The Wilderness Castaways Part 7

"No one but Indians," said Remington. "Eskimos on the coast. They all live as close to nature as man can live, and they fight that wilderness pretty constantly for existence. It's a land of the survival of the fittest."

Later, on other occasions during their stay in Richmond Gulf, Paul visited the barren hill. He would steal away alone, and for an hour at a time sit upon its rocky summit, and revel in the rugged beauties of the landscape. Here he felt a something well up within him, a desire to _do_ something--an indescribable longing he could not define.

The lure and the power of the wilderness were exerting their influence. This was the world just as G.o.d had made it, untouched by the hand of man. Rugged mountains, patches of green forests, sparkling lakes, the distant sea, the blue sky, and silence. There were no brick walls to limit the vision, no tall chimneys belching out smudges of black smoke to defile the atmosphere, no rushing crowd to distract.

Nowhere does one get so close to G.o.d as in the wilderness. The wilderness is the temple of pure thoughts, of high ambitions. Here man's soul expands as nowhere else on earth.

When the three returned to camp they found the tents set up and everything snug and in order. A fragrant and cozy seat of spruce boughs had been arranged by Dan and Kuglutuk before a roaring log fire, and, by no means the least attractive of the preparations, a delicious supper of salmon awaited them, which they attacked with a will, for the exercise had given them an unusual appet.i.te.

"I never ate such fish before," Paul declared, between mouthfuls.

When supper was finished the two men lighted cigars, and chatted, while Paul reclined upon the boughs and gazed into the blaze.

Presently Tom and Dan joined them, and Dan, producing his harmonica, began to play a soft, low air, while Tom cut some tobacco from a plug, rolled it between the palms of his hands, stuffed it into a pipe, lighted it with a brand from the fire and handing the plug to Kuglutuk who followed his example, contentedly settled back to smoke and enjoy the warmth, for the evening was chilly.

"Them was fine salmon you gets this evenin'," Tom remarked.

"Yes," said Remington, "fine ones, and I hope we'll have more tomorrow."

"Dandies!" broke in Paul, "and dandy fun landing them!"

"Yes, 'tis rare sport landin' un. And does you like troutin'?"

"Yes, to be sure. We expected to get trout here," answered Remington.

"Th' husky's tellin' me they's plenty to be had a bit up the streams, sir, and big uns--wonderful big uns, by his tell, sir."

"We'll have to try them tomorrow."

"Where did you learn to speak Eskimo, Tom?" asked Ainsworth.

"Where'd I learn un, sir? I never learned un. I allus knew un. I were born, sir, on the Labrador. My mother were a woman of Zoar, sir, an' a half-breed. They talks mostly husky thereabouts. The first words she ever says to me, sir, was husky, an' when I were a wee lad she talks all her baby talk to me in husky."

"But your father was a white man?"

"Oh, aye, sir, he were from Conception Bay. He were down on the Labrador fishin', an' he meets my mother, an' likes she, an' th'

missionary marries un. Then he stays at Zoar an' traps in winter, an'

there I were born, sir."

"Are your parents still living, then?"

"Oh, no, sir. They both dies when I were a bit of a lad, sir--seven year old or thereabouts. 'Twere in winter, an' my father is out to his traps. My mother expects him home in th' evenin', an' when it gets dark an' he never comes she's much worried, for he's always before comin' when he's promisin', sir. He were a wonderful true man t' keep his word, sir, even t' wallopin' me when I does things he's denied me to do, an' is deservin' th' wallopin'.

"Well, as th' evenin' gets on an' he's not comin', my mother cries a bit an' says somethin's been befallin' he, sir, out in the bush, an'

when she rouses me from sleep before the break of day th' next mornin', she's in a wonderful bad state worryin'. She tells me she's goin' t' look for he, an' I'm t' watch th' baby.

"She goes, sir, an' she don't come back that day or that night or th'

next day. Snow comes fallin' thick an' th' weather grows dreadful nasty. Th' baby cries most o' th' time, an' I carries un some. I knows th' baby's hungry, but I has no way t' feed un. After awhile it stops cryin' when I lays un on th' bed.

"That were a wonderful cold night, sir. When mornin' comes th' baby's still quiet, an' I says to myself, 'I'll let un sleep.'

"Th' bread's all gone, an' I only has a bit of salt fish t' eat, an'

th' fire I puts on in th' stove burns slow. But th' snow's stopped in th' night.

"Th' baby don't cry no more, but I does, for I don't know why my father an' mother don't come, an' I'm cryin' when I hears dogs outside. I wipes away th' tears quick, for I'm wantin' no one t' catch me cryin'.

"Then in comes th' Moravian missionary from Nain, a wonderful kind man. He asks where my mother is. I tells he how my mother goes away to look for my father an' never comes back, an' th' hard time I has. That th' baby were hungry, but she's sleepin' now.

"He goes an' looks at un, an' then very quiet he covers un over with th' blanket, an' puttin' his hand on my head an' lookin' in my eyes, he says: 'Is you brave, lad? We all has troubles, lad, an' you must be brave to meet yours.'

"Then he calls old Muklutuk, his driver, to bring in some grub. They puts on a good fire, an' gives me a plenty t' eat, an' goes away sayin' they'll be back by night.

"When they comes back the missionary holds me up to him, and he says, very kind: 'Lad, I'm goin' to take you to a new home, for your father and mother has been called away to heaven by th' Lord. He'll be needin' 'em there, an' they can't come back t' you, but th' Lord wants me t' take you with me.'

"I were wonderful lonesome when he says that, at not seein' mother an'

father again, but I holds back th' tears, for mother has often been tellin' me that some day th' Lord might be callin' she or father away t' live in heaven, an' not t' cry or feel bad about un, for 't would be right, as everything th' Lord done were right.

"Well, th' missionary takes me on his komatik t' th' station where he lives, an' th' women there cries over me an' makes a wonderful lot o'

me, an' every one there is wonderful kind."

"What had happened to your father and mother?" asked Ainsworth, after a pause.

"I were comin' t' that. He'd been meetin' with an accident, his gun goin' off an' shootin' his foot off. She finds him in th' snow, an'

tries t' carry him home, but 't were too much for she, an' when it comes on t' snow again she sticks to him, an' they both freezes t'

death. Leastwise that's what th' missionary thinks, for he finds un froze stone dead. Mother has her arms around father, holdin' he close to her bosom, as though tryin' to keep he warm.

"So you sees, sir, how I come t' speak th' Eskimo lingo. My mother were a half-breed of th' Labrador."

"The baby?" asked Paul, much moved by the story. "What became of that?"

"The baby were dead for a long while ere th' missionary comes."

Tom rose and threw some fresh wood on the fire, cut some fresh tobacco from his plug, refilled his pipe, and sat down again.

"But you live in Newfoundland now, Tom?" Remington asked.

"Oh, aye, sir. My father's brother comes down t' the Labrador fishing the next summer, and takes me home with he. I'd like wonderful well for you t' meet my woman, and my little lad and la.s.s, sir. There's no likelier lad and la.s.s on the coast, sir. They're wonderful likely, sir."

Dan resumed his soft music on the harmonica. Twilight gave way to darkness. Beyond the campfire's circle of light the forest lay black.

Below them the rapid roared. In the North the aurora flashed up its gorgeous glory.

"Well," said Remington at length, rising, "I reckon it's time to turn in for we want to be out early and make the most of our time."

His warm sleeping bag seemed very cozy to Paul when he crawled into it, this first night he had ever spent in camp, the perfume of his spruce bough bed very sweet, and quickly he fell into deep and restful slumber, to be suddenly awakened by the sharp report of a rifle.

CHAPTER V

WRECKED