The Lure of the Labrador Wild Part 22

"He's yours, sir; I brought he for you. An'," added Duncan impressively, "there's more when he's gone, sir."

The tea and the great leaping blaze warmed me, the tobacco stimulated me, and my tongue was loosed. I talked and I talked. It was good to have human society and human sympathy again. The boys told me how George had finally reached them after his struggles, and what news of the world they had heard. After a little they gave me a bit more bread, and told me I had better sleep while they built a break to keep the wind, which had shifted to the west, from my couch. And, while watching them fell trees for the wind-break and vaguely wondering whether I should ever be strong and able to move about like that again, I did go to sleep.

When, after an hour had pa.s.sed, I awoke, the boys made me drink more tea and eat another piece of bread. Then Duncan took his rifle, and remarking, "The 's deer signs right handy, an' a bit o' deer's meat might do you good, sir," strode off into the bush. Late in the afternoon he returned without having been rewarded in his hunt, and took a seat with Gilbert near my feet as I reclined on the boughs.

Twilight came and then darkness, and I, lying before the crackling flames, wondered, as they burned ever brighter, whether Donald and Allen had yet found Hubbard, and hoped against hope that they had found him alive. Instinctively I felt that I should prepare for the worst, but I cudgelled my brain for specious arguments to make myself believe he had survived, and went on hoping.

My feet had been paining me all day. I tried to take off my socks, but blood clots held them fast to the raw flesh. The fact was, they had been frozen. It was hardly to be wondered at--the wonder was, how I, wandering for ten days in a bitter snowstorm almost naked as to my lower extremities, escaped with my life. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, a physician has told me, the exposure would have killed me in short order; but, having been living in the open for months, I had become gradually inured to the cold, and the effect of the exposure was thus greatly mitigated. There were only two or three nights on the entire trip when any of us went to bed with dry feet, and that none of us ever had the slightest symptom of a cold certainly speaks volumes for an out-of-door life.

Although I ate very sparingly on the day the trappers found me, I soon began to suffer greatly from bloating and nausea. In the night I was very ill. The boys did everything they could for me. They were excellent nurses, those rough, brown fellows of the forest, antic.i.p.ating my every wish. When once or twice in the night I tried to walk a few steps from the fire to relieve my nausea, their faces and actions showed plainly their concern. That I might not stagger into the fire, they would rise to stand between it and me. One of them remained awake all night, to keep the fire going and to help me should I need anything.

The sun was again showing itself above the horizon, setting the expanse of fir trees and snow aglow, and the boys, having placed the kettle over the fire for breakfast, were cutting more wood, when Donald and Allen suddenly came over the bank, as they had done on the morning before. Their packs were as large as ever, and they had Hubbard's rifle. I knew at once that the worst had happened. "His wife and mother!"--like lightning the thought flashed through my mind. A dizziness came over me, and for a moment I could not breathe. Donald spoke:

"Yesterday evenin' we found th' tent, sir. He were fastened up tight with pins on th' inside, an' hadn't been opened since th' snow began.

Says I to Allen, sir, 'Th' poor man's dead, 'tis sure he's dead.' An'

Allen he opened th' tent; for I had no heart to do it, sir, and there th' poor man was, wrapped all up in th' blankets as if sleepin', sir.

But he were dead, sir, dead; and he were dead for a long time. So there was nothin' to do but to wrap th' poor man safe in th' things that were there, an' bring back th' papers an' other things, sir."

We kept silent, we five men, until Donald added:

"We saw a place when right handy to th' tent where you'd had a fire by a brook, sir."

"Yes," I said; "I built that fire--so that really was the brook near our tent!"

"'Twere th' mercy of G.o.d, sir," said Allen, "that you didn't know th'

poor man were there dead; you would ha' given up yourself, sir."

Having a superst.i.tious horror of the dead, Donald would not touch the body, and without a.s.sistance Allen had been unable to place it on a stage as I wished. However, he arranged it carefully on the ground, where, he a.s.sured me, it would be perfectly safe. He suggested that I permit them to bury the body where it was, as it would be quite impossible to transport it over the rough country for weeks to come, or until Grand Lake had frozen solid and the ice on the Susan River rapids become hard enough to bear the weight of men with a sled. Both Donald and Allen were willing to go back to the log-house on Grand Lake, and get the tools necessary for digging the grave.

But it would be bad enough for me to return home without Hubbard alive, and I felt that I simply must get the body out and take it with me.

And, although the trappers could not understand my reasons, I refused to consent to its burial in the wilderness. In spite of their superior knowledge of the country and the weather conditions, I felt that the body could be taken down to the post later, but recognised the impracticability, if not impossibility, of undertaking the task immediately.

When Donald and Allen turned over to me the papers they had found in the tent, I took up Hubbard's diary wondering if he had left a last message. In the back part of the book was a letter to his mother, a note to his wife, the evident attempt again to write to his wife, and the letter to the agent at Missanabie written on George's behalf. From these I turned hastily to the diary proper. Yes, there was an entry written on the day George and I had left him, and this is what I read:

"Sunday, October 18th, 1903.

"Alone in camp, junction Nascaupee and some other stream--estimated (overestimated, I hope) distance above head of Grand Lake 33 miles.

"For two days past we have travelled down our old trail with light packs. We left a bit of flour--wet--about 11 miles below here--12 miles (approx.) below that about a pound of milk powder--4 miles below that about 4 pounds of lard. We counted on all these to help us out in our effort to reach the head of Grand Lake where we hoped to find Skipper Tom Blake's trapping camp and cache. On Thursday, as stated, I busted. Friday and Sat.u.r.day it was the same. I saw it was probably hopeless for me to try to go farther with the boys, so we counselled last night and decided they should take merely half a blanket each, socks, etc., some tea, tea pail, cups and the pistols, and go on. They will try to reach the flour to-morrow. Then Wallace will try to bring a little and come back to me. George will go on to the milk and lard and to Skipper Blake's, if he can, and send or lead help to us. I want to say here that they are two of the very best, bravest and grandest men I ever knew, and if I die it will not be because they did not put forth their best efforts. Our past two days have been trying ones. I have not written my diary because so very weak. Day before yesterday we caught sight of a caribou, but it was on our lee, and winding us got away before a shot could be fired. Yesterday at our old camp we found the end we had cut from a flour bag. It had a bit of flour sticking to it. We boiled it with our old caribou bones, and it strengthened the broth a little. We also found a can of mustard we had thrown away.

Mina gave it to me as we were coming away, saying she had no use for it and it might be good for plasters here. I sat and held it in my hand a long time thinking how it came from Congers and our home, and what a happy home it was, and what a dear, dear girl presided. Then I took a bite of it and it was very good. We mixed some in our bone soup and it seemed to stimulate us. We had a bit of caribou skin in that same pot.

It swelled up thick and was very good. Last night I fell asleep while the boys were reading to me. This morning I was very, very sleepy.

After the boys left--they left me tea, the caribou bones and another end of a flour sack found here, a rawhide caribou moccasin and some yeast cakes--I drank a cup of strong tea and some bone broth. I also ate some of the really delicious rawhide (boiled with bones) and it made me stronger--strong to write this. The boys have only tea and 1-2 pound of pea meal. Our parting was most affecting. I did not feel so bad. George said: 'The Lord help us, Hubbard. With His help I'll save you if I can get out.' Then he cried. So did Wallace. Wallace stooped and kissed my cheek with his poor, sunken bearded lips--several times--and I kissed his. George did the same, and I kissed his cheek.

Then they went away. G.o.d bless and help them.

"I am not so greatly in doubt as to the outcome. I believe they will reach the flour and be strengthened, that Wallace will reach me, that George will find Blake's cache and camp and send help. So I believe we will all get out. My tent is pitched in open-tent style in front of a big rock. The rock reflects the fire, but now it is going out because of the rain. I think I shall let it go and close the tent till rain is over, thus keeping out wind and saving wood. To-night or to-morrow perhaps the weather will improve, so I can build fire, eat the rest of my moccasins and have some more bone broth. Then I can boil my belt and oil-tanned moccasins and a pair of cowhide mittens. They ought to help some.

"I am not suffering. The acute pangs of hunger have given way to indifference. I'm sleepy. I think death from starvation is not so bad. But let no one suppose I expect it. I am prepared--that is all.

I think the boys will be able, with the Lord's help, to save me."

Bravo, Hubbard! nothing could down your spirit for long, could there?

So high was your spirit that you could not know it was impossible for your poor old body to hold it any longer. Your hand was firm when you wrote, b'y, speaking eloquently of that which most of all was you. "It is a man's game," you said one day, in referring to our desperate struggle to reach those we loved. Well, you played it to the limit, b'y, and it was a man's death. My friend, I am proud of you.

Putting down the coverless book in which Hubbard's brave last words had been written, I sat and thought. The tea, the bones and the other things we had left with him had been found in the tent with the body.

The tent was closed as he said he was going to close it, and the snow, which began to fall that Sunday night, had not been disturbed. He had been found well wrapped in the blankets, as if sleeping. Yes, it was quite evident that after making that last entry in his diary on the day we left him, he had lain down, and there all alone amid the solitudes of desolate Labrador, there in the wild that had called to him with a voice to which he must needs harken, had gone to sleep, and sleeping had not awakened.

XXI. FROM OUT THE WILD

Donald and Allen returned at once to the log house on Grand Lake, leaving with the boys and me their tent and tent-stove. Donald also gave me a pair of high sealskin boots with large, soft moccasin bottoms. It was their expectation that we should remain in camp until they got back with other things to aid my journey out; but, although I was still very ill, and the heated tent was comfortable, I found waiting irksome, and at daylight the next morning (Sunday, November 1st) the boys and I pulled up stakes. To protect my hands during the journey I made a pair of mittens from a piece of blanket duffel that had been brought back from the tent where Hubbard was.

A pretty good path had been trodden in the snow by the trips of my rescuers up and down the valley, and following along it, with Duncan and Gilbert on their snowshoes ahead of me packing it down still further, I did not sink very deeply; nevertheless, such was the condition of my feet that every step I took was painful. As the boys carried all that was to be carried, I managed, however, to walk about ten miles during the day. We camped at a place where the four trappers on their journey in had cached a fat porcupine. For supper I ate a bit of the meat and drank some of the broth, and found it very nourishing.

On the following day we met Donald and Allen as they were returning to aid us. Allen brought with him a pair of trousers to cover my half-naked legs. At sunset we reached the rowboat, which had been left near the mouth of the Susan, and as we approached Donald's log-house something more than an hour later a rifle was fired as a signal that we were coming. When we landed, George was there on the starlit sh.o.r.e to welcome us. I hardly knew him. His hair had been cut, he had shaved off his ragged beard, and he was dressed in clean clothing that Donald had lent him. He, of course, had heard of Hubbard's death from Donald and Allen, and when he clasped my hand in a firm grip to help me from the boat, he said:

"Well, Wallace, Hubbard's gone."

"Yes," I said, "Hubbard's gone."

He was good enough to say he was glad I had escaped, and then in silence we followed the trail up to the house the first human habitation I had seen for months. There was only one room in the house, and there all of us, men and women alike, slept as well as ate; but it was scrupulously clean--the floor, table, chests and benches had been scoured until they shone and to me it seemed luxurious. The family did everything for me that was within their power. Donald gave me fresh underclothes, and his wife made me drink some tea and eat some rice and grouse soup before I lay down on the bed of skins and blankets they had prepared for me on the floor by the stove.

My two-days' walk had completely exhausted me, and I had a severe attack of colic and nausea. George then told me of his sufferings.

Mrs. Blake, it appeared, had baked a batch of appetising buns, and George, not profiting by his experience after his indiscretion on the night of his arrival, had partaken thereof with great liberality, the result being such as to induce the reflection, "Have I escaped drownin'

and starvin' only to die of over-feedin'?"

The women of the household slept in bunks fastened to the wall, and while they prepared themselves for their night's rest the lamps were turned low and we men discreetly turned our backs. Just before this incident we had family worship, which consisted of readings from the Bible and the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, in accordance with the usual custom of the household. Donald, our host, professed not to be a religious man, but never a day pa.s.sed that he did not offer thanks to his Maker, he regularly subscribed one-tenth of his income to the support of the Methodist Mission, he would not kill a deer or any other animal on Sunday if it came right up to his door, his whole life and his thoughts were decent and clean, and he was ever ready to abandon his work and go to the rescue of those who needed help. It may be thought strange that he should observe the forms of the Anglican Church in his family worship and subscribe to the Methodist Mission. The explanation is, that denominations cut absolutely no figure in Labrador; to those simple-hearted people, whose blood, for the most part, is such a queer mixture of Scotch, Eskimo, and Indian, there is only one church--the Church of Jesus Christ,--and whenever a Christian missionary comes along they will flock from miles with the same readiness to hear him whatever division of the Church may claim his allegiance.

So accustomed had I become to living in the open that I soon found the atmosphere of the closed room unendurable, and several times during the night I had to go out to breathe. I was down on the sh.o.r.e of Grand Lake for a breath of the crisp winter air when the sun rose. It was glorious. Not a cloud was there in all the deep blue vault of the heavens, and, as the sunbeams peeked over Cape Corbeau, the lake was set a-shimmering and the snow on the surrounding hills radiated tiny shafts of fire. It was to me as if the sun were rising on a new world and a new life. Our hardships and their culminating tragedy seemed to belong to a dim and distant past. What a beautiful world it was after all! and how I thanked G.o.d that I lived!

Allen Goudie had offered George and me the use of his sailboat in returning to Northwest River Post, and it was agreed that he and Duncan should row us over to his tilt on the Nascaupee. So after breakfast George and I said good-bye to Donald and the rest of his household, and three hours later were welcomed by Allen's wife. Again we received every attention that kindly hearts could suggest. We remained at Allen's two days while he and Duncan made a pair of oars and fitted up the sailboat for our trip to the post. With the soap and warm water and bandages provided by Mrs. Goudie I was able to dress my feet. One foot especially had been affected, and from it I cut with a jack knife much gangrenescent flesh.

It was on Thursday morning, November 5th, that George and I, warmly dressed in Donald's and Allen's clothes, set sail in a snowstorm for the post through the thin ice that was forming in the river. Upon reaching Grand Lake we found the wind adverse and the snow so thick we could not see our course, but after we had hovered about a fire on the sh.o.r.e until well into the afternoon, the wind shifted to the west and the storm abated, enabling us to proceed a little farther on our journey, or until signs of approaching night compelled us to take refuge in a trapper's tilt near Cape Blanc on the southern sh.o.r.e. This was the tilt that George, in his struggle out, had supposed he would have to reach to get help. It was about six by seven feet, and as it contained a tent-stove we were able to make ourselves comfortable for the night after our supper of tea and bread and b.u.t.ter and mola.s.ses thoughtfully provided by Mrs. Goudie.

The next morning was clear and beautiful, and although there was scarcely wind enough to fill the single sail of our little craft, we made an early start. Towards noon the wind freshened and soon was blowing furiously. The seas ran high, but George and I had become so used to rough weather and had faced danger so often that we ran right on in front of the gale, I at the tiller, and he handling the sail rope and bailing the water out when occasionally we shipped a sea. The rate at which we travelled quickly brought us to the rapid at the eastern end of the lake, and through this we shot down into the Little Lake, and thence through the strait known as the Northwest River out into Groswater Bay. It was about 3.30 o'clock in the afternoon when, turning sharply in below the post wharf, we surprised Mackenzie, the agent, and Mark Blake, the company's servant, in the act of sawing wood close down by the sh.o.r.e.

That they were astonished by the sudden appearance of the boat with its strange-looking occupants, was evident. They dropped their crosscut saw, and stood staring. In a moment, however, Mackenzie recognised George, who, having had a hair cut and a shave, looked something like his old self, and came to the conclusion that the other occupant of the boat must be I. He came quickly forward, and, grasping my hand as I stepped from the boat, asked abruptly:

"Where's Hubbard?"

"Dead," I said. "Dead of starvation eighty miles from here."

Mark Blake, a breed but not related to Donald, took charge of George, and as Mackenzie and I walked to the post house, I gave him a brief account of Hubbard's death and my rescue. He had been warmly attracted to Hubbard, and his big heart was touched. I saw him hastily brush away a tear. Taking me into the kitchen, he instructed his little housekeeper, Lillie Blake, Mark's niece, to give me a cup of cocoa and some soda biscuit and b.u.t.ter, while he made a fire in the dining-room stove. Lillie cried all the time she was preparing my lunch.

"I feels so sorry for you, sir," she said. "An' 'tis dreadful th' poor man's starvin', an' he were such a pretty man. In th' summer I says, before you went t' th' bush, sir, he's sure a pretty man. 'Tis wonderful sad, 'tis wonderful sad t' have he die so."