the crackling logs seemed to materialize before his eyes again the
scenes of his venturous life in the wild, as if they had been
imperishably imprinted in the old trunks which had witnessed them, the
old _coureur de bois_ spirit, and even accent, flashed out as he
carried his listeners back into the gallant days of the men who
founded the great _seigneuries_ which still stretch along the thousand
miles of coast from the barren Atlantic seaboard to the bold heights
of Quebec.
In this country, only separated from the land of Evangeline by a few
miles of salt water, one might reasonably suppose that the good folk
would look to the soil and the peaceful pursuits of Arcady for at
least some part of their daily bread. But, with the exception of a few
watery potatoes, Uncle Johnnie had never "growed e'er a thing in his
life." His rifle and axe, his traps and his lines, had exacted
sufficient tribute from wild nature around him, not only to keep the
wolf from the door, but to lay up in the stocking in his ancient
French trunk dollars enough to give his only child, Marie-Joseph,
quite a little dowry for that coast.
It had often been a puzzle to us why this lonely old man, with no one
belonging to him but one unusually pretty daughter, should have
migrated to the lonely North. He had been asked more than once what
the reason was, but he had always put the curious off by saying,
"Hunting must be a lonesome trade. You wants a lot of room to catch
foxes."
But one night, when he was in a more communicative mood than usual, we
got the whole story out of him.
Late one fall, when the southern fishing craft had gone south, and
the ground was crisp with the first frost of winter, the lovely calm
and sunny October morning had induced him to suggest to his wife that
she should go over to the neighbouring island with their two elder
children, a girl and a boy, and have a picnic, while they gathered
some of the beautiful red cranberries to "stow away" for the winter.
The baby girl, Marie, was left at home with the little servant maid.
The children had jumped for joy at the idea, and early after breakfast
he had rowed them across to the island, returning himself to finish
loading his small schooner with the household goods and chattels which
they must take up the bay to their winter home in the woods. So busy
had he been with work that only as it came time to go off for the
family did he notice how suddenly the weather had chopped around. A
sinister northerly flaw was already rippling the surface of the
hitherto placid sea; and Uncle Johnnie, accustomed to read the sky
like a book, hurried as he seldom did to get the small boat under way.
No one could have driven her faster than he drove her, and the pace
satisfied even his uneasy mind. The "cat's-paw" had stiffened to a
bitter blast behind him, and long before the boat reached the beach,
it was difficult enough to look to windward. Hauling up the boat, he
gave the familiar call which his wife knew so well; but no answer came
to greet him. Following along the shore, and still finding no traces,
he suddenly remembered that there was an old deserted house nearly a
mile farther along, and incontinently he started to run as fast as he
could in its direction. As he drew near, to his infinite joy he caught
sight of smoke issuing from holes in the leaky roof. Calling as he
went, he soon reached the cabin, to find the little party trying to
dry themselves before a wood fire in the crazy stove, which had no
funnelling, and was filling the hut with eye-torturing smoke.
"Come along, Mother," he cried. "There's no time to be lost. If we
hurry, we may get over before dark."
A little delay was caused by the children, who were unwilling to leave
even that pretence of a shelter; and more time was lost crossing the
island, the children having to be carried most of the way. At last,
having placed them all safely in the boat, Uncle Johnnie proceeded to
launch her, and by wading into the water himself, succeeded in keeping
them dry for the start. But the increasing sea soon made even that
sacrifice of little avail, for broken water and driving spray, with
the now heavily falling snow, soon soaked them through and through, at
last half filling the boat itself with water.
Uncle Johnnie knew by instinct that it was now neck or nothing. He
must get across that strip of water if human endurance could do it. So
he kept on and on, long after he might have gone back, and put the
boat before it once more to run for the island only after it was well
dark, and he was being blown astern anyhow in spite of his best
efforts. Nearing the shore, he had every reason to expect disaster,
for the boat was now half filled, and he could see no place to make a
landing. So as soon as his oars struck bottom he once more jumped
into the water, and, holding the boat in his iron grip, he dragged it
and its precious freight once more out of the furious violence of the
sea.
The children by this time were quite unable to "travel"; so, sending
his wife ahead, Uncle Johnnie struggled along with the little ones as
best he could.
Alas, all of them were thoroughly beaten out. As he passed a big
boulder halfway across the island which served as a landmark for the
pathway, Uncle Johnnie found his poor wife lying in the snow, and
already beyond any help he could give. Hurrying on to the cottage as
best he could, he deposited the children, and once more fled out into
the darkness for his wife, only to be, as he feared, too late, and to
be obliged to leave her where she had fallen. Distracted as he was, he
could only once more hurry to the hut, where again nothing but
disaster awaited him. The place was flooded, the fire was out, no dry
matches were left, and the little boy was already following his mother
into the great beyond. Tearing off his coat and shirt, and pressing
the little girl to his naked skin, he covered himself up again as
best he could, and was actually able by moving about the whole night
long, not only to keep himself alive, but to preserve the vital spark
in his little daughter. Help came in the morning from the nearest
neighbour some miles away, who had been given the alarm by the servant
maid from his home. But there was still one more loss for him to meet,
his little daughter failing to react to all their tenderest efforts to
bring her back to life.
Before Marie was out of her teens, half the young bloods of the
neighbourhood were courting around Uncle Johnnie's house. But none of
them ever made any headway, for Uncle Johnnie clung to his one ewe
lamb with almost childish dependence, and guarded her with all the
wiles of his lifelong woodcraft.
"'T is natural enough," thought young Ned Waring, "that t' old man
don't want to part with she. For there be nothing else for he round
here now. Every stone on t' beach reminds he of his terrible
misfortune." He had said this often enough before, but one day it
struck him-- "When you wants to outwit a beaver, youse got to bank on
dem t'ings that are real part of his make-up, and which he can no more
help than a bear can help licking molasses. Fishing isn't as good as
it used to be round here, and swiles[1]--well, there be'ant one year
in a dozen when they comes in any quantity. I reckon I'll rig t' Saucy
Lass for a longer trip t' year, and see what luck'll bring lower down
t' Labrador."
So it came to pass that year that on a day in June, with his two
brothers and a shipped "hand," Ned landed north of fifty-three in a
lovely cove in some islands off the mouth of a long bay. Even as he
passed in he had seen fish schooling so thick "you could catch 'em by
the tails." His vessel safely anchored, he went ashore, much as did
the old navigators in the brave days of the French explorers. No sign
of human beings existed anywhere. Thick groves of evergreen trees
covered all the slopes of the valleys which held the river in whose
mouth they had anchored. But though signs of rabbits, foxes, and
other game greeted their trained eyes, not a living animal was to be
seen moving anywhere.
It so happened, however, that as they stretched themselves out on the
brow of the hill before returning to their schooner, Ned chanced to
disturb a large bee, which resented painfully the intrusion of these
idlers on his labours. It was an insect rare enough on Labrador; so,
taking the overture as a touch of personal interest rather than
hostility, they christened their cove "Bumble-Bee Bight," and the home
which they partly built before the winter drove them south again, "the
Hive"; while for purposes of his own Ned left the island unnamed.
The trip proved a bumper one. They carried a full fare home; and big
were the rumours which got around of the fisherman's paradise which
Ned Waring had discovered. When the voyage was turned in, Ned was able
to purchase every essential and many comforts for the new home in the
North, and yet have a balance coming to him large enough to furnish
him with the bravest winter outfit a young suitor could wish.
Uncle Johnnie was, however, all the time "one too many" for him as
well as all the rest; and never was he able to catch Marie alone.
Things went on uneventfully through Christmas and the New Year. The
old man no longer drove dogs. He spent almost all his time pottering
around his own house, now and again cleaving a few billets of wood;
but to all intents and purposes he was hibernating like one of our
Labrador bears.
When March month once more came around, the magic word "swiles" was
whispered from mouth to mouth, and Uncle Johnnie woke up like a weasel
when a rabbit is about. Every day he sallied up to his lookout on the
hill, telescope in hand, at stated hours. But the hours were so timed
that Marie could always go with him.
"Swiles" are second nature to most Labrador men. As for Uncle Johnnie,
he would leave his Christmas dinner any time if any one came and
called, "Swiles!" He would rather haul a two-dollar pelt over "t'
ballicaters" than make two hundred in any other way.
"So I reckoned," said Ned cannily, "one chance to make t' old man
friendly was to put him in t' way o' doing again what he was really
scarcely able to do any longer; and that was, to have as many notches
on his gaff-stick for dead seals as any other man.
"It were, however, longer than I cares to remember now, before much of
a chance come my way, but it come at last. T' spring had been that
hard and that quiet that I 'lows us could have walked over to t' Gaspe
shore if us had been so minded. T' standing ice never broke up from
Christmas to April month; and there'd been ne'er a bit of whelping ice
near enough to see with a spyglass, or a swatch big enough for an old
harp to put his whiskers through. So when us woke one morning and
found that t' sea had heaved in overnight unbeknownst to us, and that
there was lakes of blue water everywhere, every man was out with his
rope and gaff, as natural as a young duck takes to water.
"That evening t' ice packed in again, and by nightfall it all seemed
fast as ever. There was always a big tide made round Cape Blowmedown,
and as t' land fell sharp away on each side of it, it were never too
safe to go off very far on t' ice. But, that being a bad year, every
man was on his mettle, and us all took more chances than was real
right.
"From t' bluff of t' head Uncle Johnnie had spied old and young seals
on t' ice before most of t' boys was out o' bed; and us had a dozen or
so on t' rocks before t'others was out t' ice at all. As those near t'
land got cleaned up, us went a bit farther out each time; and more'n
one seal I didn't exactly see so's to give Uncle Johnnie a better
chance, and to let me keep all t' time outside o' he.
"Just before it came dark and we was two or three miles out, t' wind
shifted all of a sudden and came off t' land. Uncle Johnnie had a tow
of three big pelts, and, believe me, heaven and earth wouldn't have
made he leave them swiles behind. I'd left mine just as quick as I
felt t' shift, and never let on I had any, so's I could rope up Uncle
Johnnie's load and hustle him toward t' land. But t' ice was that
hummicky it was an hour before us got near, and there we were, almost
dark, t' ice broken off, driving along about twenty yards from t'
standing ice almost as fast as a man could walk, and t' wind
freshening every minute. There was about a mile to t' bill of t' Cape,
and after that there'd be no hope whatever.
"Four years before Jim Willis and his brother Joe had been caught just
t' same way. Joe had perished in his brother's arms next day after
he'd carried him for some hours, and Jim had drifted ashore on t'
second day with only a spark of life left in him.
"Every other man had been ashore and gone home for long ago, not
knowing we was working outside, and only one chance were left for we.
For t' gap of water was getting wider every minute, and there wasn't a
loose pan to ferry over on big enough to float a dog. So I shouted to
Uncle Johnnie to run along t' ice edge back up the bay just as hard as
he could go, and I'd jump into t' water and swim for t' standing ice
edge. I never expected to get out again, but t' good Lord arranged it,
I suppose, that I should strike a low shelf running off level with t'
water, and by kicking like a swile, I was able to climb up and on to
the ballicaters.
"There was always a boat hauled up on t' cape for men gunning to get
birds or swiles, and t' only chance was to get there and launch her
before t' ice passed out. T' rise and fall of t' tide had piled up t'
ballicaters at t' foot of t' cliffs like young mountains, and it was
already dark, too, while my wet clothes froze on me like a box. I
reckon that saved my legs from being broken more'n once, for I fell
into holes and slid down precipices, and, anyhow, next day I was black
and blue from head to toe--though for that matter I'd have been green
and pink glad enough to have t' chance it gave me.
"Anyhow, I got t' boat in t' water at last, and pulled out toward t'
floe, but ne'er a sign could I make out of Uncle Johnnie. There
weren't a moment for waste, for spray was drifting over t' punt, and
she was icing up that fast that if we lost much time I knew that it
was good-bye to home for both of us. So I had to risk hauling her up
on t' ice, while I ran along t' edge, shouting for all I knew. I
hadn't gone many yards before I stumbled right over t' old man. In t'
dark he had slipped into a lake of water that had gathered on t' ice,
and was about half-dead already. For I had been moving and hadn't
noticed t' time, and Uncle Johnnie had given out quickly, thinking I
were lost, anyhow. Well, in t' dark it was not an easy job to
half-carry t' old man back to where I'd left t' boat. But when you
must 'tis wonderful what you can do; and even dragging him weren't as
hard as rowing ashore against t' wind.
"T' men thought us would never reach land, for t' ice made so fast on
t' punt and oars, and us were carried well outside t' bill while I was
getting Uncle Johnnie. When we did at last make t' standing ice edge,
it would have been t' end again if Marie hadn't been clever enough to
go and rouse out t' boys, and come with them right to t' very edge of
t' ice looking for us. And she hadn't forgotten some hot stuff nor a
blanket neither. She told us afterwards that she saw Uncle Johnnie
perishing of cold away out off t' cape before she left t' cottage,
just as clear as she did when t' boys hauled us out of t' punt.
"Uncle Johnnie pulled round in a day or so, but I pulled round early
next morning, and those two days gave me t' first chance I'd had to
get to windward of t' old man, and have Marie for an hour or two by
herself.
"T' business soon blew over, as I knew it would, and what's more,
Uncle Johnnie were no more for letting any one get Marie away from him
than he'd been afore. Indeed, it seemed to me that it made him cling
closer to she than ever; and I got real down-hearted when it come time
to fit out t' Saucy Lass for North Labrador once more.
"Lucky for me, I'd made t' most of my time when Uncle Johnnie were
ill, and talked many times to Marie about how her father might get
young again if he could go where he could forget the old scenes. So
when we had had t' schooner painted up and launched, and t' sails bent
and began getting firewood and things aboard, I got her to talk to he
about coming along with we.
"I've often noticed how t' very things you thought t' last on earth to
happen come about just as easy as falling off a log. When I went over
next morning to pretend to say good-bye, Marie whispered in my ear,
'He really wants to go. He only wants asking'--and before night we had
it all arranged. We was to fix up t' hold for him and Marie, and
they'd come along and make a new home alongside us at Bumble-Bee
Bight.
"I won't trouble you with t' story of t' voyage down, only to say that
we found that two could play better than one at hide-and-seek. When at
last we anchored off t' river mouth, Uncle Johnnie was fair delighted.
Nothing would satisfy him but he must choose a spot for his new house
right away. But meanwhile t' cargo had to be stored in t' 'Hive' out
o' t' weather. Uncle Johnnie was always extra careful about his
things and wouldn't allow no one but he to handle 'em. So Marie went
up to get a fire and tidy up, while t' old man handed t' things up to
we. For my part I found that I had to stay up at t' 'Hive' and help
arrange t' goods as they came along; and, 'lowing it might be t' last
chance, for we'd be into t' fishery straight away, I up and asked
Marie if it wouldn't be as well not to build another house after all.
All I wanted was her to share t' house we'd built already; and Uncle
Johnnie would be less lonesome than he'd ever been since his accident,
because instead of losing one, he'd be getting two. I'm not telling
you all what was said; as I'd told t' boys not to hurry with t'
unloading, and Uncle Johnnie didn't get ashore till real late. By that
time it was all fixed up, but nothing was to be said till the house
was ready next night.
"When us come in together hand in hand that evening, Uncle Johnnie had
started his pipe after tea. He guessed right away something was up,
but maybe he had guessed something before. All he said was, 'Well,
Ned, all my bridges is burnt behind me, as you know, anyhow, and if
it hadn't been for you, there'd be no need of asking any one for
Marie, for I'd have been gone. So I can't well say no; and she might
go farther and fare worse for sure. So I'll just leave it to Marie
herself, and if she says so, so it shall be.'
"And that's all there is to tell about it. Sure people often wonders
how others came to live 'way down on these lonesome shores. But
Marquette Islands have given me fish and fur and good life, with ne'er
a cent owing to any man, and there's four fine youngsters to help out
when we can no longer fend for ourselves."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Seals.
THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE
"They brought in a blind man last night," said the house surgeon. "It
only seemed a case of starvation, so I didn't call you."
"Where is he from?"
"About thirty miles in the country down north somewhere. Apparently he
has been living at the bottom of a bay 'way out of the line of the
komatik trail. Formerly he could get firewood easily, and a few bay
seals and game to live on. He seems too proud to let people know how
badly off he was."
"What's the history?"
"He has a wife and two girls, who appear to be in almost as poor shape
as he is himself. He has been gradually growing blind for some time,
and was up here two years ago to see the eye specialist. His name is
Emile Moreau."
"A Frenchman! Why, I remember the man perfectly. A slow-growing
cerebral tumor."
He had been under observation for some weeks, and we had had to decide
that he would not be benefited by an operation. So he went away,
promising to return soon. But this is the way he had kept his promise.
A few minutes later I stood by the bedside of the blind Frenchman. The
poor fellow was a skeleton, with the characteristic sunken face and
fallen skin with which we are familiar in those living on what we know
as "dry diet." He had nothing to say for himself except, "Times has
been none too good, Doctor. It is a bad country when a fellow can't
see where he is going. 'T is many an odd tumble I've had, too,
knocking around." Emile had been away from France for many a long day,
and the only English he had ever heard was the vernacular of our
Northern Coast.
"How's your wife and the kiddies you told us about when you were here
last time? It strikes me that they may have had a tumble too."
"Well, I 'lows, Doctor, them has been clemmed up on times. But,
Jeanie, she never says nothing; she's that busy with t' things I can't
do. She 'lowed she'd stay and mind t' children till I get better a
bit. No, that's right. She hasn't much grub. But us uses very little,
and she never complains."
Two days later our good dogs brought in the rest of the family--the
babes to the warm welcome and plenty at the Children's Home, while one
of the pluckiest little women I have ever known, even in a country of
brave and self-reliant women, was carried into the hospital partially
paralyzed with beri-beri. She was so close to the gate from which
there is no returning that it took our nurses six months to wean her
back to another spell of usefulness.
It was no ordinary conundrum which vexed my mind when the house
surgeon at last announced, "These Moreau patients are well enough to
leave hospital," though I had realized that for good or evil the day
was near.
Neither had said a word about the future. The worst feature of sending
them out was the personal affection which their lessons in contentment
had kindled in us. How could this helpless family ever hope to keep
the wolf from the door. A council of war was called the same evening,
and some neighbours who well knew the dilemma in which we found
ourselves asked to be allowed to attend. There was an old shack in the
compound in which some workmen had once been housed, and which had
subsequently been used as a small store-house. It was proposed, in the
absence of funds, for all hands to assault this stronghold, and
convert it as far as possible into a habitable home.
Thus came into existence what developed later into the general
headquarters of the "triple entente."
To relieve the situation, one child was adopted by a childless,
well-to-do neighbour, and the other was left for education and care
with our little wards in the Home. Emile learned basket-work; Jeanie
took in washing. The Moreau exchequer once more was in funds. But two
difficulties soon presented themselves. There was a glut in our basket
market, and Emile found life without being able to move out of the
house almost more than a man born to the sea and the trail could
bear. Small dogs in civilization are wont to fill this gap. But alas,
"down North" small dogs are taboo--their imperious Eskimo congeners
having decided against them.
There happened to be at this time also under our care an Eskimo lad
from the Far North, whom we had picked up suffering with a form of
lung trouble which only the radical operation of collapsing one side
of his chest wall could relieve. The ribs had been removed. The boy
had recovered slowly; but, having only a very limited breathing
capacity, he had been allowed to remain for the chores he could do.
Without kith, kin, or even fellow countrymen, he was a veritable
pelican in the wilderness without any home attachments--and a very
serious problem to ourselves.
Emile could cut wood, being strong as a horse and an excellent axeman;
but he could not find it alone. He could carry heavy packages, but he
could not find his way. He could haul water, but could not
economically direct his energies. Karlek's eyes were the best part of
him. So it came about that one morning on the way to the hospital I
met Emile whistling like a newly arrived robin in spring, his hand on
Karlek's shoulder, and on his back a heavy sack of potatoes which he
was bringing up to the hospital kitchen from the frost-proof cellar in
the cove.
It brought a smile to one's lips to see the nonchalance and almost
braggadocio of his gait as he stepped out boldly, covering the ground
at a speed which was itself a luxury to one so long cut off from that
_joie de vivre_ of a strong man. And more, it brought a smile to one's
soul to see the joy of victory flashing in the features of the
upturned face--the triumph of the man over the pitifulness of his
sightless eyes. The international dual alliance was making its debut
on the field. The firm of Karlek and Moreau, Eskimo and Frenchman, had
come to stay.