If Roy had not been with them, the Indians would certainly never have found themselves in such a desperate plight. They would never have thought of attempting to cross the river, for they understood better than anyone the portentous signs of a “break-up.” But Roy in a black humor had decided to go on, and his word was law. Therefore, what else could they do? What was left them to do? They would as soon have thought of questioning the wisdom of the Creator as disputing Roy’s judgment—probably sooner. For such was their habit of obedience, a habit handed down by generations of men who had been Company’s servants. In truth Sahanderry had turned positively grey with terror when Roy had decided to cross. However, though he was not one of the bravest of men, what he did was not easy. It required considerable self-control to lead the way, as was his duty, for it was like walking to almost certain death.
Since leaving the spot where they had as they thought left Broom asleep, the difficulties of their journey had grown with every passing day; indeed, the last few days’ travel, toiling ankle-deep in slush, had been very hard work, for spring had come upon them and the snow was disappearing as if by magic, and though they had not many miles to go, the nearer they approached their destination the slower had been their progress, and this had irritated Roy almost to a frenzy. Consequently the signs that should have warned him to stay had been the very things to urge him on. Clearly his usual good judgment had been at fault; and his blindness could not have been wholly responsible for this, as his hearing had been preternaturally sharpened thereby and there could have been no possible doubt as to his having heard the frequent significant explosions up the river, which had been loud enough to waken the dead, so to speak. Moreover he had had a good idea of the character of the river, therefore these recurring reports should have been sufficient to warn him. But truth to tell his mood had become fierce and reckless, and brooked no control.
Howbeit the little party found themselves on a surface of quaking, rocking ice that threatened to “break up” and move out at any moment. Just where they were the river was of considerable width and the ice was very soft, and they were in a very bad way indeed.
Rain had fallen during the past week; floods of the creeks and larger tributaries were pouring into the river, and the great volume of water was lifting the ice, and, as it strained and labored from this great pressure, the explosions grew louder, nearer and more frequent. Presently, far up the stream, a huge billow of straining, tumbling ice-cakes reared its head and came steadily toward them. Behind this mighty billow was the spring freshet against which nothing could stand. Meanwhile, his eyes wide with terror, Sahanderry slipped and stumbled ahead of the poor miserable dogs, who strained and tore at their traces, half running, half swimming in places, where the water was deep. The sled and everything on it were streaming wet, for at times it was almost entirely submerged in deep holes, filled with water. The dogs were urged on by the boy David, who, though almost played out by dragging the sled, still “drove them up” vigorously; turning ever and anon to look back at Kasba, who was following slowly, painfully, behind, and leading Roy by the hand.
By and by there was a ruder shock than any that had gone before and the whole ice field became in motion. Startled at last out of his indifference, Roy gave an exclamation of concern and stood still, but his expression did not change; he was perfectly cool and self-possessed; the sort of coolness that comes upon strong men in moments of danger. The grinding of the ice was terrible to hear, and soon the whole ice field was moving down stream. Roy, now thoroughly alive to their situation, turned to Kasba: “The river is ‘going out’?” he said, interrogatively.
The girl paused to control her voice before she answered.
“Yes, Bekothrie,” she said quite steadily. “It is on the move.” She neither wept nor trembled, though she fully realized the danger they were in.
“Can we return to the bank?” asked Roy quietly.
The girl looked back. The ice behind them was piling along the shore in impassable confusion. “No, Bekothrie,” she said, “we cannot go back.”
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Far in front,” answered the girl. “They are waiting for us.”
“Then send them on,” said Roy peremptorily. “Let them save themselves.”
Thereupon Kasba waved Sahanderry and David on. The man at once struck off, but the boy paused as if loath to go. At that the girl frantically repeated her gesticulations and the boy drove up his dogs again, but with apparent reluctance. Soon man, boy and dogs were lost to sight in the confusion of ice.
“They are gone, Bekothrie,” affirmed the girl.
“Very well,” said Roy, “let us go too.” The girl took his hand again, and they went on their way. Their progress was necessarily slow. Their path was strewn with pitfalls for Roy’s feet, and soon the girl was panting from her exertions in keeping him upright, but within her delicate body there dwelt an unconquerable spirit.
Reaching a comparatively smooth surface they skated along with increased speed. There were puddles of water which they could not avoid. Cracks more or less wide open barred their way, and guided by the girl Roy crossed them, jumping easily or exerting himself to the utmost, according to the emergency. But more than one opening was too wide to allow of any assistance from Kasba’s helping hand, and he had to make the attempt entirely by her direction. All this was very wearying, for however careful he might be, he was bound to expend a great deal of strength to no purpose. It is one thing to jump with eye and muscle acting together, and another to do it blindly, as everybody knows. Poor Roy!
At times there were gaps which neither could leap. They skirted these, walking as fast as possible. Out of breath and entirely worn out with fatigue, Roy would often fall in a heap upon the ice to rest. He was cold and disheartened, and would have given up altogether if it had not been for the girl’s presence, for he valued his life not a jot since his terrible affliction. Therefore his own danger appealed less to him than the girl’s situation. It seemed such a terrible thing that she should lose her bright young life in trying to save his, which was worthless. He well knew that by herself the girl could have crossed the river safely, for she was fearless and as agile as a cat, springing and climbing with the greatest ease.
Then the ice started to rock beneath their feet. “Hurry—hurry!” cried Kasba, dragging him forward with the desperate energy of a man. “We have not a moment to lose if we would save our lives.”
“Leave me,” said Roy withdrawing his hand, “and save yourself.”
For a moment the girl gazed at him in horrified surprise. “Leave you!” she exclaimed in a tone that was unmistakable. “I will not leave you.” There was a power in her tone that struck him with amazement.
“But I keep you back.”
“Nevertheless, I will not leave you,” repeated the girl firmly.
In spite of their desperate situation Roy could not help smiling. He realized that their positions had suddenly changed; it was the girl’s spirit which now predominated. “Very well, then,” he said, giving her his hand again. “Go on.” The thundering of the broken ice floes, the grinding of the smaller pieces against each other, made conversation difficult. Here and there the force of the flood piled up mountains of cakes which, after a moment, toppled over with a deafening crash.
Presently there was a shock which capped all others, and the ice field stopped. They knew that somewhere below it had become jammed, and that an added peril threatened them, for the river was rising each moment, and if the ice did not overwhelm them it seemed that the flood must. The cakes rocked threateningly, collided together, then stopped, but the jam could not hold them back long.
Stumbling, struggling, striving, Kasba dragged Roy along. They were pitiful sights, these two. Their hands and feet were bleeding, their moccasins had long since worn out, as had the duffles and hose beneath them, and their clothes were cut and torn. Kasba’s dress hung in ribbons and was soaking wet, impeding her movements, while Roy’s knees showed through great holes, the result of many tumbles. Every step he took was an effort, a terrible effort, still he dare not give up and let the girl die, for she would not leave him, he knew.
Slipping and sliding they struggled on.
Presently, to Kasba’s horror, they came to a strait of dark water at least five feet across, while on either hand huge piles of ice cakes blocked their way. The situation was desperate. The girl stopped dead, holding Roy back. “We cannot go on,” she said. “We have come to a very wide crack.” Then she laughed as lightly as if there were no such thing as danger. Roy heard her and understood; she was pretending to be gay in order to make it easier for him.
“How wide is it?” he demanded, steadying his voice with difficulty. The situation was very nerve-racking.
“It is very wide,” returned the girl. “The widest yet. You must not attempt it; you will fall in.”
“I’ll not,” replied Roy with emphasis. “Can you manage it?”
“Yes, Bekothrie,” declared the girl bravely, her voice quite unshaken. Then she laughed again in the same way.
“Well, jump it, then,” said Roy, “and I will follow.”
The girl hesitated a second, then with a coolness that was wonderful she sprang across, but it took all her agility to clear the gap. With a white, set face she stood looking anxiously back at him, across the deep, dark water. “Turn a little to the left, Bekothrie,” she directed. “That will do. Now advance a few steps. Stop! You are now on the edge. Spring straight forward and I will catch you.” The girl braced her feet to receive the shock, while poor, blind Roy bunched his muscles for the effort.
“Now!” shouted the girl and stood with hands extended ready to receive him.
At the word Roy launched himself forward, but at the same instant the ice rocked beneath his feet and almost threw him down; recovering himself somewhat, he made his spring, but it fell short and he plunged into the water. Kasba uttered a cry of horror and despair, but stooping till she was herself in peril of falling she grabbed him by the collar with both hands and held him up. It was a terrible moment. The girl skilfully shifted her clutch to Roy’s wrists, first to one hand, then the other, grasping them with a hold like steel; then, bracing her feet with a strength inconceivable in so frail a body, a strength far beyond her years and size, she lifted him so high that he could relieve her of his weight by sprawling on his chest across the ice and by wriggling his body assist her to haul him out.
Then Roy staggered to his feet with an unsteady laugh, but the girl, who stood breathing hard from the efforts of her superhuman exertions, looked anxiously into his face and saw that his teeth were chattering and that his lips were blue. He was shivering from head to foot.
“You are cold,” she said, greatly alarmed.
“I’m not,” denied Roy shortly, but for the life of him he could not keep his voice steady. “Come, let us get on,” and unaided he tottered forward a few steps, then swayed and would have fallen had not the girl supported him.
“You must rest,” she said decisively, studying his face closely. “Sit down.” Taking his arm, she guided him to a nearby hummock. “Sit down,” she repeated; “the ice is jammed and for the moment we are safe.” She tried to speak cheerfully, but Roy’s desperate case made her sick at heart.
For a wonder Roy obeyed, though to be strictly truthful he could not do otherwise. His brain was beginning to reel from exhaustion, and he fell rather than sat down. Every bone and muscle ached; his breath came in gasps. The girl seated herself beside him, and quite unconsciously his head dropped back and rested against her shoulder. She took one of his hands softly in both hers while she gazed into his face. She loved him more than her own life. Poor little thing, how her heart fluttered, how the blood rushed to her face! She drew him closer and covered him as much as she could with her arms, trying to put some warmth into his icy-cold body. She was afraid that he would hear her heart, which was beating like a hammer. She was for the moment indescribably happy. Careless of any danger to herself, she looked up into his face as he leaned against her and held him tighter. There was not a trace of fear in her own face, nor indeed of any feeling but love and sympathy. If they were to die, she would prefer to die like that. What did anything matter since they were together?
Roy seemed to divine her thoughts. “What’s the use of your remaining?” he asked. “You cannot save me by losing your life.” He spoke almost roughly and the girl started as if struck a blow.
“I am not frightened,” she answered quietly. “It will not be hard to die.”
Roy turned half round, as if to look into her face; in fact, his sightless eyes seemed to be fixed upon hers. “You are a very brave girl, Kasba,” he said tenderly; “the bravest I have ever known. Why are you so good to me?” The words were scarcely spoken before he regretted them; a distressed look came to his face instantly, for he remembered and was deeply touched by the sincerity of her love for him.
The girl said nothing for a moment, but looked at him with a smile of unutterable tenderness, which he could not see. “I love you!” she said simply. “Now you really know, at last.”
“I knew already,” declared Roy. His voice rang painfully, for he understood how she loved him as he had not understood before, and it seemed as though it must have somehow been his fault. The full strength and nobility and devotion of her passion for him rushed on him. For the first time he saw the splendid heroism of which her untrained nature would have been capable had she met with a different fate, and it filled him with a passion of remorse. “Poor child! poor child! What have I done to be worthy of such love?” he murmured, and feeling for her hand, he found and pressed it, almost caressingly. Then, drawing her to him, he felt for her face, and, taking it between his hands, he drew it closer and kissed her smooth young forehead. “Poor child,” he repeated sadly. There was a shadow of pain in the words.
The girl’s eyes filled and she uttered something that sounded like a sob.
At that instant there was a tremendous explosion below, and soon the ice field started to move again down the current.
The girl started up, and seizing Roy’s hand she pulled him to his feet. “On! on!” she urged. “We must not stop here. The jam has burst and we shall be carried out to sea.” As the field moved, mountains of ice which had piled up because of the jam, toppled over with deafening noise, and for a time no other sound could be heard. Guiding Roy, the girl moved forward as swiftly as possible. The fates were good to them. Before them, and reaching almost to the opposite shore, was one vast stretch of smooth ice. Once upon that they made better progress and Kasba grew hopeful. Moving their feet as if skating, they rapidly drew nearer to the shore. Soon Kasba was able to make out the figures of Sahanderry and the boy David, who stood in perilous positions on top of huge blocks of ice, which the action of the flood had piled up on the shore during the jam. They were waving frantically.
“We are almost there,” Kasba shouted encouragingly in Roy’s ear: “We shall be saved yet.”
But Roy shook his head. He could not understand the words addressed him. Nevertheless he did his best to keep up as the girl dragged him forward.
They were now close, but the ice they were on was fast going down stream, and the two on the ice wall were compelled to scramble along in order to keep abreast. Presently there was a lull in the noise caused by the grinding, screaming ice and they could plainly hear Sahanderry’s voice adjuring them to hasten. Roy raised his voice in a mighty shout in reply, using his fists for a trumpet, and tried to increase his pace, but stumbled at almost every step. However, the girl was possessed of marvellous strength and dragged him by sheer force toward the shore.
And soon they were at the base of the ice wall, which they were passing at a great rate. Sahanderry on the summit above them whirled a coil about his head, then throwing it away from him, it straightened itself out and an end fell at Kasba’s feet. It was the clapmatch line which belonged to the sled. Quickly the girl caught up the end and tied it round Roy’s waist. But, divining her intention, he caught hold of her and despite her struggles would not let her go. The boy and man began to pull upon the line.
The foundations of the ice wall were being undermined by the rushing water and it swayed threateningly. Would it hold a little longer?
The man and boy strained on the line, and half-climbing, half-scrambling, the two were dragged together to the top of first one ice block, then another. They were now out of danger from the ice floes, but the structure they were on was trembling and threatening to collapse, and desperately they strove to gain the summit before it should topple upon them.
Perceiving the danger, Sahanderry and the boy David tugged on the line with every ounce of their strength, and Roy, who clung with a deadly grasp to the girl, was pulled violently to the top, and as he came the girl was dragged up with him. Once there the whole party lost no time in precipitating themselves down on the other side, and before long were safe ashore, nor were they a moment too soon; for they had scarcely left the ice before the entire wall swayed slowly over and toppled into the river with a thundering crash that sent a painful thrill through each one of them.
“Thank God we are saved!” cried the girl breathlessly.
“Amen!” said Sahanderry solemnly, lifting his hat and reverently bowing his head, an action which was closely imitated by David. Roy nodded, but said nothing. He was too exhausted for words and was again shivering violently. Kasba silently pointed this out to Sahanderry, who at once turned his attention to building a shelter in the form of a brushwood camp, while David made a huge fire, which was no sooner lighted than Roy threw himself down beside it, and almost immediately clouds of steam rose from his wet clothing.
Soon they were all enjoying the warmth of the blaze. They had not eaten since early morning, but after such a day of fatigue and excitement they all felt more inclined for rest than food. On comparing notes it was found that, except for an overpowering fatigue, a severe wetting and minor cuts and bruises, none of them were any the worse for their nerve-racking adventure. But they would not go on farther that day—that was of course out of the question. Later in the evening Roy decided to spend a few days on the spot, and in the end determined on remaining there altogether. For he thought the situation over carefully, and decided that with the break-up of the river spring had come in earnest. Nature was awaking once more from her heavy sleep in the long winter night.
The renovation of creation in spring is, I think, more impressive in the Far North than in any other part of the world, on account of the greater contrast with what has gone before.
This river, Roy argued, would serve their purpose as well as the one they had had in mind on leaving Fort Future. So Sahanderry was told to make a house in the vicinity.
Despite their desperate situation Roy could not help smiling when he gave the order, for there was practically no building material at hand. Nevertheless Sahanderry soon accomplished his task. The walls were of small logs, the roof of several layers of parchments (undressed deerskins), which they had brought with them, stretched to the tightness of a drumhead and overlaid with turf. A hole cut in one of the walls was, in the absence of glass, covered with a piece of cotton and formed a window. The door was made of boards which had been chopped with infinite labor from logs. There was no chimney, nor was it required, as, in the absence of a stove, the cooking would have to be done outside.
And in this primitive dwelling Roy Thursby decided to drag out his monotonous existence.
One morning a few weeks later the sun rose quickly over the horizon, as if it had overslept and was hurrying to make up lost time. Its angry crimson face threw a lurid glow across the sky, like the reflection of some mighty conflagration.
A small coast-boat, dancing on the waves of a flood-tide, tugged impatiently at her anchor, while a strong south wind sportively dashed an occasional drenching spray across her deck, much to the discomfort of a number of men lying there.
At length one of these recumbent figures rose slowly to his feet and scanned the horizon with a sailor’s eye. It was our old friend George Hopkins. He stood for a moment staring at the crimson sunrise, then touched the nearest sleeper with his foot. “At-tee, Oulybuck, A-no-ee pi-chi-ak (Now, Oulybuck, it is a fair wind),” he said.
The Eskimo addressed threw back his blankets with a sleepy ejaculation, rose to his knees and then to his feet, gazing around him the while. When his eye encountered the threatening sky he uttered a disapproving grunt.
One by one four other Eskimos crawled from under their blankets, yawned, stretched themselves, and scowled at the approaching storm.
In a few minutes the little anchor was up and the boat was speeding on her way north. Hopkins perched himself in the stern to steer while the Eskimos dropped into positions of ease, awaiting orders.
Soon the wind freshened and the sea began to dance. As the boat cut her way through the billows a head was poked out from an improvised cabin amidships. It was the head of a man well on in years, with grey hair and a long grey beard. His keen blue eyes scanned the heavens, noted the direction of the wind, then turned to the steersman.
“Fair wind, eh! George?” he remarked.
Hopkins glanced at the lowering clouds, then with dubious cheerfulness, he replied: “Yes, but we’ll have bad weather before long.”
“Let us hope you are mistaken,” returned the other, withdrawing his head.
In a few minutes he reappeared fully attired. It was Chief Factor McLeod, accompanied by his daughter Lena and his nephew Frank, and on his way to inspect Fort Future.
Shortly after Mr. McLeod’s appearance the sound of girlish laughter, mingled with the protesting voice of a man, proceeded from the cabin. There was the noise of a scuffle, then a young woman burst out and sprang behind the Factor. As she stood there, her face alive with mischievous laughter, her eyes sparkling with merriment, her bosom heaving with the exertions of her playful struggle, she was the picture of a bonny, saucy, Scottish maiden.
Soon a fresh, boyish face appeared in the cabin doorway.
“Look here, Uncle,” groveled the young fellow, a little sulkily, “I wish you would keep that daughter of yours in order. She is more mischievous than a monkey. Yes, a monkey, miss,” he added severely, for the girl was making grimaces at him from behind her father’s back. “She can’t leave me alone five minutes, sir.”
“Lena! Lena!” admonished Mr. McLeod with a smile and a look of deep affection. “Will you never act as a grown-up young lady should?”
The girl laughed derisively at her cousin, then, abruptly turning her back, she caught her father’s arm and pulled him to the side of the boat. As they gazed over the turbulent waters, a low, hoarse roar made itself heard above the noise of dashing waves. The expected gale was upon them. A damp column of cold air struck the boat, bellying out the canvas with a jerk, and wrenching the yielding mass, until it bowed heavily over before the shock.
The mainsail was quickly dropped and the boat righted herself. Sluggishly great waves buffeted her, causing her to stagger when they struck.
Presently the gale became furious, fully justifying Hopkins’ prognostications. The sea was so rough that the boat was in great danger of being smashed by the sheer weight of water hurled against her side. But they were compelled to go on, however terrible the storm might be, for the wind had swerved round to the west and this, with the tide on the ebb, prevented them running close-in to anchor in one of the numerous rivers along the coast. The boat was fast being carried out to sea, the land was becoming a thin black line in the far distance, and shortly all trace of it was lost to sight.
Perceiving their peril, Hopkins gave the helm to a trusty lieutenant and stumbled forward to speak to the Chief Factor, who was standing there alone. He had long since sent Lena to the cabin and now stood with his arm twined around a back-stay, strung to the tension of a harpstring, and his eyes sparkling with excitement as the little craft beneath him tossed and rolled and tore along. His drenched hair and beard were flying back from his face, which was streaming with salt water.
“She’s not holding her own against the combined fury of wind and tide,” he cried at Hopkins’ approach.
“We’re being carried out to sea, sir,” declared George with some disgust. Just then a tremendous sea caught the boat and she gave a lurch, throwing him violently down. The plunging masses of water made her quiver to her keel, and threatened to swamp her, but digging her nose into the great waves she staggered on.
“Thank God we are still afloat,” murmured Mr. McLeod. “Another shock like that and it will be all up with us.” Then turning to Hopkins he enquired whether he had been hurt in the fall.
Hopkins shook his head.
“We are being carried out to sea, you say, but what can we do?” questioned the Factor.
“We can drop anchor, and try to ride it out, sir.”
The Factor shook his head. “The seas would smash us,” he said.
George nodded. “Then we must hoist the mainsail again. I’m afraid she won’t carry it, but we can try. There’s a shoal that runs from a point of land ahead of us; if we can make that we’ll anchor in the lee of it.”
“All right! Hoist your mainsail, then. But have it close reefed.”
Staggering back to the stern, Hopkins resumed charge of the rudder and the mainsail was reefed and hoisted, but with great difficulty, for the wind, catching the spreading canvas, flapped it with a report like a gun-shot, threatening to snatch it away. The extra sail caused the boat to heel over alarmingly.
A smothered ejaculation of concern came from the cabin and soon Lena appeared, enveloped in a serviceable macintosh. Perceiving that she was alone the Factor hastened to assist her to a position of safety. Meanwhile Hopkins was straining his eyes in search of land. He was feeling very uneasy, for it seemed impossible that the boat could much longer resist the perpetual attack of the waves. The point at issue was simply—would the coast-boat last till they reached a place where they could anchor, or would she be swamped or smashed to pieces before they reached a place of safety?
At length there was a shout from an Eskimo lookout in the bow.
“Nuna! (land)” he cried.
“Ninne? Ninne? (where? where?)” asked the other Eskimos in chorus.
“Na-nee! (there)” cried the bowsman, pointing almost straight ahead.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Mr. McLeod, with a long sigh of relief, while Hopkins’ face cleared, and the Eskimos lost their anxious looks, for right ahead of them was a small island of sand, over which the waves broke in rapid succession. It was the shoal of which Hopkins had spoken, and for which they had been so anxiously looking.
Their jubilation was shortlived, however, for they had scarcely got the anchor ready before the boat struck something under water with a terrible thud and remained fast. The jerk caused by the sudden stoppage threw the men off their feet, and snapped the mainmast short at the shaft, carrying the sail and gear overboard. The boat heeled over, great waves dashed into her and in an instant she was full of water.
Quick of action, the Chief Factor caught Lena about the waist and hoisted her to the top of the cabin, then, scrambling up himself, he signaled to the others to do likewise. The roaring of the surf, breaking over the small island, drowned all other noises.
Turning to Hopkins and forming a trumpet with his hands, the Factor endeavored to make himself heard. “Tide’s going out,” he shouted. “Shoal will dry . . . may walk ashore . . . if boat will only last till then.”
Hopkins’ lips moved in answer but his words were carried away by the wind.
For two hours the group crouched miserably upon the cabin, clutching at anything within reach to save being washed away by the great volumes of water that poured over them. Lashed by the wind, and drenched to the skin, they waited for the tide to ebb and leave the boat high and dry upon the shoal. The tempest continued with unabated fury, but the little island grew larger every minute.
Gradually the billows receded from the boat. They then discovered that Hopkins had run her on a part of a shoal which extended to a great distance under water at high tide.
At length the shipwrecked party were able to drop over the boat’s side to the sand beneath, and walk to the prominence of the sandy island, where for a time, at least, they would be safe.
Calling Hopkins aside, the Factor attempted to prepare for eventualities. But it was only by turning their backs to the wind that they were able to distinguish what was said.
“Hopkins,” Mr. McLeod began, “it is necessary that we should discover if there is any means of leaving this shoal before the tide turns.”
“Yes, sir,” replied George, “and the sooner the better.”
“But it will necessitate an exploration of that part of the shoal,” said the Chief Factor, indicating the part nearest the mainland, “and that is still under water.”
“I am ready, sir.”
“Yes, George, I know you are always ready to do your duty, but you cannot go alone. We will go together. I must see for myself. My nephew and daughter will remain with the Eskimos. You will tell the Eskimos to stay near them till we return.”
Hopkins instructed the Eskimos who straightway grouped themselves near by.
Meanwhile Mr. McLeod was informing Lena of the proposed reconnaissance. Embracing her father, the girl urged him not to risk himself unnecessarily. The Factor promised to be as prudent as possible, then called Hopkins and they set out.
It was with the greatest difficulty that they faced the wind, but struggling desperately and unceasingly, they crept along. After an extremely difficult and laborious journey they arrived at the other end of the island, or shoal, and to their dismay found it was divided from the mainland by a large bay of water, which the wind was lashing into furious waves.
Taking off his l’Assumption belt and tying a stone in one end of it, Hopkins lowered it into the water to ascertain the depth, but was unable to touch bottom. At this, his face lengthened and the Factor, who had been closely watching him, gave a groan of dismay, for their hopes of escape by wading ashore were destroyed.
“Nothing but a raft can save us now,” said George dejectedly.
The other shook his head dubiously. He was turning his footsteps sorrowfully backwards when a great shout from his companion brought him to a halt. Turning quickly, he discovered Hopkins wildly gesticulating toward a point of land in the far distance, and looking in that direction, he first saw something infinitely small dancing upon the waters, then several small objects which speedily followed it. He turned to his companion for information.
“Eskimos,” explained Hopkins in answer to the other’s look of puzzled enquiry. “They’ve lashed their ka-yaks (parchment canoes) together and are coming to help us. See,” he added excitedly, pointing to the far-off land, “they’re camped over there to hunt nitchuk (seal).”
The Factor turned his eyes to the spot indicated by his companion and after close scrutiny made out several tiny white objects dotted about the sand—these were tents.
Chief Factor McLeod had witnessed many daring feats, but never one to compare with this which the Eskimos were attempting. The waves dashed threateningly over the ka-yaks, but seemed powerless to harm the fragile crafts, which floated with the buoyancy of cork. At times waves larger than their fellows caught them, and, carrying them up on their towering crests appeared to capsize them, but a few strokes of the pou-tik (paddle) seemed to right them again.
As the Eskimos drew nearer, the Factor could see how skillful they really were, with what wonderful precision they handled the ka-yaks, which, in this instance were lashed together in threes, and any doubts he might have had about their effecting a rescue by this ingenious expedient were immediately dispelled. Turning, he gave a joyful shout, which, carried along on the wind, was plainly heard by the anxiously waiting party at the other end of the island. These instantly started to come to him. The Eskimos staggered on sturdily, but Lena found it difficult to force herself forward against the tempest; the wind caught her garments and pressed her backwards, threatening to throw her off her feet. It was only by desperately clinging to her cousin’s arm that she was able to keep her balance and walk slowly on.
Perceiving her predicament the Factor went to the rescue, and with the wind at his back he scudded along and was soon by her side. He managed, by shouting his loudest, to make her hear the broken sentences.
“Eskimos . . . encamped . . . neck of land . . . coming . . . ka-yaks . . . . rescue us . . . .”
By the time they had reached the further end of the island, the ka-yaks were lying high and dry upon the sand and the Eskimo strangers grouped together waiting to greet them.
With quaint gestures, the Factor endeavored to thank them for coming to the rescue of himself and party.
The intrepid Eskimos received phlegmatically the earnest expressions of gratitude.
They nodded deliberately, glanced at the ebbing tide, then walked to the ka-yaks where they stood significantly waiting.
Divining from their behavior that they were anxious to start before the tide turned, which, flowing against the wind would make a rougher and angrier sea than ever, Mr. McLeod lost no more time, but straightway led Lena to the ka-yaks. A trio were now put on the water and Lena was lifted into the middle one. Then an Eskimo stepped quickly into each of the outside ka-yaks and a start was made for the shore. The Factor watched the men paddle desperately for a few moments, then walked quickly to where a set of ka-yaks was waiting for him. And in a very little while the whole number of frail craft were on the water, battling against wind and waves, which had providentially lessened in violence.
After an hour or so of arduous paddling the ka-yak containing Lena touched the shore and the girl was lifted unceremoniously in a pair of malodorous arms and carried to dry land.
Then at intervals others of the shipwrecked crew arrived, all very wet, very cold, and very stiff from sitting in such cramped positions, and painfully they walked up to a large fire which the Eskimo women had kindled.
After such strenuous efforts, the thoughts of the Eskimo rescuers turned to a meal, and taking their shipwrecked comrades with them, they strolled to where several large kettles hung suspended over as many fires. Then the men seated themselves in a circle, the women arranging themselves in another at some little distance from them.
Two large, oblong, wooden dishes, one for each group, were brought from the fires and their contents emptied upon the ground. This was the signal for a mad rush. The men displayed remarkable agility as they scrambled with hearty laughter for the sickly mess—boiled seal meat—while screams from the group of women told that excitement was likewise rife in their midst. Procuring as much as they could hold in both hands, they retired to their former positions in the circle and with the aid of long, murderous-looking knives, wolfishly devoured their portions—cramming their mouths to the utmost extent and cutting off the remainder uncomfortably close to their flat noses and chins.
When all the solids had disappeared, liquids were brought on. Large kettles containing the water in which the meat had been boiled were carried into the centre of the two groups, which once more became struggling masses of humanity, all of them endeavoring to dip a can or a mug into the kettles at one and the same time. The uproar gradually subsided as each person retired to his or her place, chuckling over a mug of greasy liquid.
This simple but animated repast at an end, the Eskimos settled themselves for a deliberate smoke.
Meanwhile the wants of the Chief Factor and party had been cared for by the resourceful Hopkins, and they were glad to be able, at least for a little time, to rest and be thankful. But their respite was of short duration. Fate had chosen that, at that time and place, they should learn of the awful catastrophe at Fort Future and the harrowing news was travelling fast toward them in the person of Acpa, who was on his way with a party of Eskimos in a whaleboat to take charge of the ruins of the Company’s property at Fort Future in compliance with Kasba’s request, and was on the lookout for a suitable spot to put ashore and camp. Perceiving Eskimo tents dotted along the point of land, those in the boat quickly dropped the sail and pulled to the shore.
“Why, it’s Acpa!” declared George Hopkins, greatly astonished, as the old Eskimo stepped out of the boat. “Wonder what he’s doing here,” and with that he strolled down to greet the old fellow, little dreaming what terrible news he would bring back.
Meanwhile Roy Thursby dragged out a miserable existence in the little hut on the bank of the river. Day by day his frame of mind grew more and more despondent and morbid. Everything worth while seemed at an end. Except that at certain times there was the sound of his companions’ movements, and at others only a dreadful stillness for long days together, all “Time” was alike to him; to-day the same as yesterday and to-morrow but a repetition of to-day. He was merely a machine, going through the daily routine of getting up and lying down, eating and drinking, with automatic precision, and the outgoings and incomings of the male members of his party marked the period for each of these acts. It was one long, dreary monotony. He had long since lost count of the days. He was conscious that the occupations of his companions varied as the season wore on and that, in consequence, his diet changed from venison to fish, varied with the flesh of migratory birds, but this interested him not at all. He had long lost all pleasure in food—just eating and drinking to keep the machine going, that was all. A pathetic indifference to everything possessed him. He sat for hours without uttering a word, and when he spoke it was always in monosyllables, and an awed, unnatural silence lay over the house from morn till night, for, as if by tacit consent, the three Indians carried their conversation to the outside of the house.
Thus weeks passed. Sahanderry and David hunted or fished and did the heavier chores. Kasba dressed and smoked deerskins to make into moccasins, made and mended the clothes of herself and companions, cooked the meals and attended to a hundred and one other things.
One day the girl brought Roy his dinner as usual. It was a piece of salmon, the first they had caught. Setting the plate before him, she retired to a seat and took up a garment which required mending. Slowly, and with the indifference of a man without an appetite Roy lifted the food to his mouth, turned it on his tongue, sat a moment as if struck by a sudden thought, and then got unsteadily to his feet, dropping the fork as he arose. He stood a moment like one suddenly awakened from a deep sleep, then: “This is salmon,” he said with a slight inflection as of interest in his voice.
At the sound of his words Kasba started forward, letting the garment fall to the ground. Her lips were parted, her eyes sparkled. This sudden interest might portend a break-up in Roy’s apathy, and to the girl it was as the clear sunshine after days of dismal gloom.
“Yes, Bekothrie,” she answered as soon as emotion would permit her to speak. “We caught the first yesterday.”
“Then this is the middle of July,” he said thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said the girl, divining the trend of his thoughts.
Roy breathed hard and his lips moved; but he dropped slowly back to his seat without further speech.
The girl stood with parted lips watching him expectantly, then, finding he had nothing more to say, and that he seemed fully occupied with his thoughts, she breathed a little disappointed sigh, took up the dropped garment and went patiently on with her sewing. The stitch, stitch of her needle and the song of the busy mosquitoes were the only sounds.
From that time Roy was as one laboring under some suppressed excitement, uneasy, as if waiting for something to happen and dreading while desiring it. He became restless and impatient to a large degree and as Kasba went quietly about her household affairs, she frequently paused to blink away salt tears, called to her eyes by the sight of his misery. The once hulking big fellow was but the shadow of his former self. Great rings showed round his eyes, his face was becoming more and more haggard and drawn, his cheekbones protruded sharply. Perceiving that he was rapidly becoming ill and divining the cause, she timidly essayed a proposal. She would go back to Fort Future and by secretly watching discover when Bekothrie nithee (the far-away master, in this case Mr. McLeod), came. But Roy would not hear of this, though as the time for Mr. McLeod’s arrival at Fort Future drew near he could scarcely contain himself.
He fancied the scene; the dismantled Fort, the grey-haired Chief Factor sorrowfully supporting Lena, sobbing out her heart over what she believed to be his grave. He could hear her heart-breaking cries as she bewailed his loss; hear the cold, tense voice of the Chief Factor swearing to be avenged on the perpetrator of the outrage and murder. Then Lena would be led on board and the boat would sail away. That would be the end. His mind would dwell upon this till his brain reeled, and he would put his hot hand up to his burning forehead as if to press back his thoughts.
Then one day by a process akin to telepathy he became aware that Lena was near. It was the very day Mr. McLeod’s boat was wrecked and its occupants rescued by the Eskimos, and it happened that they were landed near where Roy had, as he thought, so securely hidden himself from all communication with his own kind. At first the poor fellow believed that his mind must be wandering. But the conviction that Lena was there, close at hand, grew stronger every minute, and at last he could contain himself no longer. He felt he must send to the coast to ascertain if anyone had lately landed, or he would go mad. Unwilling to trust the garrulous Sahanderry, he must perforce send Kasba. The girl was outside attending to the fire, he could hear her talking to David. He called to her, and almost instantly she was at his side, and in a few words he explained what he wanted her to do. She smiled confidently. “Yes, Bekothrie,” she said quietly, and without another word she made her preparation and at once started off for the coast, which was about a mile distant.
Arriving at her destination, she discovered the shipwrecked voyagers. From Roy’s description she at once recognized them. The Factor was standing apart with Lena and her cousin. Overcome with feelings of bitter jealousy, she ventured dangerously near in order that she might better discern the features of her fortunate rival.
The grim expression of the Factor’s countenance bore token of a severe determination of mind. Bitter sorrow for the tragic end of his promising, inordinately ambitious young friend mingled with the wrath he felt toward the perpetrator of the tragedy. He gazed with loving solicitude upon Lena, who sat in an attitude of great sorrow. The news had been a great shock to her. The bright, sunny expression had entirely disappeared and a pained, startled expression had come into her face. Her lips trembled as her father’s hand fell lightly upon her head.
“Be brave, my little girl, for my sake,” he pleaded brokenly. Then he walked to where Acpa was sitting, surrounded by a number of Eskimos.
Left alone with his cousin, Frank was in a dilemma; he knew not what to say. Lena’s uncontrollable grief was extremely painful to witness, for he loved her.
At length he leaned over and gazed into the tear-stained features, “Lena, my darling,” he said, “do not grieve so.”
There was a strange pleading in his manly voice. “It breaks my heart to see your distress. After all, it may be, it must be, some mistake. We shall yet find Roy Thursby and find him alive and well.”
“It is kind of you to say so, Frank,” said the girl in a mournfully sweet voice, “but there is no hope, can be no hope, for poor Roy.”
“But, my dear Lena,” began Frank, then glancing behind him, “I heard something moving,” he added, partly to himself.
It was Kasba. Attracted by the sight of Lena’s grief she had drawn quite close. Crouched down among the rocks she had heard, and the poor girl’s despair made Kasba’s warm, affectionate heart ache. The sorrow she herself had suffered, was still suffering, made her tenderly solicitous for another’s misery. She stood with hands tightly clenched, battling with her own desires. She dreaded to speak, to tell Lena that her lover lived, for she well knew what the result would be. Yet she longed to comfort her.
The conflict raged fiercely. The issue at stake was all heaven and earth to her, for without Roy life would be blank indeed. Then why should she give him up? Then she remembered Roy’s misery, that in his heart he was pining for the companionship of his own kind, and the inborn truth, the native generosity and candor, that always overruled every other element in her, conquered now. Girding herself to make a great sacrifice, she stepped into the open.
“Bekothrie nithee!” she cried in a tremulous voice.
Mr. McLeod turned sharply. Lena sprang to her feet expectant of she knew not what.
Then, nerving herself, Kasba spoke the words which would make her forever desolate: “Mr. Thursby is alive,” she said.
With a cry of joy Lena ran swiftly to the brave girl.
“What do you mean?” she asked with feverish eagerness, holding the girl by the wrist. “Roy not dead?” Her voice broke.
“No, God performed a miracle for me.” The girl spoke simply, fully believing what she said. “Mr. Thursby was dead for many hours,” she explained, “then he came to himself. But he is—” Kasba hesitated, fearing to speak the terrible truth.
Lena noticed the girl’s hesitation and was alarmed at once. “Go on,” she cried, clutching the girl’s wrist hard. “Tell me, tell me quickly! Something has happened?” Her voice expressed the utmost anxiety.
“He is totally blind,” said Kasba sadly. She spoke in the greatest distress.
Lena’s face grew dead-white, she stood stiff and rigid, staring at the girl, quite dazed at the horror of the thing.
“Blind!” cried the Chief Factor who had come up. “How terribly horrible! Poor Roy! Ah!” He was just in time to catch his daughter, who uttered a short unnatural sound and reeled against him. But she did not lose consciousness and in a moment her strength returned.
“Let me go!” she cried, sobbing wildly and struggling in her father’s arms. “Let me go to him, or I shall die!”
“You shall go, my child,” said the Chief Factor soothingly. He glanced at Kasba, who nodded and stretched out her hand, that tiny brown hand, which small though it was, had pulled Roy out of the water.
“Come,” she said simply, “I will take you to him.”
Arriving at the hut Kasba stood aside to let Lena pass. “You will find him in there,” she said. But Lena did not hear her, for she was already through the door.
As the door opened Roy started upright in an instant, conscious of the girl’s presence in the room. Lena’s eyes opened wide with horror at the sight of him, she started and drew slightly back, struck speechless by the fearful change in the splendidly vital figure.
There was a painful silence.
Roy stood with head thrust slightly forward in an attitude of listening intently,—in that attitude of concentrated expectancy of sounds peculiar to the totally blind; holding his breath to catch the slightest sound. He trembled all over with excitement. “Lena!” he cried, in a low, tense voice, though believing it impossible that she should be there. Then he swayed unsteadily.
Lena came forward to him quickly, and with a little cry, in which there was more of anguish than joy, her arms went about his neck.
Kasba had remained outside, but she could hear their voices and for a moment her heart stopped beating and her lips set tightly. She pressed one hand to her bosom, uttering a stifled wail like a wounded animal. The sacrifice had been great. She reeled and almost fell. Then she made a great effort, straightened herself and went and leaned against the hut, on the other side, away from the door, and covered her face with her hands. Then a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon her. She felt that something had been taken from her and given to another—something that was more to her than life.
She could still hear their voices. They were happy together; while she was outside alone. And so it would always be now. They would take Roy away and leave her behind, and she would see him no more. Then she heard footfalls, and one was Sahanderry’s. He came and stood beside her. She could hear his sharp breathing. Then, in an impulse, she dropped her hands and gave them to him. “He is happy now,” she said, a little bitterly. “Take me. It was my father’s wish. I am yours.”
Here ends the story of Kasba, and the chronicler makes apology for all that has been amiss in the telling of the events recorded, conscious that a better man could have done it better. Whether Kasba will ever come into another story the author himself cannot tell, nor does he know whether she will be welcome if she comes.
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original.
Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below: