The Wilderness Castaways

“I’ll take th’ shotgun an’ leave my rifle with you. ’Twill be easier t’ get pa’tridges with th’ shotgun, an’ I sees any.”

“Will you come back here for me?”

“Yes, I’ll be lookin’ you up,” and Dan strode away.

Setting snares was a novel occupation for Paul, and he found the work intensely interesting. Upon every new run that he discovered he duplicated as exactly and as carefully as possible the snare that Dan had set, and then blazed a tree to mark its position.

He was thinking now constantly of good things to eat, and feasts that he would have when he reached home. This kept his mind occupied with pleasant thoughts while his hands were at work.

Several hours had passed, several snares had been set, and he was still busily engaged when Dan, right at his elbow, said:

“Feelin’ hungry?”

“Oh!” and Paul jumped. “Dan, I didn’t see you. You frightened me.”

Dan laughed.

“See what I’m gettin’,” and he held up seven fat ptarmigans.

“Oh, Dan, but that’s fine!” exclaimed Paul, handling the birds caressingly.

“Let’s put on a fire an’ have a snack,” said Dan. “Seems like I can’t walk no farther till I eats.”

Dan collected some small dry twigs and a handful of the dry moss which in northern forests collects beneath the limbs of spruce trees. With his foot he scraped the snow from a small area, baring the ground. In the center of this he placed the moss, arranged the sticks about it with much care, struck a match to the moss, and in an incredibly short time had a cheery fire blazing.

“Break some boughs for a seat, Paul, while I plucks th’ pa’tridges,” he suggested.

Two of the birds were quickly plucked and drawn, Dan placing the entrails carefully aside on clean snow. Then he cut two dead sticks a couple of feet in length, sharpened them at each end, impaled a ptarmigan on each, and stuck the other sharpened end of the sticks in the ground in such position that the birds were near enough to the fire to broil without burning.

“’Tis wonderful extravagant for each of us t’ be eatin’ a whole pa’tridge,” said he, as he sat down upon the seat of boughs Paul had provided, “but we ain’t been eatin’ much lately, an’ I finds myself gettin’ weak, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll be hungry yet after we eats un, for one pa’tridge with nothin’ t’ go with un ain’t much.”

“I feel as though I could eat both of them myself. I wonder if I’ll ever get enough to eat again,” said Paul. “I’ve been planning the things I’m going to eat when I get home.”

While Dan turned the birds now and again they planned feasts and talked of good things they had eaten and longed to eat again, until Dan finally announced:

“Well, they’s done.”

“It was just enough to make me hungrier,” declared Paul when the last morsel had been eaten, even to the tender bones, and thoroughly enjoyed, though they had no salt for seasoning.

Dan reached over for the entrails, wound one upon the end of each stick, and, handing Paul one of the sticks, began to broil his own over the coals.

“What you going to do with them?” asked Paul.

“Eat ’em,” announced Dan. “You remember th’ way th’ huskies done? I’m thinkin’ if they’s good for huskies they’s good for us.”

“I don’t know,” said Paul, hesitating. Then like one plunging into a cold bath he followed Dan’s example, remarking, as he watched the swelling, sputtering things: “It’s funny the way people change. When I saw the Eskimos eat them I thought it was a terrible thing to do, but it doesn’t seem so bad now.”

“Dad says folks can eat most anything if they’s hungry enough.”

“I guess he’s right.”

“They’re not so bad,” said Dan, tasting an end of his.

“They’re really pretty good,” asserted Paul, gingerly taking a mouthful.

“I was thinkin’ we better not waste un. We’ll have t’ save th’ little grub we has in th’ tent for a time when we’ll need un more, an’ be livin’ now on what we kills.”

It was a day of good fortune. On their return to camp they made a wide detour, exploring a section that Dan had not yet visited, and suddenly, while skirting a marsh in the center of which was a pond, Dan grabbed Paul by the arm.

“Geese!” he exclaimed.

The pond was discovered to be a widening of a brook, flowing to the southward to join their river.

“Now we’ll crawl up along th’ willow brush, an’ don’t be shootin’ till I says to,” directed Dan. “When I says ‘shoot,’ take th’ nighest one with one barrel an’ th’ next nighest with t’ other barrel, an’ be steady, fer ’t means grub. I’ll give ’em bullets with th’ rifle.”

Cautiously and silently they crawled foot by foot along the lee of the willow bushes that lined the brook. Once Paul inadvertently broke a twig and an old gander held up his head in alarm. They threw themselves flat and lay like logs in the snow until the gander assuming that he was mistaken in his premonition of danger, resumed feeding. It was a moment of intense excitement for the young hunters.

“Now,” whispered Dan, when they had at length come abreast of the geese, “an’ be careful.”

Slowly they brought their guns to their shoulders, still lying flat on the ground, and fired.

Instantly there was a great commotion among the geese, which, instead of rising and flying away, half ran on the surface of the water, flapping their wings to help them in their retreat.

The guns rang out again. Before Paul, in his excitement, could reload, the game was quite out of range of his shotgun, but Dan with his rifle fired several more shots after the retreating birds.

Five geese lay upon the water when the fusillade was over, and the boys hugged each other in an ecstasy of delight.

“How’ll we get them? They’re away out in deep water,” asked Paul.

“I’ll get un,” said Dan, beginning to undress, “I’ll go in for un.”

“Let me do it, Dan,” suggested Paul. “You do all the hard and disagreeable work.”

“Oh, I don’t mind goin’ in. ’Tain’t so cold,” declared Dan, who was now stripped, and plunged fearlessly into the icy water.

It was but a moment’s work to secure the geese, and Dan, standing barefooted in the snow, donned his clothes as quickly as possible, declaring the moment he was dressed that he “felt fine and warm.”

“What luck!” exclaimed Paul, lifting goose after goose to test its weight. “We’ve got enough to last us a whole week.”

“’Tis not luck,” remonstrated Dan, who never admitted that anything came by mere luck. “Th’ Lord were skimpin’ our grub so’s we’d be careful of what we gets when we gets un, an’ then He sends along th’ pa’tridges an’ geese. Dad says ’tis th’ Lord’s way, when a feller’s doin’ all he kin for hisself.”

“Anyhow we got the geese.”

The boys were in position to live very well now. They had no bread, for scarcely enough flour remained for one meal, and this little flour and a small bit of bacon were all that was left, save tea and salt, of the provisions they had brought from the ship.

The morning after the goose hunt two rabbits were found in Paul’s snares and he was greatly elated at his success, and on the same day several ptarmigans and a black duck were killed by Dan, materially increasing their stock of provisions.

Then came a night of rain, and another morning found the land washed clear of snow. The sky had cleared, and a strong, steady breeze sprang up from the westward, as Dan had prophesied it would. Gradually under this influence the ice pack began to loosen and move seaward.

The boys returned early from their hunting trips on succeeding days that Dan might devote the afternoons to repairs on the boat, that it might be made as seaworthy as possible. The repairs completed, he fitted a mast forward, and with the light tarpaulin improvised a sail. He also provided a long stiff oar, which he fashioned with the axe, explaining to Paul that it was to be used in the stern to propel and steer the boat at times when the wind failed them, just as he had used the small oar when they went ashore from the ice pan.

Gradually Paul had learned to cook their simple meals of game. He assumed this responsibility, provided fuel and attended to the general camp duties, not only that Dan might be free during daylight hours to devote his undivided attention to preparations for departure, but because he wished to feel that he, too, was doing his full share of the work.

The weather had settled. By day the sun shone brilliantly, by night the stars and aurora lighted the heavens. The ice continued to move. The bight was soon quite free from it, and at length the sea itself was so little obstructed that one day Dan announced it quite safe to begin their voyage of exploration to the southward.

Preparations for departure had curtailed their hunting hours, but nevertheless they had four full days’ provisions when they broke camp and set sail in their frail craft. The wind was fair, and it was a beautiful, perfect morning. Their hearts were full of hope and expectancy, though they knew much less of the surrounding sea and dismal coast than did Henry Hudson, the great explorer, when he was set adrift upon the same waters by a mutinous crew nearly three hundred years before.

CHAPTER X

A NARROW ESCAPE

“HURRAH!” shouted Paul, as Dan trimmed the sail and it filled with wind. “Hurrah! We’re off!”

“I’m hopin’ th’ wind’ll breeze up a bit; an’ she does, we’ll be makin’ fine time,” remarked Dan, pointing the boat for the open sea. “She’s a rare good sailin’ craft.”

“Let me take the tiller, Dan. I can handle it, and I want to do something. You manage the sail.”

“An’ you wants,” said Dan, surrendering the tiller and settling comfortably amidships. “Head her just outside that p’int o’ land,” he directed.

“Isn’t it fine to be moving!” exclaimed Paul. “But the old camping place grew to seem homelike to me. Wasn’t it cozy when we first landed there from the ice, after we got our tent up and a fire started?”

“Yes, ’twere wonderful snug an’ fine, but I finds it a rare sight better afloat, an’ s’uthard bound.”

“Do you know, Dan, it gives me a sort of scarey feeling to think we’re out here alone in this little boat when there’s not another boat in sight, and likely there isn’t another within hundreds of miles of us, unless it’s the North Star; and we know that no one lives on the land. It’s a queer sort of feeling—nothing but a great big wilderness everywhere, and just us in it. But I’m glad to be here. I wonder what there is below that point and over the hill?”

“’Tis a wonderful bleak country, I’m thinkin’, an’ I’m wishin’ we were knowin’ where th’ fur traders is, an’ where we’re goin’.” Dan produced his harmonica as he spoke, drew it across his sleeve, and putting it to his lips blew a chord or two.

“It’s because we don’t know, I guess, and the uncertainty about it, that makes it interesting to me. I feel like an explorer. It’s simply great to sail along and wonder all the time what we’ll see next, and no way of finding out till we get there. That makes it exciting and romantic.”

“I don’t know as ’tis very exciting,” said Dan, removing the harmonica from his lips, “but ’tis a wonderful sight better ’n stayin’ around camp, with winter nigh, an’ ’t would be better yet if th’ ship came cruisin’ along t’ pick us up—which she won’t, as th’ ice sure drove she out.”

With this, and as if to dismiss the subject, he struck up one of his favorite tunes, playing softly, and ceasing only long enough to say to Paul: “A bit t’ port. That’s it, steady.”

The morning air was crisp and frosty. The sun illumined the eastern heavens in a blaze of wondrous colors, and presently raised his face above the glistening sea. Even the bleak coast, austere and rugged, possessed a unique grandeur and compelling beauty. The wind sprang up with the rising sun, and the little boat bowled along at a good speed, upon a gentle swell. Now and again Dan would trim the sail, and give an instruction to Paul, “Port lee a bit,” or “Starb’rd a bit,” and return to his music.

Paul was thinking of home, of his mother and father, and his homecoming—some time. He had no doubt that he and Dan would extricate themselves from the wilderness, for he had grown to have unbounded faith in Dan’s resourcefulness and ingenuity. He wondered what his parents would say, when Mr. Remington returned without him, if Dan’s assurance that the ship could never have remained in the face of the ice were correct.

While he realized and regretted the anxiety his absence would cause his parents, it did not occur to him that any one would believe that he and Dan were drowned. He believed that his father would send a vessel for them when the ice passed out of Hudson Bay the following summer, and that in the meantime he and Dan would be quite comfortable at some trading post which they should presently find.

He was thrilled with the delights of adventure, now that any real danger seemed past, and he made for himself pleasant pictures of his return to school and the rôle of hero he would fill in the eyes of the other fellows.

Presently Dan ceased playing, and they chatted intermittently. Once a great sea creature raised its back directly in front of them.

“What’s that?” asked Paul.

“A white whale,” answered Dan, as the thing sank, to appear again much farther out to sea.

At another time they passed several seals, and Paul wished to shoot at them, but Dan advised:

“’Tis rare hard t’ hit un, an’ if you did hit one an’ kill un, she’d sink before we could get un. An’ we’ll be needin’ all th’ cartridges,” so Paul did not shoot.

The sun was close to the western horizon when, ravenously hungry, for they had eaten nothing since breakfast, they ran into a little cove, unloaded their belongings, hauled the boat to a safe position, and made camp. They had kept steadily going all day, for Dan had been unwilling to lose advantage of the fair wind, and had they gone ashore to cook dinner it would have consumed at least an hour of valuable time.

“Th’ days is growin’ wonderful short,” said Dan, “an’ we’ll have t’ be usin’ all of the daylight when th’ wind’s fair an’ good. ’Twill save grub, too, if we eats only twice a day.”

During the four succeeding days they made indifferent progress. The weather was glorious, but the wind for hours at a stretch died to a dead calm, the sail hung slack, and to keep in motion they were compelled to work at their stern oar, and progress by this means was slow and tedious.

They were very sparing of their provisions. A couple of geese were killed and added to their store, but nothing else. Then came another day with a good breeze, but when they went into camp that night they had only a gull to divide between them for supper. It was an unpromising shore for game, and Dan expressed himself of the belief that it would be quite fruitless to hunt.

“If we sees any place tomorrow that looks like a river, or a likely place for huntin’, we’ll land an’ try un,” he commented as, very hungry, they settled for the night.

There was not a scrap to eat for breakfast. Paul declared he could eat his shoes, and Dan facetiously advised that he fill up on water, the one thing that was abundant. They set sail as the first light of dawn appeared in the east. Paul shivered in the frosty atmosphere, and both of the young voyagers sat despondently quiet, until the sun pushed his big glowing face above the eastern waters, and seemed to laugh at them.

“Dad says, ‘Keep a stiff upper lip, do th’ best un can, an’ she’ll work out all right,’” encouraged Dan, at length, breaking the silence. “They ain’t nothin’ we can do but keep goin’ an’ watch out for game. Th’ Lord’s been watchin’ out for us right along, an’ He’s got His eye on us now, I’m thinkin’. We ain’t been lookin’ much for grub. We been thinkin’ too much about gettin’ on. An’ we looks out, we’ll be gettin’ grub before night. They’s been chances t’ kill grub every day, but we been goin’ right on an’ not takin’ un.”

“We’ll have to get something pretty soon or we’ll starve to death,” said Paul. “I wonder how long people can live without eating?”

“I’m not knowin’ just how long. Dad’s been a week more ’n once without eatin’, an’ he says ’t were just makin’ he a bit weak, but not hurtin’ he none.”

“I’m sure I never could stand it for a week.”

“Oh, yes, un could. Dad says ’t is bad when folks gives up, an’ thinks they’s goin’ t’ die after fastin’ for a bit.”

“But we can’t live unless we eat,” insisted Paul.

“No, but we can go a wonderful time without eatin’ before we dies, if we only thinks we can.”

The wind was rising. White caps were appearing upon the surface of the sea, and presently the boat began now and again to ship water.

“We’ll have t’ make shore th’ first promisin’ place,” suggested Dan. “We’re sure in for a blow. There’s a p’int ahead, and we’ll make for th’ lee of un.”

The wind was in the northeast, and it drove the little craft before it at a terrific rate. In an incredibly short time it had developed into a tempest. The angry waters piled about them and tossed the boat about upon the wave crests like a leaf. While Paul held the rudder Dan lowered the sail, and they ran before the gale with bared mast. Dan resumed the rudder and Paul baled out the water, working as he had never worked before.

“We’ll never make it, Dan!” he shouted at length. “We’ll swamp, sure!”

“Oh, yes; we’re gainin’ on un,” encouraged Dan. “We’ll make un.”

Dan’s face, however, was tense, and it was plain that he was not so confident as his words seemed to indicate.

They had almost passed the point when a great wave broke over them, nearly swamping the boat, and leaving it half full of water, but they made the point, and passed into less tempestuous waters before another wave caught them.

Even here the sea was as rough as the little boat could weather, for the shore was not so well protected as it had seemed, and it was lined with jagged rocks, making a landing impossible, for to have attempted it would have resulted in the boat’s smashing to pieces and perhaps their being carried away before they could reach safety.

Dan watched for an opening, as they paralleled the shore a safe distance from it, and at length discovered a bit of gravelly beach reaching down between high boulders.

It was a difficult landing to make, but it was their only hope, and he headed directly for the opening.

“Get t’ th’ bow an’ jump th’ minute we strikes!” he shouted to Paul, and Paul obeyed.

For an instant it seemed that in spite of Dan’s best effort they must strike upon the rocks, the next instant the danger was past, the boat drove hard upon the gravel, and both boys sprang ashore for their lives, to escape a breaker which swept over the boat.

One on either side they grasped the bow, and as another wave came rolling in, pulled with all their might. Thus, aided by the force of the water, the boat was drawn sufficiently high to permit them to unload, bale out the water, and haul the boat to safety.

“We made un all right,” remarked Dan, when everything was beyond danger.

“Yes,” said Paul, “but it was a narrow escape.”

“’T were that,” admitted Dan. “’T were wonderful close we was t’ bein’ swamped.”

The boys themselves and all their things were drenching wet. Not a stick of driftwood was to be found. The wind was bitterly cold. They had eaten nothing since the previous evening, and then only the unsatisfying gull, and the barren coast was destitute of game. But they had escaped death, and were thankful for their deliverance.

CHAPTER XI

A DEATH STRUGGLE

“WE’D better open th’ outfit up, an’ let th’ wind be dryin’ un while we hunts grub,” suggested Dan, as he unfolded a blanket and proceeded to spread it upon the ground, after they had made a brief survey of their immediate surroundings.

“I’m so dead hungry and empty I can hardly move,” said Paul, sitting impotently on a rock. “I feel weak, too. The scare, and pulling on the boat, just about knocked the ginger out of me.”

“We’ll be findin’ timber clost by, an’ they’s a good chanst t’ kill some grub before night. ’T ain’t noon yet. We’ll start soon’s we get th’ things spread, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll be good an’ snug by night,” encouraged Dan.

“It’s all my fault that we ever got into this scrape, Dan,” Paul remarked dejectedly, as he arose to assist in unpacking the wet things. “If I’d listened to you, and done as I promised, we’d have been safe on the ship now, instead of starving to death out here.”

“They’s no tellin’,” Dan consoled. “I’m thinkin’ ’twould have been the same anyhow. Maybe ’twas meant we be goin’ adrift. Leastways ’tain’t no use botherin’ about un now. Dad say what’s done is done, an’ ’tain’t no use botherin’ our heads about a thing after she’s done an’ past. What’s past might as well be forgot. Dad says ’tain’t what was, but what is, as counts. He says: ‘If you weren’t doin’ things right yesterday, ’tain’t goin’ t’ help none t’ bother about un t’day, but just do th’ things you has to do t’day right, an’ do un th’ best un can, an’ what you weren’t doin’ right yesterday won’t count ag’in you.’”

“Maybe you’re right, Dan, and I may as well quit worrying about it. One thing’s certain. When I promise to do anything at a certain time again, I’m going to do it. And I’m going to do the best I can now, and stop complaining. I wish I could do things as well as you do. You know how to do everything.”

“They’s a wonderful lot o’ things I’m not knowin’ how t’ do. I’m knowin’ how t’ sail a boat an’ do things around camp, because I always had t’ do un. ’Twon’t be long till you knows how t’ do un too, an’ then you’ll know a lot more ’n I do. Where you lives you had t’ learn t’ do other kinds o’ things, an’ them things you knows how t’ do I don’t know nothin’ about. Dad says learnin’ t’ do things is like plants growin’. ‘If you plants a turnip seed t’day,’ says he, ‘you can’t pull a turnip from un th’ same day. Th’ turnip’s got t’ have time t’ grow after th’ seed’s planted, an’ you can’t learn t’ do things what’s worth knowin’ how t’ do,’ says he, ‘in one day. You got t’ keep learnin’ a little about un every day till you learns how t’ do un.’ You learn about doin’ things in camp wonderful quick, Paul.”

“Thank you, Dan. You always encourage me. I’d have given up long ago if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’d have been findin’ out how t’ do things. You got a rare lot o’ pluck.”

By this time the things were spread where wind and sun could dry them, with boulders placed upon them as a precaution against the wind carrying them away.

“Now,” said Dan, shouldering his rifle, “we’ll be goin’. ’Twill be best t’ bring your shotgun an’ plenty o’ shells, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll find grub, an’ be feelin’ better when we makes camp this evenin’.”

Three quarters of a mile inland lay a ridge of low, barren hills. Dan, in the lead, directed their course toward it, and set a good pace, with Paul, who was learning the trick of walking over rough, untrailed country with less effort than formerly, close at his heels.

Paul bore small resemblance now to the sallow, listless youth who in July climbed the ladder to the deck of the North Star, lying in Sydney harbor. His face was brown and ruddy, his eyes bright, his limbs lithe, his step springy, and he had grown eager and alert. Both he and Dan were, however, now conscious of a growing weakness, the natural result of insufficient food for several days, and particularly due to their unbroken fast of several hours.

At the foot of the ridge they encountered a growth of straggling spruce brush. Above the brush, near the summit, the hills were of a reddish hue, in marked contrast to the surrounding gray. This red coloring, they presently discovered upon ascending the ridge, was given the hills by masses of red berries, half the size of ordinary cranberries but resembling them in flavor and appearance.

The wind swept the ridge with terrific fury, and was very cold, but they fell upon their knees, uncomfortable as it was, and partially satisfied their hunger with the fruit.

“They ain’t so bad,” remarked Dan, “but they’s so sour I’m thinkin’ we better not eat too many t’ onct.”

“They are pretty sour,” admitted Paul, reluctantly rising to follow Dan, “but they taste mighty good.”

“If we don’t kill nothin’ we can eat more of un when we comes back. But I’m thinkin’ we’ll find pa’tridges along here, feedin’ on un. Pa’tridges is wonderful fond o’ berries, an’ they’ll not be missin’ a feedin’ ground like this. Th’ kind that takes t’ th’ hills is bigger’n better’n them that sticks t’ th’ willers. They both turns white in winter, an’ they’s both better ’n th’ spruce pa’tridges that sticks t’ th’ spruce timber.”