themselves on a moving object--a tiny whiff of blue smoke was curling
up from the woods on the other side of the valley. Gentle though he
was, his big muscles set and his jaw tightened as the idea of revenge
flashed across his mind.
A man does not learn to outwit successfully the keen senses of the
denizens of the woods without finding it easy to solve a problem such
as the one which Malcolm now faced. For all that, he decided not to
approach too close till dark what he was now sure was a hut, for the
way the smoke rose was quite unlike that from an open fire. Having,
therefore, plenty of time, he made a long and cautious detour till he
had at last completely encircled the spot. There were the marks of one
pair of snow racquets only on the snow. The trail was possibly three
days old. No snow had fallen for several days. "Reckon he is taking a
good spell with that catch of his."
This much he knew. He knew the stranger was in or close to the tilt.
He was not trapping, though he had been inside the circle for several
days, and he had no dogs.
As it fell dark, Malcolm fully expected to see a light in the hut,
but not a twinkle showed through the single-pane window light, which
he had located from his hiding-place.
Now he was crawling nearer. There was no chance of his being seen, as
the moon had not yet risen and it was very dark among the trees. A
light wind had risen, rustling the firs and spruces above his head.
The fire worried him. Why had it almost died out? Heaven knows it was
cold enough to need one, for with all his warm blood Malcolm himself
was shivering. What could it mean?
Suddenly he heard some one move inside. Then came the noise of sticks
hitting a tin camp-stove and a sudden blaze flared up, burnt for a
minute or two, and apparently went out again. Whoever it was must be
ill, or hurt. He had no big billets or he wouldn't be firing with
twigs.
It could not do any harm now to enter, and Malcolm strode noisily to
the door and peered inside.
A man's weak voice greeted him. "Who's there? For God's sake, come
in."
"My name's Malcolm McCrea. Where's your light?"
"Haven't got one. I've no candle either," came the answer. "Had an
accident three days ago with my gun, and nearly blew my foot off. My
leg's swelled up something wonderful."
The voice, feeble almost to a whisper, conveyed no information as to
the man's identity, except that the Scotchman's quick ear detected
that there was resentment somehow mixed with satisfaction that a
rescuer had come.
"I've a drop of kerosene in my nonny-bag," was all Malcolm said, "but
it's scarce, and I 'low I'll cut up some wood and get t' fire going
before lighting up. You lie quiet for a minute or two and I'll get you
a drop of tea."
"Lie quiet!" snarled the other. "I've lain quiet for three days, and
expected to stay till doomsday. It's no virtue keeps me lying quiet. I
had no business to be here, anyhow, seeing there was no need of it."
"Well, do as you please," answered McCrea. And without much delay he
soon had a roaring fire in the camp-stove which turned the chimney
red-hot and made it possible to see dimly stretched out on a bed of
fir boughs the long, thin form of a man whose drawn, unshaven face
showed that he was suffering much pain. His right foot was swaddled in
an ominously stained bundle of rags--evidently some torn-up garment.
Methodically lighting the bit of wick which he had placed in the
kerosene bottle, Malcolm knelt down by the side of the injured man
and, peering into the semi-darkness of the gloomy corner, found
himself looking right into the eyes of Roderick Norman.
Having made some hot tea and shared it with the sick man, he offered
him part of the pork and hard biscuit, all that he had with him for
his own supper. But Roderick was too feeble to touch more than a bit
of it soaked in hot tea, and that seemed a small strength-giver for
such a time of need.
"If you'd a bit o' wire or line, I'd tail a snare for a rabbit when
the moon rises and try if we couldn't get a drop o' hot stew to help
out. But I haven't a bit in my bag."
"There's a couple o' traps," growled the sick man, and then stopped
suddenly, shutting his jaws with a snap.
Malcolm looked around, but was unable to see any signs of them. "Where
did you say they were?" he enquired; but no response came from the
bunk.
McCrea finished his supper, lit his pipe, and suggested trying to wash
the wounded foot. But fearing to start the bleeding again, they
decided to leave it till morning.
"Where are those traps you spoke of, sir? The moon is beginning to
show and I'll be needing to get 'em put out, if we're to have any
chance." But still the other man made no answer. Malcolm went up close
to the bed and knelt down by him again. "Mr. Norman," he said, "we're
in a bad hole here. We're fifty miles from help, anyhow. We've no dogs
and only one of us can walk. Moreover, there's almost no food. If
you've got any traps, why not tell me where they are. I'm not going to
steal 'em."
Roderick Norman opened his eyes and looked at him. The dim rays of
the little wick in the kerosene bottle gave scarcely enough light to
show the ordinary eye where the lamp itself was. But when their
glances met, it was enough to show Roderick that it was no longer a
child with whom he was dealing. For a second neither spoke, then
Malcolm, putting his hand on the man's shoulder, gripped it perhaps
more roughly than he intended. "The traps," he repeated.
Roderick winced. He saw that his secret was out. He was at the
Scotchman's mercy, and he knew it. "They're stowed in t' hollow of t'
old trunk, fifty yards back of t' tilt, damn you," he snarled, and
tried to roll over, groaning bitterly with pain of both body and soul.
The pity of it appealed straight to Malcolm's generous heart, and his
grip relaxed instantly. He strove to make the other more comfortable,
moving him gently in his great arms.
"Forget it, Mr. Norman," he said. "No one shall ever know unless you
tell 'em. I'll give you my word for that." The sick man said nothing.
His deep breathing, painfully drawn, was, however, enough in that
dead silence to warn Malcolm of the struggle going on so close to
him--a struggle so much more momentous than one of tooth and claw. He
slipped his hand into that of the other and held it gently.
"You're very hot, sir," he remarked, just for something to say. "Shall
I get you some cold water?"
But still there was no answer. Evidently the man's mind was engrossed
with other thoughts. A long pause followed.
"Mr. Norman, for God's sake, forget it. No one's been hurt but
yourself. If there's been any wrong, it's all forgiven and forgotten
long ago. Let's just begin again. Remember 't is Christmas Eve night."
Still there was no reply, but McCrea's intuition saved him from the
mistake of saying more. The stillness became uncanny. Then an almost
imperceptible pressure of the sick man's hand sent a thrill vibrating
through the Scotchman's soul. Yes, and he had himself returned the
pressure before he knew it. A shiver passed over the sick man's frame
and the silence was broken by a sob.
With an innate sense of fellow-feeling, Malcolm laid down the other's
hand, rose, and went out without a word. The night was perfect with
the glorious light of the waning moon. His mind was at once made up.
He would be home by daylight and back again with his dogs by midday,
with stimulants and blankets, and could have Roderick in Nancy's
skilled hands before night.
Noiselessly opening the door, he filled the stove once more, piled up
spare billets close to the bedside, laid out what food was left,
placed his kettle full of water on the ground within reach of the sick
man, and, just whispering, "I'll be back soon, sir," disappeared into
the night.
How fast he sped only the stars and moon shall say. But joy lent him
wings which brought him home before daylight. His faithful dogs,
keeping their watch and ward out in the snow around his house, first
brought the news to Nancy that her man was back so soon.
A few minutes served to explain how matters stood, and in a few more
everything was ready. The coach-box was strapped on the komatik. The
bearskin rug and a feather bed were lashed inside it, with all the
restoratives loving care could think of, and with the music of the
wild barking of the dogs echoing from the mountain and valley, the
sledge went whirling back over the crisp snow--the team no less
excited than Malcolm himself at this unexpected call for their
services.
Everything was silent as once more they approached the scene of
trouble. The dogs, panting and tired, having had no spell since they
started, no longer broke the stillness with their barking. Malcolm
hitched them up a hundred yards or so from the tilt, preferring to
approach it on foot. He had long ago noticed that no smoke was coming
from the funnel and it made his heart sink, for even in the woods the
cold was intense.
Malcolm always says that he knew the meaning of it before he opened
the door. Roderick Norman had gone to spend his first Christmas in
happier hunting-grounds.
THE LEADING LIGHT
It was getting late in the year. The steep cliffs that everywhere
flank the sides of the great bay were already hoary with snow. The big
ponds were all "fast," and the fall deer hunt which follows the
fishery was over. Most of the boats were hauled up, well out of reach
of the "ballicater" ice. The stage fronts had been taken down till the
next spring, to save them from being torn to pieces by the rising and
falling floe. Everywhere "young slob," as we call the endless round
pans growing from the centre and covering the sea like the scales of a
salmon, was making. But the people at the head of the bay were still
waiting for those necessities of life, such as flour, molasses, and
pork, which have to be imported as they are unable to provide them for
themselves, and for which they must wait till the summer's voyage has
been sent to market and sold to pay for them.
The responsibility of getting these supplies to them rested heavily on
the shoulders of my good friend John Bourne, the only trader in the
district. Women, children, whole families, were looking to him for
those "things" which if he failed to furnish would mean such woeful
consequences that he could not face the winter without at least a
serious attempt to provide them.
In the harbour lay his schooner, a saucy little craft which he had
purchased only a short while before. He knew her sea qualities; and as
the ship tugged at her chains, moving to and fro on the swell, she
kept a fine "swatch" of open water round her. Like some tethered
animal, she seemed to be begging him to give her another run before
Jack Frost gripped her in his chilly arms for months to come. The fact
that he was a married man with hostages to fortune round his knees
might have justified his conscience in not tempting the open sea at a
time when frozen sheets and blocks choked with ice made it an open
question if even a youngster ought to take the chances. But it
happened that his "better half," like himself, had that "right stuff"
in her which thinks of itself last, and her permission for the venture
was never in question.
So Trader Bourne, being, like all our men, a sailor first and a
landsman after, with his crew of the mate and a boy, and the handicap
of a passenger, put to sea one fine afternoon in late November, his
vessel loaded with good things for his necessitous friends "up along."
He was encouraged by a light breeze which, though blowing out of the
bay and there ahead for him, gave smooth water and a clear sky.
To those who would have persuaded him to linger for a fair wind he had
cheerfully countered that the schooner had "two sides," meaning that
she could hold her own in adversity, and could claw well to windward;
besides, "'t will help to hold the Northern slob back"--that
threatening spectre of our winters.
When darkness fell, however, very little progress had been made. The
wind kept shifting against the schooner, and all hands could still
make out the distant lights of home twinkling like tiny stars,
apparently not more than a couple of miles under their lee.
"Shall us 'hard up,' and try it again at day light?" suggested the
mate. "If anything happens 't is a poor time of year to be out all
night in a small craft."
But the skipper only shrugged his shoulders, aware that the mate was
never a "snapper" seaman, being too much interested in gardens for his
liking.
"It's only a mile or two to Beach Rock Cove. We'll make it on the next
tack if the wind holds. 'T is a long leg and a short one, and we'll
have a good chance then to make the Boiling Brooks to-morrow."
"Lee oh!" and, putting the helm up, the Leading Light was soon racing
off into the increasing darkness towards the cliffs away on the
opposite side of the bay.
The wind freshened as the evening advanced--the usual experience of
our late fall nights. An hour went by, and as the wind was still
rising, the flying jib was taken in. After this the captain sent the
crew below for a "mug o' tea" while he took the first trick at the
wheel.
Still the wind rose. The sea too was beginning to make, and the little
craft started to fall to leeward too much to please the skipper. The
men were again called, and together they reset all the head canvas.
The Leading Light now answered better to her helm, and, heading up a
point, reached well into the bay.
"Smooth water again before dawn," said the skipper in his endeavour to
cheer the despondent mate, when once more they had gone aft. "Looks
like clearing overhead. I reckon she'll be well along by daylight."
But the mate seemed "stun," and only grunted in return.
"You go down and finish supper, and then you can give me a spell at
the wheel while I get my pipe lighted," continued the captain.
Thereupon the other, nothing loath to have something to keep his mind
diverted, was soon below, searching for consolation in a steaming mug,
but failing to find it, in spite of the welcome contrast between the
cosy warm cabin, and the darkness and driving spume on deck, lacking
as he did, alas, the sea genius of our race.
"Watch on deck!" at length called Bourne; and a few minutes later,
having entrusted the helm to the mate, he was lighting his pipe at the
cabin fire. All of a sudden down, down, down went the lee floor of the
cabin, and up, up, up went the weather, till it felt as if the little
ship were really going over.
"What's up?" the skipper fairly yelled through the companion, as
clinging and struggling his utmost he forced his way on deck, as soon
as the vessel righted herself enough to make it possible. "Hard down!
Hard down! Let her come up! Ease her! Ease her!"--and whether the puff
of wind slackened or the mate lost hold of the wheel, he never has
been able to tell, but she righted enough for a moment to let him get
on the deck and rush forward to slack up the fore-sheet, bawling
meanwhile through the darkness to the mate to keep her head up, as he
himself tore and tugged at the rope.
The schooner, evidently well off the wind, yet with all her sheets
hauled tight and clewed down, was literally flying ahead, but trying
to dive right through the ponderous seas, instead of skimming over and
laughing at them, as the captain well knew she ought to do. There
wasn't a second to lose pondering the problem as to why she would not
come up and save herself. Difficult and dangerous as it was in the
pitch dark with the deck slippery with ice, and the dizzy angle at
which it stood, the only certain way to save the situation was to let
go that sheet. Frantically he struggled with the rope, firmly clinched
though it was round its cleats with the ice that had made upon it.
Knowing how sensitive the vessel was and that she would answer to a
half-spoke turn of the wheel, and utterly at a loss to understand her
present stubbornness, he still kept calling to the helmsman, "Hard
down! Hard down!"--only to receive again the growling answer, "Hard
down it is. She's been hard down this long time."
It was all no good. Up, up came the weather rail under the terrific
pressure of the wind. The fore-sheet was now already well under water,
cleat and all, and the captain had just time to dash for the bulwark
and hold on for dear life, when over went the stout little craft,
sails, masts, and rigging, all disappearing beneath the waves. It
seemed as if a minute more and she must surely vanish altogether, and
all hands be lost almost within sight of their own homes.
Tumultuous thoughts flooded the captain's mind as for one second he
clung to the rail. Vain regrets were followed like lightning by a
momentary resignation to fate. In the minds of most men hope would
undoubtedly have perished right there. But Captain Bourne was made of
better stuff. "Nil desperandum" is the Englishman's soul; and soon he
found himself crawling carefully hand over hand towards the after end
of the vessel. Suddenly in the darkness he bumped into something soft
and warm lying out on the quarter. It proved to be his passenger,
resigned and mute, with no suggestion to offer and no spirit to do
more than lie and perish miserably.
Still climbing along he could not help marking the absence of the mate
and the boy from the rail, which standing out alone against the
sky-line was occasionally visible. Doubtless they must have been
washed overboard when the vessel turned turtle. There was some heavy
ballast in the schooner besides the barrels of flour and other
supplies in her hold. Her deck also was loaded with freight, and alas,
the ship's boat was lashed down to the deck with strong gripes beneath
a lot of it. Moreover, it was on the starboard side, and away down
under water anyhow. Though every moment he was expecting the Leading
Light to make her last long dive, his courage never for a second
deserted him.
He remembered that there was a new boat on the counter aft which he
was carrying with him for one of his dealers. She was not lashed
either, except that her painter was fast to a stanchion. It was just
possible that she might still be afloat, riding to the schooner as a
sea anchor. Still clinging to the rail he peered and peered through
the darkness, only to see the great white mainsail now and again
gleam ghostlike in the dim light when the super-incumbent water foamed
over it, as the Leading Light wallowed in the sullen seas. Then
something dark rose against the sky away out beyond the peak end of
the gaff--something black looming up on the crest of a mighty comber.
An uncanny feeling crept over him. Yet what else could it be but the
boat? But what could that boat be doing out there? Fascinated, he kept
glaring out in that direction. Yes, surely, there it flashed again
across the sky-line. This time he was satisfied that it was the boat,
and that she was afloat and partly protected by the breakwater formed
by the schooner's hull. She was riding splendidly. In an instant he
recalled that he had given her a new long painter; and that somehow
she must have been thrown clear when the ship turned over. Anyhow, she
was his only chance for life. Get her he must, and get her at once.
Every second spelt less chance of success. Any moment she might break
adrift or be dragged down by the sinking schooner. And then came the
horrible memory that she too had been stowed on the lee side, and her
painter also was under the mainsail and fastened now several feet
below the surface. Even the sail itself was under water, and the sea
breaking in big rushes over it with every comber that came along.
To get the boat was surely impossible. It only added to the horror of
the plight to perish there miserably of cold, thinking of home and of
the loved ones peacefully asleep so near, while the way to them and
safety lay only a few fathoms distant--torturing him by its very
nearness. For every now and then driving hard to the end of her tether
she would rush forward on a sea and appear to be coming within his
reach, only to mock him by drifting away once more, like some
relentless lady-love playing with his very heartstrings. The rope
under the sunken mainsail prevented her from quite reaching him, and
each time that she seemed coming to his arms, she again darted beyond
his grasp.
Whatever could be done must be done at once. Even now he realized
that the cold and wet were robbing him of his store of strength. Could
he possibly get out to where the boat was? There might be one way, but
there could be only one, and even that appeared a desperate and
utterly futile venture. It was to find a footing somehow, to let go
his vise-like grip of the rail, and leap out into the darkness across
the black and fathomless gulf of water surging up between the hull and
the vessel's main boom in the hope of landing in the belly of the
sail; to be able to keep his balance and walk out breast high through
the rushing water into the blackness beyond till he should reach the
gaff; and so, clinging there, perchance catch the boat's painter as
she ran in on a rebounding sea. There would be nothing to hold on to.
The ever swirling water would upset a man walking in daylight on a
level quayside. He would have nothing but a sunken, bellying piece of
canvas to support him--a piece only, for the little leach rope leading
from the clew to the peak marked a sharp edge which would spell the
dividing line between life and death.
He had known men of courage; he had read of what Englishmen had done.
But he had never suspected that in his own English blood could lie
dormant that which makes heroes at all times. A hastily breathed
prayer--his mind made up, letting go of the weather rail he commenced
to lower himself to the wheel, hoping to get a footing there for the
momentous spring that would in all probability land him in eternity.
But even as he climbed a little farther aft to reach down to it, he
found himself actually straddling the bodies of the missing mate and
boy, who were cowering under the rail, supported by their feet against
the steering-gear boxing.
Like a thunderclap the whole cause of the disaster burst upon his
mind. The mate's feet planked against the spokes of the wheel
suggested it. The helm was not hard down at all, and never had been.
It was hard up all the time. He remembered, now that it was too late,
that the mate had always steered hitherto with a tiller; that a wheel
turns exactly the opposite way to the tiller; and that with every
sail hauled tight, and the helm held hard over, the loyal little craft
had been as literally murdered as if she had been torpedoed, and also
their lives jeopardized through this man's folly. What was the good of
him even now? There he lay like a log, as dumb as the man whom he had
left clinging to the taffrail.
"What's to be done now?" he shouted, trying in vain to rouse the
prostrate figure with his foot. "Rouse up! Rouse up, you fool!" he
roared. "Are you going to die like a coward?" And letting himself
down, he put his face close to that of the man who by his stupidity
had brought them all to this terrible plight. But both the mate and
boy seemed paralyzed. Not a word, not a moan could he get out of them.
The help which they would have been was denied him. Once more he
realized that if any one was to be saved, he and he alone must
accomplish it. A momentary rest between two waves decided him. There
was one half-second of trying to get his balance as he stood up, then
came the plunge into the wild abyss, and he found himself floundering
in the belly of the sail, struggling to keep his footing, but up to
his waist in water. With a fierce sense of triumph that he was safely
past the first danger, the yawning gulf between the rail and boom, he
threw every grain of his remaining strength into the desperate task
before him, and pushed out for the gaff that was lying on the surface
of the sea, thirty feet away in the darkness. Even as he started a
surging wave washed him off his feet, and again he found himself
hopelessly wallowing in the water, but still in the great cauldron
formed by the canvas.