CHAPTER I_The Forest Pilot: A Story for Boy Scouts

THE FOREST PILOT

[Illustration: “Shoot! Shoot! For God’s sake shoot, Larry!”]

THE FOREST PILOT

A STORY FOR BOY SCOUTS

BY EDWARD HUNTINGTON

NEW YORK

HEARST’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO.

1915

By HEARST’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY CO., Inc.

languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

I The Storm

II The Home on the Rocks

III The First Supper

IV Lessons in Piloting

V The Story of Weewah the Hunter

VI Final Preparations

VII The Journey Through the Forest

VIII The Blizzard

IX The Timber Wolves

X The Wounded Moose

XI The Return to the Wreck

XII The Early Morning Visitor

CHAPTER I

THE STORM

The November sun that had been red and threatening all day, slowly

disappeared behind a cloud bank. The wind that had held steadily to

the south for a week, now shifted suddenly to the northeast, coming

as a furious blast. In a moment, it seemed, the mild Indian Summer

breeze was changed to a fierce winter gale.

The little schooner yacht that had been riding in the bay not more

than a half mile from the jagged, rocky shore line, began dancing

about like a cork. For a swell had come driving in from the ocean

just as the wind changed, and now the two tall masts waved back and

forth, bending in wide sweeps before the gale. Unfortunately for the

little craft the change of the direction of the wind exposed it to

the storm’s full fury.

The captain, a weatherbeaten old Yankee who had sailed vessels of

his own as well as those belonging to other people for forty years,

was plainly worried. With a glass in his hand he scanned the shore

line of the bay in every direction, occasionally giving a sharp

order to the four sailors who hurried about the deck to carry out

his commands.

The only other persons on the yacht were a man and a boy who had

been sitting together beside the forward mast when the wind changed.

The man was a tall, straight figure, with the erect carriage that

sinewy, muscular men who are accustomed to hard work retain well

into old age. His face, with its leathery skin, which contrasted

sharply with his iron gray beard, was softened by a pair of deep

blue eyes--the kind of blue eyes that can snap with determination on

occasion, in contrast to their usually kindly expression.

Obviously this man was past his prime, or, better perhaps, was past

that period of life reckoned in years that civilized man has become

accustomed to speaking of as “prime.” Yet he was old only in years

and experience. For his step was quick and elastic, and every

movement showed the alertness of youth. Were it not for the gray

hairs peeping out from under his hat and his grizzled beard, he

might have passed for a man of forty. Martin MacLean was his name,

and almost any one in the New Brunswick forest region could tell you

all about him. For Martin was a famous hunter and guide, even in a

land where almost every male inhabitant depends upon those two

things for his livelihood.

Needless to say, then, this man was something quite out of the

ordinary among woodsmen. When the woods people gossiped among

themselves about their hunting and trapping experiences, old Martin

was often the theme of many a story. And the story was always one of

courage or skill.

But you must remember that in this land, deeds of courage and skill

were every-day occurrences. So that the man who could earn the

admiration of his fellow woodsmen must possess unusual qualities.

Martin had repeatedly demonstrated these qualities. Not by any

single act at any one time, but by the accumulated acts of many

years had he earned his title of leader in his craft.

The older woodsmen would tell you of the terrible winter when Martin

had made a journey of fifty miles through the forests to get

medicines from the only doctor within a hundred miles for a boy

injured by a falling tree. They would tell you of the time that a

hunting party from the States were lost in the woods in a great

November blizzard, and how Martin, frost-bitten and famished, had

finally found them and brought them back to the settlement. They

could tell of his fight with a wounded moose that had gored another

hunter, and would have killed him but for the quick work of Martin’s

hunting knife. Indeed, once the old hunter became the theme of their

talk, there was no end to the tales the woodsmen would tell of his

adventures.

The boy who was with him on the yacht was obviously from an entirely

different walk of life. Any woodsman could have told you that he had

been reared far from the country of lakes and forests. He was,

indeed, a city boy, who except for one winter spent in the

Adirondacks, had scarcely been beyond the suburbs of his native

city. In the north country he would have passed for a boy of twelve

years; but in reality he was just rounding his fifteenth birthday.

He was a medium sized boy for his age, with bright red hair, and a

rosy complexion. He had the appearance of a boy just outgrowing a

“delicate constitution” as one of the neighbor women had put it,

although he had every appearance of robustness. Nevertheless it was

on account of his health that he was now on the little schooner

yacht rolling in the gale of a bleak Labrador inlet. His neighbor in

the city, Mr. Ware, the owner of the yacht, thinking that a few

weeks in the woods and on the water would be helpful to him, had

made him a member of his hunting party into the northern wilderness.

The old guide was obviously apprehensive at the fury of the gale

that had struck them, while the boy, Larry, seemed to regard it as a

lark designed for their special amusement. Noticing the serious

expression of Martin’s face, and mistaking its meaning, he could not

help jibing the old fellow, boy fashion, at his solicitude.

“You look as if you thought we were going to the bottom sure enough,

Martin,” Larry laughed. “Why, there isn’t any more danger on this

boat than there is on an ocean liner. You’re no seaman, I can see

that.” And he threw back his bushy head and laughed heartily at his

companion’s serious face.

“Besides,” he added, “there’s the land only half a mile away even if

we did spring a leak or something. It’s only a step over there, so

we surely could get ashore.”

“That’s just the trouble,” said a deep voice beside him. “That’s

just the trouble. And if you knew the first thing about a ship or

the ocean you would know it.” And the captain strode aft, giving

orders to his seamen as he went.

“What does he mean?” Larry asked of Martin, clinging to a brass

stanchion to keep from being thrown into the scuppers as the little

boat rolled heavily until the rail dipped the water.

“Why, just this,” Martin told him. “The real danger to us now is

that we are so near the shore. Out in the open sea we could roll and

tumble about and drift as far as we liked until the storm blew over.

But here if we drift very far we will go smash against those

rocks--and that would be the end of every one of us.”

“Well, if we went ashore why couldn’t we just jump and swim right to

land a few feet away?” Larry asked, looking serious himself now, his

blue eyes opening wide.

Martin’s little laugh was lost in the roar of the wind.

“That shows how much of a landlubber you are, Larry,” he said. “If

you had been brought up near the ocean you would know that if this

boat struck on this shore where all the coast is a lot of jagged

rocks, it would be smashed into kindling wood. And no man can swim

in the waves at the shore. They pick a man up like a cork; but they

smash him down on those rocks like the hammer of the old Norse Sea

god. That is why the sailor prays for the open sea.”

All this time Martin had been clinging to the rail with one hand,

and trying to scan the shore line with his hunting glasses. But the

blinding spray and the ceaseless rolling and pitching made it

impossible for him to use them.

“But I’m not worrying about what may happen to this boat,” he

shouted presently, putting the glasses in his pocket. “Either we

will come out all right or else we won’t. And in any case we will

have to grin and take what comes. What I’m worried about is Mr. Ware

and the fellows in the boat with him. If they have started out from

shore to come aboard before this gale hit us they are lost, sure.

And I am certain they had started, for I caught a glimpse of the

boat coming out of a cove fifteen minutes before the storm broke.”

For a minute Larry stared at the old man, comprehending the

seriousness of the situation at last. “You mean then--” he asked,

clutching the brass rail as the boat lurched forward,--“You mean that

you think they will be drowned--really drowned, Martin?”

“That’s it, Larry,” Martin replied, seriously. “They haven’t one

chance in a thousand, as I see it. Even if they could reach us we

couldn’t get them aboard; and if they are blown ashore it will end

everything. They haven’t a chance.”

As if to emphasize the seriousness of the situation the yacht just

then dug her nose deep into the trough of a great wave, then rose,

lifting her bowsprit high in the air like a rearing horse tugging at

a restraining leash. It was a strain that tested every link of the

anchor chain to its utmost. But for the moment it held.

“A few more like that, Larry,” Martin shouted above the gale, “and

that chain will snap. The anchor is caught fast in the rocks at the

bottom.”

Meanwhile the sailors and the captain were working desperately to

cut loose the other anchor and get it over the side as their only

chance of keeping the boat off the rocks. The gale, the rolling of

the vessel, and the waves buffeted them about, however, so that

before they could release the heavy mass of iron, the yacht again

plunged her nose into the waves, then rose on her stern, trembling

and jerking at the single anchor chain. For a moment it held. Then

there was a sharp report, as a short length of chain flew back,

knocking two of the sailors overboard, and gouging a great chunk of

wood from the fore mast. At the same time the boat settled back,

careening far to port with the rail clear under.

The violence of the shock had thrown Larry off his feet, but for a

moment he clung to the railing with one hand. Then as the boat

righted herself, quivering and creaking, the flood of water coming

over the bow tore loose his hands, and hurled him blinded and

stupified along the deck. The next thing he knew he found himself

lying in a heap at the foot of the narrow companionway stairs down

which he had been thrown by the waves.

He was dazed and bruised by the fall, yet above the roar of the

storm, he heard faintly the howling of the huskie dogs, confined in

a pen on the forward deck. Then there was the awful roar of the

waves again, the crash of breaking timbers, and again a deluge of

water poured down the companionway. At the same time Larry was

struck with some soft, heavy object, that came hurtling down with

the torrent of water. Gasping for breath and half choked with the

water, he managed to cling to the steps until the water had rushed

out through the scuppers as the boat heeled over the other way. Then

crawling on hands and knees he succeeded in reaching the cabin door,

the latch of which was not over six feet away.

With a desperate plunge he threw it open and fell sprawling into the

room. At the same time two great malamoot dogs, who had been washed

down the companionway with the preceding wave, sprang in after him,

whining and cowering against him. Even in his fright he could not

help contrasting the present actions of these dogs with their usual

behavior. Ordinarily they were quiet, reserved fellows, given to

minding their own business and imparting the general impression that

it would be well for others to do the same. Now all their sturdy

independence was gone, and cowering and trembling they pressed close

to the boy for protection, apparently realizing that they were

battling with an enemy against whom they had no defence.

But the storm gave Larry little time to think of anything but his

own safety. Even as he struggled to rise and push the cabin door

shut, the boat heeled over and performed that office for him with a

crash. The next moment a torrent of water rushed down the

companionway, but only a few drops were forced through the cracks of

the door casing, fitted for just such an occasion, so that the cabin

remained practically dry. Over and over again at short intervals

this crash of descending waters shook the cabin and strained at the

door casing. And all the time the movements of the boat kept Larry

lying close to the floor, clinging to the edge of the lower bunk to

keep from being thrown violently across the cabin.

The dogs, unable to find a foothold when the cabin floor rose

beneath them, were often thrown violently about the room, their

claws scratching futilely along the hard boards as they strove to

stop the impetus of the fall. But the moment the boat righted

itself, they crawled whimpering back and crouched close to the

frightened boy.

Little enough, indeed, was the protection or comfort Larry could

give the shivering brutes. He himself was sobbing with terror, and

at each plunge and crash of the boat he expected to find himself

engulfed by the black waters. Now and again, above the sound of the

storm, he heard the crash of splintering timbers, with furious blows

upon the decks and against the sides of the hull. He guessed from

this that the masts had been broken off and were pounding for a

moment against the hull, held temporarily by the steel shrouds until

finally torn away by the waves.

Vaguely he wondered what had become of Martin, and the Captain, and

the two remaining members of the crew. Perhaps they had been washed

down the after companionway as he had gone down the forward one. But

far more likely they were now in their long resting place at the

bottom of the bay. There seemed little probability that they had

been as lucky as he, and he expected to follow them at any moment.

Yet he shut his teeth and clung fast to the side of the bunk.

It was terribly exhausting work, this clinging with one’s hands, and

at each successive plunge he felt his grip weakening. In a very few

minutes, he knew he should find himself hurled about the cabin like

a loose piece of furniture, and then it would only be a matter of

minutes until he was flung against some object and crushed. He would

not be able to endure the kind of pounding that the dogs were

getting. The protection of their thick fur, and the ability to relax

and fall limply, saved them from serious injury.

Little by little he felt his fingers slipping from the edge of the

bunk. He shut his teeth hard, and tried to get a firmer grip. At

that moment the boat seemed to be lifted high into the air, and

poised there for a breathless second. Then with a shock that bumped

Larry’s head against the floor, it descended and and stopped as if

wedged on the rocks at the bottom, with a sound like a violent

explosion right underneath the cabin.

Larry, stupified by the crash, realized vaguely that the boat had

struck something and was held fast. In his confusion he thought she

had gone to the bottom, but he was satisfied that he was no longer

being pounded about the cabin. And presently as his mind cleared a

little, and he could hear the roar of the waves with an occasional

trickle of water down the companionway, he reached the conclusion

that they were not at the bottom of the sea. Nor did he care very

much one way or the other at that time. It was pitch dark in the

cabin, and as he was utterly worn out, he closed his eyes and lay

still, a big trembling dog nestling against him on either side. And

presently he and his two companions were sleeping the dreamless

sleep of the exhausted.