My stock of matches was small and time was precious, and I did not stop at noon to build a fire. Even when night began to close in upon me I still plodded on, believing that I now must be near Hubbard. The snow was falling gently, and as there was a moon behind the clouds the night was sufficiently light for me to make my way tediously through the trees, with the roar of the rapids to guide me. It must have been near midnight when, utterly exhausted, I was forced to abandon the hope of finding Hubbard before morning. Fearing that the mould would again sicken me, I ate nothing when I halted; I simply collected a few dry sticks and huddled for the remainder of the night by a miserable fire, dozing and awaking with a shudder from awful dreams.

The storm continued during the night, and with the morning of Friday (October 23d) broke upon the world and me with renewed fury. I prepared myself another dose of the mould, and forced it down. I was nervously anxious to get on and find Hubbard. I knew I must be near him now, although the snow had changed the whole face of the country and obliterated all the landmarks. Soon I crossed a brook, frozen and covered with snow, that I felt must be the one near our camp. Eagerly I looked about me for the tent. Because of the falling snow and the snow-bent branches, I could scarcely see twenty yards in any direction.

From snow-covered rock to snow-covered rock I went, believing each in turn to be the tent, but always to meet disappointment. Repeatedly I stopped to peer into the maze of snow for smoke. But there was none.

Again and again I shouted. But there was no answer. The tent was really near me, but it kept its secret well.

I travelled on and on. I became desperate. Over and over I repeated to myself, "I must find Hubbard before night comes--I must find him--I must--I must." At length the first signs of night warned me that I must collect my wood, that I might be as comfortable as possible through the dreary hours of darkness. As night came on the storm moderated. The wind ceased. An unwonted, solemn, awful stillness came upon the world. It seemed to choke me. I was filled with an unutterable, a sickening dread. Hubbard's face as I had last seen it was constantly before me. Was he looking and waiting for me? Why could I not find him? I must find him in the morning. I must, I must.

Before going to sleep I made some more gruel and tea, drinking them both as a duty.

The snow was falling gently on Sat.u.r.day (October 24th), the wind had mercifully abated, and the temperature was somewhat milder. After more gruel and the last cup of tea I was to have in my lonely wanderings, I renewed my search for Hubbard. I decided that possibly I was below the camp, and pushed on to the westward. Finally I became convinced I was in a part of the country I had never seen before. I began to feel that possibly I was far above the camp; that a rescuing party had found Hubbard, and that, as my tracks in the snow had been covered, they had abandoned the hope of finding me and had returned. They might even have pa.s.sed me in the valley below; it was quite possible. But perhaps George's strength had failed him, and help never would come to any of us.

I turned about, and again started down the valley. After a time I attempted to cross the ice on the river, to try and discover some familiar landmark on the south sh.o.r.e. In midstream, where the current had not permitted thick ice to form, I broke through. The water was nearly up to my armpits. Standing there with the icy current swirling about me, I said, "What's the use?" It seemed to me I had reached the limit of human endurance. Instead of trying to struggle on, how much pleasanter to permit myself to sink beneath the water and thus end it all! It would be such a relief to die.

Then there came to me the remembrance that it was my duty to live as long as I could. I must do my best. As long as I had any strength left, I must exert myself to live. With a great effort I climbed out on the hard ice, and made my way back to the north sh.o.r.e. Night was approaching. I staggered into the spruce growth, and there came upon the same brook I have previously mentioned as crossing. Near its bank I made my night fire. That fire was within two hundred yards of the tent. Perhaps it is just as well that I did not know it.

The snow, which had fallen rather mildly, all day, thickened with the coming of night. All the loose wood was now buried under the snow, and it was with difficulty that I gathered a scant supply for the night.

My wet rags were freezing hard and stiff. I moved about, half-dazed.

I broke only a few branches for my bed, and sat down. Scarcely had I done so when a woman's voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging.

"Hadn't you better break a few more boughs?" it said. "You will rest better then."

There was no mistaking the voice. It was clear and distinct. It was the voice of my wife, who had been dead for more than three years. I remember it did not impress me as being at all strange that my wife, who was dead, should be speaking to me up there in the Labrador wilderness. It seemed to me perfectly natural that she should be looking after my comfort, even as she had done in life. I arose and broke the boughs.

I am not a spiritist. I have never taken any stock in the theory that the spirits of the dead are able to communicate with the living. So far as I have thought about them at all, it has been my opinion that spiritists are either fools or frauds. But I am endeavouring to give a faithful account of my feelings and sensations at the time of which I am writing, and the incident of the voice cannot be ignored. Perhaps it was all a delusion--an hallucination, if you will, due to the gradual breaking down of my body and mind. As to that, the reader can form his own conclusions. Certain it is, that from this time on, when I needed help and encouragement the most, I felt a vague a.s.surance that my wife was by my side; and I verily believe, that if it had not been for this,--hallucination, delusion, actuality, reality, or whatever it may have been,--I should now be in a land where the truth about these things is probably known for certain.

At times I even thought I saw my wife. And often, often throughout those terrible days her voice came to me, kindly and low and encouraging. When I felt I really could plod no farther through the snow, her voice would tell me not to lose heart, but to do my best, and all would be right in the end. And when, wearied beyond measure at night, I would fall into a heavy sleep, and my fire would burn low, a hand on my shoulder would arouse me, and her voice would tell me to get up and throw on more wood. Now and again I fancied I heard the voice of my mother, who died when I was a boy, also encouraging and rea.s.suring me. Indescribably comforting were those voices, whatever their origin may have been. They soothed me, and brought balm for my loneliness. In the wilderness, and amid the falling snow, those that loved me were ministering unto me and keeping me from harm. At least, so it seemed to me. And now, as I think of those dear voices, and feel once more that loving touch on my shoulder, there comes back to me that verse from the Psalm George read at our parting--"For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."

It is all like a half-dream to me now. I know that after Sat.u.r.day night (October 24th), when I bivouacked within a stone's throw of Hubbard's tent, I lost all count of the days, and soon could not recall even the month. I travelled on and on, always down the valley.

Sometimes I fancied I heard men shouting, and I would reply. But the men did not come, and I would say to myself over and over again, "Man proposes, G.o.d disposes; it is His will and best for all."

The flour mould nauseated me to such an extent that for a day at a time I could not force myself to eat it. The snow clogged in all that was left of my cowhide moccasins (larigans), and I took them off and fastened them to my belt, walking thereafter in my stocking feet. I wore two pairs of woollen socks, but holes already were beginning to appear in the toes and heels. The bushes tore away the legs of my trousers completely, and my drawers, which thus became the sole protection of my legs from the middle of my thighs down, had big holes in them. Each night I cut a piece of leather from my moccasin uppers, and boiled it in my cup until morning, when I would eat it and drink the water. I found afterward, carefully preserved in my match box, one of the bra.s.s eyelets from the moccasins. Probably I put it away thinking I might have to eat even that.

I knew there was something the matter with my feet; they complained to me every night. They seemed to me like individuals that were dependent upon me, and they told me it was my duty to care for them. But I gave no heed to their complaints. I had enough to do to care for myself.

My feet must look out for themselves. Why should I worry about them?

And still it snowed, night and day--sometimes gently, sometimes blindingly; but always it snowed. Once while plodding along the side of a rocky hill, I staggered over the edge of a shelving rock and fell several feet into a snow drift. I was uninjured, but extricating myself was desperately hard work, and it was very pleasant and soft in the snow, and I was so tired and sleepy. Why not give it up and go to sleep? But she was with me, and she whispered, "Struggle on, and all will be well," and reluctantly I dragged my poor old body out.

There were times when the feeling was strong upon me that I had been alone and wandering on forever, and that, like the Wandering Jew, I must go on forever. At other times I fancied I was dead, and that the snow-covered wilderness was another world. Instinctively I built my fire at night under the stump of a fallen tree, if I could find one; for the rotten wood would smoulder until morning, and a supply of other wood was very hard to get.

One evening I remember crossing the river, which had now gone into its long winter sleep tucked away under a blanket of ice and snow, and building a fire under a rotten stump on the south side behind a bank near the sh.o.r.e. I felt that I must be well down the valley. My supply of wood was miserably small, but I had worked hard all day and could not gather any more. I fell down by the fire and struggled against sleep. She told me I must not sleep. When I dozed, her hand on my shoulder would arouse me. Thus the night pa.s.sed.

At dawn I realised in a vague sort of way that the clouds had at last broken away; that the weather was clear and biting cold. Before me was the river. It had been a raging torrent when I first saw it; now it lay quiet and still under its heavy winter blanket. At my back the low bank with its stunted spruce trees hid the ridge of barren, rocky hills and knolls that lay beyond.

A few embers of the rotten stump were smouldering, sending skyward, with each fitful gust of the east wind, a fugitive curl of smoke. A few yards away lay a dead tree, with its branches close to the snow.

If I could break some of those branches off, and get them back to my smouldering stump, I might fan the embers into a blaze, get some heat and melt snow in my cup for a hot drink. Not that I craved the drink or anything else, but it perhaps would give me strength to go just a little farther.

I pulled my piece of ragged blanket over my shoulders and struggled to my feet. It was no use. I swayed dizzily about, took a few steps forward and fell. I crawled slowly back to the smouldering stump and tried to think. I felt no pain; I was just weary to the last degree.

Should I not now be justified in surrendering to the overpowering desire to sleep? Perhaps, I argued, it would strengthen me. I could no longer walk; why not sleep? But still I was told that I must not...

Was Hubbard still waiting and watching for me to come back?--somewhere in that still wilderness of snow was he waiting and watching and hoping? Perhaps he was dead, and at rest. Poor Hubbard...

Why did not the men come to look for us--the trappers that George was to send? Had they come and missed me, and gone away again? Or was George, brave fellow, lying dead on the trail somewhere below? How long had I been wandering, anyway...

My sisters in far-away New York, were they hoping and praying to hear from me? Perhaps they never would. There was a certain grave in a little cemetery on the banks of the dear old Hudson. It had been arranged that I should lie beside that grave when I went to sleep forever. Would they find my bones and take them back?...

How enthusiastic Hubbard had been for this expedition! It was going to make his reputation, he thought. Well, well, man proposes, G.o.d disposes; it was His will and best for all.

I found myself dozing, and with an effort to recover myself sat up straight. The sun was making its way above the horizon. I looked at it and hoped that its warming rays would give me strength to do my duty--my duty to live as long as I could. Anyway, the storms had pa.s.sed! the storms had pa.s.sed!

I dozed again. It may have been that I was entering upon my final sleep. But gradually I became hazily conscious of an unusual sound.

Was it a shout? I was aroused. I made a great effort and got on my feet. I listened. There it was again! It was a shout, I felt sure it was a shout! With every bit of energy at my command, I sent up an answering "h.e.l.lo!" All was silent. I began to fear that again I had been deceived. Then over the bank above me came four swarthy men on snow-shoes, with big packs on their backs.

XIX. THE KINDNESS OF THE BREEDS

The unintelligible words that George shouted to me from the knoll after we parted on Tuesday (October 20th) were an injunction to keep near the river, as the men he would send to rescue Hubbard and me would look for us there. As he proceeded down the valley his progress was slow and tedious, owing to his weakness, the rough country, and the deepening snow. Towards noon he came upon the newly made track of a porcupine, followed it a short distance into a clump of trees, where he soon saw the round quill-covered animal in the snow and shot it. Immediately he built a fire, and singed off quills and hair. Then, as he related to me afterwards, he considered, talking aloud to himself, what was best to do with his prize.

"There's them fellus up there without grub," he said. "Maybe I'd better turn about and take 'em this porcupine. But if I do, it won't last long, and then we'll be worse off than ever. This snow's gettin'

deeper all the time, and if it gets so deep I can't walk without snowshoes, we'll all die for sure. No, I'd better go on with this porcupine to help me."

So after boiling a piece of the porcupine in his tea kettle and eating it, he continued down the valley. By his fires be always talked to himself to keep himself company, and that night he said:

"This 's been a tough day, and I ain't where I ought to be. But I'll eat a good snack of this porcupine now with some of the flour, and in the mornin' I'll have another good snack, and that'll make me stronger and I can travel farther to-morrow. I ought to get most to Grand Lake to-morrow night."

But so far from getting anywhere near Grand Lake the next day, he did not complete his twenty-five-mile journey for several days to come.

The snow became so deep he could hardly push through it. He carefully h.o.a.rded the bones of his porcupine, thinking he might have to eat them; but Providence sent him more food. When the first porcupine was eaten, he came upon and killed another, and when that was gone, he shot a third. He also succeeded in shooting several grouse. If it had not been for this game, he would not have lived to do the hard work that was before him.

The pieces of blanket in which his feet were wrapped were continually coming off, and frequent halts were necessary to readjust them. He must not let his feet freeze; for then he would not be able to walk, and not only would he perish himself, but "there'd be no hope for them fellus up there." One day he came upon a man's track. He was exultant. That it was a trapper's trail he had no doubt. Staggering along it with all the speed he could command, he shouted wildly at every step. Presently he discovered that he was following his own trail; he had been travelling in a circle. The discovery made him almost frantic. He stopped to reason with and calm himself. Said he, so that all the listening wilderness might hear:

"Them fellus up there in the snow have got to be saved. I said to Hubbard, 'With G.o.d's help I'll save you,' and I'm a-goin' to if my legs hold out and there's anybody at Grand Lake." And then he went on.

His progress down the valley that day was only a mile and a half. It was most discouraging. He must do better. The powdered milk we had abandoned he did not find, but on October 26th he recovered our old lard pail. Some of the lard he ate, some he used in cooking a grouse, and the rest he took along with him.

Below the place where he bivouacked that night the snow was not so deep, and early the next morning George once more beheld the broad waters of Grand Lake. The journey he had expected to make in three days had actually taken him seven. He arrived at Grand Lake three days after I, wandering in the valley above, lost all track of time.

A few miles above its mouth the Susan River bends to the southward, and from that direction reaches the little lake that lies just north of the extreme western end of Grand Lake, so that George, proceeding down the river on the south bank, eventually came to the little lake's western sh.o.r.e. Along this sh.o.r.e he made his way until he reached the point of land formed by the little lake and the branch of the Beaver River that flows a little south of east to merge its waters in the little lake with those of the Susan. The water here had not been frozen, and George found his further progress arrested. He was in a quandary. The trapper's tilt for which he was bound was on the south sh.o.r.e of Grand Lake about seven or eight miles from its western end, and in order to reach the tilt he would have to continue on south around the end of the lake.

The land on the other side of the swirling stream to which George had come was the island at the mouth of the Beaver that separates it into two branches, and which forms the western sh.o.r.e of the swift stream or strait that, flowing to the southward, discharges the waters of the little lake into Grand Lake. George thought, however, that this island was a part of the western boundary of Grand Lake, and he determined to reach it. But how? To swim across was impossible. Well, then, he would build a raft. And, although he had no implements, he did. He hauled together several fallen trees, laid them in a row and bound them at one end with his pack strap and at the other with a piece of our old trolling line. When this was done, he hacked himself a pole with his sheath-knife, threw his bag containing a piece of a porcupine and some grouse on the raft, launched it, jumped on it himself and pushed out into the stream.

One or two good shoves George gave with his pole, and then found he no longer could touch bottom. He was at the mercy of the swift current.

Down into the little lake he was swept, and thence through the strait right out into Grand Lake. A high sea was running, and the frail raft promptly began to fall to pieces. "Have I escaped starvin' only to drown?" thought George. It certainly looked like it. "But," said he to himself, "if I drown them fellus up there will be up against it for sure." So he determined not to drown. He got down on his hands and knees, and, although the icy seas broke relentlessly over him, he held the floating sticks in place, at the same time clinging tenaciously to his food bag; for, as he confided to me later, "it would have been just as bad to escape drownin' only to starve as it would have been to escape starvin' only to drown."

Farther out on the broad bosom of the lake George was carried. "Now,"

said he, "if I jump, I'll drown; and if I don't, I'll drown anyway. So I guess I'll hang on a little longer." And hang on he did for something like two hours, when the wind caught his raft and drove it back to the southern end of the island at the mouth of the Beaver.

"You can't lose me," said George, as he landed. He and his game bag were saved, but his difficulties were not ended by any means.

While the wind was driving him back, George caught sight of the branch of the Beaver that flows almost due south directly into Grand Lake, forming the island's western sh.o.r.e. Standing on this sh.o.r.e, he made a shrewd guess. "I'll bet," he said, "my dream was right, and here we have the same river we were on when we said good-bye to the canoe."

What interested him the most, however, was a row boat he espied a little south of the island on the opposite sh.o.r.e. Apparently it had been abandoned. "If can reach that boat," said George, "and it'll float and I don't find Blake or any grab at his tilt, I'll put right off for the post, and send help from there to them fellus up there."