THE PARTING AT MICHIKAMAU
Pete and Easton had taken their course through small, shallow, rocky
lakes until they neared the base of the round hill. Here the canoe was
left, and up the steep side of the hill they climbed. "When we most
up," Pete told me afterward, "I stop and look at Easton. My heart beat
fast. I most afraid to look. Maybe Michikamau not there. Maybe I see
only hills. Then I feel bad. Make me feel bad come back and tell you
Michikamau not there. I see you look sorry when I tell you that. Then
I think if Michikamau there you feel very good. I must know quick. I
run. I run fast. Hill very steep. I do not care. I must know soon
as I can, and I run. I shut my eyes just once, afraid to look. Then I
open them and look. Very close I see when I open my eyes much water.
Big water. So big I see no land when I look one way; just water. Very
wide too, that water. I know I see Michikamau. My heart beat easy and
I feel very glad. I almost cry. I remember corncob pipe you give me,
and what I tell you. I take pipe out my pocket. I fill him, and light
him. Then I sit on rock and smoke. All the time I look at Michikamau.
I feel good and I say, 'This we call Corncob Hill.'"
And so we were all made glad and the conical peak had a name.
Pete told me that we should have to cut the ridge to the south of
Corncob Hill, taking a rather wide detour to reach the place. A chain
of lakes would help us, but some long portages were necessary and it
would require several days' hard work. This we did not mind now. We
were only anxious to dip our paddles into the waters of the big lake.
At last Michikamau, which I had so longed to see through two summers of
hardship in the Labrador wilds, was near, and I could hope to be
rewarded with a look at it within the week.
But with the joy of it there was also a sadness, for I must part from
three of my loyal companions. The condition of our commissariat and
the cold weather that was beginning to be felt made it imperative that
the men be sent back from the big lake.
The possibility of this contingency had been foreseen by me before
leaving New York, and I had mentioned it at that time. Easton had
asked me then, if the situation would permit of it, to consider him as
a candidate to go through with me to Ungava. When the matter had been
suggested at the last camp on the Nascaupee River he had again
earnestly solicited me to choose him as my companion, and upon several
subsequent occasions had mentioned it. Richards was the logical man
for me to choose, for he had had experience in rapids, and could also
render me valuable assistance in the scientific work that the others
were not fitted for. He was exceedingly anxious to continue the
journey, but his university duties demanded his presence in New York in
the winter, and I had promised his people that he should return home in
the autumn. This made it out of the question to keep him with me, and
it was a great disappointment to both of us. That I might feel better
assured of the safety of the returning men, I decided to send Pete back
with them to act as their guide. Stanton, too, wished to go on, but
Easton had spoken first, so I decided to give him the opportunity to go
with me to Ungava, as my sole companion.
That night, after the others had gone to bed, we two sat late by the
camp fire and talked the matter over. "It's a dangerous undertaking,
Easton," I said, "and I want you to understand thoroughly what you're
going into. Before we reach the George River Post we shall have over
four hundred miles of territory to traverse. We may have trouble in
locating the George River, and when we do find it there will be heavy
rapids to face, and its whole course will be filled with perils. If
any accident happens to either of us we shall be in a bad fix. For
that reason it's always particularly dangerous for less than three men
to travel in a country like this. Then there's the winter trip with
dogs. Every year natives are caught in storms, and some of them
perish. We shall be exposed to the perils and hardships of one of the
longest dog trips ever made in a single season, and we shall be
traveling the whole winter. I want you to understand this."
"I do understand it," he answered, "and I'm ready for it. I want to go
on."
And so it was finally settled.
It was not easy for me to tell the men that the time had come when we
must part, for I realized how hard it would be for them to turn back.
The next morning after breakfast, I asked them to remain by the fire
and light their pipes. Then I told them. Richards' eyes filled with
tears. Stanton at first said he would not turn back without me, but
finally agreed with me that it was best he should. Pete urged me to
let him go on. Later he stole quietly into the tent, where I was alone
writing, and without a word sat opposite me, looking very woebegone.
After awhile he spoke: "To-day I feel very sad. I forget to smoke. My
pipe go out and I do not light it. I think all time of you. Very
lonely, me. Very bad to leave you."
Here he nearly broke down, and for a little while he could not speak.
When he could control himself he continued:
"Seems like I take four men in bush, lose two. Very bad, that. Don't
know how I see your sisters. I go home well. They ask me, 'Where my
brother?' I don't know. I say nothing. Maybe you die in rapids.
Maybe you starve. I don't know. I say nothing. Your sisters cry."
Then his tone changed from brokenhearted dejection to one of eager
pleading:
"Wish you let me go with you. Short grub, maybe. I hunt. Much
danger; don't care, me. Don't care what danger. Don't care if grub
short. Maybe you don't find portage. Maybe not find river. That bad.
I find him. I take you through. I bring you back safe to your
sisters. Then I speak to them and they say I do right."
It was hard to withstand Pete's pleadings, but my duty was plain, and I
said:
"No, Pete. I'd like to take you through, but I've got to send you back
to see the others safely out. Tell my sisters I'm safe. Tell
everybody we're safe. I'm sure we'll get through all right. We'll do
our best, and trust to God for the rest, so don't worry. We'll be all
right."
"I never think you do this," said he. "I don't think you leave me this
way." After a pause he continued, "If grub short, come back. Don't wait
too long. If you find Indian, then you all right. He help you. You
short grub, don't find Indian, that bad. Don't wait till grub all
gone. Come back."
Pete did not sing that day, and he did not smoke. He was very sad and
quiet.
We spent the day in assorting and dividing the outfit, the men making a
cache of everything that they would not need until their return, that
we might not be impeded in our progress to Michikamau. They would get
their things on their way back. Eight days, Pete said, would see them
from this point to the cache we had made on the Nascaupee, and only
eight days' rations would they accept for the journey. They were more
than liberal. Richards insisted that I take a new Pontiac shirt that
he had reserved for the cold weather, and Pete gave me a new pair of
larigans. They deprived themselves that we might be comfortable.
Easton and I were to have the tent, the others would use the tarpaulin
for a wigwam shelter; each party would have two axes, and the other
things were divided as best we could. Richards presented us with a
package that we were not to open until the sixteenth of September--his
birthday. It was a special treat of some kind.
Some whitefish, suckers and one big pike were taken out of the net,
which was also left for them to pick up upon their return. A school of
large pike had torn great holes in it, but it was still useful.
We were a sorrowful group that gathered around the fire that night. The
evening was raw. A cold north wind soughed wearily through the fir
tops. Black patches of clouds cast a gloom over everything, and there
was a vast indefiniteness to the dark spruce forest around us. I took a
flashlight picture of the men around the fire. Then we sat awhile and
talked, and finally went to our blankets in the chilly tent.
September came with a leaden sky and cold wind, but the clouds were
soon dispelled, and the sun came bright and warm. Our progress was
good, though we had several portages to make. On September second, at
noon, we left the larger canoe for the men to get on their way back,
and continued with the eighteen-foot canoe, which, with its load of
outfit and five men, was very deep in the water, but no wind blew and
the water was calm.
Here the character of the lakes changed. The waters were deep and
black, the shores were steep and rocky, and some labradorite was seen.
One small, curious island, evidently of iron, though we did not stop to
examine it, took the form of a great head sticking above the water,
with the tops of the shoulders visible.
Sunday, September third, was a memorable day, a day that I shall never
forget while I live. The morning came with all the glories of a
northern sunrise, and the weather was perfect. After two short
portages and two small lakes were crossed, Pete said, "Now we make last
portage and we reach Michikamau." It was not a long portage--a half
mile, perhaps. We passed through a thick-grown defile, Pete ahead, and
I close behind him. Presently we broke through the bush and there
before us was the lake. We threw down our packs by the water's edge.
_We had reached Michikamau._ I stood uncovered as I looked over the
broad, far-reaching waters of the great lake. I cannot describe my
emotions. I was living over again that beautiful September day two
years before when Hubbard had told me with so much joy that he had seen
the big lake--that Michikamau lay just beyond the ridge. Now I was on
its very shores--the shores of the lake that we had so longed to reach.
How well I remembered those weary wind-bound days, and the awful weeks
that followed. It was like the recollection of a horrid dream--his
dear, wan face, our kiss and embrace, my going forth into the storm and
the eternity of horrors that was crowded into days. Pete, I think,
understood, for he had heard the story. He stood for a moment in
silence, then he fashioned his hat brim into a cup, and dipping some
water handed it to me. "You reach Michikamau at last. Drink
Michikamau water before others come." I drank reverently from the hat.
Then the others joined us and we all stood for a little with bowed
uncovered beads, on the shore.
Our camp was pitched on an elevated, rocky point a few hundred yards
farther up--the last camp that we were to have together, and the
forty-sixth since leaving Northwest River. We had made over half a
hundred portages, and traveled about three hundred and twenty-five
miles.
The afternoon was occupied in writing letters and telegrams to the home
folks, for Richards to take out with him; after which we divided the
food. Easton and I were to take with us seventy-eight pounds of
pemmican, twelve pounds of pea meal, seven pounds of pork, some beef
extract, eight pounds of flour, one cup of corn meal, a small quantity
of desiccated vegetables, one pound of coffee, two pounds of tea, some
salt and crystallose. Richards gave us nearly all of his tobacco, and
Pete kept but two plugs for himself.
Toward evening we gathered about our fire, and talked of our parting
and of the time when we should meet again. Every remaining moment we
had of each other's company was precious to us now.
The day had been glorious and the night was one of rare beauty. We
built a big fire of logs, and by its light I read aloud, in accordance
with our custom on Sunday nights, a chapter from the Bible. After this
we talked for a while, then sat silent, gazing into the glowing embers
of our fire. Finally Pete began singing softly, "Home, Sweet Home" in
Indian, and followed it with an old Ojibway song, "I'm Going Far Away,
My Heart Is Sore." Then he sang an Indian hymn, "Pray For Me While I
Am Gone." When his hymn was finished he said, very reverently, "I
going pray for you fellus every day when I say my prayers. I can't
pray much without my book, but I do my best. I pray the best I can for
you every day." Pete's devotion was sincere, and I thanked him.
Stanton sang a solo, and then all joined in "Auld Lang Syne." After
this Pete played softly on the harmonica, while we watched the moon
drop behind the horizon in the west. The fire burned out and its
embers blackened. Then we went to our bed of fragrant spruce boughs,
to prepare for the day of our parting.
The morning of September fourth was clear and beautiful and perfect,
but in spite of the sunshine and fragrance that filled the air our
hearts were heavy when we gathered at our fire to eat the last meal
that we should perhaps ever have together.
When we were through, I read from my Bible the fourteenth of John--the
chapter that I had read to Hubbard that stormy October morning when we
said good-by forever.
The time of our parting had come. I do not think I had fully realized
before how close my bronzed, ragged boys had grown to me in our months
of constant companionship. A lump came in my throat, and the tears
came to the eyes of Richards and Pete, as we grasped each other's hands.
Then we left them. Easton and I dipped our paddles into the water, and
our lonely, perilous journey toward the dismal wastes beyond the
northern divide was begun. Once I turned to see the three men, with
packs on their backs, ascending the knoll back of the place where our
camp had been. When I looked again they were gone.