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[Illustration: NORTHWARD HO!]
Labrador Days
TALES OF THE SEA TOILERS
By
Wilfred Thomason Grenfell
M.D. (OXON.), C.M.G.
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1919
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY WILFRED THOMASON GRENFELL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Contents
THERE'S TROUBLE ON THE SEA 1
NANCY 19
SALLY'S "TURNS" 38
THE DOCTOR'S BIG FEE 61
TWO CAT'S-PAWS 73
THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE 92
PORTLAND BILL 113
KAIACHOUOUK 130
TWO CHRISTMASES 148
THE LEADING LIGHT 181
THE RED ISLAND SHOALS 203
Labrador Days
THERE'S TROUBLE ON THE SEA
The ice in the big bay had broken up suddenly that year in the latter
part of March before a tremendous ocean swell heaving in beneath it.
The piles of firewood and the loads of timber for the summer
fishing-rooms on all the outer islands were left standing on the
landwash. The dog-teams usually haul all this out at a stretch gallop
over the glare ice which overlies in April the snow-covered surface of
winter. For weeks, heavy pack ice, driven to and fro with the tides,
but ever held in the bay with the onshore winds, had prevented the
small boats' freighting more than their families and the merest
necessities to the summer stations.
So it came to pass that long after the usual time, indeed after the
incoming shoals of fish were surely expected, John Mitchell's firewood
still lay on the bank, some twenty miles up the bay. When at last a
spell of warm and offshore winds had driven the ice mostly clear, John
announced to his eager lads that "come Monday, if the wind held
westerly," he would go up the bay for a load. What a clamour ensued,
for every one wanted to be one of the crew to go to the winter home.
The lads, like ducklings, "fair loved the water"; and though John
needed Jim, and was quite glad to have Tom, now of the important age
of fourteen years, he did his best, well seconded by the wise old
grandmother, to persuade Neddie, aged twelve, and Willie, aged ten, to
stay behind.
"You be too small, Ned, yet awhile. Next year perhaps father will take
you," was the old lady's first argument. '"Twill be cold in t' boat,
boy, and you'll perish altogether."
"Father'll look after me, Grannie, and I'll wrap up ever so warm. Do
let me go. There's a dear grannie."
The curly-haired, rosy-cheeked lads were so insistent and so winsome
that the old lady confessed to me afterwards, "They somehow got round
my heart as they mostly does, and I let 'em go, though sore against my
mind, Doctor."
Of course, Willie had to go if Neddie went, for "they'd be company
while t' men worked, and he could carry small things as well as t'
rest. He did so want to go."
When at length Monday came, and a bright sun shone over a placid sea,
the grandmother's last excuse to keep them at home was lost. Her
consent was finally secured, and, before a light, fair wind the women
watched, not without anxiety, so many of those whom they held dearer
than life itself sail "out into the deep."
Progress was slow, for the wind fell away almost altogether as the
morning passed, but the glorious warmth and exuberance of life made
the time seem as nothing. The picnic in the big trap boat was as good
as a prince's banquet. For the fun of "boiling t' kettle yourself,"
and an appetite bred of a day on the water, made the art of French
cooks and the stimulus of patent relishes pale into insignificance.
During the afternoon they "had a spurt singing," and as the words of
hymns were the only ones they knew, the old favourites were sung and
resung. The little lads especially led the programme; and the others
remembered Willie singing for them, as a solo, a childish favourite
called "Bring Them In."
It was just about seven o'clock in the evening. The boat was well out
in the bay, between three and four miles from land, when John noticed
a fresh "cat's-paw" of wind, just touching the water here and there.
There was scarcely a cloud in the sky, and nothing whatever to suggest
a squall. But as he looked again, a suspicious wisp of white water
lifted suddenly from the surface a few yards to windward. Like a flash
he remembered that the boat had no ballast in her, and was running
with her sheets made fast. Instinctively he leaned forward to let go
the foresail, but at the same moment the squall struck the boat like
the hammer of Thor. Relieved of the fore canvas, the trap should have
come to the wind in an instant. Instead, leaning over heavily with the
immense pressure, she staggered and reeled as if some unseen enemy
had gripped her. Scarcely perceptibly she gave ground, and a lifetime
seemed to elapse to John's horror-stricken mind as she fell slowly
over, as if fighting for every inch, and conscious of her terrible
responsibilities for the issues at stake.
At last, in spite of her stout resistance, and before John could climb
aft and get at the main sheet, or do anything to relieve the boat, her
stern was driven right under water by the sheer pressure of the storm.
Slowly she turned over, leaving all of her occupants struggling in the
icy water, for there were many pieces of ice still "knocking around."
The slow rate at which the boat had gone over was one point in their
favour, however, for it enabled even the little lads to get clear of
the gunwale; and by the help of John and Jim all five were soon
huddled on the upturned keel of the boat. The boys being all safe for
the moment, John rubbed his eyes, and, raising himself as high as he
could, viewed the situation. Alas! the squall had come to stay.
Everywhere now the placid surface of the sea was ruffled and angry.
The rising, flaky clouds convinced him even in that instantaneous
glance that the brewing storm offered them little chance for their
lives.
Far away to leeward, not less than four miles distant, the loom of the
land was only just visible. Well he realized that it would be many
long hours before the boat, with her masts and sails still fast in,
could drive near enough to enable them to make a landing. For, like
most fishermen in these icy waters, none of them knew how to swim.
Moreover, he soon found that the anchor, fast to the warp, had fallen
out, and would certainly sooner or later touch bottom--thus robbing
them of their one and only chance of escape by preventing the boat
from drifting into shallow water.
So cold was it already that it appeared as if a few moments at most
must chill the life out of at least the younger children.
"Hold Willie on, Ned, and ask God to bring us all safe home," said
John. He told me that he felt somehow as if their prayers were more
likely to be heard than his own. He then crawled forward, having made
up his mind to try and cut the anchor free, and to get the rope to tie
round the boat and hold on the children. His determination was
fortified by his anxiety; but it was a forlorn hope, for it meant
lowering himself right into the water, and he knew well enough that he
could not swim a yard. Then it was done, and he was once more clinging
to the keel with the rope in his hand. It was not difficult to get a
bight round the boat, and soon he had the children firmly lashed on
and the boat was again making fair progress before the wind to the
opposite shore.
Hours seemed to go by. The children were sleepy. Apparently they no
longer felt the cold, and the average man might have thought that it
was a miracle on their behalf, for God knows they had prayed hard
enough for one. But John recognized only too well that it was that
merciful harbinger of the last long sleep, which had overtaken more
than one of his best friends, when adrift in the storms of winter. And
still the age-long journey dragged hopelessly on.
At last the awful suspense, a thousand times more cruel for their
being unable to do anything, was broken by even the welcome incident
of a new danger. Breakers were visible in the direct course of their
drift. "Maybe she'll turn over, Jim," whispered the skipper. "I reckon
we must loose t' children for fear she does." This being effected as
promptly as their condition allowed, Tom was told off to do nothing
but watch them and keep them safe. For already the men had planned, if
the slightest chance offered, to try and get the masts out while she
lay on her beam-ends.
The breakers? Well, they knew they were only of small extent. There
was a pinnacle of rock and a single sea might possibly carry them over
it; but the peril of being washed off was none the less. Now they
could see the huge rise of the combing sea with its frowning black top
rushing at the shoal, and smashing into an avalanche of snowy foam.
They could hear the dull roar of the sea, and its mighty thunder, as
it curled over and fell furiously upon itself, for want of other
prey.
"Good-bye, Jim," whispered the skipper. "The children is all right
either way, but one of us may come through. Tell 'em home it was all
right if I goes."
Almost as he stopped speaking, the rising swell caught the craft, and
threw her once more on her beam-ends. As for a moment she lay on her
side, the men attempted to free the masts, but could do nothing, for
the boat almost immediately again fell over, bottom up. But a second
comber, lifting her with redoubled violence, threw them all clear of
the boat, turned her momentarily right way up, and then breaking into
the masts and sails, tipped her for the third time upside down,
flinging her at the same instant in mad fury clear of the angry water.
So violent had been the blow which had thrown them clear, that they
must inevitably all have perished, had not the last effort of the
breakers actually hurled the boat again almost on the top of them.
Clutching as at a straw, the two men caught the loops of the rope
which they had wound round their craft, but they could see nothing of
the other three. Suddenly, from almost directly under the boat, Tom's
head appeared within reach. Grabbing him, they tried to drag him up on
to the keel. Rolling in the wake of the breakers which still followed
them with vicious pertinacity, they twice lost their hold of the boy,
their now numbed limbs scarcely giving them strength to grasp
anything. It seemed of little account at the time either way. But
their third attempt was successful, and they got the lad once more on
to the bottom of the boat.
Of the children they saw no more. Only when Tom had revived somewhat
could he explain that the capsizing boat had caught them all three
under it as in a trap, that he had succeeded, still clinging to
Willie, to get him from under it, and that he was still holding his
brother when he first came to the surface. After that he did not
remember anything till they were calling to him on the boat's bottom.
The men were sure that it was so--that because he had been true to the
last to his trust, he had been such a deadweight the first two times
he came to the surface.
And now began again the cruel, wearisome, endless drift of the
water-logged boat toward the still distant shore, lightened but little
by the loss of the loved children. There was no longer any doubt left
in their minds; unless something could be done, none of them would
possibly live to tell the tale. It was the still active mind and
indomitable courage of the skipper which found the solution. Crawling
close to Jim, he said: "There's only one chance. We must turn her
over, and get in her, or perish. I'm going to try and loose t' masts."
Swinging himself once more into the bitter-cold water, he succeeded in
finding the slight ropes which formed the stays, and though it is
almost incredible, he actually managed to cut and free them all,
before Jim hauled him back, more dead than alive, on to the boat's
bottom. At all hazards they must right the boat and climb into her.
Their plans were soon made. Tom, placed between the two men, was to do
exactly as they did. Stretching themselves out, and holding the keel
rope in their hands, they all threw themselves over on one side,
lying as nearly as possible at full length. The boat responded
instantly, and their only fear was that, as she had done before, she
might again go right over on them. But there were no masts now to hold
the wind, so she stood up on her beam-ends. As the water took the
weights of the men, it was all they could do to get her over.
Moreover, the task was rendered doubly difficult and perilous by their
exhaustion and inability to swim when the keel to which they were
holding went under water. But their agility and self-reliance, evolved
from a life next to Nature, stood them in good stead, and soon all
three were actually standing inside the water-logged boat. The oars,
lashed under the seats, were still in her, and, though almost up to
their waists in water, they began sculling and rowing as hard as their
strength and the dangerous roll of the sunken boat would permit.
Slowly the surf on the sandy beach drew near, and now, keeping her
head before the breeze, they rolled along shorewards. Again, however,
it became apparent that a new departure must be made. For a heavy surf
was breaking on the shore which they were approaching, that ran off
shallow for half a mile. There was not water enough to let the boat
approach the land, and they realized that they had not sufficient
strength left to walk through the breakers. Yet struggle as they
would, the best they could do was to keep the boat very slightly
across the wind.
John maintains now that it was the direct intervention of Providence
which spared them just when once more all hope seemed over. They
suddenly noticed that while still forging shorewards they were also
drifting rapidly into the bay. It was the first uprush of the strong
rising tide, and they might yet be carried to a deep-water landing.
The play of hope and fear made the remaining hours an agony of
suspense. What would be the end of it all seemed a mere gamble. Every
mark on the approaching shore was now familiar to them. It had become,
they knew well enough, a question of life or death where the drifting
boat would touch the strand. Now it seemed impossible that she should
clear the shallow surf, whose hungry roar sounded a death-knell to any
one handed to its tender mercies. Now it seemed certain that she would
be carried up the bay without touching land at all. Hope rose as a
little later it became obvious that she would clear the sands.
Now the rocky headland, round which their winter house stood, was
coming rapidly into view. As the mouth of the bay narrowed, the pace
of the current increased, and for a time they seemed to be hopelessly
rushing past their one hope of landing. The excitement and the
exertion of putting might and main into the oars had made them almost
forget the wet and cold and darkness, now only relieved by the last
afterglow of the setting sun. But it all appeared of no avail; they
were still some hundred yards off as they passed the point. It might
as well have been some hundred miles, for they drifted helplessly into
the bay, which was widening out again.
Despair, however, still failed to grip them, and apparently
hopelessly they kept toiling on at the sweeps. Once more a miracle
happened, and they were really apparently approaching the point a
second time. The very violence of the tide had actually saved them,
creating as it did a strong eddy, which with the little aid from the
oars, bore them now steadily toward the land. Nearer and nearer they
came. They were half a mile inside the head. Only a few boat-lengths
now separated them from the beach. Would they be able to get ashore!
Strange as it sounds, any and all speculations they might have with
regard to where the boat would strike bottom were to be disappointed.
Her keel never touched bottom at all. It was her gunwale which first
bumped into the steep rocks--and that at a point only a few yards from
their winter house.
Even now their troubles were not over. Only the skipper could stand
erect. Tom, dragged out by the others, lay an inert mass on the soft
bed of crisp creeping plants which cover the bank. Jim was able to
totter a few yards, fell, and finally crawled part of the way to the
house door. But the skipper, in spite of swollen and blackened legs,
held out not only to get a fire lit, but to bring in the other two,
and finally wean back their frozen limbs to life.
It took two days to regain strength enough to haul up the boat and
refit her; and then the sorrowful little company proceeded on their
homeward journey. It was a sad home-coming after the brave start they
had made. It was a terrible message which they had to carry to the
anxious hearts awaiting them. For nothing in heaven or earth can
replace the loss of loved ones suddenly taken from us.
"I've been cruising in boats five and forty years," said John. "I were
out two days and a night with t' Bonnie Lass when she were lost on t'
Bristle Rocks, and us brought in only two of her crew alive. And I was
out on t' ice in t' blizzard when Jim Warren drove off, and us brought
he back dead to his wife next day. But this was the worst of all. As
us passed t' rocky shoal, it seemed only a few minutes since us
capsized on it; and I knowed Ned and Willie must be right alongside.
As us passed Snarly Bight, out of which t' puff came, us thought of t'
boys singing their little songs, and know'd that they should be with
us now; and when t' Lone Point loomed up, round which youse turn to
make our harbour, us all sort of wished one more puff would come along
and finish t' job properly. For it wouldn't have been hard to join t'
children again, but to face t' women without 'em seemed more'n us
could do.
"How to break the news us had talked a dozen times, but never got no
nearer what to say. As us ran in at last for t' stage, us could see
that Mother had hoisted t' flag t' Company gived we t' year us bought
furs for they, and that Grannie was out waiting for us on t' landwash.
"All I remembers was that scarce a word was spoke. They know'd it. I
believe they know'd it before they seed t' boat. If only them had
cried I'd have been able to say something. But ne'er a word was spoke.
So I says, 'Jim, go up and pull t' flag down quick. Us has no right to
having t' flags flying for we.'
"Then Grannie, she gets her voice, and she says, 'No, Jimmie, don't
you do it. It be just right as it is. For 't is for Neddie's and
Willie's home-coming it be flying.'"
NANCY
We had just reached hospital from a long trip "on dogs." My driver was
slipping the harnesses off the animals and giving them the customary
friendly cuff and words of praise. Among the crowd which always
gathered to greet us, one friend, after giving us the usual welcome of
"What cheer, Doctor?" noticed apparently that I had a new winter
_compagnon de voyage_.
"Joe's not with you, Doctor? Gone sawing t' winter, I hear. T' boys
say he's got a fine bulk of timber cut already."
"Working for the lumber camp, I suppose, Uncle Abe," I replied.
"Not a bit of it," he chuckled. "'T is sawing for hisself he's gone."
"Eh? Wants lumber, does he? Going to build a larger fishing boat?"
"Youse can call it that if you likes, Doctor, for 't will be a fine
fish he lands into it. But I reckon 't is more of a dock he'll need."
And the rest joined in hearty laughter at the sally.
"'T is a full-rigged schooner he be going to moor there, with bunting
enough to burn, and as saucy as a cyclone," chimed in another, while a
third 'lowed, "'T is a great girl he's after, if he gets her, anyhow."
"Nancy's the pluckiest little girl for many a mile along this coast or
she wouldn't be what she is, and her family so poor."
A week or so later I fell in with half a dozen boisterous lads driving
their sledges home laden with new wood. It proclaimed to the harbour
that the rumour of Joe's big bulk of timber being ready so early had
not been exaggerated. It was only then that I learned that he had in
addition quickly got his floors down before the ground froze, so that
he might finish building before the winter set in.
Many hands make light work and every one was Joe's friend, so by the
end of December the new house had not only been sheathed in, but
roofed and floored, ready for occupation.
In our scattered communities, isolated not only from one another, but
also largely from the world outside, the simple incidents of everyday
life afford just as much interest as the more artificial attractions
of civilization. Every one on our coast in winter has to have a dog
team, no matter how poor he is, in order to haul home his firewood. In
summer there is no time and there are no roads, while in winter the
snow makes the whole land one broad highway. There is no better fun
than a "randy" over the snow on a light komatik. At this time even our
older people go on "joy rides," visiting along the coast. Many a
moonlight night, after the day's work is over, when the reflection
from the snow makes it almost as light as day, an unexpected but
welcome visitor comes knocking at one's door, asking for a shake-down
just for the night.
Thus Joe's secret was soon common property. His own enthusiasm,
however, engendered a reflection of itself in other people, and almost
before he had the cottage sheathed inside, and really "ready for
launching," from here and there every one had come in, bringing at
any rate the necessities to make it possible to put out to sea on the
new voyage. Accordingly I was not surprised one evening a little later
when a low knock at my door, followed by a summons to come in,
revealed Joe standing somewhat sheepishly, cap in hand, in the
entrance. Once the subject was broached, however, the matter was soon
arranged, Joe having a direct way about him which ignored
difficulties, and I, being a Justice of the Peace, was soon pledged to
act as parson at the function.
Everything went well. We struck glorious weather for the day of the
wedding. Little deputations streamed in from other villages; gay flags
and banners, though some of fearsome home-devised patterns, made a
brave contrast to the white mantle of snow; while we supplemented the
usual salvo of guns from portentous and historic fowling-pieces with a
halo of distress rockets, which we burned from our hospital boat,
which was lying frozen in our harbour.
The excitement of the affair, like all other things human, soon passed
away, and the ordinary routine of the wood-path, the fur-path, and
seal-hunting, the saw-pit, the net-loft, and boat-building, turned our
attention to our own affairs once more. The new venture was soon an
old one, only we were glad to see, as we passed along the road, a
fresh column of blue smoke rising, and speaking of another centre of
life and activity in our village.
Once more, as the sun crept north of the line, the ice bonds of our
harbour began to melt. Once more the mighty ocean outside, freed from
the restraint of the Arctic floe, generously sent surging into the
landwash the very power we needed, and on which we depend, to break up
and carry out the heavy ice accumulation of the winter, which must
otherwise bar us altogether from the prosecution of our calling.
My own vessel had been scraped and repainted. Her spars bright with
new varnish, her funnel gay with our blue bunting flag contrasting
with the yellow, she had come to the wharf for the last time before
leaving for the long summer cruise among the Labrador fishing fleet.
Indeed, I was just working over the ship's course in my chart-room,
when once more Joe, cap in hand, stood in the doorway--evidently with
something very much on his mind.
"What is it, Joe? Come in and shut the door and sit down. You are only
just in time, for I was going to ring for steam as you came along."
"Well, Doctor," he said, "'tis this way. I's only got hook and line to
fish with as you knows; and that don't give a fellow a chance of
putting anything by, no matter how well he does. There's no knowing
now but what I may need more still. It isn't like when a man was alone
in the world. I was aboard Captain Jackson of the Water Lily, what
come in last night, and he says that he'd take me to the Labrador
fishing, and give me a share in his cod trap, being as he is short of
a hand. Well, 'tis a fine chance, Doctor. But Nancy won't hear of my
going without her going too. She says that she is well able to do it,
and well acquainted with schooners--and that's true, as you knows; but
I'm afraid to take her as she is. Still, 'tis a good chance, and I
didn't like to let it go, so I just come to ask what your mind is
about it."
I had seen Nancy on my farewell round of the cottages, and although I
should have preferred almost any other occupation for her, yet, taking
into consideration the habits and customs of the people, and that to
her the venture was in no way a new one, I advised him to accept the
skipper's offer, and take Nancy along with him, if they could get
decent accommodation. I received his assurance that he would keep a
lookout for the hospital boat. With most sincere protestations of
gratitude he bade me farewell, and when a few minutes later we steamed
past his little house on our way out to sea, he was all ready with his
long gun to fire us good-bye salutes, which we answered and
re-answered with our steam whistle.
All summer long we were cruising off the northern Labrador coast, now
running into the fjords to visit the scattered settlers, now on the
outside among the many fishing craft which were plying their calling
on the banks that fringe the islands and outermost points of land.
Fishermen from hundreds of vessels visited us for sickness, for books,
for a thousand different reasons; but never a sight of the Water Lily
did we see, and never a word did we hear of either Joe or Nancy the
whole season through. True, in the number of other claims on our
attention, it was not often that their fortunes came to one's mind.
But now and again we asked about the schooner, and always got the same
negative reply, "Reckon she 've got a load and gone south." This was a
view which we were only too glad to adopt, as it meant the best
possible luck for our friends.
Now November had come round once more. The main fleet of vessels had
long ago passed south. It was so long since we had seen even one of
the belated craft which "bring up the heel of the Labrador" that we
had closed up the summer stations, and were paying our last visits to
our colleagues at the southern hospital, who were to remain through
the winter.
It was therefore no small surprise when Jake Low, from the village,
who had been up spying from the lookout on the hill, came into the
hospital and announced that a large schooner with a flag flying in her
rigging was beating up to the harbour mouth from sea. "She's making
good ground and is well fished," he added. "What's more, I guess from
t' course she's shaping they know the way in all right. So it must be
a doctor they wants, and not a pilot at this time of year."
The news proved interesting enough to lure us up to the hilltop with
the telescope, where in a short while we were enjoying the wonderful
spectacle of watching a crew of the vikings of our day force their way
through a winding narrow passage in a large vessel against a heavy
winter head wind.
The tide, too, was running out against her, and now and then a flaw of
wind or a back eddy, caused by the cliffs on either side, would upset
the helmsman's calculations. Yet with superb coolness he would drive
her, till to us watchers, lying stretched out on the ground overhead,
it seemed that her forefoot must surely be over the submerged
cliff-side. Certainly the white surf from the rocks washed her
cutwater before the skipper who was "scunning" or directing, perched
on the fore cross-tree, would sing out the "Ready about. Lee, oh!" for
which the men at the sheets and bowlines were keenly waiting.
A single slip, and she would have cracked like a nutshell against
those adamantine walls. But to get into the harbour it was the only
way, and as the skipper said afterwards, when I remonstrated on his
apparent foolhardiness, "Needs must, when the devil drives."
"There's a big crowd of men on deck, Doctor," said my companion.
"Reckon she's been delayed with her freighters, and that there's a
load of women and children in t' hold on t' fish."
I had been so absorbed in watching his seamanship, that I had not been
thinking about the stranger. Jake's remark changed the current of my
thoughts; and soon the vessel's lines seemed to assume a familiar
shape, and I began to realize that I must have seen her before. Then
suddenly it flashed upon me--the Water Lily, of course.
Yes, it was the Water Lily. Then Joe was on board, and the flag was
because Nancy was in trouble. The reasoning was intuitive rather than
didactic; but the conviction was so forcible that I instinctively rose
to return to the hospital for the black bag that is my _fidus Achates_
on every emergency call.
"You isn't going till she rounds t' point of t' Chain Rocks, is you,
Doctor? It's all she'll do with the wind and tide against her--if she
does it. I minds more than one good vessel that's left her bones on
them reefs."
"As well stay, I suppose, Jake, for I'll be in time if I do. My! look
at that!" I could not help shouting, as a flaw of wind struck the
schooner right ahead as she was actually in stays, and it seemed she
must either fall in sideways or drive stern foremost on the cliffs.
But almost as quick as the eddy, the staysail and jib were let run and
off her, and her main boom was pushed by a whole gang of men away out
over the rail, so that by altering the points of pressure the good
ship went safely round on her heel, and before we had time to discuss
it, her head sails were up again, and she was racing on her last tack
to enable her to claw through the narrow channel between the Chain
Rocks and the Cannons, which form the last breakwater for the harbour.
"I think she'll do it, Jake!"
"If she once gets in t' narrows and can't fetch t' point, it's all up
with her. I 'lows 'tis time to get them women out of t' hold, anyhow,"
he replied laconically, his eyes riveted all the while on the scene
below. "There's a crowd standing by t' boat, I sees, and them's
putting a line in her," he added a minute or two later, during which
time excitement had prevented either of us from speaking. "Us'll know
in a second one way or t'other."
The crisis had soon arrived. The schooner had once more reached across
the harbour channel, and was for the last time "in stays." A decision
had to be arrived at instantly, and on it, and on the handling of the
vessel, depended her fate.
"He's game, sure enough, whoever he is. He's going for it hit or
miss." And there was a touch of excitement evidenced even in Jake's
undemonstrative exterior.
We could now plainly see the master. He was standing on the
cross-tree, whence he could tell, by looking into the water, almost to
an inch how far it was possible to go before turning.
"She'll do it, Jake, she'll do it. See, she's heading for the middle
of the run."
"She will if she does, and that's all, Doctor. She's falling off all
t' while."
It was only too true. The vessel could no longer head for the point.
Her sails were aback, shaking in the wind, and she now heading
straight for the rock itself. Surely she must at once try to come up
in the wind, stop her way, drop her sails, if possible throw out the
boat, and head for the open before she should strike on one side or
the other of the run.
But no, we could hear the stentorian tones of the skipper on the
cross-trees shouting that which to any but an experienced sailor must
have seemed certain suicide. "Keep her away! Keep her--full! Don't
starve her! Give her way! Up topsail!"--the latter having been let
down to allow the vessel to lie closer hauled to the wind. "Stand by
to douse the head sails! Stand by the topsail!" we heard him shout.
"Stand by to shoot her into the wind!"--and then at last, just as the
crash seemed inevitable, "Hard down! Shoot her up! Down sails!"
We up above, with our hearts in our mouths, saw the plucky little
vessel shoot true as a die up for the point. It was her only chance. I
am sure that I could have heard my own heart beating as I saw her rise
on the swell that ran up on the point, and it seemed to me she stopped
and hung there. But before I could be certain whether she was ashore
or not, another flood of the swell had rushed over the point, and she
was fairly swirled around and dropped down into the safety of the
harbour.
"It's time to be going, Doctor," Jake remarked as he rose from the
ground. "But I 'low t' point won't want painting t' winter," he added,
with a twinkle in his eye. "Howsomever, he's a good one, he is,
wherever he be from, and I don't care who says 'tain't so"--high
praise from the laconic Jake.
The Water Lily was at anchor when we reached the wharf, and a boat
already rowing in to the landing. A minute later, just as I had
expected, Joe was wringing me by the hand, as if he had a design on
the continuity of my bones.
"Nancy's bad," he blurted out. "Won't you come and see her to oncet?"
I smiled in spite of my anxiety as I looked down at my trusty bag.
"I'm all ready," I replied.
The deck of the schooner was crowded with people as we came alongside.
The main hatch had been taken off, and the women and children had come
up for an airing. They, like our friends, were taking their passages
home from their fishing stations. They are known as "freighters."
"The skipper's been awful good, Doctor. When he heard Nancy were sick,
he brought her out of t' hold, and give her his own bunk. But for that
she'd have been dead long ago. She had t' fits that bad; and no one
knowed what to do. She were ill when t' vessel comed into t' harbour,
and t' skipper waited nigh three days till she seemed able to come
along. Then her got worse again. Not a thing have passed her lips this
two days now."
In the little, dark after-cabin I found the sick girl, scarcely
recognizable as the bonny lass whose wedding we had celebrated the
previous winter with such rejoicings. There were two young women in
the cabin, told off to "see to her," the kindly skipper and his
officers having vacated their quarters and gone forward for poor
Nancy's benefit.
The case was a plain one. It was a matter of life and death. Before
morning a baby boy had been brought into the world in that strange
environment only to live a few hours. The following day we ventured to
move the mother, still hanging between life and death, to the
hospital.
And now came the dilemma of our lives. It was impossible to delay the
schooner, as already the crowd on board had lost several days; and it
was not safe or right so late in the year to be keeping these other
families from their homes. The Water Lily, so the kindly captain
informed us, must absolutely sail south the following morning. My own
vessel was in the same plight. We had more work outlined that we must
do than the already forming ice promised to give us time to
accomplish. To send poor Nancy untended to sea in a schooner was
simply to sign her death-warrant. Indeed, I had small hope for her
life anyhow.
Our hospital was on the coast of Labrador, and the remorseless Straits
of Belle Isle yawned forty miles wide between it and the nearest point
of the island home of most of our friends. One belated vessel, still
waiting to finish loading, lay in the harbour. She expected to be a
week yet, and possibly ten days if the weather held bad. An interview
with the skipper resulted in a promise to carry the sick woman to her
harbour if she were still alive on the day of sailing, or news of her
death if she passed away.
Joe had no alternative. He certainly must go on, for he had nothing
for the winter with him, no gear, and no way of procuring any. So it
was agreed that Nancy should be left in our care, and, if alive,
should follow by the schooner. Only poor Nancy was undisturbed next
morning by the creaking of the mast hoops and the squealing of the
blocks--the familiar warning to our ears that a vessel is leaving for
sea. For she lay utterly unconscious of the happenings of the outside
world, hovering between life and death in the ward upstairs.
To whatever cause we ought to ascribe it does not much matter. But for
the time, anyhow, our arrangements "panned out right." The weather
delayed the fish vessel till our patient was well enough to be moved.
Ten days later, sewed up in a blanket sleeping-bag, Nancy was
painfully carried aboard and deposited in a captain's berth--again
most generously put at her disposal.
And so once more she put out to sea.
It was not until the next spring that I heard the final outcome of all
the troubles. Nancy had arrived home in safety, with only one
hitch--her kit-bag and clothing had been forgotten in sailing, and
when at length she reached her harbour, she had had to be carried up
to her home swathed only in a bag of blankets.
Such are but incidents like head winds in the lives of the Labrador
fisher-folk; but those who, like our people, are taught to meet
troubles halfway look at the silver lining instead of the dark cloud.
As for Joe himself, he is still unable to get into his head why these
events should be of even passing interest to any one else.
SALLY'S "TURNS"
"Spin me a yarn, Uncle Eph. I'm fairly played out. We've been on the
go from daylight and I'm too tired to write up the day's work."
"A yarn, Doctor. I'm no hand at yarns," said the master of the
spick-and-span little cottage at which I and my dogs had brought up
for the night. But the generously served supper, with the tin of milk
and the pot of berry jam, kept in case some one might come along, and
the genial features of my hospitable host, slowly puffing at his pipe
on the other side of the fireplace, made me boldly insistent.
"Oh, not anything special, Uncle Eph, just some yarn of an adventure
with your dogs in the old days."
Uncle Eph ruminated for quite a while, but I saw by the solid puffs he
was taking at his pipe that his mind was working. Then a big smile,
broader than ever, lit up his face, and he said slowly:
"Well, if you're so minded, I'll tell you a yarn about a fellow
called 'Sally' who lived down our way in my early days."
At this I just settled down comfortably to listen.
Of course Sally was only a nickname, but on our coast nicknames last a
man all his life. Thus my last patient, a woman of forty-odd years,
trying to-day to identify herself, explained, "Why, you must know my
father, Doctor. He be called 'Powder'--'Mr. Powder,' because of his
red hair and whiskers."
Sally's proper nickname was apparently "Chief," which the boys had
given him because he had been a regular "Huck Finn" among the others.
But in young manhood--some said it was because "Marjorie Sweetapple
went and took Johnnie Barton instead o' he"--somehow or other "Chief"
took a sudden "turn." This expression on our coast usually means a
religious "turn," or a turn such as people take when "they sees
something and be going to die"; it may be a ghost or sign. But this
turn was neither. It was just a plain common "turn."
It had manifested itself in "Chief" by his no longer going about with
the other boys, by his habits becoming solitary, and by his neglecting
his personal appearance, especially in letting his very abundant hair
grow longer than fashion dictates for the young manhood of the coast.
That was the reason some wag one day dubbed him "Absalom," which the
rest caught up and soon shortened to "Sally." In the proper order of
things it should have been "Abe." Wasn't Absalom Sims always called
"Abe"? There was obviously an intentional tinge of satire in this
unusual abbreviation.
Whether it was due to the "turn" or not, the fact remained that at the
advanced age of four and twenty Sally was still unmarried. He lived
and fished and hunted mostly alone. No one, therefore, had much to say
of him, good or bad. In its kindly way the coast just left him alone,
seeing that was what he wished.
As the years went by it happened that hard tunes with a scarcity of
food struck "Frying-Pan Tickle," the hospitable name of the cove where
Sally was reared. Fish were scarce, capelin never struck in, fur
could not be got. This particular season every kind of fur had been
scarce. A forest fire had driven the deer into the country out of
reach. The young bachelor seals, called "bedlamers," that precede the
breeding herd on their annual southern whelping excursion, and
normally afford us a much-needed proteid supply, had evidently skipped
their visit to the bay; while continuous onshore winds made it
impossible in small boats to intercept the mighty rafts, or flocks, of
ducks which pass south every fall. As a rule the ducks "take a spell"
feeding off the shoals and islands as they go on their way, but the
northeaster had robbed our larders of this other supply of meat, which
we are in the habit of freezing up for spring use.
In spite of the ice jam, packed by the unfriendly winds, the men had
ventured to set their big seal nets as usual, not expecting the long
persistence of "weather" that now seriously endangered their recovery.
The time to move to the winter houses up the bay had already passed,
and so the men at last thought best to go on and get them ready and
then come out once more to haul and stow the nets and carry the women
back with them. The long-delayed break came suddenly at last, with a
blue sky and a bright, calm morning, but alas! no wind to move the
packed-in slob ice. So there was no help for it but to get away early
on shanks' pony, if they decided to go on; and that would mean they
would not "reach down" before dark. There were only three of them, but
they were all family men: Hezekiah Black, called "Ky"; Joseph Stedman,
known as "Patsy," and old Uncle John Sanborne. They got under way
bright and early, but the weather clouded up soon after they left, and
a puff or two of wind should have warned them all under ordinary
circumstances to abandon the attempt, or at least to branch off and
take shelter in the "Featherbed Tilt" before trying to cross the White
Hills.
As it was, Uncle John decided to adopt that plan, leaving the younger
men, whom nothing would dissuade from pushing ahead. After all, they
knew every turn of the trail, every rock and landmark on the hillside;
and one need not wonder if the modern spirit of "hustle" finds an echo
even in these far-off wilds. Throwing precaution to the winds, the two
young men pushed on regardless of signs and omens.
Sally just knew it. Nothing would ever convince him that they did not
deserve to get into trouble for not respecting "signs." Even Uncle
John had often talked about "t' foolishness o' signs," and many a time
Ky, once a humble member of Chief's followers, had laughed at what he
called "old women's stuff." But what Sally thought of signs would not
have been of any interest in itself. The interesting thing was that
though he was in the country hunting, having moved long ago to his
winter trapping-grounds, he saw signs enough to make him anxious about
the three fathers of families tramping over the bleak hills that day.
When snow began to fall with a westerly wind, that was sign number
one. Something uncanny was about to happen. Then there was sign
number two of bad weather coming, namely, the tingling in his fingers
and sometimes "a scattered pain in t' joints." So Sally left his
fur-path for the day, hurried back to his tiny home among the trees,
and, calling his dogs together, harnessed them quickly and started at
once for the winter houses at the bottom of Grey Wolf Bay.
A tenderfoot could have told now that they were "in for weather." The
snow by midday was not falling, it was being shovelled down in loads.
The temperature had dropped so rapidly that the flakes, as large as
goose feathers, were dry and light, a fact that with the increasing
wind made the going like travelling through a seething cauldron.
Unfortunately the men were already over the crest of the White Hills
when they realized that the storm which had swept down on them had
come to stay. There was no stemming the gale on the wind-swept ice of
those hillsides, even could they have faced the fiercely driving snow.
All they could do was to hurry along before it, knowing there would be
no shelter for them till they reached Frying-Pan Tickle. For the
forest had retired there beyond the hills before the onslaught of man
and the carelessness that had caused forest fires.
No one who has not been through it has any conception of the
innumerable little accidents which in circumstances like these eat up
the stock of chances for coming through. It did seem foolish that
Patsy got his mittens wet in salt water coming through the broken
ballicater ice as they tried to make the short cut across the Maiden's
Arm; and that they froze while he was trying to warm his hands, so
that he could not get them on again. It sounds like madness on Ky's
part to have let his nor'wester cap get blown away, but it really only
fell from his numbed hands while he was knocking the snow off, and was
instantly swept away in a flurry of snow in the darkness. When the
beam broke in his snow racquet, one of a pair he had absolutely
counted on as beyond accident, he could scarcely get ahead at all.
To stop and try to "boil the kettle" would not only have occupied too
much time, but under the circumstances making a fire was practically
impossible. Neither of the men carried a watch, and the unusual
darkness caused by the thick snow made it impossible for them to tell
what progress they were making. They supposed that surely between the
worst snow "dweys" they would catch sight of some familiar leading
mark, but that proved only another of their small but fatal
miscalculations. The storm never did let up. More than once they
discovered they were out of the track, and, knowing well their danger,
had grudgingly to sacrifice time and strength in groping their way
back to a spot where they could recognize the trail again.
December days are short, anyhow, "down north" and every moment warned
them that the chances of getting out before dark were rapidly
diminishing. All the strength and endurance of which they were capable
were unstintingly utilized to get ahead; but when night finally
overtook them, they knew well that there were several miles to go,
while to move ahead meant almost certainly losing the trail, which
inevitably spelt death. It was only the winter before that Jake
Newman, of Rogers Cove, left his own home after dinner, "just to fetch
in a load of wood," and he wasn't found till three days later, buried
in snow not two hundred yards from his front door, frozen to death.
But if to advance meant death, to stop moving was equally dangerous.
So there was nothing to do but keep moving round and round a big rock
in hopes of living out the long, terrible night.
Meanwhile Sally was under way. Though he knew that the men were crazy
to get back, it was only his surmise that they had started, so he had
to call round at the winter cottages in the bay to make sure. He
realized full well it was a man's job he was about to undertake, and
had no wish to attempt it unnecessarily. As he expected, however, he
found that the houses were all shut up, and such tracks as there were
on the snow about the trail end showed quite clearly three men's
footmarks. "Uncle John's gone with t' others," he muttered to himself.
"I 'low 't is t' last journey some of 'em 'll make, unless they
minded the signs before too late. 'Tis lucky that I hadn't left old
Surefoot at t' tilt; more'n likely I shall be needing he before t'
night's out." And he called his one earthly chum and constant
companion to him, rubbed his head, and made him nose the men's tracks
which he was about to follow.
In spite of his nickname, Sally was no greenhorn on occasions like
this. Every harness was carefully gone over, every trace tested; the
runners and cross-bars of his komatik all came in for a critical
overhauling. The contents of the nonny-bag were amply replenished; the
matches in the water-tight bottle were tested for dampness; his small
compass was securely lashed to the chain of his belt. His one bottle
of spirits, "kept against sickness," was carefully stowed with the tea
and hardtack. A bundle of warm wraps, with his axe, and even a few dry
splits, completed his equipment. Then once more Surefoot was shown the
tracks on the threshold, the trailing loops of the traces were hitched
on their respective toggles, the stern line was slipped, and away
went his sturdy team into the darkness.