proven by the seals, birds, polar bears, and our northern migratory
animals generally, who every year follow in their season the right
trails to their destinations, even though thousands of miles distant
and over pathless seas or trackless snows and barrens. That instinct
is nowhere more keenly developed than in our draught dogs; and amongst
these there are always now and again, as in human relationships, those
that are peerless among their fellows. Surefoot's name, like Sally's
own, was not strictly his baptismal cognomen, the original name of
"Whitefoot" having been relegated to oblivion early in life owing to
some clever trail-following the pup had achieved.
Many men would face an aeroplane flight with a sinking sensation. Many
would have to acknowledge some qualms on a start with "mere dogs" in a
blizzard like this one. But Sally, unemotional as a statue and serene
as a judge, knew his pilot too well to worry, and, stretched out full
length on the sledge, occupied himself with combating the snow in
between "spells" of hauling the komatik out of hopeless snowbanks. "It
won't do to pass the Featherbed without making sure them's not there,"
thought Sally. "If Ky had any wits about him, he'd never try the
Hanging Marshes a night like this." So when at last the team actually
divided round the leading mark-pole, Surefoot having rubbed his side
on it, so straight had he travelled even in that inferno, Sally leaped
off immediately, and, following the line of poles, was cheered to see
sparks issuing from the snug tilt among the trees. But alas, there was
only one man, old Uncle John, resting there safely when Sally came
tumbling in. The cheerful wood fire, the contrast of the warmth and
quiet with the howling and darkness of the storm outside, called
loudly to every physical faculty to stay for the night.
"Where be them gone?" queried Sally as soon as the old man had roused
himself enough to understand the sudden interruption. "Where's Ky and
Patsy? I thought you was all together by t' tracks."
"So we was, so we was, boy. But them's gone on, while I thought I'd
bide till daylight."
The loud wail of the dogs in chorus, as they chafed at being left out
of sight or knowledge of their master's whereabouts, was plainly
audible to both men, and suggested the cruel bleakness of the night
outside.
"Youse isn't going on to look for 'em, is you? There be no chance of
doing nothing a night like this," added the old man.
But Sally was in another world. He could see the two men adrift and
trying to keep life in themselves on the White Hills just as plainly
as the cry made him see his beloved dogs calling to him from the
exposed trail outside.
"There'll be nothing left anyhow to do by morning, Uncle John," he
answered. "Look after yourself well and keep t' fire in; maybe I'll be
back sooner than us expects. Goodnight to you." And Sally disappeared
once more into the night.
They were still alive when Surefoot found them, though far more
played out than one would suppose strong men could be in so short a
time. The extra wraps were at once requisitioned, a ration from the
spirit flask was rapidly given to each, and then, forcing them to sit
down on the sledge, Sally again encouraged Surefoot to take the trail.
Downhill, they managed to move along, but the heavy thatch of snow
made progress difficult on the level and almost impossible uphill,
just when exhaustion made marching impracticable even with a line from
the sledge lashed to their arms. Sally found his last device
unavailable. The men must get off for the uphill work, and that is
what it became increasingly impossible for them to do.
Apparently Ky was the worse off. He didn't seem to know what was going
on. Sally noticed that his hat had gone and thought his head was
freezing, so without hesitation he covered it with his own warm
nor'wester. Ky lay mostly on the komatik now, and it took all Sally's
strength and such little aid as Patsy could give to enable the dogs to
haul up the Frenchman's Leap, usually nearly perpendicular, but now
fortunately sloped off by the heavy drift. Each man had to take a
trace ahead and haul exactly like two big dogs, thus strengthening the
team. At last the komatik topped the brow and was once more coming
along after them. But Patsy was so played out that Sally drove him
back to the sledge, hoping that the dogs could now haul the two men
again. To his horror on reaching the komatik he found the real cause
of its running so much more easily. Ky was gone. Probably he had only
just slipped off. He would go back and look for him. But then he would
lose the dogs. Patsy was too lost to the world to understand anything
or to help. If he went back alone the dogs might follow and he would
lose Patsy as well. Still he must try it. Halting the dogs he turned
the komatik over, driving the upturned nose of the runners deep into
the snow; then he laid Patsy on the top, and, lashing him on, finally
began groping back down the steep rise for the missing man.
Not a sign was to be found; any traces he had left were not only
invisible, but impossible to feel, though he took off his mittens to
try. The pitiless, driving snow instantly levelled off every mark. How
long dare he delay? He remembered at last that even if he found him he
could do no good. He could never carry him up the hill. But he had
tried--had done his best and his conscience felt easier. And then
there was Patsy. He might save Patsy yet. It was right he should go
on. Fortunately the dogs were giving tongue when he crawled and
stumbled once more up the Leap. They knew their master had left them
and had come back to the komatik to wait. Some of them were huddled up
against the motionless body of the man. Surefoot, bolt upright on the
topmost bend, was leading the chorus. The komatik had to be extricated
and righted. Patsy was still breathing. His body must be re-lashed on
the right side; and then once more the weary march began--the march
that was a battle for every inch.
Of the remainder of the journey Sally never had much remembrance. It
was like a moving dream--he knew it was crowded with adventures, but
the details had vanished completely from his ken. It was his old
father who told the remainder of the story. He had turned into bed as
usual, never dreaming any man was astir on such a night as that. He
was sleeping the sleep of the righteous when he suddenly became
conscious of dogs howling. Even dogs would not be out unless they were
in harness on such a night. His own dogs he knew were safely barred
into their kennels after being fed at sundown. For a few minutes he
lay awake and listened. The sounds came no nearer, but they were quite
distinct. There was something astir in the darkness--something
uncanny. Sally would have called it a "sign." Uneasily he arose and
lit the lamp. He could not hear a soul stirring. Even the howling of
the dogs had ceased. Nothing but the noise of the house creaking and
groaning under the wind pressure was discernible. And then, just as
the bitter cold, dark, and loneliness made him long to get into his
warm bed again, the wail of a lone dog was distinctly audible. Uncle
Eben, pulling the lamp safely out of the draught, opened a crack of
the porch door only to be saluted by a rush of cold wind and snow
which nearly swept him off his feet. But again clearer than before
came the wail of the dog.
"He must be hitched up by mistake or in harness," he thought. "I 'low
I'll fire a powder gun."
Going back into the bedroom, the old man warned his wife that he was
going to shoot and not to be frightened. Then taking his old
muzzle-loader, which was always kept ready, from among the lesser
weapons which stood in the gun-rack, he poked the muzzle through the
crack and fired it into the air. True he had thought there might be
some one adrift. But even a prophet could not have imagined that what
did happen could have done so. For the sound of the explosion had not
done echoing through the empty rooms before the door was burst
suddenly in by some heavy body falling against it. The thud of some
weighty mass falling on the floor was all that Uncle Eben could make
out, for the gust through the wide-open door at once extinguished the
light. It seemed as if some huge bird must have been hovering overhead
and have fallen to the charge of the big gun. The door must be shut at
all costs, and shut at once; so Uncle Eben, stooping to feel his way
over the fallen object, put his hands out to find where it lay in the
darkness. Instantly he recognized the body of a man--a man alive too,
but apparently unable to speak or move. Like lightning he had the door
closed. The vigour of youth seemed to leap into his old veins. The
light was soon burning again, to reveal to him the prostrate body of
his own son, ice-covered from head to foot, his hatless head like a
great snow cannon-ball, his face so iced up that it was scarcely
recognizable. No--he was unwounded and there was life in him. "I had
just to thaw his head out first," Uncle Eben said, "and then us rubbed
him and got something down his throat. He roused himself, got up, and
told us his dogs must be snarled up in t' woodpile on the hillside,
only a few minutes away, and he kept signing that there were a man,
possibly still alive, lashed on t' komatik." It was no night for the
old man to go out. "He'd be dead, bless you," before he got anywhere;
and it seemed impossible to let Sally go out again. The stranger must
surely be dead long ago. But, weak as he was, Sally would go. He could
stand now and was once more blundering toward the door. To live and
think he had let a man perish alongside was as impossible to one man
as to the other.
It was Uncle Eben who solved the problem. There were a dozen balls of
stout seal twine lying in the locker. The old man, unable longer to
haul wood or drive dogs himself, spent much of his time knitting up
gear for the boys. He put on Sally his own cap, coat, and mits, tied
the twine round his wrist, and then let him out to find the komatik
again if he could; while if he fell exhausted Uncle Eben could at
least follow the line and perhaps get him back again.
As events turned out they were justified in making the attempt. The
cold wind served only as a lash to Sally's reserve strength and his
grit. That night he certainly found himself again. He reached the
sledge, cut the traces he could not disentangle, and, keeping Surefoot
by him, he cleared the komatik of the woodpile. Once more he hitched
in the dogs, which he knew would make straight for the house, while he
piloted down that last hillside.
* * * * *
Patsy got well again, though his toes and fingers alike were badly
burned. Ky was not found till a few days later. He had evidently
wandered to the edge of the cliffs, which near the Jump fall
perpendicularly a hundred feet on to the rocky beach below, and had
slipped over in the darkness.
Uncle Eben's shot had passed almost immediately over Sally's head. He
remembers being unable to free the dogs, realizing he was close home,
and stumbling on for only a minute or two before something exploded
just above him; then he recalls nothing till Uncle Eben had thawed out
the touselly head and rubbed back the circulation into the frozen
limbs.
The slur so obviously intentional in the old nickname made it
impossible for any one to use it longer. It was unanimously agreed
that he had established most surely his right to his old name of
"Chief," and by this for many years he was known. With the lapse of
years and the advent of grey hairs, even that was gradually recognized
as too familiar, and he received the cognomen of "Uncle," the title of
endearment of the coast, attached to his own name of Ephraim.
Moreover, this proved to be the last of Sally's "turns," for the long
hair and the lonely habits disappeared. The barrier that had grown up
between him and his fellows vanished, as they always do before the
warmth of unselfish deeds--and the next time "Chief" asked a girl the
fateful question, there proved to be no Johnnie Barton in his way.
"Is Sally living still?" I asked, my keenness of interpretation
obscured by weariness or by interest in the details.
"Oh, yes, he's alive all right," replied my host--and my mind at once
apologized, as I realized he had been telling me the story of his own
early life.
THE DOCTOR'S BIG FEE
A crowd of visitors had landed from the fortnightly mail boat, and had
come up to see the sights of our little harbour while our mails and
freight were being landed and the usual two hours were allowed to
collect and put aboard any return packages or letters. The island on
which the station stands is a very small one, attractions are
naturally few, and custom has reconciled us to the experience, strange
enough at first, of being included in the list of "sights."
A nice, cheerful group had just "done the hospital" and its
appendages, and were resting on the rocky hilltop, after seeing the
winter dog-team and examining the hospital reservoir. The
ever-recurrent questions had been asked, and patiently answered--yes,
the ice was cold, but not always wet; the glare of the snow was hard
on the eyes; dogs do delight to bite; and so on. Conversation flagged
a little till some one enquired the names of the headlands and bays
stretching away in succession beneath our view.
"It all looks so grim and cold, and the people seem so scattered and
so poor. Surely they can't pay a doctor's fees?" some one asked.
"That depends on what you mean by a fee. We don't expect to get blood
out of a stone."
"Is all your work done for nothing, then?"
"No, not exactly for nothing. There is no produce of the coast which
has not been used to express gratitude, and 'to help the hospital
along.' Codfish is a common fee. Sealskins, venison, wild ducks,
beadwork, embroidered skinwork, feathers, firewood--nothing is too
bizarre to offer."
"Do they never pay money?"
"Yes, sometimes. Of late years, a little more each year. But when we
began work, they practically never got any with which to pay. The
fur-trading companies settled in kind, values were often measured, not
by so many dollars, but by so many pelts. The traders gave out
supplies on credit, took the fish or fur from their planters in
return, and made up the balance, when there was any, in goods. Even
barter was quite unusual, though some traders had a 'cash price' for
produce paid down at once, besides the credit price."
"Do you think it a sound policy to be providing services, drugs, and
nursing free?" chimed in a grey-bearded old fellow, evidently the
philosopher of the party.
"Sometimes, sir, policies must be adopted which are rendered necessary
for the time by conditions. Besides, as I have said, the people pay
what they can, and, after all, it is they who catch the fish and fur,
reaping harvests for the world's benefit--for not much return."
"Well, I'm glad that you don't do it for nothing, anyhow. That would
be an imposition on the workers as well as on the subscribers."
The old gentleman seemed a bit disgruntled, so I ventured to put my
viewpoint in a different way.
"Do you see that steep, rocky cape over there?" I asked. "It is the
most northerly you can distinguish."
"A great landmark, and worth the journey up here only to look at it,"
he answered with an enthusiasm which showed that he had a tender spot
for Nature's beauties, and that even if the shell was hard, the kernel
was soft.
"There is a little village just behind that head. It is hidden away in
a rift in the mountain which forms a tiny cove for a safe anchorage. I
had as big a fee there only two days ago as ever I received when I was
practising in London."
The company looked up in astonishment, but like Brer Rabbit, I lay low
to see if they cared for an explanation. I thought I saw a twinkle in
my critic's eye as it caught mine.
"Go ahead," was all that he said, however.
* * * * *
Deep-Water "Crik," we call it. About half a dozen fishermen's families
live there. Well, three days ago a boat came over at daylight to see
if they could get a doctor, and I was debating as to the advisability
of leaving the hospital, when an old skipper from a schooner in the
harbour came ashore to tell me: "It's t' old Englishman; Uncle
Solomon they calls him. He's had a bad place this twelvemonth."
"How's the wind outside?"
"Soldier's wind. Abeam both ways."
"Think I could get back to-night?"
"Yes, by after dark."
"Let's get right away, then."
But other calls delayed us, and it was nearly midday before we started
for the cape. Unfortunately, the wind veered as the sun sank, and
"headed" us continually. The northern current was running strong, and
it was just "duckish" when at last we entered the creek.
The former glories of Deep-Water Creek have passed away. Fortune has
decreed that seals and mackerel and even salmon to a large extent
should not "strike in" along that shore. Bad seasons and the wretched
trading system have impoverished the fishermen, while the opening of
the southern mines has taken away some of the most able-bodied. Here
and there a braver cottage still boasts a coat of whitewash and a
mixture of cod oil and red dust on the roof. But for the most part
there is a sombre, dejected look about the human part of the harbour
that suggests nothing but sordid poverty.
It had commenced to rain, and we were wet, cold, and feeling generally
blue as we landed at a small fish stage, whose very cleanliness helped
further to depress us, telling as it did the tale of a bad "voyage."
For now it ought to have reeked of fish and oil; and piles of cod
heads, instead of the cleanest of cold water, should have covered the
rocks beneath. So many of our troubles are due to deficient dietary,
winter was already on our heels, and there seemed to be the shadow of
hunger in the very air.
As soon, however, as we landed, a black-bearded, bright-faced man of
about fifty gave us a hearty greeting, and such evident happiness lit
up his peculiarly piercing eyes that it made us feel a little more
cheerful, even before he had taken us into his house. There we found a
cup of steaming hot tea prepared. That tea did not seem a whit less
sweet, because "there be ne'er a drop o' milk in t' harbour, Doctor,
and molasses be scarce, too, till t' fish be dry."
Everything was so clean that you could have eaten off the floor. The
pots and pans and tin cooking-utensils shone so brightly from the
walls that the flame of the tiny kerosene lamp, reflected from so many
sides at once, suggested ten hundredfold the candle-power it
possessed. A museumful of treasures could not have added to the charm
of the simplicity of the room, which, though small, was ever so cosy
compared with the surroundings outside. Three children were playing on
the hearth with a younger man, evidently their father.
"No, Doctor, they aren't ours exactly," replied our host, in answer to
my question, "but us took Sam as our own when he was born, and his
mother lay dead, and he've been with us ever since. Those be his
little ones. You remember Kate, his wife, what died in the hospital?"
Yes, I remembered her very well, and the struggle we had had in trying
to save her.
"Skipper John," I said as soon as tea was over, "let's get out and
see the old Englishman. He'll be tired waiting."
"Youse needn't go out, Doctor. He be upstairs in bed."
So upstairs, or rather up the ladder, we went, to find the oddest
arrangement, and yet far the most sensible under the peculiar
circumstances. "Upstairs" was the triangular space between the roof
and the ceiling of the ground floor. At each end was a tiny window,
and the whole, windows included, had been divided longitudinally by a
single thickness of hand-sawn lumber, up to the tiny cross-beams.
There was no lofting, and both windows were open, so that a cool
breeze was blowing right through. Cheerfulness was given by a bright
white paper which had been pasted on over everything. Home-made rag
mats covered the planed boards. At one end a screen of cheesecloth
veiled off the corner. Sitting bolt upright on a low bench, and
leaning against the partition, was a very aged-looking woman, staring
fixedly in front of her, and swaying forwards and backwards like some
whirling Dervish. She ceaselessly monotoned what was intended for a
hymn.
"The old gentleman sleeps over there," said the skipper with his head
just above the floor level. He indicated the screened corner, and then
bobbed down and disappeared, being far too courteous a man to intrude.
The old lady took no notice whatever as I approached. No head was
visible among the rude collection of bedclothes which, with a mattress
on the boards, served for the bed.
"Uncle Solomon, it's the Doctor," I called.
The mass of clothes moved, and a trembling old hand came out to meet
mine.
"Not so well, Uncle Solomon? No pain, I hope?"
"No pain, Doctor, thank t' good Lord--and Skipper John," he added. "He
took us in, Doctor, when t' old lady and I were starving."
The terrible cancer in spite of which his iron constitution still kept
him alive had so extended its fearful ravages that the reason for the
veiled corner was at once apparent, and also the effective measures
for ventilation.
The old lady had now caught the meaning of my presence. "He suffers a
lot, Doctor, though he won't say it. If it wasn't for me singing to
him, I don't know how he would bear up." And, strangely enough, even I
had noticed the apparent descent from an odd, dreamy state to crude
realities, as the old lady abandoned her droning, and talked of
symptoms.
"But, Aunt Anne," I said, "you can't keep it up all night as well as
all day?"
"No, not exactly, Doctor, but I mostly sleeps very little." And to my
no small astonishment she now shut up like an umbrella, and at once
recommenced her mesmeric monotone.
When the interview was over, and all my notes made and lines of action
decided, I still did not feel like moving. I was standing in a brown
study when I heard the skipper's voice calling me.
"Be you through, Doctor? There be two or three as wants to see you,"
it said; but it meant, "Is there anything wrong?" The long silence
might mean that the sight had been too much for me.
"There's no hurry, Doctor," it hastened to add, for his quick ear had
caught the noise of my start as I came to earth again.
"What can be the meaning of it all?" I was pondering. Is there any
more explanation to the riddle of life than to Alice in Wonderland?
Are we not all a lot of "slithy toves, that gyre and gimble in the
wabe"--or worse? Must we who love living only regard it as one long
tragedy?
The clinic of Skipper John's lower room included one or two pathetic
tales, and evidently my face showed discouragement, but I confess I
was surprised when the last poor creature had left, to find my host's
hand on my shoulder.
"You'll be wanting a good hot cup o' tea, I knows, Doctor. And t'
wife's made you a bit o' toast, and a taste o' hot berry jam. We are
so grateful you comed, Doctor. T' poor old creatures won't last long.
But thanks aren't dollars."
At that minute his happy, optimistic eyes chanced to meet mine. They
seemed like good, deep water, and just for a second the thought
crossed my mind that perhaps he knew more of the real troubles of life
than his intellectual opportunities might suggest.
"No, Skipper," was all I said. "We doctors, anyhow, find them quite as
scarce."
"Well, Doctor," he added, "please God if I gets a skin t' winter I'll
try and pay you for your visit, anyhow. But I hasn't a cent in the
world just now. The old couple has taken the little us had put by."
"Skipper John, what relation are those people to you?"
"Well, Doctor, no relation 'zactly."
"Do they pay nothing at all?"
"Them has nothing," he replied.
"Why did you take them in?"
"They was homeless, Doctor, and the old lady was already blind."
"How long have they been with you?"
"Just twelve months come Saturday."
"Thanks, Skipper," was all I could say, but I found myself standing
with my hat off in the presence of this man. I thought then, and still
think, I had received one of my largest fees.
TWO CAT'S-PAWS
Jean Marquette had nothing French about him but his name. Indeed
"ne'er a word of French" could the old man remember, for he had lived
for many years on the bleak, northeast side of Labrador; and few folk
knew why, for all his forbears from sunny France had studiously
avoided the Atlantic seaboard.