Chapter 14

Whether the bear liver was under the curse of evil spirits or was in itself poisonous were questions that did not interest Bob. He knew it had made him sick and that was enough for him, and what remained of the liver went to the dogs, when he was able to be about again.

The days passed wearily enough for the men in their floating prison, impatient as they were at their enforced inactivity, but still helpless to do anything to quicken their release. May was dragging to an end and June was at hand, and still the ice pack, firm and unbroken, refused to loose its bands. Slowly--imperceptibly to the watchers on board the _Maid of the North_--it was drifting to the southward on the bosom of the Arctic current. But the sun, constantly gaining more power, was rotting the ice, and it was inevitable that sooner or later the pack must fall to pieces and release the schooner and its occupants from their bondage. Then would come another danger. If the wind blew strong and the seas ran high, the heavy pans of ice pounding against the hull might crush it in and send the vessel to the bottom. Therefore, while longing for release, there was at the same time an element of anxiety connected with it.

Finally the looked for happened. One afternoon a heavy bank of clouds, black and ominous, appeared in the western sky. A light puff of wind presaged the blow that was to follow, and in a little while the gale was on.

The _Maid of the North_, it will be understood, lay in bay ice, and all the ice to the south of her was bay ice. This was much lighter than that coming from more northerly points, and when the open sea which skirted the western edge of the field began to rise and sweep in upon this rotten ice the waves crumbled and crumpled it up before their mighty force like a piece of cardboard. It was a time of the most intense anxiety for the three men.

Just at dusk, amid the roar of wind and smashing ice, the vessel gave a lurch, and suddenly she was free. Fortunately her rudder was not carried away, as they had feared it would be, and when she answered the helm, Bob whispered,

"Thank th' Lard."

They were at the mercy of the wind during the next few hours, and there was little that could be done to help themselves until towards morning, when the gale subsided. Then, with daylight, under short sail they began working the vessel out of the "slob" ice that surrounded it, and before dark that night were in the open sea, with now only a moderate breeze blowing, which fortunately had shifted to the northward.

Here they found themselves beset by a new peril. Icebergs, great, towering, fearsome masses, lay all about them, and to make matters worse a thick gray fog settled over the ocean, obscuring everything ten fathoms distant. They brought the vessel about and lay to in the wind, but even then drifted dangerously near one towering ice mass, and once a berg that could not have been half a mile away turned over with a terrifying roar. It seemed as though a collision was inevitable before daylight, but the night passed without mishap, and when the morning sun lifted the fog the ship was still unharmed.

There was no land anywhere to be seen. What position they were in Bob did not know, and had no way of finding out. He did know, however, that somewhere to the westward lay the Labrador coast, and this they must try to reach.

Fortunately he could read the compass, and by its aid took as nearly as possible a due westerly course.

Alutook and Netseksoak, expert as they were in the handling of kayaks, had no knowledge of the management of larger craft like the _Maid of the North_, and without question accepted Bob as commander and followed his directions implicitly and faithfully; and he handled the vessel well, for he was a good sailor, as all lads of the Labrador are.

They made excellent headway, and were favoured with a season of good weather, and like the barometer Bob's spirits rose. But he dared to plan nothing beyond the present action. A hundred times he had planned and pictured the home-coming, but each time Fate, or the will of a Providence that he could not understand, had intervened, and with the crushing of each new hope and the wiping out of each delightful picture that his imagination drew, he decided to look not into the future, but do his best in the present and trust to Providence for the rest, for, as he expressed it,

"Th' Lard's makin' His own plans an' He's not wantin' me t' be meddlin' wi' un, an' so He's not lettin' me do th' way I lays out t' do, an' I'll be makin' no more plans, but takin' things as they comes along."

In this frame of mind he held the vessel steadily to her course and kept a constant lookout for land or a sail, and on the morning of the third day after the release from the ice pack was rewarded by a shout from Netseksoak announcing land at last. Eagerly he looked, and in the distance, dimly, but still there, appeared the shore in low, dark outline against the horizon.

Towards noon a sail was sighted, and late in the afternoon they passed within hailing distance of a fishing schooner bound down north. He shouted to the fishermen who, at the rail, were curiously watching the _Maid of the North_, as she plowed past them.

"What land may that be?" pointing at a high, rocky head that jutted out into the water two miles away.

"Th' Devil's Head," came the reply.

"An' what's th' day o' th' month?"

"Th' fifteenth o' June," rang out the answer. "Where un hail from?"

"Ungava," Bob shouted to the astonished skipper, who was now almost out of hearing.

The information that the land was the Devil's Head came as joyful news to Bob. He had often heard of the Devil's Head, and knew that it lay not far from the entrance to Eskimo Bay, and therefore in a little while he believed he should see some familiar landmarks.

Bob's hopes were confirmed, and before dark the Twin Rocks near Scrag Island were sighted, and as they came into view his heart swelled and his blood tingled. He was almost home!

That night they lay behind Scrag Island, and with the first dawn of the morning were under way again. The wind was fair, and before sunset the _Maid of the North_ sailed into Fort Pelican Harbour and anchored.

Bob's heart beat high as he stepped into the small boat to row ashore, for the whitewashed buildings of the Post, the air redolent with the perfume of the forest, and the howling dogs told him that at last the dangers of the trail and sea were all behind him and of the past, and that he would soon be at home again.

Mr. Forbes was at the wharf when Bob landed, and when he saw who it was exclaimed in astonishment:

"Why it's Bob Gray! Where in the world, or what spirit land did you come from? Why Ed Matheson brought your remains out of the bush last winter and I hear they were buried the other day."

"I comes from Ungava, sir, with some letters Mr. MacPherson were sendin'," answered Bob, as he made the painter fast.

"Letters from Ungava! Well, come to the office and we'll see them. I want to hear how you got here from Ungava."

In the office Bob told briefly the story of his adventures, while he ripped the letters from his shirt, where he had sewed them in a sealskin covering for safe keeping.

"Has un heard, sir, how mother an' Emily an' father is?" he asked as he handed over the mail.

"Mr. MacDonald sent his man down the other day, and he told me your mother took it pretty hard, when they buried you last week, although she has stuck to it all along that the remains Ed brought out were not yours and you were alive somewhere. Emily don't seem to change. Your father and nearly every one else in the Bay has had a good hunt. Go out to the men's kitchen for your supper now and when you've eaten come back again and we'll talk things over."

In the kitchen he heard some exaggerated details of Ed's journey out, and something of the happenings up the bay during the winter. When he had finished his meal he returned to the office, where Mr. Forbes was waiting for him.

"Well, Ungava Bob, as Mr. MacPherson calls you in his letter," said Mr. Forbes, "you've earned the rifle he gave you, and you're to keep it. Now tell me more of your adventures since you left Ungava."

Little by little he drew from Bob pretty complete details of the journey, and then told him that he had better sail the _Maid of the North_ up to Kenemish, where Douglas Campbell and his father would see that he secured the salvage due him for bringing out the schooner.

"An' what may salvage be, sir?" asked Bob.

"Why," answered Mr. Forbes, "you found the schooner a derelict at sea and you brought her into port. When you give her back to the owner he will have to pay you whatever amount the court decides is due you for the service, and it may be as much as one-half the value of the vessel and cargo. You'll get enough out of it to settle you comfortably for life."

Bob heard this in open-mouthed astonishment. It was too good for him to quite believe at first, but Mr. Forbes assured him that it was usual and within his rights.

They arranged that Netseksoak and Aluktook should go with him to Kenemish and later return to Fort Pelican to be paid by Mr. Forbes for their services and to be sent home by him on the company's ship, the _Eric_, on its annual voyage north.

Then Bob, after thanking Mr. Forbes, rowed back to the _Maid of the North_, too full of excitement and anticipation to sleep.

With the first ray of morning light the anchor was weighed, the sails hoisted and but two days lay between Bob and home.

As he stood on the deck of the _Maid of the North_ and drank in the wild, rugged beauty of the scene around him Bob thought of that day, which seemed so long, long ago, when he and his mother, broken hearted and disconsolate were going home with little Emily, and how he had looked away at those very hills and the inspiration had come to him that led to the journey from which he was now returning. Tears came to his eyes and he said to himself,

"Sure th' Lard be good. 'Twere He put un in my head t' go, an' He were watchin' over me an' carin' for me all th' time when I were thinkin' He were losin' track o' me. I'll never doubt th' Lard again."

XXV

THE BREAK-UP

One evening a month after Ed Matheson started out with his gruesome burden to Wolf Bight, Dick Blake was sitting alone in the tilt at the junction of his and Ed's trails, smoking his after supper pipe and meditating on the happenings of the preceding weeks. There were some things in connection with the tragedy that he had never been able to quite clear up. Why, for instance, he asked himself, did Micmac John steal the furs and then leave them in the tilt where they were found? Had the half-breed been suddenly smitten by his conscience? That seemed most unlikely, for Dick had never discovered any indication that Micmac possessed a conscience. No possible solution of the problem presented itself. A hundred times he had probed the question, and always ended by saying, as he did now,

"'Tis strange--wonderful strange, an' I can't make un out."

He arose and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, filled the stove with wood, and then looked out into the night before going to his bunk. It was snowing thick and fast.

"'Tis well to-morrow's Sunday," he remarked. "The's nasty weather comin'."

"That they is," said a voice so close to his elbow that he started back in surprise,

"Why, hello, Ed. You were givin' me a rare start, sneakin' in as quiet's a rabbit. How is un?"

"Fine," said Ed, who had just come around the corner of the tilt in time to hear Dick's remark in reference to the weather. "Who un talkin' to?"

"To a sensible man as agrees wi' me," answered Dick facetiously. "A feller does get wonderful lonesome seem' no one an' has t' talk t' hisself sometimes."

The two entered the tilt and Ed threw off his adikey while Dick put the kettle over.

"Well," asked Dick, when Ed was finally seated, "how'd th' mother take un?"

"Rare hard on th' start off," said Ed. "'Twere th' hardest thing I ever done, tellin' she, an' 'twere all I could do t' keep from breakin' down myself. I 'most cried, I were feelin so bad for un.

"Douglas were there an' Bessie were visitin' th' sick maid, which were a blessin', fer Richard were away on his trail.

"I goes in an' finds un happy an' thinkin' maybe Bob'd be comin'. I finds th' bones gettin' weak in my legs, soon's I sees un, an' th' mother, soon's she sees me up an' says she's knowin' somethin' happened t' Bob, an' I has t' tell she wi'out waitin' t' try t' make un easy's I'd been plannin' t' do. She 'most faints, but after a while she asks me t' tell she how Bob were killed, an' I tells.

"Then she's wantin' t' see a bit o' the clothes we found, an' when she looks un over she raises her head an' says, '_Them_ weren't Bob's. I knows Bob's clothes, an' them weren't _his_! When I tells 'bout findin' _two_ axes she says Bob were havin' only one axe, an' then she's believin' Bob wasn't got by th' wolves, an' is livin' somewheres.

"Douglas goes for Richard, an' when Richard comes he says th' clothes's Bob's an' th' gun _ain't_, an' Bob were havin' only one axe.

"Richard's not doubtin' th' remains was Bob's though, an' o' course the's no doubtin' _that_. Th' clothes's gettin' so stained up I'm thinkin' th' mother'd not be knowin' un. But Richard sure would be knowin' th' gun, an' that's what _I'm_ wonderin' at."

"'Tis rare strange," assented Dick. "An' _I'm_ wonderin' why Micmac John were leavin' th' fur in th' 'tilt after stealin' un. That's what _I'm_ wonderin' at."

The whole evening was thus spent in discussing the pros and cons of the affair. They both decided that while the gun and axe question were beyond explanation, there was no doubt that Bob had been destroyed by wolves and the remains that they found were his.

The plan that Bill had suggested for hunting the trails without taking Sunday rest, thus enabling them to attend to a part of Bob's Big Hill trail, was resorted to, and the winter's work was the hardest, they all agreed, that they had ever put in.

January and February were excessively cold months and during that period, when the fur bearing animals keep very close to their lairs, the catch was indifferent. But with the more moderate weather that began with March and continued until May the harvest was a rich one, for it was one of those seasons, after a year of unusual scarcity, as the previous two years had been, when the fur bearing animals come in some inexplicable way in great numbers, and food game also is plentiful.

At length the hunting season closed, when the mild weather with daily thaws arrived. The fur that was now caught was deteriorating to such an extent that it was not wise to continue catching it. The traps on the various trails were sprung and hung upon trees or placed upon rocks, where they could be readily found again, and Dick and Ed joined Bill at the river tilt, where the boat had been cached to await the breaking up of the river, and here enjoyed a respite from their labours.

Ptarmigans in flocks of hundreds fed upon the tender tops of the willows that lined the river banks, and these supplied them with an abundance of fresh meat, varied occasionally by rabbits, two or three porcupines and a lynx that Dick shot one day near the tilt. This lynx meat they roasted by an open fire outside the tilt, and considered it a great treat. It may be said that the roasted lynx resembles in flavour and texture prime veal, and it is indeed, when properly cooked, delicious; and the hunter knows how to cook it properly. Trout, too, which they caught through the ice, were plentiful. They had brought with them when coming to the trails in the autumn, tackle for the purpose of securing fish at this time. The lines were very stout, thick ones, and the hooks were large. A good-sized piece of lead, melted and moulded around the stem of the hook near the eye, weighted it heavily, and it was baited with a piece of fat pork and a small piece of red cloth or yarn, tied below the lead. The rod was a stout stick three feet in length and an inch thick.

With this equipment the hook was dropped into the hole and moved up and down slowly, until a fish took hold, when it was immediately pulled out. The trout were very sluggish at this season of the year and made no fight, and were therefore readily landed. The most of them weighed from two to five pounds each, and indeed any smaller than that were spurned and thrown back into the hole "t' grow up," as Ed put it.

One evening a rain set in and for four days and nights it never ceased. It poured down as if the gates of the eternal reservoirs of heaven had been opened and the flood let loose to drown the world. The snow became a sea of slush and miniature rivers ran down to join forces with the larger stream.

At first the waters overflowed the ice, but at last it gave way to the irresistible force that assailed it, and giving way began to move upon the current in great unwieldly masses.

The river rose to its brim and burst its banks. Trees were uprooted, and mingling with the ice surged down towards the sea upon the crest of the unleashed, untamed torrent. The break-up that the men were awaiting had come.

"'Tis sure a fearsome sight," remarked Bill one day when the storm was at its height, as he returned from "a look outside" to join Dick and Ed, who sat smoking their pipes in silence in the tilt.

"An' how'd un like t' be ridin' one o' them cakes o' ice out there, an' no way o' reachin' shore?" asked Ed.

"I wouldn't be ridin' un from choice, an' if I were ridin' un I'm thinkin' 'twould be my last ride," answered Bill.

"Once I were ridin' un, an' ridin' un from choice," said Ed, with the air of one who had a story to tell.

"No you weren't never ridin' un. What un tell such things for, Ed?" broke in Dick. "Un has dreams an' tells un for happenin's, I'm thinkin'."

Ed ignored the interruption as though he had not heard it, and proceeded to relate to Bill his wonderful adventure.

"Once," said he,--"'twere five year ago--I were waitin' at my lower tilt for th' break-up t' come, an' has my boat hauled up t' what I thinks is a safe place, when I gets up one mornin' t' find th' water come up extra high in th' night an' th' boat gone wi' th' ice. That leaves me in a rare bad fix, wi' nothin' t' do, seems t' me, but wait for th' water t' settle, an' cruise down th' river afoot.

"I'm not fancyin' th' cruise, an' I watches th' ice an' wonders, when I marks chance cakes o' ice driftin' down close t' shore an' touchin' land now an' agin as un goes, could I ride un. Th' longer I watches un th' more I thinks 'twould be a fine way t' ride on un, an' at last I makes up my pack an' cuts a good pole, an' watches my chance, which soon comes. A big cake comes rollin' down an' I steps aboard un an' away I goes.

"'Twere fine for a little while, an' I says, 'Ed, now _you_ knows th' thing t' do in a tight place.'

"'Twere a rare pretty sight watchin' th' shore slippin' past, an' I forgets as 'tis a piece o' ice I'm ridin' till I happens t' look around an' finds th' cake o' ice, likewise myself, in th' middle o' th' river, an' no way o' gettin' ashore. The's nothin' t' do but hang on, an' I hangs.

"Then I sees th' Gull Island Rapids an' I 'most loses my nerve. 'Tis a fearsome torrent at best, as un knows, but now wi' high flood 'tis like ten o' unself at low water. Th' waves beats up twenty foot high."

Ed paused here to light his pipe which had a way of always going out when he reached the most dramatic point in his stories. When it was finally going again, he continued:

"Lucky 'twere for me th' rocks were all covered. In we goes, me an' th' ice, an' I hangs on an' shuts my eyes. When I opens un we're floatin' peaceful an' steady below th' rapids, an' I feels like breathin' agin.

"Then we runs th' Porcupine Rapids, an' I begins t' think I has th' Muskrat Falls t' run too which would be th' endin' o' me, sure. But I ain't. I uses my pole, an' works up t' shore, an' just as we gets th' rush o' th' water above th' falls, I lands.

"That were how I rid th' river on a' ice cake."

"Where'd ye land, now?" asked Dick. "This side o' th' river or t' other?"

"This side o' un," answered Ed, complacently.

"'Tis sheer rock this side, an' no holt t' land on," said Dick, triumphantly.

"'Th' water were t' th' top o' th' rock," explained Ed.

"Then," said Dick, with the air of one who has trapped another, "th' hull country were flooded an' there were no falls."

Ed looked at him for a moment disdainfully.

"I were on th' ice six days, an' _I knows_."

The men were held in waiting for several days after the storm ceased for the river to clear of debris and sink again to something like its normal volume, before it was considered safe for them to begin the voyage out. Then on a fair June morning the boat was laden with the outfit and fur.

"Poor Bob," said Dick, as Bob's things were placed in the boat. "Th' poor lad were so hopeful when we were comin' in t' th' trails, an' now un's gone. 'Twill be hard t' meet his mother an Richard."

"Aye, 'twill be hard," assented Ed. "She'll be takin' un rare hard. Our comin' home'll be bringin' his goin' away plain t' she again."

"An' Emily, too," spoke up Bill. "They were thinkin' so much o' each other."

Then the journey was begun, full of danger and excitement as they shot through rushing rapids and on down the river towards Eskimo Bay, where great and unexpected tidings awaited them.

XXVI

BACK AT WOLF BIGHT

Bob's apparent death was a sore shock to Richard Gray. When Douglas found him on the trail and broke the news to him as gently as possible, he seemed at first hardly to comprehend it. He was stunned. He said little, but followed Douglas back to the cabin like one in a mesmeric sleep. A few days before he had gone away happy and buoyant, now he shuffled back like an old man.

Mechanically he looked at the remains and examined the gun and the axe--Ed had brought out but one of the axes found by the rock with the remains--and said, "Th' gun's not Bob's. Th' axe were his."

"Th' gun's not Bob's!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray "Th' clothes is not Bob's! Now I knows 'tis not my boy we've found."

"Yes, Mary," said he broken-heartedly. "Tis Bob th' wolves got. Our poor lad is gone. No one else could ha' had his things."

He and Douglas made a coffin into which the remains were tenderly placed, and it was put upon a high platform near the house, out of reach of animals, there to rest until the spring, when the snow would be gone and it could be buried.

For a whole week after this sad duty was performed the father sat by the cabin stove and brooded, a broken-hearted, dispirited counterpart of what he had been at the Christmas time. It was the man's nature to be silent in seasons of misfortune. During the previous year, when luck had been so against him, this characteristic of silent brooding had shown itself markedly, but then he did not remain in the house and neglect his work as he did now. He seemed to have lost all heart and all ambition. He scarcely troubled to feed the dogs, and the few tasks that he did perform were evidently irksome and unpleasant to him, as things that interfered with his reveries.

From morning until night Richard Gray nursed the grief in his bosom, but never referred to the tragedy unless it was first mentioned by another; and at such times he said as little as possible about it, answering questions briefly, offering nothing himself, and plainly showing that he did not wish to converse upon the subject.