!” he exclaimed. “A rare fine gun! An’
she’s pretty, too. I never seen such a fine gun--and such a pretty
un.”
“Can you shoot?”
“I does some shootin’. I hunts with Dad in winter. He traps furs in
winter, and he’s took me with him two winters.”
“Did you ever shoot anything?”
“Oh, yes; lots of partridges and rabbits. Last fall I kills a deer and
gets a crack at a bear, but misses; and last winter I shoots two
foxes.”
“You must be a dandy hunter. I’ve never hunted any yet, but I expect
to. Never went before where there was anything to hunt. This is my
first gun. I’ve got a shotgun too.”
“That’s the gun for partridges, unless you shoots their heads off with
the rifle. Mostly I shoots their heads off with a rifle, but sometimes
I misses. Mine’s a 44--Dad’s old one. He got a new 30-30 and gave me
his old one.”
“I’d like to see it. You got it with you?”
“Yes, it’s down in the fo’c’sl.”
“Here! Bring your gun, youngster! Bring your gun! Here’s a shot for
you!” called Captain Bluntt. “Here now!”
Paul ran forward.
“Where? What is it?” he asked excitedly.
“There, on that pan! That yellow spot. See un? See un? That’s a water
bear, and he’s asleep. Get ready now and shoot un!”
Paul’s excitement was intense. He nervously slipped some cartridges in
the magazine and raised the rifle to his shoulder.
“Set up your sights, lad! Set up your sights! And cock your piece!
Cock your piece! You can’t shoot till she’s cocked. Dan, look sharp
now, an’ tell the gentlemen there’s a bear sighted! Now, youngster!
Now! Don’t hurry. Take your time. Why you’re shakin’! Steady down!
Steady down! That’s right. Careful!”
With tremendous effort Paul steadied his nerves, and bang! The yellow
spot rose. Sure enough, it _was_ a bear, and it began to bite at its
side.
“You hit un! You hit un, lad! Fine! Fine! Give un another!”
Paul fired again, but his nerves had got the better of him, and the
shot went wide, as did several other shots. Captain Bluntt rang the
engines to “stop,” as Remington and Ainsworth, rifles in hand, reached
the deck. The bear had slipped off the ice pan and taken to the water;
at which Remington called--
“Launch the power boat!”
In a jiffy Captain Bluntt had men at the ropes.
“Come, Paul, we’re going after him,” said Remington.
“Take the tiller, Dan! Take the tiller of that boat!” commanded the
Captain.
In less time than it requires to relate, the boat was off and in
pursuit, Dan steering with skill, Remington, Ainsworth, and Paul ready
with their rifles.