The Wilderness Castaways

Cleats were fashioned by Dan from the pieces of box, with the axe as his one working tool, and he was finally ready to nail them in position, where they would hold the broken planks in place. Nails were few, and it was necessary that great economy be practiced in their use and that each be driven where it would do the most good.

The swell was increasing, the north wind was rising, and with every hour the position of the boys was becoming more dangerous. The first cleat had scarcely been nailed down when a wave broke over the pan, washing its whole surface, not deep enough to carry the things away, but suggesting the possibility that another one might presently do so. Dan had fortunately put his cleats in the boat as he made them, or the wave would certainly have carried off the light pieces of wood.

“Paul, you be loadin’ the things in the boat,” said Dan, “while I does th’ mendin’. Th’ next swell breakin’ over th’ pan may carry th’ bags overboard. Load th’ light bags first.”

Paul obeyed, and when the next wave, a little heavier than the first, broke over the pan the outfit was out of its reach.

It was well past noon when the last cleat was placed, and Dan began to caulk with strips torn from a shirt, using as his tool a wedge made from a piece of the box.

The caulking was not yet half done when the boys were startled by a loud report, like that of a gun.

“There she goes!” exclaimed Dan. “I were lookin’ for un! Th’ pan’s busted!”

And sure enough, fully a third of their pan had broken loose from the main body of ice which held them.

Heavier swells, now and again moving the boat slightly, swept the pan. Dan worked desperately at his caulking; Paul, sitting in the boat clinging to his seat, was expecting every moment to be washed from the ice. As he looked out into the fog and beheld the growing anger of the sea his apprehension grew. He realized fully their imminent peril, and he began to doubt the ability of the frail boat, even had it been free from damage, to weather the high piling waves.

All at once he thought he saw something in the distance, a faint splotch in the fog, and he called out:

“Dan! Dan! See there! What is that?”

Dan raised his eyes from his work and looked.

“Land! ’Tis th’ land!” he exclaimed. “’Tis th’ land and we’ll soon be ashore.”

The tide was carrying them in, and more and more distinct a rocky outline of coast loomed up. Dan did not stop his repairs, however, and presently the task of caulking was finished.

“There,” said he, “she’s caulked, an’ she’ll do to take us ashore.”

“Can’t we float her now and land?” asked Paul, in feverish excitement.

“That’s a p’int of land,” said Dan, “We’re driftin’ in around un, and I’m thinkin’ th’ tide’ll carry us to the lee, an’ we’ll have less sea to launch in, if we waits a bit.”

“Oh, but I want to get ashore!” exclaimed Paul. “Couldn’t we launch off here?”

“We might and we mightn’t,” answered Dan cautiously. “We can’t move th’ boat without unloadin’ she. If we launches on the lee, th’ ice’ll be likely to ram in, an’ smash un ag’in, before we gets free, an’ if we tries to launch on ary other side th’ waves’ll be smashin’ un ag’in’ th’ ice before we gets th’ outfit aboard. And anyway, if we unloads th’ outfit on th’ ice th’ sea’s like to work un overboard before we gets th’ boat launched. I’m thinkin’ we’d better tarry a bit.”

Dan’s surmise proved correct. The ice slowly swept past the point, and, carried upon the bosom of a rising tide, they gradually passed into a bay, and calmer water.

“Now,” announced Dan, who had been watching his opportunity, “we’ll try un.”

The things were taken out of the boat, the boat pushed off and alongside the pan and easily reloaded in the now gentle swell, and the boys with their outfit aboard shoved out into the bay.

The one remaining oar Dan took astern, dropped it between two pegs placed there for the purpose, and working the oar adeptly back and forth both propelled and steered the boat shoreward. The damaged bow was found to be so well repaired that it leaked very little, and in a few minutes a safe landing was made upon a sloping, gravelly bit of beach.

For several minutes the boys stood silent, looking toward the fog-enshrouded sea from which they had just been delivered. Dan at length broke silence:

“Thank the Lord, we’re safe ashore,” said he reverently.

“Yes, it’s almost too good to believe.” Tears of joy stood in Paul’s eyes as he spoke. “When the ship finds us and picks us up, Dan, I’m going to tell Captain Bluntt that it was all my fault we didn’t go aboard when he told us to, and I’m going to tell everybody how you saved our lives by mending the boat. We never could have got off the ice if you hadn’t mended the boat.”

“’Twere nothin’ to mend th’ boat,” deprecated Dan.

“Oh, yes, it was,” insisted Paul. “There aren’t many could have done it, and when the ship picks us up I’ll tell them all about it.”

But they were not to see the North Star again, and they were not to be picked up. They were destined to face the rigors of a sub-Arctic winter in the unknown wilderness upon whose shores they had drifted.

CHAPTER VIII

FACING STARVATION

PAUL and Dan surveyed their surroundings. So far as they could discover, in the dense fog, which enshrouded land as well as sea, they were stranded upon a desolate, verdureless coast. Behind them rose a ledge of storm-scoured rocks which reached out into the sea in a rugged cliff to the eastward, and formed the point they had rounded to enter the bight. And out on the rocky point they could hear the breakers in dismal, rhythmic succession, pounding upon the rocks.

The sounding breakers made Paul shudder as he realized how narrowly he and Dan had escaped a fate of which he scarcely dared think. He was profoundly thankful for their deliverance, and rugged as their coast was he had no thought of complaint against the fate that had placed him upon it.

Nowhere was there a tree or even a bush to be seen. Even the moss that here and there found lodgment in crevasses of the rocks seemed to struggle for an uncertain existence. Some driftwood, however, strewn along the beach, offered fuel for their tent stove.

“’Tis a wonderful bleak place,” said Dan, “but I’m thinkin’ ’tis better inside, with timber growin’ an’ maybe a river comin’ in, t’ bring this drift down.”

“But it’s too late to go up there tonight,” protested Paul, dreading to venture upon the fog-covered water again, even in the boat.

“Aye, ’tis too late to go t’night. ’Tis already growin’ dusk, an’ I’m not thinkin’ t’ cruise around in th’ fog, on land or on water. ’Twould be temptin’ th’ Lord t’ send us adrift ag’in, after settin’ us safe ashore.”

“We’re both wet to the skin, and I’m freezing. Can’t we make a fire?” suggested Paul, his teeth chattering.

“We’ll be settin’ up th’ tent in th’ lee o’ this rock. ’Tis lucky we has th’ jointed tent poles, with nary a tree about.”

“Can’t I help?” asked Paul, as Dan jointed the poles and unrolled the tent.

“You might be carryin’ up th’ outfit, an’ we gets th’ tent up, we’ll put un inside. ’Twill warm you up t’ be carryin’ un.”

In fifteen minutes the tent was up, the tent stove in place, and Dan was cutting driftwood for a fire while Paul stowed away their belongings, and in another fifteen minutes a fire was roaring in the stove.

“Oh, but this is cozy,” exclaimed Paul, reclining close to the stove, “and now I’m ravenously hungry again.”

“’Tis wonderful cozy in th’ tent,” agreed Dan. “I’ll take th’ kettle an’ look for water, an’ when I comes back we’ll boil th’ kettle an’ have a snack.”

Almost immediately Dan was back with his kettle of water.

“They’s a spring just up here, an’ we’re lucky t’ have un so clost,” he remarked, setting the kettle on the stove. “I’m thinkin’ we’re in for a blow, an’ we’ll not be gettin’ away from here till she’s over.”

“Don’t you think the ship will come tomorrow if the fog clears?” asked Paul anxiously.

“No,” replied Dan discouragingly, searching for the bacon. “Let’s put on a light; they’s some candles left.” He found the candles, lighted one, and discovered the bacon. “I’m not expectin’ th’ ship in th’ blow that’s comin’. ’Tis a dangerous coast,” he continued, as he sliced the bacon, “an’ th’ skipper’ll be takin’ no chances cruisin’ inshore in a gale.”

“Well, we’re safe enough, and the tent is as cozy a place as I ever struck,” said Paul, now thoroughly warm, and basking in the stove’s genial heat, his wet clothes sending forth a cloud of steam.

“’Twill be fine so long as th’ grub lasts. But they’s no tellin’ how long we’ll be held up, an’ they ain’t much grub. But maybe we can kill somethin.’ I’ll take a look at th’ country, an’ th’ fog clears tomorrow.”

“I should think we’d find plenty of game. We’ve seen ducks and ptarmigans everywhere we’ve been. Oh,” sniffing, “but that bacon smells dandy.”

“Yes, I’m thinkin’ we’ll find ducks an’ pa’tridges, but they’s no knowin’, an’ we’ll be wonderful careful o’ th’ grub we’s got till we finds out. Dad says always be careful of what you has till you sees more comin’.”

The kettle had boiled and Dan threw some tea into it and set it on the ground close to the stove, then he put half of the bacon he had fried on Paul’s aluminum plate, the other half on his own plate, carefully dividing the bacon grease between them, gave Paul two ship’s biscuits, took two for himself, and filled their aluminum cups with tea.

“Now we can fall to,” he said. “They’s plenty o’ tea, but we can’t be eatin’ more’n this much grub to onct, an’ we’ll not be havin’ more’n one biscuit apiece at a meal after this. I’m givin’ us two now for we been a rare long time without eatin’.”

“It looks like a mighty little, with my appetite, but I guess you’re right about it,” admitted Paul.

“Hear that!”

“What?”

“Th’ wind. I knew she’d be comin’ up. Th’ fog’ll be blowin’ away by midnight.”

“That’ll be good.”

“If she don’t blow too strong an’ too long.”

“But this bacon grease is great!” exclaimed Paul, taking a spoonful of the warm grease. “Funny I like it, though. When I’m home I can’t bear to eat fat.”

“Grease is fine grub for cruisin’, an’ when th’ weather’s cold. When Dad an’ me goes trappin’ winters we just takes fat pork an’ flour an’ tea an’ molasses.”

“It does make a difference, I guess. I was just thinking that I’d never in my life eaten anything so good as this bacon and hardtack. If I was home I wouldn’t look at them. I’ll never find fault again if my meat’s a little too rare or too done, or not just what I happen to like best.”

“Dad says anythin’s good when a feller’s hungry.”

It was a meager supper, indeed. A bit of bacon, two ship’s biscuits and tea could hardly satisfy the appetite of a boy who had eaten but once in thirty hours, and then but lightly.

“I’m hungrier than ever!” declared Paul, when he had eaten the last morsel of his portion.

“So am I. ’Tweren’t much,” admitted Dan, as he drew his harmonica from his pocket, wiped it on his coat sleeve, and struck up a tune.

But with relaxation from the long hours of anxiety and exposure which had preceded Dan soon found himself too drowsy to play. Paul was nodding in a brave attempt to keep awake. Dan put the harmonica aside, they made their bed and were soon in heavy slumber, not to awaken until broad daylight.

The wind had risen to almost the force of a hurricane, and upon looking out of the tent they beheld the waters of Hudson Bay beaten into a wild fury. Mighty foam-crested waves were rolling in upon the rocky point below, breaking with a continuous thunderous roar. The fog had passed, and black, broken clouds scudded the sky.

“She’s wonderful mad because she didn’t get us,” remarked Dan.

“My! But weren’t we lucky to drift in last night!” said Paul, shuddering at the scene.

“’Tweren’t luck,” corrected Dan. “Th’ Lord were sendin’ us in ahead o’ th’ blow.[Pg 117]

[Pg 118] Dad says ’tain’t luck, but th’ Lord, as helps folks out o’ bad places.”

After an unsatisfactory breakfast of beans, Dan shouldered his rifle, cautioned Paul not to go out of sight of the tent, and started out to explore and hunt. Late in the afternoon he returned with a big gray goose and a rabbit. Paul, who was in the tent, sprang up when Dan pulled back the flap and looked in.

“Oh, but I’m glad to see you, Dan!” he exclaimed. “I never was so dead lonesome in my life!”

“’Tis a bit lonesome bidin’ alone in camp,” admitted Dan, “but see now what I’m gettin’,” and he dropped his game at Paul’s feet.

“A goose and a rabbit! Oh, Dan, what luck! Now we can have a feast, and I’m so hungry I can hardly move.”

“An’ I’m wonderful hungry, too, with th’ long tramp. Now I’ll be dressin’ th’ goose, an’ you puts a kettle o’ water on an’ cuts some wood.”

Paul went at his task with a vim. He wielded the light camp axe very clumsily, for he had never used an axe before; it was, in fact, his first attempt at manual labor. He had, however, a good supply of wood piled up by the time the goose was dressed and in the kettle, and he and Dan sat down to enjoy the appetizing odor of cooking fowl while they chatted.

“Do you know, Dan, we’re having such a dandy time here, I’ll feel almost sorry when the ship comes. This tent is so cozy,” he declared.

“’Tis cozy an’ fine, but I’m thinkin’ we’ll be wantin’ t’ see th’ ship bad enough before we sees her.”

“But she’ll be along tomorrow, won’t she?”

“No, nor th’ next day neither. I were lookin’ t’ th’ n’uthard from th’ rise back here, an’ I sees a wonderful drift o’ ice workin’ up, an’ if th’ blow holds tomorrow, as ’tis sure to hold, there’ll be a pack o’ ice up from th’ n’uthard that the ship’ll never be gettin’ through.”

“What! You don’t mean the ship won’t come at all?”

“I’m not sayin’ that for sure, but it’s how ’tis lookin’ t’ me now.”

“Oh, but Dan, that can’t be! What will we do if we’re not picked up?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ un over, an’ figurin’ un out. Tom were sayin’ they’s tradin’ posts t’ th’ s’uthard, an’ I been figurin’ we’ll have t’ make for un. We’ll have t’ hunt for our grub, but onct we gets t’ th’ posts we’ll be safe.”

“Do you really think we’ll have to do that, and stay here all winter? It would just kill my mother, for she won’t know where I am.”

“I’m just sayin’ what’s like t’ happen, but ’tain’t no way sure. A bit inside I finds a river runnin’ in th’ head o’ this bight, an’ plenty o’ timber. ’Twere near th’ river I kills th’ goose. ’Tain’t such a wonderful bad country.”

This was a possibility that had not occurred to Paul. He had harbored no doubt that the North Star would presently cruise southward along the coast, pick them up, and he would go home in comfort. The bare possibility that they might not be rescued was a shock. All pleasures, all comforts, all hardships and privations are measured by contrast. The tent had seemed very cozy, for unconsciously Paul had compared its warmth and security with the hardships he had experienced on the ice pan. Now the possibility that he might have to spend the winter in a tent in this northern wilderness led him to compare such a condition with the luxurious comforts of his home in New York, and the comparison made him shrink from the hardships that he instinctively attached to tent life in winter in a sub-Arctic wilderness. With the comparison, also, came an overwhelming desire to see his father and mother again.

“Dan, it would kill me to have to spend the winter here. Oh, that would be awful.”

“Not so bad if we finds grub. Th’ grub’s what’s troublin’ me. An’ we’ll be needin’ more clothes when th’ cold weather comes. But we’ll not let un worry us till we has to. Dad says it never does no good t’ worry, for worryin’ don’t help things, an’ it puts a feller in a fix so he ain’t much good t’ help hisself.”

“But I can’t help worrying.”

“Maybe they ain’t nothin’ t’ worry about. Dad says most all th’ things folks worries about is things they’s afeared will happen, but never does happen. Let’s ferget t’ worry now, an’ get at that goose. She must be done, an’ I’m wonderful hungry.”

The present rose paramount. The boiling goose was done, and soon drove from their minds all thought of the future. The water in which it was boiled, well seasoned with salt, made excellent broth, and with no bread or vegetable—for Dan would not draw upon the few biscuits remaining—the two boys, with ravenous and long unsatisfied appetites, ate the whole bird for their dinner.

Full stomachs put them in a pleasanter frame of mind, the tent again assumed a cozy atmosphere, and Paul declared he was having the “bulliest time” of his life.

During the two days and nights that followed there was no abatement in the wind. Dan spent the daylight hours hunting, while Paul remained in the vicinity of camp, making frequent tours to the summit of the rocky hill behind the tent, where he had a wide view of Hudson Bay. With sinking heart he looked out of the tent one morning to find the bight jammed with ice, and upon climbing the hill as usual beheld a solid mass of ice reaching westward from the shore as far as he could see.

At length the wind somewhat diminished in force, though it was not until the fourth morning after their arrival that they arose to find the sun shining brilliantly from a clear sky, and dead calm prevailing. Several inches of snow had fallen during the night and the air was sharp with frost. Their world seemed cold and cheerless indeed.

Dan’s hunting expeditions had resulted in nothing, after the first day. Once he had started a flock of ptarmigans, but in windy weather ptarmigans are very wild, and this flock flew so far that he was unable to discover them again after they had alighted.

This failure to secure game had forced them to cut down their daily ration to a point that left their appetites far from satisfied. Even then they were alarmed to find that, practicing the utmost economy, but one day’s scant provisions remained, when at length the weather cleared.

CHAPTER IX

THE WATERS CLEAR

PAUL went to the spring for water, while Dan kindled the fire. Paul was learning now to do his share of the camp work. He had become fairly adept in the use of the axe, and to pass the hours while Dan was absent on hunting expeditions, he had collected sufficient wood to last them for several days, and had cut the greater part of it into proper lengths for the stove.

When he returned with the kettle of water and placed it on the stove to heat for tea, he sat down in silent dejection. Starvation seemed very near. He was always hungry now—ravenously, fearfully hungry—and he could see no relief. Both he and Dan were visibly thinner than when they left the ship, and Paul was worried beyond expression.

Dan, squatting before the stove, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms locked around them, gazing intently at nothing, appeared not to notice Paul as he entered. He was evidently in deep thought, and Paul watched him anxiously, for he had learned that when Dan assumed this position he was making plans for the future.

Paul had grown to place great confidence in Dan and his plans. In fact he had come to look upon Dan as quite a wonderful person as well as true friend.

Never once had Dan admitted that he was greatly worried at the turn things had taken. On the contrary, while he had owned that their position was serious, he had always ended by assuring Paul that there was some way to overcome any difficulty which they might meet, and that they could find a way to do it, no matter how obscure the way might appear, if they but applied themselves earnestly to the task of searching it out.

Presently the kettle boiled, and as Dan arose to make the tea he remarked:

“They’s no knowin’ how fur ’tis t’ th’ nearest post, an’ I’m not knowin’ yet what’s best t’ do. Th’ river’s too big t’ ford, an’ if we goes afoot we’ll have t’ raft un, for with ice in th’ bight we can’t launch th’ boat.

“If we walks we can’t pack th’ tent or much of th’ outfit, you never done no packin’, an’ I’d have t’ carry most of what we’d be takin’. If’t were far, with other rivers we’d be like t’ meet an’ have t’ raft, th’ cold weather’d be on before we’d be gettin’ anywheres, an’ with no tent the things I’d carry wouldn’t be enough t’ do both of us.

“Th’ wind’s veered clean around from th’ nor’east t’ th’ s’uthard, an’ I’m thinkin’ she’ll veer t’ th’ west’ard in a day or so, an’ if she freshens up from th’ west’ard she’ll clear th’ ice out. Then we could be usin’ th’ boat, an’ cruise t’ th’ s’uthard till we finds th’ post or th’ ship picks us up. ’Tis too early for winter t’ be settin’ in t’ stay, an’ we’ll sure be findin’ ducks along th’ coast.”

“But we haven’t anything to eat. We’ll starve before that time.”

“I’m wonderful troubled about un,” admitted Dan. “They’s no danger of th’ tent blowin’ away, an’, with th’ ice on th’ coast, no chanst of th’ ship comin’, so I’m thinkin’ ’tis best for us both t’ go huntin’. They ain’t no use you stayin’ in camp. I’ll be showin’ you how to make rabbit snares while I hunts. With a bit of snow on th’ ground, an’ no wind, they’s more chanst of findin’ game.”

This was very agreeable to Paul. It would take him from the monotonous, lonely hours in camp, and he was eager to get away—to do something.

Their last half can of beans was divided between them for breakfast, and this disposed of, they prepared for a day’s hunt.

“Better take your shotgun instead of your rifle,” suggested Dan. “I’ll be takin’ my rifle, but ’tis easier t’ get birds on th’ wing with a shotgun. I been missin’ un most every day with th’ rifle.”

“You weren’t afraid to ask me for the shotgun, were you, Dan?”

“She’s so pretty I weren’t knowin’ as you’d like t’ lend un, an’ I takes my rifle hopin’ t’ get a long shot at a goose, or maybe a bear or deer. Don’t forget th’ shells for un.”

“Why, Dan, you could have had the shotgun. Just take any of my things when you need them.”

Dan carried the axe as well as his rifle, and set a good pace up the shore of the bight. Presently turning around a bluff they saw the forest reaching down to the ice-choked bight.

“’Tis there th’ river comes in,” remarked Dan.

“Don’t walk so fast, Dan. I’m most winded.”

“I weren’t walkin’ fast,” said Dan, slackening his pace, “but you ain’t been walkin’ none lately, an’ ’tis a bit hard until you gets used t’ un.”

Presently they reached the spruce forest and the river, and a little way up the timbered valley through which the river flowed found rabbit tracks in every direction in the light snow.

“They’s plenty of un here,” remarked Dan. “Now here’s a run—that’s a trail they takes reg’lar back and forth. We’ll be settin’ a snare in un.”

Dan cut a spruce sapling and laid it across, and supported a foot above, the run by brush growth on either side, first trimming the branches off the side of the sapling placed downward, that they might not obstruct the run. He then placed an upright stick on either side of the run and about five inches from it, leaving an opening about ten inches wide between the sticks, with the run passing through the center. Then he blocked the space along the sapling on each side of this opening with brush, remarking:

“That’s t’ keep th’ rabbits from leavin’ th’ run.”

He now produced a hank of heavy, smooth twine, cut off a piece and on one end of it made a slip-noose that would work easily. The other end he tied securely to the sapling directly over the run, first spreading the noose wide, until the bottom swung about three inches from the ground, the sides touched the upright sticks on either side, and the top hung just below the sapling. Small twigs, so placed as not to obstruct the opening in the noose, were stuck in the ground at the bottom and on the sides to keep it in position.

“’Tis poor string for snarin’,” he said, contemplating his work, “but ’tis all I has, an’ ’twill have to do. Wire’s better’n string. Rabbits eats string off if ’tain’t set just right t’ choke ’em so’s they can’t.”

“Will that catch rabbits?” Paul asked incredulously.

“Yes, that’ll catch un. You see, they comes along th’ run, an’ when they tries t’ jump through th’ noose she just slips up around their necks and chokes un. Now you can be settin’ snares, an’ I looks for pa’tridges.”

“Where’ll I set ’em? Anywhere around?”

“Anywheres you finds runs. Work up through th’ timber an’ don’t lose sight o’ th’ river. Mark th’ places where you sets un by blazin’ a tree clost by un, like this,” and as high as he could conveniently reach with the axe, Dan chipped a piece of bark as big as his hand from either side of a tree, where the white bared wood could be readily seen by one following up or down the river.