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Title: The Lure of the Labrador Wild

Author: Dillon Wallace

Release Date: May, 2003  [Etext #4019]
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THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD

The Story of the Exploring Expedition Conducted by Leonidas
Hubbard, Jr.

by Dillon Wallace





       L.H.

Here, b'y, is the issue of our plighted troth.
Why I am the scribe and not you, God knows:
and you have his secret.

       D.W.





"There's no sense in going further--it's the edge of cultivation,"
So they said, and I believed it...
Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes
On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so:
"Something hidden.  Go and find it.  Go and look behind the
   Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges.  Lost and waiting for you.  Go!"
--Kipling's "The Explorer."




PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION

Three years have passed since Hubbard and I began that fateful
journey into Labrador of which this volume is a record.  A little
more than a year has elapsed since the first edition of our record
made its appearance from the press.  Meanwhile I have looked behind
the ranges.  Grand Lake has again borne me upon the bosom of her
broad, deep waters into the great lonely wilderness that lured
Hubbard to his death.

It was a day in June last year that found me again at the point
where some inexplicable fate had led Hubbard and me to pass
unexplored the bay that here extends northward to receive the
Nascaupee River, along which lay the trail for which we were
searching, and induced us to take, instead, that other course that
carried us into the dreadful Susan Valley.  How vividly I saw it
all again--Hubbard resting on his paddle, and then rising up for a
better view, as he said, "Oh, that's just a bay and it isn't worth
while to take time to explore it.  The river comes in up here at
the end of the lake.  They all said it was at the end of the lake."
And we said, "Yes, it is at the end of the lake; they all said so,"
and went on, for that was before we knew--Hubbard never knew.  A
perceptible current, a questioning word, the turn of a paddle would
have set us right.  No current was noticed, no word was spoken, and
the paddle sent us straight toward those blue hills yonder, where
Suffering and Starvation and Death were hidden and waiting for us.
How little we expected to meet these grim strangers then.  That
July day came back to me as if it had been but the day before.  I
believe I never missed Hubbard so much as at that moment.  I never
felt his loss so keenly as then.  An almost irresistible impulse
seized me to go on into our old trail and hurry to the camp where
we had left him that stormy October day and find if he were not
after all still there and waiting for me to come back to him.

Reluctantly I thrust the impulse aside.  Armed with the experience
gained upon the former expedition, and information gleaned from the
Indians, I turned into the northern trail, through the valley of
the Nascaupee, and began a journey that carried me eight hundred
miles to the storm-swept shores of Ungava Bay, and two thousand
miles with dog sledge over endless reaches of ice and snow.

While I struggled northward with new  companions, Hubbard was
always with me to inspire and urge me on.  Often and often at night
as I sat, disheartened and alone, by the camp-fire while the rain
beat down and the wind soughed drearily through the firtops, he
would come and sit by me as of old, and as of old I would hear his
gentle voice and his words of encouragement.  Then I would go to my
blankets with new courage, resolved to fight the battle to the end.

One day our camp was pitched upon the shores of Lake Michikamau,
and as I looked for the first time upon the waters of the lake
which Hubbard had so longed to reach, I lived over again that day
when he returned from his climb to the summit of the great grey
mountain which now bears his name, with the joyful news that there
just behind the ridge lay Michikamau; then the weary wind-bound
days that followed and the race down the trail with all its
horrors; our kiss and embrace; and my final glimpse of the little
white tent in which he lay.

And so with the remembrance of his example as an inspiration the
work was finished by me, the survivor, but to Hubbard and to his
memory belong the credit and the honour, for it was only through my
training with him and this inspiration received from him that I was
able to carry to successful completion what he had so well planned.

My publishers inform me that five editions of our story have found
their way into the hearts and homes of those who cannot visit the
great northern wilds, but who love to hear about them.  I shall
avail myself of this opportunity to thank these readers for the
kindly manner in which they have received the book.  This reception
of it has been especially gratifying to me because of the lack of
confidence I had in my ability to tell the story of Hubbard's life
and glorious death as I felt it should be told.

The writing of the story was a work of love.  I wished not only to
fulfil my last promise to my friend to write the narrative of his
expedition, but I wished also to create a sort of memorial to him.
I wanted the world to know Hubbard as he was, his noble character,
his devotion to duty, and his faith, so strong that not even the
severe hardships he endured in the desolate north, ending only with
death, could make him for a moment forget the simple truths that he
learned from his mother on the farm in old Michigan.  I wanted the
young men to know these things, for they could not fail to be the
better for having learned them; and I wanted the mothers to know
what men mothers can make of their sons.

An unknown friend writes me, "To dare and die so divinely and leave
such a record is to be transfigured on a mountain top, a master
symbol to all men of cloud-robed human victory, angel-attended by
reverence and peace...a gospel of nobleness and faith."  And
another, "How truly 'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to
perform.'  Mr.  Hubbard went to find Lake Michikamau; he failed,
but God spelled 'Success' of 'Failure,' and you brought back a
message which should be an inspiration to every soul to whom it
comes.  The life given up in the wilds of Labrador was not in
vain."  Space will not permit me to quote further from the many
letters of this kind that have come to me from all over the United
States and Canada, but they tell me that others have learned to
know Hubbard as be was and as his friends knew him, and that our
book has not failed of its purpose.

The storms of two winters have held in their icy grasp the bleak
land in which he yielded up his life for a principle, and the
flowers of two summers have blossomed upon his grave, overlooking
the Hudson.  But it was only his body that we buried there.  His
spirit still lives, for his was a spirit too big and noble to be
bound by the narrow confines of a grave.  His life is an example of
religious faith, strong principle, and daring bravery that will not
be forgotten by the young men of our land.

    New York, June 1, 1906.   D. W.




PREFACE TO ELEVENTH EDITION



As the eleventh edition of this book goes to press, the opportunity
is given for a brief prefatory description of a pilgrimage to
Hubbard's death-place in the Labrador Wilderness from which I have
just returned.

For many years it had been my wish to re-visit the scene of those
tragic experiences, and to permanently and appropriately mark the
spot where Hubbard so heroically gave up his life a decade ago.
Judge William J. Malone, of Bristol, Connecticut, one of the many
men who have received inspiration from Hubbard's noble example, was
my companion, and at Northwest River we were joined by Gilbert
Blake, who was a member of the party of four trappers who rescued
me in 1903.  We carried with us a beautiful bronze tablet, which
was designed to be placed upon the boulder before which Hubbard's
tent was pitched when he died.  Wrapped with the tablet was a
little silk flag and Hubbard's college pennant, lovingly
contributed by his sister, Mrs. Arthur C. Williams, of Detroit,
Michigan.  These were to be draped upon the tablet when erected and
left with it in the wilderness.  Our plan was to ascend and explore
the lower Beaver River to the point where Hubbard discovered it,
and where, in 1903, we abandoned our canoe to re-cross to the Susan
River Valley a few days before his death.  Here it was our
expectation to follow the old Hubbard portage trail to Goose Creek
and thence down Goose Creek to the Susan River.

Of our journey up the Beaver River suffice it to say that we met
with many adventures, but proceeded without serious accident until
one day our canoe was submerged in heavy rapids, the lashings gave
way, and to our consternation the precious tablet, together with
the flag and pennant, was lost in the flood.  After two days' vain
effort to recover the tablet and flags we continued on the river
until at length further ascent seemed unpractical.  From this
point, with packs on our backs, we made a difficult foot journey of
several days to the Susan River valley.

I shall not attempt to describe my feelings when at last we came
into the valley where Hubbard died and where we had suffered so
much.  Man changes with the fleeting years and a civilized world
changes, but the untrod wilderness never changes.  Before us lay
the same rushing river I remembered so well, the same starved
forest of spruce with its pungent odor, and there was the clump of
spruce trees in which our last camp was pitched just as I had seen
it last.  Malone and Blake remained by the river bank while I
approached alone what to me was sacred ground.  Time fell away, and
I believe that I expected, when I stepped beside the boulder before
which his tent was pitched when we said our last farewell on that
dismal October morning ten years ago, to hear Hubbard's voice
welcome me as of old.  The charred wood of his camp fire might,
from all appearances, have but just grown cold.  The boughs, which
I had broken and arranged for his couch, and upon which he slept
and died, were withered but undisturbed, and I could identify
exactly the spot where he lay.  There were his worn old moccasins,
and one of the leather mittens, which, in his last entry in his
diary he said he might eat if need be.  Near the dead fire were
some spoons and other small articles, as we had left them, and
scattered about were remnants of our tent.

Lovingly we put ourselves to our task.  Judge Malone, with a brush
improvised from Blake's stiff hair, and with white lead intended
for canoe repairs, lettered upon the boulder this inscription:

                    Leonidas Hubbard, Jr.,
                      Intrepid Explorer
                            And
                      Practical Christian
                         Died Here
                        Oct. 18, 1903.
                    "Whither I go ye know,
                     and the way ye know."
                          John XIV.--4.

Then with hammer and chisel I cut the inscription deep into the
rock, and we filled the letters with white lead to counteract the
effect of the elements.

It was dark when the work was finished, and by candlelight, beneath
the stars, I read, from the same Testament I used in 1903, the
fourteenth of John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians, the
chapters which I read to Hubbard on the morning of our parting.
Judge Malone read the Fiftieth Psalm.  We sang some hymns and then
knelt about the withered couch of boughs, each of us three with the
feeling that Hubbard was very close to us.

In early morning we shouldered our packs again, and with a final
look at Hubbard's last camp, turned back to the valley of the
Beaver and new adventures.
                                    DILLON WALLACE.
Beacon-on-the-Hudson, November eighteenth, 1913.




CONTENTS



I.      The Object of the Expedition
II.     Off at Last
III.    On the Edge of the Wilderness
IV.     The Plunge into the Wild
V.      Still in the Awful Valley
VI.     Searching for a Trail
VII.    On a Real River at Last
VIII.   "Michikamau or Bust!"
IX.     And There was Michikamau!
X.      Prisoners of the Wind
XI.     We Give It Up
XII.    The Beginning of the Retreat
XIII.   Hubbard's Grit
XIV.    Back Through the Ranges
XV.     George's Dream
XVI.    At the Last Camp
XVII.   The Parting
XVIII.  Wandering Alone
XIX.    The Kindness of the Breeds
XX.     How Hubbard Went to Sleep
XXI.    From Out the Wild
XXII.   A Strange Funeral Procession
XXIII.  Over the Ice
XXIV.   Hubbard's Message




Acknowledgment is due Mr. Frank  Barkley Copley, a personal and
literary friend  of Mr. Hubbard, for assistance rendered  in the
preparation of this volume.

D. W.
New York, January, 1905.





THE LURE OF THE LABRADOR WILD




I. THE OBJECT OF THE EXPEDITION

"How would you like to go to Labrador, Wallace?"  It was a snowy
night in late November, 1901, that my friend, Leonidas Hubbard,
Jr., asked me this question.  All day he and I had been tramping
through the snow among the Shawangunk Mountains in southern New
York, and when the shades of evening fell we had built a lean-to of
boughs to shelter us from the storm.  Now that we had eaten our
supper of bread and bacon, washed down with tea, we lay before our
roaring campfire, luxuriating in its glow and warmth.

Hubbard's question was put to me so abruptly that it rather
startled me.

"Labrador!" I exclaimed.  "Now where in the world is Labrador?"

Of course I knew it was somewhere in the north-eastern part of the
continent; but so many years had passed since I laid away my old
school geography that its exact situation had escaped my memory,
and the only other knowledge I had retained of the country was a
confused sense of its being a sort of Arctic wilderness.  Hubbard
proceeded to enlighten me, by tracing with his pencil, on the fly-
leaf of his notebook, an outline map of the peninsula.

"Very interesting," I commented. "But why do you wish to go there?"

"Man," he replied, "don't you realise it's about the only part of
the continent that hasn't been explored?  As a matter of fact,
there isn't much more known of the interior of Labrador now than
when Cabot discovered the coast more than four hundred years ago."
He jumped up to throw more wood on the fire.  "Think of it,
Wallace!" he went on, "A great unknown land right near home, as
wild and primitive to-day as it has always been!  I want to see it.
I want to get into a really wild country and have some of the
experiences of the old fellows who explored and opened up the
country where we are now."

Resuming his place by the blazing logs, Hubbard unfolded to me his
plan, then vague and in the rough, of exploring a part of the
unknown eastern end of the peninsula.  Of trips such as this he had
been dreaming since childhood.  When a mere boy on his father's
farm in Michigan, he had lain for hours out under the trees in the
orchard poring over a map of Canada and making imaginary journeys
into the unexplored.  Boone and Crockett were his heroes, and
sometimes he was so affected by the tales of their adventures that
he must needs himself steal away to the woods and camp out for two
or three days.

It was at this period that he resolved to head some day an
exploring expedition of his own, and this resolution he forgot
neither while a student nor while serving as a newspaper man in
Detroit and New York.  At length, through a connection he made with
a magazine devoted to out-of-door life, he was able to make several
long trips into the wild.  Among other places, he visited the
Hudson Bay region, and once penetrated to the winter hunting ground
of the Mountaineer Indians, north of Lake St. John, in southern
Labrador.  These trips, however, failed to satisfy him; his
ambition was to reach a region where no white man had preceded him.
Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he believed that his ambition was
about to be realised.

"It's always the way, Wallace," he said; "when a fellow starts on a
long trail, he's never willing to quit.  It'll be the same with you
if you go with me to Labrador.  You'll say each trip will be the
last, but when you come home you'll hear the voice of the
wilderness calling you to return, and it will lure you away again
and again.  I thought my Lake St. John trip was something, but
while there I stood at the portals of the unknown, and it brought
back stronger than ever the old longing to make discoveries, so
that now the walls of the city seem to me a prison and I simply
must get away."

My friend's enthusiasm was contagious.  It had never previously
occurred to me to undertake the game of exploration; but, like most
American boys, I had had youthful dreams of going into a great wild
country, even as my forefathers had gone, and Hubbard's talk
brought back the old juvenile love of adventure.  That night before
we lay down to sleep I said: "Hubbard, I'll go with you."  And so
the thing was settled--that was how Hubbard's expedition had its
birth.

More than a year passed, however, before Hubbard was able to make
definite arrangements to get away.  I believe it was in February,
1903, that the telephone bell in my law office rang, and Hubbard's
voice at the other end of the wire conveyed to me the information
that he had "bully news."

"Is that so?" I said.  "What's up?

"The Labrador trip is all fixed for this summer," was the excited
reply.  "Come out to Congers to-night without fail, and we'll talk
it over."

In accordance with his invitation, I went out that evening to visit
my friend in his suburban home.  I shall never forget the
exuberance of his joy.  You would have thought he was a boy about
to be released from school.  By this time he had become the
associate editor of the magazine for which he had been writing, but
he had finally been able to induce his employers to consent to the
project upon which he had set his heart and grant him a leave of
absence.

"It will be a big thing, Wallace," he said in closing; "it ought to
make my reputation."

Into the project of penetrating the vast solitudes of desolate
Labrador, over which still brooded the fascinating twilight of the
mysterious unknown, Hubbard, with characteristic zeal, threw his
whole heart and soul.  Systematically and thoroughly he went about
planning, in the minutest detail, our outfit and entire journey.
Every possible contingency received the most careful consideration.

In order to make plain just what he hoped to accomplish and the
conditions against which he had to provide, the reader's patience
is asked for a few minutes while something is told of what was
known of Labrador at the time Hubbard was making preparations for
his expedition.

The interior of the peninsula of Labrador is a rolling plateau, the
land rising more or less abruptly from the coast to a height of two
thousand or more feet above the level of the sea.  Scattered over
this plateau are numerous lakes and marshes.  The rivers and
streams discharging the waters of the lakes into the sea flow to
the four points of the compass--into the Atlantic and its inlets on
the east, into Ungava Bay on the north, Hudson Bay and James Bay on
the west, and the Gulf of St. Lawrence on the south.  Owing to the
abrupt rise of the land from the coast these rivers and streams are
very swift and are filled with a constant succession of falls and
rapids; consequently, their navigation in canoes--the only possible
way, generally speaking, to navigate them--is most difficult and
dangerous.  In this, to a large extent, lies the explanation as to
why only a few daring white men have ever penetrated to the
interior plateau; the condition of the rivers, if nothing else,
makes it impossible to transport sufficient food to sustain a party
for any considerable period, and it is absolutely necessary to run
the risk of obtaining supplies from a country that may be plentiful
with game one year and destitute of it the next, and in which the
vegetation is the scantiest.

The western part of the peninsula, although it, too, contains vast
tracts in which no white man has set foot, is somewhat better known
than the eastern, most of the rivers that flow into Hudson and
James Bays having been explored and correctly mapped.  Hubbard's
objective was the eastern and northern part of the peninsula, and
it is with this section that we shall hereafter deal.  Such parts
of this territory as might be called settled lie in the region of
Hamilton Inlet and along the coast.

Hamilton Inlet is an arm of the Atlantic extending inland about one
hundred and fifty miles in a southwesterly direction.  At its
entrance, which is two hundred miles north of Cape Charles, the
inlet is some forty miles wide.  Fifty miles inland from the
settlement of Indian Harbour (which is situated on one of the White
Bear Islands, near the north coast of the inlet at its entrance),
is the Rigolet Post of the Hudson's Bay Company--the "Old Company,"
as its agents love to call it--and here the inlet narrows down to a
mere channel; but during the next eighty miles of its course inland
it again widens, this section of it being known as Groswater Bay or
Lake Melville.

The extreme western end of the inlet is called Goose Bay.  Into
this bay flows the Grand or Hamilton River, one of the largest in
Labrador.  From its source among the lakes on the interior plateau,
the Grand River first sweeps down in a southeasterly direction and
then bends northeasterly to reach the end of Hamilton Inlet.  The
tributaries of the lakes forming the headwaters of the Grand River
connect it indirectly with Lake Michikamau (Big Water).  This, the
largest lake in eastern Labrador, is between eighty and ninety
miles in length, with a width varying from six to twenty-five
miles.

The Grand River, as well as a portion of Lake Michikamau, some
years ago was explored and correctly mapped; but the other rivers
that flow to the eastward have either been mapped only from hearsay
or not at all.  Of the several rivers flowing into Ungava Bay, the
Koksoak alone has been explored.  This river, which is the largest
of those flowing north, rises in lakes to the westward of Lake
Michikamau.  Next to the Koksoak, the George is the best known of
the rivers emptying into Ungava Bay, as well as the second largest;
but while it has been learned that its source is among the lakes to
the northward of Michikamau, it has been mapped only from hearsay.

Now if the reader will turn to the accompanying map of Labrador
made by Mr. A. P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey, he will
see that the body of water known as Grand Lake is represented
thereon merely as the widening out of a large river, called the
Northwest, which flows from Lake Michikamau to Groswater Bay or
Hamilton Inlet, after being joined about twenty miles above Grand
Lake by a river called the Nascaupee.  Relying upon this map,
Hubbard planned to reach early in the summer the Northwest River
Post of the Hudson's Bay Company, which is situated at the mouth of
the Northwest River, ascend the river to Lake Michikamau, and then,
from the northern end of that lake, beat across the country to the
George River.

The Geological Survey map is the best of Labrador extant, but its
representation as to the Northwest River (made from hearsay) proved
to be wholly incorrect, and the mistake it led us into cost us
dear.  After the rescue, I thoroughly explored Grand Lake, and, as
will be seen from my map, I discovered that no less than five
rivers flow into it, which are known to the natives as the
Nascaupee, the Beaver, the Susan, the Crooked, and the Cape
Corbeau.  The Nascaupee is the largest, and as the inquiries I made
among the Indians satisfied me that it is the outlet of Lake
Michikamau, it is undoubtedly the river that figures on the
Geological Survey map as the Northwest, while as for the river
called on the map the Nascaupee, it is in all likelihood non-
existent.  There is a stream known to the natives as Northwest
River, but it is merely the strait, one hundred yards wide and
three hundred yards long, which, as shown on my map, connects
Groswater Bay with what the natives call the Little Lake, this
being the small body of water that lies at the lower end of Grand
Lake, the waters of which it receives through a rapid.

Hubbard hoped to reach the George River in season to meet the
Nenenot or Nascaupee Indians, who, according to an old tradition,
gather on its banks in late August or early September to attack
with spears the herds of caribou that migrate at that time, passing
eastward to the sea coast.  It is reported that while the caribou
are swimming the river the Indians each year kill great numbers of
them, drying the flesh for winter provisions and using the skins to
make clothing and wigwam-covering.  Hubbard wished not only to get
a good story of the yearly slaughter, but to spend some little time
studying the habits of the Indians, who are the most primitive on
the North American continent.

Strange as it may seem to some, the temperature in the interior of
Labrador in midsummer sometimes rises as high as 90 degrees or
more, although at sunset it almost invariably drops to near the
freezing point and frost is liable at any time.  But the summer, of
course, is very short.  It may be said to begin early in July, by
which time the snow and ice are all gone, and to end late in
August.  There is just a hint of spring and autumn.  Winter glides
into summer, and summer into winter, almost imperceptibly, and the
winter is the bitter winter of the Arctic.

If the season were not too far advanced when he finished studying
the Indians, Hubbard expected to cross the country to the St.
Lawrence and civilisation; otherwise to retrace his steps over his
upward trail.  In the event of our failure to discover the Indian
encampment, and our finding ourselves on the George short of
provisions, Hubbard planned to run down the swift-flowing river in
our canoe to the George River Post at its mouth, and there procure
passage on some fishing vessel for Newfoundland; or, if that were
impossible, to outfit for winter, and when the ice formed and the
snow came, return overland with dogs.

Hubbard knew that by ascending the Grand River he would be taking a
surer, if longer, route to Lake Michikamau; but it was a part of
his project to explore the unknown country along the river mapped
as the Northwest.  I have called this country unknown.  It is true
that in the winter of 1838 John McLean, then the agent of the
Hudson's Bay Company at Fort Chimo, a post situated on the Koksoak
River about twenty miles above its mouth, passed through a portion
of this country in the course of a journey he made with dogs from
his post to Northwest River Post.  His route was up the Koksoak and
across country to the northern end of Lake Michikamau, which he
followed for some little distance.  After leaving the lake he again
travelled eastward across country until at length he came upon the
"Northwest" or Nascaupee River at a point probably not far above
Grand Lake, from which it was easy travelling over the ice to the
post.  The record left by him of the journey, however, is very
incomplete, and the exact route he took is by no means certain.

Whatever route it was, he returned over it the same winter to Fort
Chimo.  His sufferings during this trip were extreme.  He and his
party had to eat their dogs to save themselves from starvation, and
even then they would surely all have perished had it not been for
an Indian who left the party fifty miles out of Chimo and
fortunately had strength enough to reach the post and send back
relief.  Later McLean made several summer trips with a canoe up the
George River from Ungava Bay and down the Grand River to Hamilton
Inlet; but never again did he attempt to penetrate the country
lying between Lake Michikamau and Hamilton Inlet to the north of
Grand River.  The fact was that he found his Grand River trips bad
enough; the record he has left of them is a story of a continuous
struggle against heartbreaking hardships and of narrow escapes from
starvation.

It is asserted that a priest once crossed with the Indians from
Northwest River Post to Ungava Bay by the Nascaupee route; but the
result of my inquiries in Labrador convinced me that the priest in
question travelled by way of the Grand River, making it certain
that previous to Hubbard's expedition no white man other than
McLean had ever crossed the wilderness between Hamilton Inlet and
Lake Michikamau by any route other than the aforesaid Grand River.
As has been pointed out, McLean made but a verv incomplete record
of his journey that took him through the country north of the Grand
River, so that Hubbard's project called for his plunge into a
region where no footsteps would be found to guide him.  Not only
this, but the George River country, which it was his ultimate
purpose to reach, was, and still remains, terra incognita; for
although McLean made several trips up and down this river, he
neither mapped it nor left any definite descriptions concerning it.

Here, then, was an enterprise fully worthy of an ambitious and
venturesome spirit like Hubbard.  Here was a great, unknown
wilderness into which even the half-breed native trappers who lived
on its outskirts were afraid to penetrate, knowing that the
wandering bands of Indians who occasionally traversed its
fastnesses themselves frequently starved to death in that
inhospitable, barren country.  There was danger to be faced and
good "copy" to be obtained.

And so it was ho for the land of "bared boughs and grieving winds"!




II. OFF AT LAST

Labrador's uncertain game supply presented more than one vexed
problem for Hubbard to solve.  Naturally it would be desirable to
take with us sufficient provisions to guard against all
contingencies; but such were the conditions of the country for
which we were bound, that if the expedition were at all heavily
loaded it would be impossible for it to make any headway.  Hubbard,
therefore, decided to travel light.  Then arose the question as to
how many men to take with us.  If the party were large--that is, up
to a certain limit--more food might possibly be carried for each
member than if the party were small; but if game proved plentiful,
there would be no danger from starvation whether the party were
large or small; for then short stops could be made to kill animals,
dry the flesh and make caches, after the manner of the Indians, as
supply bases to fall back upon should we be overtaken by an early
winter.  And if the game should prove scarce, a small party could
kill, on a forced march, nearly, if not quite, as much as a large
party; and requiring a proportionately smaller amount of food to
maintain it, would consequently have a better chance of success.
Taking all things into consideration, Hubbard decided that the
party should be small.

To guard against possible disappointment in the way of getting men,
Hubbard wrote to the agent of the Hudson's Bay Company at Rigolet,
asking whether any could be obtained for a trip into the interior
either at that post or at Northwest River.  The agent replied that
such a thing was highly improbable, as the visits of the Indians to
these posts had become infrequent and the other natives were afraid
to venture far inland.  Hubbard then engaged through the kind
offices of Mr. S. A. King, who was in charge of the Hudson's Bay
Company Post at Missanabie, Ontario, the services of a Cree Indian
named Jerry, that we might have at least one man upon whom we could
depend.  Jerry was to have come on to New York City to meet us.  At
next to the last moment, however, a letter from Mr. King informed
us that Jerry had backed down.  The Indian was not afraid of
Labrador, it appeared, but he had heard of the dangers and pitfalls
of New York, and when he learned that he should have to pass
through that city, his courage failed him; he positively refused to
come, saying he did not "want to die so soon."

We never had occasion to regret Jerry's faint-heartedness.  Mr.
King engaged for us another man who, he  wrote, was an expert
canoeman and woodsman and a good cook.  The man proved to be all
that he was represented to be--and more.  I do not believe that in
all the north country we could have found a better woodsman.  But
he was something more than a woodsman--he was a hero.  Under the
most trying circumstances he was calm, cheerful, companionable,
faithful.  Not only did he turn out to be a man of intelligence,
quick of perception and resourceful, but he turned out to be a man
of character, and I am proud to introduce him to the reader as my
friend George Elson, a half-breed Cree Indian from down on James
Bay.

The first instance of George's resourcefulness that we noted
occurred upon his arrival in New York.  Hubbard and I were to have
taken him in charge at the Grand Central Station, but we were
detained and George found no one to meet him.  Despite the fact
that he had never been in a city before, and all was new to him,
his quick eye discovered that the long line of cabs in front of the
station were there to hire.  He promptly engaged one, was driven to
Hubbard's office and awaited his employer's arrival as calm and
unruffled as though his surroundings were perfectly familiar.

Our canoe and our entire outfit were purchased in New York, with
the exception of a gill net, which, alas! we decided to defer
selecting until we reached Labrador.  Our preparations for the
expedition were made with a view of sailing from St. Johns,
Newfoundland, for Rigolet, when the steamer Virginia Lake, which
regularly plies during the summer between the former port and
points on the Labrador coast, should make her first trip north of
the year.  A letter from the Reid-Newfoundland Company, which
operates the steamer, informed us that she would probably make her
first trip to Labrador in the last week in June, and in order to
connect with her, we made arrangements to sail from New York to St.
Johns on June 20th, 1903, on the Red Cross Line steamer Silvia.  On
the 19th Hubbard personally superintended the placing of our outfit
on board ship, that nothing might be overlooked.

As the Silvia slowly got under way at ten o'clock the next morning,
we waved a last farewell to the little knot of friends who had
gathered on the Brooklyn pier to see us off.  We were all very
light-hearted and gay that morning; it was a relief to be off at
last and have the worry of the preparation over.  Mrs. Hubbard was
a member of the party; she was to accompany her husband as far as
Battle Harbour, the first point on the Labrador coast touched by
the Virginia Lake.

June 24th was my birthday, and early that morning, before we sailed
from Halifax, at which port we lay over for a day, Hubbard came
into my stateroom with a pair of camp blankets that he had been
commissioned by my sisters to present to me.  He had told me he had
enough blankets in his outfit and to take none with me.  How
strangely things sometimes turn out!  Those blankets which Hubbard
had withheld in order that I might be agreeably surprised, were
destined to fulfil an office, up there in the wilds for which we
were bound, such as we little suspected.  We reached St. Johns on
the morning of Friday, the 26th, and promptly upon our arrival were
introduced to the mysterious ways of the Reid-Newfoundland Company.
The Virginia Lake, we were told, already had gone north to
Labrador, was overdue on her return trip and might not be in for
several days.  Hubbard, however, set immediately to work purchasing
the provisions for his expedition and supervising their packing.
The following day, on the advice of the general passenger agent of
the Reid-Newfoundland Company, we took the evening train on their
little narrow-gauge railroad to Whitbourne, en route to Broad Cove,
where we were informed we should find excellent trout fishing and
could pleasantly pass the time while awaiting the steamer.

The Reid-Newfoundland Company failed to carry out its agreement as
to our transportation to Broad Cove, and we had considerable
trouble in reaching there, but we found that no misrepresentation
had been made as to the fishing; during the two days we were at
Broad Cove we caught all the trout we cared for.  Having received
word that the Virginia Lake had returned to St. Johns, and would
again sail north on Tuesday, June 30th, Hubbard and Mrs. Hubbard on
the morning of that day took the train to St. Johns, to board the
steamer there and see that nothing of our outfit was left behind.
George and I broke camp in time to take the evening train on the
branch road to Harbour Grace, where, it was agreed, we should
rejoin the others, the steamer being scheduled to put in there on
its way north.

When I had our camp baggage transferred next morning to the wharf,
and George and I had arrived there ourselves, we found also waiting
for the steamer several prospectors who were going to "The
Labrador," as the country is known to the Newfoundlanders, to look
for gold, copper, and mica.  All of them apparently were dreaming
of fabulous wealth.  None, I was told, was going farther than the
lower coast; they did not attempt to disguise the fact that they
feared to venture far into the interior.

Around the wharves little boats were unloading caplin, a small fish
about the size of a smelt.  I was informed that these fish sold for
ten cents a barrel, and were used for bait and fertiliser.  My
astonishment may be imagined, therefore, when I discovered that on
the Virginia Lake they charged thirty-five cents for three of these
little fish fried.

At ten o'clock our boat came in, and a little after noon we steamed
out of the harbour, Hubbard and I feeling that now we were fairly
on our way to the scene of our work.  Soon after rejoining Hubbard,
I learned something more of the mysterious ways of the Reid-
Newfoundland Company.  The company's general passenger agent,
avowing deep interest in our enterprise, had presented Hubbard with
passes to Rigolet for his party.  Hubbard accepted them gratefully,
but upon boarding the steamer he was informed that the passes did
not include meals.  Now such were the prices charged for the
wretchedly-cooked food served on the Virginia Lake that a
moderately hungry man could scarcely have his appetite killed at a
less expense than six dollars a day.  So Hubbard returned the
passes to the general passenger agent with thanks, and purchased
tickets, which did include meals, and which reduced the cost
considerably.

The Virginia Lake is a steamer of some seven hundred tons burden.
She is subsidised by the Newfoundland Government to carry the mails
during the fishing season to points on the Labrador coast as far
north as Nain.  She is also one of the sealing fleet that goes to
"the ice" each tenth of March.  When she brings back her cargo of
seals to St. Johns, she takes up her summer work of carrying mail,
passengers, and freight to The Labrador--always a welcome visitor
to the exiled fishermen in that lonely land, the one link that
binds them to home and the outside world.  She has on board a
physician to set broken bones and deal out drugs to the sick, and a
customs officer to see that not a dime's worth of merchandise of
any kind or nature is landed until a good round percentage of duty
is paid to him as the representative of the Newfoundland
Government, which holds dominion over all the east coast of
Labrador.  This customs officer is also a magistrate, a secret
service officer, a constable, and what not I do not know--pretty
much the whole Labrador Government, I imagine.

The accommodations on the Virginia Lake were quite inadequate for
the number of passengers she carried.  The stuffy little saloon was
so crowded that comfort was out of the question.  I had to use some
rather impressive language to the steward to induce him to assign
to me a stateroom.  Finally, he surrendered his own room.  The
ventilation was poor and the atmosphere vile, but we managed to
pull through.  Our fellow-passengers were all either prospectors or
owners of fishing schooners.

There was much ice to be seen when the heavy veil of grey fog
lifted sufficiently for us to see anything, and until we had
crossed the Strait of Belle Isle our passage was a rough one.  It
was on the Fourth of July that we saw for the first time the bleak,
rock-bound coast of Labrador.  In all the earth there is no coast
so barren, so desolate, so brutally inhospitable as the Labrador
coast from Cape Charles, at the Strait of Belle Isle on the south,
to Cape Chidley on the north.  Along these eight hundred miles it
is a constant succession of bare rocks scoured clean and smooth by
the ice and storms of centuries, with not a green thing to be seen,
save now and then a bunch of stunted shrubs that have found a
foothold in some sheltered nook in the rocks, and perchance, on
some distant hill, a glimpse of struggling spruce or fir trees.  It
is a fog-ridden, dangerous coast, with never a lighthouse or signal
of any kind at any point in its entire length to warn or guide the
mariner.

The evening was well upon us when we saw the rocks off Cape Charles
rising from the water, dismal, and dark, and forbidding.  All day
the rain had been falling, and all day the wind had been blowing a
gale, lashing the sea into a fury.  Our little ship was tossed
about like a cork, with the seas constantly breaking over her
decks.  Decidedly our introduction to Labrador was not auspicious.
Battle Harbour, twelve miles north of Cape Charles, was to have
been our first stop; but there are treacherous hidden reefs at the
entrance, and with that sea the captain did not care to trust his
ship near them.  So he ran on to Spear Harbour, just beyond, where
we lay to for the night.  The next day I made the following entry
in my diary:

"Early this morning we moved down to Battle Harbour, where Mrs.
Hubbard left us to return home.  It was a most dismal time and
place for her to part from her husband, but she was very brave.  It
was not yet six o'clock, and we had had no breakfast, when she
stepped into the small boat to go ashore.  A cold, drizzling rain
was falling, and the place was in appearance particularly dreary;
no foliage nor green thing to be seen--nothing but rocks, cold and
high and bleak, with here and there patches of snow.  They pointed
out to us a little house clinging to the rocks high up.  There she
is to stay until the steamer comes to take her home, to spend a
summer of doubts and hopes and misgivings.  Poor little woman!  It
is so hard for those we leave behind.  I stood aside with a big
lump in my throat as they said their farewell."  Up there in the
dark wilderness for which we were bound Hubbard talked with me
frequently of that parting.

On July 6th, the day after we left Battle Harbour, the captain
informed us for the first time that the boat would not go to
Rigolet on the way up, and gave us the option of getting off at
Indian Harbour at the entrance to Hamilton Inlet or going on to
Nain with him and getting off at Rigolet on the way back.  Hubbard
chose the former alternative, hearing which the customs officer
came to us and hinted that nothing could be landed until we had had
an interview with him.  The result of the interview was that
Hubbard paid duty on our entire outfit.

The next morning, Tuesday, July 7th, we reached Indian Harbour.
Amid a chorus of "Good-bye, boys, and good luck!" we went ashore,
to set foot for the first time on Labrador soil, where we were
destined to encounter a series of misadventures that should call
for the exercise of all our fortitude and manhood.




III. ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS

The island of the White Bear group upon which is situated the
settlement of Indian Harbour is rocky and barren.  The settlement
consists of a trader's hut and a few fishermen's huts built of
frame plastered over with earth or moss, and the buildings of the
Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, a non-sectarian
institution that maintains two stations on the Labrador coast and
one at St. Anthony in Newfoundland, each with a hospital attached.
The work of the mission is under the general supervision of Dr.
Wilfred T. Grenfell, who, in summer, patrols the coast from
Newfoundland to Cape Chidley in the little floating hospital, the
steamer Strathcona, and during the winter months, by dog team,
visits the people of these inhospitable shores.  The main station
in Labrador is at Battle Harbour, and at this time Dr. Cluny
Macpherson was the resident physician.

Dr. Simpson, a young English physician and lay missionary, was in
charge of the station at Indian Harbour.  This station, being
maintained primarily for the benefit of the summer fishermen from
Newfoundland, is closed from October until July.  Dr. Simpson had a
little steamer, the Julia Sheridan, which carried him on his visits
to his patients among the coast folk.  We were told by the captain
of the Virginia Lake that the Julia Sheridan would arrive at Indian
Harbour on the afternoon of the day we reached there; that she
would immediately steam to Rigolet and Northwest River with the
mails, and that we undoubtedly could arrange for a passage on her.
This was the reason that Hubbard elected to get off at Indian
Harbour.

The trained nurse, the cook, and the maid-of-all-work connected
with the Indian Harbour hospital ("sisters," they call them,
although they do not belong to any order) boarded the Virginia Lake
at Battle Harbour and went ashore with me in the ship's boat, when
I landed with the baggage.  Hubbard and George went ashore in our
canoe.  A line of Newfoundlanders and "livyeres" stood ready to
greet us upon our arrival.  "Livyeres" is a contraction of live-
heres, and is applied to the people who live permanently on the
coast.  The coast people who occasionally trade in a small way are
known as "planters."  In Hamilton Inlet, west of Rigolet, all of
the trappers and fishermen are called planters.  There the word
livyere is never heard, it having originated with with the
Newfoundland fishermen, who do not go far into the inlet.

The "sisters" who landed with us had difficulty in opening their
hospital, as the locks had become so rusted and corroded that the
keys would not turn.  We offered our assistance, and after removing
the boards that had been nailed over the windows to protect them
from the winter storms, we found it necessary to take out a pane of
glass in order that Hubbard might unlatch a window, crawl through
and take the lock off the door.  The sisters then told us that Dr.
Simpson might not arrive with the Julia Sheridan until the
following day, and extended to us the hospitality of the station,
which we thankfully accepted, taking up our temporary abode in one
of the vacant wards of the hospital.

Our first afternoon on Labrador soil we spent in assorting and
packing our outfit, while the Newfoundlanders and livyeres stood
around and admired our things, particularly the canoe, guns, and
sheath-knives.  Their curiosity was insatiable; they inquired the
cost of every conceivable thing.

The next afternoon (Wednesday) Dr. Simpson arrived on his steamer,
and, to our great disappointment, we learned that the Julia would
not start on the trip down the inlet until after the return of the
Virginia Lake from the north, which would probably be on Friday or
Saturday.  The Labrador summer being woefully short, Hubbard felt
that every hour was precious, and he chafed under our enforced
detention.  We were necessarily going into the interior wholly
unprepared for winter travel, and hence must complete our work and
make our way out of the wilderness before the rivers and lakes
froze and canoe travel became impossible.  Hubbard felt the
responsibility he had assumed, and could imagine the difficulties
that awaited us should his plans miscarry.  Accordingly, he began
to look around immediately among the fishermen and livyeres for
someone with a small boat willing to take us down the fifty miles
to Rigolet.  Finally, after much persuasion and an offer of fifteen
dollars, he induced a young livyere, Steve Newell by name, to
undertake the task.

Steve was a characteristic livyere, shiftless and ambitionless.  He
lived a few miles down the inlet with his widowed mother and his
younger brothers and sisters.  For a week he would work hard and
conscientiously to support the family, and then take a month's
rest.  We had happened upon him in one of his resting periods, but
as soon as Hubbard had pinned him down to an agreement he put in an
immediate plea for money.

"I'se huntin' grub, sir," he begged.  "I has t' hunt grub all th'
time, sir.  Could 'un spare a dollar t' buy grub, sir?"

Hubbard gave him the dollar, and he forthwith proceeded to the
trader's hut to purchase flour and molasses, which, with fat salt
pork, are the great staples of the Labrador natives, although the
coast livyeres seldom can afford the latter dainty.  While we were
preparing to start, Hubbard asked Steve what he generally did for a
living.

"I hunts in winter an' fishes in summer, sir," was   the reply.

"What do you hunt?

"Fur an' partridges, sir.  I trades the fur for flour and molasses,
sir, an' us eats th' partridges."

"What kind of fur do you find here?"

"Foxes is about all, sir, an' them's scarce; only a   chance one,
sir."

"Do you catch enough fur to keep you in flour and   molasses?"

"Not always, sir.  Sometimes us has only partridges t' eat, sir."

We started at five o'clock in the evening in Steve's boat, the
Mayflower, a leaky little craft that kept one man pretty busy
bailing out the water.  She carried one ragged sail, and Steve
sculled and steered with a rough oar about eighteen feet long.  An
hour after we got under way a blanket of grey fog, thick and damp,
enveloped us; but so long are the Labrador summer days that there
still was light to guide us when at eleven o'clock Steve said:

"Us better land yere, sir.  I lives yere, an' 'tis a good spot t'
stop for th' night, sir."

I wondered what sort of an establishment Steve maintained, and
drawing an inference from his personal appearance, I had misgivings
as to its cleanliness.  However, anything seemed better than
chilling fog, and land we did--in a shallow cove where we bumped
over a partly submerged rock and manoeuvred with difficulty among
others, that raised their heads ominously above the water.  As we
approached, we made out through the fog the dim outlines, close to
the shore, of a hut partially covered with sod.  Our welcome was
tumultuous--a combination of the barking of dogs and the shrill
screams of women demanding to know who we were and what we wanted.
There were two women, tall, scrawny, brown, with hair flying at
random.  The younger one had a baby in her arms.  She was Steve's
married sister.  The other woman was his mother.  Each was loosely
clad in a dirty calico gown.  Behind them clustered a group of
dirty, half-clad children.

Steve ushered us into the hut, which proved to have two rooms, the
larger about eight by ten feet.  The roof was so low that none of
us could stand erect except in the centre, where it came to a peak.
In the outer room were two rough wooden benches, and on a rickety
table a dirty kerosene lamp without a chimney shed gloom rather
than light.  An old stove, the sides of which were bolstered up
with rocks, filled the hut with smoke to the point of suffocation
when a fire was started.  The floor and everything else in the room
were innocent of soap and water.

George made coffee, which he passed around with hardtack to
everybody.  Then all but Steve and our party retired to the inner
room, one of the women standing a loose door against the aperture.
Steve curled up in an old quilt on one of the benches, while
Hubbard, George and I spread a tarpaulin on the floor and rolled in
our blankets upon it.

We were up betimes the next morning after a fair night's sleep on
the floor.  We again served hardtack and coffee to all, and at five
o'clock were once more on our way.  A thick mantle of mist obscured
the shore, and Hubbard offered Steve a chart and compass.  "Ain't
got no learnin', sir; I can't read, sir," said the young livyere.
So Hubbard directed the course in the mist while Steve steered.
Later in the day the wind freshened and blew the mist away, and at
length developed into a gale.  Finally the sea rose so high that
Steve thought it well to seek the protection of a harbour, and we
landed in a sheltered cove on one of the numerous islands that
strew Hamilton Inlet, where we then were--Big Black Island, it is
called.

George had arisen that morning with a lame back, and when we
reached the island he could scarcely move.  The place was so barren
of timber we could not find a stick long enough to act as a centre
pole for our tent, and it was useless to try to pitch it.  However,
the moss, being thick and soft, made a comfortable bed, and after
we had put a mustard plaster on George's back to relieve his
lumbago, we rolled him in two of our blankets under the lee of a
bush and let him sleep.  Then, as evening came on, Hubbard and I
started for a stroll along the shore.  The sun was still high in
the heavens, and the temperature mildly cool.

A walk of a mile or so brought us to the cabin of one Joe Lloyd, a
livyere.  Lloyd proved to be an intelligent old Englishman who had
gone to Labrador as a sailor lad on a fishing schooner to serve a
three-years' apprenticeship.  He did not go home with his ship, and
year after year postponed his return, until at last he married an
Eskimo and bound himself fast to the cold rocks of Labrador, where
he will spend the remainder of his life, eking out a miserable
existence, a lonely exile from his native England.

After he had greeted us, Lloyd asked: "Is all the world at peace,
sir?"  He had heard of the Boer war, and was pleased when we told
him that it had ended in a victory for the British arms.  His
hunger for news touched us deeply, and we told him all that we
could recall of recent affairs of public interest.  I have said
that his hunger for news touched us.  As a matter of fact, few
things have impressed me as being more pathetic than that old man's
life up there on that isolated and desolate island, where he spends
most of his time wistfully longing to hear something of the great
world, and painfully recalling the pleasant memories of his
childhood's home and friends, and the green fields and spring
blossoms he never will know again.  And Lloyd's story is the story
of perhaps the majority of the settlers on The Labrador.

The old man had a fresh-caught salmon, and we bought it from him.
We then sat for a few minutes in his cabin.  This was a miserable
affair, not exceeding eight by ten feet, and, like Steve's home, so
low we could not stand erect in it.  The floor was paved with
large, flat stones, and the only vent for the smoke from the
wretched fireplace was a hole in the roof.  Midway between the fire
and the hole hung a trout drying.  In this room Lloyd and his
Eskimo wife live out their life.  During our visit the wife sat
there without uttering a word.  Her silence was characteristic;
for, somewhat unlike our women, the women of Labrador talk but
little.

When we had bidden Lloyd farewell, we carried the salmon we had
obtained from him back to camp, where Hubbard tried to plank it on
a bit of wreckage picked up on the shore.  It fell into the fire,
and there was great excitement until, by our united efforts, we had
rescued it, and had seen part of it safely reposing in the frying
pan, while Steve set to work boiling the remainder in our kettle
with slices of bacon.  As the gale continued to blow, it was
decided that we should remain in camp until early morning.  Hubbard
directed Steve to pull the boat around to a place where it would be
near the water at low tide.  He and I then threw down the tent, lay
on it, pulled a blanket over us and prepared for sleep.  It was
about eleven o'clock, and darkness was just beginning to fall.  Out
in the bay a whale was blowing, and in the distance big gulls were
screaming.  It was our first night out in the open in Labrador, and
all was new and entrancing; and as slumber gradually enwrapped us,
it seemed to us that we had fallen upon pleasant times.

At one o'clock (Friday morning) we awoke.  By the light of the
brilliant moon we made coffee, called George and Steve and ate our
breakfast of cold salmon and hardtack.  George's lumbago was very
bad, and he was unable to do any work.  The rest of us portaged the
outfit two hundred yards to the boat, which, owing to Steve's
miscalculations as to the tide, we found high and dry on the rocks.
Working in the shallow water, with a cloud of mosquitoes around our
heads, it took us until 4.30 o'clock to launch her, by which time
daylight long since had returned.

Once more afloat, we found that the wind had entirely died away,
and Steve's sculling pushed the boat along but slowly.  Grampuses
raised their big backs everywhere, and seals, upon which they prey,
were numerous.  The water was alive with schools of caplin.  At
eleven o'clock we made Pompey Island, a mossy island of Laurentian
rock about thirty-five miles from Indian Harbour.  Here we stopped
for luncheon, and after much looking around, succeeded in finding
enough sticks to build a little fire.  I made flapjacks, and
Hubbard melted sugar for syrup.

While we were eating, I discovered in the far distance the smoke of
a steamer.  We supposed it to be the Julia Sheridan.  Rushing our
things into the boat, we put off as quickly as possible to
intercept her.  We fired three or four shots from our rifle, but
got only a salute in recognition.  Then Hubbard and I scramble into
the canoe, which we had in tow, and began to paddle with might and
main to head her off.  As we neared her, we fired again.  At that
she came about--it was the Virginia Lake.  They took us on board,
bag, baggage, and canoe, and Steve was dismissed.

In an hour we were in sight of Rigolet, and I saw a Hudson's Bay
Company Post for the first time in my life.  As our steamer
approached, a flag was run up in salute to the top of a tall staff,
and when it had been caught by the breeze, the Company's initials,
H. B. C., were revealed.  The Company's agents say these letters
have another significance, namely, "Here Before Christ," for the
flag travels ahead of the missionaries.

The reservation of Rigolet is situated upon a projection of land,
with a little bay on one side and the channel into which Hamilton
Inlet narrows at this point on the other.  Long rows of whitewashed
buildings, some of frame and some of log, extend along the water
front, coming together at the point of the projection so as to form
two sides of an irregular triangle.  A little back of the row on
the bay side, and upon slightly higher ground, stands the residence
of the agent, or factor as he is officially called, this building
being two stories high and otherwise the most pretentious of the
group.  It is commonly called the "Big House," and near it is the
tall flagstaff.  Between the rows of buildings and the shore is a
broad board walk, which leads down near the apex of the triangle to
a small wharf of logs.  It was at this wharf that our little party
landed.

Hubbard presented his letter of introduction from Commissioner
Chipman of the Hudson's Bay Company to Mr. James Fraser, the
factor, and we received a most cordial welcome, being made at home
at the Big House.  We found the surroundings and people unique and
interesting.  There were lumbermen, trappers, and fishermen--a
motley gathering of Newfoundlanders, Nova Scotians, Eskimos and
"breeds," the latter being a comprehensive name for persons whose
origin is a mixture in various combinations and proportions of
Eskimo, Indian, and European.  All were friendly and talkative, and
hungry for news of the outside world.

Lying around everywhere, or skulking about the reservation, were
big Eskimo dogs that looked for all the world like wolves in
subjection.  We were warned not to attempt to play with them, as
they were extremely treacherous.  Only a few days before a little
Eskimo boy who stumbled and fell was set upon by a pack and all but
killed before the brutes were driven off.  The night we arrived at
Rigolet the pack killed one of their own number and ate him, only a
little piece of fur remaining in the morning to tell the tale.

Within an hour after we reached the post, Dr. Simpson arrived on
the Julia Sheridan; but as he had neglected to bring the mail for
Northwest River Post that the Virginia Lake had left at Indian
Harbour, he had to return at once.  Dr. Simpson not being permitted
by his principles to run his boat on Sunday, unless in a case of
great necessity, we were told not to expect the Julia Sheridan back
from Indian Harbour until Monday noon; and so we were compelled to
possess our souls in patience and enjoy the hospitality of Mr.
Fraser.  I must confess that while I was anxious to get on, I was
at the same time not so greatly disappointed at our enforced delay;
it gave me an opportunity to see something of the novel life of the
post.

While at Rigolet we of course tried to get all the information
possible about the country to which we were going.  No Indians had
been to the post for months, and the white men and Eskimos knew
absolutely nothing about it.  At length Hubbard was referred to
"Skipper" Tom Blake, a breed, who had trapped at the upper or
western end of Grand Lake.  From Blake he learned that Grand Lake
was forty miles long, and that canoe travel on it was good to its
upper end, where the Nascaupee River flowed into it.  Blake
believed we could paddle up the Nascaupee some eighteen or twenty
miles, where we should find the Red River, a wide, shallow, rapid
stream that flowed into the Nascaupee from the south.  Above this
point he had no personal knowledge of the country, and advised us
to see his son Donald, whom he expected to arrive that day from his
trapping grounds on Seal Lake.  Donald, he said, had been farther
inland and knew more about the country than anyone else on the
coast.

Donald did arrive a little later, and upon questioning him Hubbard
learned that Seal Lake, which, he said, was an expansion of the
Nascaupee River, had been the limit of his travels inland.  Donald
reiterated what his father had told us of Grand Lake and the lower
waters of the Nascaupee, adding that for many miles above the point
where the Nascaupee was joined by the Red we should find canoe
travel impossible, as the Nascaupee "tumbled right down off the
mountains."  Up the Nascaupee as far as the Red River he had sailed
his boat.  He had heard from the Indians that the Nascaupee came
from Lake Michikamau, and he believed it to be a fact.  This
convinced us that the Nascaupee was the river A. P. Low, of the
Geological Survey, had mapped as the Northwest.  The Red River
Donald had crossed in winter some twenty miles above its mouth, and
while it was wide, it was so shallow and swift that he was sure it
would not admit of canoeing.  He could not tell its source, and was
sure the Indians had never travelled on it.  In answer to Hubbard's
inquiries as to the probability of our getting fish and game,
Donald said there were bears along the Nascaupee, but few other
animals.  He had never fished the waters above Grand Lake, but
believed plenty of fish were there.  On Seal Lake there was a
"chance" seal, and he had taken an occasional shot at them, but
they were very wild and he had never been able to kill any.

Strange as it may seem, none of the men with whom we talked
mentioned that more than one river flowed into Grand Lake, although
they unquestionably knew that such was the case.  Their silence
about this important particular was probably due to the fact, that
while the Labrador people are friendly to strangers, they are
somewhat shy and rarely volunteer information, contenting
themselves, for the most part, with simple answers to direct
questions.  Furthermore, they are seldom able to adopt a point of
view different from their own, and thus are unable to realise the
amount of guidance a stranger in their country needs.  In fact I
discovered later that Skipper Blake and his son, who have spent all
their lives in the vicinity of Hamilton Inlet, never dreamed anyone
could miss the mouth of the Nascaupee River, as they themselves
knew so well how to find it.

We were sitting in the office of the post on Sunday, comfortably
away from the fog that lay thick outside, when we were startled by
a steamship whistle.  Out we all ran, and there, in the act of
dropping her anchor, was the Pelican, the company's ship from
England.  In the heavy fog she had stolen in and whistled before
the flag was raised, which feat Captain Grey, who commands the
Pelican, regarded as a great joke on the post.  Once a year the
Pelican arrives from England, and the day of her appearance is the
Big Day for all the Labrador posts, as she brings the year's
supplies together with boxes and letters from home for the agents
and the clerks.  From Rigolet she goes to Ungava, then returns to
Rigolet for the furs there and once more steams for England.

We found Captain Grey to be a jolly, cranky old seadog of the old
school.  He has been with the Hudson's Bay Company for thirty
years, and has sailed the northern seas for fifty.  He shook his
head pessimistically when he heard about our expedition.  "You'll
never get back," he said.  "But if you happen to be at Ungava when
I get there, I'll bring you back."  "Sandy" Calder, the owner of
lumber mills on Sandwich Bay and the Grand River, who came from
Cartwright Post on Sandwich Bay with Captain Grey on the Pelican,
also predicted the failure of our enterprise.  But Hubbard said to
me that he had heard such prophecies before; that they made the
work seem all the bigger, and that he could do it and would.

At noon on Monday Dr. Simpson came with the Julia Sheridan, and we
said good-bye to Rigolet.  The voyage down the inlet to Northwest
River Post was without incident, except that the good doctor was
much concerned as to the outcome of our venture, saying: "Don't
leave your bones up there to whiten, boys, if you can possibly help
it."  We reached Northwest River at two o'clock on Tuesday
afternoon, and found the post to be much the same as Rigolet,
except that its whitewashed buildings were all strung out in one
long row.  The welcome we received from Mr. Thomas Mackenzie, the
agent there in charge, was most gratifying in its heartiness.  Mr.
Mackenzie is a bachelor, tall, lean, high-spirited, and the soul
hospitality.  Hubbard promptly dubbed him a "bully fellow."
Probably this was partly due to the fact that he was the first man
in Labrador to give us any encouragement.  We had not been there an
hour when he became infected with Hubbard's enthusiasm and said he
would pack up that night and be ready to start with us in the
morning, if he only were free to do so.

To our great disappointment and chagrin, we found that Mackenzie
had no fish nets to sell.  We had been unable to obtain any at
Rigolet, and now we were told that none was to be had anywhere in
that part of Labrador.  Hubbard realised fully the importance of a
gill net as a part of our equipment and had originally intended to
purchase one before leaving New York; but he was advised by Mr. A.
P. Low of the Canadian Geological Survey that it would be better to
defer its purchase until we reached Rigolet Post or Northwest
River, where he said we could get a net such as would be best
adapted to the country.  Hubbard had no reason to doubt the
accuracy of this information, as Mr. Low had previously spent
several months at these posts when engaged in the work of mapping
out the peninsula.  Conditions, however, had changed, unfortunately
for us, since Mr. Low's visit to Labrador.  Seeing the quandary we
were in, Mackenzie got out an old three-inch gill net that had been
lying in a corner of one of his buildings.  He said he was afraid
it was worn out, but if we could make any use of it, we might take
it.  We, too, had our doubts as to its utility; but, as it was the
best obtainable, Hubbard accepted it thankfully and Mackenzie had
two of his men unravel it and patch it up.

During the afternoon we got our outfit in shape, ready for the
start in the morning.  Following is a summary of the outfit taken
from an inventory made at Indian Harbour: Our canoe was 18 feet
long, canvas covered, and weighed about 80 pounds.  The tent was of
the type known as miner's, 6 1/2 x 7 feet, made of balloon silk and
waterproofed.  We had three pairs of blankets and one single
blanket; two tarpaulins; five duck waterproof bags; one dozen small
waterproof bags of balloon silk for note books; two .45-70
Winchester rifles; two 10-inch barrel .22-calibre pistols for
shooting grouse and other small game; 200 rounds of .45-70 and
1,000 rounds of .22-calibre cartridges; 3 1/4 x 4 1/4 pocket
folding kodak with Turner-Reich Verastigmat lens; thirty rolls of
films of one dozen exposures each, in tin cans, waterproofed with
electricians' tape; a sextant and artificial horizon; two compasses
and our cooking utensils and clothing.

At Indian Harbour we had four 45-pound sacks of flour, but Hubbard
gave one sack to the pilot of the Julia Sheridan, and out of
another sack he had given the cook on the Julia sufficient flour
for one baking of bread, and we had also used some of this bag on
our way from Indian Harbour to Rigolet.  This left two 45-pound
bags and about thirty pounds in the third bag, or 120 pounds in
all.  There were, perhaps, 25 pounds of bacon, 13 pounds lard, 20
pounds flavoured pea meal, 9 pounds plain pea flour in tins, 10
pounds tea, 5 pounds coffee, 8 pounds hardtack, 10 pounds milk
powder, 10 pounds rice, 8 pounds dried apples, 7 pounds salt, 7 or
8 pounds tobacco and 30 pounds sugar.

This outfit, it will be remembered, was designed for three men.
Hubbard tried to hire some of the native to accompany us a few
miles into the interior and carry additional provisions that we
might cache, but failed; they were all "too busy."

Mackenzie treated us royally during the evening we spent at his
post, and we enjoyed his hospitality to the utmost, knowing that it
was to be our last night under shelter for weeks to come.  Now we
were on the very edge of the wilderness.  To-morrow we should enter
the unknown.




IV.  THE PLUNGE INTO THE WILD

It was nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, July 15, that we made the
start.  Our canoe, laden deep with our outfit, was drawn up with
its prow resting snugly on the sandy bottom of the little strait
that is locally known as the Northwest River.  Mackenzie and a
group of swarthy natives gathered on the shore to see us off.  All
but the high-spirited agent were grave and sceptical, and shook
their heads at our persistency in going into a country we had been
so frequently warned against.

The atmosphere was crisp, pure, and exhilarating. The fir trees and
shrubs gave out a delicious perfume, and their waving tops seemed
to beckon us on.  The sky was deep blue, with here and there a
feathery cloud gliding lazily over its surface.  The bright
sunlight made our hearts bound and filled our bodies with vigour,
and as we stood there on the edge of the unknown and silent world
we had come so far to see, our hopes were high, and one and all we
were eager for the battle with the wild.

"I wish I were going with you; good-bye and Godspeed!" shouted
Mackenzie, as we pushed the canoe into deep water and dipped our
paddles into the current.  In a moment he and the grave men that
stood with him were lost to view.  Up through the strait into the
Little Lake we paddled, thence to the rapid where the waters of
Grand Lake pour out.  With one end of a tracking line, Hubbard
sprang into the shallow water near the shore below the swift-
running stream, and with the other end fastened to the bow of the
canoe, pulled it through the rapid.  A "planter's" family in a
cabin near by watched us wonderingly.

Then we were in Grand Lake.  Hubbard remarked that it looked like
Lake George, save that the hills were lower.  For a few miles above
its outlet the shores on both sides of the lake are low.  Then on
the south come bluffs that rise, stern and grand in their nudity,
almost perpendicularly from the deep, clear water, while on the
north come lower hills, the most part wooded, that retreat more
gently from the rocky shore.  Heading for the extreme upper of the
lake, where Low's map and the natives had led us to expect we
should find the Northwest or Nascaupee River, we paddled along the
north shore to a point where we stopped among the rocks for a
luncheon of flapjacks and syrup.

We were away without waste of time, paddling diagonally across the
lake to the south shore. The fleecy clouds had now thickened, and a
few drops of rain had fallen.  In our course across the lake we
passed Cape Corbeau (Raven), but were so far out that the mouth of
the river of that name, which is just east of it, escaped our
attention.  Cape Corbeau, it had been named by a French missionary,
because the ravens build their nests on its rocky top, and, perched
high up, croak at you warningly from afar.  Always the ravens are
there.  Involuntarily, as one croaked above our heads, "Nevermore"
echoed through my mind.  "And my soul from out that shadow shall be
lifted nevermore."  There were dark shadows ahead of us among the
rocks and the forests, and--But in a moment the thought was drowned
and forgotten in the beauties of the scenery.  Beauties?--yes; for
bleak and desolate Labrador has a beauty and a charm all its own.

Two hours after passing Cape Corbeau the rain began to pour, and at
7.30 o'clock, when we made camp on the south shore, we were well
soaked.  We resumed our journey at 5.30 in the morning.  A stiff
breeze was blowing, but by keeping in the lee of the shore we made
good progress.  At ten o'clock, when we found it necessary to cross
to the north shore so as to shorten the distance, there was a
rising sea, and we had to lighten the canoe and ferry the cargo
over in two loads.

It was soon after one o'clock that we reached the upper end of the
lake, where we found a stream about 125 yards wide that flowed with
a swift current from out a little lake.  Into this lake after
luncheon we paddled, and when we reached its upper end, there was
the mouth of a river, which we immediately hailed as the Nascaupee,
the stream that was to lead us up to Lake Michikamau.  Its mouth
was wide, and it seemed to answer so well all the descriptions we
had heard of the river for which we were searching that the
possibility of our being mistaken never once entered our heads; in
fact, we remained under the impression that it was the Nascaupee
until the last.

But we were mistaken.  We had passed the Nascaupee five miles
below, where it empties, together with the Crooked River, into a
deep bay extending northward from Grand Lake.  At its mouth the
Nascaupee is divided by an island into two streams, and this island
is so thickly covered with trees, and the streams on either side of
it are so narrow, that when we crossed along in front of the bay no
break in the line of woods at the mouth of the river was
perceptible.  Perhaps it will be said we should have explored the
bay.  I know now myself that should have been done, but in justice
to Hubbard it must be remembered that none of us then had any
reason to suppose we should find a river at any place other than
the extreme upper end of the lake.  Time and time again Hubbard had
asked the few natives who had been there if the Nascaupee entered
Grand Lake at its extreme upper end, and the answer invariably had
been: "Yes, sir; he do."  Furthermore, it will have to be taken
into consideration how hard pressed Hubbard was by the fear that
the short summer would end before he had completed his work, and by
the consequent necessity of pushing on with all possible speed.

The river up which we started to ascend with light hearts was the
Susan, a river which was to introduce us promptly to heart-breaking
hardships, a river which is to me associated with the most tragic
memories.

On the southerly side of the little lake Porcupine Hill raises its
spruce-covered head a thousand feet above the water.  Proceeding up
the Susan, we found that the river valley was enclosed by low
ridges covered with spruce and a few scattering white birch and
aspen trees.  For the most part the banks of the river were steep
and high; where they were low the river formed little pond
expansions.  For a mile above its mouth we had good canoeing.  Up
to this point the river was not more than thirty yards wide, and
was deep, with little current.  Then it began gradually to widen
and become shallow and swift, with a boulder-strewn bottom.  Soon
we had to jump into the water, and with Hubbard at the end of the
tracking line, and George and I at either end of the canoe, haul,
lift, and push the heavily laden boat up the river, while we
floundered over the boulders. Sometimes we would be able to get
into the canoe and pole, but never for long.  Around the worst
places we portaged the whole outfit, canoe and all.  It was
desperately hard work, and when night came on and we went into
camp, we were only two miles above the little lake.

Hard as it was, we should not have minded our work in the rapids so
much had it not been for the flies.  For the first time we now
realised the full form of what had been told us about the fly pest
of Labrador.  We had considered them annoying at Rigolet and
Northwest River, but as soon as we began to buck the rapids they
came upon us in clouds.  They got into our nostrils, into our ears,
into our mouths, into our eyes even, and our faces and hands were
streaked with blood from their bites.  They were villainous,
hellish.  Hubbard frequently remarked that the mosquitoes seemed
friendly in contrast--and the mosquitoes were by no means
considerate of our feelings and comfort either.  We had purchased
some cheesecloth at Rigolet for face nets, but the trial we had
given it during the afternoon had proved that it was too closely
woven for us to see through it and do our work, and it was useful
only as some measure of protection for our ears and necks.  On our
faces we also tried some "fly dope" that we had purchased in New
York, but it kept the pests away for a few minutes only.

The ordinary Labrador fly is smaller than a pinhead.  You do not
feel it until after it has had its bite, and then the sensation is
like that of a fiery itch.  In addition to this kind, we had to
withstand the attacks of flies called by the natives "bulldogs."
These beasts are about the size of the top joint of one's thumb.
They are well named.  When they bite, you feel it immediately
beyond a doubt.  We used to say they bit out pieces of our flesh
entire and flew up into the trees to eat them, and we used
frequently to beg George to try his luck at shooting the brutes.
However, it must be said to the credit of both kinds of flies that
they have one good habit--they "knock off" work at the approach of
the cool of evening, thus giving you a chance to bathe as well as
sleep.

The rain was still pouring when we pitched our tent that first
night, but we had a good supper and were reasonably cheerful.
There were flapjacks dripping with the syrup of melted sugar, and
bacon, and hot bread, and coffee.

"With this sort of work before us," said Hubbard, we must keep well
fed."

"The river," said I, "certainly is the limit.  If the Indians have
to travel on it much, I feel sorry for them."

"Well," said Hubbard, "we've surely got our work cut out.  At this
rate we're going to make pretty slow progress."

"Blake told us," I ventured, "we could paddle up the river eighteen
or twenty miles, and that he had sailed his boat up that far.  I'd
be willing to bet he never sailed it up this stream."

"Oh," replied Hubbard, "he was mistaken in the distance.  This must
be the place where he said the river tumbled off the mountain.
What do you say, boys," he added, "to throwing away some of the
outfit?  We'll never make any progress if we attempt to carry it
all."

"Let's stick to it a little longer," suggested George.

However, we decided to abandon some clothing and a pail containing
about four pounds of lard; and as George, particularly, was opposed
to leaving behind us any provisions, it was decided to eat of them
lavishly and pay no attention to the hunt for the present.

All night it continued to rain, and we broke camp and started
forward on Friday morning, July 17, in a drenching downpour.
George thought this was rather hard.  While Hubbard was out of
hearing, he told me that the Indians never travelled in the rain,
and that he had never been expected to do so before.  The fact was
that George had never before been on an expedition where there was
so much necessity for haste.

We found the river on the second day to be even worse than our
worst fears had pictured it, and it kept growing worse as we
ascended.  The water was so swift and shoal that we could take only
a part of the outfit in the canoe, which meant that we had to
return at intervals for the rest and track all the way, Hubbard
pulling on the line while George and I waded and pushed.  Sometimes
we were scarcely knee deep in the water, and at other times we
would sink up to our armpits.  Frequently we were swept off our
feet.  Once or twice we forced the canoe and outfit through the
thick willows and alders that lined the river, and dragged them up
the steep bank and attempted to portage; but the country here had
been burned and fallen trees were piled high in every direction, so
that we were compelled to return to the river and resume our
efforts in the raging torrent.

The work was awful, it was heartrending; and though we exerted
ourselves to the utmost from six o'clock in the morning until eight
at night, we advanced our camp only two miles that day.  And when
we gathered around the fire at night, how we did "cuss" that river!
None of us, however, was discouraged, nor flinched at the prospect.
Our oil-tanned, cowhide moccasins and woollen trousers were
beginning to show the result of the attacks of bush, rock, and
water, but our blue flannel shirts and soft felt hats were still
quite respectable.  Our coats we had left behind us as an
unnecessary encumbrance.

While George was cooking breakfast on Saturday morning (July 18), a
red squirrel barked at us from a near-by tree.  Drawing his pistol
from its holster, Hubbard said:

"Wallace, let's see who shall have the honour of bringing to George
the first game of the trip."

I acquiesced, and walking around the tree, caught the first glimpse
of the squirrel.  At it I carefully aimed my pistol, and down it
came.  It made a tiny morsel for three men, but as the "first game
of the trip," we hugely enjoyed it when George served it in a pot
of soup.

At six o'clock we broke camp and laboured on, facing the same
desperate conditions that we had met the day before.  It is true
that the rain had ceased to fall, but the good weather brought out
the flies in increasing swarms.  We fairly breathed flies, and we
dreaded them far more than the hard work.  Since they attacked us
first, we had left our faces unwashed so as to retain the "dope,"
and they were streaming with a mixture of grease, dirt, blood, and
perspiration.

The return of the sun also sent the mercury soaring.  At noon that
Saturday it registered 90 degrees in the shade.  Always at sunset,
however, the temperature dropped with startling suddenness, and a
variation of from fifty to sixty degrees between the maximum and
minimum record for one day was not an unusual thing as long as
summer lasted.

Floundering up the boulder-strewn river that Saturday, we found the
heat so oppressive that it seemed to us we had got into the torrid
zone instead of up to within a few hundred miles of the Arctic
Circle.  We resolved, however, that the obstacles interposed
against our advance by the unfeeling wild should make us fight only
the harder, George and I receiving much inspiration from Hubbard,
to whom difficulties were a blessing and whose spirit remained
indomitable up to the very end.  And when we sat down to our
evening meal by a cosey fire, we had the satisfaction of knowing
that we had doubled our previous day's record and were four miles
further up the river.

On our first Sunday out we remained in camp to rest.  We were all
pretty tired, and enjoyed the long sleep in the morning.  The day
was fine, but very warm.  In the morning Hubbard caught about
twenty small trout, and after luncheon he and George went up the
river on a scouting trip.  When they returned in the evening, they
reported important discoveries.  First they had come upon a small,
rocky stream flowing into our river from the south, which stream
Hubbard felt sure must be the Red River the Blakes had told us
about, and a mile above that a two-mile stretch of good water.  But
the discovery that pleased Hubbard the most was some old cuttings
that apparently had been made by Indians; he was of the opinion, as
were all of us, that they indicated we really were on the
Mountaineer Indian trail to Michikamau, and that we undoubtedly
soon should come upon lakes and other good water that would carry
us through; and the discoveries of the scouting trip buoyed up our
spirits wonderfully.

On Monday morning (July 20) George took an axe and cut us a portage
route from our camp through a swamp a mile and a half to the foot
of a hill.  This route we covered three times.  It was impossible
for one man alone to carry the canoe through the swamp, and in
addition to it and the firearms we had at this period to transport
about five hundred pounds of baggage made up into packs of about
seventy-five pounds each.  At first Hubbard and I found seventy-
five pounds a pretty good load to carry, and neither of us could
get even that on his back without help from George; but later on we
learned to back and carry with comparative ease a hundred pounds or
more.  In packing we never used either shoulder or chest straps,
relying solely upon the head strap, which passes across the
forehead.

When, after much groaning and sweating, we finally arrived with all
of our outfit at the foot of the hill, it took the combined efforts
of all three of us to get the canoe to the top, whence we followed
an old caribou trail for a mile along the summit, camping just
above the smooth water that Hubbard and George had seen on Sunday.
We were all completely exhausted when we reached camp.  While
staggering along with the canoe a hundred yards from the tent, I
became so weak that I suddenly sank to the ground and the others
had to come to my rescue and bring in the canoe.  But the night was
cool and starry, and we sat long by our fire and talked and drank
pea soup and tea, and when it came time for us to turn in to our
soft bed of fragrant spruce boughs, our troubles had been quite
forgotten.

The good water that Hubbard and George thought was two miles long
shortened down, when we actually came to it the next morning, to
less than half a mile, affording us only a meagre opportunity to
make use of the canoe.  For a little distance we again bucked the
rapids, and then left the river for a rough portage of a mile and a
half over the hills on the shore.  Again at night we were
exhausted, but again we had a fine camp on a point overlooking the
river.  The crisp air came laden with the perfume of spruce and
balsam.  On the surrounding hills the fir trees were darkly
silhouetted against the sky, radiant with its myriads of stars.
The roar of the river could be heard dying away into a mere murmur
among the hills below.

"Boys," said Hubbard, after we had made a good supper of a mess of
trout I had caught at midday, "this pays for all the hard work."

Undoubtedly Hubbard was in fine fettle that evening, and as we lay
before the fire with that delicious feeling of languor which comes
from conscientious toil, he entertained George and me with
quotations from his favourite author, Kipling, while we puffed
comfortably upon our pipes.  One verse he dwelt upon, as it seemed
particularly appropriate to our position.  It was:

   When first under fire, if you're wishful to duck,
   Don't look or take heed of the man that is struck;
   Be thankful you're living and trust to your luck,
   And march to your front like a soldier."




V. STILL IN THE AWFUL VALLEY

The next day (Wednesday, July 22) was by far the most disheartening
of our journey up the valley of the Susan.  We portaged all day
through gullies and swamps and over rough ridges, covering in all
about two miles and a half.  All of us were overcome by the hard
work in the burning sun and the poisonous bites of the flies.  I
was the most susceptible to the attacks of the flies; for ten days
I was fairly sick from the poison they instilled.  The faces,
bands, and wrists of all of us were badly swollen and very sore.
My face was so swollen I could scarcely see.

In the morning when we started forward the temperature was down to
thirty-three degrees, but at noon it had risen to ninety-two.
Hubbard was attacked with diarrhoea, and I with vomiting.  We were
all too exhausted to eat when we stopped for luncheon, and lay on
the moss for an hour's rest, with the tent drawn over us to protect
us from the flies.

On a low, barren knoll we cached that day eighty rounds of .45-70
cartridges and 300 rounds of .22's, George marking the spot with a
circle of stakes.  That left us 120 rounds of .45-70's and 500
rounds of .22's.  It had become strictly necessary to lighten our
packs, and we had begun to drop odds and ends every day.

In the afternoon Hubbard shot with his pistol a spruce partridge
(grouse); it was the first seen by us on the trip.  Together with a
yellowlegs George had shot, it seasoned a pot of pea soup.  We
camped that night on a bluff, barren point, and Hubbard named it
"Partridge Point" in bonour of our first bird.

On Thursday (July 23) Hubbard lay in the tent all day sick.  All be
was able to eat was some hardtack dipped in tea.  At his request
George and I scouted for trails.  Each of us carried a rifle and
wore at his belt a pistol and a cup in addition to the sheath knife
we never were without.  In our pockets we placed a half-pound
package of pea meal.  George started westward up the river, and I
put for a high, barren bill two miles to the north.  As I climbed
the hill I heard gulls on the other side, which told me water lay
in that direction, and when I reached the top, there at my feet,
like a silver setting in the dark green forest, lay a beautiful
little shoe-shaped lake.  For miles and miles beyond the ridge I
was on, the country was flat and covered with a thick spruce
growth.

To the northeast of the lake at my feet I could see the glimmer of
other water among the trees, and I decided to go on and
investigate.  In doing so, I managed to get myself lost.
Descending the hill to the lake, I made my way through the thick
spruce growth in the swamp along the shore.  A splash in the water
startled me, and soon I found the fresh tracks of a caribou.  As he
had winded me, I knew it was useless to try to follow him.
Pressing my way on to the northeast, I came upon another small lake
and several small creeks.  At midday I built a fire and made a cup
of pea meal porridge.  While waiting for my meal to cook, I read a
letter that a friend had given me in New York, "to be opened after
one week's canoeing in Labrador."  It was like a letter just
received from home.

In the afternoon the sun became obscured by gathering clouds, and
in the thick underbrush through which my course led me I could see
scarcely twenty yards ahead.  I attempted to get my direction with
the compass, but the needle would not respond.  Trusting, however,
to my ability to find my course without it, I made my way on past
two more lakes.  A grouse fluttered up before me, and I brought it
down with a pistol shot.  After tying it to my belt, I decided it
was time to turn back home, as we called our camp, and struck off
by what I hoped would be a short cut through the swamp.  Then it
was that I lost my bearings, and at dusk, when I hoped to reach the
first lake I had seen in the morning, I found myself on the shore
of a lake I had never seen before.

Too weary to cook the grouse, or even build a fire and make a cup
of porridge, I threw myself on a flat rock, pillowed my head on the
trunk of a fallen spruce tree, drew a handkerchief over my face to
keep away the clouds of mosquitoes, and slept soundly.  At dawn I
arose, built a fire, repaired my compass, and ate a cup of
porridge.  I was not frightened, because with my compass again in
working order I knew I should have no difficulty in finding the
river, which must be somewhere to the south and which must lead me
back to camp.  So to the southward I took my course, pushing my way
through thick brush and over marshes where the ground under my feet
went up and down like the waves of the sea.

Towards noon I reached a barren hill, and from its summit saw the
river just beyond and the site of one of our old camping places
that I knew was eighteen miles below our last camp.  Down to the
shore of the river I hurried, and built a fire for luncheon.  The
partridge at my belt had been torn into shreds by the bushes, and
again a cup of porridge had to serve me for a meal.  It was dark
when I reached camp, to find Hubbard greatly worried and George
away looking for me.

There had been some good-natured arguments between Hubbard and me
as to the merits of our respective compasses, and as he now
appeared to have the better of it, he took advantage of the
occasion to chaff me unmercifully.  Then when George returned they
both had fun with me for getting lost.

"That's all right," I said, "your turn, Hubbard, will come later.
You haven't been lost yet, because you haven't been out of sight of
camp alone.  Anyway, I just stayed out for a quiet evening by
myself."

My absence on Friday did not delay our progress any; for Hubbard
was still unable to travel.  On Saturday (July 25) he had not yet
fully recovered, but he decided to push forward.  A drizzling rain
was falling as we started.  Each of us carried a load some four
miles up the valley and returned; and then Hubbard, with a second
load, went ahead to make camp, while George and I, with the
remainder of the baggage, endeavoured to drag the canoe upstream.
Darkness came on when we were two miles below camp.  While fording
the river, I was carried off my feet by the current and nearly
swept over the fall with a pack around my neck.

Then George and I left the canoe on the bank for the night, and
each with his pack proceeded to push his way through the thick
willows and alders and over the rocks.  It was so dark we could not
see each other.  Falling down constantly and struggling to our feet
again, we stumbled on through the pitchy blackness and down-pouring
rain, until suddenly we discerned the glowing light of our campfire
and came upon Hubbard frying bacon.  George and I were too tired to
eat; we were glad to lie down in our wet clothes on the bed of
spruce boughs that was ready for us and forget our troubles in
sleep.

We rested on Sunday--and ate.  A partridge I had shot the day
before was served stewed with rice and bacon for dinner, while for
supper we had twenty-two trout that Hubbard caught in the morning,
served with apple sauce and hot bread.  This high living fully
recompensed us for our hard fight against nature and the elements,
and once more full of hope we lay down to sleep.

In the morning (Monday, July 27) Hubbard arose with a feeling of
depression, but fair progress during the day brightened him up.  A
typical fall wind blew all day, and we were very wet and very cold
when we went into camp at night.  But with the coming of evening
the clouds were driven away before the wind, affording us an
occasional glimpse of the new moon hanging low in the heavens; and
this, together with the sound of the river and the roaring
campfire, soon cheered us up.  No matter how weary and discouraged
we were during the day, our evening fire invariably brought to us a
feeling of indescribable happiness, a sweet forgetfulness of
everything but the moment's comfort.

Our fire that Monday night was no exception to the general rule,
but after supper, while we were luxuriantly reclining before it on
a couch of boughs, Hubbard gave expression to a strange feeling
that had been growing on him and me in the last few days.  It was
almost as if the solitude were getting on our nerves.  Hubbard was
munching a piece of black chocolate, which he dipped at intervals
in a bit of sugar held in the palm of his left hand, when he said:

"It's queer, but I have a feeling that is getting stronger from day
to day, that we are the only people left in the world.  Have you
fellows experienced any such feeling?"

"Yes," said I; "I have.  I have been feeling that we must forever
be alone, going on, and on, and on, from portage to portage,
through this desolate wilderness."

"That's it exactly," said Hubbard.  "You sort of feel, that as you
are now, so you always have been and always will be; and your past
life is like a dream, and your friends like dream-folk.  What a
strange sensation it is!  Have you felt that way, George?"

George took the pipe from his mouth, blew out a cloud of tobacco
smoke to join the smoke of the fire, and spat meditatively over his
shoulder.

"Don't know as I have," he grunted.  "I know there's mighty good
huntin' down the bay; and I've been thinkin' of Rupert's House [the
Hudson's Bay Company Post on James Bay where he was born], and what
the fellus I know there are doin' these days.  I can't say they
seem like dream-folks to me; they're real enough, all right."

Hubbard and I laughed.  Solitude was an old story to our friend,
the English-Indian, and our "feelings" must have seemed to him
highly artificial, if not affected.

Our progress on Tuesday and Wednesday (July 28 and 29) was the old
story of hard tracking in the river and difficult portaging.  The
weather was cloudy and a chill wind blew.  On Tuesday we advanced
our camp a little more than three miles, and on Wednesday a little
more than four.  This continued slow work gave Hubbard serious
concern, and the condition of our larder and wardrobe was not
reassuring.  Our bacon and sugar were going fast.  Fish had become
an absolute necessity, and our catches had been alarmingly small.
There was also a lamentable lack of game.  Far below we had heard
the chatter of the last red squirrel, and seen the last bear signs
and the last tree barked by porcupines.  There were caribou trails
a-plenty, but seldom a fresh track.  A solitary rabbit had crossed
our trail since we entered the valley, and there were no more
rabbit runs visible.  We could only hope that as we neared the
"height of land," we should find more game--find plenty of caribou,
at least, on the moss-covered barrens.  We had also noted a change
in the timber growth; neither birch nor aspen had we seen for a
week.

Our moccasins were breaking through the bottoms, and this was a
serious matter; for while George had an extra pair, Hubbard and I
had only those on our feet.  Hubbard's feet were very sore.  Two of
his toe nails came off on Wednesday night, and a wide crack, which
must have made walking very painful, appeared in one of his heels.
The nearest thing we had to adhesive plaster was electrician's
tape, and with this he bandaged his heel, and tied it and his toes
up with pieces of cotton rags we had brought for cleaning rifles.

It was on Thursday, July 30, that we reached the point where
another good-sized stream comes into the Susan, or where the river
may be said to divide into two branches.  We found that the
southerly branch came over a low fall from the west, while the
other, or northerly branch, flowed down from the northwest.  The
southerly branch was fully as large as the northerly--narrower but
deeper--and not nearly so swift and rocky.

We were very uncertain as to which branch to follow, and Hubbard
sent George on a scouting trip up the southerly stream, which we
shall call Goose Creek, while he himself climbed a knoll to get a
look at the country.  A half mile or so up Goose Creek George found
a blaze crossing the stream from north to south, which he
pronounced a winter blaze made by trappers, as the cuttings were
high up on the trees and freshly made.  Half a mile above the blaze
George came upon the rotten poles of an old Indian wigwam, and this
discovery made Hubbard happy; he accepted it as evidence that Goose
Creek was the river mapped as the "Northwest" and the Indian route
to Michikamau.  Accordingly it was decided to follow the southerly
branch, and to leave the main stream at this point.

I was glad to leave the valley of the Susan.  Our whole course up
the valley had been torturous and disheartening.  We had been out
fifteen days from Northwest River Post and had covered only eighty
miles.  Hubbard had been ill, and I had been ill.  Always, as we
pressed onward, I dreaded the prospect of retracing our steps
through the Susan Valley.  I hated the valley from end to end.  I
have more reason to hate it now.  To me it is the Valley of the
Shadow of Death.




VI. SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL

When we portaged into Goose Creek on Friday, July 31st, Hubbard had
quite recovered from his illness, I, too, was well again, and our
appetites had returned.  It is true that my legs and feet were much
swollen from the continuous work in the cold river, but the
swelling caused me no inconvenience.  All of us, in fact, were in
better shape for the fight against the wild than at any time since
the start.

For three or four miles up Goose Creek the rapids were almost
continuous, and we had to portage for practically the whole of the
distance.  On August 1st and 2d the weather was cold, with a raw
wind and a continuous downpour of rain.  At night the rain kept up
a steady drop, drop, drop through our tent.  On the 2d, owing to
the inclemency of the weather, we did not travel; but the morning
of the 3d brought brilliant sunshine and with the perfume of the
forest in our nostrils we pushed on, soon reaching a flatter and a
marshy country, where the creek deepened and narrowed with a
sluggish current.  Here the paddling was good, and for a little way
we made rapid progress.

In this marshy stretch by the creek's bank we saw a beaver house,
and George stepped out of the canoe to examine it.

"They're livin' here," he remarked.  "If we're not too far away
when we camp to-night, I'm comin' down with a rifle and watch for
'em.  They come out to play in the water in the evenin' and it's
not hard to get 'em."

"What's the use of killing them?" I asked.  What could you do with
a beaver if you got him?"

"I'd cook it, and we'd have a good snack of beaver meat," said
George.  "They're the finest kind of eatin', and I'd go a good way
for a piece of beaver tail; it's nice and greasy, and better than
anything you ever ate."

As we paddled on, George continued to extol the virtues of beaver
meat, expatiating on many a "good snack" of it that he had
consumed.  However, he did not return to the beaver house, for more
important things that evening claimed our attention.

It was on this day that we reached a point where our branch creek
itself separated into two branches. Upon scouting them, we
discovered that each of these branches had for its origin a lake,
the two bodies of water from which they flowed being close together
some three miles to the westward.  Apparently they were small
lakes, but we hoped to find that they belonged to a chain that
would carry us into the country, and their discovery encouraged us
to push on.

This hope was strengthened by Indian wigwam poles that we found in
the vicinity.  The poles, it is true, were old, indicating that the
Indians had not been there for several years; but as it had been a
long time since they had ceased to visit regularly Northwest River
Post, we thought we had reason to believe that the poles marked
what had been a permanent trail rather than the course of a hunting
expedition.  Hubbard was particularly observant of these old Indian
signs.  He was anxious to find them, and delighted when he did find
them.  "Here are the signs," he would say, "we are on the right
trail."  But we were not on the right trail.  The right trail--the
Nascaupee route--was miles to the northward.  We eventually did
stumble upon a trail to Michikamau, but it was another one--a very
old one--and we found it only to lose it again.

While we were following up Goose Creek the condition of our
commissariat troubled us not a little.  The scarcity of game had
forced us to draw heavily upon our stores.  Only a little of our
lard and a small part of our twenty-five pounds of bacon remained.
"We must hustle for grub, boys," Hubbard frequently remarked.  Our
diet, excepting on particular occasions, was bread and tea, fish
when we could get them, and sometimes a little pea soup.  The pea
meal, plain and flavoured, was originally intended as a sort of
emergency ration, but we had drawn on our stock of it alarmingly.
Our flour, too, was going rapidly, and the time was drawing near
when we felt that the ration of bread must be cut down.

The only thing, perhaps, that we really craved was fresh meat.  For
several days after leaving the post we had experienced a decided
craving for acids, but that craving had been partially satisfied
when, on the barren hills that border the Valley of the Susan, we
found a few cranberries that had survived the winter.  Every day
while we were on Goose Creek we caught a few small trout.  When we
halted for any purpose, Hubbard always whipped the stream.  He was
a tireless as well as an expert fisherman.  He would fish long
after I had become discouraged, and catch them in pools where they
positively refused to rise for me.  The trout thus obtained were
relished, but a fish diet is not strengthening, neither is it
satisfying, and as we had had no fresh meat since the day we landed
at Indian Harbour a month before, our longing for it had become
importunate.

Imagine our joy, then, when on August 3d, the day we discovered the
petering out of Goose Creek, some fresh meat came our way.  Most
unexpectedly was the day turned into one of feasting and
thanksgiving.  As we were preparing, soon after passing the beaver
house, to pack at the foot of a rapid just below a little pond
expansion, Hubbard saw four geese swimming slowly down the stream.
He and George had just lifted their packs from the canoe, while I,
some little distance off, had mine on my back.  Hubbard had his
rifle in his hands.  George, who caught sight of the geese almost
as soon as Hubbard, grabbed my rifle from the canoe.  "Drop!" cried
Hubbard, and down we all fell behind the little bank over which the
birds had been sighted.  There was fresh meat swimming towards us,
and while we lay waiting for it to come in sight around the little
head of land the excitement was intense.

Soon the leader appeared, and Hubbard and George fired almost
simultaneously.  If ever there was a goose that had his goose
cooked, it was that poor, unfortunate leader.  One of the bullets
from the .45-70 rifles that were aimed at him went through his
neck, cutting the bone clean and leaving his head hanging by two
little bits of skin.  The other bullet bored a hole through his
body, breaking both wings. I did not blame him when he keeled over.
The leader disposed of, Hubbard and George again fired in quick
succession, and two of the other geese dropped just as they were
turning back upstream and vainly trying to rise on their wings,
which were useless so soon after the moulting season.  The second
shot emptied George's rifle.  He threw it down, grabbed a paddle
and went after one of the birds, which, only slightly wounded, was
flopping about in the water.

Meanwhile Hubbard had fired twice at the fourth goose and missed
both times.  His rifle also being empty now, he cast it aside,
seized his pistol, ran around the bank and jumped into the water in
time to head off the remaining goose as it was flopping upstream.
That brought the goose between him and George, and the bird was so
bewildered that Hubbard had time to fire at him twice with his
pistol and kill him, while George effectually disposed of the
wounded goose by swatting him over the head with the paddle.  Thus
all four birds were ours, and our exultation knew no bounds.  We
shouted, we threw our hats in the air and shouted again.  Lifting
the birds critically, we estimated that we had on hand about fifty
pounds of goose meat.

More luck came to us that same day when we halted for luncheon at
the foot of some rapid water.  As soon as we stopped, Hubbard, as
usual, cast a fly, and almost immediately landed a half-pound
trout.  Then, as fast as I could split them and George fry them,
another and another, all big ones, fell a victim to his skill.  The
result was that we had all the trout we could eat that noon, and we
ate a good many.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the point where the
two brooks joined to form Goose Creek.  Our scouting was finished
in less than two hours, and we went into camp early: for, as
Hubbard expressed it, we were to have a "heap big feed," and George
reminded us that it would take a good while to roast a goose.  Our
camp was pitched at the foot of a semi-barren ridge a half-mile
above the junction of the brooks.  George built a big fire--much
bigger than usual.  At the back he placed the largest green log he
could find.  Just in front of the fire, and at each side, he fixed
a forked stake, and on these rested a cross pole.  From the centre
of the pole he suspended a piece of stout twine, which reached
nearly to the ground, and tied the lower end into a noose.

Then it was that the goose, nicely prepared for cooking, was
brought forth.  Through it at the wings George stuck a sharp wooden
pin, leaving the ends to protrude on each side.  Through the legs
he stuck a similar pin in a similar fashion.  This being done, he
slipped the noose at the end of the twine over the ends of one of
the pins.  And lo and behold! the goose was suspended before the
fire.

It hung low--just high enough to permit the placing of a dish under
it to catch the gravy.  Now and then George gave it a twirl so that
none of its sides might have reason to complain at not receiving
its share of the heat.  The lower end roasted first, seeing which,
George took the goose off, reversed it and set it twirling again.
After a time he sharpened a sliver of wood, stuck it into the goose
and examined the wound critically.

"Smells like a Christmas goose when one goes through the kitchen
dead hungry before dinner," said Hubbard.

"Um-m-n!" I commented.

In a little while George tried the sharp splinter again.  Hubbard
and I watched him anxiously.  White juice followed the stick.  Two
hours had passed, and the goose was done!

Events now came crowding thick and fast.  First, George put the
steaming brown goose in his mixing basin, and deftly and rapidly
disjointed it with his sheath knife.  Meanwhile, with nervous
haste, Hubbard and I had drawn our knives, and with the tin basin
of goose before us, all three of us plumped down in a half-circle
on the thick moss in the light of the bright-blazing fire.  Many of
the rules of etiquette were waived.  We stood not on the order of
our falling to, but fell to at once.  We eat, and we eat, at first
ravenously, then more slowly.  With his mouth full of the succulent
bird, George allowed he would rather have goose than caribou.  "I
prefer goose to anything else," said he, and proceeded to tell us
of goose hunts "down the bay" and of divers big Indian feasts.  At
length all the goose was gone but one very small piece.  "I'll eat
that for a snack before I sleep," said George, as he started to put
the giblets to stew for breakfast.

The fire died down until nothing remained save a heap of glowing
embers.  For a long time we sat in the darkness over an extra pot
of tea.  At first, silence; and then, while George and I puffed
complacently on our pipes, Hubbard, who never smoked, entertained
us with more of Kipling.  "The Feet of the Young Men" was one of
his favourites, and that night he put more than his usual feeling
into the words:

"Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds
     are loose--
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the
     Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied?
Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout's jumping--crazy for the fly?

   He must go--go--go away from here!
   On the other side the world he's overdue.
   'Send your road is clear before you when the old
       Spring-fret comes o'er you
    And the Red Gods call for you!"

Again the silence.  The northern lights flashed and swept in
fantastic shapes across the sky, illuminating the fir tops in the
valley and making the white lichens gleam on the barren hill above
us.  We thought of the lake ahead with its old wigwams, and the
promise it held out of an easy trail to Michikamau made us feel
sure that the worst part of our journey was ended.  Thus we sat
supremely happy and content until long past midnight, when we went
to our tent and our bed of fragrant spruce boughs, to be lulled
asleep by the murmuring waters of the creek below.

The brooks into which Goose Creek divided near our camp of course
would not permit of canoeing, and the morning after our feast
(August 4) we portaged through a swamp into the lake that fed the
southerly one.  We called this small body of water Mountaineer
Lake, because the Mountaineer Indians had been there.  Besides
numerous cuttings and the remains of wigwams, we found the ruins of
a drying stage where they had cured meat or fish. From Goose Camp
to the lake shore George carried the canoe, and Hubbard and I each
a pack.  Then while George and I returned for the remaining packs,
Hubbard waited by the lake.  As be sat there alone, a caribou waded
into the water less than a hundred feet away, stopped and looked
fearlessly at him for a few moments, and then walked leisurely off
into the woods.

"It seemed as if he wanted to shake hands with me," Hubbard said
when he told us of the incident.  He had to let the deer depart in
peace, because both rifles were back with the last loads at Goose
Camp, and his pistol was in his bag.  Needless to say, we were
bitterly disappointed at losing the first deer we had seen, and it
taught us the lesson always to take one rifle forward with the
first load on a portage.

We spent the afternoon scouting in different directions, and
discovered that the only inlet to Mountaineer Lake ended in a bog a
mile or so up.  A mile or more to the westward, however, George
discovered another and much larger lake, which in honour of him we
shall call Lake Elson.  An old trail led from Mountaineer Lake to
Lake Elson, which George pronounced to be a caribou trail, but
which Hubbard believed to be an old portage, because it led from
lake to lake by the most direct course.  There were no axe
cuttings, however, to indicate that the Indians had followed it.

We tried the troll in Mountaineer Lake, but caught nothing.
Apparently there was nothing there but trout, of which fish I
caught eight at the inlet.  I shot with my pistol a muskrat that
was swimming in the lake, but George did not cook it, as he said
the flesh would be too strong at that season.  It was raining again
and the mosquitoes were out in millions, but with three geese still
on hand and a good lake ahead we were indifferent to such troubles
as that, although our clothing was not now in a condition
successfully to withstand much bad weather.

Rags, in fact, were beginning to appear upon us all.  One of
Hubbard's trousers legs was ripped clear down the front, and it was
continually streaming behind in the wind and getting caught in the
bushes, despite his efforts to keep it in place with pieces of
twine.  At length he patched it with a piece of white duffel, and
exhibited his tailoring feat to us with much pride.

About noon on August 5, after a two-mile portage, we reached Lake
Elson.  On the way Hubbard sighted two caribou.  He dropped his
pack and grabbed his rifle.  They were 250 yards away and partially
hidden by the timber, and as they were approaching him, he waited,
believing he would get a better shot.  But, while he was waiting,
what he called a "cussed little long-legged bird" scared them off,
by giving a sharp, shrill cry of alarm, which the deer evidently
were clever enough to construe as meaning that something out of the
ordinary was happening.

Lake Elson proved to be about three and a half miles long and a
half mile wide.  It lay in a basin surrounded by wooded hills.  The
northerly portion was dotted with low, mound-like islands of drift,
with two or three irregular, rocky islands, all completely wooded.
It was a beautiful sheet of water, and, like all the lakes in
Labrador, as clear as crystal and very cold.  On the northerly side
there were narrow straits and inlets, doubtless connecting the lake
with others to the northwest that were hidden by the growth.

The outlet was at the southern end.  It flowed through a pass in a
low ridge of hills that extended for a great distance east and
west, and emptied into a small lake, the waters of which were
discharged through a creek that flowed through a pass in another
low ridge that ran parallel with the first as far as we could see.
Between the two ridges was a marsh that extended westward for many
miles.  The ridges and the hills surrounding the lakes were covered
with spruce and balsam.  Nowhere along our route since we left
Northwest River Post, however, had we seen any timber of commercial
value; the largest trees did not exceed eight inches in diameter,
the generality being much smaller.

We were somewhat disconcerted upon finding no further signs of
Indians, and feared we had lost the trail.  Neither trapper's blaze
nor trapper's cutting was to be seen; for now we were beyond their
zone and in a country that apparently no white man and no breed had
ever viewed.  We selected a site for our camp near the outlet at
the southern end of the lake.  In the afternoon Hubbard and George
went to some bluffs that could be seen two or three miles to the
southward, to scout for a route to Michikamau and find the Indian
trail if possible.  I remained behind to make camp.

The days were now shortening rapidly; it was dark before eight
o'clock.  In the grey of the twilight George returned.  When he
hailed me, I was fishing in the outlet just below the camp,
standing on a rock in midstream to which I had waded.

"Come 'long up to camp," he called.  Once in the wilderness, we
made no distinctions as to master and servant; we were all
companions together.  Hence George's familiar manner of address.

"When I land two more trout," I shouted back.

"You've got enough; come 'long now," he pleaded. There was that in
his tone that excited my curiosity; he seemed all of a sudden to
have acquired an unusual fondness for my society.  "What's the
matter, George?" I asked.

"I've been about lost," he returned.  "Come on and I'll tell you."

I was astonished.  I had seen George drop a pack in the bush, where
everything for miles around looked alike to me, and without marking
the spot or apparently taking note of any guiding signs, he would
go directly to it again.  I was with him one pitch-dark night when
he left a pack among alders and willows in the depth of a marsh,
and in the morning he went back two miles straight to the very
spot.  How a man that could do this could get lost was beyond my
understanding.  I hurried up to camp.

"How did it happen, George?" I asked.

"I just got turned 'round," he replied.  "I didn't have any grub,
and I didn't have a pistol, or a fishhook, or any way to get grub,
and I didn't have a compass, and I was scared."

"But don't you know how you got lost?" I persisted.

"No, I don't," said George.  "I just got lost.  But I found myself
pretty quick.  I never got lost before."

The only way I could account for it was that he had permitted his
thoughts to wander.  I asked him what he would have done if he had
not been able to find his way back.

"Gone to the highest hill I could see," he answered with a grin,
"and made the biggest smoke I could make at its top, and waited for
you fellus to find me."

While we were talking George was busily engaged in making the fire,
putting a goose to boil and preparing water for tea.  The twilight
deepened, and ere we realised it darkness had come.  Every moment
we expected to hear Hubbard, but he did not appear.

"Another man lost," said I, with a forced lightness that illy
concealed the anxiety George and I both felt; we knew that Hubbard
not only had nothing to eat, but no matches to make a fire.

Frequently we stopped our work and talk, to peer into the gathering
night and listen for the breaking of a twig.  At length I took my
rifle and fired at intervals half a dozen shots; but the reports
echoed and died away without a reply.  A damp north wind chilled
the air, and the gloom seemed particularly oppressive.

"Hubbard will have a hard night out there in the bush," said
George.

"Yes," I replied; "I don't suppose we can expect him back now
before morning; and when a man is lost in this wild country it's
pretty hard to find a little tent all by itself."

I was thinking of my own experience farther back, and what might
happen should Hubbard fail to find us or we him.  He was not so
fortunate as I had been, in that there was no river to guide his
return. However, at five o'clock in the morning he appeared. He had
spent a miserable night on a ridge two miles to the southward, wet
and shivering, with no fire, and tormented by mosquitoes.  He
reported that from the ridge he could hear the roar of a rapid.
Darkness had prevented him from going on, and he had not seen the
rapid, but he was sure it was a part of a big river.

At first he was loath to admit he had been lost, doubtless
remembering how he and George had "guyed" me when I had been out
all night and my prediction that his turn would come; but when
George confessed to having gone astray also, be made a clean breast
of it, telling us he was "lost good and plenty, and scared some,
too."  Now I had my innings, and I must confess I took great
delight in returning some of the chaff they had given me.

Hubbard decreed, in consequence of these experiences--getting lost-
-that thereafter each man at all times should have on his person an
emergency kit, to consist of matches, a piece of fish line, some
hooks and two or three flies, enclosed in a film box waterproofed
with electrician's tape.

We remained in our camp on Lake Elson for two days in order to
scout and dry fish.  It was the best fishing place we had yet come
to.  During our stay we had all the trout we could eat, and we
dried and smoked forty-five large ones.  The scouting proved that
Hubbard's "big river" was an important discovery.  It lay two miles
to the south of us, flowing to the southeast.  Hubbard sent George
to look at it, and he reported that it certainly came from large
lakes, as it was big, deep and straight.  Could it come from Lake
Michikamau?

While George was away Hubbard and I took a trip in the canoe around
the lake and through some inlets.  At the northeast we discovered a
creek flowing into the lake, and as there were some old Indian
wigwams and cuttings near it, indicating the possibility of its
being part of a trail, we seriously considered the advisability of
following it up.  From a knoll near by we could see to the
northwest other lakes into which the creek might possibly lead us;
but, after returning to camp, we considered the situation fully in
the light of George's report of the big river, and we decided that
to the big river we should go.

This decision was not to prove an error of judgment; for the big
river was none other than the Beaver--an important part of an old
trail of the Indians to Lake Michikamau.




VII. ON A REAL RIVER AT LAST

We broke camp in the forenoon of August 7th, and a few hours later,
after making two trips back and forth, we arrived with our baggage
on the bank of our new river.  At last we had a real river to
travel on, its average width being between 100 and 150 yards.  None
of us, of course, then knew that our real river was the Beaver, and
that in taking to it we had stumbled upon an old Indian route to
Lake Michikamau.  If we had known this, it would have made a great
difference in our fortunes.

Immediately below the point where we portaged into the river,
wooded ridges on either side hugged it close, forming a narrow
valley.  Just above us the valley broadened, and a mile or so up a
big hill reared its barren summit above the black spruce trees at
its base, standing there like a lonely sentinel among the little
hills that bordered the widening river basin.  Despite the fact
that we had reached a real river, we still had rapids to encounter,
and we had to make so many short portages that after we had
ascended the river two miles it was time to camp.

We pitched our tent on a rising plateau just below a stretch of
rushing water.  As soon as we stopped, Hubbard tried to fish, and
while I made camp he landed fifteen trout averaging nearly half a
pound each.  They were most welcome, as the time had come when we
had to live off the country.  Our bread ration was now cut down to
one-third of a loaf a day for each man.  As we had no lard, it was
made simply of flour, baking powder, and water.  It was baked in
our frying pan, and a loaf was about eight inches in diameter and
one inch thick, so that our daily ration was but a morsel.  We also
decided that from now on we should use pea meal only on rare
occasions, and to reserve our other provisions, with the exception
of a few dried apples, tea, coffee and a little chocolate and
cocoa, to give us a start should we at any time find it necessary
to make a sudden dash for the Post.

Our clothing was rapidly disintegrating.  The front of Hubbard's
trouser leg was all torn open again, and once more he had to resort
to pieces of twine.  We had frequent discussions at this period as
to whose appearance was the most beautiful.  For a time Hubbard and
I would claim the distinction each for himself, but it usually
ended by our conceding the distinction to George.  As a matter of
fact, with our unkempt hair and beards and our rags, we now formed
as tough looking a party of tramps as ever "came down the pike."
That night in camp I cut up my canvas leggings and used pieces of
the canvas to rebottom my moccasins, sewing it on with shoemaker's
thread.

It was a glorious evening.  A big moon rising over the bluffs
beyond us transformed the river into a silvery thread stretching
far down through the dark valley.  Behind us the black spruce
forest made our roaring fire seem more cheerful in contrast.  A
cold east wind had driven away the flies and the mosquitoes.
Supper eaten, our cup of contentment was full to the brim.  After
all, the wilderness was not so inhospitable.  Who would be anywhere
else, if he could? Not one of us.

With the sensation that we were the only people in Labrador, a
fancy struck me and I suggested to my companions that we ought to
organise some sort of government.

"We'll make you, Hubbard," I said, "the head of the nation and call
you the Great Mogul.  Of course you will be commander-in-chief of
the army and navy and have unlimited power.  We're your subjects."

"I suspect," replied Hubbard, "you are looking for a political job.
However, I, of course, stand ready, like our politicians at home,
to serve the country when duty calls--if there's enough in it.  As
the Great Mogul of Labrador, I appoint you, Wallace, Chief Justice
and also Secretary of State.  George I shall appoint Admiral of the
Navy."

"Where are my ships?" asked George.

"Ships!", exclaimed Hubbard.  "Well, there will be only one for the
present.  But she's a good staunch one--eighteen feet long, with a
beam of thirty-three and a half inches.  And she carries two quick-
fire rifles."

With these and other conceits we whiled away the beautiful evening
hours.  What a difference there was in the morning!  We awoke--it
was Saturday, August 8--to find that the east wind had increased in
force and was accompanied by a driving, chilling rain.  Reluctantly
we broke camp, and began a day of back-breaking, disheartening
work.  The wind soughed dismally through the forests, and it was as
though late autumn had overtaken us in a night.  The spruce boughs,
watersoaked, seemed to hang low for no other purpose than to strike
us in the face at every step, and the willows and alders along the
river that now and again obstructed our way appeared to be thicker
and wetter than ever.

Under these conditions we had made six portages, the longest of
which was about three-quarters of a mile, and covered in all about
four and a half miles, when one o'clock came and we gave up the
fight for the day, to make our Sunday camp and try to get fish.  We
were ravenously hungry, and ate even the heads of the dried trout
we had for luncheon, these being the last of those we caught and
smoked on Lake Elson.  During the afternoon we put out for the
first time the old gill net Mackenzie had given us, and by hard
work with the rod caught a few more trout for supper.

It still poured on Sunday morning.  Hubbard fished all day, and I
the greater part of the forenoon.  The net product of our labor was
forty-five trout, most of them little fellows.  The gill net
yielded us nothing.  In the afternoon George and I took the rifles
and started out in different directions to look for caribou.
Neither of us found any fresh tracks.  I returned at dusk, to find
George already in camp and our supper of boiled fish ready to be
eaten.  Our sugar was all gone by this time, and our supply of salt
was so low that we were using hardly any.  In spite of us the salt
had been wet in the drenching rains we had encountered all up the
Susan Valley, and a large part of it had dissolved.

While we all craved sugar and other sweets, I believe Hubbard
suffered the most from their absence.  Perhaps the fact that George
and I used tobacco and he did not, was the explanation.  He was
continually discussing the merits of various kinds of cake,
candies, and sweet things generally.  Our conversation too often
turned to New York restaurants, and how he would visit various ones
of them for particular dishes.  Bread undoubtedly was what we
craved the most.  "I believe I'll never refuse bread again,"
Hubbard would say, "so long as there's a bit on the table."

Monday (August 10) brought with it no abatement of the driving rain
and cold east wind.  Working industriously for half an hour before
breakfast, Hubbard succeeded in landing a single small trout, which
fell to me, while he and George ate thick pea meal porridge, of
which they were very fond.  We made several short portages during
the morning, and, despite the dismal weather, our spirits
brightened; for we came upon old wigwam poles and axe cuttings,
which we accepted as proof that we were now surely on the Indian
trail to Michikamau.  Towards noon Hubbard said:

"Well, boys, we're on the right road, we've covered three miles
this morning, and this rain is killing, so we'll pitch camp now,
and wait for the weather to clear and try to get some fish ahead.
There are fish here, I know, and when the wind changes we'll get
them."

After warming ourselves by a big fire and eating luncheon, Hubbard
and I took our rods and fished the greater part of the afternoon,
catching between us twelve or fifteen trout.

"You had better cook them all for supper, George," said Hubbard.
"This is my mother's birthday, and in honour of it we'll have an
extra loaf of bread and some of her dried apples.  And I tell you
what, boys, I wish I could see her now."

On the following day (Tuesday, August 11) the weather had somewhat
moderated, but the east wind continued, and the rain still fell
during all the forenoon.  We could get no fish at our camp, and at
two in the afternoon started forward, all of us hungry and steadily
growing hungrier.  Hubbard whipped the water at the foot of every
rapid and tried every pool, but succeeded in getting only a very
few trout.  While he fished, George and I made the portages, and
thus, pushing on as rapidly as possible, we covered about four
miles.

While George and I were scouting on Sunday, we had each caught
sight of a ridge of rocky mountains extending in a northerly and
southerly direction, which we estimated to be from twenty to
twenty-five miles to the westward.  Previous to Tuesday, these
mountains had not been visible from the river valley, but on that
day they suddenly came into view, and they made us stop and think,
for they lay directly across our course.  However, we did not feel
much uneasiness then, as we decided that our river must flow
through a pass in the mountains far to the north, and follow them
down before turning east.

Our camp on Tuesday night was rather a dreary one; but before noon
on Wednesday (August 12) the clouds broke, big patches of blue sky
began to appear, and with a bit of sunshine now and again, our
hearts lightened as we proceeded on our journey.

At the foot of a half-mile portage Hubbard caught fourteen trout,
and our luncheon was secure.  Three more portages we made, covering
in all about three miles, and then we shouted for joy, for there
ahead of us lay open water.  Along it for five miles we gaily
canoed before stopping for luncheon.  Hungry? Yes, we were hungry
even after devouring the fourteen trout and drinking the water they
were boiled in--I could have eaten fifty like them myself--but our
spirits were high, and we made merry.  For the first time since
leaving Grand Lake there was good water behind us and good water
before us.

At the last rapid we portaged the country had flattened out.  Wide
marshes extended along the south bank of the river, with now and
then a low hill of drift.  The north side was followed by a low
ridge of drift, well wooded.  We landed for luncheon on the south
bank, at the foot of a wooded knoll, and there we made an
interesting discovery, namely, the remains of an old Indian camp
and the ruins of two large birch-bark canoes.  In November, at
Northwest River Post, I heard the story of those canoes.

Twelve years before, it appears, the band of Indians that had
camped there, being overtaken by early ice, was forced to abandon
its canoes and make a dash for the Post.  Game was scarce, and the
fish had gone to deeper waters.  The Indians pushed desperately on
overland, but one by one they fell, until at last the gaunt fiend,
Starvation, had claimed them all.  Since that time no Indian has
ever travelled that trail--the route to Michikamau upon which we
had stumbled was thereupon abandoned.  The Indians believe the
trail is not only unlucky, but haunted; that if while on it they
should escape Starvation--that terrible enemy which nearly always
dogs them so closely--they are likely to encounter the spirits of
them that died so many years ago.

Not knowing anything of this tragic story, we merrily ate our
luncheon on the very spot where others in desperation had faced
death.  It was to us an old Indian camp, and an additional reason
for believing we were on the right trail, that was all.  While we
ate, the sun came out brilliantly, and we resumed our paddling
feeling ready for almost anything that might happen.  And something
soon did happen--something that made the day the most memorable so
far of the trip.

No rapids intercepted our progress, and in an hour we had paddled
three miles, when, at a place where the river widened, a big
woodland stag caribou suddenly splashed into the water from the
northern shore, two hundred yards ahead.  I seized my rifle, and,
without waiting for the canoe to stop, fired.  The bullet went
high.  The caribou raised his head and looked at us inquisitively.
Then Hubbard fired, and with the dying away of the report of his
rifle, George and I shouted: "You hit 'im, Hubbard; you've got
'im!" The wounded caribou sank half way to his knees, but struggled
to his feet again.  As he did so, Hubbard sent another shot at him,
but missed.  Slowly the big deer turned, and began to struggle up
the bank. Again Hubbard and I fired, but both shots went low.

We ran the canoe to shore, and while I made it fast, Hubbard and
George ran breathlessly ahead to where the caribou had disappeared.
I followed at once, and soon came upon them and the caribou, which
fallen thirty yards from the river with a bullet through his body
just back of the left shoulder.  A trail of blood marked his path
from the river to where he lay.  As the animal floundered there in
the moss, Hubbard, with the nervous impetuosity he frequently
displayed, fired again against George's protest, the bullet
entering the caribou's neck and passing down through his tongue the
full length.  Then George caught the thrashing animal by the
antlers, and while he held its head down Hubbard cut its throat.

We made our camp right where the caribou fell.  It was an ideal
spot on the high bank above the river, being flat and thickly
covered with white moss.  The banks at this point were all sand
drift; we could not find a stone large enough to whet our knives.
George made a stage for drying while Hubbard and I dressed the
deer.  Our work finished, we all sat down and roasted steaks on
sticks and drank coffee.  The knowledge that we were now assured of
a good stock of dried meat, of course, added to the hilarity of
feast.  As we thought it best to hoard our morsel of flour, it was
a feast of venison and venison alone.

While waiting for our meat to dry, we had to remain in camp for
three or four days.  On the next afternoon (Thursday, August 13)
Hubbard and I paddled about three miles up the river to look for
fish, but we got no bites, probably because of the cold; in the
morning there had been a fringe of ice on the river shore.

"We'll take it easy," said Hubbard while we were paddling upstream,
"and make a little picnic of it. I'm dead tired myself.  How do you
feel, Wallace?"

"I feel tired, too," I said.  "I have to make an extra effort to do
any work at all."

Hubbard was inclined to attribute this tired feeling to the freedom
from strain after our nerve-racking work of the last few weeks,
while I hazarded the opinion that our purely meat diet had made us
lazy. Probably it was due to both causes.

As Hubbard was anxious to obtain definite knowledge as to what
effect the high ridge of rocky mountains had upon our river, George
and I, with the object of ascertaining the river's course, left
camp in the canoe on Friday morning (August 14), taking with us, in
addition to our emergency kits, our cups, some tea, and enough
caribou ribs for luncheon.  We portaged around a few short rapids,
and then, about eight miles above our camp, came upon a lake
expansion of considerable size with many inlets.  On the northerly
side of the lake was a high, barren hill, which afforded us a
splendid view of the surrounding country.

Winding away to the southeast was the river we had ascended.  To
the west was a series of lake expansions connected by narrow
straits, and beyond them were the mountains, which we estimated
rose about 2,500 feet above the country at their base.  In
sheltered places on their sides, patches of ice and snow glistened
in the sunshine.  Barren almost to their base, not a vestige of
vegetation to be seen anywhere on their tops or sides, they
presented a scene of desolate grandeur, standing out against the
blue sky like a grim barrier placed there to guard the land beyond.
As I gazed upon them, some lines from Kipling's "Explorer" that I
had often heard Hubbard repeat were brought forcibly to my mind:

"Something hidden.  Go and find it.  Go and look behind
    the Ranges--
 Something lost behind the Ranges.  Lost and waiting for you.  Go!"

Let us call these ranges the Kipling Mountains.

To the north, hill after hill, with bald top rising above the
stunted trees on its sides, limited our range of vision.  Far away
to the south stretched a rolling, wooded country.  To the eastward
the country was flatter, with irregular ranges of low hills, all
covered with a thick growth of spruce and fir balsam.  Beyond the
point where the water flowed from it southeasterly into the river
we had ascended, the lake at the foot of our hill seemed to extend
directly eastward for four for five miles; but the thick wood of
the valleys and low-lying hills made it difficult to see just where
it ended, so that from where we stood it was impossible to tell
what course the river took--whether it came from the east, bending
about in the lake expansion below us, or flowed from the west
through the lake expansions beyond.  Away off to the northeast an
apparently large lake could be discerned, with numerous mound-like
islands dotting its surface.

For a long time we stood and gazed about us.  Far to the southeast
a tiny curl of smoke rose heavenward in the clear atmosphere.  That
was Hubbard's campfire--the only sign of life to be seen in all
that wide wilderness.  The scene was impressive beyond description.
It gave me a peculiar feeling of solemnity and awe that I shall
never forget.

We found on our hill a few dead twigs of sub-Arctic shrubbery with
which to make a fire to broil our caribou ribs, and gathered some
mildly acid berries of a variety neither of us had ever seen
before, which we ate as a dessert.  After luncheon George said he
thought we had better go to the westward to look for the river.

"But how can it come through those mountains?" I asked.

"I don't know as it can," he replied.  "But," pointing to one of
the range, "I want to take a look at the country beyond from that
high mountain."

So we returned to our canoe, and paddled to the westward a few
miles through two lake expansions, which brought us to the foot of
the mountains.  We landed at a place where a small creek tumbled
down through a rocky pass.  George went up his mountain alone.
During his absence, with my emergency kit, I caught ten six-inch
trout to be divided between us for supper, as only two of our
caribou ribs remained.  Near dark George came back.  After climbing
half way to the summit of his mountain, he had encountered
perpendicular walls of rock that blocked his further progress.

We made a fire of old wigwam poles, and roasted our fish before it
on a flat stone.  A quart of hot tea between us washed down our
meagre supper, and then we made a bed of boughs.  But when we tried
to sleep the icy wind that blew through the pass caused us to draw
closer to the fire, before which we alternately sat and lay
shivering throughout the night.  Having brought no axe with us, we
could not build a fire of any size.  I do not believe either of us
slept more than half an hour.

"Which would you rather have, Wallace, a piece of bread or a
blanket?" George would ask at frequent intervals.

"Bread," I always answered.  At that he would chuckle.  We had
tasted nothing but venison and fish since the day we killed the
caribou, and for bread we had an inexpressible craving.

"Anyway," George would say, "this cold will weaken the flies."  And
with this reflection he continued to comfort us as the nights
became chillier.

In the morning we had to break the ice to get water for our tea,
which with the two remaining caribou ribs constituted our
breakfast.  George then made another attempt at his mountain.
Again he failed to reach the summit, and I failed to induce any
more trout to rise.  In a somewhat despondent mood we turned back,
and paddled for some distance into the lake expansions to the
eastward of the point where our river flowed out.  Although we were
compelled to start for "home" before obtaining any definite
knowledge of the course of the river, we were of the opinion that
it came from the east.  For all we knew, however, the river might
end in those lake expansions; we could not tell, as no current
could be discerned, and having no food we could not continue the
search.

It was five o'clock in the evening when we reached camp, tired out
and as hungry as two wolves, and we astonished Hubbard with the
amount of venison we put out of sight.  While George was
temporarily out of hearing, Hubbard said:

"It's bully good to see you back again, Wallace.  I was
disappointed when you didn't come back last night, and I've been
dead lonesome.  I got thinking of my wife and home, and the good
things to eat there, and was on the verge of homesickness."

"We were mightily disappointed, too, at not getting back," said I
between mouthfuls.  "Up there on the lakes we put in the toughest
night yet, and we were thinking of the venison and warm blankets
down here at camp."

Hubbard was much discouraged and depressed at our report of the
uncertain course of the river, although he was careful to conceal
his feelings from George.

The next day (Sunday, August 16) we cut up our canvas guncases and
used some of the material to re-bottom our moccasins.  What was
left over we put away carefully for future use.  George cracked the
caribou bones and boiled out the marrow grease.  He stripped the
fat from the entrails and tried out the tallow, preserving even the
cracklings or scraps.  "We'll be glad to eat 'em yet," said he.
One of the hoofs he dressed and put with our store of meat.  We
preserved everything but the head, the entrails and three of the
hoofs.  The tallow we found an excellent substitute for lard.

In the afternoon Hubbard and I caught thirty trout in an hour at
the rapid a mile and a half above our camp, and a few more in the
river close by the camp.  High living during the day raised all of
our spirits.  For breakfast we had the caribou heart, which George
thought at first he would roast but changed his mind and served
stewed.  For dinner we had the tongue, the tidbit of the animal,
boiled with pieces of other parts.  Hubbard's second bullet had
torn out the centre of the tongue, but what there was of it was
delicious.  And at night we had the trout caught during the
afternoon, to which, as a Sunday luxury, was added a cake of bread.

When we gathered around the fire in the evening Hubbard had
entirely recovered from his depression and took a more hopeful view
of the river.  We discussed the matter thoroughly, and decided that
the river George and I had seen coming from the eastward must take
a turn farther north and break through the Kipling Mountains, and
that it might prove to be Low's Northwest River we all thought was
possible.

At the same time we could not disguise the fact that it was
extremely probable we should have to portage over the mountains,
and the prospect was far from pleasing; but, ragged and almost
barefooted though we were, not a man thought of turning back, and
on Monday morning, August 17th, we prepared to leave Camp Caribou
and solve the problem as to where lay the trail of Michikamau.




VIII. "MICHIKAMAU OR BUST!"

The temperature was three degrees below freezing when grey dawn at
half past four o'clock that Monday morning bid us up and on.  The
crisp air and the surpassing beauty of the morning stirred within
us new hope and renewed ambition.  And the bags of jerked venison
and the grease gave us faith that we should succeed in reaching our
goal.  Though we had some food in stock, there was to be no
cessation in our effort to get fish; our plan was for Hubbard to
try his rod at the foot of every rapid while George and I did the
portaging.

Before midday Hubbard had forty trout, one of them sixteen inches
long--the biggest we had caught yet.  We stopped for luncheon on
the sandy shore of a pretty little lake expansion, and ate the
whole morning's catch, fried in caribou tallow, with unsweetened
coffee to wash it down.  Then on we pushed towards the Kipling
Mountains.  At a narrow strait between two lakes we left Hubbard to
fish, George and I going on two miles farther to the place where we
had spent that chilly night while scouting, and where our camp for
this night was to be pitched.

Our object in going there was to give George another chance to view
the country on the other side of the mountain range.  This time he
was to try another peak.  As he disappeared up the mountain side, I
paddled back to get Hubbard, who was awaiting me with a good string
of big trout.  The two-mile stretch of lake from where Hubbard was
fishing to our camping ground was as smooth as a sheet of glass.
The sun hanging low over the mountains and reflecting their nude
forms in the silvery water, and the dark green forest of fir trees
on the shores moved Hubbard to exclamations of delight.

"Oh, if it could be painted just as it appears now!" he said.
"Why, Wallace, this one scene is worth all the groaning we've done
to get here.  It's grand! grand!"

At dark George returned to camp with the report that from his peak
he could see only higher mountains looming up to the westward.  In
the shadow of the grey rocks of the grim old mountains that so
stubbornly held their secret of what lay beyond, we had a good
supper of trout and were happy, though through the gulch the creek
roared defiance at us, and off in the night somewhere a loon would
break out at intervals in derisive laughter.  At the base of the
mountains the narrow lake reflected a million stars, and in their
kindly light the snow and ice patches on the slopes above us
gleamed white and brilliant.

With our day's work the listlessness from which we had recently
suffered had entirely disappeared, and we felt ready to undertake
any task, the more difficult the better.  Hubbard suggested giving
up route hunting if our river ended where we then were, and
striking right across the mountains with our outfit on our backs,
and we received the suggestion with enthusiasm.  He talked, too, a
great deal about snowshoeing in winter to St. Augustine on the St.
Lawrence, cutting across country from the Kenemish River, which
flows into Groswater Bay opposite Northwest River Post.  This trip,
which he held out as a possibility in the event of our missing the
last steamer out from Rigolet, seemed to appeal to him immensely.

"I don't care if we are too late for the steamer," he said; "that
snowshoeing trip would be a great stunt."

We found a great many wigwam poles near and in the pass hard by our
camp, while by the creek we came across the remains of both summer
and winter camps, probably those of hunters.  "One of the beggars
was high-toned," said George; "he had a stove."  This was evidenced
by the arrangement of stones within the circle of wigwam poles, and
a few pieces of wood cut stove-size.

On Tuesday morning (August 18) we turned back and into the long,
narrow lake expansions to the eastward, and soon satisfied
ourselves that this was the right course.  Our thermometer
registered 28 degrees that morning.  The day dawned clear and
perfect; it was a morning when one draws in long breaths, and one's
nerves tingle, and life is a joy.  Early in the forenoon we reached
rapids and quickly portaged around them; all were short, the
largest being not more than half a mile.  At ten o'clock we ate
luncheon at the foot of one of the rapids where we caught, in a few
minutes, fourteen large trout.  Just above this rapid the river
opened into long, narrow lakes, and the canoeing was superb.
Suddenly the river took a sharp turn to the westward, and appeared
to lead directly into the mountains.  At that we sent up three
rousing cheers--the river problem seemed to be solved; apparently
the road to Michikamau lay straight before us.

A little above the bend in the river we came upon an old gander and
goose and two unfeathered young. The gander with a great squawk and
flapping wings took to the bush, but we killed the old goose with a
rifle, and George "knocked over," as he expressed it, one of the
young ones with a pistol.  More luck (and food) came to us a little
later.  While George and I portaged around the last rapid that
evening, Hubbard caught fifty trout averaging over a pound each.
They jumped greedily to the fly, four or five rising at every cast.

Above this rapid the river again took the form of a long, narrow
lake--a lake so beautiful that we were entranced.  It was evening
when we arrived, and the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over
the place. Undoubtedly we were the first white men that had ever
invaded its solitude, and the first human beings of any kind to
disturb its repose for many years.  On the north a barren, rocky
bluff rose high above the water; at all other places the shores
were low and wooded.  A few miles to the westward could be seen the
barren Kipling Mountains, and between them and us was a ridge of
low hills covered with black-green spruce.  The sun was setting in
our faces as we paddled slowly along the lake, and as it went down
behind the mountains a veil was gradually drawn over the lovely
scene.  Not a breath of air was stirring, and hardly a sound broke
the stillness save the ripple at the bow of the canoe and the soft
splash of the paddles.  In the placid waters two otters were
swimming and diving.  One was timid and remained at a distance, but
the other was bold and inquisitive and came close to the canoe.
Here and there all over the lake, its mirror-like surface was
broken by big jumping trout.  Two loons laughed at us as we drew
the canoe on to the sandy beach of a low jutting point, and they
continued to laugh while we pitched our camp in the green woods
near the shore and prepared our supper of roast goose.  It was a
feast day.  With goose, plenty of trout and good water for
paddling, it was a time to eat, drink, and be merry.

Our high spirits still remained when we broke camp in the morning
(Wednesday, August 19), but they were destined soon to be dashed.
Not long after we started we found ourselves in good-sized lakes,
with arms extending in every direction.  All day we hunted for the
river, but found only small streams emptying into the lakes.  The
country now was much rougher, and much more rocky and barren, than
any we had seen since we left the coast.  The trees were more
stunted and gnarled, and the streams usually had a bed-rock bottom.
In the course of the day Hubbard shot three rock ptarmigans--
"rockers," George called them.  They were the first we had seen,
and were still wearing their mottled summer dress; later in the
season they are a pure, spotless white.  Towards evening we made
our way to a point on the northwesterly part of the lakes where a
small stream came through a mountain pass, and there went into
camp.

We were much disappointed at our failure to find the river, but not
disheartened.  In order to make certain that we had not overlooked
it, we decided to paddle back the next day as far as the last rapid
and make one more careful search.  Failing then to find the river,
we should portage through the mountain pass at the entrance to
which we had camped.

"Do you remember," asked Hubbard, "the slogan of the old Pike's
Peakers?--'Pike's Peak or Bust?'"

"Yes," said I; "and very often they busted."

"Well," said Hubbard, "we'll adopt it and change it to our needs.
'Michikamau or Bust,' will be our watchword now."

And sitting around the fire, we all took it up and repeated
determinedly, "Michikamau or Bust!"

The morning of the next day (Thursday, August 20) we occupied in
mending our moccasins with parts of the caribou skin.  George also
took the venison from the bags and hung it over the fire to give it
a little more drying, as it had begun to mould.  In the afternoon
Hubbard and I, in accordance with the plan we had adopted, paddled
back over our course and re-explored the lower lakes.  We
discovered nothing new.  The fact was that these lakes were the
source of the Beaver River.

While we were paddling about we came upon two old and two young
loons.  The old ones tried to lure us away from their young, by
coming very near the canoe.  The young loons made frequent dives,
but we succeeded in catching one of them.  Finally, however, we
restored it to its parents, and when the loon family was re-united
there was great rejoicing in the household.  In the pool at the
foot of the last rapid we spent an hour fishing, and caught eighty-
one trout, averaging, perhaps, a half-pound each.  Upon our return
to camp in the evening we dressed our catch and hung the fish to
dry over a slow, smoky fire.

The river having come to an end, our only course now was to cross
the mountains, and on Friday (August 21), with "Michikamau or
Bust!" for our slogan, we began our portage along the stream that
flowed through the pass near our camp.  A heavy rain was falling.
During the first part of the day, in the course of which we crossed
three small ponds, the travelling was fairly good; but during the
latter part it was exceedingly rough and difficult.  We pitched our
tent that night on the divide; in other words, we had reached the
place where small streams flowed both east and west.

The cold rain continued when we broke camp the next morning
(Saturday, August 22).  For a time we again encountered rough work,
forcing a passage over rocks and through thick brush and scrambling
down high banks, and then, as we neared the end of the pass, the
portage became less difficult.  Before noon we came upon a lake of
considerable size and unmistakable signs that in directing our
course through the pass we had kept upon the old Indian trail.  On
the edge of the lake--we shall call it Lake Hope--trees had been
blazed to make plain the exact point where the portage trail left
the water, and near this place were sweat holes where the medicine
men had given baths to the sick.  Much drift wood showing axe
cuttings was on the shore, and we picked up an old canoe paddle of
Indian make.  All this led us to believe we were on waters
connected directly with Lake Michikamau (which was the fact), and
we thought that possibly we had reached a deep bay said to extend
from the main body of the lake some thirty miles in a southeasterly
direction.

Where we launched our canoe the mountain pass was very narrow, and
on the southerly side, rising almost perpendicularly from the water
to a height of eight or nine hundred feet, stood a hill of
absolutely bare rock.  The wind was blowing the rain in sheets over
its face, and, despite the wet and chill, we paused to enjoy the
grandeur of the scene.  We had travelled about six miles through
the pass, and this hill marked its end; the mountain barrier that
at one time seemed so formidable had not proved so difficult to
cross after all.  And in accomplishing the pass we had reached the
great interior plateau--the land that lay hidden behind the ranges.

After we had paddled along Lake Hope a hundred yards, we struck a
sharp-pointed rock that tore a hole through the bottom of the
canoe.  This accident forced us to take refuge on a near-by island
where George could repair the damage and procure gum from the
spruce trees to cover the patch.

Sunshine came with Sunday morning (August 23), and we dried our
blankets and camp outfit before starting forward, so that it was
after ten o'clock when we quit the island.  Lake Hope proved to be
long and narrow, and we soon realised that it could not be
Michikamau's southeast bay; but at the western end we hoped to find
a strait connecting it with another lake, and as we approached the
western end with a feeling of uncertainty as to what lay beyond,
George remarked: "It's like goin' into a room where there's a
Christmas tree."

Sure enough there was a strait, and as we turned into it, we saw
beyond big water stretching away to the westward for miles.
"There's a Christmas tree without a doubt," said Hubbard.  We felt
positive now that this second lake was Michikamau's southeast bay,
and we broke the solemn stillness of the wilderness with three
lusty cheers.  It is violating no confidence to say here that the
second lake was not Michikamau's southeast bay; it was simply the
peculiarly-shaped body of water that appears on my map under the
name, Lost Trail Lake.

Two and a half miles up Lost Trail Lake we climbed a barren ridge,
where we found blueberries, mossberries and bake-apple berries.
The latter berry is salmon-coloured, and grows on a plant
resembling that of the strawberry.  The berry itself resembles in
form the raspberry, and has a flavour like that of a baked apple,
from which fact it derives its name.  It ripens after the first
frost.  The mossberry is small and black, resembling in shape and
size the blueberry, and is sweet and palatable after being touched
with frost.  It is usually found on the moss clinging to rocks.  On
the ridge it grew in abundance, and we ate a great many.  The
blueberry of Labrador is similar to the blueberry of the United
States.

Some distance beyond where we got the berries we went into camp.
Trolling on the way, we caught a namaycush (lake trout), the first
we had seen on the trip.  In our camp on Lost Trail Lake we were
held all of Monday (August 24) by a gale that beat the water into a
fury.  We took advantage of the opportunity to try our gill net,
sinking it on the lee shore, but it was so rotten it would not hold
a fish large enough to get fast in it, and we finally threw it away
as a useless encumbrance.

In the course of the day Hubbard and climbed a hill not far away,
while I remained in camp to do some "chores."  They found bake-
apple berries in abundance--the only spot we came across where they
grew in any great quantity--and had a good look at a lake we had
previously sighted two miles to the north.  This lake was larger
than the one we were on, being about twenty-five miles long; it
was, in fact, the largest body of water by far that we had seen
since leaving Grand Lake.  Its size impressed Hubbard with the
fatal belief that it, rather than Lost Trail Lake, was connected
with Michikamau, and to it he decided to go.  Our experience there
led us to call it Lake Disappointment.

We portaged into it on Tuesday morning (August 25).  Our course was
over a neck of land which was mostly soft marsh partially covered
with spruce.  We did not know then that in abandoning Lost Trail
Lake for Lake Disappointment we were wandering from the Indian
trail to Michikamau.  Some Indians I met during the winter at
Northwest River Post told me that a river flowed out of the western
end of Lost Trail Lake into the very southeast bay of Lake
Michikamau we were longing so much to see. This was the trail.  And
we lost it.

We ate our luncheon on the southern shore of Lake Disappointment.
That afternoon and the next two days (August 26 and 27) we spent in
paddling about the lake in a vain search for a river.  Thirty or
more miles a day we paddled, and found nothing but comparatively
small creeks.  One of these we followed almost to its source, and
then returned to the lake again.  We were living pretty well.
While we were on these lakes near the mountains we killed four
geese and one spruce-grouse, and caught about eighty half-pound
trout, two two-pound namaycush and a five-pound pike.

The pike we got in this unsportsmanlike manner: We were fishing for
trout in a creek that emptied into Lake Disappointment in a
succession of falls, and found that while there were some above the
lower fall, none could be induced to rise where the creek at the
foot of the lower fall made an ideal pool for them.  We were
lunching on a rock near this pool when Hubbard suddenly remarked:

"There's only one reason why trout don't rise here."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Pike," he answered laconically, and left his luncheon to fasten a
trolling hook on his trout line.  After he had fixed a piece of
cork to the line for a "bobber," he baited the hook with a small
live trout and dropped it into the pool.  "Now we'll have a pike,"
said he.

Scarcely had he resumed his luncheon when the cork bobbed under,
and he grabbed his rod to find a big fish on the other end.  He
played it around until it was near the shore, and as it arose to
the surface I put a pistol bullet through its head.  Then Hubbard
hauled in the line, and he had our five-pound pike.

There were two occasions when we felt particularly like feasting.
One was when we were progressing with a clear course ahead and were
happy, and the other was when we were not sure of the way and were
blue.  That night we were blue; so we had a feast of goose and
pike.  Hubbard planked the pike, and it was excellent.  All of our
food was eaten now without salt, but we were getting used to its
absence.

After our feast Hubbard astonished George and me by taking out a
new pipe I had brought along to trade with the Indians, and filling
it with the red willow bark George and I had been mixing with our
tobacco.  We watched him curiously as be lighted it; for, with the
exception of a puff or two on a cigarette, he had never smoked
before.  He finished the pipe without flinching.  I asked him how
he liked it.

"Pretty good," he said.  Then after a pause he added: "And I'll
tell you what; if ever I start out again on another expedition of
this sort, I am going to learn to smoke; watching you fellows makes
me believe it must be a great comfort."

George and I had been mixing red willow bark with our tobacco,
because our stock had become alarmingly low.  In fact, it would
have been entirely gone had not Hubbard presented us with some
black plug chewing he had purchased at Rigolet to trade with the
Indians.  The plugs, having been wet, had run together in one mass;
but we dried it out before the fire, and, mixed with the bark, it
was not so bad.  Later on George and I took to drying out the tea
leaves and mixing them with the tobacco.

On Wednesday morning (August 26) when we left camp to continue the
search for a river, we decided to leave the caribou skin behind us;
its odour had become most offensive, and in spite of our efforts to
keep out the flies they had filled it with blows and it was now
fairly crawling with maggots.  On Thursday when we were passing the
same way, George gave a striking example of his prescience.  He was
at the stern paddle, and turned the canoe to the place where we had
left the hide.

"What are you stopping for?" asked Hubbard.

"I thought I would get that caribou skin, wash it off, and take it
along," said George.

"What in the world do you expect to do with it?

"Well," answered George quietly, "we may want to eat it some day."

Hubbard and I both laughed.  Nevertheless Hubbard jumped out of the
canoe with George and helped him wash the skin, and we took it
along.  And, as George predicted, the day came when we were glad we
did.

It was on Thursday night that, disgusted and weary, we gave up the
search for a river.  Our camp was on the north shore of Lake
Disappointment, down near the western end.  Hubbard now expressed
the opinion that we should have to portage north or northwest
across country.  His idea was that by proceeding north we should
eventually reach the river that Low had mapped as flowing from
Michikamau, the so-called Northwest.  If we reached the latitude in
which the river was supposed to be and could not find it, Hubbard's
plan then called for our turning directly west.

The situation that confronted us was serious.  Hubbard had recently
had another attack of diarrhoea, and was weak.  The patches we put
on our moccasins would last only a day or two, and we were
practically barefoot.  Our rags were hanging in strips.  Our
venison was going rapidly, and our flour was practically gone.  To
portage across country meant that we should probably not have many
opportunities for fishing, as we should not have any stream to
follow.  Getting game had proved uncertain.  Even were we to face
towards home, we had not sufficient provisions to carry us half way
to Northwest River Post.

That Thursday evening in camp we discussed the situation from all
sides.  We knew that if we pressed on winter in all probability
would overtake us before we reached a post, but we decided that we
should fight our way on to Lake Michikamau and the George River.
There was no doubt about it, we were taking a long chance;
nevertheless, we refused to entertain the thought of turning back.
Daring starvation, we should on the morrow start overland and see
what lay beyond the hills to the northward.  "Michikamau or Bust!"
was still our slogan.




IX. AND THERE WAS MICHIKAMAU!

From the northwesterly end of Lake Disappointment we portaged on
Friday (August 28) across a neck of land to two small, shallow
lakes that lay to the northward, and in the teeth of a gale paddled
to the northern shore of the farther lake.  There we went into camp
for the day in order that Hubbard might rest, as he was still weak
from the effects of his recent illness.  We took advantage of the
opportunity to patch up our moccasins and clothing as best we
could, and held a long consultation, the outcome of which was, that
it was decided that for the present, at least, we should leave
behind us our canoe and the bulk of our camp equipment, including
the tent, and push on with light packs, consisting of one blanket
for each man, an axe, the two pistols, one rifle, and our stock of
food.

Before us there apparently stretched miles of rough, rocky country.
Our equipment and stock of food at this time made up into four
packs of about 100 pounds each.  The canoe, water-soaked and its
crevices filled with sand, must now have weighed nearly a hundred
pounds.  It was a most awkward thing to carry over one's head when
the wind blew, and where there were rocks there was danger of the
carrier falling and breaking, not only the canoe, but his own
bones.  This meant that if our entire outfit were taken along,
practically every bit of land we travelled would have to be covered
twice.  In leaving the canoe behind, we, of course, should have to
take chances on meeting intervening lakes; but, once in the region
of northern Michikamau, there seemed a fair chance of our falling
in with Indians that would take us down the George River, and the
advantages of light travel were obvious with winter fast
approaching.

The stock of food we had to carry would not weigh us down.  The
dried venison had been reduced to a few pounds, so that we had to
eat of it sparingly and make our principal diet on boiled fish and
the water in which it was cooked.  We had just a bit of flour,
enough to serve bread at rare intervals as a great dainty.  Nothing
remained of our caribou tallow and marrow grease.  It is true we
held in reserve the "emergency ration"; but this consisted only of
eighteen pounds of pea meal, a pint of rice, and a small piece of
bacon.  This ration we had pledged ourselves to use only in case of
the direst necessity, should we be compelled to make a forced
retreat, and we felt we must not think of it at this time as food
on hand.

In camp on Friday night I could see that Hubbard was worrying
considerably.  Nervously active by habit, he found delay doubly
hard.  The days we had spent on Lake Disappointment in a vain
search for a river had been particularly trying on his nerves, and
had left him a prey to many fears.  The spectre of an early winter
in this sub-Arctic land began to haunt him constantly.  The days
were slipping away and were becoming visibly shorter with each
sunset.  If we could get to the Indians on the George, we should be
safe; for they would give us warm skins for clothing and replenish
our stock of food.  But should we meet with more delays, and arrive
on the George too late for the caribou migration, and fail to find
the Indians, what then?  Well, then, our fate would be sealed.
Hubbard was the leader of the expedition and he felt himself
responsible, not only for his own life, but, to a large extent, for
ours.  It is little wonder, therefore, that he brooded over the
possibilities of calamity, but with youth, ambition, and the ardent
spirit that never will say die, he invariably fought off his fears,
and bent himself more determinedly than ever to achieve the purpose
for which he had set out.  Frequently he confided his fears to me,
but was careful to conceal all traces of them from George.

In light marching order we went out on Saturday morning (August
29), making rapid progress to the northward, through a thick growth
of small spruce timber and over a low ridge; but scarcely had we
gone a mile when we were compelled to halt.  There in front of us
was a small lake extending east and west.  It was not more than an
eighth of a mile across it, but a long distance around it.  Back we
went for the canoe, and at the same time brought forward the whole
camp outfit.  Again we tried light marching order, and again a lake
compelled us to go back for the canoe and outfit. And thus it was
all day: a stretch of a mile or so; then a long, narrow lake to
cross, until finally we were forced to admit that our plan of
proceeding with light packs and without the canoe was
impracticable.

Hubbard was feeling stronger on Saturday evening, and we had a
pleasant camp.  George made a big fire of tamarack, and we lay
before it on a couch of spruce boughs and ate tough boiled venison
and drank the broth; and, feeling we had made some progress, we
were happy, despite the fact that we were in the midst of a
trackless wilderness with our way to Michikamau and the Indians as
uncertain as ever.

Sunday morning (August 30) broke superbly beautiful, and the day
continued clear and mild.  We made an early start; for every hour
had become precious.  While we were doing this cross-country work
without any streams to guide us, it was George's custom to go ahead
all the way from half a mile to two miles and blaze a trail, so
that when we were travelling back and forth bringing up the packs
and the canoe we might not go astray.  In the course of the morning
we came to two small lakes, which we paddled over.

We had believed that our goose chases were over; for these birds
now having grown their feathers, could fly, and were generally
beyond the reach of our pistols and the uncertain aim of a rifle at
anything on the wing.  For two days we had heard them flying, and
now and then would see them high in the air.  But while we were
crossing one of the small lakes this Sunday, five geese walked
gravely down the bank and into the water ahead of the canoe.  One
of them we got with a pistol shot; the others flew away.  In
another lake we reached late in the day we came upon five or six
ducks.  They were not far away, but dived so frequently we were
unable to shoot them with pistol or rifle.  A shotgun might have
enabled us to get nearly all the geese as well as the ducks and
other game we saw on the wing and in the water on other occasions.
We often expresseid the regret that we had no shotgun with us.  At
one time Hubbard had intended that one should be taken, but later
decided that the ammunition would be too bulky.

A low, semi-barren ridge running east and west lay just beyond the
small blue-green lake in which we saw the ducks towards evening.
About seven miles beyond the ridge to the north was a short range
of high, barren mountains that were perhaps a trifle lower than the
Kipling Mountains.  Upon ascending the ridge we heard the rushing
of water on the other side, which sound proved to come from a small
fall on a stream expanding and stretching out, to the eastward in
long, narrow lakes.  Apparently these lakes were the headquarters
of a small river flowing to the southeast, and in all probability
here was the source of the Red River, which, as I have described,
flows into the Nascaupee some fifteen or eighteen miles above Grand
Lake.

The whole character of the country had now changed.  It was very
rocky and steadily growing more barren.  Ridges and hills extended
to the mountains on the north.  Great boulders were piled in
confusion behind us and in front of us.  Portaging over them had
been most difficult and dangerous.  A misstep might have meant a
broken leg, and as it was, the skin had been pretty nearly all
knocked off of our shins from the instep to the knee.

Below the fall we had discovered was a deep pool in which Hubbard
caught, with his emergency kit and a tamarack pole, twenty trout
averaging twelve inches in length.  We camped near this pool.  The
hard work of the day had brought on Hubbard another attack of his
old illness; apparently it was only by a great exertion of will-
power that he kept moving at all during the afternoon, and at night
he was very weak.  Before supper he drank a cup of strong tea as a
stimulant, and was taken immediately with severe vomiting.

Watching his suffering, the thought came to me whether,
disregarding all other considerations, I should not at this point
strongly insist on the party turning back.  I was aware, however,
of the grim determination of the man to get his work done, and was
convinced of the uselessness of any attempt to sway him from his
purpose.  Moreover, I myself was hopeful of our ability to reach
the caribou grounds; I felt sure that Hubbard's grit would carry
him through.  Looking back now, I can see I should have at least
attempted to turn him back, but I am still convinced it would have
been useless.  I thoroughly believe only one thing would have
turned the boy back at that time--force.

After this vomiting ceased, Hubbard said he felt better, but he ate
sparingly of the boiled fish we had for supper.  George and I also
felt a bit weak, and our stomachs were continually crying out for
bread or some other grain food.  As we reclined before the fire,
Hubbard had George tell us of various Indian dishes he had
prepared.  After he had entered into these gastronomic details with
great gusto, George suddenly said:

"Wouldje believe it, fellus?--I once threw away a whole batch of
cookies."

"No!" we both cried.

"Fact," said George.

"For Heaven's sake," said Hubbard, "why did you do it?"

"Well," said George, "it was when I first went cookin' in a
surveyor's camp.  The cookies wasn't as good as I thought they
ought to be, and I was so ashamed of 'em that I took the whole lot
out and buried 'em.  Supposin'," added George, in an awed whisper,
"supposin' we had 'em now!"

"Why what in the world would you do with them?" asked Hubbard.

"Um!" grunted George.  "Well, I guess we'd find a way to use 'em,
all right."

The story of the buried cookies started us all to talking of
doughnuts, and cake, and pie, and Hubbard extolled the merits of
the chocolate served at one of the New York hotels.

"Wallace," he at length asked, "do you like pig's knuckles?"

"I like," I replied, "anything that can be eaten."

"Well," confided Hubbard, "I know a place down on Park Row where
they serve the best pigs' knuckles you  ever ate.  I used to go
there for them when I was on the old Daily News.  They cook them
just right, and serve a big plate of nice greasy cabbage or
sauerkraut with them, and a cup of pretty good coffee.  We'll have
to go there some time when we get back."

And until it was time to go to sleep Hubbard continued to talk of
the good dinners he had eaten when a child and of those his wife
had recently prepared at his Congers home.

As he had decided that before proceeding farther we should know
something of the country that lay to the northward, Hubbard on
Monday morning (August 31) sent George on a scouting trip to the
short range of mountains just ahead.  He and I planned to spend the
day catching and drying fish.  For some reason the fish refused to
rise near the camp, and Hubbard, who was so weak he could hardly
stand, returned to lie down, while I went farther down the stream.
Towards luncheon-time I returned with only two or three small fish.
Hubbard was still resting in the tent, but soon after I had begun
to repair my fishing rod by the fire he came out and joined me.

"Oh, how glad I'll be, Wallace," he said, "to get to Michikamau and
finish my work here and get home again!  I've been wondering when
that will be.  I'm afraid," he added slowly, "I've been a bit
homesick to-day."

"We'll surely get there soon, old man," I said encouragingly, "and
when we do get there, we'll appreciate it more than ever.  Just
think how it will be to eat good bread, and all we want of it."
"Yes," he said, "and then we'll be glad we came here, and can laugh
at the recollection of these terrible ridges, and the whole awful
country, and the hard times we've been through.  I'm dead glad I
had just you two fellows come with me.  If I'd had a single man
that growled about the grub and work, or wanted to quit, it would
have been hell.  But we haven't had a growl or a word about
quitting or turning back."

"There's no reason for quitting," said I.  "And as for growling,
there's no call for it.  We've done the best we could, and that's
enough to make any real man satisfied."

"That's so," said Hubbard.  "Take things as they come and make the
best of them--that's good philosophy.  I was thinking that here it
is the last of August, and we don't know where we are; and it
bothered me some as I lay there in the tent.  But we've done our
best and ought to be satisfied."

In the afternoon I took my rod and went about three miles to the
westward, where I came upon an isolated pond with no apparent
outlet.  Everywhere I could see the trout jumping, and by sundown
had as long a string of them as I could conveniently carry.  It was
an hour after dark when I reached camp.  George had returned, and
they were beginning to fear that I was lost.

George had climbed the mountains, and he reported a fair line of
travel to the northwest, with a "long lake that looked like a
river," and, some distance northwest of that, "big water" and a
tolerably good route for portages.  What he told us led Hubbard to
decide to continue on with the canoe and our entire outfit.  George
brought back with him two grouse he had shot.

The next morning (Tuesday, September 1) Hubbard was much better,
and we began September with a renewed effort.  It was rough and
painful portaging over rocks and knolls.  Every forty or fifty rods
we came upon deep ponds with water so clear we could see the
pebbles on the bottom.  Between these ponds boulders were piled
indiscriminately.  In directing our course to the northwest we
avoided the mountains that had lain just ahead.  For two days we
pushed on among the boulders, then over a wide marsh and through a
heavy spruce growth, which brought us, on September 3d, to George's
"lake that looked like a river."  Let us call it Mary Lake.

Along Lake Mary we paddled, in the pouring rain that began that
day, some five miles to its western end; and there, near a creek
that flowed into it, we found the remains of an old Indian camp.
George looked the camp over critically and remarked:

"The beggars killed two caribou, and they broke every bone up and
boiled out the last drop of grease."

"What was it--a summer or a winter camp?" asked Hubbard.

"A summer," said George.  "And they'd been fishing, too.  There's a
good fishing place--just try it!"

We did try it, and we had a fairly good catch of large trout.  For
supper we had a few of the trout boiled, together with the water,
with one spoonful of flour for each man stirred in.  We ate the
fish entire, entrails, head, and all, and from that time on we let
no part of the fish we caught be thrown away.  Everything now in
the way of food George divided carefully into three equal parts,
even the fish broth.  By this time we had not enough flour on hand
to make more than half a dozen cakes of bread, and we continued to
use only a spoonful or two a day for each man, mixing it with game
or fish broth; in this way we hoped it would satisfy to some extent
our craving for grain, and last longer.

As evening approached the sky cleared, and a big full moon tipped
the fir trees with silver and set Lake Mary to gleaming.  The air
was filled with the perfume of the balsam and spruce, and it acted
as a tonic on our spirits and drove away the depression of the
day's work in the rain.  Hubbard seemed to be as full of vim as
ever, and all of us were quite contented.

Sitting on the couch of boughs, George looked up at the sky and
said:

"There's a fine Indian story about that moon."

Of course Hubbard and I begged that he tell it to us.

"Well," said George, "it's a long story about a boy and girl that
lived together in a wigwam by a great water.  Their father and
mother were dead, and the boy had learned to be a great hunter,
because he had to hunt for them both, though he was young.  One day
he found a tree that was very high, and he climbed it, and told his
sister to climb it with him; and they climbed higher and higher,
and as they climbed, the tree grew taller and taller; and after a
while they reached the moon.  And then the boy laid down to sleep,
and after a while he woke up with a bright light shinin' in his
face--it was the sun passin' 'long that way.  The boy said he would
set a snare for the sun and catch it, and the next night he had his
snare set when the sun came 'long, and he caught the sun, and then
it was always bright on the moon.

"There's a lot more to that story," added George, after a pause,
"and I'll tell it to you some time; but it's too long and too late
to tell it to-night."

Unfortunately we never heard the continuation of the tale.  George
often hinted at interesting folklore stories about the milky way
and different stars, and various other things in nature; but this
was the nearest approach to a story we ever wrung from him.

From our last camp on Lake Disappointment to our camp at the
western end of Lake Mary we had travelled about twenty-five miles.
In leaving the latter camp on September 4th we inclined our course
directly west, to reach the "big water" George had seen from his
mountain.  During the next four days we encountered bad weather.
As evening came on the sky would clear and remain clear until
morning, when the clouds and rain would reappear.  On the 4th there
was sleet with the rain, and on the 6th we had our first snow,
which soon was washed away, however, by rain.

Our progress on the 4th was along the edge of a marsh between two
low, wooded ridges, and then over the marsh and through several
ponds, upon the shore of one of which we camped early in order that
George might climb a hill, view the country and decide upon the
shortest and best route to the "big water."  He reported it about
three miles ahead.

It had been our rule to defer our bathing until the evening's chill
had quieted the flies, but now there was no need of that, as the
colder weather had practically killed them for the season.  About
this time I noticed that Hubbard did not take his usual bath, and I
remarked:

"The weather is getting pretty cold for bathing in the open, isn't
it?"

"Yes," said Hubbard; "but I wouldn't let that stop me if I weren't
ashamed of my bones.  To tell you the truth, Wallace, I'm like a
walking skeleton."

It was true.  We were all very thin, but our lack of food told upon
Hubbard's appearance the most, as he was naturally slender.

The "big water" George thought was only three miles away proved to
be like the wisp of hay that is held before the donkey's nose to
lead him on.  Day after day we floundered through swamps and
marshes, over rocky, barren hills, and through thick growths of
willows and alders, and at the end of the day's journey it would
apparently be as far off as ever.  The explanation was that in the
rarefied atmosphere of interior Labrador distances are very
deceptive; when George reported that the "big water" was three
miles ahead it must have been fully fifteen.

On the 5th, while crossing the barrens we came upon some
blueberries and after eating our fill we were able to gather enough
to supply each man with a big dish of them for supper.  We were
working our way over some bluffs on the afternoon of the 6th, when
George, who was carrying the canoe, became separated from Hubbard
and me.  The wind was blowing hard, and he had difficulty in
keeping the boat above his head.  Suddenly I heard a call, and,
looking back, saw George running after me, empty-handed.  Hubbard
did not hear the call, and went on.  I dropped my pack, and waited
for George to come up.

"You fellus better wait for me," he panted.  "I can't manage the
canoe alone in the wind, and if we get separated, I might strike
the lake one place and you somewhere else.  And," added George,
sententiously, "you fellus have got the grub."

We shouted to Hubbard to wait, and when he answered, George and I
returned for the canoe.  Hubbard, however, kept on, and George and
I carried the canoe ahead until we reached the thick woods into
which he had disappeared; then George went back for my pack.
Presently we heard Hubbard call from the depths of the woods, and a
little later the sound of an axe.

As we learned later, he had dropped his pack, and was blazing a
trail towards us in order that he might find it again.  He was as
nervous as George had been over his narrow escape from being
permanently separated from the rest of the party, and at a time
when such a happening would have had serious consequences for us
all.  Under the best of circumstances, the prospect of being left
alone in the midst of that inhospitable wilderness was enough to
appal.

On the 7th we reached a creek, and launched the canoe.  Hubbard
went ahead to fish below the rapids in the creek while George and I
brought down the canoe and outfit, making several short portages.
That night we camped two miles down the stream.  Hubbard had
caught, by hard work, thirty small trout, half of which we ate for
supper.

We were still ravenously hungry after we finished the trout, but
the bag contained only one more meal of venison and we did not dare
draw on it.  This, together with the difficulty we were having in
reaching the "big water," set Hubbard to worrying again.  He was
especially anxious about the sufficiency of the material he had
gathered for a story, fearing that if he failed to reach the
caribou grounds there would not be enough to satisfy his
publishers.  I told him I thought he already had enough for a
"bang-up" story.

"Anyway," I said, "we'll reach the caribou grounds, and see the
Indians yet.  George and I will go with you to the last ditch; you
can count on us to the finish."

"All right," said Hubbard, evidently relieved.  "If you boys aren't
sick of it, it's on to the caribou grounds, late or no late.  But I
feel I've got you fellows in a tight place."

"We came with our eyes open," I replied, "and it's not your fault."

On the morning of September 8th, following our stream out to a
shoal, rocky bay, we reached the "big water" at last.  It was the
great body of water that I have mapped out as Windbound Lake.
Forty miles we had portaged from Lake Disappointment.   We were
practically out of food of any kind.  Looking over the great
expanse of water stretching miles away to the westward, we wondered
what our new lake had in store for us of hope and success, of
failure and, despair.  Would it lead us to Michikamau?  If not,
what were we to do?

On its farther shore, about twenty miles to the northwest, rose in
solemn majesty a great, grey mountain, holding its head high above
all the surrounding world.  It shall be known as Mount Hubbard.  To
this mountain we decided to paddle and view the country.
Instinctively we felt that Michikamau lay on the other side.  We
launched our canoe after a light luncheon of trout and a small
ptarmigan George had shot.  Once in the course of the afternoon we
stopped paddling to climb a low ridge near the shore and eat
cranberries, which we found in abundance on its barren top.  From
the ridge we could see water among the hills in every direction.
In the large lake at our feet were numerous wooded islands.

We camped at dusk on one of these islands, and on Wednesday,
September 9th, launched our canoe at daybreak, to resume our
journey to Mount Hubbard.  We reached its base before ten o'clock.
Blueberries grew in abundance on the side of the mountain, which,
together with the country near it, had been burned.  One of us, it
was decided, should remain behind to pick berries, while the others
climbed to the summit.  I volunteered for the berrypicking, but I
shall always regret it was not possible for me to go along.

Before Hubbard and George returned, I had our mixing basin filled
with berries, and the kettle half full.  The day was clear, crisp
and delightful--one of those perfect days when the atmosphere is so
pure and transparent that minute objects can be distinguished for
miles.  On the earth and on the water, not a thing of life was to
be seen.  The lake, relieved here and there with green island-
spots; the cold rocks of distant mountains to the northeast; the
low, semi-barren ridges and hills that we had travelled over
bounding the lake to the eastward, and a ridge of green hills west
of the lake that extended southward from behind Mount Hubbard as
far as the eye could reach--all combined to complete a scene of
vast and solemn beauty; and I, alone on the mountain side picking
blueberries, felt an inexpressible sense of loneliness--felt myself
the only thing of life in all that boundless wilderness-world.

From the moment Hubbard and George had left me, I had not seen or
heard them.  But up the mountain they went through the burnt spruce
forest, up for four miles over rocks, up and up to the top; and
then to the westernmost side of the peak they went and looked--
looked to the West; and there, only a few miles away, lay
Michikamau with its ninety-mile expanse of water--the lake we so
long had sought for and fought so desperately to reach.  It was
there, just beyond the ridge I had seen extending to the southward.




X. PRISONERS OF THE WIND

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun was getting low,
that I, near the base of the mountain and still industriously
picking berries, heard a shout from Hubbard and George at the canoe
on the shore of the lake below.  I was anxious to hear the result
of their journey, and hurried down.

"It's there! it's there!" shouted Hubbard, as I came within talking
distance.  "Michikamau is there, just behind the ridge.  We saw the
big water; we saw it!"

In our great joy we fairly hugged each other, while George stood
apart with something of Indian stoicism, but with a broad grin,
nevertheless, expanding his good-natured features.  We felt that
Windbound Lake must be directly connected with Michikamau, and that
we were now within easy reach of the caribou grounds and a land of
plenty.  It is true that from the mountain top Hubbard and George
had been unable to trace out the connection, as Windbound Lake was
so studded with islands, and had so many narrow arms reaching out
in the various directions between low, thickly-wooded ridges, that
their view of the waters between them and Michikamau was more or
less obscured; but they had no doubt that the connection was there.

"And," added Hubbard, after I had heard all about the great
discovery, "good things never come singly.  Look there!"

I looked where he pointed, and there on the rocks near George's
feet lay a pile of ptarmigans and one small rabbit.  I picked them
up and counted them with nervous joy; there were nine--nine
ptarmigans, and the rabbit.

"You see," said Hubbard reverently, "God always gives us food when
we are really in great need, and He'll carry us through that way;
in the wilderness He'll send us manna."  On similar occasions in
the past Hubbard had made like remarks to this, and he continued to
make them on similar occasions in the future.  Invariably they were
made with a simplicity that robbed them of all cant; they came from
the man's real nature.

While George dressed three of the birds, Hubbard and I built a fire
on the rocks by the shore.  Since early morning, when we had a
breakfast of thin soup made with three thin slices of bacon and
three spoonfuls of flour, we had had nothing to eat, and our hunger
was such, that while dinner was cooking, we each took the entrails
of a bird, wrapped them as George told us the Indians did, on the
end of a stick, broiled them over the fire and ate them greedily.
And when the ptarmigans were boiled what a glorious feast we had!
In using a bit of bacon for soup in the morning we had drawn for
the first time on our "emergency ration"--the situation seemed to
warrant it; nevertheless, we were as bent as ever on hoarding this
precious little stock of food.

At five o'clock we paddled up the lake to the northeast, to begin
our search for the connection with Michikamau.  Hubbard dropped a
troll as we proceeded, and caught two two-pound namaycush, which,
when we went into camp at dusk on a small island, George boiled
entire, putting into the pot just enough flour to give the water a
milky appearance.  With this supper we had some of the blueberries
stewed, and Hubbard said they would have been the "real thing if we
only had a little sugar for them."

All day on September 10th we continued our search for the
connection with Michikamau, finally directing our course to the
southwest where a mountain seemed to offer a view of the waters in
that direction.  It was dark when we reached its base, and we went
into camp preparatory to climbing to the summit in the morning.  We
had been somewhat delayed by wind squalls that made canoeing
dangerous, and before we made camp rain began to fall.  We caught
no fish on the troll that day, but Hubbard shot a large spruce-
grouse.  At our evening meal we ate the last of our ptarmigans and
rabbit.

"George," said Hubbard, after we had eaten our supper, "you have a
few more of mother's dried apples there.  How would it be to stew
them to-night, and stir in a little flour to thicken them?
Wouldn't they thicken up better if you were to cook them to-night
and let them stand until morning?"

"Guess they would," replied George.  "There ain't many of 'em here.
Shall I put them all to cook?

"Yes," said Hubbard, "put them all to cook, and we'll eat them for
breakfast with that small trout Wallace caught and the two
ptarmigan entrails."

In the morning (September llth) we drew lots for the trout, and
George won.  So he took the fish, and Hubbard and I each an
entrail, and, with the last of the apples before us that Hubbard's
mother had dried, sat down to breakfast.

"How well," said Hubbard, "I remember the tree on the old Michigan
farm from which these apples came!  And now," he added, "I'm eating
the last of the fruit from it that I shall probably ever eat."

"Why," said George, "don't you expect to get back to eat any more?"

"That isn't it," replied Hubbard.  "Father signed a contract for
the sale of the farm last spring, and they're to deliver the
property over to its new owners on the fifteenth of this month.
Father wanted me to come to the farm and run it, as he's too old to
do the work any longer; but I had other ambitions.  I feel half
sorry now I didn't; for after all it's home to me, and always will
be wherever I go in the world.  How often I've watched mother
gathering these apples to dry!  And then, the apple butter!  Did
you ever eat apple butter, boys?"

George had not, but I had.

"Well," continued Hubbard, "there was an old woman lived near us
who could make apple butter better than anybody else.  Mother used
to have her come over one day each fall and make a big lot for us.
And, say, but wasn't it delicious!

"I've told you, Wallace, about the maple sugaring on the farm, and
you had some of the syrup I brought from there when I visited
father and mother before I came away on this trip.  We used to
bring to the house the very first syrup we made in the spring,
while it was hot--the first, you know, is always the best--and
mother would have a nice pan of red hot tea biscuits, and for tea
she'd serve the biscuits with cream and the hot new syrup.  And
sometimes we'd mix honey with the syrup; for father was a great man
with bees; he kept a great many of them and had quantities of
honey.  He had a special house where he kept his honey, and in
which was a machine to separate it from the comb when the comb was
not well filled.  In the honey house on a table he always had a
plate with a pound comb of white clover honey, and spoons to eat it
with; and he invited every visitor to help himself.

"Once, I remember, a neighbour called on father, and was duly taken
out to the honey house.  He ate the whole pound.  'Will you have
some more?' asked father.  'Don't care if I do,' said the
neighbour.  So father set out another pound comb, which the
neighbour proceeded to put out of sight with a facility fully equal
to that with which he demolished the first.  'Have some more,' said
father.  'Thanks,' said the neighbour, 'but maybe I've had enough.'
I used to wonder how the man ever did it, but I guess I myself
could make two pounds of honey disappear if I had it now."

Hubbard poured some tea in the cup that had contained his share of
the apple sauce, and after carefully stirring into the tea the bit
of sauce that clung to the cup, he poured it all into the kettle in
which the sauce had been cooked and stirred it again that he might
get the last bit of the apples from the tree on that far-away
Michigan farm.  Then he poured it all back into his cup and drank
it.

"I believe it sweetened the tea just a little," he said, "and
that's the last of mother's sweet apples."

Breakfast eaten, we had no dinner to look forward to.  Of course
there was the "emergency ration," but we felt we must not draw on
that to any extent as yet.  Hubbard was much depressed, perhaps
because of his reminiscences of home and perhaps because of our
desperate situation.  We still had to find the way to Michikamau,
and the cold rain that fell this morning warned us that winter was
near.

The look from the mountain top near our camp revealed nothing,
owing to the heavy mist and rain.  Once more in the canoe, we
started southward close to the shore, to hunt for a rapid we had
heard roaring in the distance.  Trolling by the way, we caught one
two-pound namaycush.  The rapid proved to be really a fall where a
good-sized stream emptied into the lake.  We had big hopes of
trout, but found the stream too shoal and rapid, with almost no
pools, and we caught only a dozen small ones.

Towards evening we took a northwesterly course in the canoe in
search of the lake's outlet to Michikamau.  While paddling we got a
seven-pound namaycush, which enabled us to eat that night.  Our
camp was on a rock-bound island, partially covered with stunted
gnarled spruce and fir trees.  The weather had cleared and the
heavens were bright with stars when we drew our canoe high upon the
boulder-strewn shore, clear of the breaking waves.  The few small
trout we had caught we stowed away in the bow of the canoe, as they
were to be reserved for breakfast.

Early in the morning (September 12th) we were awakened by a
northeast gale that threatened every moment to carry our tent from
its fastenings, and as we peered out through the flaps, rain and
snow dashed in our faces.  The wind also was playing high jinks
with the lake; it was white with foam, and the waves, dashing
against the rocks on the shore, threw the spray high in the air.
Evidently there was no hope of launching the canoe that day, and
assuming indifference of the driving storm that threatened to
uncover us, we settled down for a much-needed morning sleep.  At
ten o'clock George crawled out to build a fire in the lee of some
bushes and boil trout for a light breakfast.  Soon he stuck his
head in the tent, and his face told us something had happened even
before he said:

"Well, that's too bad."

"What's too bad?" asked Hubbard anxiously.

"Somebody's stole the trout we left in the canoe."

"Who?" asked Hubbard and I together.

"Otter or somebody--maybe a marten."  (George always referred to
animals as persons.)

We all went again to look and make sure the fish were not there
somewhere; but they were really gone, and we looked at one another
and laughed, and continued to make light of it as we ate a
breakfast of soup made of three little slices of bacon, with two or
three spoonfuls of flour and rice.

We occupied the day in talking--visiting, Hubbard called it--and
mending.  Hubbard made a handsome pair of moccasins, using an old
flour sack for the uppers and a pair of skin mittens for the feet.
George did some neat work on his moccasins and clothing, and I made
my trousers look quite respectable again, and ripped up one pair of
woollen socks to get yarn to darn the holes in another.  Altogether
it was rather a pleasant day, even though Hubbard's display of his
beautiful new moccasins did savour of ostentation and thereby
excite much heartburning on the part of George and me.

Our second day on the island was Sunday, September 13th.  We awoke
to find that the wind, rain, and sleet were still with us.  Our
breakfast was the same as all our meals of the previous day--thin
bacon soup.  The morning we spent in reading from the Bible.
Hubbard read Philemon aloud and told us the story.  I read aloud
from the Psalms.  George, who received his religious training in a
mission of the Anglican Church on James Bay, listened to our
reading with reverent attention.

Towards noon the storm began to moderate, and in a short stroll
about the island we found some blueberries and currants, which we
fell upon and devoured.  At one o'clock the wind abated to such an
extent that we succeeded in leaving the island and reaching the
mainland to the northeast.  The wind continuing to abate, we
paddled several miles in the afternoon looking in vain for the
outlet.  In the course of our search we caught a namaycush, and
immediately put to shore to eat it.  While it was being cooked we
picked nearly a gallon of cranberries on a sandy knoll.  We camped
near this spot, and for supper had a pot of the cranberries stewed,
leaving enough for two more meals.

For several days past now, when George and I were alone, he had
repeated to me stories of Indians that had starved to death, or had
barely escaped starvation, and a little later he spoke of these
things in Hubbard's presence.  To me he would tell how weak he was
becoming, and how Indians would get weaker and weaker and then give
up to it and die.  He also spoke of how he had heard the big
northern loons cry at night farther back on the trail, which cries,
he said, the Indians regarded as sure signs of coming calamity.
At the same time he was cheerful and courageous, never suggesting
such a thing as turning back.  His state of mind was to me very
interesting.  Apparently two natures were at war within him.  One--
the Indian--was haunted by superstitious fears; the other--the
white man--rejected these fears and invariably conquered them.  In
other words, the Indian in him was panicky, but the white man held
him fast.  And in seeing him master his superstitious nature, I
admired him the more.

Until this time it had been Hubbard's custom to retire to his
blankets early, while George and I continued to toast our shins by
the fire and enjoy our evening pipe.  Then George would turn in,
and I, while the embers died, would sit alone for an hour or so and
let my fancy form pictures in the coals or carry me back to other
days.  In our Sunday night's camp on Windbound Lake, however,
Hubbard sat with me long after George was lost in sleep, and
together we talked of the home folks and exchanged confidences.

I observed now a great change in Hubbard.  Heretofore the work he
had to do had seemed almost wholly to occupy his thoughts.  Now he
craved companionship, and he loved to sit with me and dwell on his
home and his wife, his mother and sister, and rehearse his early
struggles in the university and in New York City.  Undoubtedly the
boy was beginning to suffer severely from homesickness--he was only
a young fellow, you know, with a gentle, affectionate nature that
gripped him tight to the persons and objects he loved.  Our little
confidential talks grew to be quite the order of things, and often
as the days went by we confessed to each other that we looked
forward to them during all the weary work hours; they were the
bright spots in our dreary life.

A tremendous gale with dashes of rain ushered in Monday morning,
September 14th.  Again we were windbound, with nothing to do but
remain where we were and make the best of it.  A little of our thin
soup had to serve for breakfast.  Then we all slept till ten
o'clock, when Hubbard and I went out to the fire and George took a
stroll through the bush on the shore, in the hope of seeing
something to shoot.  While I cleaned my rifle and pistol, Hubbard
and I chatted about good things to eat and the days of yore.

"Well, Wallace," he said, "I suppose that father and mother are to-
day leaving the old farm forever, and that I never can call it home
again.  I dreamed of it last night.  Over fifty years ago father
cleared that land when he was a young man and that part of Michigan
was a wilderness.  He made a great farm of it, and it has been his
home ever since.  How I hate to think of them going away and
leaving it to strangers who don't love it or care more for it than
any other plot of ground where good crops can be raised!  Daisy
[his sister] and I grew up together there, and I used to tell her
my ambitions, and she was always interested.  Daisy gave me more
encouragement in my work than anyone else in the world.  I'd never
have done half so well with my work if it hadn't been for Daisy."

After a moment's silence, he continued:

"That hickory cleaning rod for the rifle we lost on a portage on
the big river [the Beaver] father cut himself on the old farm and
shaped it and gave it to me.  That's the reason I hated so to lose
it.  If we go back that way, we must try to find it.  Father wanted
to come with me on this trip; he wanted to take care of me.  He
always thinks of me as a child; he's never quite realised I'm a
grown man.  As old as he is, I believe he could have stood this
trip as well as I have.  He was a forty-niner in California, you
know, and has spent a lot of his life in the bush."

When George returned--empty-handed, alas!--we had our dinner.  The
menu was not very extensive--it began with stewed cranberries and
ended there.  The acid from the unsweetened berries made our mouths
sore, but, as George remarked, "it was a heap better than not
eatin' at all."

Perhaps I should say here that these were the hungriest days of our
journey.  What we suffered later on, the good Lord only knows; but
we never felt the food-craving, the hunger-pangs as now.  In our
enforced idleness it was impossible for us to prevent our thoughts
from dwelling on things to eat, and this naturally accentuated our
craving.  Then, again, as everyone that has had such an experience
knows, the pangs of hunger are mitigated after a certain period has
been passed.

In the afternoon George and I took the pistols and ascended a low
ridge in the rear of the camp to look for ptarmigans.  Soon George
exclaimed under his breath:

"There's two!  Get down low and don't let 'em see you; the wind
blows so they'll be mighty wild.  I'll belly round to that bush
over there and take a shot."

He crawled or wriggled along to the bush, which was the nearest
cover and about forty yards from the birds.  With a dinner in
prospect, I watched him with keen anxiety.  I could see him lying
low and carefully aiming his pistol.  Suddenly, bang!--and one of
the birds fluttered straight up high in the air, trying desperately
to sustain itself; then fell into the brush on the hillside below.
At that George raised his head and gave a peculiar laugh--a laugh
of wild exultation--an Indian laugh.  He was the Indian hunter
then.  I never heard him laugh so again, nor saw him look quite as
he did at that moment.  As the other bird flew away, he rose to his
feet and shouted:

"I hit 'im!--did you see how he went?  Now we'll find 'im."

But we didn't.  We beat the bushes high and low for an hour, and
finally in disappointment and disgust gave up the search.  The bird
lay there dead somewhere, but we never found it, and we returned to
camp empty-handed and perhaps, through anticipation, hungrier than
ever.

On Tuesday (September 15th) the high west wind had not abated, and
the occasional sleet-squalls continued.  We were dreary and
disconsolate when we came out of the tent and huddled close to the
fire.  For the first time Hubbard heard George tell his stories of
Indians that starved.  And there we were still windbound and
helpless, with stomachs crying continually for food.  And the
caribou migration was soon to begin, if it had not already begun,
and there seemed no prospect of the weather clearing.

We made an inventory of the food we were hoarding for an emergency,
and found that in addition to about two pounds of flour, we had
eighteen pounds of pea meal, a little less than a pint of rice, and
a half a pound of bacon.  George then told another story of Indians
that starved.  At length he stopped talking, and we sat silent for
a long while, staring blankly at the blazing logs.

Slowly the minutes crawled.  In great gusts the wind swept down,
howling dismally among the trees and driving the sleet into our
faces.  Still we sat cowering in silence when Hubbard arose, pushed
the loose ends of the partially burned sticks into the fire and
stood with his back to the blaze, apparently deep in thought.
Presently, turning slowly towards the lake, he walked down through
the intervening brush and stood alone on the sandy shore
contemplating the scene before him--the dull, lowering skies, the
ridges in the distance, the lake in its angry mood protesting
against his further advance, the low, wooded land that hid the gate
to Michikamau.

Weather-beaten, haggard, gaunt and ragged, he stood there watching;
then seemed to be lost completely in thought, forgetful of the wind
and weather and dashing spray.  Finally he turned about briskly,
and, with quick, nervous steps, pushed through the brush to the
fire, where George and I were still sitting in silence.  Suddenly,
and without a word of introduction, he said:

"Boys, what do you say to turning back?"




XI. WE GIVE IT UP

For a moment I was dazed at the thought--the thought of turning
back without ever seeing the Indians or caribou hunt, and I could
not speak.  George, however, soon found his tongue.  He was still
willing to go on, if need be, and risk his life with us.

"I came to go with you fellus," he said, "and I want to do what you
fellus do."

"But," I said to Hubbard, "don't you think it will be easier to
reach the Indians on the George, or even the George River Post,
than Northwest River Post?  We must surely be near the Indians; we
shall probably see the smoke of their wigwams when we reach
Michikamau.  It is likely we shall find them camping on the big
lak--either Mountaineers or Nascaupee--and if we get to them
they'll surely help us."

"Yes," answered Hubbard, "if we get to them they'll help us; but
these miserable westerly and northwesterly gales may keep us on
these waters indefinitely, or even on the shore of Michikamau at a
spot where we may not be able to launch our canoe or reach the
Indians for days, and that would be fatal.  The caribou migration
is surely begun, and perhaps is over already, and there's no use in
going ahead."

I saw his point and acquiesced.  "I suppose it's best to turn back
as soon as the wind will let us," I said; "for it's likely to
subside only for a few hours at a time at this season, and perhaps
if we don't get out when we can, we may never get out at all.  But
what does George say?" I asked, turning to our plucky companion.

"Oh," said he, "I'd like to turn back, and I think it's safest; but
I'm goin' to stick to you fellus, and I'm goin' where you go."

"Well," said Hubbard, "what's the vote?--shall we turn back or go
on?"

"Turn back," said I.

"Very well, then" he replied quietly; "that's settled."

The decision reached, George's face brightened perceptibly, and I
must confess we all felt better; a great burden seemed to have been
lifted from our shoulders.  It had required courage for Hubbard to
acknowledge himself defeated in his purpose, but the acknowledgment
once made, we thought of only one thing--how to reach home most
quickly.  Hubbard was now satisfied that the record of our
adventures would make a "bully story," even without the material he
had hoped to gather on the George, and his mind being easy on that
point, he discussed with animation plans for the homeward trip.

"We'll have to catch some fish here," he said, "to take us over the
long portage to Lake  Disappointment.  We ought to be able to dry a
good bit of namaycush, and on the way we'll probably have a good
catch of trout at the long lake [Lake Mary], and another good catch
where I used the tamarack pole.  And then when we get to Lake
Disappointment we ought to get more namaycush."

"Yes," said I; "and the berries should help us some."

"What do you think the chances of getting caribou are?" Hubbard
asked George.

"We saw some comin' up," replied George, "and there ought to be
more now; I guess we'll find 'em."

"If we kill some caribou," continued Hubbard, "I think we'd better
turn to and build a log shack, cure the meat, make toboggans and
snowshoes, wait for things to freeze up, and then push on to the
post over the snow and ice.  We can get some dogs at the post, and
we'll be in good shape to push right on without delay to the St.
Lawrence.  It'll make a bully trip, and we'll have lots of grub.
What would we need to get at the post, George?"

"Well," said George, "we'd need plenty of flour, pork, lard, beans,
sugar, tea, and bakin' powder; and we might take some condensed
milk, raisins, currants, rice, and molasses, and I'd make somethin'
good sometimes."

"That's a good idea," said Hubbard, whose mouth was evidently
watering even as mine was.  "And we might take some butter, too.
And how would oatmeal go for porridge?--don't you think that would
be bully on a cold morning?"

"Yes," assented George; "we could eat molasses on it, or thin up
the condensed milk."

"We shall probably have caribou meat that we can take along
frozen," Hubbard went on.  "Frozen caribou meat is bully; it's
better than when it's fresh killed.  Did you ever eat any,
Wallace?"

"No," said I; "the only caribou meat I've ever eaten was what we've
had here."

"Then," said Hubbard, "there's a rare treat in store for you.  The
first I ever ate was on my Lake St. John trip.  The Indian I had
with me used to chop off pieces of frozen caribou with an axe, and
fry it with lard, and we'd just drink down the grease.  It was
fine."

"It's great," said George.

"Well," said Hubbard, coming back to the present, I'm dead glad
we've decided to strike for the post.  If this wind will ever let
up, we must get at it and catch some fish.  I lay awake most of
last night thinking it all over and planning it all."

"I was awake most of the time, too," said George; "my feet were
mighty cold."

There was no fishing on the day we decided to turn back, as the
wind confined us to camp, and all we had to eat was rice and bacon
soup; but our anticipations of home to some extent overcame the
clamour of our stomachs, and we passed the time chatting about the
things we intended to do when we regained "God's country."

"I'm going to take a vacation," said Hubbard.  "I'll visit father
and mother, if they're in the east, and sister Daisy, and maybe go
to Canada with my wife and stay a little while with her people.
What will you do, boys?"

I told of my plans to visit various relatives, and then George
described a trip he was going to make to visit a sister whom he had
not seen since he was a little boy, closing the description with a
vivid account of the good things he would have to eat, and what he
would cook himself.  It was always so--no matter what our
conversation was about, it sooner or later developed into a
discussion of gastronomy.

In the evening Hubbard had me make out a list of the restaurants we
intended to visit when we got back to New York and take George to.
I have the list yet, but since my return I have never had the heart
to go near any of the places it mentions.  From the talk about
restaurants Hubbard suddenly turned to lumber camps, asking George
and me if we had ever visited one.  We replied that we had not, and
wondered what had brought lumber camps into his mind.  We soon
learned.

"You've missed something," he said.  "We'll make it a point to call
at Sandy Calder's camp when we go back, and make him give us a feed
of pork and beans and molasses to sop our bread in.  They're sure
to have them."

"Do they have cake and pie?" asked George.

"Yes, in unlimited quantities; and doughnuts, too--at least they
used to in the Michigan lumber camps I've visited."

"That sounds good," I remarked--"the pork and beans and molasses,
best of all.  When I was a boy I was fond of bread and molasses--
good, black molasses--but I haven't eaten any since.  I'd like to
have a chance at some now."

"So should I," said Hubbard; "I'd just roll my bread in it
lumberjack fashion."

"Do they have gingerbread in the camps?" asked George.

"Yes," said Hubbard; "gingerbread is always on the table."

"How do they make it?

"Well, I don't just know; but I'll tell you what, George--if you
want to know, I'll ask Mrs. Hubbard to show you when we get home,
and I know she'll be delighted to do it.  She's the best cook I
ever knew."

"Do you think she would mind?"

"Oh, no; she'd be very glad to do it.  You must stop at our house
for a while before you go back to Missanabie, and she will teach
you to cook a good many things."

And so our conversation continued until we turned to our blankets
and sought the luxury of sleep, I to dream I was revelling in a
stack of gingerbread as high as a house that my sisters had baked
to welcome me home.

To our ever-increasing dismay, the northwest gale continued to blow
almost unceasingly during the next few days.  Sometimes towards
evening the wind would moderate sufficiently to permit us to troll
with difficulty along the lee shore of an island, but seldom were
we rewarded with more than a single namaycush, and so far from our
getting enough fish to carry us over our long portage to Lake
Disappointment, we did not catch enough for our daily needs, and
were compelled to draw on our little store of emergency provisions.
On Wednesday (September 16th) we ate the last bit of bacon and the
last handful of rice we had so carefully hoarded.  We succeeded
that day in reaching the rapid where we caught the few trout that
some animal stole from us, and there we camped.  From this point we
believed we could more readily gain the bay where we had entered
the lake, and begin our retreat when the wind subsided.

The Canada jay, a carrion bird about the size Of a robin that is
generally known through the north as the "whiskey jack," had always
hovered about our camps and been very tame when, in the earlier
days of our trip, we had refuse to throw away; but now these birds
called at us from a greater distance, seeming to know we were
looking at them with greedy eyes.  George told us that their flesh
had saved many an Indian from starvation, and that the Indians
looked upon them with a certain veneration and would kill them only
in case of the direst need.  Our compunctions against eating
carrion birds had entirely disappeared, and the course of the
whiskey jacks in holding aloof from camp when they were most needed
used to make George furious.

"See the blamed beggars!" he would ejaculate.  "Just look at 'em!
We've been feedin' 'em right long, and now when it's their turn to
feed us, look at 'em go!"

On Thursday (September 17th) George got his revenge.  Stealthily he
crept upon a whiskey jack in the bush and shot it with a pistol.
"They're pretty tough," he said, upon returning with his prize to
camp, "and will take a long time to cook."  We did not care for
that; we ate that bird, bones and all, stewed in a big pot of water
with two or three spoonfuls of flour and an equal amount of pea
meal.

That was our breakfast.  We had no luncheon; for although we spent
the entire day trolling up and down the lee shore, it was not until
evening that we caught any fish.  The wind was icy and set us all
a-shiver, our hands were benumbed by the cold water, and we were
just beginning to despair when we landed a two-pound namaycush, and
a little later a five-pounder.  Then, wet to the skin and chilled
to the bone, we paddled back to camp, to cheer ourselves up with a
good fire and a supper of one-third of the larger fish, a dish of
stewed sour cranberries and plenty of hot tea.

"I feel more satisfied every time I think of our decision to turn
back," said Hubbard, as, with supper eaten, we reclined comfortably
before the fire.  "I had a pretty hard night of it though, on
Monday; for I hated to turn back without seeing the Indians."

"I was awake thinkin' about it, too," said George.  "I told you
about havin' cold feet, and that they kept me awake."  He paused,
and we felt that something was coming.  At length out it came:
"Well, they did, but that wind out in the lake kept me awake more
than the cold feet.  I knew that wind was makin' the huntin' good
down the bay, the game was comin' down there now, and the young
fellus I used to hunt with had been wishin' for this very wind that
was keepin' us here, and they were glad to see it, and were out
shootin' waveys [a species of wild goose]; and here we boys was, up
against it for sure."

Hubbard and I had to laugh at George's confession, and we joked him
a little about being homesick.

"Well," said Hubbard, "we'll soon get away now; this wind must let
up some time.  Talking about the bay reminds me that I want to
arrange for a trip to Hudson's Bay next summer.  I want a nice,
easy trip that I can take Mrs. Hubbard on.  I'd like to go up early
and return in the fall, and maybe get some wavey shooting.  Could
you get one or two good men besides yourself to go with us,
George?"

George said he thought he could, and after Hubbard had invited me
to make one of the party, they went into minute details as to the
food they would take with them, planning an elaborate culinary
outfit.

Just before George went to bed, Hubbard and I, using the trees that
stood close to the fire for a support, stretched a tarpaulin over
our heads, to shelter us from the rain and sleet.  Beyond the
circle of our bright-blazing fire the darkness was profound.  As
the wind in great blasts swept over the tops of the trees, its
voice was raised to piercing shrieks that gradually died away into
low moans.  We thought of the vast wilderness lying all about us
under the pall of a moonless and starless night.  Where had all the
people in the world gone to, anyway?

But, sitting there on our couch of boughs beneath the tarpaulin, in
the grateful warmth of the high-leaping flames, we found it very
cosey.  And we talked of the places and persons that were somewhere
beyond the solitudes.

"You don't mind sitting here for a while and chatting, do you,
b'y?" said Hubbard.  "It's very cold and shivery in the tent."
"B'y" was a word we had picked up from the Newfoundland fishermen,
who habitually use it in addressing one another, be the person
addressed old or young.  At first Hubbard and I called each other
"b'y" in jest, but gradually it became with us a term almost of
endearment.

"No, b'y," I answered; "I would much rather be out here with you
than in the tent."

"I was thinking," said Hubbard, "of how I loved, in the evening
after dinner last winter, to sit before the wood fire in our grate
at Congers, and watch the blaze with Mina [Mrs. Hubbard] near me.
What a feeling of quiet, and peace, and contentment, would come to
me then!--I'd forget all about the grind at the office and the
worries of the day.  That's real happiness, Wallace--a good wife
and a cheerful fireside.  What does glory and all that amount to,
after all?  I've let my work and my ambition bother me too much.
I've hardly taken time for my meals.  In the morning I'd hurry
through breakfast and run for my train.  I haven't given my wife
and my home the attention they deserve.  That wife of mine,
Wallace, deserves a great deal of attention.  She's always thinking
of my comfort, and doing things to please me, and cooking things I
like.  But I must be boring you with all this talk about my own
affairs."

"No, b'y," I said; "I like to hear about them.  I've always been
interested in witnessing how happy you and your wife have been
together."

"She's been a good wife to me, Wallace; and as time has gone on
since our marriage we've grown closer and closer together."

I see you're like every other man that gets a good wife--you've
found the real key to the house of a man's happiness."

"That's so.  A single man, or a man with an uncongenial wife whom
he doesn't love and who doesn't love him, may be as rich as
Croesus, and gain all the honours in the world, and he won't
possess an atom of the happiness of a poor man congenially married.
Did I ever tell you about the day I was married?--the trouble I
had?"

"I don't remember that you did.  Although I suspected something
unusual on foot, I didn't hear of your, marriage until after the
deed was done.  You didn't take me into your confidence, you know."

"That was because we had never camped together then, b'y.  If we
had camped together, I'd have told you all about it.  Mina and I
had not intended to get married so soon.  We were to have been
married in the spring, but that January I received an assignment
for a trip through the South, and I knew it would keep me away
until after our wedding date.  I didn't want to postpone the
wedding, so I decided, if I could get Mina's consent, to make my
trip our honeymoon.  She was at her parents' home in Canada, and
there was no time to lose, and I telegraphed asking her to come on
at once and get married.  She was a brick and consented, and then I
was in such a nervous state of anticipation I was afraid the folks
where I was stopping would discover something was up, so the day
before I expected Mina to arrive I ran over to Jersey to spend the
night with my old friend Dr. Shepard, the minister.

"Well, Mina's train was due at the Grand Central Station early in
the morning, and I had to catch a train from Jersey a little after
five o'clock to meet her.  I was afraid I'd oversleep, and I kept
awake nearly all night.  Long before the train was due I was down
at the station and took a seat in the waiting room.  And what do
you suppose I did?"

"What?" said I.

"Why," said Hubbard, with a cheerful grin, "I fell to thinking so
hard about what was going to happen that I sat there in the station
and let the train I was so afraid to lose come and go without ever
hearing it."

Under the sleet-covered tarpaulin, there in the interior of
Labrador, Hubbard and I laughed heartily.

"And was the bride-elect kept waiting?" I asked.

"No," said Hubbard; "I hustled over a couple of miles to another
line and got a train there, and as Mina fortunately didn't arrive
as early as expected, I was in time."

The fire had died down and the darkness was beginning to close in
upon us.  I arose to renew the fire, and when the logs had begun to
blaze again, and I had resumed my seat, I saw that the drawn and
haggard look had returned to Hubbard's face, and that he was
staring wistfully out over the fire into the impenetrable gloom.

"What is it, b'y?" I said.

"That was a great trip, Wallace--that southern trip.  I want to
visit some of the places again with Mina and live over our
honeymoon.  And," he went on--"yes, I want some more of the good
southern cooking.  You ought to eat their cornbread, Wallace! --
there's nothing like it anywhere else in the world.  They cook corn
meal in a dozen ways, from corn pone to really delicate dishes.
And they know how to cook chickens, too.  Their chickens and yams
and cornbread are great.  It makes my mouth water to think of even
the meals I've eaten in the mountaineers' cabins--wild hog, good
and greasy; wild honey, hoecake, and strong black coffee.  When I
get home I'm going to experiment in camp with cooking corn meal,
and I've got an idea that a young sucking pig roasted before the
fire like George roasted the goose would be great."

There we were, plunged once more into a discussion about food, and
it was after midnight when the talk about roasting pigs, and
stuffing pigs, and baking this, and baking that, came to an end.
Even then Hubbard was loath to seek the tent, it was so "cold and
shivery"; but he expressed himself as being fairly comfortable when
he had followed my example and toasted himself thoroughly before
the fire immediately before turning in with a pair of socks on his
feet that had been hung up to warm.

On Friday (September 18th) a fierce northwest gale again kept us on
the lee shore, and all we got on the troll was a three-quarter-
pound namaycush.  Hubbard and I also fished conscientiously at the
rapid near which we were still camping, and our combined efforts
yielded us only two eight-inch trout and a twenty-inch trout.
Trying as we were to get fish ahead for our long portage, it was
most depressing.

Despite the steady gnaw, gnaw at the pit of our stomachs, we had
cut down our meals to the minimum amount of food that would keep us
alive; we were so weak we no longer were sure where our feet were
going to when we put them down.  But all the fish we had to smoke
was two or three.  And on Friday night we ate the last bit of our
flour; it was used to thicken the water in which we boiled for
supper some entrails, a namaycush head and the two little trout we
had caught during the day.

All that night the northwest gale was accompanied by gusts of rain
and snow.  On Saturday (September 19th) the mercury dropped to 32
degrees, and the air was raw.  Not a single fish were we able to
catch.  George and I smoked a pipe for breakfast, while Hubbard
imbibed the atmosphere.  A bit of the smoked fish we had hoped to
keep, boiled with a dash of pea meal in the water, did us for
luncheon and supper.

Heretofore we had slept each rolled in his own blanket, but it was
so cold in the tent that night we had to make a common bed by
spreading one blanket beneath us on a tarpaulin and lying spoon-
fashion with the other two blankets drawn over us.  The blankets
were decidedly narrow for three men to get under, and it was
necessary for us to lie very close together indeed; but our new
method enabled us to keep fairly warm and we continued its use.

On Sunday (September 20th) the temperature dropped to 29 and the
squalls continued.  In desperation we broke camp in the morning and
tried to cross the lake with our outfit, but the wind soon drove us
back to shelter.  While we were out on the lake we caught a
namaycush on the troll, and this fish we had for luncheon, together
with some cranberries we found on a ridge near where we had taken
refuge on the shore.  A little later I was attacked with vomiting
and faintness.  When I tried to swing an axe, I reeled and all but
lost consciousness.

Late in the afternoon the squalls subsided, and we made another
attempt to escape from the prison in which we were slowly starving.
Fortunately the wind continued fair and there were no cross-seas;
and on and on we paddled in the direction of--home!  Oh, the great
relief of it!  For nearly two weeks we had been held on that
dreadful lake.  Day after day the relentless storm had raged, while
hunger leered at us and tormented us with its insistent clamour as
we, with soaked rags and shivering bodies, strove vainly to prevent
the little stock of food from diminishing that we felt was our only
hold on life.  And now we were going home!

Darkness had long since fallen when we reached an island near the
point where we had entered the lake.  In a driving rain we pitched
our camp.  For supper we had the last of the little stock of fish
that we had been able to dry.  This meant that, in addition to our
stock of tea, the only food we had left on hand was sixteen pounds
of pea meal.  But we did not worry.  We were going home.  And on
Monday morning, September 2lst, though the wind was again blowing a
gale, and the passage among the spray-covered rocks was filled with
risk, we paddled over to the mainland, ready to begin our race for
life down the trail we had fought so hard to ascend.




XII. THE BEGINNING OF THE RETREAT

Upon reaching the mainland we stopped to assort and dry our
baggage.  All of us felt we had entered upon a race against
starvation, and everything that was not strictly necessary to aid
our progress to Northwest River Post we threw away.  In addition to
many odds and ends of clothing we abandoned about three pounds of
tea.  Tea was the one thing of which we had carried an abundance,
and though we had used it freely, we had more than we deemed
necessary to carry us through.

While we were nearing the shore, we sighted three little ducklings
bobbing up and down in the tumbling waves and repeatedly diving.
They were too far off to reach with a pistol, and Hubbard took his
rifle.  It seemed almost like attacking a fly with a cannon, but
with our thoughts on grub, none of us was impressed with its
incongruity then.  After Hubbard had fired two or three shots, one
of the ducklings suddenly turned over.  We paddled to it with
feverish haste, and found that it had been stunned by a bal

that had barely grazed its bill.  It was a lucky shot; for if the
bullet had gone through the duckling's body there would have been
little left of it to eat.

While George and I were drying the camp equipment, Hubbard caught
five small trout in the stream that emptied into the lake at this
point--the stream we had followed down.  These fish we ate for
luncheon.  Once more ready to start, we pushed up the stream to the
place where we had last camped before reaching the lake, and there
we again pitched our tent.  For supper we made soup of the
duckling.  It was almost like coming home to reach this old camping
ground, and it cheered us considerably.  The first day of the
forty-mile portage we had to make before reaching fairly continuous
water had been, as a whole, depressing.  Rain, accompanied by a
cold wind, began to fall early in the afternoon.  The weather was
so cold, in fact, that the trout would not rise after we caught the
five near the lake, and this made us uneasy as to how the fishing
would prove farther down the trail.  The day's journey, moreover,
had made it clear, in spite of our efforts to hide the fact from
one another, that we were much weaker than when we last had made
portages.  We had reached the stage where none of us could carry
the canoe alone.  Decidedly we were not the same men that had set
out so blithely from the post eight weeks before.  As for myself, I
had shortened my belt thirteen inches since July 15th.

It became the custom now for George and me to go ahead with the
canoe for a mile or so while Hubbard brought forward in turn each
of the three packs for about an eighth of a mile.  Then George and
I would return to him, and, each taking a pack, we would advance to
the place where the canoe had been left.  Sometimes, however, this
routine was varied, Hubbard now and then helping George with the
canoe while I juggled with the packs until they returned to me.
Despite the fact that we had fewer as well as lighter packs to
carry than on the up trail, our progress was slower because of our
increasing weakness.  Whereas it had taken us three days on the up
trail to portage the fifteen miles between Lake Mary and Windbound
Lake, it now took us five days to cover the same ground.

On Tuesday, the 22d, the second day of our portage, it rained all
the time, and for the greater part of the day we floundered through
marshes and swamps.  We caught no fish and killed no game.  Hubbard
tried to stalk a goose in a swamp, wading above his knees in mud
and water to get a shot; but he finally had to fire at such long
range that he missed, and the bird flew away, to our great
disappointment.  Our day's food consisted of half a pound of pea
meal for each man.  During the day Hubbard had an attack of
vomiting, and at night, when we reached our second camping ground
above the lake, we were all miserable and thoroughly soaked, though
still buoyed up by the knowledge that we were going home.

The cold rain continued on the 23d until late in the day, when the
sky cleared and evening set in cold and crisp.  That day I was
attacked with vomiting.  Our food was the same as on the day
previous, with the addition of some mossberries and cranberries we
found on the barren ridge over which we crossed.  It was another
day of hard portaging on stomachs crying for food, and when we
pitched our camp we were so exhausted that we staggered like
drunken men.  Silent and depressed, we took our places on the seat
of boughs that George had prepared by the roaring fire; but after
we had eaten our meagre supper and drunk our tea, and our clothes
had begun to dry in the genial glow, we found our tongues again;
and, half forgetting that, starving and desperate, we were still in
the midst of the wilderness, far from human help, we once more
talked of the homes that were calling to us over the dreary wastes;
talked of the dear people that would welcome us back and of the
good things they would give us to eat; talked until far into the
night, dreading to go to the cold tent and the wet blankets.

We awoke on the morning of the 24th to find six inches of snow on
the ground and the storm still raging, with the temperature down to
28.  Soon after we began plodding through the snow on a pea-soup
breakfast, George left us to hunt geese.  The night before he had
told Hubbard he would kill a goose in the morning, if he were
permitted to go on with a rifle.  He had heard the geese flying,
and believed they had alighted for the night in a small lake some
distance ahead.  The knowledge that he was a famous goose hunter
"down the bay" made his confidence impressive; still we were
doubtful about his succeeding in his quest; for the geese had been
so hard to approach of late we were beginning to fear we should
never shoot any more.  For half an hour after George had taken his
pack and a rifle and gone on, Hubbard and I slowly followed his
trail through the snow.  Then in the distance we heard a "Bang!"
and after a short interval, "Bang!--Bang!"--three shots in all.

"He's seen them," said Hubbard.

"And shot one," said I.

"I'm not so sure of that," returned Hubbard; "I'm afraid they flew
and he tried to wing them, and if that's the case the chances are
against him."

Presently we came upon George's pack near the western end of the
little lake, and we stopped and anxiously waited for him to appear.
In a few moments he came.

"You can kick me," he began with apparent disgust; then, observing
the look of keen disappointment upon Hubbard's haggard face, he
quickly changed his tone.  "That's all right, fellus," he said; "I
got a goose.  I saw 'em out there fifty yards from shore, and I
bellied along through the brush as close as I dared, and fired and
knocked one over.  Then the others flew out about two hundred yards
farther, and I thought I'd chance another shot; for if I didn't try
I wouldn't get another, and if I did I might knock one over.  So I
shot again and did get another.  Then the rest of the flock rose
up, and I tried to wing one, but missed, and they've gone now.  But
there's two dead ones out in the lake."

Joy?--the word fails to express our feeling.  George and I hurried
back for the canoe, and when we paddled out, there, sure enough,
were the two geese, one dead and the other helpless with a broken
wing.  George ended the life of the wounded goose with a pistol,
and we paddled back to our packs and built a big fire in the lee of
a thick clump of trees.  The snow had turned into a fierce, driving
rain, but that did not bother us.  To dress the geese did not take
long.  We put the giblets and entrails to boil immediately, and, to
quiet our impatience while waiting for them to cook, George cut
from the necks a piece of skin and fat for each of us.  These we
warmed on the end of a stick, taking great care not to heat them
enough to permit a single drop of the oil to escape from the fat;
then, half raw as they were, we ate them down greedily and found
them delicious.  It was really wonderful how much happiness that
bit of game brought us.  As we were eating the giblets and entrails
and drinking the broth, we freely admitted that never before had we
sat down to such a banquet.

"And," remarked Hubbard, "just think how original is our menu.
I'll bet there isn't a menu in New York that contains boiled goose
entrails."

On the 25th the fierce northwest gale still blew, and the air was
again filled with snow.  But still we pushed onward.  Let the wind
blow, and the snow and rain come as they liked, they could not stop
us--we were going home.  We portaged this day to another of our old
camps by a small lake.  On the evening before we had eaten the
wings and feet of the geese boiled.  For breakfast we had half a
goose, for luncheon we had pea soup, and at night we had the other
half of the goose left over from the morning.  We scorched the
bones in the fire and ate even them.  These meals did not begin to
satisfy our appetites, but they were sufficient to give us a little
new life.

While we were sitting around the fire Hubbard wished me to promise
to spend Thanksgiving Day with him that year--if we reached home in
time.  For two years I had spent the day at his home, and
Thanksgiving, he said, must be our reunion day always.  No matter
what happened, we must always make a special effort to spend that
day together in the years to come.  We must never drift apart.  We
were brothers, comrades--more than brothers.  We had endured the
greatest hardships together, had fought our way through that awful
country together, had starved together; and never had there been
misunderstanding, never a word of dissension.

From this time on we talked less about what we should eat when we
reached civilisation.  True, we would sometimes lapse into
restaurant and home-dinner talks, but we fought against it as much
as possible, realising that to permit our thoughts to dwell on good
things to eat accentuated our distress.  Gradually we talked more
and more of childhoods days, and incidents, long forgotten, came
vividly before us.  It was a psychological phenomenon I cannot
account for; but it was the case with all of us--Hubbard, George,
and myself.

During these trying times we had one never-failing source of
amusement, which, because it was the only one, was all the more
valued and taken advantage of.  I refer to our appearance.  George
had shaved once since we had gone into the country, but neither
Hubbard nor I had known the caress of a razor since we left the
post on July 15th.  None of us had felt the loving touch of the
scissors upon his hair since leaving New York in June, and our
heads were shaggy masses of more or less dishevelled and tangled
locks.  Long-continued exposure to sun and storm and the smoke of
campfires had covered our faces with a deep coat of brown.  Our
eyes were sunken deep into their sockets.  Our lips were drawn to
thin lines over our teeth.  The skin of our faces and hands was
stretched tight over the bones.  We were almost as thin, and almost
the colour of the mummies one sees in museums.

As for our clothing, it was still hanging upon us, and that is
about all that can be said of it.  Our trousers, full of rents,
were tied together with pieces of fish line.  The bottoms of our
moccasins were so hopelessly gone that we had our feet wrapped in
rags, with pieces of fishline tied around what remained of the
uppers.  Our flannel shirts were full of rents.  Around our necks
we wore red bandanna handkerchiefs.  Our soft felt hats had become
shapeless things so full of rents that if it were not for the
bandanna handkerchiefs we wore in them our hair would have
protruded at every point.

Frequently we would picture ourselves walking into our homes or
through the streets of New York as we then were, and laugh at the
thought.  "Wallace," Hubbard would say, "the cops wouldn't let you
walk a block; they'd run you in sure.  You're the most
disreputable-looking individual I ever saw, by long odds."  And I
would retort: "I'd make a good second to you; for you're the worst
that ever happened."

It was on Saturday morning, the 26th, that we reached the western
end of Lake Mary and completed fifteen miles of our forty-mile
portage.  We pitched our tent, as we had done before, on the site
of the old Indian camp, near the brook George had pointed out as a
good fishing place.  The rain and wind continued in the morning,
but at midday the sun came out and we were able to dry our
blankets.  Always we waited for the sun to dry the blankets; for we
had had so many articles of clothing burned while hanging before
the fire we did not dare to trust the blankets near it.

While we were following our old trail to the lake, Hubbard
decapitated a duck with a rifle bullet, and we went into camp with
high hopes of more food in the way of fish.  Hubbard's rod was
hopelessly broken, so he took mine, now much wound with linen
thread, but, still usable if not very pliable, and while I made
camp and George prepared the duck for luncheon, he caught twenty
trout of fair size, which caused our spirits to run high.

Luncheon over, Hubbard resumed his fishing, and I stole away with
my rifle along the marshes in the hope of seeing a caribou.  When I
returned towards dusk without having sighted any game, I found a
stage over the fire and George hanging up trout to dry.  Hubbard,
it appeared, had caught ninety-five more.  Our exultation knew no
bounds.  We had not dreamed of any such catch as that.  By
remaining in camp and fishing another day, we should, at this rate,
be able to dry nearly enough trout to see us through to Lake
Disappointment.

We were as happy and as free from care as children.  Our great
success here made us feel sure that down below, where we had caught
so many fish on our inbound journey, we should again get plenty--
all we should need, in fact--and our safety seemed assured.  We
admitted we had felt doubts as to the outcome, which we had not
expressed out of consideration for one another.  But now we felt we
could look forward to reaching home as a certainty.  And, feeling
freer to indulge our fancies, our talk at once returned to the good
things we were going to eat.

Sunday, the 27th, was warm and clear, with a southwest wind, and
everything seemed favourable for more fish.  For breakfast we ate
the last of our goose, and for luncheon trout entrails and roe.
While George and I were drying fish during the forenoon, Hubbard
caught fifty more.  One big fellow had sores all over his body, and
we threw it aside.  Towards noon the fish ceased to rise, the pool
probably being fished out.  After luncheon I again left camp with
my rifle in the vain hope of sighting a caribou.

The gloom of night was beginning to gather when I returned.  As I
approached, stepping noiselessly on the mossy carpet of the forest,
I saw Hubbard sitting alone by the bright-burning fire, mending his
moccasins.  Something in his attitude made me pause.  He was
bareheaded, and his long, unkempt hair hung half way down to his
shoulders.  As he sat there in the red glow of the fire, with the
sombre woods beyond and the lonely stretch of lake below, and I
took note of his emaciated form and his features so haggard and
drawn, I seemed for the first time to realise fully the condition
to which the boy had been brought by his sufferings.  And while I
stood there, still unobserved, I heard him softly humming to
himself:

   "Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
    Let me hide myself in Thee."

How strangely the old hymn sounded among those solitudes!  After a
little I again started to advance, and as I stepped upon a dry
branch Hubbard stopped his singing and looked up quickly.

"Wallace," he exclaimed, "I'm glad to see you! George and I have
been having a long Sunday talk and we missed you.  We were wishing
you'd come.  No luck?"

"No," said I; "nothing but old trails; not a fresh track anywhere.
What were you talking about?"

"We had a chapter from the Bible and a little talk about it.  I've
been thinking about my class of boys in the Sunday-school at
Congers, and how glad I'll be to get back to them again; I've a lot
I want to tell them.  It's restful just to think of that little
church, and this Sunday afternoon I've been thinking about it a
good deal."

George was lying in the tent, and Hubbard and I joined him and
continued our conversation there.  Hubbard spoke of the luck we had
had in catching trout, saying: "It's God's way of taking care of us
so long as we do our best."  It was wonderful to see how, as his
body became weaker, his spirit grew brighter.  Steadily he became
more gentle and affectionate; the more he suffered the more his
faith in the God of his youth seemed to increase.

Early the next morning (September 28th) George, who was the first
to be stirring, poked his head into the tent, and with an air of
mystery asked me for my pistol.  A moment later we heard a shot.
Hubbard and I both looked out, to see George returning with empty
hands and an expression of deep chagrin.

"What are you shooting at now?" asked Hubbard.

"The blackest marten I ever saw," said George.  "I knocked him
over, but he got on his feet again and was into the lake and away
before I could reach him.  The beggar was right here in camp tryin'
to make off with that fish with sores we threw away.  He might have
made good eatin' if we'd got him."

As the day was squally with snow, and a heavy wind was kicking up a
sea on the lake, we decided to remain in camp another day and smoke
the fish a little more.  While we kept the smoke going under the
stage, we sat by the fire and chatted.  The day's rations consisted
of three fish for each man at each of the three meals.  By way of a
little variety we roasted some of the fish on sticks.  We were all
very weak, but George explained that away.

"The Indians," he said, "always go to pieces after they've been
hard up for a while and finally get grub.  Then they feed up and
get strong again.  It's the grub comin' all of a sudden that makes
you weak.  Your mind feelin' easier, you feel you can't do
anything."

Hubbard and I agreed that George was right.  Our minds certainly
had relaxed; homeward bound with enough fish on hand to last us for
several days, we had no doubts as to the future.  We decided,
however, that whatever the weather conditions in the morning might
be, we should break camp and push on with the greatest possible
speed, as it was the part of wisdom to make our supply of fish
carry us down the back trail as far as possible.  So we went to our
blankets more than eager for the morning's start, and more
confident we should get out safely than at any time since we began
the retreat.




XIII. HUBBARD'S GRIT

Two things soon became plain after our struggle back to the post
was resumed.  One was that winter was fast closing in upon us; the
other was that Hubbard's condition was such as might well cause the
gravest concern.  The morning that we broke camp on Lake Mary
(Tuesday, September 29th), was ushered in by a gale from the west
and driving snow.  The mercury had dropped to 24, and all of us
were a-shiver when we issued from the tent.  While George and I
were preparing the outfit for travel Hubbard caught twelve trout in
the pool.  On the lake we encountered as heavy a sea as our little
canoe could weather, and we had to struggle hard for an hour to
reach the farther shore.  Upon landing, Hubbard was again attacked
with diarrhoea.  George and I carried the packs up the high bank to
a sheltered spot in the woods, but when I returned to Hubbard he
insisted on helping me to carry the canoe.  Up the steep ascent we
laboured, and then, as we put the canoe down, Hubbard said:

"I'm dead tired and weak, boys; I think I'll have to take a little
rest."

After building him a roaring log fire, George and I carried the
canoe a mile and a half ahead through the driving snow, which was
of the wet kind that clings to every bush and tree, robing the
woods in a pure and spotless white that inevitably suggests
fairyland.  But I was not in a mood to admire the beauty of it all.
Upon our return to Hubbard he announced that we should have to camp
where we were for the day, that he might have time to recuperate.
The delay affected him keenly.  We should eat nearly as much food
in our idleness as we should in moving onward, and the thought of
drawing on our thirty-five pounds of dried fish without making
progress was anything but pleasant.

The wintry weather did not worry us; for we knew the snow then
falling would disappear before the ground became covered for good,
and we felt sure we should reach the Susan Valley before freezing-
up time, in which event ice would assist rather than retard our
progress, as even with the Susan River open it would be impossible
to use the canoe in its shoal, rapid waters.  As for Hubbard's
condition, I suppose it worried me more than anyone else.  George
had failed to note the signs of increasing weakness in our leader
that I had, and Hubbard himself was so under the influence of his
indomitable spirit that for a long time he apparently did not
realise the possibility of an utter collapse.

By the campfire that night he was confident we should be able to
make up the next day for the delay caused by his weakness.  For a
long time he sat silently gazing into the fire, but as he had just
been expressing a longing to see his wife, if only for a moment, I
knew he did not see the blaze before him.  He was looking into
another fire--a big, wood fire in an old-fashioned fireplace in the
cheerful sitting-room of a far-away Congers home, and his wife was
by his side.  He put out his arm to draw her closer to him.  I
could see it all and understand--understand the look of perfect
happiness that his fancy's picture brought to his face.  But when
George arose to throw some more logs on the fire, the shower of
sparks that flew heavenward brought him suddenly back to reality--
to the snow-covered woods of Labrador.

"I hope we shall be able to find another house in Congers with a
fireplace such as our old one had," he said, turning to me as if he
knew I had been reading his thoughts.  "In the evening we sit long
before the fire without lighting a lamp.  Sometimes we make believe
we're camping, and make our tea and broil some bacon or melt some
cheese for our crackers over the coals, and have a jolly time.  I
want you, b'y, to visit us often and join us in those teas, and see
if you don't find them as delightful as we do."

The next morning (September 30th) Hubbard said he was much better,
and gave the order to advance.  We made a short march, camping just
beyond the long swamp on the edge of the boulder-strewn country we
had found so hard to traverse on the upward trail.  On the way we
stopped for a pot of tea at a place in the swamp where we had
previously camped, and there discovered a treasure; namely, the
bones of a caribou hoof we had used in making soup.  We seized upon
the bones eagerly, put them in the fire and licked the grease off
them as it was drawn out by the heat.  Then we cracked them and
devoured the bit of grease we found inside.

It was agreed that from this point George and I should carry the
canoe about two miles ahead, while Hubbard carried the packs to a
convenient place beyond the swamps and there pitched camp.  It was
about dusk when George and I, after a laborious struggle among the
boulders and brush, put the canoe down and turned back.  As we
approached the place that had been selected for a camp, we looked
expectantly for the glow of the fire, but none was to be seen.  At
length we heard axe strokes, and came upon Hubbard cutting wood.
He greeted us with rather a wan smile.

"I've been slow, boys," he said.  "I haven't got the firewood cut
yet, nor the boughs for the bed.  I've only just pitched the tent."

"I'll get the other axe," I said quickly, "and help you while
George builds the fire."

"No, no," he protested; "you get the boughs while I'm getting the
wood."

"I can get the boughs after we have the wood chopped; it won't take
me long and you must let me help you."

At that Hubbard said, "Thank you, b'y," in a tone of great relief.
Then he added slowly, "I'm still a bit weak, and it's hard to work
fast to-night."

It was the first time since we left the post that he consented to
anyone doing any part of his share of the work.  It is true that
since we had turned back I had been relieving him of his share of
carrying the canoe, but I was able to do so only by telling him I
much preferred toting the boat to juggling with the packs.  From
this time on, however, he consented, with less resistance, to
George or myself doing this or that while he rested by the fire.
The fact was he had reached the stage where he was kept going only
by his grit.

October began with tremendous gales and a driving rain mixed with
sleet, that removed all traces of the snow.  The sleet stung our
faces, and we frequently had to take refuge from the blasts in the
lee of bushes and trees so as to recover our breath; but we managed
to advance our camp three miles on the first, pitching the tent on
the shore of one of the limpid ponds among the boulders.  For
supper we ate the last of the dried fish, which again left us with
only the diminishing stock of pea meal, and none of us did much
talking when we crouched about the fire.

On Friday (October 2d), with high hopes of getting fish, we hurried
ahead with our packs to the pool where Hubbard had caught the big
trout with his emergency kit and the tamarack pole, and near which
we had camped for a day while he rested and George made a trip to
the mountains from which he discovered Lake Mary and Windbound
Lake.  The sight of the old camping place brought back to me the
remembrance of how sick Hubbard had been there a month before, and
how the thought had come to me to try to make him give up the
struggle.

The weather was very unfavourable for trouting--a cold west wind
was blowing accompanied by snow squalls--but Hubbard caught two
within a few minutes, and George boiled them with a bit of pea meal
for luncheon.  Then, leaving Hubbard to try for more fish, George
and I went back to the canoe.  While we were returning to camp,
George shot a duck with my rifle.  It was a very fat black duck,
and we gloated long over its fine condition.  Only three more trout
rewarded Hubbard's afternoon's work.  However, we had duck for
supper, and were nearer home, and that comforted us.

I remember that while we sat by the fire that evening George
produced from somewhere in the recesses of his pockets a New York
Central Railroad timetable on which was printed a buffet lunch
menu, and handed it to us with the suggestion that we give our
orders for breakfast.  Hubbard examined it and quickly said:

"Give me a glass of cream, some graham gems, marmalade, oatmeal and
cream, a jelly omelette, a sirloin steak, lyonnaise potatoes,
rolls, and a pot of chocolate.  And you might bring me also," he
added, "a plate of griddle cakes and maple syrup."

Every dish on that menu card from end to end we thoroughly
discussed, our ultimate conclusion being that each of us would take
a full portion of everything on the list and might repeat the
order.

It was on this evening also that, while calculating the length of
time it would take us to travel from point to point on our back
trail, we began the discussion as to whether it would be better to
stick to the canoe on the "big river" (the Beaver) and follow it
down to its mouth, wherever that might be, or abandon the canoe at
the place where we had portaged into the river from Lake Elson, and
make a dash overland with light packs to the Susan Valley and down
that valley to the hunters' cabins we had seen at the head of Grand
Lake, where we hoped we might find a cache of provisions.  Hubbard
was strongly in favour of the latter plan, while George and I
favoured the former.  As the reader knows, I had a great dread of
the Susan Valley, and expressed my feelings freely.  But we all had
the idea that the "big river" emptied into Goose Bay (the extreme
western end of Hamilton Inlet), and Hubbard reasoned that we might
reach the broad waters of the bay far from a house, be windbound
indefinitely and die of starvation on the shore.  On the other
hand, we were sure of the route through the Susan Valley, and, in
his opinion, it would be better to bear the ills we had borne
before than fly to others we know not of.  I cannot deny that his
argument had weight, but we decided that for the present we should
hold the matter in abeyance.  One thing we felt reasonably sure of,
and that was we should get fish in the big river, and we eagerly
counted the days it would take us to reach it.

Bright and cold and crisp was Saturday morning (October 3d), with
black wind-driven clouds and occasional snow squalls later in the
day.  About noon, when Hubbard had gone ahead with a pack, George
and I sighted two small black ducks while we were canoeing across a
pond.  They were quietly swimming about fifty yards in front of us.
I passed my rifle ahead to George.  He carefully knelt in the
canoe, and took a deliberate aim while I held my breath.  Then,
Crack! went the rifle, and but one duck rose on the wing.  Quick as
a flash, without removing the rifle from his shoulder, George threw
the lever forward and back.  Instantly the rifle again spoke, and
the bird in the air tumbled over and over into the water.  The
first duck had been decapitated; the other received a bullet
through its body.

The moment was intense; for we had only a little fish for
breakfast, and the outlook for other meals had seemed dismal
indeed; but George was stoicism itself; not a word did he utter,
nor did a feature of his face change.  When, after picking up the
ducks, we touched the shore, I jumped out, took his hand and said
"George, you're a wonder."  But be only grinned in his good-natured
way and remarked: "We needed 'em."  Tying the birds' legs together,
be slung them over his shoulder, and proudly we marched to the
place where Hubbard was awaiting us, to make his heart glad with
our good fortune.  One of the ducks we ate on the spot, and the
other we had for supper at our camp by a little pond among the
moonlit hills.

The thermometer registered only 10 degrees above zero on Sunday
morning (October 4th), but there was not a cloud in the sky, and we
should have enjoyed the crisp, clear air had it not been for the
ever-present spectre of starvation.  All the food we had besides
the pea meal was two of the fish Hubbard had caught two days
before.  One of these we ate for breakfast, boiled with a little
pea meal.  Our old trail led us up during the forenoon to the shore
of one of the larger of the small lakes with which the country
abounded.  This lake we crossed with difficulty, being compelled to
break the ice ahead of the canoe with our paddles.

On the opposite shore we stopped to make a fire for tea--that was
all we thought we should have for luncheon; just tea.  George
stepped into the timber to get wood, and in a moment returned and
asked me for my pistol.

"I saw a partridge in there," he said quietly.

Presently Hubbard and I heard the pistol crack, and we counted, at
short intervals, four shots.

"There's something up," said Hubbard, and we started to our feet
just as George came in view with a grin on his face and four
spruce-grouse in his hand.  He always did those things in that
quiet, matter-of-fact way.

Two of the birds George cooked immediately, and as he served to
each an equal share, Hubbard said:

"Boys, we should thank the Lord for this food.  It has seemed
sometimes, I know, as if He had forgotten us; but He has not.  Just
now when we needed food so much He gave us these partridges.  Let
us thank Him."

So we bowed our heads for a moment, we three gaunt, ragged men,
sitting there by our fire in the open, with the icy lake at our
backs and the dark wilderness of fir trees before us.

During the afternoon we bagged two more grouse.  Hubbard shot them
as they fluttered up before him on the trail, and a meal on the
morrow was assured.  The day's work practically completed our
forty-mile portage; for we camped at night on the first little lake
north of Lake Disappointment.  It was well that we had about
reached fairly continuous water.  None of us would have been able
to stand much longer the strain of those rough portages day after
day.  Fortunate as we had been in getting game at critical moments
since leaving Windbound Lake, the quantity of food we had eaten was
far below that which was necessary to sustain the strength of men
who had to do hard physical work.

It had become so that when we tried to sit down our legs would give
way and we would tumble down.  Hubbard was failing daily.  He
habitually staggered when he walked, and on this last day of our
long portage he came near going all to pieces nervously.  When he
started to tell me something about his wife's sister, he could not
recall her name, although it had been perfectly familiar, and this
and other lapses of memory appeared to frighten him.  For a long
time he sat very still with his face buried in his hands, doubtless
striving to rally his forces.  And the most pitiable part of it was
his fear that George and I should notice his weakness and lose
courage.

But he rallied--rallied so as again to become the inspirer of
George and me, he who was the weakest physically of the three.




XIV. BACK THROUGH THE RANGES

In our camp on the first little lake north of Lake Disappointment
we ate on Monday morning (October 5th) the last of the grouse we
had killed on the previous day, and when we started forward we
again were down to the precious little stock of pea meal.  In a
storm of snow and rain we floundered with the packs and canoe
through a deep marsh, until once more we stood on the shore of the
big lake where we had spent the weary days searching for a river--
Lake Disappointment.  We built a fire on the shore to dry our rags
and warm ourselves; for we were soaked through and shivering with
the cold.  Then we launched the canoe and paddled eastward.

Late in the afternoon we landed on an island that contained a semi-
barren knoll, but which otherwise was wooded with small spruce.  On
the knoll we found an abundance of mossberries, and soon after we
had devoured them we happened upon a supper in the form of two
spruce-grouse.  George and Hubbard each shot one.  The sun's
journey across the sky was becoming noticeably shorter and shorter,
and before we had realised that the day was spent, night began to
close in upon us, and we pitched camp on the island.

In the morning (October 6) our breakfast flew right into camp.
George crawled out early to build a fire, and a moment later stuck
his head in the tent with the words, "Your pistol, Wallace."  I
handed it out to him, and almost immediately we heard a shot.  Then
George reappeared, holding up another spruce-grouse.

"This grub came right to us," he said; "I knocked the beggar over
close by the fire."

While we were eating the bird, Hubbard told us he had been dreaming
during the night of home.  Nearly every day now we heard that he
had been dreaming the night before of his wife or his mother; they
were always giving him good things to eat, or he was going to good
dinners with them.

It had rained hard during the night, but with early morning there
came again the mixture of rain and snow we had endured on the day
before.  When we put off in the canoe, we headed for the point
where we expected to make the portage across the two-mile neck of
land that separated Lake Disappointment from Lost Trail Lake; but
soon we were caught by a terrific gale, and for half an hour we sat
low in the canoe doing our best with the paddles to keep it headed
to the wind and no one speaking a word.  The foam dashed over the
sides of our little craft, soaking us from head to foot.  Tossed
violently about by the big seas, we for a time expected that every
moment would be our last.  Had George been less expert with the
stern paddle, we surely should have been swamped.  As it was we
managed, after a desperate struggle, to gain the lee side of a
small, rocky island, upon which we took refuge.

At length the wind abated and the lake became calmer, and,
venturing out once more, we made for the mainland some distance to
the west of where we had intended to make our portage.  There we
stumbled upon a river of considerable size flowing in a
southwesterly direction from Lake Disappointment into Lost Trail
Lake.  This river we had missed on the up trail and here had lost
the old Indian trail to Michikamau.  I volunteered to take my rifle
and hunt across the neck of land separating the two lakes while
Hubbard and George ran the rapids; but presently I heard them
calling to me, and, returning to the river, found them waiting on
the bank.

"We'll camp just below here for the night," said Hubbard, "and
finish the river in the morning.  I couldn't manage my end of the
canoe in a rapid we were shooting and we got on a rock.  You'd
better shoot the rapids with George after this."

I suppose Hubbard's weakness prevented him from turning the canoe
quickly enough when occasion required, and he realised it.

All we had to eat that night was a little thin soup made from the
pea meal, and an even smaller quantity had to serve us for
breakfast.  In the morning (October 7th) we shot the rapids without
incident down into Lost Trail Lake, and, turning to the eastward,
were treated to a delightful view of the Kipling Mountains, now
snow-capped and cold-looking, but appearing to us so much like old
friends that it did our hearts good to see them.  It was an ideal
Indian summer day, the sun shining warmly down from a cloudless
sky.  Looking at the snow-capped peaks that bounded the horizon in
front of me, I thought of the time when I had stood gazing at them
from the other side, and of the eagerness I had felt to discover
what lay hidden beyond.

  "Something hidden.  Go and find it.  Go and look behind
             the Ranges--
   Something lost behind the Ranges.  Lost and waiting for you.
             Go!"

Well, we had gone.  And we had found what lay hidden behind the
ranges.  But were we ever to get out to tell about it?

We stopped on the shore of Lost Trail Lake to eat some badly-needed
cranberries and mossberries.  The mossberries, having been frozen,
were fairly sweet, and they modified, to some extent, the acid of
the cranberries, so that taken together they made a luncheon for
which we, in our great need, were duly grateful.  After eating as
many of the berries as our stomachs would hold, we were able to
pick a pan of them to take with us.

Paddling on, we passed through the strait connecting Lost Trail
Lake with Lake Hope, and, recalling with grim smiles the
enthusiastic cheers we had sent up there a few weeks before, sped
rapidly across Lake Hope to the entrance of our old mountain pass,
camping for the night on a ridge near the old sweat holes of the
medicine men.  Our supper consisted of a little more pea soup and
half of the panful of berries.

While we were lying spoon-fashion under the blankets at night, it
was the custom for a man who got tired of lying on one side to say
"turn," which word would cause the others to flop over immediately,
usually without waking.  On this night, however, I said "turn
over," and as we all flopped, Hubbard, who had been awake,
remarked: "That makes me think of the turnovers and the spicerolls
mother used to make for me."  And then he and I lay for an hour and
talked of the baking days at the homes of our childhood.  Under-
the-blanket talks like this were not infrequent.  "Are you awake,
b'y?" Hubbard would ask.  "Yes, b'y," I would reply, and so we
would begin.  If we happened to arouse George, which was not usual,
Hubbard would insist on his describing over and over again the
various Indian dishes he had prepared.

Weak as we were upon leaving Lake Hope (October 8), we did an
heroic day's work.  We portaged the entire six miles through the
mountain pass, camping at night on the westernmost of the lakes
that constitute the headwaters of the Beaver River, once more on
the other side of the ranges.  We did this on a breakfast of pea
soup and the rest of our berries, and a luncheon of four little
trout that Hubbard caught in the stream that flows through the
pass.  I shot a spruce grouse in the pass, and this bird we divided
between us for supper.  It was a terrible day.  The struggle
through the brush and up the steep inclines with the packs and the
canoe so exhausted me that several times I seemed to be on the
verge of a collapse, and I found it hard to conceal my condition.
Once Hubbard said to me:

"Speak stronger, b'y.  Put more force in your voice.  It's so faint
George'll surely notice it, and it may scare him."

That was always the way with Hubbard.  Despite his own pitiable
condition, he was always trying to help us on and give us new
courage.  As a matter of fact, his own voice was getting so weak
and low that we frequently had to ask him to repeat.

And the day ended in a bitter disappointment.  On our uptrail we
had had a good catch of trout at the place where the stream flowing
out of the pass fell into the lake near our camp, and it was the
hope of another good catch there that kept us struggling on to
reach the end of the pass before night.  But Hubbard whipped the
pool at the foot of the fall in vain.  Not a single fish rose.  The
day had been bright and sunshiny, but the temperature was low and
the fish had gone to deeper waters.

It was a dismal camp.  The single grouse we had for supper served
only to increase our craving for food.  And there we were, with
less than two pounds of pea meal on hand and the fish deserting us,
more than one hundred and fifty miles from the post at Northwest
River.  By the fire Hubbard again talked of home.

"I dreamed last night," he said, "that you and I, Wallace, were
very weak and very hungry, and we came all at once upon the old
farm in Michigan, and mother was there, and she made us a good
supper of hot tea biscuits with maple syrup and honey to eat on
them.  And how we ate and ate!"

But George's customary grin was missing.  In silence he took the
tea leaves from the kettle and placed them on a flat stone close
by the fire, and in silence he occasionally stirred them with a
twig that he broke from a bush at his back.  At length, the tea
leaves having dried sufficiently, he filled his pipe from them,
and I filled my pipe.  We had not had any tobacco to smoke for
many days.

The silence continued.  On my right sat George, his cheeks sunken,
his eyes deep down in their sockets, his long black hair falling
over his ears--there he sat stiffly erect, puffing his tea leaves
with little apparent satisfaction and gazing stoically into the
fire.  I could guess what was passing through his mind--the
stories of the Indians that starved.

On my left was Hubbard.  He had assumed the attitude that of late
had become characteristic when he was dreaming of his wife and his
mother and his far-away home.  His elbows were resting on his
knees, and his hands were supporting his head.  His long hair hid
his bony fingers and framed his poor, wan face.  His sunken eyes,
with their look of wistful longing, were fixed on the blazing
logs.

The silence became so oppressive that I had to break it:

"George," I said, "were you never hungry before?"

"Never in my life was short of grub till now," he answered
shortly.

At that Hubbard, aroused from his reverie, looked up.

"Well, I can tell you, George," he said, "there are worse places
than Labrador to starve in."

"How's that?" grunted George.

If you had been as hungry as I have been in New York City, you'd
know what I mean," said Hubbard.  "It's a heap worse to be hungry
where there's lots of grub around you than in the bush where
there's none.  I remember that when I first went to New York, and
was looking for work, I found myself one rainy night with only
five cents in my pocket.  It was all the money I had in the world,
and I hadn't any friends in the city, and I didn't want to write
home, because nearly all the people there had no faith in my
venture.  I was soaking wet and good and hungry; I hadn't been
eating much for several days.  Well, I went to a bakery and blew
in my last nickel on stale rolls and crullers and took them to my
room.  Then I took off my wet clothes and got into bed to get warm
and snug, and there I ate my rolls and crullers, and they were
bully.  Yes, I remember that although my room rent was overdue,
and I didn't know where my breakfast was coming from, I was
supremely happy; I sort of felt I was doing the best I could."

We went to bed that night feeling that our lives now depended on
whether fish could be caught below.

More than anxious were we for the morrow, because then we should
go to the first rapid on the Beaver River below the lakes, and
there in the pool, where two fishings had yielded us more than one
hundred and thirty trout on the up trail, test our fortunes.

The morning (October 9th) dawned crisp and wintry.  The sun rose
in a cloudless sky and set all the lake a-glinting.  On the peaks
of the Kipling Mountains the sunbeams kissed the snow, causing it
to gleam and scintillate in brilliant contrast to the deep blue of
the heavens above and the dark green of the forests below.  Under
normal circumstances we should have paused to drink in the beauty
of it all; but as we in our faithful old canoe paddled quickly
down over the lake I am afraid that none of us thought of anything
save the outcome of the test we were to make of our fortunes at
the rapid for which we were bound.  It is difficult to be
receptive to beauty when one has had only a little watered pea
meal for breakfast after a long train of lean and hungry days.  We
were glad only that the sun was modifying the chill air of the
dawn, thus increasing our chance of getting fish.

How friendly the narrow lake looked where we had seen the otter at
play at sunset and where the loons had laughed at us so
derisively.  And the point, where we had camped that August night
and roasted our goose seemed very homelike.  We stopped there for
a moment to look for bones.  There were a few charred ones where
the fire had been.  They crumbled without much pressure, and we
ate them.  No trout were jumping in the lake now--its mirror-like
surface was unbroken.  All was still, very still.  To our somewhat
feverish imagination it seemed as if all nature were bating its
breath as if tensely waiting for the outcome at the fishing pool.

I can hardly say what we expected.  I fear my own faith was weak,
but I believe Hubbard's was strong--his was the optimistic
temperament.  How glad we were to feel the river current as it
caught the canoe and hurried it on to the rapid!  Suddenly, as we
turned a point in the stream, the sound of the rushing waters came
to us.  A few moments more and we were there.  Just above the
rapid we ran the canoe ashore, and Hubbard with his rod hurried
down to the pool and cast a fly upon the water.




XV. GEORGE'S DREAM

Since the weather had become colder we always fished with bait, if
any were available, and so, when after a few minutes a small trout
took Hubbard's fly, he made his next cast with a fin cut from his
first catch.  Before he cast the fly, George and I ran the canoe
through the rapid to a point just below the pool where we had
decided to camp.  Then, leaving George to finish the work of
making camp, I took my rod and joined Hubbard.  All day long, and
until after dusk, we fished.  We got sixty.  But they were all
tiny, not averaging more than six inches long.

The test of our fortunes was not encouraging.  Hubbard especially
was disappointed, as he had been cherishing the hope that we might
catch enough to carry us well down the trail.  And what were sixty
little fish divided among three ravenous men!  We ate fifteen of
them for luncheon and eighteen for supper, and began to fear the
worst.  The pea meal now was down to one and a half pounds.

It was late when we gave up trying to get more fish, but we sat
long by the fire considering the possibility of finding scraps at
the camp down the Beaver where we had killed the caribou on August
12.  The head, we remembered, had been left practically untouched,
and besides the bones there were three hoofs lying about
somewhere, if they had not been carried off by animals.  We knew
that these scraps had been rotting for two months, but we looked
forward hopefully to reaching them on the morrow.

No lovelier morning ever dawned than that of Saturday (October
10th), and until midday the weather was balmy and warm; but in the
afternoon clouds began to gather attended by a raw west wind.
While George and I shot the rapids, Hubbard fished them, catching
in all seventeen little trout.  Some of the rapids George and I
went through in the canoe we should never, under ordinary
conditions, have dreamed of shooting.  But George expressed the
sentiments of all of us when he said: "We may as well drown as
starve, and it's a blamed sight quicker."  Only when the river
made actual falls did George and I resort to portaging.  However,
we did not make the progress we had hoped, and much disappointed
that we could not reach Camp Caribou that night, we camped at the
foot of the last fall above the lake expansion on the shore of
which George and I had ascended a hill to be rewarded with a
splendid view of the country and the Kipling Mountains.  Our day's
food consisted of three trout each at each of our three meals.

Sunday (October 1lth) was another perfect day.  It was wintry, but
we had become inured to the cold.  We each had a pair of skin
mittens, which although practically gone as to the palms, served
to protect our hands from the winds.  Before we started forward I
read aloud John xvii.  Again in the morning we divided nine little
trout among us, and the remaining eight we had for luncheon.  The
weather was now so cold that do what we would we never again could
induce a trout, large or small, to take the bait or rise to the
fly.

In the course of the day George took two long shots at ducks, and
missed both times; it would have been phenomenal if he hadn't.
There was one fall that we could not shoot, and we landed on the
bank to unload the canoe.  All three of us tried to lift the canoe
so as to carry it about thirty yards down to where we could again
launch it, but we were unable to get it to our heads and it fell
to ground with a crash.  Then we looked at one another and
understood.  No one spoke, but we all understood.  Up to this time
Hubbard and I had kept up the flction that we were "not so weak,"
but now all of us knew that concealment no longer was possible,
and the clear perception came to us that if we ever got out of the
wilderness it would be only by the grace of God.

With difficulty we dragged the canoe to the launching place, and
on the way found the cleaning rod Hubbard's father had made for
him, which had been lost while we were portaging around the fall
on our upward journey.  Hubbard picked the rod up tenderly and put
it in the canoe.

An hour before sunset we reached Camp Caribou, the place where we
had broiled those luscious steaks that 12th of August and had
merrily talked and feasted far into the night.  Having dragged the
canoe up on the sandy shore, we did not wait to unload it, but at
once staggered up the bank to begin our eager search for scraps.
The head of the caribou, dried and worm-eaten, was where we had
left it.  The bones we had cut the meat from were there.  The
remnants of the stomach, partially washed away, were there.  But
we found only two hoofs.  We had left three.  Up and down and all
around the camp we searched for that other hoof; but it was gone.

"Somebody's taken it," said George.  "Somebody's taken it, sure--a
marten or somebody."

When all the refuse we could find had been collected, and the tent
had been pitched on the spot where it stood before, George got a
fire going and prepared our banquet of bones and hoofs.  The bit
of hair that clung to the skin on the upper part of the hoofs he
singed off by holding them a moment in the fire.  Then, taking an
axe, be chopped the hoofs and bones up together, and placed some
of the mess in the kettle to boil.  A really greasy, though very
rancid, broth resulted.  Some of the bones and particularly the
hoofs were maggoty, but, as Hubbard said, the maggots seemed to
make the broth the richer, and we drank it all.  It tasted good.
For some time we sat gnawing the gristle and scraps of decayed
flesh that clung to the bones, and we were honestly thankful for
our meal.

The bones from which we made our broth were not thrown away.  On
the contrary we carefully took them from the kettle and placed
them with the other bones, to boil and reboil them until the last
particle of grease had been extracted.  There was little left on
the head save the hide, but that also was placed with the pile of
bones, as well as the antlers, which were in velvet, and what
remained of the stomach and its contents.

After we had finished gnawing our bones, George sat very quiet as
if brooding over some great problem.  Finally he arose, brought
his camp bag to the fire, and, resuming his seat, went low into
the recesses of the bag.  Still holding his hand in the bag, he
looked at me and grinned.

"Well?" said I.

"Sh-h-h," he replied, and slowly withdrawing his hand held up--an
ounce package of cut plug tobacco!

I stared at the tobacco, and then again caught George's eye.  Our
smiles became beatific.

"I've been savin' this for when we needed it most," said George.
"And I guess the time's come."

He handed me the package, and I filled my pipe, long unused to
anything save leaves from the teapot and red willow bark.  Then
George filled his pipe.

From the fire we took brands and applied them to the tobacco.
Deep, deep were our inhalations of the fragrant smoke.

"George," said I, "however in the world could you keep it so
long?"

"Well," said George--puff, puff--"well, when we were gettin' so
short of grub "--puff--"thinks I"-- puff--"the time's comin'"--
puff, puff--"when we'll need cheerin' up"--puff--"and, says I,"--
puff--"I'll just sneak this away until that time comes."

"George," said I, lying back and watching the smoke curl upward in
the light of the fire, "you are not a half bad sort of a fellow."

"Wallace," said be, "we'll have a pipeful of this every night
until it is gone."

"I'd try it, too," said Hubbard wistfully, "but I know it would
make me sick, so I'll drink a little tea."

After he had had his tea, he read to us the First Psalm.  These
readings from the Bible brought with them a feeling of
indescribable comfort, and I fancy we all went to our blankets
that night content to know that whatever was, was for the best.

With the first signs of dawn we were up and had another pot of
bone broth.  Again the morning (October 12th) was crisp and
beautiful, and the continuance of the good weather gave us new
courage.  While the others broke camp, I went on down the river
bank in the hope of finding game, but when, after I had walked a
mile, they overtook me with the canoe I had seen nothing.  While
boiling bones at noon, we industriously employed ourselves in
removing the velvet skin from the antlers and singeing the hair
off.  In the afternoon we encountered more rapids.  Once Hubbard
relieved me at the stern paddle, but he was too weak to act
quickly, and we had a narrow escape from being overturned.

While making camp at night, George heard a whiskey jack calling,
and he sneaked off into the brush and shot it.  We reserved it as
a dainty for breakfast.  As we sat by the fire gnawing bones and
chewing up scorched pieces of antlers, we again discussed the
question as to whether we should stick to the canoe and run the
river out to its mouth or abandon the canoe where we had entered
the river.  As usual George and I urged the former course.

"When you're in the bush stick to your canoe as long as you can,"
said George; "that's always a good plan."

But Hubbard was firm in the belief that we should take the route
we knew, and renewed his argument about the possibility of getting
windbound on Goose Bay, into which we thought the river flowed.
Being windbound had for him especial terrors, due, I suppose, to
his normally active nature.  Another thing that inclined him
towards taking the old trail was his strong faith that we should
get trout in the outlet to Lake Elson, where we had such a
successful fishing on the inbound journey.  He argued,
furthermore, that along what we then thought was the Nascaupee
River we should be able to recover the provisions we had abandoned
soon after plunging into the wild.

"However," he said in closing, "we'll see how we feel about it to-
morrow.  I'll sleep on it."

I remember I dreaded so much a return to the Susan Valley that I
told Hubbard it seemed like suicide to leave the river we were on
and abandon the canoe.  I felt strongly on the subject and
expressed my opinion freely.  But it was a question of judgment
about which one man's opinion was as likely to be right as
another's and, recognising this, we never permitted our
discussions as to the best course to follow to create any ill-
feeling.

On Tuesday (October 13th) the weather continued to favour us.  We
shot the rapids without a mishap, and camped at night within three
miles of where we had entered the river.  But still the question
about leaving it was undecided.  The whiskey jack and a bit of pea
meal helped our pot of bone broth at breakfast, and in addition to
more broth we had in the evening some of the caribou stomach and
its contents and a part of a moccasin that Hubbard had made from
the caribou skin and had worn full of holes.  Boiled in the kettle
the skin swelled thick and was fairly palatable.


Clouds and a sprinkle of rain introduced the morning of Wednesday
(October 14th).  While the bones were boiling for breakfast,
George brought out the caribou skin that he had picked up on the
shore of Lake Disappointment after we had abandoned it.  Now as he
put a piece of it in the kettle, we recalled his prophecy that
some day we might want to eat it, and laughed.  Into the pot also
went one-sixth of a pound of pea meal together with a few lumps of
flour that we carefully scraped from a bag we had thrown away in
the summer and found near the camp.  While we were eating this
breakfast (and really enjoying it) we again considered the problem
as to whether or not we should leave the river.  In the course of
the discussion George said quietly:

"I had a strange dream about that last night, fellus."

We urged him to tell us what it was.

"It was a strange dream," he repeated, and hesitated.  Then:
"Well, I dreamed the Lord stood before me, very beautiful and
bright, and He had a mighty kind look on His face, and He said to
me: 'George, don't leave this river--just stick to it and it will
take you out to Grand Lake where you'll find Blake's cache with
lots of grub, and then you'll be all right and safe.  I can't
spare you any more fish, George, and if you leave this river you
won't get any more.  Just stick to this river, and I'll take you
out safe.'

"The Lord was all smilin' and bright," continued George, "and He
looked at me very pleasant.  Then He went away, and I dreamed we
went right down the river and came out in Grand Lake near where we
had left it comin' up, and we found Blake there, and he fed us and
gave us all the grub we wanted, and we had a fine time."

It was quite evident that George was greatly impressed by his
dream.  I give it here simply for what it is worth.  At the same
time I cannot help characterising it as remarkable, not to say
extraordinary; for none of us had had even a suspicion that the
river we were on emptied into Grand Lake at all, much less that
its mouth was near the point where we left the lake.  But I myself
attached no importance to the dream at the time, whatever I may
think now; I was chiefly influenced, I suppose, in my opposition
to the abandonment of the river by the unspeakable dread I had
felt all along of returning to the Susan Valley--was it a
premonition?--and no doubt it was only natural that Hubbard should
disregard the dream.

"It surely was an unusual dream," he said to George; "but it isn't
possible, as you know, for this river to empty into Grand Lake.
We were talking about leaving the river until late last night, and
you had it on your mind--that's what made you dream about it."

"May be it was," said George calmly; "but it was a mighty strange
dream, and we'd better think about it before we leave the river.
Stick to the canoe, Hubbard, that's what I say.  Wallace and I 'll
shoot the rapids all right.  They're sure to be not so bad as
we've had, and I think they'll be a lot better.  We can run 'em,
can't we, Wallace?"

I added my opinon to George's that there would be more water to
cover the rocks farther down, and said that however bad the rapids
might be I should venture to take the stern paddle in every one
that George dared to tackle.  But Hubbard only said:

"I still think, boys, we should take the trail we know."

"That means suicide," I said for the second time, rather bitterly,
I fear.  "We'll surely leave our bones in that awful valley over
there.  We're too weak to accomplish that march."

Once more Hubbard marshalled his arguments in favour of the
overland route, and George and I said no more that morning.

Soon after we relaunched the canoe something occurred to change
the current of our thoughts.  A little way ahead of us, swimming
slowly down the river, George espied a duck.  No one spoke while
we landed him, rifle in hand, on the bank.  Cautiously he stole
down among the alders and willows that lined the shore, and then
crawled on hands and knees through the marsh until the duck was
opposite to him.  It seemed a very small thing for a rifle target
while it was moving, and as George put the rifle to his shoulder
and carefully aimed, Hubbard and I watched him with nerves drawn
to a tension.  Once he lowered the rifle, changed his position
slightly, then again raised the weapon to his shoulder.  He was
deliberation personified.  Would he never fire?  But suddenly the
stillness of the wilderness was broken by a loud, clear report.
And Hubbard and I breathed again, breathed a prayer of gratitude,
as we saw the duck turn over on its back.  With his long black
hair falling loosely over his ears, ragged, and dripping wet with
the marsh water, George arose and returned to us.  Stopping for a
moment before entering the canoe, he looked heavenward and
reverently said:

"The Lord surely guided that bullet."

It was still early in the morning when we arrived at the point
where we had portaged into the river.  George prepared the duck--
small it was but very fat--for a delicious, glorious luncheon, and
while it was cooking we had our last discussion as to whether or
not we should leave the river.

"Well," I at length said to Hubbard, "a final decision can be
deferred no longer.  It's up to you, b'y--which route are we to
take?"

"I firmly believe," said Hubbard, "that we should stick to our old
trail."

George and I said no more.  The question was settled.  Hubbard was
the leader.  Immediately after luncheon we set to work preparing
for the march overland.  In addition to several minor articles of
equipment, we decided to leave behind us the artificial horizon,
the sextant box, and one of the axes.  When our light packs had
been prepared, we turned the canoe bottom up on the river bank.  I
hated to leave it.  I turned once to pat and stroke the little
craft that had carried us so far in safety.  To me it was one of
our party--a dear friend and comrade.  It seemed cruel to abandon
it there in the midst of the wilderness.  In my abnormal state of
mind I could scarcely restrain the tears.

But the best of friends must part, and so, shouldering our light
packs, we bid the canoe a last farewell, and staggered forward to
the horrors in store for us on the trail below.




XVI. AT THE LAST CAMP

We began our march back to the Susan Valley with a definite plan.
Some twenty-five miles below, on the Susan River, we had abandoned
about four pounds of wet flour; twelve or fifteen miles below the
flour there was a pound of powdered milk, and four or five miles
still further down the trail a pail with perhaps four pounds of
lard.  Hubbard considered the distances and mapped out each day's
march as he hoped to accomplish it.  We had in our possession,
besides the caribou bones and hide, one and one-sixth pounds of
pea meal.  Could we reach the flour?  If so, that perhaps would
take us on to the milk powder, and that to the lard; and then we
should be within easy distance of Grand Lake and Blake's winter
hunting cache.

Hubbard was hopeful; George and I were fearful.  Hubbard's belief
that we should be able to reach the flour was largely based on his
expectation that we should get fish in the outlet to Lake Elson.
His idea was that the water of the lake would be much warmer than
that of the river.  He had, poor chap! the fatal faculty, common
to persons of the optimistic temperament, of making himself
believe what he wanted to believe.  Neither George nor I remarked
on the possibilities or probabilities of our getting fish in Lake
Elson's outlet, and just before we said good-bye to the canoe
Hubbard turned to me and said:

"Wallace, don't you think we'll get them there?  Aren't you
hopeful we shall?"

"Yes, I hope," I answered.  "But I fear.  The fish, you know, b'y,
haven't been rising at all for several days, and perhaps it's
better not to let our hopes run too high; for then, if they fail
us, the disappointment won't be so hard to bear."

"Yes, that's so," he replied; "but it makes me feel good to look
forward to good fishing there.  We will get fish there, we will!
Just say we will, b'y; for that makes me feel happy."

"We will--we'll say we will," I repeated to comfort him.

Under ordinary conditions we should have found our packs, in their
depleted state, very easy to carry; but, as it was, they weighed
us down grievously as we trudged laboriously up the hill from the
river and over the ridge to the marsh on the farther side of which
lay Lake Elson.  On the top of the ridge and on the slope where it
descended to the marsh we found a few mossberries, which we ate
while we rested.  Crossing the marsh, we stepped from bog to bo

when we could, but a large part of the time were knee-deep in the
icy water and mud.  Our feet at this time were wrapped in pieces
of a camp blanket, tied to what remained of the moccasin uppers
with pieces of our old trolling line.  George and I were all but
spent when we reached our old camping ground on the outlet to Lake
Elson, and what it cost Hubbard to get across that marsh I can
only imagine.

As soon as we arrived Hubbard tried the fish.  It did not take him
long to become convinced that there was no hope of inducing any to
rise.  It was a severe blow to him, but he rallied his courage and
soon apparently was as full of confidence as ever that we should
be able to reach the flour.  While Hubbard was trying the fish,
George looked the old camp over carefully for refuse, and found
two goose heads, some goose bones, and the lard pail we had
emptied there.

"I'll heat the pail," he said, "and maybe there'll be a little
grease sticking to it that we can stir in our broth."  Then, after
looking at us for a moment, he put his hand into the pail and
added: "I've got a little surprise here.  I thought I'd keep it
until the bones were boiled, but I guess you might as well have it
now."

From out of the pail he brought three little pieces of bacon--just
a mouthful for each.  I cannot remember what we said, but as I
write I can almost feel again the thrill of joy that came to me
upon beholding those little pieces of bacon.  They seemed like a
bit of food from home, and they were to us as the rarest dainty.

George reboiled the bones with a piece of the hide and the
remainder of the deer's stomach, and with this and the goose bones
and heads we finished our supper.  We were fairly comfortable when
we went to rest.  The hunger pangs were passing now.  I have said
that at this time I was in an abnormal state of mind.  I suppose
that was true of us all.  The love of life had ceased to be strong
upon us.  For myself I know that I was conscious only of a feeling
that I must do all I could to preserve my life and to help the
others.  Probably it was the beginning of the feeling of
indifference, or reconciliation with the inevitable, that
mercifully comes at the approach of death.

In the morning (Thursday, October 15th) we again went over our
belongings, and decided to abandon numerous articles we had
hitherto hoped to carry through with us--my rifle and cartridges,
some pistol ammunition, the sextant, the tarpaulin, fifteen rolls
of photograph films, my fishing rod, maps, and note book, and
various other odds and ends, including the cleaning rod Hubbard's
father had made for him.

"I wonder where father and mother are now," said Hubbard, as he
took a last look at the cleaning rod.  For a few moments he clung
to it lovingly; then handed it to me with the words, "Put it with
your rifle and fishing rod, b'y."  And as I removed the cartridge
from the magazine, and held the rifle up for a last look before
wrapping it in the tarpaulin, he said: "It almost makes me cry to
see you leave the fishing rod.  If it is at all possible, we must
see that the things are recovered.  If they are, I want you to
promise me that when you die you'll will the rod to me.  It has
got us more grub than anything else in the outfit, and it's
carried us over some bad times.  I'd like to have it, and I'd keep
and cherish it always."

I promised him that he certainly should have it.  Well, the rod
was recovered.  And now when I look at the old weather-beaten
piece of wood as it reposes comfortably in my den at home, I
recall this incident, and my imagination carries me back to those
last fishing days when Hubbard used it; and I can see again his
gaunt form arrayed in rags as he anxiously whipped the waters on
our terrible struggle homeward.  It is the only thing I have with
which he was closely associated during those awful days, and it is
my most precious possession.

As we were chewing on a piece of hide and drinking the water from
the reboiled bones at breakfast, Hubbard told us he had had a
realistic dream of rejoining his wife.  The boy was again
piteously homesick, and when we shouldered with difficulty our
lightened packs and began the weary struggle on, my heart was
heavy with a great dread.  Dark clouds hung low in the sky, but
the day was mild.  Once or twice while skirting Lake Elson we
halted to pick the few scattering mossberries that were to be
found, once we halted to make tea to stimulate us, and at our old
camp on Mountaineer Lake we again boiled the bones and used the
water to wash down another piece of the caribou hide.

In the afternoon George took the lead, I followed, and Hubbard
brought up the rear.  Suddenly George stopped, dropped his pack,
and drew Hubbard's pistol, which he carried because he was heading
the procession.  Hubbard and I also halted and dropped our packs.
Into the brush George disappeared, and we heard, at short
intervals, the pistol crack three times.  Then George reappeared
with three spruce-grouse.  How our hearts bounded!  How we took
George's hand and pressed it, while his face lighted up with the
old familiar grin!  We fingered the birds to make sure they were
good and fat.  We turned them over and over and gloated over them.
George plucked them at once that we might see their plump bodies.
It is true we were not so very hungry, but those birds meant that
we could travel just so much the farther.

We pushed on that we might make our night camp at the place where
we had held the goose banquet on the 3d of August--that glorious
night when we were so eager to proceed, when the northern lights
illuminated the heavens and the lichens gleamed on the barren
hill.  Hubbard, I noticed, was lagging, and I told George quietly
to set a slower pace.  Then, to give Hubbard encouragement, I fell
to the rear.  The boy was staggering fearfully, and I watched him
with increasing consternation.  "We must get him out of here!  We
must!  We must!" I kept saying to myself.  The camping place was
only two hundred yards away when he sank on the trail.  I was at
his side in a moment.  He looked up at me with a pitiful smile,
and spoke so low I could scarcely hear him.

"B'y, I've got to rest here--a little--just a little while...you
understand...My legs--have given out."

"That's right, b'y, take a little rest," I said.  "You'll be all
right soon.  But rest a little.  I'll rest a bit with you; and
then we'll leave your pack here, and you walk to camp light, and
I'll come back for your pack."

In a few minutes he got bravely up.  We left his pack and together
walked slowly on to join George at the old goose camp on Goose
Creek.  Then I returned for the pack that had been left behind.

George boiled one of the grouse for supper.  Hubbard told us he
was not discouraged.  His weakness, he said, was only momentary,
and he was sure he would be quite himself in the morning, ready to
continue the march homeward.  After supper, as he was lying before
the fire, he asked me, if I was not too tired, to read him the
latter part of the sixth chapter of Matthew.  I took the Book and
read as he requested, closing with the words:

"Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day
is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more
clothe you, O ye of little faith?  Therefore take no thought,
saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or,
Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do
the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have
need of all these things.  But seek ye first the kingdom of God
and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto
you.  Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow
shall take thought for the things of itself.  Sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof."

"How beautiful, how encouraging that is!" said Hubbard, as I put
away the Book.  He crawled into the tent to go to sleep. Then:
"I'm so happy, b'y, so very, very happy to-night...for we're going
home...we're going home."  And he slept.

Before I lay down I wrote in my diary:

"Hubbard is in very bad shape--completely worn out physically and
mentally--but withal a great hero, never complaining and always
trying to cheer us up."

George said he was sick when he went to rest, and that added to my
concern.

Friday morning (October 16th) came clear, mild, and beautiful.  I
was up at break of day to start the fire, and soon was followed by
George and a little later by Hubbard.  We all said we were feeling
better.  George shot a foolhardy whiskey jack that ventured too
near the camp, and it went into the pot with a grouse for
breakfast.  The meal eaten, we all felt very much stronger, but
decided that more outfit must be abandoned.  I gave George my
extra undershirt and a blue flannel shirt, both of which he
donned.  Every scrap we thought at the time we could do without,
including many photograph films and George's blanket, was cached.

After Hubbard read aloud John xv, we resumed the struggle.
Naturally George and I relieved Hubbard of everything he would
permit us to.  The fact was, we could not have taken much more and
moved.  When Hubbard broke down on the trail, it was strictly
necessary for me to make two trips with the packs; although his
weighed something less than ten pounds, I could not have carried
it in addition to my own if my life had depended upon it.

Just below the place where Hubbard caught so many fish that day in
August that we killed the geese, we stopped for a moment to rest.
Hardly had we halted when George grabbed Hubbard's rifle,
exclaiming, "Deer!"  About four hundred yards below us, a
magnificent caribou, his head held high, dashed across the stream
and into the bush.  He was on our lee and had winded us.  No shot
was fired.  One fleeting glance, and he was gone.  Our feelings
can be imagined.  His capture would have secured our safety.

We struggled on.  At midday we ate our last grouse.  At this
stopping place George abandoned his waterproof camp bag and his
personal effects that he might be able to carry Hubbard's rifle.
This relieved Hubbard of seven pounds, but he again failed before
we reached our night camp.  It was like the previous evening.
With jaws set he tottered grimly on until his legs refused to
carry him farther, and he sank to the ground.  Again I helped him
into camp, and returned for his pack.

We pitched the tent facing a big rock so that the heat from the
fire, blazing between, might be reflected into the tent, the front
of which was thrown wide open.  Of course George and I did all the
camp work.  Fortunately there was not much to do; our camps being
pitched on the sites of previous ones, we had stakes ready to hand
for the tent, and in this part of the country we were able to find
branches and logs that we could burn without cutting.  We still
had one axe with us, but neither George nor I had the strength to
swing it.

The night was cold and damp.  For supper we had another piece of
the caribou hide, and water from the much-boiled bones with what I
believed was the last of the pea meal--about two spoonfuls that
Hubbard shook into the pot from the package, which he then threw
away.  As we reclined in the open front of the tent before the
fire, I again read from the Bible, and again a feeling of
religious exaltation came to Hubbard.  "I'm so happy, and oh! so
sleepy," he murmured, and was quiet.  He did not make his usual
entry in his diary.  In my own diary for this date I find:

"Hubbard's condition is pitiable, but he bears himself like the
hero that he is--trying always to cheer and encourage us.  He is
visibly failing.  His voice is very weak and low.  I fear he will
break down at every step.  O God, what can we do!  How can we save
him!"

On Saturday (October 17th) threatening clouds overcast the sky,
and a raw wind was blowing.  It penetrated our rags and set us a-
shiver.  At dawn we had more water from the bones and more of the
hide.  Cold and utterly miserable, we forced our way along.  Our
progress was becoming slower and slower.  But every step was
taking us nearer home, we said, and with that thought we
encouraged ourselves.  At noon we came upon our first camp above
the Susan River.  There George picked up one of our old flour
bags.  A few lumps of mouldy flour were clinging to it, and he
scraped them carefully into the pot to give a little substance to
the bone water.  We also found a box with a bit of baking powder
still in it.  The powder was streaked with rust from the tin, but
we ate it all.

Then Hubbard made a find--a box nearly half full of pasty mustard.
After we had each eaten a mouthful, George put the remainder in
the pot.  He was about to throw the box away when Hubbard asked
that it be returned to him.  Hubbard took the box and sat holding
it in his hand.

"That box came from Congers," he said, as if in a reverie.  "It
came from my home in Congers.  Mina has had this very box in her
hands.  It came from the little grocery store where I've been so
often.  Mina handed it to me before I left home.  She said the
mustard might be useful for plasters.  We've eaten it instead.  I
wonder where my girl is now.  I wonder when I'll see her again.
Yes, she had that very box in her hands-in her hands!  She's been
such a good wife to me."

Slowly he bent his head, and the tears trickled down his cheeks.

George and I turned away.

It was near night when we reached the point near the junction of
the Susan River and Goose Creek where we were to cross the river
to what had been our last camping ground in the awful valley, and
which was to prove our last camp in Labrador.  Hubbard staggered
along during the afternoon with the greatest difficulty, and
finally again sank to the ground, completely exhausted.  George
took his pack across the river.  While he crouched there on the
trail, Hubbard's face bore an expression of absolute despair.  At
length I helped him to his feet, and in silence we forded the
shallow stream.

Our camp was made a short distance below the junction of the
streams, among the fir trees a little way from the river bank.
Here and there through the forest were numerous large rocks.
Before one of these we pitched the tent, with the front of it open
to receive the heat from the fire as it was reflected from the
rock.  More bone water and hide served us for supper, with the
addition of a yeast cake from a package George had carried
throughout the trip and never used.  Huddling in the front of the
tent, we counselled.

"Well, boys," said Hubbard, "I'm busted.  I can't go any farther--
that's plain.  I can't go any farther.  We've got to do
something."

In the silence the crackling of the logs became pronounced.

"George," Hubbard continued, "maybe you had better try to reach
Blake's camp, and send in help if you're strong enough to get
there.  If you find a cache, and don't find Blake, try to get back
with some of the grub.  There's that old bag with a little flour
in it--you might find that.  And then the milk powder and the lard
farther down.  Maybe Wallace could go with you as far as the flour
and bring back a little of it here.  What do you say, b'y?"

"I say it's well," I answered.  "We've got to do something at
once."

"It's the only thing to do," said George.  "I'm willin', and I'll
do the best I can to find Blake and get help."

"Then," said Hubbard, "you'd better start in the morning, boys.
If you don't find the bag, you'd better go on with George,
Wallace; for then there would be no use of your trying to get back
here.  Yes, boys, you'd better start in the morning.  I'll be
quite comfortable here alone until help comes."

"I'll come back, flour or no flour," I said, dreading the thought
of his staying there alone in the wilderness.

We planned it all before Hubbard went to sleep.  George and I,
when we started in the morning, were to carry as little as
possible.  I thought I should be able to reach the flour bag and
be back within three days.  We were to prepare for Hubbard a
supply of wood, and leave him everything on hand that might be
called food--the bones and the remainder of the hide, a sack with
some lumps of flour sticking to it that I had recovered at this
camp, and the rest of the yeast cakes.  George and I were to
depend solely on the chance of finding game.

"I'm much relieved now," said Hubbard, when it had all been
settled.  "I feel happy and contented.  I feel that our troubles
are about ended.  I am very, very happy and contented."

He lay down in his blanket.  After a little he said:
"B'y, I'm rather chilly; won't you make the fire a little bigger."

I threw on more wood, and when I sat down I told him I should keep
the fire going all night; for the air was damp and chill.

"Oh, thank you, b'y," he murmured, "thank you.  You're so good."
After another silence, the words came faintly: "B'y, won't you
read to me those two chapters we've had before?--the fourteenth of
John and the thirteenth of First Corinthians...I'd like to hear
them again, b'y...I'm very...sleepy...but I want to hear you read
before...I go...to sleep."

Leaning over so that the light of the fire might shine on the
Book, I turned to the fourteenth of John and began: "'Let not your
heart be troubled'" I paused to glance at Hubbard.  He was asleep.
Like a weary child, he had fallen asleep with the first words.
The dancing flames lit up his poor, haggard, brown face; but upon
it now there was no look of suffering; it was radiant with peace.

George lay by his side, also asleep.  Thus I began a night of
weary vigil and foreboding.  My heart was heavy with a
presentiment of something dreadful.  In the forest beyond the fire
the darkness was intense.  There was a restless stir among the fir
tops; then a weary, weary sighing.  The wind had arisen.  I dozed.
But what was that! I sat suddenly erect.

On the canvas above me sounded a patter, patter, patter.  Rain!

Gradually the real and the seeming became blended.  Beyond the
fire-glow, on the edge of the black pall of night, horrid shapes
began to gather.  They leered at me, and mocked me, and oh! they
were telling me something dreadful was going to happen.  A sudden
jerk, and I sat up and stared wildly about me. Nothing but the
sighing tree-tops, and the patter, patter, patter of the rain.
The fire had died down.  I struggled to my feet, and threw on more
wood.

Again the horrid shapes leered at me from out the gloom.  Then I
heard myself exclaiming, "No, no, no!" The nameless dread was
strong upon me.  I listened intently for Hubbard's breathing.  Had
it ceased?  I crawled over and peered long and anxiously at his
face--his face which was so spectral and wan in the uncertain
firelight.  Twice I did this.  A confused sense of things evil and
malicious, a confused sense of sighing wind and pattering rain, a
confused sense of starts and jerks and struggles with wood, and
the night wore on.

The black slowly faded into drab.  The trees, dripping with
moisture, gradually took shape.  The day of our parting had come.




XVII. THE PARTING

It was a drizzling rain, and the sombre clouds hung low in the
sky.  The wind appeared to be steadily increasing.    The day was
Sunday, October 18th.  Presently George sat up, rubbed his eyes
and gazed about him for a moment in bewilderment.

"Mornin', Wallace," he said, when he had collected his senses,
"that blamed rain will make the travellin' hard, won't it?"

He tied the pieces of blanket to his feet, and started for the
river to get a kettle of water with which to reboil the bones.
The movement aroused Hubbard, and he, too, sat up.

"How's the weather, b'y?" he asked.

"It makes me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy Day,"' I replied.  "'The
day is cold, and dark, and dreary.'"

"Yes," he quickly returned; "but

   "'Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
     Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.'"

I looked at him with admiration.

"Hubbard," I exclaimed, "you're a wonder!  You've a way of making
our worst troubles seem light.  I've been sitting here imagining
all sorts things."

"There's no call to worry, by," he smilingly said; "we'll soon
have grub now, and then we can rest and sleep--and get strong."

He arose from his blanket, and walked out of the tent to look at
the sky.  Slowly he returned, and sank wearily down.

"I'm feeling stronger and better than I did last night," he said;
"but I'm too weak to walk or stand up long."

When our breakfast of bones and hide boiled with a yeast cake was
ready, he sat up in the tent to receive his share.  While drinking
the water and chewing the hide, we again carefully considered how
long it should take George to reach Grand Lake, and how long it
would be before help could arrive, if he were able to obtain any,
and how long it would require me to reach the flour and return.
It was, roughly speaking, forty miles to Grand Lake, and fifteen
miles to the flour.

That there was room for doubt as to whether my strength would
carry me to the flour and back again, we all recognised; and we
fully realised, that if George failed to reach Grand Lake, or,
reaching there, failed to find Blake or Blake's cache, our doom
would be sealed; but so long had death been staring us in the face
that it had ceased to have for us any terror.  It was agreed,
however, that each man should do his best to live as long as
possible.  I told Hubbard I should do my utmost to be back in
three days, even if I did not find the flour.

Hubbard remained seated in the front of the tent while George and
I went about gathering a supply of wood that we thought should
last him until someone returned.  George also brought a kettle of
water from the river, and thoughtfully placed it near the fire for
Hubbard's use in boiling the bones and hide, all of which we left
with him together with the yeast and some tea.  I also turned over
to him the pair of blankets he had delivered to me at Halifax--the
birthday gift from my sisters.

These preparations for Hubbard's comfort completed, George and I
returned to the tent to arrange the kits we were to take with us.
Hubbard sat in the middle of the tent towards the rear; George and
I on either side of him in the front.  Hubbard gave George his
pistol and compass, and I had my own pistol and compass.  The
pistols we fastened to our belts along with a sheath knife and tin
cup.  Having a case for my compass, I wore it also on my belt;
George placed his in his pocket.  Each of us had half a blanket,
this to be our only covering at night.  George placed his half,
together with a tea pail and some tea, in the waterproof bag he
had been using to carry food.  This bag he bound with a pack
strap, leaving a loop to sling over his shoulder.  I also bound my
half a blanket with a pack strap, thinking as I did so that I soon
might want to eat the strap.  And then, when George and I had
filled our waterproof boxes with wax taper matches, and placed a
handful of pistol cartridges in our pockets, we were ready to
start.

At this point I suggested it might be well for each man to make a
note of such disposition as he desired made of his effects.
George made an entry in his note book, and asked Hubbard to write
when we were gone a letter to Mr. King, the Hudson's Bay Company's
agent at Missanabie, in reference to his (George's) affairs at
that post.  I then made the last entry in my diary, and with it
wrote what I believed might be a last message to my sisters and my
friend and associate in business, Mr. Alonzo G. McLaughlin.  I put
the diary with my other papers in my camp bag, and placed the bag
in the rear of the tent, where the note Hubbard was to write for
George was also to be placed; we believed that if worst came to
worst the tent was more likely to be found than our bodies down on
the trail.  Hubbard had been watching us silently while we did
these things, and now he said:

"Wallace, if you get out of this, and I don't, you'll have to
write the story of the trip."

I expressed some doubt as to my ability, but he made me promise I
would do the best I could.  I also promised, at his request, that
if I survived him I should place his diary in his wife's hands.

"Thank you, b'y," he said.  "And now before you leave me won't you
read to me again?--I want to hear that fourteenth chapter of John
and the thirteenth of First Corinthians.  I fell asleep last night
while you were reading, I was so tired.  I'm sleepy now, very
sleepy; but I'll keep awake this time while you read."

I got my testament from my camp bag and read both chapters
through, noting as I read that the look of happiness and peace was
returning to Hubbard's poor, wan face.  When I had finished, he
said quietly:

"Thank you, b'y, thank you very much.  Isn't that comforting?--
'Let not your heart be troubled.' It makes me feel good.  I've
faith that we'll all be saved.  I'm not worried.  McLean was
caught just as we are.  He sent a man for help and got out all
right.  God will send us help, too."

"Yes," said I, "and we shall soon be safe home."

"We'll soon be safe home" repeated Hubbard--safe home.  How happy
that makes me feel!"

It was time for George and me to go.  But I could not say good-bye
just yet.  I turned my back to Hubbard and faced the fire.  The
tears were welling up into my eyes, and I struggled for self-
control.  George sat silent, too, and his face was strangely
drawn.  For a full ten minutes we sat silently gazing into the
fire.  Finally George arose.

Well, Wallace, we'd better start now."

"Yes," I said; "we'd better start."

I collected myself as best I could, and, turning to Hubbard, held
out my hand.

"Good-bye, b'y; I'll be back soon."  And then, as I looked into
his poor, wistful eyes, I broke down and sobbed.

I crawled over to him, and put my arm about him.  I kissed his
cheek, and he kissed my cheek.  We embraced each other, and for a
moment held our faces close together.  Then I drew away.

George was crying, too.  The dear fellow went over to Hubbard,
stooped and kissed his cheek.

"With God's help, I'll save you, Hubbard!"

Hubbard kissed his cheek, and they embraced.

George slung his bundle on his shoulder, and I took up mine.  We
turned to go.  But I had to return.  I stooped and again kissed
Hubbard's cheek, and he again kissed mine.  He was quite calm--had
been calm throughout.  Only his eyes shone with that look of
wistful longing.

"Good-bye, boys, and God be with you!"

"Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

And George and I left him.  About twenty yards away I turned for a
last look at the tent.  Hubbard evidently had immediately lain
down; for he was not to be seen.  All I saw was the little peak of
balloon silk that had been our home for so many weeks, the fire
blazing between it and the big rock, the kettle of water by the
fire, and the white moss and the dripping wet fir trees all about.

 .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Some one hundred and fifty yards farther on George and I forded a
brook, after which our course was through closely-grown,
diminutive fir trees until we came to a series of low, barren
knolls.  On these knolls we found some mossberries.  Then we
pushed on. It was dreadfully slow travelling.  The wind was in the
east, and was rising.  The drizzling rain had become a downpour,
and it was dashed into our faces in sheets.  The cold was
increasing.  Our hands were stiff and numb.  Somewhat after midday
George threw down his pack.  "We'll have a spell [rest] and a cup
of tea to warm us up," he said.

I did not protest.  The previous night had been a trying one, and
I was very tired.  We drew together some wood.  With his sheath-
knife George whittled some shavings, and a fire was soon blazing.
When the kettle had been placed over the fire to boil, George drew
out of his bag a package--yes, it was a half-pound package of pea
meal!  At first I could not believe my eyes, and I stood stupidly
staring as George prepared to stir some of it into the kettle.  At
length I found my tongue.

"George," I cried indignantly, "where did you get that pea meal?"

"Hubbard gave it to me this morning while you were gettin' wood,"
he answered promptly.

"But why did you take it?

"He made me take it.  I didn't want to, but he said I must.  He
said we'd be workin' hard, and we'd need it, and if we didn't have
somethin' to eat, we couldn't travel far and couldn't get help to
him.  We ought to have it as much for his sake as for ours, he
said, and I had to take it from him to make him feel right."

Hubbard had evidently reserved that last half-pound of pea meal to
be used in a last extremity, and as the argument he had used to
force it on George had been at least specious, I could say
nothing.  George put one-third of the package (one-sixth of a
pound) into the kettle, and we each drank a pint of the soup.  It
was very thin, but it did us good.

After a half-hour's rest, we pressed on as rapidly as possible,
but when night overtook us we could not have travelled more than
six miles from camp.  To the storm, as well as our weakness, was
due our slow progress.  As the afternoon wore on, the storm became
furious.  The rain descended in drenching sheets, and staggering
blasts of wind drove it into our faces.  Even if darkness had not
stopped us, further progress in the face of the tempest would have
been impossible.

We selected for our bivouac as sheltered a spot as possible in a
spruce growth, hauled together a good supply of small dead trees
and made a fire.  For supper we had one-half of what remained of
the pea meal, reserving the other half (one-sixth of a pound) for
breakfast.  There was a little comfort to be gained from the fire.
The rain still descended upon us in sheets.  The blast of wind
drove the smoke into our eyes and blinded us.  Despite our
weariness we could not sleep.  George lay down, but I sat
crouching before the fire.  We tried to keep our pieces of blanket
over our heads, but when we did so we nearly suffocated.  Now and
again one or the other would rise to throw on more wood.  Towards
midnight the wind shifted, and snow began to fall.  It fell as I
never saw snow fall before.  And the wind never ceased, and the
smoke was more blinding than ever, and the night grew colder.

There were fully six inches of snow on the ground when the clouds
broke just before dawn, and before the first rays of the sun
greeted us the wind died away.  It was Monday, October 19th.  With
the return of daylight we ate the rest of the pea meal, and
resumed our march down the valley.  The daylight proved that my
eyes had been greatly affected by the smoke of our night's fire.
Everything had a hazy appearance.  George complained of the same
trouble.  Soon after we started, George came upon a grouse track
in the fresh snow, and followed it to a clump of bushes a short
distance off.  He aimed his pistol with great care, but the bullet
only knocked a few feathers out of the bird, and it flew away, to
George's keen chagrin and my bitter disappointment.

The flour bag we were to look for was on the opposite or south
side of the river, and it was necessary to cross.  Before noon we
reached a place at which George said it would be as easy to ford
the stream as at any other.  The icy water came almost up to our
armpits, but we made the other shore without mishap.  There we
halted to build a fire and thaw ourselves out; for immediately
upon emerging from the river our clothing froze hard and stiff.
While waiting we had some hot tea, and as quickly as possible
pushed on.  We must reach the flour bag that night.

I found it hard to keep the pace George was setting, and began to
lag wofully.  Several times he had to wait for me to overtake him.
We came upon a caribou trail in the snow, and followed it so long
as it kept our direction.  To some extent the broken path aided
our progress.  In the afternoon we came upon another grouse track.
George followed it to a clump of trees, where the bird was
discovered sitting on a limb.  This time his aim was accurate, and
the bird fell at his feet.  Quickly he plucked the wings, cut them
off and handed me one with the remark: "They say raw partridge is
good when a fellus' weak."  It was delicious.  I ate the wing,
warm with the bird's life blood, bones and all, and George ate the
other wing.

I soon found it utterly impossible to keep George's pace, and
became so exhausted that I was forced to take short rests.  At
length I told George he had better go ahead and look for the
flour; that I should rest, follow his trail and overtake him
later.  He went on, but just over the bare knoll we were crossing
I found him sitting in the snow waiting for me.

"I don't feel right to go ahead and leave you," he said.  "Do you
see that second knoll?"  He pointed to one of a series of round
barren knolls about half a mile down the river.

"Yes," I answered.

"Well, don't you remember it?  No?  Why, that's where we camped
when we threw the flour away, and that's where we'll stop to-
night.  We'd better eat a mouthful to help us on."

He had plucked the head and neck of the grouse, and now proceeded
to cut them off near the body.  To me he gave the neck, and ate
the head himself--raw, of course.

It was just dusk when we reached the knoll George had designated.
Straightway he went to a bush, ran his hand under it and pulled
out--the bag we were looking for.  We opened it eagerly.  As has
been said, we left about four pounds of flour in it.  Now there
was a lump of green and black mould.  However, we rejoiced at
finding it; for it was something and it might sustain our lives.
It might send George to the lard, and keep Hubbard and me until
help could arrive.

On this side of the Susan the country for some distance had been
burned; but, while there were no standing trees, and the place was
entirely unsheltered, fallen spruce trees covered the ground in
every direction, so we found no difficulty in getting together a
good pile of dry wood for our night's fire, and we soon had a
rousing big one going.  For supper we ate all of the grouse boiled
with some of the flour mould stirred in.  It was a splendid
supper.

I had not sat long before the fire when I felt a strange sensation
in my eyes.  It was as if they had been filled with sharp
splinters, and I found it impossible to open them.  I was
afflicted with smoke-blindness, which is almost identical in its
effect to snow-blindness.  George filled my pipe with dried tea
leaves and just a bit of his precious tobacco; then lit it for me,
as I could not see to do it myself.  After our smoke we lay down,
and I slept heavily; it was practically the first sleep I had had
in three days.  Some time in the night George awoke me to make me
eat a little of a concoction of the mouldy flour and water, cooked
thick and a trifle burned after the style of nekapooshet, an
Indian dish of which George was very fond.  At the first signs of
dawn he again roused me, saying:

"It's time to be up, Wallace.  We're goin' to have more snow to
travel in."

He was right.  The clouds were hanging low and heavy, and the
first scattering flakes were falling of a storm that was to last
for ten days.  I was able to open my eyes in the morning, but
everything still looked hazy.  We boiled some of the wretched
mouldy flour for breakfast, and then divided what remained, George
taking the larger share, as he had the most work to do.  Looking
critically at my share, he asked:

"How long can you keep alive on that?"

"It will take me two days to reach Hubbard," I replied, "and the
two of us might live three days more on it--on a pinch."

"Do you think you can live as long as that?" said George, looking
me hard in the eye.

"I'll try," I said.

"Then in five days I'll have help to you, if there's help to be
had at Grand Lake.  Day after to-morrow I'll be at Grand Lake.
Those fellus'll be strong and can reach camp in two days, so
expect 'em."

It was time for us to separate.

"George," I asked, "have you your Testament with you?"

"It's the Book of Common Prayer," he said, drawing it from his
pocket; "but it's got the Psalms in it."

He handed me the tiny leather-covered book, but I could not see
the print; the haze before my eyes was too thick.  I returned the
book to him, and asked him to read one of the Psalms.  Quite at
haphazard, I am sure, he turned to the ninety-first, and this is
what he read:

"Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the Most High; shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty.
"I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my stronghold: my
God, in him will I trust.
"For he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter: and from
the noisome pestilence.
"He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe
under his feathers: his faithfulness and truth shall be thy shield
and buckler.
"Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the
arrow that flieth by day;
"For the pestilence that walketh in darkness: nor for the sickness
that destroyeth in the noon-day.
"A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right
hand: but it shall not come nigh thee.
"Yea, with thine eyes shalt thou behold: and see the reward of the
ungodly.
"For thou, Lord, art my hope: thou hast set thine house of defence
very high.
"There shall be no evil happen unto thee: neither shall any plague
come nigh thy dwelling.
"For he shall give his angels charge over thee: to keep thee In
all thy ways.
"They shall bear thee in their hands: that thou hurt not thy foot
against a stone.
"Thou shalt go upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the
dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet.
"Because He hath set His love upon me, therefore will I deliver
him: I will set him up, because he hath known my name.
"He shall call upon me, and I will hear him: yea, I am with him in
trouble; I will deliver him and bring him to bonour.
"With long life will I satisfy him: and show him my salvation"

The Psalm made a deep impression upon me.  "For he shall give his
angels charge over thee: to keep thee in all thy ways."  How
strange it seems, in view of what happened to me, that George
should have read that sentence.

We arose to go on our separate ways, George twenty-five miles down
the valley to Grand Lake, and I fifteen miles up the valley to
Hubbard.  The snow was falling thick and fast.

"You'd better make a cape of your blanket," suggested George.
"Let me fix it for you."

He placed the blanket around my shoulders, and on either side of
the cloth where it came together under my chin made a small hole
with his knife.  Through these holes he ran a piece of our old
trolling line, and tied the ends.  Then he similarly arranged his
own blanket.

I held out my hand to him.

"Good-bye, George.  Take care of yourself."

He clasped my hand warmly.

"Good-bye, Wallace.  Expect help in five days."

Near the top of a knoll I stopped and looked back.  With my
afflicted eyes I could barely make out George ascending another
knoll.  He also stopped and looked back.  I waved my hand to him,
and he waved his hand to me and shouted something unintelligible.
Then he disappeared in the snow, and as be disappeared a silence
came on the world, to remain unbroken for ten days.




XVIII. WANDERING ALONE

With every hour the storm gathered new force, and over the barren
knolls, along which my course for some distance lay, the snow
whirled furiously.  The track George and I had made on our
downward journey soon was obliterated.  Once in the forenoon, as I
pushed blindly on against the storm, I heard a snort, and, looking
up, beheld, only a few yards away, a big caribou.  He was standing
directly in my path.  For a second he regarded me, with his head
thrown back in fear and wonder; and then, giving another snort, he
dashed away into the maze of whirling snow.

My eyes troubled me greatly, and the pain at length grew so
intense that I was forced to sit down in the snow for perhaps half
an hour with both eyes tightly closed.  I was keeping some
distance from the river, as the obstructions here were fewer than
near the bank.  In the afternoon it occurred to me that I might
have turned in my course, and I took my compass from its case, to
satisfy myself that I was going in the right direction; but my
sight was so impaired that I could not read the dial, nor be
certain which way the needle pointed.  And I wondered vaguely
whether I was becoming totally blind.

My day's progress was not satisfactory.  I had hoped to reach the
place where George and I had forded the river, and cross to the
north shore before bivouacking, but in the deepening snow it was
impossible.  With the first indications of night, I halted in a
thick spruce grove near the river and drew together a fairly good
supply of dead wood.  On the under side of the branches of the fir
trees was generally to be found a thick growth of hairy moss, and
with a handful of this as tinder it did not take me long to get a
good fire blazing.  Close to the fire I threw a pile of spruce
boughs that I broke from low branches and the smaller trees.  I
melted snow in my cup for water, and in this put a few lumps of
mould from the flour bag, eating the mixture after it had cooked a
while.  On the couch of boughs by the fire I spent a fairly
comfortable night, waking only at intervals to throw on more wood
and shake the snow from my back.

The storm was still raging in the morning (Wednesday, October
21st).  With the first grey streaks of dawn, I boiled another cup
of snow water and mould, and then, slinging the flour bag over my
shoulder, began my day's struggle.  The snow was now knee-deep.
Soon I reached the fording place.  The river was beginning to
freeze over.  For two or three yards from shore the ice bore my
weight; then I sank up to my waist in the cold current.
Approaching the other shore, I broke the outer ice with my arms
until it became thick enough to permit me to climb out upon it.

The ice that immediately formed on my clothing make walking
impossible, and reluctantly I halted to build a fire and dry
myself.  This took fully an hour and a half, to my extreme
vexation.  I realised now that my hope of reaching Hubbard that
night was vain.  While I dried my clothing, I made a cup of tea.
I had just enough left for two brewings, so after drinking the tea
I preserved the leaves for further use, wrapping them carefully in
a bit of rag.  Once more on my way up the valley, I found, to my
consternation and almost despair, that my eyes would again compel
me to stop, and for nearly an hour I sat with them closed.  That
night, with the snow still falling, though very lightly, I made my
couch of boughs by a fairly comfortable fire, and rested well.

On Thursday morning (October 22d) a light snow was failing, and
the weather was very cold.  The cup of thin gruel that I made from
the green lumps of mould nauseated me, and I had to brew some tea
to settle my stomach and stimulate me.  With my piece of blanket
drawn over my head to protect my ears from the biting wind, and
with my hands wrapped in the folds, I continued my struggle
towards camp.  I had to force my way, blindly and desperately,
through thick clumps of fir trees, and as the branches were
hanging low under their weight of feathery snow, I continually
received a deluge of snow in my face.

My stock of matches was small and time was precious, and I did not
stop at noon to build a fire.  Even when night began to close in
upon me I still plodded on, believing that I now must be near
Hubbard.  The snow was falling gently, and as there was a moon
behind the clouds the night was sufficiently light for me to make
my way tediously through the trees, with the roar of the rapids to
guide me.  It must have been near midnight when, utterly
exhausted, I was forced to abandon the hope of finding Hubbard
before morning.  Fearing that the mould would again sicken me, I
ate nothing when I halted; I simply collected a few dry sticks and
huddled for the remainder of the night by a miserable fire, dozing
and awaking with a shudder from awful dreams.

The storm continued during the night, and with the morning of
Friday (October 23d) broke upon the world and me with renewed
fury.  I prepared myself another dose of the mould, and forced it
down.  I was nervously anxious to get on and find Hubbard.  I knew
I must be near him now, although the snow had changed the whole
face of the country and obliterated all the landmarks.  Soon I
crossed a brook, frozen and covered with snow, that I felt must be
the one near our camp.  Eagerly I looked about me for the tent.
Because of the falling snow and the snow-bent branches, I could
scarcely see twenty yards in any direction.  From snow-covered
rock to snow-covered rock I went, believing each in turn to be the
tent, but always to meet disappointment.  Repeatedly I stopped to
peer into the maze of snow for smoke.  But there was none.  Again
and again I shouted.  But there was no answer.  The tent was
really near me, but it kept its secret well.

I travelled on and on.  I became desperate.  Over and over I
repeated to myself, "I must find Hubbard before night comes--I
must find him--I must--I must."  At length the first signs of
night warned me that I must collect my wood, that I might be as
comfortable as possible through the dreary hours of darkness.  As
night came on the storm moderated.  The wind ceased.  An unwonted,
solemn, awful stillness came upon the world.  It seemed to choke
me.  I was filled with an unutterable, a sickening dread.
Hubbard's face as I had last seen it was constantly before me.
Was he looking and waiting for me?  Why could I not find him?  I
must find him in the morning.  I must, I must.  Before going to
sleep I made some more gruel and tea, drinking them both as a
duty.

The snow was falling gently on Saturday (October 24th), the wind
had mercifully abated, and the temperature was somewhat milder.
After more gruel and the last cup of tea I was to have in my
lonely wanderings, I renewed my search for Hubbard.  I decided
that possibly I was below the camp, and pushed on to the westward.
Finally I became convinced I was in a part of the country I had
never seen before.  I began to feel that possibly I was far above
the camp; that a rescuing party had found Hubbard, and that, as my
tracks in the snow had been covered, they had abandoned the hope
of finding me and had returned.  They might even have passed me in
the valley below; it was quite possible.  But perhaps George's
strength had failed him, and help never would come to any of us.

I turned about, and again started down the valley.  After a time I
attempted to cross the ice on the river, to try and discover some
familiar landmark on the south shore.  In midstream, where the
current had not permitted thick ice to form, I broke through.  The
water was nearly up to my armpits.  Standing there with the icy
current swirling about me, I said, "What's the use?"  It seemed to
me I had reached the limit of human endurance.  Instead of trying
to struggle on, how much pleasanter to permit myself to sink
beneath the water and thus end it all!  It would be such a relief
to die.

Then there came to me the remembrance that it was my duty to live
as long as I could.  I must do my best.  As long as I had any
strength left, I must exert myself to live.  With a great effort I
climbed out on the hard ice, and made my way back to the north
shore.  Night was approaching.  I staggered into the spruce
growth, and there came upon the same brook I have previously
mentioned as crossing.  Near its bank I made my night fire.  That
fire was within two hundred yards of the tent.  Perhaps it is just
as well that I did not know it.

The snow, which had fallen rather mildly, all day, thickened with
the coming of night.  All the loose wood was now buried under the
snow, and it was with difficulty that I gathered a scant supply
for the night.  My wet rags were freezing hard and stiff.  I moved
about, half-dazed.  I broke only a few branches for my bed, and
sat down.  Scarcely had I done so when a woman's voice came to me,
kindly and low and encouraging.

"Hadn't you better break a few more boughs?" it said.  "You will
rest better then."

There was no mistaking the voice.  It was clear and distinct.  It
was the voice of my wife, who had been dead for more than three
years.  I remember it did not impress me as being at all strange
that my wife, who was dead, should be speaking to me up there in
the Labrador wilderness.  It seemed to me perfectly natural that
she should be looking after my comfort, even as she had done in
life.  I arose and broke the boughs.

I am not a spiritist.  I have never taken any stock in the theory
that the spirits of the dead are able to communicate with the
living.  So far as I have thought about them at all, it has been
my opinion that spiritists are either fools or frauds.  But I am
endeavouring to give a faithful account of my feelings and
sensations at the time of which I am writing, and the incident of
the voice cannot be ignored.  Perhaps it was all a delusion--an
hallucination, if you will, due to the gradual breaking down of my
body and mind.  As to that, the reader can form his own
conclusions.  Certain it is, that from this time on, when I needed
help and encouragement the most, I felt a vague assurance that my
wife was by my side; and I verily believe, that if it had not been
for this,--hallucination, delusion, actuality, reality, or
whatever it may have been,--I should now be in a land where the
truth about these things is probably known for certain.

At times I even thought I saw my wife.  And often, often
throughout those terrible days her voice came to me, kindly and
low and encouraging.  When I felt I really could plod no farther
through the snow, her voice would tell me not to lose heart, but
to do my best, and all would be right in the end.  And when,
wearied beyond measure at night, I would fall into a heavy sleep,
and my fire would burn low, a hand on my shoulder would arouse me,
and her voice would tell me to get up and throw on more wood.  Now
and again I fancied I heard the voice of my mother, who died when
I was a boy, also encouraging and reassuring me.  Indescribably
comforting were those voices, whatever their origin may have been.
They soothed me, and brought balm for my loneliness.  In the
wilderness, and amid the falling snow, those that loved me were
ministering unto me and keeping me from harm.  At least, so it
seemed to me.  And now, as I think of those dear voices, and feel
once more that loving touch on my shoulder, there comes back to me
that verse from the Psalm George read at our parting--"For He
shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy
ways."

It is all like a half-dream to me now.  I know that after Saturday
night (October 24th), when I bivouacked within a stone's throw of
Hubbard's tent, I lost all count of the days, and soon could not
recall even the month.  I travelled on and on, always down the
valley.  Sometimes I fancied I heard men shouting, and I would
reply.  But the men did not come, and I would say to myself over
and over again, "Man proposes, God disposes; it is His will and
best for all."

The flour mould nauseated me to such an extent that for a day at a
time I could not force myself to eat it.  The snow clogged in all
that was left of my cowhide moccasins (larigans), and I took them
off and fastened them to my belt, walking thereafter in my
stocking feet.  I wore two pairs of woollen socks, but holes
already were beginning to appear in the toes and heels.  The
bushes tore away the legs of my trousers completely, and my
drawers, which thus became the sole protection of my legs from the
middle of my thighs down, had big holes in them.  Each night I cut
a piece of leather from my moccasin uppers, and boiled it in my
cup until morning, when I would eat it and drink the water.  I
found afterward, carefully preserved in my match box, one of the
brass eyelets from the moccasins.  Probably I put it away thinking
I might have to eat even that.

I knew there was something the matter with my feet; they
complained to me every night.  They seemed to me like individuals
that were dependent upon me, and they told me it was my duty to
care for them.  But I gave no heed to their complaints.  I had
enough to do to care for myself.  My feet must look out for
themselves.  Why should I worry about them?

And still it snowed, night and day--sometimes gently, sometimes
blindingly; but always it snowed.  Once while plodding along the
side of a rocky hill, I staggered over the edge of a shelving rock
and fell several feet into a snow drift.  I was uninjured, but
extricating myself was desperately hard work, and it was very
pleasant and soft in the snow, and I was so tired and sleepy.  Why
not give it up and go to sleep?  But she was with me, and she
whispered, "Struggle on, and all will be well," and reluctantly I
dragged my poor old body out.

There were times when the feeling was strong upon me that I had
been alone and wandering on forever, and that, like the Wandering
Jew, I must go on forever.  At other times I fancied I was dead,
and that the snow-covered wilderness was another world.
Instinctively I built my fire at night under the stump of a fallen
tree, if I could find one; for the rotten wood would smoulder
until morning, and a supply of other wood was very hard to get.

One evening I remember crossing the river, which had now gone into
its long winter sleep tucked away under a blanket of ice and snow,
and building a fire under a rotten stump on the south side behind
a bank near the shore.  I felt that I must be well down the
valley.  My supply of wood was miserably small, but I had worked
hard all day and could not gather any more.  I fell down by the
fire and struggled against sleep.  She told me I must not sleep.
When I dozed, her hand on my shoulder would arouse me.  Thus the
night passed.

At dawn I realised in a vague sort of way that the clouds had at
last broken away; that the weather was clear and biting cold.
Before me was the river.  It had been a raging torrent when I
first saw it; now it lay quiet and still under its heavy winter
blanket.  At my back the low bank with its stunted spruce trees
hid the ridge of barren, rocky hills and knolls that lay beyond.

A few embers of the rotten stump were smouldering, sending
skyward, with each fitful gust of the east wind, a fugitive curl
of smoke.  A few yards away lay a dead tree, with its branches
close to the snow.  If I could break some of those branches off,
and get them back to my smouldering stump, I might fan the embers
into a blaze, get some heat and melt snow in my cup for a hot
drink.  Not that I craved the drink or anything else, but it
perhaps would give me strength to go just a little farther.

I pulled my piece of ragged blanket over my shoulders and
struggled to my feet.  It was no use.  I swayed dizzily about,
took a few steps forward and fell.  I crawled slowly back to the
smouldering stump and tried to think.  I felt no pain; I was just
weary to the last degree.  Should I not now be justified in
surrendering to the overpowering desire to sleep?  Perhaps, I
argued, it would strengthen me.  I could no longer walk; why not
sleep?  But still I was told that I must not...

Was Hubbard still waiting and watching for me to come back?--
somewhere in that still wilderness of snow  was he waiting and
watching and hoping?  Perhaps he was dead, and at rest.  Poor
Hubbard...

Why did not the men come to look for us--the trappers that George
was to send?  Had they come and missed me, and gone away again?
Or was George, brave fellow, lying dead on the trail somewhere
below?  How long had I been wandering, anyway...

My sisters in far-away New York, were they hoping and praying to
hear from me?  Perhaps they never would.  There was a certain
grave in a little cemetery on the banks of the dear old Hudson.
It had been arranged that I should lie beside that grave when I
went to sleep forever.  Would they find my bones and take them
back? . . .

How enthusiastic Hubbard had been for this expedition!  It was
going to make his reputation, he thought.  Well, well, man
proposes, God disposes; it was His will and best for all.

I found myself dozing, and with an effort to recover myself sat up
straight.  The sun was making its way above the horizon.  I looked
at it and hoped that its warming rays would give me strength to do
my duty--my duty to live as long as I could.  Anyway, the storms
had passed! the storms had passed!

I dozed again.  It may have been that I was entering upon my final
sleep.  But gradually I became hazily conscious of an unusual
sound.  Was it a shout?  I was aroused.  I made a great effort and
got on my feet.  I listened.  There it was again!  It was a shout,
I felt sure it was a shout!  With every bit of energy at my
command, I sent up an answering "Hello!"  All was silent.  I began
to fear that again I had been deceived.  Then over the bank above
me came four swarthy men on snow-shoes, with big packs on their
backs.




XIX. THE KINDNESS OF THE BREEDS

The unintelligible words that George shouted to me from the knoll
after we parted on Tuesday (October 20th) were an injunction to
keep near the river, as the men he would send to rescue Hubbard
and me would look for us there.  As he proceeded down the valley
his progress was slow and tedious, owing to his weakness, the
rough country, and the deepening snow.  Towards noon he came upon
the newly made track of a porcupine, followed it a short distance
into a clump of trees, where he soon saw the round quill-covered
animal in the snow and shot it.  Immediately he built a fire, and
singed off quills and hair.  Then, as he related to me afterwards,
he considered, talking aloud to himself, what was best to do with
his prize.

"There's them fellus up there without grub," he said.  "Maybe I'd
better turn about and take 'em this porcupine.  But if I do, it
won't last long, and then we'll be worse off than ever.  This
snow's gettin' deeper all the time, and if it gets so deep I can't
walk without snowshoes, we'll all die for sure.  No, I'd better go
on with this porcupine to help me."

So after boiling a piece of the porcupine in his tea kettle and
eating it, he continued down the valley.  By his fires be always
talked to himself to keep himself company, and that night he said:

"This 's been a tough day, and I ain't where I ought to be.  But
I'll eat a good snack of this porcupine now with some of the
flour, and in the mornin' I'll have another good snack, and
that'll make me stronger and I can travel farther to-morrow.  I
ought to get most to Grand Lake to-morrow night."

But so far from getting anywhere near Grand Lake the next day, he
did not complete his twenty-five-mile journey for several days to
come.  The snow became so deep he could hardly push through it.
He carefully hoarded the bones of his porcupine, thinking he might
have to eat them; but Providence sent him more food.  When the
first porcupine was eaten, he came upon and killed another, and
when that was gone, he shot a third.  He also succeeded in
shooting several grouse.  If it had not been for this game, he
would not have lived to do the hard work that was before him.

The pieces of blanket in which his feet were wrapped were
continually coming off, and frequent halts were necessary to
readjust them.  He must not let his feet freeze; for then he would
not be able to walk, and not only would he perish himself, but
"there'd be no hope for them fellus up there."  One day he came
upon a man's track.  He was exultant.  That it was a trapper's
trail he had no doubt.  Staggering along it with all the speed he
could command, he shouted wildly at every step.  Presently he
discovered that he was following his own trail; he had been
travelling in a circle.  The discovery made him almost frantic.
He stopped to reason with and calm himself.  Said he, so that all
the listening wilderness might hear:

"Them fellus up there in the snow have got to be saved.  I said to
Hubbard, 'With God's help I'll save you,' and I'm a-goin' to if my
legs hold out and there's anybody at Grand Lake."  And then he
went on.

His progress down the valley that day was only a mile and a half.
It was most discouraging.  He must do better.  The powdered milk
we had abandoned he did not find, but on October 26th he recovered
our old lard pail.  Some of the lard he ate, some he used in
cooking a grouse, and the rest he took along with him.

Below the place where he bivouacked that night the snow was not so
deep, and early the next morning George once more beheld the broad
waters of Grand Lake.  The journey he had expected to make in
three days had actually taken him seven.  He arrived at Grand Lake
three days after I, wandering in the valley above, lost all track
of time.

A few miles above its mouth the Susan River bends to the
southward, and from that direction reaches the little lake that
lies just north of the extreme western end of Grand Lake, so that
George, proceeding down the river on the south bank, eventually
came to the little lake's western shore.  Along this shore he made
his way until he reached the point of land formed by the little
lake and the branch of the Beaver River that flows a little south
of east to merge its waters in the little lake with those of the
Susan.  The water here had not been frozen, and George found his
further progress arrested.  He was in a quandary.  The trapper's
tilt for which he was bound was on the south shore of Grand Lake
about seven or eight miles from its western end, and in order to
reach the tilt he would have to continue on south around the end
of the lake.

The land on the other side of the swirling stream to which George
had come was the island at the mouth of the Beaver that separates
it into two branches, and which forms the western shore of the
swift stream or strait that, flowing to the southward, discharges
the waters of the little lake into Grand Lake.  George thought,
however, that this island was a part of the western boundary of
Grand Lake, and he determined to reach it.  But how?  To swim
across was impossible.  Well, then, he would build a raft.  And,
although he had no implements, he did.  He hauled together several
fallen trees, laid them in a row and bound them at one end with
his pack strap and at the other with a piece of our old trolling
line.  When this was done, be hacked himself a pole with his
sheath-knife, threw his bag containing a piece of a porcupine and
some grouse on the raft, launched it, jumped on it himself and
pushed out into the stream.

One or two good shoves George gave with his pole, and then found
he no longer could touch bottom.  He was at the mercy of the swift
current.  Down into the little lake he was swept, and thence
through the strait right out into Grand Lake.  A high sea was
running, and the frail raft promptly began to fall to pieces.
"Have I escaped starvin' only to drown?" thought George.  It
certainly looked like it.  "But," said he to himself, "if I drown
them fellus up there will be up against it for sure."  So he
determined not to drown.  He got down on his hands and knees, and,
although the icy seas broke relentlessly over him, he held the
floating sticks in place, at the same time clinging tenaciously to
his food bag; for, as he confided to me later, "it would have been
just as bad to escape drownin' only to starve as it would have
been to escape starvin' only to drown."

Farther out on the broad bosom of the lake George was carried.
"Now," said he, "if I jump, I'll drown; and if I don't, I'll drown
anyway.  So I guess I'll hang on a little longer."  And hang on he
did for something like two hours, when the wind caught his raft
and drove it back to the southern end of the island at the mouth
of the Beaver.  "You can't lose me," said George, as he landed.
He and his game bag were saved, but his difficulties were not
ended by any means.

While the wind was driving him back, George caught sight of the
branch of the Beaver that flows almost due south directly into
Grand Lake, forming the island's western shore.  Standing on this
shore, he made a shrewd guess.  "I'll bet," he said, "my dream was
right, and here we have the same river we were on when we said
good-bye to the canoe."  What interested him the most, however,
was a row boat he espied a little south of the island on the
opposite shore.  Apparently it had been abandoned.  "If can reach
that boat," said George, "and it'll float and I don't find Blake
or any grab at his tilt, I'll put right off for the post, and send
help from there to them fellus up there."

There was no doubt about it, he would have to take chances with
another raft.  Although his rags were beginning to freeze to his
body, he did not stop to build a fire, neither did he wait to eat
anything.  At first it seemed hopeless to try to launch a raft;
for the bank on the western side of the island was very steep.
Farther north, however, ice had formed in the river for some
distance from the shore, and to this ice George dragged fallen
trees and bound them as he had done before.  It was the labour of
hours, the trees having to be dragged for considerable distances.
Once more afloat, George found no difficulty in touching bottom
with his pole, and in the gathering dusk he reached the other
shore.

Supposing that he was still many miles from a place where there
was any possibility of finding a human being, he decided to
bivouac for the night; but first he must examine the rowboat he
had sighted from the island.  This made necessary the fording of a
small stream.  Hardly had he emerged from the water, when, from
among the spruce trees farther back from the shore, there came a
sound that brought him to a sudden standstill and set his heart to
thumping wildly against his ribs.  It was a most extraordinary
sound to hear when one supposed one was alone in a wilderness, and
when all had been solemnly still save for the dashing of waves
upon a shore.  On the night air there came floating to George the
cry of a little child.

"When I heard that youngster scream," said George, in telling me
about the incident, "I knew folks was there, and I dropped my bag,
and I tore my piece of blanket from my shoulders, and I runned and
I runned."

In the course of the summer Donald Blake had built himself a log
house on the spot to which George was so wildly fleeing.  The
rowboat George had spied belonged to him, but the house, standing
back in a thick clump of trees, had not been visible from the
water.  On the evening of George's arrival, Donald and his brother
Gilbert were away, and Donald's wife and another young woman who
stayed with her to keep her company were alone.  The latter young
woman, with Mrs. Blake's baby in her arms, was standing at the
door of the house, when suddenly she heard a crashing noise in the
bush in front of her, and the next moment there loomed up before
her affrighted vision in the gloaming the apparition of a gaunt
and ragged man, dripping wet, and running towards her with long,
black hair and straggling beard streaming in the wind.  She turned
and fled into the house.

"O Mrs. Blake! O Mrs. Blake!" she cried, "'tis somethin' dreadful
comin'! 'tis sure a wild man!"

Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Blake went to the door.  George, panting and
still dripping, stood before her.

"Lord ha' mercy!" she piously exclaimed, throwing up her arms.

"Don't be scared, ladies," panted George; "I couldn't hurt a
rabbit.  Ain't there any men here?"

His ingratiating manner reassured the frightened women, and
explanations followed.  All the natives of the vicinity of
Hamilton Inlet had been wondering what had become of us, and Mrs.
Blake quickly grasped the situation.  Kindness itself, she took
George in.  Donald and Gilbert, she said, would be back directly.
She made him hot tea, and put on the table for him some grouse
stew, molasses, and bread and butter, all the time imploring him
to sit down and warm himself.  But George was too excited to sit
down.  Up and down he paced, the melting ice on his rags making
tiny rivulets on his hostess's spotless floor.  Most of the breeds
who live near the western end of Hamilton Inlet are remarkably
cleanly, this probably being due to their Scotch blood.

George at length calmed himself sufficiently to turn his attention
to the meal that had been prepared for him.  He had salt for his
meat, molasses to sweeten his tea and a bountiful supply of good
bread.  He ate greedily, which fact he soon had cause to regret;
for later in the evening he began to bloat, and for several days
thereafter he writhed with the colic.  But for the present he
thought of nothing save the satisfaction of the appetite that had
been regenerated by the food he had been able to obtain after
leaving me.  It was especially difficult for him to tear himself
away from the bread.  As there must be an end to all things,
however, George eventually stopped eating, and then he started to
go for his bag.  But Mrs. Blake said:

"No, Donald'll get he. Sit down, sir, and rest."

A little later Donald and Gilbert appeared.  We had made Donald's
acquaintance, it will be remembered, at Rigolet; it was he who had
sailed his boat up the Nascaupee and had given us the most
information about that river.  When he had heard George's story,
there was no need to urge him to make haste.  Lithe, ambitious,
and in the habit of doing a dozen things at a time, Donald was
activity itself.  His brother Gilbert, a young fellow of
seventeen, commonly called Bert, was also eager to start to the
rescue of Hubbard and me.  They told George it was fortunate he
had arrived when he did, as in a day or so they would have been
away on their trapping paths.

"But didn't you see Allen Goudie's tilt, sir? asked Donald, when
George had finished telling about his trip down what he supposed
to be the Nascaupee River.  "She's on th' Nascaupee right handy to
th' bank, and in fair sight from th' river, sir."

"If there's a tilt on the Nascaupee," said George, "you can kick
me."

Donald asked him to tell more about the river we were on, and
George drew a rough map of its leading features.  Then it was that
George learned that the river of our distress was really the
Susan.

"And we passed right by the mouth of the Nascaupee?" he asked.

He was informed that such was the case.

"Well," said George, "I'll be blamed!"  "Blamed" was George's most
violent expletive; I never heard him use profanity.

Donald told George he must not think of going back with the
rescuing party, as his weakness would retard its progress.  So
George marked on the map he had made of the Susan's course the
general situation of our last camp.  He warned Donald that th

deep snow up the valley might have prevented me from reaching the
tent, but that in any event they would find me near the river.

Hearing that, Donald quickly decided that more men were needed for
the rescuing party; for if either Hubbard or I was found alone the
party would have to separate in order to continue the search for
the other man.  The packs, besides, would be too heavy for two men
to carry and make the rapid progress that was necessary.
Fortunately Allen Goudie and a young fellow named Duncan McLean
were at the former's winter tilt on the Nascaupee, seven miles
across the lake from Donald's.  The hour was late and the lake was
rough, but Donald and Gilbert started for them in their rowboat
immediately after making ready their packs of provisions and camp
equipment, prepared for an early start up the Susan the next day.

At noon (October 28th) they were back with both Allen and Duncan,
and at once loaded the packs into the boat.  Then the four men
rowed up through the little lake to the first rapid on the Susan,
hauled the boat up on the shore, donned their snowshoes,
shouldered their packs, and started up the valley.  Running when
they could, which the rough country would not permit of their
doing often, they camped at night ten miles above their boat.

The next morning (October 29th) they cached some provisions to
lighten their packs, and as they proceeded fired a rifle at
intervals, thinking there was now a chance of coming upon either
Hubbard or me.  As a matter of fact they must have passed me
towards evening.  They were on the north side of the river, and it
was the evening when I staggered down the north shore, to cross
the ice at dusk and make my last bivouac in the lee of a bank on
the south shore.  Whether I had crossed the river before they came
along, or whether, hidden by the trees and the falling snow, I
passed them unobserved on the same shore, I do not know; the fact
is, they camped that night about a mile and a half above me, and
about twelve miles below Hubbard's tent.

There was only one thing that saved me from being left alone to
die--these trappers' keen sense of smell.  In the morning (October
30th) while they were breaking camp preparatory to continuing on
up the valley, Donald Blake fancied that he smelled smoke.  He
spoke to Allen Goudie about it, and both men stood and sniffed the
air.  Yes, Allen smelled smoke, too.  It was unmistakable.  The
wind was blowing up the valley; therefore someone must have a fire
below them.  Hastily finishing the work of breaking camp, the four
men shouldered their packs and turned back.

Close down to the shore of the river they scrambled, and hurried
on, shouting and discharging a rifle.  At length they paused, to
give exclamations of satisfaction.  They had found my track
leading across the ice to the other shore.  Only a moment they
paused, and then, following the trail, they broke into a run,
redoubling their shouts and repeatedly discharging the rifle.
They had smelled my smouldering rotten stump, but if a whiff of
smoke was now rising it was too small for them to see.  My trail,
however, led them to the bank over which they heard my feeble
answering shout.  So down the bank they scrambled, to come to a
sudden halt, transfixed with amazement, as they told me
afterwards, that such a wreck as I could stand and live.

The spectacle I presented certainly must have been an unusual one-
-a man all skin and bones, standing in drawers and stocking feet,
with the remnants of a pair of trousers about his hips, there in
the midst of the snow-covered forest.  They were heavily clad and
had their caps pulled far down over their ears to protect them
from the biting wind, while I did not even have my hat on.

It was some time before I could realise that living men were
before me.  As if in a half-dream, I stood stupidly gazing at
them.  But with the return of sensibility I recollected that
George had gone to find Donald Blake, and gradually it dawned upon
me that he was there.  I spoke his name "Donald Blake."  At that
Donald stepped forward and grasped my hand warmly and firmly like
an old friend.

"Did George get out and send you?" I asked.

"Yes, sir; it was he that sent us, sir.  He's safe at my house."

Have you found Hubbard?"

"Not yet, sir.  We smelled smoke a mile and a half above, where
our camp was last night, an' came down to find you, sir."

I remember telling Donald that he had better leave me something to
eat, and go on to Hubbard as fast as he could.  He replied that
Duncan and Bert, the two young fellows, would stay with me, while
he and Allen would continue on up the valley.  During this talk,
the kind-hearted trappers had not been idle.  While two of them
cut wood for a rousing fire and put the kettle on for tea, the
others made a cosey couch close to the blaze and sat me on it.
They gave me a very small piece of bread and butter.

"You'd better eat just a small bit at first, sir," said Allen.
"You're fair starved, and much grub at th' beginnin' might be th'
worse for you."

Before I had my tea, Donald and Allen were ready to start.  Allen
hesitated for a moment; then asked:

"If the other man be dead, sir?"

"Dead?" I said.  "Oh, no, he won't be dead.  You'll find him in
the tent waiting for you."

"But if he be dead?" persisted Allen.  "He may be, and we sure
can't bring th' body out now, sir."

Although still struggling against the fear that my reason told me
was only too well founded, I requested, that in the event of what
they thought possible proving to be the case, they wrap the body
in the blankets they would find in the tent, and build for it a
stage high enough from the ground to protect it from animals.  I
also asked that they bring back with them all the things they
should find in the tent, including the rifle and camera, and
especially the books and papers of all descriptions.

Promising that all should be done as I wished, and again
cautioning me against eating too much, Allen and Donald departed,
leaving me a prey to anxiety and fear as to the news they should
bring back.




XX. HOW HUBBARD WENT TO SLEEP

A pot of hot tea soon was ready, and I drank some of it.

"I hopes you feels better, sir," then spoke young Duncan MacLean.
"A smoke'll taste good now.  Got a pipe, sir?"

I produced my pipe, and he held out to me a plug of tobacco.

"Take he an' fill th' pipe, sir."

With the plug in my possession, I drew my sheath-knife to cut it.
But Gilbert Blake objected.

"He's a big un, sir, to cut tobacca with.  Let me fill he, sir."

Obediently I handed him my pipe to be filled, and when it had been
returned to me one of the boys struck a match and held it to the
bowl while I puffed.  Then Duncan took the plug from the log where
Gilbert had left it, and, holding it out to me, said:

"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 passed, 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 circumstances, 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, anticipating 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 God, sir," said Allen, "that you didn't know
th' poor man were there dead; you would ha' given up yourself,
sir."

Having a superstitious horror of the dead, Donald would not touch
the body, and without assistance Allen had been unable to place it
on a stage as I wished.  However, he arranged it carefully on the
ground, where, he assured 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 Saturday 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.  God 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 shore 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 passed
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
shore 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 God 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 shore 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 shore.  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 butter and molasses
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
shore.

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 butter, 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."

Oh, that pleasant kitchen, with the floor and all the woodwork
scrubbed white and the rows of shining utensils on the shelves!
And the comfort of the great wood-burning stove roaring out a tune
to us on that frosty winter evening!  As I sat there sipping the
deliciously rich cocoa, Mackenzie joined me, and while Lillie
cooked the dinner I must tell him over and over again my story.
And in spite of herself the tender-hearted little housekeeper
would cry and cry.

The dinner, which consisted of grouse, potatoes, marmalade, bread,
and tea, was served in the dining room, which was also the living
room.  Mackenzie sat at the head of the table, I at the foot, and
on a lounge to one side sat Atikamish, a small Mountaineer Indian
hunting dog, gravely alert for the bones his master would
occasionally toss to him.  Atikamish had very good table manners.
He caught the bones neatly and deftly, and he invariably chewed
them up without leaving his seat or changing his position.  My
appetite was returning, and I ate well; but it was fully two weeks
before I could eat without experiencing distress later.  When that
blessed time arrived, I never could get enough; Lillie was always
pressing me to eat, and for a time I had at least six meals a day.

After dinner Mackenzie got Mark Blake to cut my hair and shave off
my beard.  Then he took me to my room upstairs, where a stove was
crackling out a welcome and a big tub of warm water had been
prepared for me.  After my bath, he again came up to rub my legs,
which were much swollen from frostbite, and to dress my foot with
salve.  In a suit of Mackenzie's flannel pajamas I then went to my
soft bed, and lay snug and warm under the blankets.  It was the
first real bed I had lain in for nearly four months, and oh, the
luxury of it!

It is impossible for me to express the gratitude I feel towards
those good friends.  They nursed me with the tenderest care.
Mackenzie's big Scotch heart and the woman's sympathetic instinct
of the little housekeeper anticipated my every want, and he and
she never could seem to satisfy themselves with doing things for
my comfort.  When I left the post with Hubbard I weighed 170
pounds; a week after my return I weighed ninety-five.  But with
the care they took of me my general health was soon restored, and
I rapidly put on flesh.

My difficulties, however, were not yet ended.  Hubbard's body was
still to be recovered from the wild and repatriated, and during
the long months that ensued before it could be reached I lived in
constant dread lest it should be destroyed by animals, until at
length the dread amounted almost to an obsession.  Moreover, the
gangrene in my foot became worse, and if it had not been for the
opportune arrival in that dreary land of an unfortunate young
medical student, it in all likelihood would have killed me.




XII. A STRANGE FUNERAL PROCESSION

The young medical student was George Albert Hardy, of Prince
Edward Island.  Everybody called him "Doctor," and for all
practical purposes he was a regular physician and surgeon; for if
he had been able to do two or three months' more hospital work he
would have received his degree.  The reason he had hastily
abandoned his studies and sought professional service with the
lumber company that maintains camps at the western end of the
Hamilton Inlet was that he had fallen a victim to consumption.  He
arrived at Northwest River Post on November 8th on a small
schooner that brought supplies from Rigolet for Mackenzie and the
Muddy Lake lumber camp at the mouth of the Grand River.

The schooner remained only an hour at Northwest River, and Dr.
Hardy had to continue on to Muddy Lake with her, but he found time
to operate on my left foot, which was badly affected, and advise
me how to continue its treatment myself.  The doctor said that the
mail boat, the Virginia Lake, which had carried him to Rigolet,
would return there within three weeks for her last trip to
Newfoundland of the season, and he urged me to take advantage of
that opportunity to go home, and get proper treatment for my feet.
The temptation was great, but I felt it was my duty not to leave
Labrador without Hubbard's body.

It was my plan to engage dog teams and start with the body for the
coast so soon as it could be brought to the post.  Everybody
agreed that it could not be recovered before January, and
Mackenzie argued strongly against the practicability of
transporting it with dogs, suggesting that we place it in the old
post mission chapel until navigation opened in the spring, when it
could be sent home on the mail steamer.  But I knew I must get
home as soon as possible, and my mind was made up to take the body
with me, if I had to haul it all the way to Quebec.

The great toe on my left foot growing steadily worse, it became
necessary for me again to see the doctor.  Groswater Bay and Goose
Bay by this time were frozen solid, and on December 4th I
travelled to Muddy Lake, where Dr. Hardy was stationed, by dog
team and komatik, Willie Ikey, an Eskimo employed by Monsieur
Duclos, the manager of the French trading post across the
Northwest River, acting as my driver.  Upon my arrival I was
cordially welcomed by Mr. Sidney Cruikshanks, the lumber "boss";
Mr. James McLean, the storekeeper, and Dr. Hardy.  It was arranged
that I should stop and sleep with the doctor at McLean's house.
The doctor did some more cutting, and under his careful treatment
my foot so improved that it was thought I could with safety return
to the post on December 15th, to prepare letters and telegrams for
the winter mail, which was scheduled to leave there by dog team
for Quebec on the 18th.  It was the 20th before the mail got away,
and with it went the first news of Hubbard's death to reach his
relatives and friends.

My dispatches, forwarded from Chateau Bay, the outpost of the
Canadian coast telegraph service, were received in New York on
January 22d, the letters two months later.

Immediately upon my return to Northwest River, my feet began to
trouble me again.  Word was sent to Dr. Hardy, who, regarding it
as a call of duty, arrived on December 31st.  I very much regret
to say, that in responding to the call, Dr. Hardy received a chill
that hastened, if it did not cause, his death.  After examining my
feet upon his arrival, he advised me to return with him to Muddy
Lake.  So it was arranged that George, with Mackenzie's dogs and
komatik, should drive Dr. Hardy and me to the Kenemish lumber
camp, twelve miles across Groswater Bay, where there was a patient
that required attention, and that from there Hardy and I should go
on to Muddy Lake with other dogs.  Alas! the doctor never saw
Muddy Lake again.

Before starting, I learned from Allen Goudie and Duncan MacLean,
who came from the interior to spend New Year's Day, that Grand
Lake was frozen hard and an attempt might be made to bring out
Hubbard's body.  Accordingly, I engaged Duncan MacLean and Tom
Blake, also a breed, to undertake the task with George, and to
recover, so far as possible, the photographic films and other
articles we had abandoned at Goose Camp and Lake Elson.  Blake was
the father of Mackenzie's housekeeper, and lived at the rapid at
the eastern end of Grand Lake.  As he had, at the request of
friends, frequently prepared bodies for burial, it was arranged
that he should head the expedition, while George acted as guide,
and the agreement was that, weather permitting, the party should
start inland on January 6th.  A coffin, made by the carpenter at
Kenemish was all ready to receive the body when it should arrive
at the post.

George was to have driven Dr. Hardy and me to Kenemish on January
3d, but as there was a stiff wind blowing and the thermometer
registered 40 degrees below zero, we postponed our departure until
the following day.  The morning was clear, and the temperature was
34 below.  The dogs, with a great howling and jumping, had hardly
settled down to the slow trot which with only fair travelling is
their habitual gait, when we observed that the sky was clouding,
and in an incredibly short time the first snowflakes of the
gathering storm began to fall.  Soon the snow was so thick that it
shut us in as with a curtain, and eventually even old Aillik, our
leader, was lost to view.

"Bear well t' th' east'ard, an' keep free o' th' bad ice; the's
sure t' be bad ice handy t' th' Kenemish," had been Mark Blake's
parting injunction.  So George kept well to the eastward as, hour
after hour, we forged our way on through the bending, drifting
snow.  At length we came upon land, but what land we did not know.
The storm had abated by this time, and a fresh komatik track was
visible, which we proceeded to follow.  On all sides of us ice was
piled in heaps as high as a house.  We had been travelling
altogether about six hours, and the storm had ceased, when we came
upon a tilt on the shore of a deep bay, and, close by it, a man
making passes with a stick at a large wolf, which, apparently
emboldened by hunger, was jumping and snarling about waiting for a
chance to spring in upon him.

The noise of our approaching komatik caused the wolf to slink off,
and then the man hurried to the tilt, reappeared with a rifle and
shot the beast as it still prowled among the ice hills.  He proved
to be Uriah White, a trapper.  Not at all excited by his
adventure, he welcomed us to his tilt.  In throwing off his
mittens to fire his rifle at the wolf, he had exposed his naked
hands to the bitter cold, and they had been frost-bitten.  While
thawing out his hands at a safe distance from the stove, he
informed us that he had been "handy 'nuf to he [meaning the wolf]
to see that he were a she."

The condition of my feet had not permitted me to leave the komatik
during our long journey, and I suffered severely from the cold.
George and, alas! Hardy, were also thoroughly chilled, though they
had occasionally exercised themselves by running behind.  Uriah
prepared for us some hot tea and hardtack, and gave us our
bearings.  We were about four miles east of Kenemish, and an hour
later we arrived there.

The lumber camp at the mouth of the Kenemish River is composed of
a saw mill, a storehouse in which also live the native helpers, a
cookhouse, a part of which is given over to lodgings for the Nova
Scotian lumbermen, and a log stable for the horses that do the
general work about the camp and in the woods.  Hugh Dunbar, the
engineer, extended a warm welcome to the doctor and me, and his
wife, who did the camp cooking, made us comfortable in the
cookhouse.  I was destined to remain at the camp for many weeks,
and I cannot help testifying to the gratitude I feel to those
lumber folk, especially Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar, Wells Bently, the
storekeeper; Tom Fig, the machinist, and Archie McKennan, Leigh
Stanton and James Greenan.

The chill he had received during the trip from Northwest River so
affected Dr. Hardy that he was unable to proceed to Muddy Lake.
Two days after our arrival he had a severe hemorrhage, and the
following day another.  They forced him to take to his bed, and
thereafter he rose only occasionally for half an hour's rest in a
chair.  He was a deeply religious nature, and, realising that he
was doomed, he awaited the slow approach of death with calm
resignation.

And my feet steadily grew worse.  Three days after our arrival at
Kenemish I could not touch them to the floor.  The doctor and I
lay on couches side by side.  I could not even bear the weight of
the bed-clothes on my feet, and Dunbar built a rack from the hoops
of an old flour barrel to protect them.  Under the doctor's
direction, Mrs. Dunbar every day removed the bandages from my
feet, cleansed them with carbolic acid water and rebandaged them.
Dunbar and the other men carried me in their arms when it was
necessary for me to be taken from my couch.  My temperature ran up
until it reached 103 1/2.  The doctor then said there was only one
way to save my life--to cut off my legs.

"And," he added, "I'm the only one here that knows how to do it,
and I'm too weak to undertake it.  So were both going to die,
Wallace.  There's nothing to fear in that, though, if you trust in
God."

The doctor was an accomplished player of the violin, but he had
left his own instrument at Muddy Lake, and the only one he could
obtain at Kenemish was a miserable affair that gave him little
satisfaction.  So while he lay dying by the side of his patient
who he thought was also dying, he, for the most part, gratified
his love of music and sought to comfort us both by softly singing
in his sympathetic tenor voice the grand old hymns of the church.
"Lead Kindly Light" and "Nearer My God to Thee" were his
favourites, and every syllable was enunciated clearly and
distinctly.

But he was mistaken in thinking that I, too, was to die.  Soon
there was an improvement noticeable in the condition of both of my
feet, and gradually they grew better.

"It's truly a miracle that the Lord is working," said the doctor.
"You were beyond human aid.  I've prayed from the bottom of my
heart that you'd get well.  I've prayed a dozen times a day, and
now the prayer is answered.  It's the only one of my prayers," he
added sadly, "that has been answered since I have been in
Labrador."

During January and February the cold was terrific.  The spirit
thermometer at the camp was scaled down to 64 degrees below zero,
and on several days the spirit disappeared below the scale mark
before 8 o'clock in the evening.  For a week the temperature
never, even at midday, rose above 40 below.  The old natives of
the bay said there never had been such a winter before.  Not a man
in the camp escaped without a frozen nose and the cheeks and chins
of all of them were black from being nipped by the frost.  Bently
declared that he froze his nose in bed, and Mrs. Bently bore
witness to the truth of the statement.  But Bently's nose was
frosted on an average of once a day.

Nearly all of this time I lay at the lumber camp worrying about
Hubbard's body.  One day late in January, when I had been hoping
that the body had been safely brought out, Mackenzie and George
arrived from Northwest River with the news that the storms had
been so continuous it had not been deemed wise to attempt the
journey inland.  I wished to be removed at once to the post,
thinking that my presence there might hasten matters, but Dr.
Hardy said there would be no use of having two dead men, and I was
forced to be content with promises that the expedition would get
under way as soon as possible.

Early in February the doctor said I might try my feet on the
floor.  The result was the discovery that my knees would not bear
me, and that I should have to learn to walk all over again.
Recovering the use of my legs was a tedious job, and it was not
until February 29th that I was able to return to Northwest River.
After leaving Kenemish I never saw the unfortunate young doctor
again; for he died on March 22d.

Back at Northwest River, I was able to stir things up a bit, and
bright and early on Tuesday morning, March 8th, George, Tom Blake,
and Duncan MacLean, composing the expedition that was to recover
Hubbard's body, at last left the post, prepared for their
difficult journey into the interior.  I regretted much that my
physical condition made it impossible for me to accompany them.
Their provisions were packed on an Indian flat sled or toboggan,
and their tent and other camp equipment on a sled with broad flat
runners that I had obtained especially for the transportation of
the body from some Indians that visited the post.  At the rapid
they were to get Tom Blake's dogs to haul their loads to Donald
Blake's at the other end of Grand Lake.  After that, the hauling
was all to be done by hand, as it is quite impossible to use dogs
in cross-country travelling in Labrador.

In the course of the afternoon snow squalls developed, and all day
Wednesday and Thursday the snow fell heavily.  I knew the storm
would interfere with the progress of the men, but I hoped they had
succeeded in reaching Donald's, and were at that point holding
themselves in readiness to proceed.  What was my disappointment,
then, when towards noon on Sunday Douglas and Henry Blake, Tom's
two young sons, came to the post to announce that their father was
at home!  He had made a start up Grand Lake, they said, but the
storms had not permitted the party to advance any farther than the
Cape Corbeau tilt.

Douglas had accompanied the men to Cape Corbeau, which point it
had taken an entire day to reach, as the dogs, even with the men
on their snowshoes tramping a path ahead, sank so deeply in the
snow that they could hardly flounder along, to say nothing of
hauling a load.  It was evident, therefore, that the dogs would
retard rather than accelerate the progress of the party on Grand
Lake, and when the Cape Corbeau tilt was reached on Tuesday night
it was decided that Douglas should take them back to the rapid.
On Wednesday morning the storm was raging so fiercely that it was
considered unsafe to go ahead for the present.  George, moreover,
complained of a lame ankle, and said he required a rest.  So Tom
came to the conclusion that if he remained at the tilt he would be
eating the "stock of grub" to no purpose, and when Douglas turned
homeward with the dogs he went with him.  George and Duncan were
to stay at the tilt until the travelling became better, Douglas
said, and then push on to Donald's and wait for Tom there.

Douglas's story made it plain that the weather conditions on Grand
Lake had been fierce enough to appal any man, but as there had
been no snow since Friday night I could not understand what Tom
was doing at the rapid on Sunday, and with Mackenzie's consent I
had Mark immediately harness the post dogs and drive me up to his
house.  I arrived there considerably incensed by his inactivity,
but I must say that his explanation was adequate.  He asked me if
I had been able to see anything of Grand Lake, and made me realise
what it meant to be out there with a high west wind of Arctic
bitterness drifting the snow in great clouds down its thirty-seven
miles of unbroken expanse.  There was no doubt that the men had
done the best they could, and after instructing Tom that, if more
provisions were needed, to obtain them at Donald's at my expense,
and receiving from him an assurance that he would again start for
Hubbard's body as soon as the weather would permit, I returned,
mollified, to the post.

It was on this day (Sunday, March 13th) that I received my first
news from home and the outside world, Monsieur Duclos, who had
been on a trip north, bringing me two telegrams from New York.
They conveyed to me the comforting assurance that all was well at
home, being replies to the dispatches I had sent in December.
Received at Chateau Bay, they had been forwarded to me three
hundred and fifty miles by dog teams and snowshoe travellers.

Tom Blake started on Monday morning, the 14th, and Tuesday at noon
joined George and Duncan at Donald's.  On Wednesday the three men
began their march up the Susan.  The weather continuing fair, they
made good progress and had no difficulty in finding the site of
our last camp.  Hubbard's body, with the tent lying flat on top of
it, was under eight feet of snow.  Near the spot a wolverine had
been prowling, but the body was too deeply buried for any animal
to scent it, and in its quiet resting place it lay undisturbed.
It was fortunate that it had not been placed on a stage, as I had
suggested; for in that event it would undoubtedly have been
destroyed.

Continuing on inland, the men recovered the photographic films,
the sextant, my fishing rod, and other odds and ends we had
dropped on the trail as far back as Lake Elson.  Tom and Duncan
praised George unstintingly for the unvarying accuracy with which
he located the things.  With the country and smaller trees buried
under a great depth of snow, and no landmarks to guide him, George
would lead the other men on, and, with no searching about or
hesitancy, stop and say, "We'll dig here."  And not once did his
remarkable instinct play him false.

"'Tis sure wonderful," said Tom, in telling me about it.  "I ne'er
could ha' done it, an' no man on Th' Labrador could ha' done it,
sir.  Not even th' Mountaineers could ha' done it."  And Duncan
seconded Tom's opinion.

On Sunday, March 27th, I was sitting in the cosey post house
wondering where George and the others were, when suddenly George
appeared from out the snow that the howling gale was whirling
about.  My long suspense was ended.  The body had been recovered
in good condition, George said.  Wrapped in the blankets that
Hubbard had round him when died--the blankets he had so gaily
presented me with that June morning on the Silvia--and our old
tarpaulin, which George had recovered farther back on the trail,
it had been dragged on the Indian sled forty miles down over the
sleeping Susan River, and thence out over Grand Lake to the Cape
Corbeau tilt, where the men had been compelled to leave it the day
before owing to the heavy snowstorm that then prevailed.  From the
tilt the men had gone on to Tom's house at the rapid to spend the
night, and George had now come down to the post to relieve my mind
with the news that the body was safe.

It was arranged that the next morning George and Duncan should
take the post dogs and komatik, drive up to Cape Corbeau and bring
the body down.  The morning was calm and fine, and they started
early.   It was a strange funeral procession that returned.  The
sun was setting when, on their way back, with the body lashed to
the komatik, they passed over the rapid where Hubbard that
beautiful July morning had sprung vigorously into the water to
track the canoe into Grand Lake.  How full of hope and pleasurable
anticipation he had been when we paddled through the Little Lake!
Over the snow and ice that now hid the lake the seven dogs that
were hauling his corpse strained and tugged, ever and anon
breaking into a trot as George and Duncan, running on their
snowshoes on either side of the komatik, urged them forward with
Eskimo exclamations or cracked their long whip over a laggard.  No
need to urge any one of them on, however, when they came in sight
of the post.  Darkness was falling.  Knowing that their daily meal
was near at hand, the dogs broke into a run, and with much howling
and jumping swung around the point and up to the buildings.




XXIII. OVER THE ICE

With the body at the post, it was my intention to hire dog teams,
and, accompanied by George, start with it at once for home,
travelling up Hamilton Inlet to the ocean, and then down along the
coast to Battle Harbour, or some port farther south, where we
might happen on a ship that would take us away from the land where
we had suffered so much.  More than three weeks elapsed, however,
before we could get away from the Northwest River.  It was about
325 miles over the ice to Battle Harbour, and Mackenzie and the
others continued to argue against the feasibility of my plan.  For
a time it did seem as if it would be impossible to carry it out.
First of all, I had trouble with Hubbard's coffin.  When we
received the body, the plain spruce box that had been made for it
was found not to be deep enough.  I sent over a request to James
Greenan, the carpenter at Kenemish, that another one be made as
speedily as possible.  He replied that the last board they had on
hand had been used in making a coffin for poor Dr. Hardy, but said
that if I would return to him the coffin we had, he believed he
could raise the sides to the requisite height.  Mackenzie
immediately despatched Mark with the dogs and komatik to carry the
coffin to Kenemish, and on April 4th it was returned with the
necessary alterations.  The body meanwhile had lain wrapped in the
blankets and tarpaulin in a storehouse where the temperature
practically was as low as it was out of doors.  Now we placed it
in the box with salt as a preservative, and everything was ready
for our long journey.

Then arose the question as to where I could get dogs.  Two teams
were needed, one for the body and one for our baggage.  Not a dog
owner could I find who would undertake the task.  I sent imploring
messages for twenty-five miles around, but all to no purpose.
They would not even undertake the ninety-mile journey to Rigolet.
Some, I knew, did not like the idea of travelling with a corpse,
and others, like Tom Blake, did not have enough dogs to haul our
loads.  In despair I went to Monsieur Duclos on April 19th and
urged him to lend me his team to take us as far as Rigolet,
telling him that Mackenzie was willing to let us have his team for
the trip to Rigolet, but that another was needed.  The French post
dogs had just returned from a long journey, and Monsieur Duclos
said they were not fit for travel, but finally, to my great joy,
he very kindly consented to let me have them, with Belfleur, a
French-Indian, as driver, after they had a couple of days' rest.

It was Mackenzie's custom to make an annual trip to Rigolet on
post business, and this usually took place in May; but he
expedited his arrangements so as to be able to leave with us and
thus save his dogs an additional journey.  Belfleur arrived with
his dogs early on the morning of April 21st.  Unfortunately Fred
Blake, Mackenzie's driver, was not on hand, but it was decided
that Belfleur should go ahead with George and the coffin, and that
Mackenzie and I should follow with the baggage the next morning.
It was nine o'clock when the eight dogs that were to haul the two
men and the coffin got under way.  All the natives were sorry to
see George go, his genial manners and cheerful grin having made
him a prime favourite.  Mackenzie's little housekeeper and Mark
Blake's wife, who had been George's hostess, wept copiously.

Mackenzie, Fred Blake, and I got off at six o'clock the next
morning.  Our seven big dogs were howling and straining on the
long traces as I said good-bye to all the good friends that had
been so kind to me and had gathered to see me leave.  It took us
until evening of the following day to reach Rigolet.  The Eskimo
dogs almost invariably leave a house and arrive at one with a
great flourish, but between times they settle down to a gentle
pace and have to be urged on with exclamations and much snapping
of the whip.  Ours were much better travellers than those
belonging to the French post, and, despite the fact that they had
a heavier load to haul and were one less in number, we overtook
George and Belfleur on the afternoon of the second day.  A part of
the time Mackenzie and Fred ran beside the komatik on their
snowshoes to get warm, but my knees were still so weak that I had
to stick to the komatik all the way.  We spent the night at the
log cabin of a breed, and before noon the next day came to the
cabin of one Bell Shepard, where we learned George and Belfleur
had spent their second night.

It is considered a gross beach of etiquette on The Labrador to
pass a man's house without stopping for bread and tea, and so we
had to turn in to see Bell.  As he served us with refreshment, he
gave us a startling bit of news, to wit: that there was a great
war raging in the outside world, with Great Britain, the United
States, and Japan on one side, and Russia, France, and Germany on
the other.

"I's sure 'tis true, sir," he insisted, upon observing that
Mackenzie and I appeared incredulous.  "I's just come frum
Rigolet, an' Scott, th' trader, had th' word by th' telegraph to
Chateau.  So 'tis sure true, sir, an' 'tis bad word for us poor
folk on Th' Labrador, with th' prices to go up, as they tells me
they sure will, on flour an' pork."

We found out later that such a report had really spread up the
coast from dog driver to dog driver until it had reached Rigolet,
and it was not until I got to Battle Harbour that I learned that
its basis was the beginning of the conflict between Russia and
Japan.

At Rigolet we were again hospitably received by Fraser, the
factor.  The news of Hubbard's death had preceded us; in fact it
had been carried up and down the coast all the way from Cape
Charles to Cape Chidley.  Awaiting me was a letter from Dr. Cluny
Macpherson, of the Deep Sea Mission at Battle Harbour, who, I was
informed, had recently been to Rigolet and had hoped to see me.
The letter proved to contain much valuable information as to
stopping places and the probabilities of getting dogs between
Rigolet and Battle Harbour, as well as the good news that a
steamer was expected at Battle Harbour early in May.

I also learned from Fraser that Mr. Whitney, editor of Outing
magazine, of which Hubbard had been the associate editor, had sent
a message to the telegraph operator at Chateau Bay requesting him
to lend me every assistance possible and "to spare no expense."
Well-meant though the message was, it had the effect of increasing
my difficulties.  Duly exaggerated and embellished, it had spread
up the coast until every dog owner gained the impression that a
little gold mine was about to pass through his country.  I found
this out when I tried to get dog teams to carry me to Cartwright
Post, the next stage on my journey.  A haughty person named Jerry
Flowers, it appeared, had a monopoly just then of the dog-team
business in the vicinity of Rigolet, and when we arrived at the
post he proceeded to deal with me in the high-handed manner common
to trust magnates.  The regular rate paid by traders for
transportation over the eighty odd miles between Rigolet and
Cartwright was from ten to twelve dollars a team, but for the two
teams I needed Jerry expected me to pay him sixty dollars.

While I was still arguing with the immovable Jerry, John Williams,
an old livyere, fortunately arrived from West Bay, which is half
way to Cartwright, and Fraser used his influence with John to such
good purpose that he consented to take us with his dog team at
least as far as his home at the regular rate.  John had only six
dogs, but he told us we should be able to get an additional team
at William Mugford's two miles beyond Rigolet.

The strait at Rigolet was open, and when, late in the afternoon of
Monday, April 25th, we bade Mackenzie and Fraser farewell, George
and I, with our baggage and Hubbard's body, were taken across
through the cakes of floating ice in one of the Company's big
boats, manned by a crew of brawny post servants.

On the other shore we loaded the baggage and coffin on John's
komatik, and with him driving the dogs and George and I walking
behind on snowshoes, we reached Mugford's at dusk.  There we
stopped for the night, being served with the meals that the people
all down the coast usually eat at that time of the year--bread and
molasses and tea.  With one or two exceptions we had to sleep on
the floor at the places where we stopped; for the houses generally
contained only one room divided by a partition.  Almost all of the
houses had low extensions used as a storage place, and there
Hubbard's body would rest over night.  Never did we pay anything
for our entertainment; poor as the people are, they would be
greatly offended if a traveller they took in offered them money.

Generally speaking, we had good weather for our long journey to
Battle Harbour and pretty fair going.  Day after day we followed
the coast line south, crossing from neck of land to neck of land
over the frozen bays and inlets.  Sometimes we encountered ridges
on the necks of land, and then we would have to help the dogs haul
the loads to the top.  Resuming our places on the komatiks, we
would coast down the slopes, with the dogs racing madly ahead to
keep from being run over.  If the descent was very steep, a drag
in the form of a hoop of braided walrus hide would be thrown over
the front of one of the komatik runners, but even then the dogs
would have to run their hardest to preserve a safe distance
between them and us, and out on the smooth ice of the bays we
would shoot, to skim along with exhilarating swiftness.  As we
proceeded south we were interested in observing signs of spring.
Towards the end of our journey we encountered much soft snow and
water-covered ice.

Mugford agreed to help us out with his four dogs as far as West
Bay.  Arriving there, we found that only one team was procurable
for the rest of the trip to Cartwright, so John Williams continued
on with us all the way.  Forty or fity miles a day is about all
that dogs can be expected to accomplish with average going, and we
spent two days between Rigolet and Cartwright, reaching the
Hudson's Bay Company Post at Sandwich Bay on the evening of
Wednesday, April 27th, to receive kindly welcome from the agent,
Mr. Swaffield.  Again at Cartwright we had some difficulty in
getting dogs, and it was not until Friday morning that we could
push on.  These delays were exasperating, for I was bent on
catching the steamer that Dr. Macpherson informed me in his letter
was due at Battle Harbour early in May.

Our journey resumed, it was a case of fighting dog owners all the
way.  Seal Islands, about ninety miles farther down the coast, we
reached on Saturday night, April 30th.  There we had the good
fortune to be entertained by a quaint character in the person of
Skipper George Morris, a native trader.  He had been expecting us,
and he greeted me as if I had been his long-lost brother.

"Dear eyes!" he exclaimed, wringing my hand in his bluff, cordial
way; "Dear eyes! but I'se glad to see you--wonderful glad!"

The skipper's house was far above the average of those on the
coast.  It had two floors with two rooms each, and his good wife
kept everything clean and bright.  Soon after our arrival the
skipper got out for our edification two shotguns--one single, and
the other double-barrelled--each of which was fully six feet long
from butt to muzzle and had a bore of one and one-half inches.

"Th' Boers ha' been fightin' England," said he, "an' I got un [the
gun] t' fight, sir.  Dear eyes! if th' Boers ha' come handy t' us,
I thinks I could ha' kept un off, sir.  I knows I could wi' them
guns.  I'd sure ha' shot through their schooners, sir, if un was
big as th' mail boat an' steamers like th' mail boat.  I'd ha'
shot through un, sir, an' th' mail boat's a big un, sir, as you
knows."

The next day was May Day.  I knew that at home the birds and the
flowers had returned, and that in dear old New York gay parties of
children were probably marching to the parks.  What a May Day it
was on The Labrador!  The morning ushered in a heavy snow storm,
with a tremendous gale.  Thinking of the steamer due at Battle
Harbour, I suggested that, despite the storm, we might make a
start.  But the skipper exclaimed:

"Dear eyes! an' start in this gale!  No, no, th' dogs could ne'er
face un, sir."

And as George and our drivers thought likewise, we spent the day
resting with the old skipper and his wife, warmly housed and
faring sumptuously on wild duck, while the storm outside seemed to
shake the world to its very foundations.

On May 2d the snow had almost ceased falling and the wind had
somewhat subsided, when at eleven o'clock we parted from the
quaint old skipper whose "Dear eyes!" continued to lend emphasis
to his remarks up to the last that we saw of him.  Rounding a
point of land soon after leaving Seal Islands, we came suddenly
upon two runaway dogs from a team that had been stormbound at Seal
Islands like ourselves.  The runaways were thoroughly startled by
our sudden appearance, and took to their heels, with our teams,
composed respectively of ten dogs and twelve dogs, after them.
The ice we were on had been swept clear of snow by the wind, the
hauling was easy, and our dogs almost flattened themselves out in
their effort to get at the strangers and chew them up.  The pace
became terrific, but there was nothing to do but hold on tight and
trust to luck.  For perhaps five miles our wild ride lasted, and
then, the strange dogs turning to the snow-covered land, our teams
abandoned the race and condescended to pay some heed to their
masters' excited observations.  Fortunately the chase had carried
us in the direction for which we were bound.

Early in the afternoon we reached a cache of cod heads, and
stopped while the dogs were fed one each.  Poor brutes! they had
had nothing to eat since Friday night--this was Monday--and I
imagine a rather scant meal even then; for at this time of the
year the stock of salt seal meat and fat and dried cod heads and
caplin that the natives put up in the summer and fall for dog food
is nearly exhausted, and what remains is used very economically.
Often the dogs receive only one scanty meal every other day.  Our
drivers had intended to feed their teams at Seal Islands, but on
account of the scarcity of dog food none could be purchased.

At four o'clock in the afternoon we reached Norman Bay, where we
found a miserable hut unoccupied save by an abundance of filth,
two cats, and one hen.  As there were no tracks visible in the
snow, the people evidently had been away since the storm began on
Saturday night.  We built a fire in the stove, made tea and fed
ourselves, the cats, and the hen from our grub bag.  I invariably
insisted that our drivers travel as long as there was light, which
at this season lasted until after eight o'clock, and we pushed on
until we came to Corbett's Bite, a place that also rejoices in
the name of New York, the same having been facetiously bestowed
upon it by some fisherman wag, because four small huts had been
collected there to make a "city."

The inhabitants of New York had all moved to their fishing
quarters farther out on the coast when we arrived, and we took
possession for the night of the best of the huts.  Filth and slush
lay an inch deep on the floor of the single room.  A hole in the
roof provided a means of escape for the smoke from the fire we
built in an improvised fireplace, and, at the same time, a
constant source of fear on our part lest some of the dogs which
roamed at will over the roof, fall through it and into our fire.
An old bench and loose boards taken from a semi-partition in the
room served as beds for our party, and we passed a fairly
comfortable night.

We were off at daylight, and at half-past eight that morning (May
3d) reached Williams Harbour, where I had hoped to engage the
teams of John and James Russell and proceed immediately to Battle
Harbour, which place was now only a few miles off.  But the
Russells were away and did not return until night, so that we were
unable to proceed until the following morning.  With their teams
of eight and six dogs the Russells got us away early, however, and
at half-past eleven that morning (May 4th) we arrived at Fox
Harbour, eight miles across the bay from Battle Harbour.  Now a
new problem presented itself, which was all the more exasperating
for the reason that we were in sight of our goal.  The ice pack
was in the bay, and it was quite impossible to cross it until the
wind might shift and blow the pack out.  It is true that by a
tortuous trail some thirty miles around we could with dogs reach
Cape Charles, just below Battle Harbour; but none of the few
drivers that knew the trail was anxious to undertake the journey,
and as the probabilities were that even if we did succeed in
reaching Cape Charles we should be in the same fix there as where
we were, our only course seemed to be to remain at Fox Harbour and
wait.  No vessel, they told us, had yet arrived either at Battle
Harbour or Cape Charles.

George Wakeham, an old English fisherman from Devonshire, who had
spent forty years of his life on The Labrador and had an Eskimo
wife, welcomed us to his house.  Near it was an eminence called
Watch Hill, from which the general situation of the ice pack could
be observed.  Day after day I climbed Watch Hill, and for hours at
a time with a telescope viewed the ice and gazed longingly at
Battle Harbour in the distance.  On the morning of the ninth day
the pack appeared to be spreading, and I decided to run the risk
of getting fast in the ice, and make at least an attempt to start.
So George and I and the five natives that were to row us over got
the boat afloat, prepared for a start immediately after luncheon.

Meanwhile George and I ascended Watch Hill for another look at the
ice pack.  Upon scanning the distant shore line through the
telescope we discovered a speck moving in the bay away over near
Battle Harbour.  A little later we were assured that it was a big
row-boat laboriously making its way through the ice.  It came
nearer and nearer, obviously headed for Fox Harbour.  At noon it
arrived, and its brawny crew of fishermen said they had come for
us.  Dr. Macpherson had sent them.  The steamer that the doctor
had written me was expected had arrived at Cape Charles with a
cargo for a new whale factory, and probably would sail for
Newfoundland the next day.  Having heard we were on our way down
the coast, and divining that we were held at Fox Harbour by the
ice, Dr. Macpherson had sent the boat so that we might be sure to
get the steamer.  I marvelled greatly at these evidences of the
doctor's thoughtfulness for us who were absolute strangers to him,
and was deeply touched.

We placed the coffin in the boat, together with our baggage, and
started at once.  The men had instructions to take us directly to
the ship as she lay off Cape Charles, and after a row of about
thirteen miles we reached her at five o'clock in the afternoon.
She was the Aurora, one of the Newfoundland sealing fleet.  It was
like reaching home to be on shipboard again, and I felt that my
troubles were ended.  The mate, Patrick Dumphry, informed me,
however, that her commander, Captain Abraham Kean, was at Battle
Harbour, and that the steamer would not sail before the following
night.  So, wishing to have Hubbard's coffin prepared for the
voyage, and to meet and thank Dr. Macpherson, I had the men row me
back the five miles to Battle Harbour.

There I learned that, upon receiving the first news of my proposed
attempt to bring out Hubbard's body, Dr. Macpherson had made a
special trip of twenty-five miles to Chateau Bay, to telegraph to
New York suggesting that arrangements be made with Bowering & Co.,
the owners of the Aurora, to have that steamer pick us up at
Battle Harbour.  Perhaps I should say here that the kindness of
the doctor to us was only what might have been expected from a
gentleman by birth and breeding who, with his charming wife,
buries himself on the desolate coast of Labrador, in order to do
his Master's work.  Pitiable indeed would be the condition of the
poor folk on The Labrador were it not for Dr. Grenfell and his
brave co-workers of the Deep Sea Mission.  For hundreds of miles
along the coast they travel on their errands of mercy, braving the
violent storms of the bitter Arctic winter, sleeping in the
meanest of huts, and frequently risking their lives in open boats
on the raging sea.  Many is the needy one for whom they have found
work, many is the stricken soul that they have comforted, and many
is the life that their medical skill has saved.

At the doctor's house I received my first letters from home, and
the first accurate news of what had been transpiring in the
outside world.  While there I also met Captain Kean.
Unfortunately the people in New York had not made the arrangement
Dr. Macpherson had suggested, but the captain assumed the
responsibility of carrying us to Newfoundland, saying that we
should go as his guests.  He is a former member of the
Newfoundland parliament, and a man of influence as well as
initiative, and it was lucky for us that he commanded the Aurora,
else we, in all probability, should have had to push farther down
the coast with dogs, or waited at Battle Harbour for the first
appearance of the mail boat.

The next day (Friday, May 13th) a firm of traders at Battle
Harbour, under Dr. Macpherson's supervision, lined Hubbard's
coffin with sheet lead and sealed it hermetically.  The body was
still frozen and in good condition.  In the afternoon we were
taken to the Aurora by Dr. Macpherson and a crew of his men, and
established in the cabin, while Hubbard's coffin was carefully
stowed away in the hold, there to remain until it was transferred
at St. Johns to the Silvia, the steamer on which my old friend, so
full of life and ambition, had sailed from New York, and which now
was to carry him back a corpse.

Because of a delay in getting her unloaded, the Aurora did not
sail until Saturday evening.  The sky was all aglow with a
gorgeous sunset when we weighed anchor and steamed out of Cape
Charles Harbour down across the straits of Belle Isle.  The night
was equally glorious.  As darkness fell, the sky and sea were
illuminated by the northern lights.  There was no wind and the sea
was calm.  Close to our port side an iceberg with two great spires
towered high above us; another large iceberg was on our starboard.
Before us Belle Isle and the French shore were dimly visible.
Behind us the rocky coast of Labrador gradually faded away.




XXIV. HUBBARD'S MESSAGE

Out voyage from Labrador to Newfoundland was uneventful, and on
Tuesday morning, May 17th, the Aurora steamed into St. Johns
Harbour.  I was on the bridge with Captain Kean when we passed
through the narrows, eagerly looking to see if the ship was there
that was to take us home.  To my great satisfaction the Silvia was
at her wharf, and George and I lost no time in presenting
ourselves to my old friend Captain Farrell, her commander, who was
engaged on deck when we arrived.  He literally took me to his arms
in welcome, and like everyone in St. Johns showed me the greatest
consideration and kindness.  Bowring & Company, the owners of the
Aurora, placed at my disposal their steam launch and such men as I
needed, to aid me in the transference of the body from the Aurora
to the Silvia, and they would make no charge for either this
service or for our passage from Cape Charles to St. Johns.

On Friday morning, May 20th, the Silvia sailed from St. John's,
and one week later (Friday the 27th), with her flag at half mast,
steamed slowly to her dock in Brooklyn.

It was a sad home-coming.  Scarcely a year before, Hubbard, light-
hearted and gay, filled with hope and ambition and manly vigour,
had stood by my side on that very deck as together we waved
farewell to the friends that were gathered now to welcome George
and me back.  I thought of how, when we were fighting our way
across the desolate wilderness, he had talked of, and planned for,
this hour; and thought of his childlike faith that God would take
care of us and lead us safely out.  And then I asked myself why
George and I, whose faith was so much the weaker, had been spared,
while Hubbard, who never lost sight of the religion of his youth,
was left to die.  I felt that I was the least deserving.  And I
lived.  And Hubbard died.  Why?  I had no answer to the question.
That was God's secret.  Perhaps Hubbard's work, in the fulness of
His plan, had been completed.  Perhaps He still had work for me to
do.

We laid him to rest in a beautiful spot in the little cemetery at
Haverstraw, at the very foot of the mountains that he used to
roam, and overlooking the grand old Hudson that he loved so well.
The mountains will know him no more, and never again will he dip
his paddle into the placid waters of the river; but his noble
character, his simple faith, a faith that never wavered, but grew
the stronger in his hour of trouble, his bravery, his indomitable
will--these shall not be forgotten; they shall remain a living
example to all who love bravery and self-sacriflce.

The critics have said that Hubbard was foolhardy, and without
proper preparation he plunged blindly into an unknown wilderness.
I believe the early chapters of this narrative show that these
criticisms are unfounded, and that Hubbard took every precaution
that could occur to a reasonable mind.  Himself a thorough student
of wilderness travel, in making his preparations for the journey
he sought the advice of men of wider experience as to every little
detail and acted upon it.

Others tell how fish-nets might have been made from willow bark
"after the manner of the Indians," and describe other means of
securing food that they claim men familiar with woodcraft would
have resorted to.  The preceding chapters show how impracticable
it would have been for us to have consumed our small stock of
provisions while manufacturing a fish-net from bark; and how we
did resort to every method at our command of procuring food.
Unfortunately we fell upon a year of paucity.  The old men of the
country bore witness that never before within their memory had
there been such a scarcity of game.

But by far the most serious criticism of all, to my mind, is that
against the object of the expedition.  It has been said that, even
had Hubbard succeeded in accomplishing everything that he set out
to do, the result would have been of little or no value to the
world.  In answer to this I cannot do better than to quote from
the eloquent tribute to Hubbard's expedition made by his old
college friend, Mr. James A. LeRoy, in the magazine issued by the
Alumni Association of their alma mater.

"Editorial wiseacres," says Mr. LeRoy, "may preach that such
efforts as Hubbard made are of no great immediate value to the
world, even if successful.  But the man who is born with the
insatiable desire to do something, to see what other men have not
seen, to push into the waste places of the world, to make a new
discovery, to develop a new theme or enrich an old, to contribute,
in other words, to the fund of human knowledge, is always
something more than a mere seeker for notoriety; he belongs,
however slight may be his actual contribution to knowledge,
however great his success or complete his failure, to that
minority which has from the first kept the world moving on, while
the vast majority have peacefully travelled on with it in its
course.  The unpoetical critic will not understand him, will find
it easy to call him a dreamer; yet it is from dreams like these
that have come the world's inspirations and its great
achievements."

Without any trace of the finicality that so often is pure
morbidity, Hubbard was the most conscientious man I ever knew, a
man who was continually thinking of others and how he might help
them.  Doubtless some will see in his brave life's struggle only a
determination to win for himself a recognised place as a writer
and expert upon out-of-door life; but those who were privileged to
enjoy his intimacy know that the deep, underlying purpose of the
man was to fit himself to deliver to the world a message that he
felt to be profoundly true--a message that should inspire his
fellow-men to encounter the battle of life without flinching, that
should make them realise that unceasing endeavour and loyalty to
God, their conscience and their brothers are indeed worth while.
He died before he reached the goal of his ambition, but I do not
believe that his message was undelivered.

Only men that have camped together in a lonely, uninhabited
country can in any degree comprehend the bond of affection and
love that drew Hubbard and me ever closer to each other, as the
Labrador Wild lured us on and on into the depths of its desolate
waste.  "The work must be done," he used to say, "and if one of us
falls before it is completed, the other must finish it."  His
words ring in my ear as a call to duty.  I see his dear, brave
face before me now.  I feel his lips upon my cheek.  The smoke of
the camp-fire is in my blood.  The fragrance of the forest is in
my nostrils.  Perhaps it is God's will that I finish the work of
exploration that Hubbard began.



End of Project Gutenberg's The Lure of the Labrador Wild, by Dillon Wallace
