The unintelligible words that George shouted to me from the knoll after
we parted on Tuesday (October 20th) were an injunction to keep near the
river, as the men he would send to rescue Hubbard and me would look for
us there. As he proceeded down the valley his progress was slow and
tedious, owing to his weakness, the rough country, and the deepening
snow. Towards noon he came upon the newly made track of a porcupine,
followed it a short distance into a clump of trees, where he soon saw
the round quill-covered animal in the snow and shot it. Immediately he
built a fire, and singed off quills and hair. Then, as he related to
me afterwards, he considered, talking aloud to himself, what was best
to do with his prize.
"There's them fellus up there without grub," he said. "Maybe I'd
better turn about and take 'em this porcupine. But if I do, it won't
last long, and then we'll be worse off than ever. This snow's gettin'
deeper all the time, and if it gets so deep I can't walk without
snowshoes, we'll all die for sure. No, I'd better go on with this
porcupine to help me."
So after boiling a piece of the porcupine in his tea kettle and eating
it, he continued down the valley. By his fires be always talked to
himself to keep himself company, and that night he said:
"This 's been a tough day, and I ain't where I ought to be. But I'll
eat a good snack of this porcupine now with some of the flour, and in
the mornin' I'll have another good snack, and that'll make me stronger
and I can travel farther to-morrow. I ought to get most to Grand Lake
to-morrow night."
But so far from getting anywhere near Grand Lake the next day, he did
not complete his twenty-five-mile journey for several days to come.
The snow became so deep he could hardly push through it. He carefully
hoarded the bones of his porcupine, thinking he might have to eat them;
but Providence sent him more food. When the first porcupine was eaten,
he came upon and killed another, and when that was gone, he shot a
third. He also succeeded in shooting several grouse. If it had not
been for this game, he would not have lived to do the hard work that
was before him.
The pieces of blanket in which his feet were wrapped were continually
coming off, and frequent halts were necessary to readjust them. He
must not let his feet freeze; for then he would not be able to walk,
and not only would he perish himself, but "there'd be no hope for them
fellus up there." One day he came upon a man's track. He was
exultant. That it was a trapper's trail he had no doubt. Staggering
along it with all the speed he could command, he shouted wildly at
every step. Presently he discovered that he was following his own
trail; he had been travelling in a circle. The discovery made him
almost frantic. He stopped to reason with and calm himself. Said he,
so that all the listening wilderness might hear:
"Them fellus up there in the snow have got to be saved. I said to
Hubbard, 'With God's help I'll save you,' and I'm a-goin' to if my legs
hold out and there's anybody at Grand Lake." And then he went on.
His progress down the valley that day was only a mile and a half. It
was most discouraging. He must do better. The powdered milk we had
abandoned he did not find, but on October 26th he recovered our old
lard pail. Some of the lard he ate, some he used in cooking a grouse,
and the rest he took along with him.
Below the place where he bivouacked that night the snow was not so
deep, and early the next morning George once more beheld the broad
waters of Grand Lake. The journey he had expected to make in three
days had actually taken him seven. He arrived at Grand Lake three days
after I, wandering in the valley above, lost all track of time.
A few miles above its mouth the Susan River bends to the southward, and
from that direction reaches the little lake that lies just north of the
extreme western end of Grand Lake, so that George, proceeding down the
river on the south bank, eventually came to the little lake's western
shore. Along this shore he made his way until he reached the point of
land formed by the little lake and the branch of the Beaver River that
flows a little south of east to merge its waters in the little lake
with those of the Susan. The water here had not been frozen, and
George found his further progress arrested. He was in a quandary. The
trapper's tilt for which he was bound was on the south shore of Grand
Lake about seven or eight miles from its western end, and in order to
reach the tilt he would have to continue on south around the end of the
lake.
The land on the other side of the swirling stream to which George had
come was the island at the mouth of the Beaver that separates it into
two branches, and which forms the western shore of the swift stream or
strait that, flowing to the southward, discharges the waters of the
little lake into Grand Lake. George thought, however, that this island
was a part of the western boundary of Grand Lake, and he determined to
reach it. But how? To swim across was impossible. Well, then, he
would build a raft. And, although he had no implements, he did. He
hauled together several fallen trees, laid them in a row and bound them
at one end with his pack strap and at the other with a piece of our old
trolling line. When this was done, he hacked himself a pole with his
sheath-knife, threw his bag containing a piece of a porcupine and some
grouse on the raft, launched it, jumped on it himself and pushed out
into the stream.
One or two good shoves George gave with his pole, and then found he no
longer could touch bottom. He was at the mercy of the swift current.
Down into the little lake he was swept, and thence through the strait
right out into Grand Lake. A high sea was running, and the frail raft
promptly began to fall to pieces. "Have I escaped starvin' only to
drown?" thought George. It certainly looked like it. "But," said he
to himself, "if I drown them fellus up there will be up against it for
sure." So he determined not to drown. He got down on his hands and
knees, and, although the icy seas broke relentlessly over him, he held
the floating sticks in place, at the same time clinging tenaciously to
his food bag; for, as he confided to me later, "it would have been just
as bad to escape drownin' only to starve as it would have been to
escape starvin' only to drown."
Farther out on the broad bosom of the lake George was carried. "Now,"
said he, "if I jump, I'll drown; and if I don't, I'll drown anyway. So
I guess I'll hang on a little longer." And hang on he did for
something like two hours, when the wind caught his raft and drove it
back to the southern end of the island at the mouth of the Beaver.
"You can't lose me," said George, as he landed. He and his game bag
were saved, but his difficulties were not ended by any means.
While the wind was driving him back, George caught sight of the branch
of the Beaver that flows almost due south directly into Grand Lake,
forming the island's western shore. Standing on this shore, he made a
shrewd guess. "I'll bet," he said, "my dream was right, and here we
have the same river we were on when we said good-bye to the canoe."
What interested him the most, however, was a row boat he espied a
little south of the island on the opposite shore. Apparently it had
been abandoned. "If can reach that boat," said George, "and it'll
float and I don't find Blake or any grab at his tilt, I'll put right
off for the post, and send help from there to them fellus up there."
There was no doubt about it, he would have to take chances with another
raft. Although his rags were beginning to freeze to his body, he did
not stop to build a fire, neither did he wait to eat anything. At
first it seemed hopeless to try to launch a raft; for the bank on the
western side of the island was very steep. Farther north, however, ice
had formed in the river for some distance from the shore, and to this
ice George dragged fallen trees and bound them as he had done before.
It was the labour of hours, the trees having to be dragged for
considerable distances. Once more afloat, George found no difficulty in
touching bottom with his pole, and in the gathering dusk he reached the
other shore.
Supposing that he was still many miles from a place where there was any
possibility of finding a human being, he decided to bivouac for the
night; but first he must examine the rowboat he had sighted from the
island. This made necessary the fording of a small stream. Hardly had
he emerged from the water, when, from among the spruce trees farther
back from the shore, there came a sound that brought him to a sudden
standstill and set his heart to thumping wildly against his ribs. It
was a most extraordinary sound to hear when one supposed one was alone
in a wilderness, and when all had been solemnly still save for the
dashing of waves upon a shore. On the night air there came floating to
George the cry of a little child.
"When I heard that youngster scream," said George, in telling me about
the incident, "I knew folks was there, and I dropped my bag, and I tore
my piece of blanket from my shoulders, and I runned and I runned."
In the course of the summer Donald Blake had built himself a log house
on the spot to which George was so wildly fleeing. The rowboat George
had spied belonged to him, but the house, standing back in a thick
clump of trees, had not been visible from the water. On the evening of
George's arrival, Donald and his brother Gilbert were away, and
Donald's wife and another young woman who stayed with her to keep her
company were alone. The latter young woman, with Mrs. Blake's baby in
her arms, was standing at the door of the house, when suddenly she
heard a crashing noise in the bush in front of her, and the next moment
there loomed up before her affrighted vision in the gloaming the
apparition of a gaunt and ragged man, dripping wet, and running towards
her with long, black hair and straggling beard streaming in the wind.
She turned and fled into the house.
"O Mrs. Blake! O Mrs. Blake!" she cried, "'tis somethin' dreadful
comin'! 'tis sure a wild man!"
Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Blake went to the door. George, panting and
still dripping, stood before her.
"Lord ha' mercy!" she piously exclaimed, throwing up her arms.
"Don't be scared, ladies," panted George; "I couldn't hurt a rabbit.
Ain't there any men here?"
His ingratiating manner reassured the frightened women, and
explanations followed. All the natives of the vicinity of Hamilton
Inlet had been wondering what had become of us, and Mrs. Blake quickly
grasped the situation. Kindness itself, she took George in. Donald
and Gilbert, she said, would be back directly. She made him hot tea,
and put on the table for him some grouse stew, molasses, and bread and
butter, all the time imploring him to sit down and warm himself. But
George was too excited to sit down. Up and down he paced, the melting
ice on his rags making tiny rivulets on his hostess's spotless floor.
Most of the breeds who live near the western end of Hamilton Inlet are
remarkably cleanly, this probably being due to their Scotch blood.
George at length calmed himself sufficiently to turn his attention to
the meal that had been prepared for him. He had salt for his meat,
molasses to sweeten his tea and a bountiful supply of good bread. He
ate greedily, which fact he soon had cause to regret; for later in the
evening he began to bloat, and for several days thereafter he writhed
with the colic. But for the present he thought of nothing save the
satisfaction of the appetite that had been regenerated by the food he
had been able to obtain after leaving me. It was especially difficult
for him to tear himself away from the bread. As there must be an end
to all things, however, George eventually stopped eating, and then he
started to go for his bag. But Mrs. Blake said:
"No, Donald'll get he. Sit down, sir, and rest."
A little later Donald and Gilbert appeared. We had made Donald's
acquaintance, it will be remembered, at Rigolet; it was he who had
sailed his boat up the Nascaupee and had given us the most information
about that river. When he had heard George's story, there was no need
to urge him to make haste. Lithe, ambitious, and in the habit of doing
a dozen things at a time, Donald was activity itself. His brother
Gilbert, a young fellow of seventeen, commonly called Bert, was also
eager to start to the rescue of Hubbard and me. They told George it
was fortunate he had arrived when he did, as in a day or so they would
have been away on their trapping paths.
"But didn't you see Allen Goudie's tilt, sir?" asked Donald, when
George had finished telling about his trip down what he supposed to be
the Nascaupee River. "She's on th' Nascaupee right handy to th' bank,
and in fair sight from th' river, sir."
"If there's a tilt on the Nascaupee," said George, "you can kick me."
Donald asked him to tell more about the river we were on, and George
drew a rough map of its leading features. Then it was that George
learned that the river of our distress was really the Susan.
"And we passed right by the mouth of the Nascaupee?" he asked.
He was informed that such was the case.
"Well," said George, "I'll be blamed!" "Blamed" was George's most
violent expletive; I never heard him use profanity.
Donald told George he must not think of going back with the rescuing
party, as his weakness would retard its progress. So George marked on
the map he had made of the Susan's course the general situation of our
last camp. He warned Donald that the deep snow up the valley might
have prevented me from reaching the tent, but that in any event they
would find me near the river.
Hearing that, Donald quickly decided that more men were needed for the
rescuing party; for if either Hubbard or I was found alone the party
would have to separate in order to continue the search for the other
man. The packs, besides, would be too heavy for two men to carry and
make the rapid progress that was necessary. Fortunately Allen Goudie
and a young fellow named Duncan McLean were at the former's winter tilt
on the Nascaupee, seven miles across the lake from Donald's. The hour
was late and the lake was rough, but Donald and Gilbert started for
them in their rowboat immediately after making ready their packs of
provisions and camp equipment, prepared for an early start up the Susan
the next day.
At noon (October 28th) they were back with both Allen and Duncan, and
at once loaded the packs into the boat. Then the four men rowed up
through the little lake to the first rapid on the Susan, hauled the
boat up on the shore, donned their snowshoes, shouldered their packs,
and started up the valley. Running when they could, which the rough
country would not permit of their doing often, they camped at night ten
miles above their boat.
The next morning (October 29th) they cached some provisions to lighten
their packs, and as they proceeded fired a rifle at intervals, thinking
there was now a chance of coming upon either Hubbard or me. As a
matter of fact they must have passed me towards evening. They were on
the north side of the river, and it was the evening when I staggered
down the north shore, to cross the ice at dusk and make my last bivouac
in the lee of a bank on the south shore. Whether I had crossed the
river before they came along, or whether, hidden by the trees and the
falling snow, I passed them unobserved on the same shore, I do not
know; the fact is, they camped that night about a mile and a half above
me, and about twelve miles below Hubbard's tent.
There was only one thing that saved me from being left alone to
die--these trappers' keen sense of smell. In the morning (October
30th) while they were breaking camp preparatory to continuing on up the
valley, Donald Blake fancied that he smelled smoke. He spoke to Allen
Goudie about it, and both men stood and sniffed the air. Yes, Allen
smelled smoke, too. It was unmistakable. The wind was blowing up the
valley; therefore someone must have a fire below them. Hastily
finishing the work of breaking camp, the four men shouldered their
packs and turned back.
Close down to the shore of the river they scrambled, and hurried on,
shouting and discharging a rifle. At length they paused, to give
exclamations of satisfaction. They had found my track leading across
the ice to the other shore. Only a moment they paused, and then,
following the trail, they broke into a run, redoubling their shouts and
repeatedly discharging the rifle. They had smelled my smouldering
rotten stump, but if a whiff of smoke was now rising it was too small
for them to see. My trail, however, led them to the bank over which
they heard my feeble answering shout. So down the bank they scrambled,
to come to a sudden halt, transfixed with amazement, as they told me
afterwards, that such a wreck as I could stand and live.
The spectacle I presented certainly must have been an unusual one--a
man all skin and bones, standing in drawers and stocking feet, with the
remnants of a pair of trousers about his hips, there in the midst of
the snow-covered forest. They were heavily clad and had their caps
pulled far down over their ears to protect them from the biting wind,
while I did not even have my hat on.
It was some time before I could realise that living men were before me.
As if in a half-dream, I stood stupidly gazing at them. But with the
return of sensibility I recollected that George had gone to find Donald
Blake, and gradually it dawned upon me that he was there. I spoke his
name "Donald Blake." At that Donald stepped forward and grasped my
hand warmly and firmly like an old friend.
"Did George get out and send you?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; it was he that sent us, sir. He's safe at my house."
"Have you found Hubbard?"
"Not yet, sir. We smelled smoke a mile and a half above, where our
camp was last night, an' came down to find you, sir."
I remember telling Donald that he had better leave me something to eat,
and go on to Hubbard as fast as he could. He replied that Duncan and
Bert, the two young fellows, would stay with me, while he and Allen
would continue on up the valley. During this talk, the kind-hearted
trappers had not been idle. While two of them cut wood for a rousing
fire and put the kettle on for tea, the others made a cosey couch close
to the blaze and sat me on it. They gave me a very small piece of bread
and butter.
"You'd better eat just a small bit at first, sir," said Allen. "You're
fair starved, and much grub at th' beginnin' might be th' worse for
you."
Before I had my tea, Donald and Allen were ready to start. Allen
hesitated for a moment; then asked:
"If the other man be dead, sir?"
"Dead?" I said. "Oh, no, he won't be dead. You'll find him in the
tent waiting for you."
"But if he be dead?" persisted Allen. "He may be, and we sure can't
bring th' body out now, sir."
Although still struggling against the fear that my reason told me was
only too well founded, I requested, that in the event of what they
thought possible proving to be the case, they wrap the body in the
blankets they would find in the tent, and build for it a stage high
enough from the ground to protect it from animals. I also asked that
they bring back with them all the things they should find in the tent,
including the rifle and camera, and especially the books and papers of
all descriptions.
Promising that all should be done as I wished, and again cautioning me
against eating too much, Allen and Donald departed, leaving me a prey
to anxiety and fear as to the news they should bring back.