By now it was nearly noon. The travellers carried the packs they had
made up down to the water-side where the canoe lay. Although the Indians
would not get under way until the following morning, it had been decided
to push on at once, thus avoiding the confusion of a crowded start.
In the course of the morning's business the news of their expedition had
noised abroad. Especially were they commiserated by the other runners
and post-keepers. During all the winter these men had lived under the
frown of the North, conducting their affairs confidently yet with
caution, sure of themselves, yet never sure of the great power in whose
tolerance they existed, in spite of whom they accomplished. Now was the
appointed time of rest. In the relaxation of the thought they found pity
for those ordered out of season into the Silent Places.
So at the river's bank Sam Bolton and Dick Herron, ready for departure,
found a group gathered. It was supposed that these men were to act as
scouts, to reconnoitre shrewdly in the Enemy's country, to spy out the
land, so that in the autumn the Company might throw into the wilderness
new posts, to be inhabited during the colder months.
"Look heem Bla'k Bevair Lak," advised Louis Placide; "I t'ink dose
Ojibway mak' heem lots marten, mink la bas."
"Lads," said Kern, the trader at Old Brunswick House, "if you're going
up th' Missináibie just cast an eye on my _cache_ at Gull Lake, and see
that the carcajaus have let her be."
Young Herbert was curious. "Where are you headed, boys?" he inquired.
But Ki-wa-nee, the trusty, the trader at Flying Post, the only Indian in
the Company's service holding rank as a commissioned officer, grunted in
contempt at the question, while Achard, of New Brunswick House, motioned
warningly toward the groups of Indian trappers in the background. "Hush,
boy," said he to Herbert, "news travels, and in the south are the Free
Traders to snatch at a new country."
By now the voyageurs had turned their canoe over, slid it into the
water, and piled the duffle amidships.
But before they had time to step aboard, came Virginia Albret, then
seventeen years old and as slender and graceful as a fawn. The daughter
of the Factor, she had acquired a habit of command that became her well.
While she enunciated her few and simple words of well-wishing, she
looked straight out at them from deep black eyes. The two woodsmen, awed
into a vast respect, fumbled their caps in their hands and noted, in the
unconscious manner of the forest frequenter, the fresh dusk rose of her
skin, the sharply defined red of her lips, the soft wheat colour of her
hair. It was a gracious memory to carry into the Silent Places, and was
in itself well worth the bestowal. However, Virginia, as was her habit,
gave presents. On each she bestowed a long silk handkerchief. Sam
Bolton, with a muttered word of thanks, stuffed his awkwardly into his
shirt bosom. Dick, on the other hand, with a gesture half of gallantry,
half of bravado, stripped his own handkerchief from his neck and cast it
far into the current, knotting the girl's gift in its place. Virginia
smiled. A strong push sent the canoe into the current. They began to
paddle up-stream.
For perhaps a mile their course threaded in and out the channel of a
number of islands, then shot them into the broad reach of the Moose
itself. There they set themselves to straight-forward paddling, hugging
closely the shore that they might escape as much as possible the full
strength of the current. In this manner they made rapid progress, for,
of course, they paddled in the Indian fashion--without bending either
elbow, and with a strong thrust forward of the shoulders at the end of
the stroke--and they understood well how to take advantage of each
little back eddy.
After an hour and a half they came to the first unimportant rapids,
where they were forced to drop their paddles and to use the long
spruce-poles they had cut and peeled that morning. Dick had the bow. It
was beautiful to see him standing boldly upright, his feet apart,
leaning back against the pressure, making head against the hurrying
water. In a moment the canoe reached the point of hardest suction, where
the river broke over the descent. Then the young man, taking a deep
breath, put forth the strength that was in him. Sam Bolton, poised in
the stern, holding the canoe while his companion took a fresh hold,
noted with approval the boy's physical power, the certainty of his skill
at the difficult river work, the accuracy of his calculations. Whatever
his heedlessness, Dick Herron knew his trade. It was, indeed, a powerful
Instrument that Galen Albret in his wisdom had placed in Sam Bolton's
hands.
The canoe, torn from the rapid's grasp, shot into the smooth water
above. Calmly Sam and Dick shook the water from their poles and laid
them across the thwarts. The _swish click! swish click!_ of the paddles
resumed.
Now the river began to hurry in the ten-mile descent below the Abítibi.
Although the smooth rush of water was unbroken by the swirls of rapids,
nevertheless the current proved too strong for paddling. The voyagers
were forced again to the canoe poles, and so toiled in graceful but
strenuous labour the remaining hours of their day's journey. When
finally they drew ashore for the night, they had but just passed the
mouth of French River.
To men as skilled as they, the making of camp was a brief affair. Dick,
with his axe, cleared the space of underbrush, and sought dry wood for
fuel. The older man in the meantime hunted about until he found a dead
white-birch sapling. This he easily thrust to the ground with a strong
push of his hand. The jar burst here and there the hard envelope of the
birch bark to expose a quantity of half-powdery, decayed wood, dry as
tinder and almost as inflammable as gunpowder. Into a handful of this
Sam threw the sparks from his flint and steel. The bark itself fed
admirably the first flame. By the time Dick returned, the fire was ready
for his fuel.
They cooked tea in the copper pail, and roasted bacon on the ends of
switches. This, with bread from the Post, constituted their meal. After
supper they smoked, banked the fire with green wood, and rolled
themselves in their blankets to sleep. It was summer, so they did not
trouble to pitch their shelter.
The night died into silence. Slowly the fire worked from within through
the chinks of the green logs. Forest creatures paused to stare at it
with steady eyes, from which flashed back a blaze as intense as the
fire's own. An owl took his station near and began to call. Overhead the
brilliant aurora of the Far North palpitated in a silence that seemed
uncanny when coupled with such intensity of movement. Shadows stole here
and there like acolytes. Breezes rose and died like the passing of a
throng. The woods were peopled with uncanny influences, intangible,
unreal, yet potent with the symbolism of the unknown Presence watching
these men. The North, calm, patient, biding her time, serene in the
assurance of might, drew close to the camp in the wilderness.
By and by a little pack of wolves came and squatted on their haunches
just in the shadow. They were well fed and harmless, but they sat there
blinking lazily at the flames, their tongues lolling, exactly like so
many shaggy and good-humoured dogs. About two o'clock Dick rolled out of
his blanket and replenished the fire. He did it somnolently,
his eyes vacant, his expression that of a child. Then he took a
half-comprehending glance at the heaven's promise of fair weather, and
sank again into the warmth of his blanket. The wolves had not stirred.