The Wilderness Castaways

The telescope pipe in place, Amesbury put a handful of birch bark in the stove, broke some small, dry twigs upon it, lighted the bark, as it blazed filled the stove with some of Ahmik’s neatly split wood, and in five minutes the interior of the tent was comfortably warm.

Paul spread the tarpaulin upon the boughs which he had arranged, stowed their camp things neatly around the edge of the interior, and night camp was ready. Though rather crowded, the tent offered sufficient accommodation for the four.

A candle was lighted, and Amesbury installed himself as cook. A kettle of ice was placed upon the stove to melt and boil for tea. A frying pan filled with thick slices of salt pork was presently sizzling on the stove. Then he added some salt and baking powder to a pan of flour, mixed them thoroughly, and poured enough water from the kettle of melting ice to make a dough.

The pork, which had now cooked sufficiently, was taken from the pan and placed upon a tin dish, and the dough, stretched into thin cakes large enough to fill the circumference of the pan, was fried, one at a time, in the bubbling pork grease that remained. In the meantime tea had been made.

“All ready. Fall to,” announced Amesbury.

“I feels I’m ready for un,” said Dan.

“I can eat two meals,” declared Paul.

“I’m interested to see what the day’s work did for you chaps. Now if you can’t eat, Ahmik and I will feel that we didn’t walk you fast enough today, and we’ll have to do better tomorrow, eh, Ahmik?” Amesbury’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Ugh! Big walk tomorrow. Very far. Very fast,” and Ahmik grinned.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Paul. “If we have to walk any farther or faster tomorrow than we did today, I’ll just collapse. I’m so stiff now I can hardly move.”

“That’s always the case for a day or two when a fellow starts out for the first time on snowshoes and does a full day’s work. It won’t last long, but we’ll take it a little slower tomorrow, to let you get hardened to it,” Amesbury consoled.

When they stopped to boil the kettle the following day Paul was scarcely able to lift his feet from the snow. Sharp pains in the calves of his legs and in his hips and groins were excruciating, and he sat down upon his toboggan very thankful for the opportunity to rest.

“How is it? Pretty tired?” asked Amesbury, good-naturedly.

“A little stiff—and tired,” answered Paul, whose pride would not permit him to admit how hard it was for him to keep up.

“We’ll take a little easier gait this afternoon. I didn’t realize we were hitting it off so hard as we were this morning.”

“Thank you.” Paul wished to say “Don’t go slow on my account,” but he realized how utterly impossible it would be for him to keep the more rapid pace.

When luncheon was disposed of and they again fell into line, the pain was so intense that he could scarcely restrain from crying out. But he kept going, and saying to himself:

“I won’t be a quitter. I won’t be a quitter.” He began to lag wofully, however, in spite of his determination and grit, and the slower pace which Amesbury had set. Thus they traveled silently on for nearly an hour, when all at once Amesbury stopped, held up his hand as a signal to the others to halt and remain quiet. Dropping his toboggan rope he stole stealthily forward and was quickly lost to view.

Presently a rifle shot rang out, and immediately another. A moment later Amesbury strode back for his toboggan, where the others were awaiting him, humming as he came:

“‘His body will make a nice little stew,And his giblets will make me a little pie, too.’”

“Come along, fellows,” he called. “Two caribou the reward of vigilance. We’ll skin ’em.”

Just within the woods, at the edge of an open, wind-swept marsh, they left their toboggans, and a hundred yards beyond lay the carcasses of the two caribou Amesbury had killed.

“There was a band of a dozen,” he explained, as they walked out to the game. “I thought we could use about two of them very nicely.”

“Good!” remarked Ahmik, drawing his knife to begin the process of skinning at once.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Amesbury, “unless you chaps would like to help here, suppose you pitch the tent. We’ll not go any farther today.”

“That’s bully!” exclaimed Paul, who had been at the point of declaring his inability to walk another mile.

“Everything’s bully,” declared Amesbury, “and fresh meat just now is the bulliest thing could have come our way. All right, fellows; you get camp going. You’d find skinning pretty hard work in this weather, but Ahmik and I don’t mind it.”

“My, but I’m glad we don’t have to go any farther today,” said Paul when he and Dan returned to make camp. “I’m just done for. I can hardly move my feet.”

“Does un pain much?” asked Dan, sympathetically.

“You bet it does,” and Paul winced.

“Where is un hurtin’ most now?”

“Here, and here,” indicating his hips, groins and calves.

“Lift un feet—higher.”

“Oh! Ouch!”

“Why weren’t you sayin’ so, now? ’Tis sure th’ snowshoe ailment, an’ not just stiffness. Mr. Amesbury’d not be goin’ on, an’ you havin’ that.”

“I thought it was just stiffness, and would wear off if I kept going. Besides, I didn’t want to be a baby and complain.”

“’Tis no stiffness. ’Tis th’ snowshoe ailment, an’ ’twould get worse, an’ no better, with travelin’. ’Tis wonderful troublesome sometimes. Dad says if you gets un, stop an’ camp where you is, an’ bide there till she gets better. ’Tis th’ only way there is, Dad says, t’ cure un.”

“I never heard of it before.”

“Now I’ll be pitchin’ th’ tent, an’ you sits on th’ flat-sled an’ keeps still.”

“Oh, I’d freeze if I sat down. I’d rather help.”

They had just got the tent up and a roaring fire in the stove when Amesbury and Ahmik came for toboggans upon which to haul the meat to camp.

“I’m thinkin’,” said Dan, “we’ll have t’ be bidin’ here a bit. Paul’s havin’ th’ snowshoe ailment bad.”

“What’s the trouble, Paul?” asked Amesbury.

Paul explained.

“Why, you’re suffering from mal de raquet. Dan’s right; we must stay here till you’re better—a day or two will fix that. Mustn’t try to travel with mal de raquet. It’s a mighty uncomfortable companion.”

At the end of two days, however, Paul was in fairly good condition again, and the journey was resumed without further interruption, save twice they were compelled by storms to remain a day in camp.

Two weeks had elapsed since leaving the post when finally, late one afternoon, Amesbury shouted back to the lads:

“Come along, fellows. We’re here at last.”

Ahmik had stopped and was shoveling snow with one of his snowshoes from the door of a low log cabin, half covered with drifts. It was situated in the center of a small clearing among the fir trees which looked out upon the white frozen expanse of South Indian Lake.

“This is our castle,” Amesbury announced as Paul and Dan joined him. “Here we’re to live in luxurious comfort. That’s the southern extremity of Indian Lake. What do you think of it?”

“’Tis a wonderful fine place t’ live in if th’ trappin’s good,” said Dan.

“It looks mighty good to me. What a dandy place it must be in summer!” Paul exclaimed.

Ahmik now had the door cleared and they entered. The cabin contained a single square room. At one side was a flat-topped sheet-iron stove, similar in design to the tent stove commonly in use in the north, but of considerably larger proportions and heavier material. Near it was a rough table, in the end opposite the door stood a rough-hewn bedstead, the bed neatly made up with white spread and pillow cases. A shelf of well-thumbed books—the Bible, Shakespeare, Thomas à Kempis, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, Wordsworth’s Poems, Robinson Crusoe, Mother Goose’s Melodies, Aesop’s Fables, David Copperfield, and some random novels and volumes of travel and adventure. On one end of a second table, evidently used as a writing desk, were neatly piled old magazines and newspapers, on the other end lay some sheet music and a violin, and in the center were writing materials.

The chairs, like all of the furniture, were doubtless the handiwork of Amesbury himself. Everything in the room was spotlessly clean and in order. The setting sun sent a shaft of sunlight through a window, giving the room an air of brightness, and enhancing its atmosphere of homely comfort.

When the fire which Amesbury lighted in the stove began to crackle, he asked:

“Well, fellows, how do you like my den? Think you can be comfortable here for three or four months?”

“’Tis grand, sir,” said Dan.

“Mr. Amesbury, it’s splendid!” declared Paul.

Both lads had been long enough from home, and had endured sufficient buffeting of the wilderness to measure by contrast with their recent experiences the attractions of Amesbury’s cabin, and it appealed to them as little short of luxurious.

“Not splendid, but good enough for a trapper. Hang up your things; you’ll find pegs. Make yourselves at home now. Sit down and rest up. Ahmik will take care of the stuff outside,” and as Amesbury went about the preparation of supper he sang:

“‘There was an old woman, and what do you think?She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink:Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet;This tiresome old woman could never be quiet.’”

Luscious caribou steaks were soon frying, biscuits were baking, and presently the delicious odor of coffee filled the room.

“I always keep coffee here,” explained Amesbury. “Rather have it than tea, but it’s too bulky to carry when I’m hitting the trail.”

“It’s the first smell of coffee I’ve had since we left the ship, and oh, but it smells bully to me!” said Paul.

Candles were lighted, a snowy white cloth spread on the table. When at length they sat down to eat, Amesbury, with bowed head, asked grace.

“’Tis good,” remarked Dan, accepting a liberal piece of caribou meat, “t’ hear un say grace. Dad always says un.”

“I neglect it when I’m on the trail,” said Amesbury. “My father was a preacher. He always said grace at home, and it’s second nature to me to do it when I sit at a table. Part of eating. We mustn’t forget, you know, that we owe what we have to a higher Power, and we shouldn’t forget to give thanks.”

“That’s what Dad would be sayin’, now.” Dan had admired Amesbury before, but this comparison of him with his father was the highest compliment he could have paid him, and indicated the highest regard for his friend.

“I’ll tell you, chaps, my theory of the way the Lord gives us our blessings. He gives us eyes and hands and feet, and best of all He gives us brains with which to reason things out. Then He provides the land with all its products, the birds and animals and forests. He gives us the sea with its products, too. He intends that we use our brains in devising methods of applying the products of earth and sea to our needs, and to use our hands and feet and eyes to carry out what our brain tells us how to do. If I hadn’t used my eyes and hands and feet the Lord never would have put this venison on the table.”

“That’s just what Dad says,” agreed Dan. “He says they ain’t no use prayin’ for things when they’s a way t’ get un yourself.”

“Your dad’s right. If you chaps had just spent your time praying when you went adrift on that ice pan, you’d be at the bottom of Hudson Bay now. Yes, your dad’s right. Thank the Lord for the things that come your way, but get up and hustle first, or they won’t come your way. Use your brains and your hands. That’s the thing to do.”

Supper finished, Amesbury and Ahmik cut tobacco from black plugs, filled their pipes; Amesbury whittled some long shavings from a stick of dry wood, lighted an end of a shaving by pushing it through the stove vent, and applied it to his pipe; Ahmik followed his example, and then turned his attention to washing dishes.

Puffing contentedly at his pipe, Amesbury lifted the violin from its case, settled himself before the stove and began tuning the instrument.

“I likes t’ hear fiddlin’ wonderful well,” remarked Dan.

“That’s good, for I’m going to fiddle. Do you like it, too, Densmore?”

“I’m very fond of music.”

“Then, no one objecting, I’ll begin.”

Amesbury began playing very softly. Dan sat in open-mouthed wonder, eyes wide, and scarcely breathing. Paul was enthralled. It was a master hand that held the bow. The player himself seemed quite unconscious of his listeners and surroundings. The wrinkles smoothed out of the corners of his eyes, the alert twinkle left the eyes and a soft, dreamy expression came into them, as though they beheld some beautiful vision. He seemed transfigured as Paul looked at him. Another being had taken the place of the ungainly, rough-clad trapper.

For a full hour he played. Then laying his violin across his knees sat silent for a little. The music had cast a spell upon them. Even Ahmik, who had seated himself near the table, had let his pipe die out.

All at once the humorous wrinkles came again into the corners of Amesbury’s eyes, and the eyes began to sparkle and laugh. He arose and returned the violin to its case, humming as he did so:

“‘Hey diddle diddle,The cat and the fiddle.’

“I always like a little music after supper,” he remarked, resuming his seat.

“Oh, ’twere more than music!” exclaimed Dan. “’T were—’t were—I’m thinkin’—’t were like in heaven. ’T weren’t fiddlin’, sir. ’T were music of angels in th’ fiddle, sir.”

“That’s the best compliment I ever received,” laughed Amesbury.

“Mr. Amesbury,” asked Paul, “where did you ever learn to play like that? I heard Madagowski, the great Polish violinist that every one raved over last year. I thought it was great then, but after hearing you it seems just common.”

“You chaps will make me vain if you keep this up,” and Amesbury laughed again.

“But where did you learn?” insisted Paul. “And what ever made you turn trapper?”

Amesbury’s face grew suddenly grave, almost agonized.

“Oh, Mr. Amesbury!” Paul exclaimed, feeling instinctively that he had made a mistake in urging the question. “If I shouldn’t ask, don’t tell me! I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Paul,” said Amesbury, quietly. “I’ll tell you the story. It may be well for you to hear it.”

CHAPTER XVIII

STALKED BY WOLVES

AMESBURY filled his pipe, lighted it from the stove with one of the shavings he had whittled, and sat silently contemplating the streak of light which flashed through the stove vent. He seemed to Paul to have suddenly grown very old. His normally open, genial countenance was drawn and haggard, and Paul noted the streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard.

“It may do you good to hear the story,” Amesbury presently said. “I’ve never told it to any one, but it’s a pretty good warning to young fellows like you. I like you, and I hope you’ll not make the mistakes that I did.” He lapsed into silence again for a few moments, and then began:

“As I told you, my father was a minister—the gentlest, most affectionate, sympathetic man I ever knew. If there ever was a true servant of God he was one. There was never a sweeter or more devoted woman ever lived than my mother. I believe her spirit comes now of nights to kiss my forehead as I fall asleep, just as she did in those long ago days when I was a boy at home.

“She was tireless. Nothing seemed ever too great a task for her. The women of my father’s church looked upon her in a way as their counselor, and they used to come to her with their troubles, as the men came to my father; and men and women were always certain of both sympathetic and practical assistance.

“I had one sister, three years my senior, and we were chums and constant companions. We were both born with a passionate love of music, and when she was twelve and I nine years of age my father, with much stinting and scraping, purchased her a piano and me a violin.

“My violin instructor was an old German, who was to come to the Manse once a week to give me a lesson. He was a very impatient old fellow, but a good teacher, and with my interest in music I made good progress. The pleasantest memories of my life are of evenings when my mother sat sewing, and my father relaxed in his easy chair, while Helen played the piano and I accompanied her on the violin.

“My father designed me, I believe, from my birth, for the ministry. I was a good student, and at sixteen entered college. Here a new world opened to me. I had always lived in an atmosphere of religion. Perhaps I had become satiated with it. At any rate I took only too kindly to the wild life of the crowd I fell in with at college.

“For the most part the students were industrious, but there were a few, as there always are, who indulged themselves in dissipation because they thought it smart, and it was my misfortune to be drawn among these at the beginning. Perhaps the novelty, in strong contrast with my home life, attracted me. I do not know.

“At first our dissipations were of a rather mild sort, and I did pretty well during the freshman year. But during my sophomore year I got in with a still wilder crowd, and took part in several discreditable escapades. Some of my companions drank, and early in the year I for the first time in my life tasted spirituous liquors. Before college closed for the summer vacation I had twice been mildly intoxicated. Of course my parents knew nothing of this, but they did know that I had neglected my studies and was conditioned in Greek, barely passing the test in other subjects.

“The escapades of the sophomore year became orgies in the junior. I drank hard at these times, and the liquor made me wild. I’ll not tell you of the carousings I took part in, nor the reprimands I received for class and other delinquencies. It came to a climax in early spring when I entered a class one day in an intoxicated condition, insulted the professor, and did some damage to the furniture.

“This ended in my dismissal from college. A full report of what had occurred preceded me home, and for the first time my parents learned of my debauchery. It was a terrible shock to them. I shall never forget their grief. If they had scolded or meted punishment it would have been different, but they did not. My mother threw her arms around my neck and cried as though her heart would break. My father, tears streaming down his cheeks, placed his hand upon my shoulder and called me his poor erring son. I promised them that I would reform. Helen talked with me and cried with me in private.

“My father’s life hope that I should follow his footsteps in the ministry was crushed, and he had forever lost his former habitual cheerfulness. The change in him—I always felt it when in his presence—hurt me terribly. I resolved to atone, so far as possible, for the past.

“I took up my old home life again. I attended meetings regularly, as my father wished, and devoted myself to my violin. My old German instructor was re-engaged, and I made such good progress that in the summer when I was twenty years of age he suggested that I go to Germany for a year, to continue my musical studies there.

“The prospect of a trip abroad filled me with enthusiasm. At first my parents objected, and particularly my mother, who was now in ill health, the result, I shall always believe, of the shock she received at the time of my expulsion from college. I plead so strongly, however, to be permitted to go, that at length both Father and Mother consented, and late in the summer I sailed.

“It was a mistake. There is much drinking among German students, and almost immediately I was drawn among the wildest drinkers and roysterers.

“During the winter my sister married a prosperous and wealthy young business man. They decided upon a brief wedding trip abroad, and planning a pleasant surprise for me said nothing of it in their letters beyond the particulars of the wedding, for during my absence it was the custom of Father and Helen to write me twice a week minute details of the home life.

“I shall never forget the morning they came. I had been out all the previous night with a party of drinking students and had returned to my apartment in a state of such beastly intoxication that I had thrown myself upon a couch, unable to undress and retire to my bed. Here I was sleeping when a loud knocking aroused me. Blear-eyed, unkempt, and smelling foul with liquor, I opened the door. There stood Helen and her husband.

“Their wedding trip was spoiled, of course. They decided to return home at once and take me with them. Helen made the excuse to our parents that I was in no physical condition to remain abroad longer. I think my father suspected something of the true cause, but he gave no hint of it, and I resumed my old life, but not with the same chastened feeling that I had experienced on the former occasion. I was becoming hardened.

“My father’s church and the manse where we lived were in upper New York, and to satisfy my desire for excitement I used frequently to take a run down town. It was on one of these occasions, a month after my return from abroad, that I met one of my former college companions. He asked me to drink with him and I accepted. One drink led to another, and when the liquor went to our heads we became hilarious and decided to make a night of it.

“In the small hours of morning we were sitting at a table in a low cafe and dance hall. Some others were at the table—people I had never met—and one of them made a remark at which I took offense. What it was I do not know. I only know that before my companion or the others at the table knew what I was about, I was on my feet and smashing a chair over the offender’s head.

“I was arrested and locked up, and the following day committed to the Tombs without bail to await the result of the injuries upon the man whom I had attacked. Then came remorse—awful, sincere remorse—for the life I had led and the hearts I had broken.

“My father, ever loving, ever sympathetic, came to console me. Again he called me his poor, erring boy, as he placed his arm around my shoulders, and tears, in spite of his effort to conceal them, wet his cheeks.

“I’ll not go into detail, or describe the agonizing weeks that followed. The man recovered. I was tried for my offense, and in view of the fact that I had never before been called before a court of justice, was sentenced to but one year in the penitentiary.

“On the day sentence was pronounced my mother died; killed, of course, by her boy’s disgrace. When my father returned from the funeral he resigned his pastorate. He could no longer stand before his congregation, and the congregation did not wish to retain the services of a minister whose son was a jail bird. Six months later he followed my mother. All that he had loved and lived for had been taken from him.

“Well, I served my sentence, and when I was released I came here. I had but one thought—to hide myself from the world. I could not stay in New York and disgrace my sister and her husband with my presence. I was truly penitent, but I realized that the world would not believe that. My presence would ever bring up the past.

“Here in the open I have been drawn closer and closer to the God my father and mother loved and worshiped. Since that awful night I have never tasted liquor. I have tried to live in rectitude, and so far as I can to atone for the past.

“I have never written my sister, for I wished her to forget the disgrace. She never knew what became of me when I left prison. She probably thinks me dead, and I have had no means of hearing from her.

“My violin has been my constant companion. Every evening when I am here I play to Father and Mother and Helen. I always see them when I play. I always see the dear old living room at home, Father in his easy chair, Mother sewing, and Helen at her piano playing a soft accompaniment.”

No one spoke for a long time. Then Ahmik rose and refilled the stove. Amesbury drew his ungainly frame together, strode to the door and stepped out. Presently he returned singing:

“‘Come, let’s to bed,Says Sleepy-head.’

“It’s bedtime, fellows, and I know you’re tired. I’d take one of you in with me, but my bed is pretty narrow, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t be comfortable. Sleeping bags are pretty good, though. Paul, you have one already. Here’s one for you, Dan,” and Amesbury drew a warm sleeping bag from a chest. He was his whimsical, good-natured, normal self again.