Bobby of the Labrador Part 14

CHAPTER XIV

VISIONS IN DELIRIUM

There came a terrible day and night when Bobby's life hung in the balance. A burning fever was upon him. His reason wandered, and he talked of strange things.

"Mamma! Mamma!" he called, and time and again he plead: "Uncle Robert, give me a drink of water! Uncle Robert, I'm so thirsty! Oh, I'm so thirsty!"

And then it would be Abel Zachariah or Mrs. Abel, or Jimmy, or Skipper Ed himself, who was addressed. Every subject under the sun was running through Bobby's poor, delirious mind. Sometimes he spoke in Eskimo, sometimes in English. "Father!" he would cry, "see this cod. He's a fine one! We'll have a fine catch this season." And so he would ramble along about the fishing for a time, and then perhaps grow silent, only to resume, upon some other thought.

After each brief silence there was something new. Perhaps he was warning Jimmy to run, or declaring that he knew he could get the bear if he only had time to load. Or perhaps he was telling Mrs. Abel that he was tired, oh, so tired, and begging her to sing a lullaby to him as she used to do when he was little.

Skipper Ed, foreseeing this state of affairs, had removed his other patients, who were now convalescing, to his own tent, where he gave them strict instructions as to their conduct, and such casual attention as he could. But for the most part he remained with Bobby. Indeed, during the day and night of Bobby's delirium he scarcely left Bobby's side for an instant. And more than once during this period of vigil and fear and foreboding Skipper Ed fell upon his knees and poured out his soul to the Great Master in an appeal for his young friend's life.

It was near sunrise on the second morning of his delirium that Bobby suddenly ceased to speak and lay very quiet--so quiet that an awful dread came into Skipper Ed's heart. He leaned over the still form and with fearful apprehension listened for breathing that he could not hear, and felt for heart beats that were too faint for his discovery.

And then again he fell upon his knees, for he was a G.o.d-fearing man and he had the love of G.o.d in his heart, and he prayed that if it were not too late G.o.d in His goodness would again place the breath of life into Bobby and return him to them. He prayed aloud, and as he prayed the tears ran down his weather-beaten cheeks.

At last he rose. Bobby's face had a.s.sumed an unnatural, peaceful repose.

The color had left the cheeks that had been fever flushed for so long.

The lips were partly open, and there was no movement or sign of life.

Skipper Ed staggered to the tent front, and thrusting the flaps aside staggered out. The world lay quiet and serene, as though it held no grief. The waves lapped gently against the rocks. The sky was afire with radiant beauty.

For a long while Skipper Ed stood there, his face drawn and haggard, his tall form bent, uncertain which way to turn or what to do. Presently the fire faded from the sky, a breeze sent a ripple over the calm waters, and the big sun rose out of the sea, as though to ask him why he mourned. And then he whispered, "Thy will be done. If it is Thy will to take him from us, oh G.o.d, give us the strength and courage to accept our bereavement like men."

Then it was that a new, strange peace came upon Skipper Ed, and he reentered the tent, to stoop again over Bobby's couch, and as he did so his heart gave a bound of joy, and a lump came into his throat. Bobby was breathing--ever so softly--but breathing.

With the pa.s.sing minutes the steady, regular breathing became more apparent, the pulse a.s.serted itself and grew stronger, and at the end of an hour, when Bobby at last opened his eyes Skipper Ed saw that reason had returned to them.

"I've--been--asleep--dreaming--queer--dreams," Bobby murmured faintly.

"Yes," said Skipper Ed, "you've been asleep."

"I--feel--very--weak."

"Yes, you're very weak, for you've been very sick, lad," and Skipper Ed, choking back his emotion, added cheerily: "But there's better luck for you now, lad. Better luck."

"May--I--have--a--drink?"

Skipper Ed poured some water into a tin cup, and supporting Bobby's head, held the cup to his parched lips.

"Father--and mother--and Jimmy--where--are--they?" Bobby feebly asked, for even in sickness his eye was quick to note their absence.

"They're in my tent. Nearly well, but not well enough to go out and get chilled, though they're ready enough for it, and tired enough of staying in," said Skipper Ed.

And then, wearied with the exertion, Bobby fell into deep and strength-restoring slumber, and Skipper Ed joined the others to cheer their hearts with the good news that Bobby's illness had pa.s.sed its climax, and to rejoice with them over a meager breakfast.

With the pa.s.sing days Bobby grew rapidly stronger, and the others were able to be out and at their duties again. And in due time Bobby, too, was out on the rocks enjoying the sunlight, with his old vigor daily a.s.serting itself.

But hours of sunshine were few now, and more often than not the sky was leaden and somber, and the wind blew raw and cold, and already the clouds were spitting snow. The fishing season had pa.s.sed almost before they realized it. The weeks of idleness had been costly ones, and when the time came for them to return to the cabins at the head of Abel's Bay, and make ready for winter, they had garnered little of the harvest that had promised so well.

"Every season can't be a good one for us," remarked Skipper Ed as they struck their camp. "Better luck next year; better luck. And we should be mighty thankful we're all alive and all well. That's good luck--good luck, after all."

But they were to be denied many things that winter that the fish they had not caught would have brought them. The little luxuries in which they had always indulged occasionally were not to be thought of; and pork, which is almost a necessity, was to become a rarity and a luxury to them, and there were to be times when even the flour barrel would be empty.

But this was a part of the ups and downs of their life, and one and all they accepted the condition cheerfully, for who, they said, does not have to endure privations now and again? And they had always done very well in other years, and the needs of life are small; and so they had no complaint to make. Comfort and privation are, after all, measured largely by contrast, and what to them would have been comfortable and luxurious living would have seemed to you and me little less than unendurable hardship.

Bobby and Jimmy were as glad, now, to return to the snug cabins as they had been to set out for Itigailit Island in the summer, and as they looked back over the few short weeks, the July day when they had their adventure with the bear seemed to them a long, long while ago.

And when the boats were loaded Bobby ran up to say good-bye for a season to the cairn and the dead man mouldering beneath it, and to the wide open sea, and the misty horizon out of which he had drifted, and then they hoisted sail and were off.

Another long winter with its bitter cold and drifting snow, its joys and its hardships and adventures, was at hand.

CHAPTER XV

MAROONED IN AN ARCTIC BLIZZARD

That was indeed a winter of bitter cold and of almost unexampled severity. It came suddenly, too, and with scant warning, as we shall see, and a full fortnight in advance of the time when it should have come.

Abel and Skipper Ed took Jimmy with them that year upon their autumn seal hunt. It was deemed wise to leave Bobby behind with Mrs. Abel, despite his protest. Though he was willing enough to remain when Mrs.

Abel declared that because of her recent illness she wished some one to stay at home and a.s.sist her, for she did not feel equal to the task, una.s.sisted, of making things snug for the winter. And of course there was none but Bobby to stay.

And so it came about that Bobby, with many longings and regrets, though cheerful enough withal, stood down on the beach one frosty September morning and watched Abel Zachariah and Skipper Ed and Jimmy sail away for the hunt, while he comforted himself with the thought that another year he, too, would go.

Indeed, he had already taken part in the spring hunt, and though he gave no hint that he had guessed what was in their minds, he knew well enough that the plea that he was needed at home to a.s.sist Mrs. Abel at the work was a subterfuge of his foster parents, instigated, he had no doubt, by Skipper Ed. He was also satisfied that the real reason why he was left at home was because they deemed him not yet strong enough, as a result of his own recent illness, to withstand the unavoidable exposure and hardships to which the seal hunters would be subjected on the open and unprotected coast. And he had to confess to himself that he had not indeed recovered the full measure of his activity and hardihood, and that there was reason and justice in their course.

A raw wind was blowing, but a fair wind, and in a little while the boat, bowling before the breeze with all sail set, was lost to view. Then, disconsolately, Bobby turned back to the cabin, but Mrs. Abel took good care that he was kept so busy that he soon forgot his disappointment in work.

And that day he and Mrs. Abel had a jolly dinner of boiled goose, and tea, and that evening they sat a full hour beyond their bedtime while she recounted to him in her own quaint way the story of his coming from the place where mists and storms are born, and told him how he was sent by G.o.d to be their son, and how little he was, and how ill he was when Abel first placed him in her arms, and how she had hugged him to her, and had nursed away his fever, and how glad she and Abel had always been that G.o.d had sent them a son.

The days pa.s.sed thus until they lengthened into a week. Though Bobby was content enough, it was but natural that he should be a bit lonesome now and again, and eagerly wish the fortnight gone that yet must pa.s.s before the return of the seal hunters.

The wild geese and ducks were still in flight, coming in great flocks from the lakes of the vast unknown interior and from the farther north, on their way to milder southern climes. There were several marshes near Abel's Bay where the migrating flocks tarried for a time to rest and feed, and of mornings they would pa.s.s with a great roar of wings and loud honking from the bay to these marshes, and at night they would return.

It was Bobby's custom morning and night to lie in wait for them with his shotgun, and he always returned to the cabin with as many birds as he could carry. These were hung in the entrance shed of the cabin, where they would freeze and remain fresh and good until needed for the table.

And thus he too was doing his part in providing for the long winter which was at hand.

The goose-hunting season was always one of great sport for Bobby, but this year he found it lonesome enough without Jimmy's company. It was this loneliness, no doubt, that prompted him, one morning in the beginning of the second week after the departure of the seal hunters, to take Abel Zachariah's old skiff and pull far down the bay in the hope that he might kill a seal on his own account. It was a gray day, with leaden clouds hanging low. Patches of snow lay upon the ground. The bay, throbbing with a gentle swell, was somber and dark.

Bobby rowed the old skiff down the bay and past the bird islands near which he and Jimmy had their adventure on the cliff, but no seals were to be seen, and presently he turned his attention to the numerous sea pigeons which were swimming here and there. The young birds were quite full-grown now, and it was great fun shooting at them and watching them dive and rise again unharmed, though sometimes one would be just a fraction of a second too slow and the shot would find it, and then its downy body would float upon the water, and Bobby would pick it up and drop it into the boat and turn his attention to another, which might escape, or might be added to Bobby's bag.

This was exciting sport--so exciting that Bobby could not bring himself to give it up until a full two hours past noonday, and even then he would not have done so had not a rising northeast wind created a chop which made shooting from the skiff so difficult and inaccurate that it lost its interest.