The Labrador Wild
It was late in July before Peter Boots marshaled his merry men and let
himself be marshaled by the guide, Joshua, on the trip of exploration
and recreation.
A liner took them as far as Newfoundland, and at St. John's, a smaller
steamer, the _Victoria Lake_, received them for their journey farther
North. This ship belonged to a sealing fleet and also carried mails. It
was not especially comfortable, and neither staterooms nor food were of
the best.
But Peter was discomfort-proof, and his negligence of bothersome details
and happy acceptance of existing conditions set a standard for the
manners and customs of their party. Joshua, who had come to New York
City to meet them, was not, by nature, possessed of the sort of heart
that doeth good like medicine. But under the sunny smile of Peter's blue
eyes, his customary scowl softened to a look of mild wonder at the
effervescent gayety of the man who was yet so efficient and even
hard-working when occasion required it.
Shelby was a close second in the matter of efficiency. He was a big
chap, not handsome, but good-looking, in a dark, dignified way, and of a
lithe, sinewy strength that enabled him to endure as well as to meet
hardship bravely.
Not that they looked especially for hardships. Discomfort, even
unpleasantness, they did anticipate, but nothing of more importance than
inclement weather or possible colds or coughs. And against the latter
ills Mrs. Crane had provided both remedies and preventions to such an
extent that some were discarded as excess weight.
For the necessities of their trip, including as they did, canoe, tent,
blankets, tarpaulins, duffel bags, shooting irons and cooking
utensils,--besides food, were of no small bulk and weight even divided
among four porters.
And Blair, though possessed of will and energy quite equaling the
others', was less physically fit to stand the hard going.
It was already August when they were treated to a first sight of the
Labrador.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Shelby, "and Shackelton, and Peary,--yes and
old Doc Cook! What an outlook! If those breaking waves were looking for
a stern and rockbound coast to dash on, they missed it when they chose
the New England shore instead of this! I've seen crags and cliffs, I've
climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, but this puts it over all
the earth! How do we get in, anyway?"
"Great, isn't it?" and Peter lay back in his inadequate little deck
chair and beamed at the desolation he saw.
For the coast of Labrador is nearly a thousand miles of barren bleakness
and forbidding and foreboding rock wall. After buffeting untold ages of
icy gales and biting storms the bare rocks seem to discourage human
approach and crave only their own black solitude.
The one softening element was the fog that rode the sea, and now and
then swooped down, hiding the dangerous reefs until the danger was
increased tenfold by the obscurity.
"Oh, great!" mocked Shelby. "You can have mine. I'm going to stay on the
boat and go back."
"Yes, you are!" grinned Peter, knowing full well how little importance
to attach to that speech; "inside of a week, you'll be crazy about it."
"I am now," said Blair, slowly. "Most weird sight I ever saw. The rocks
seem like sentient giants ready to eat each other. Termagant Nature,
unleashed and rampant."
"Idea all right," said Crane, lazily, "but your verbiage isn't
hand-picked, seems to me."
"You can put it more poetically, if you like, but it's the thing itself
that gets me, not the sand-papered description of it."
"Nobody wants you to sand-paper it, but you ought to hew to the line a
little more nearly----"
"Lines be bothered! Free verse is the thing for this place!"
"I want free verse and I want fresh air," bantered Peter, "and Lasca,
down by the Brandywine,--or wherever it was that Friend Lasca hung out."
"You're harking back to your school days and Friday afternoon
declamation," put in Shelby, "and Lasca was down by the Rio Grande."
"Only Alaska isn't down there at all," Blair informed them, quite
seriously, and the others roared.
* * * * *
After delays, changes and transfers made necessary by the uncertainties
of Labrador travel, they came at last to Hamilton Inlet, and the little
steamer approached the trading post at Rigolet.
"Reminds me of Hamilton Harbor, Bermuda," observed Shelby, shivering as
he drew his furs round him.
"Oh, how can you!" exclaimed Blair; "that heavenly Paradise of a
place,--and this!"
"But you'd rather be here?" and Crane shook a warning fist at him.
"Yes,--oh, yes! This is the life!" and if Blair wasn't quite sincere he
gave a fair imitation of telling the truth.
"Will you look at the dogs!" cried Crane. "I didn't know there were so
many in the world!"
The big Eskimo dogs were prowling about, growling a little, and
appearing anything but friendly. Not even to sunny-faced and
kindly-voiced Peter Boots did they respond, but snarled and pawed the
ground until Joshua advised Crane to let them alone.
"They're mighty good things to keep away from," the guide informed, and
his advice was taken.
"I'm glad we have a trusty canoe instead of those villainous looking
creatures," Blair admitted, and when, later on, they heard tales of the
brutality and treachery of the pack dogs, the others agreed.
At Rigolet final arrangements were decided on and last purchases made
for the dash into the wilds.
Peter Boots, in his element, was as excited and pleased as a child with
a new toy.
"Here I am, where I've longed to be!" he exulted; "at least, I'm on my
way. Buck up, you fellows, and enjoy yourselves, or you'll answer to me
why not!"
"I'm for it," Kit Shelby cried; "I hated that dinky little old steamer,
but now we're ashore in this live wire of a place, I'm as excited and
glad as anybody. I say, the mail from England comes every year! Think of
that!"
"Once a year!" wondered Blair.
"Yep; the good ship _Pelican_ brought it yesterday, and it's due again
next summer! Up and coming, this place, I tell you!"
"It nothing means to us," said Crane, calmly; "I'm expecting no
valentines from England myself, and we'll be back home before mails from
the States get around again."
"And, moreover," said Shelby, who had been acquiring information by
various means, "old Captain Whiskers, forninst, says that we're bound to
get lost, strayed and stolen if we go the route we've planned."
"That's our route, then!" Peter said, satisfiedly; "they always prophesy
all sorts of dismal fates, and, like dreams, they go by contraries.
'Fraid, boys!"
He extricated himself from the onslaught this speech brought and then
all set about getting the outfit into shape for the start.
Pounds and pounds of flour, bacon, lard, pea meal, tea, coffee, rice,
tobacco and other necessaries were packed and stowed and maneuvered by
the capable Joshua, before whose superior judgment Peter Boots had to
bow.
Some natives were hired to help carry things that were to be cached
against the return trip, and three tired but happy men went to rest for
their last night beneath a real roof for many weeks.
Next morning their happiness was even greater and their spirits higher,
for the day was clear and perfect, the air full of exhilarating ozone
and the golden sunlight and deep blue sky seemed to promise a fair trip
and a safe return.
Gayly they started off, and gayly they continued, save when the rain
poured unpleasantly, or the swarms of Labrador flies attacked them or
steep banks or swift rapids made portage difficult.
However as no threats or persuasions could induce Joshua to travel in
the rain, there were enforced rests that helped in the long run.
Another trial was the midday heat. Though the temperature might be at
the freezing point at night, by noon it would buoyantly rise to ninety
degrees, and the sudden changes made for colds and coughs, that were not
easily cured by Mrs. Crane's nostrums.
"Fortunes of war," said Peter, serenely, and Shelby responded, "If
that's what they are, I'm a regular profiteer!"
Days went by, the hours filled with alternate joy and woe, but accepted
philosophically by willing hearts who had already learned to love the
vicissitudes of the wild.
One morning a portage route was of necessity winding and rough. Not as
much as usual could be carried by any of them and two or three trips of
two miles must be made by each.
Joshua arranged the loads to weigh about seventy pounds each, but these
became tiresome after a time. The work took all day, and when toward
sunset camp was made and the tired pleasure seekers sought rest, each
was far more exhausted than he was willing to admit.
"Had enough?" asked Peter, smiling. "Turn back any time you fellows say.
Want to quit?"
"Quit! Never!" declared Shelby. "Go home when you like, or stay as long
as you please, but no quitting!"
"It's goin' be nice now," put in Joshua, who was always sensitive to
any discontent with his beloved North land. "Nice fishin', nice
sleepin',--oh, yes!"
And there was. Rest that night on couches of spruce branches, that
rocked like a cradle, and smelled like Araby the Blest, more than knit
up the raveled sleeve of the hard day before.
And when they fished in a small, rocky stream, for heaven sent trout,
contentment could go no further. Unless it might have been when later
they ate the same trout, cooked to a turn by the resourceful Joshua, and
then, lounging at ease before a camp-fire that met all traditions, they
smoked and talked or were silent as the spirit moved.
The black firs showed gaunt against the sky; the stars came out in
twinkling myriads and the dash and roar of the river was an
accompaniment to their desultory chat.
"If I were a poet," Blair said, "I'd quote poetry about now."
"Your own, for choice?" asked Shelby, casually.
"You _are_ a poet, Gil," said Peter. "I've noticed it all the way along.
You don't have to lisp in numbers to be a poet. You just have to----"
"Well, to what?" asked Blair, as Peter paused.
"Why, you just have to want to recite poetry."
"Yes, that's it," put in Shelby, quickly; "understand, Gilbert, dear,
you don't have to recite it, you know, only want to recite it. If you
obey your impulse,--you're no poet at all."
"I'll restrain the impulse then,--but it's hard--hard!"
"Oh, go ahead," laughed Kit, "if it's as hard as all that! I'll bet it's
highbrow stuff you want to get out of your system!"
"Yes, it is. In fact it's Browning."
"Oh, I don't mind him. Fire away."
"Only this bit:
"You're my friend;
What a thing friendship is, world without end.
How it gives the heart and the senses a stir-up,
As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet----"
"That'll do," laughed Peter. "That's far enough. And you didn't say it
quite right, any way."
"No matter," said Blair, earnestly; "I mean the thing. Without any
palaver, we three fellows are friends,--and I'm glad of it. That's all."
"Thank you very much," said Shelby, "for my share. And old Pete is
fairly overflowing with appreciation,--I see it in his baby-blue
eyes----"
"I'll baby you!" said Peter, with a ferocious smile. "Yes, old Gilbert,
we're friends, or I shouldn't have picked us as the fittest for this
trip."
"Good you did, for the fittest have the reputation of surviving."
"Let up on the croaks," Peter spoke abruptly. "Have you noticed any
fearful dangers, that you apprehend non-survival of them?"
"No; but----"
"But nothing! Now, Blairsy, if you're in thoughtful mood, let's go on
with that plot we started yesterday."
"What plot?' asked Shelby.
"Oh, a great motive for a story or play. Setting up here in the Labrador
wilds and----"
Shelby yawned. "Mind if I doze off?" he said; "this fire is
soporific----"
"Don't mind a bit," returned Peter gayly; "rather you would, then Gil
and I can maudle on as we like."
And they did. Both were of a literary turn, and though they had achieved
nothing of importance as yet, both hoped to write sooner or later.
"A story," Peter said, "maybe a book, but more likely a short story,
with a real O. Henry punch."
"H'mph!" came in a disdainful grunt from the dozing Shelby.
"You keep still, old lowbrow," advised Peter. "Don't sniff at your
betters. There's a great little old plot here, and we're going to make a
good thing of it and push it along."
"Push away," and Shelby rolled himself over and dozed again.
"Where's Joshua?" asked Crane, later, as, the talk over, they prepared
to bunk on their evergreen boughs.
"Haven't seen him since supper," said Shelby, sitting up and rubbing his
eyes. "Queer, isn't it?"
Queer it surely was, and more so, as time went by and they could find no
trace of their guide.
"He can't be lost," said Kit; "he's too good a scout for that."
"He can't have deserted us," declared Peter. "He's too good a friend for
that! He'll no more desert us than we'd desert one another."
"Well, he's missing anyway," Blair said, undeniably; "then something
must have happened. Could he be caught in a trap?"
"Not he! he's used to them about. No, he's had an accident, I think."
Peter's eyes were anxious and his voice told of a fear of some real
disaster.
The dusk fell early and though only about nine o'clock, it was as dark
as midnight. Clouds had obscured the stars, and only the firelight
relieved the black darkness.
But after an hour's worriment and distress on the part of the three men
the guide returned. He looked a little shame-faced, and was disinclined
to reply to their questions.
"Come, now, Joshua, own up," directed Peter; "I see by your eyes you've
been up to mischief. Out with it!"
"I--I got lost!" was the astonishing reply, and they all burst into
laughter. More at the rueful countenance, however, than at the news, for
it was a serious matter.
"You, a guide, lost!" exclaimed Shelby. "How did it happen?"
"Dunno. Jest somehow couldn't find the way."
"Hadn't you a compass?"
"No, sir; I got sort of turned around like,--and I went a long hike the
wrong way."
Simply enough, to be sure, but apparently it was only good fortune that
had made him find at last the road home to camp.
Light-hearted Peter dismissed the whole affair with a "Look out after
this; and always carry a compass or take one of us boys along," and then
he sought his fragrant, if not altogether downy couch.
Blair, too, gave the episode little thought, but to Shelby it seemed
more important. If a hardened guide could get lost as easily as that, it
might happen to any of them. And a compass was not a sure safeguard. A
man could wander round and round without finding a fairly nearby camp.
Shelby was a few years older than the other two, and of a far more
prudent nature. He had no dare-devil instincts, and not an overweening
love of adventure. He was enjoying his trip because of the outdoor life
and wildwood sports, but as for real adventure, he was content to omit
it. Not from fear--Kit Shelby was as brave as any,--but he saw no sense
in taking unnecessary risks.
While risks were as the breath of life to Peter Boots. Indeed, he was
sighing because the conditions of modern camping ways and the efficiency
of the guide left little or no chance for risk of life or limb.
He didn't by any means want to lose life or limb, but he was not at all
unwilling to risk them pretty desperately. And he found no opportunity.
The days were pleasantly taken up with fishing, shooting, moving on,
setting up and taking down camp, and all the expected routine of a
mountain expedition; but, so far, there had been nothing unusual or even
uncomfortable to any great degree.
The next day brought a fearful storm, with gales and sleet and driving
rain and the temperature dropped many degrees.
The party experienced their first really cold weather, and though it
depressed the others Peter seemed to revel in it.
The tent was practically a prison, and an uncomfortable one, for the
wind was terrific and the squalls became hourly more menacing.
Shelby was quiet, by reason of a sore throat, and Blair was quiet with a
silence that was almost sulky.
Not quite though, for irrepressible Peter kept the crowd good-natured,
by the simple process of making jokes and laughing at them himself, so
contagiously, that all were forced to join in.
But at last he tired of that, and announced that he was going to write
letters.
"Do," said Shelby, "and hurry up with them. The postman will be along
any minute now."
Peter grinned, and really set himself to work with paper and pencil.
"I know what you're doing," said Blair; "you're beginning our story."
"I'm not, but that isn't half a bad idea. Let's start in, Gil. We can
plan it and make up names and things----"
"Why can't you really write it?" asked Shelby. "I should think it would
be the psychological moment. Isn't it to be all about the storms and
other indigenous delights of Labrador?"
"You take that tone and I'll pitch you out into the indigenous
delights," threatened Peter. "Come on, Gilbert, let's block out the
backbone of the yarn right now."
They set to work, and by dint of much discussing, disagreeing,
ballyragging and bulldozing each other, they did make a fair start.
"What's the heroine like?" asked Shelby, beginning to be interested.
"Like Carly Harper," said Blair promptly.
"Not the leastest, littlest mite like Carly Harper," said Peter, his
blue eyes hardening with determination.
"Why not?" demanded Blair, who cared little what the heroine was like;
but who objected to contradiction without reason.
"Because I say not," returned Peter, impatiently. "The heroine is a
little rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired doll. She has blue eyes,--something
like mine,--and a saucy, turn-up nose, and a dimple in her left cheek."
"A peach," said Shelby, "but no sort of a heroine for that yarn you two
fellows are spinning. I'm no author, but I'm an architect, and I can see
the incongruity."
"If you know so much, write it yourself," said Peter, but not pettishly.
"If I'm doing it, I create my own heroine or I quit."
"Oh, don't quit," begged Blair. "We're just getting a good start. Have
the treacle and taffy heroine if you like, only keep on."
His point won, Peter did keep on, and a fair bit of work was
accomplished. For the first time it began to seem as if the two authors
would really produce something worth while.
"Not likely," Peter said, as they talked this over. "I'm no sort of a
collaborator,--I'm too set in my ways. If I can't have it the way I want
it, I can't do it at all."
"But you can have your own way in details," said Blair, musingly. "They
don't matter much. Give me the swing of the plot and let me plan the
climaxes, and I care not who makes the laws for the heroine's
complexion."
"Well, I'm for a run in the rain," said Peter. "I've worked my brain
into a tangled snarl, and I must go out and clear it out."
He shook himself into his storm togs, and as no one cared to go with
him, he started off alone.