The Jug, as Thomas Angus often remarked, was as snug and handy a place
to live as ever a man could wish. Ten miles up the Bay was the trading
post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and at Wolf Bight, twelve miles
directly across the Bay from the Jug, the trading post of Trowbridge &
Gray, and then only five miles to the eastward, at Break Cove, lived
Doctor Joe.
“Neighbors right handy all around,” declared Thomas, “and no chance of
ever gettin’ lonesome.”
The Jug was a well sheltered bight on the north side of Eskimo Bay,
and here, in the edge of the forest, stood Thomas’ cabin.
Near by the cabin Roaring Brook rushed down through a gorge in a vast
hurry to empty its sparkling waters into the bight; and behind the
cabin, shrouded in silence and mystery, stretching away into
unmeasured distances, lay the great unpeopled wilderness.
“Room enough,” said Thomas, “for a man to stretch himself.”
The Angus home was much like every other trapper’s home in the Eskimo
Bay country, though somewhat larger and more commodious, perhaps, than
was usual. Thomas believed in “comfort, and plenty o’ room to stretch,
indoors as well as out,” and this sentiment led him to make no stint
of timber or labor when he builded.
“The timber is here for the takin’, and right handy,” said he, “and a
bit more work don’t matter.”
The cabin was built of logs, and faced the south, with its entrance
through an enclosed porch on the western gable. This porch served both
as a protection from winter storms and as a store room. Here were kept
dog harness, fish nets, and innumerable odds and ends incident to the
life and occupation of a trapper and fisherman. And in one end of the
porch, neatly piled in tiers, was an ever-ready supply of firewood.
A door from the porch led into a living room crudely and primitively
furnished, but possessed of an indescribable atmosphere of cozy
comfort. The uncarpeted floor, the home-made table, the chests which
served both as storage places for clothing and as seats, the three
crude but substantial home-made chairs, and the shelves for dishes,
were scoured clean and white with sand and soap, for Margaret, through
her Scotch ancestry, had inherited a penchant for cleanliness and
neatness.
“I likes to keep the house tidy,” she said to Doctor Joe once, when he
complimented her. “’Tis a wonderful comfort to have un tidy and
clean.”
There were three windows, draped with snow-white muslin--an unusual
luxury. Two of these windows looked to the southward to catch the sun
with its cheer, and before them lay the wide vista of Eskimo Bay, and
beyond the Bay the grim, snow-capped peaks of the Mealy Mountains. The
other window was in the rear, but here the view was restricted by the
forest, which sheltered the cabin from the frigid northern blasts of
the sub-arctic winters.
A big box stove, which would accommodate great billets of wood, and
crackled cheerily, and a bunk built against the wall like a ship’s
bunk, and which served Thomas as a bed, completed the furnishings.
Originally the cabin had contained no other rooms than the living room
and the porch, but when the children came, and grew, Thomas, with his
desire for “plenty o’ room to stretch,” erected an addition on the
eastern end, which he partitioned into two sleeping compartments, one
for Margaret and the other for the boys.
Mighty content were Thomas Angus and his family. A snug cabin, a
neighbor “right handy,” the trading posts near enough to visit now and
again on business or on pleasure, and enough to eat--what more could
be desired?
Thomas Angus was a good hunter, and provided well for his family,
which in Labrador means that for the most part his catch of fur was
good in winter, his fish nets yielded well in summer, and therefore
his flour barrel was seldom empty.
Bread and pork, with no stint of tea, and a bit of molasses for
sweetening, together with such game as he might kill, sat a table that
to Thomas Angus and his family was bountiful and varied enough, if not
luxurious. There were no potatoes or other vegetables, to be sure, for
gardens do not thrive in this far northern land; but they did not mind
that, for they had never eaten vegetables. We do not miss what we have
never had, and the more we have the more we demand. And so it was that
Thomas Angus and his family were happy and content enough with what to
you and me would have been privation.
“’Tis a wonderful fine livin’ we has here,” said Thomas, “and we’re
thankful to th’ Lard for providin’ it.”
Mrs. Angus had been dead these five years. Her grave, marked by a rude
wooden slab, was in a little fenced-in clearing behind the house. Her
death was the greatest sorrow that had ever visited the Anguses.
Thomas dug the grave himself, as a last service to his wife, and when
he and the neighbors lowered Mrs. Angus into her deep, cold bed, and
covered her with frozen clods of earth, and he and the mourning
children returned to the empty cabin, he comforted them with the
philosophy of his simple Christian faith.
“’Tis the Lard’s will,” he said. “The work He had for Mother to do on
earth was ended, and He called her away. ’Tis a bit hard on us that’s
left behind, and we’ll be missin’ her sore, but we’ll bear un without
complaint because ’tis the Lard’s will. We mustn’t forget--though
we’ll be like to forget sometimes--that Mother’s still livin’. ’Twas
only the body that she was through usin’ that we buried out there. Who
can know but she may be right with us now, though we can’t see her?
And maybe she’s seein’ us all the time, and knowin’ all we does and
talks about.”
Margaret, then a little maid of twelve, took her mother’s place as
housekeeper, and bravely did her best to mother the boys. In these
five years she had grown into a handsome, rosy-cheeked lass of
seventeen, and as capable and fine a housekeeper as you could find on
the whole Labrador.
David and Andy, too, had developed with the years from energetic small
boys into broad-shouldered, bronze-faced, brawny lads. David, nearly
sixteen, and Andy, fourteen, lent a hand at anything that was to be
done indoors and out. They kept the water barrel filled from Roaring
Brook, they helped cut the firewood and haul it with the dogs, and
sawed and split it into proper size for the big box stove. In summer
they did their part at the salmon and trout fishing and in winter they
kept the house supplied with partridges and rabbits and other small
game. In Labrador every one must do his part, and lads learn early to
bear their share of the responsibilities of life, and so it was with
David and Andy. And adventures, too, they had, for in that brave land
adventures come often enough.
Jamie, the youngest of the family, was ten, and as cheerful and lusty
and fine a little lad as ever lived. But Jamie’s sight was failing.
“They’s a smoke in the house,” said Jamie when he awoke one morning.
“They’s no smoke in the house,” protested Andy.
“But I sees un! I sees un!” insisted Jamie.
“’Tis the sleep in your eyes yet,” suggested David. “’Twill pass away
when you wakes.”
And so Jamie said no more, believing it was the sleep in his eyes, and
he rubbed them to drive it away, and dressed, and looked out of the
window toward the bay.
“They’s a mist on the water,” said Jamie.
“They’s no mist,” denied Andy. “’Tis fine and clear, and the sun shines
wonderful bright.”
“I sees the sunshine, but ’tis not bright. They’s a mist,” Jamie
insisted.
And the mist had remained, and thickened gradually with the passing
weeks. It was in the beginning of July when the mist had first
appeared before Jamie’s eyes, and before the month was ended he
complained that he could no longer see the Mealy Mountains across the
bay, with their glistening white snow-capped peaks. And this was too
bad, for Jamie loved the mountains rising so brave and changeless like
a row of great rugged giants guarding and holding the world firm
beyond the restless waters of the bay. Jamie always felt that he could
depend upon the mountains, and he had a fancy, when of evenings the
setting sun tipped their white summits with its last glow, that it was
a bit of the dazzling light of heaven breaking through the sky when
God reached down to kiss the world good night.
And it had been many days now since Jamie had seen his loved
mountains. Even the point, at the entrance to the bight, had become
veiled in haze and seemed to have moved far out into the bay, as it
used to do when the fog hung low on murky days, and Jamie’s sight was
as keen as David’s and Andy’s.
In the beginning Thomas gave little heed to Jamie’s complaints of the
mist, for he was busy then at his fishing.
“’Tis a bit of a strain,” said he, “and ’twill soon pass away. A bit
of the burn and glare of the spring sun upon the snow, left in the
eyes to shade un. ’Twill soon pass away.”
One day in late August, when Doctor Joe was over at The Jug, as he
often was, he heard Jamie complain of the mist, and Doctor Joe asked
Jamie many questions, and looked long and hard into Jamie’s eyes, and
when he was going, and Thomas walked down to the beach to help him
launch his boat, he told Thomas that the mist would not clear up of
itself.
“And is it a sickness, then, and a bad un?” asked Thomas, aroused to
great concern, for he had vast faith in Doctor Joe’s opinion.
“I can’t say yet for a certainty how bad it is, but ’tis a sickness,
and may grow worse, if it’s the kind of sickness I take it to be,”
said Doctor Joe. “Don’t worry about it yet, Thomas. I’ll be up again
soon and look into the eyes again, and see how they’re doing.”
“Can’t you mend un?” asked Thomas anxiously.
“We’ll see. We’ll see what we can do,” and Doctor Joe’s voice was
hearty and reassuring, as he launched his boat and pulled away down
the bight.
Thomas Angus and Doctor Joe were great friends. Margaret and the boys
called Doctor Joe “Uncle,” and they were as fond of him as they could
have been had he really been their uncle; and he, on his part, was
mightily fond of them. He had come to the Bay three years before Mrs.
Angus died, and had now lived at Break Cove and on the coast for eight
years.
It was on a blustery July evening that they had first seen him,
driving up the bay in an old open boat with a ragged leg-o-mutton
sail. Thomas hailed him and he turned in at The Jug in response to
Thomas’s invitation to spend the night, for a Labradorman will never
permit a stranger to pass his home without a hail and an invitation,
and a cheering welcome, warmed with a cup of tea and a snack.
Doctor Joe was a nervous man, with the appearance of one who had been
ill. His hand was unsteady, with a tremor--unlike the steady, strong
hand of the Labradorman. Thomas saw at once that he was no
Labradorman. Any one could have seen that with half an eye. His speech
and manner, too, were not of the coast, his skin had not the deep
bronze tan of the people, and his dress was not the dress of the
native.
But Thomas liked the stranger, and urged him to “’bide for a time at
The Jug,” and for several days he remained as Thomas’s guest, asking
many questions about the country and manner of life of the folk who
lived there, and of the methods of trapping and hunting, and bartering
fur and fish.
He introduced himself to Thomas as Joseph Carver, and explained that
he had come from the South as a passenger on the mail boat, which he
had left at Fort Pelican, eighty miles down the bay, and her nearest
port of call. And at length he announced that he had decided to settle
here and build a cabin, and turn hunter and trapper, and make The
Labrador his home.
“’Twill be a strange life for you,” said Thomas.
“Yes,” said Doctor Joe, “a strange life.”
Then Doctor Joe turned his attention to the selection of a suitable
place to build his cabin, and cruising along the shore one day fell
upon Break Cove, which he liked immensely, and here he declared his
home should be. Thomas, after the manner of the country, and because
he was glad to have so near a neighbor, turned to and helped Doctor
Joe, and presently they had as snug a little cabin built and furnished
as a man could wish for, and here Doctor Joe began his new life in a
new land.
He was a mystery to the Bay folk at first, coming as he had, and a
mystery to Thomas, too. Sometimes he seemed as gay and happy as ever a
man could be, but there were days when he was silent and grave and
troubled, like a man with a great load of sorrow upon his soul.
There was one autumn evening, a fortnight after Doctor Joe had
established himself in the new cabin, when Thomas, who had been down
the bay hunting geese, ran his boat into Break Cove to pay his
neighbor a call, and to leave with him one of the fine fat geese he
had shot. The candle was lighted and the cabin door stood open. As
Thomas approached with the goose he saw Doctor Joe, a wild, hunted
look upon his face, pacing up and down the room, and Thomas heard him
exclaim:
“I can’t endure it! I cannot, cannot endure it! Another month and I’d
be safe! But I can’t hold out! I must give up! Oh, God, have mercy on
me!”
Thomas withdrew silently. He had never seen Doctor Joe, or any one
else for that matter, act so strangely. His kindly heart was troubled.
Then light broke. His neighbor was ill and in pain, or was troubled,
and he must help him. He turned back to the cabin door, and called out
cheerily:
“Evenin’, Sir!”
Doctor Joe ceased his pacing, as he beheld Thomas in the open doorway.
“Good evening,” he greeted, sitting limply down, and wiping
perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. And within himself
Thomas marveled that Doctor Joe should be so warm, for the air was
chill enough, and the fire in the box stove had been neglected and was
none too good. “Come in, Thomas.”
“I was passin’,” said Thomas, coming within, “and I thought I’d stop
for a bit t’ smoke a pipe with you. But you’re ailin’, sir?”
“No--yes--just a little out of sorts,” admitted Doctor Joe. “But I’m
glad to see you, neighbor! I’m glad you came! I thank God you came!”
he added fervently. “Perhaps I was lonely. I know that I need your
company, Thomas.”
“There’s a goose I brought you, sir,” and Thomas laid the game upon
the table, “but ’twill not be right for you to ’bide here alone,
ailin’ as you are. Come along to The Jug and ’bide a day or two with
us, till you feels mended, _what_ever.”
“Thank you, Thomas, you’re a good friend and neighbor,” assented
Doctor Joe, with evident relief. “I’ll go with you. The pull over in
your boat will do me good, and I need your company.”
“And bring your cures so you’ll have un to take, an’ you needs un,”
suggested Thomas solicitously, as Doctor Joe arose and took his adiky
from a peg.
“Your company will be the best remedy, Thomas,” remarked Doctor Joe,
drawing the adiky over his head. “There are some disorders medicine
will not cure--only change and good comradeship, and sweet,
sympathetic friendship, such as you are giving me.”
“You’re always welcome at The Jug, _what_ever!” Thomas assured
heartily, though he did not in the least understand the import of what
Doctor Joe had said.
But as the weeks passed, and the cold of the long winter settled upon
the land, Doctor Joe adapted himself to the life of the Bay, and
entered heartily into his business of trapper, and soon it was
discovered that he was a jolly neighbor, and the Bay folk as well as
Thomas accepted him as one of them, and forgot the mystery, and were
ever ready to lend him a hand, and give him hints that helped him
vastly in learning his new trade, for he was clumsy enough at setting
traps at first.
In return Doctor Joe was always on hand with a well-filled medicine
case when he heard that any one was sick, and he displayed wonderful
skill. He had supplied himself with medicines, he explained, because
they were always handy, where there was no doctor to call. And when
Bill Campbell’s boy laid the calf of his leg open with an ax, and
Doctor Joe sewed it up, and bound it, as the folk had never seen a
wound bound before, it was agreed he was the cleverest man in that
line on the whole coast.
Then it was that they had begun to call him “Doctor Joe,” and he had
accepted the new name as a compliment, and with rare good nature, and
soon he was “Doctor Joe” to every one, and a welcome visitor wherever
he went.