CHAPTER IX.AT THE MERCY OF THE SEA.
For an hour or more I sat on the edge of my berth, pondering the matter first in one way and then in another. The captain’s plain speech had opened my eyes, as it were, and as I recalled many little incidents of the past, looking at them now in their true light, I saw that I had indeed been dull-witted and slow of comprehension. I had won Flora’s heart—she returned my affection. That was the meaning of her frequent blushes and confusion—signs which I had interpreted as indifference when I thought of them at all.
The discovery both caused me an exquisite joy and added to my wretchedness. At the first I painted a bright and glowing picture of the future. Flora should be mine! I would make her my wife, and carry her off into the wilderness or to one of the lower towns. I was young and strong. I had some money laid by, and it would be but a delightful task to carve a home and a fortune for the two of us. So I reasoned for a time, and then a more sober mood followed. I saw that I had been indulging in an empty dream.
“There is no such happiness for me!” I groaned aloud. “I was a fool to think of it for a moment. The girl loves me, it is true, but no persuasion of mine could ever induce her to break her promise. She belongs to Griffith Hawke, and she will marry him. And even if it were possible to win her, honor and duty, which I have always held sacred, would keep me from such a knavish trick. If I proved unfaithful to my trust, could I ever hold up my head among men again?”
Thus I revolved the matter in my mind, and I confess that I was sorely tempted more than once to stake all on the chance of making Flora my own. But in the end I resolved to be true to my manhood—to the principles my father had been at such pains to teach me. Without taking the trouble to undress, I stretched myself on my bed—the hour was late—and for a long time I dozed or tossed restlessly at intervals. At last I fell into a sound sleep, and it could have been no great while afterward when I was rudely awakened by a crash that pitched me out of my bunk to the floor. A second and far louder crash followed at once, immediately overhead, and then a shrill commotion broke out. I knew the ship had struck, and I lost no time in getting to my feet. Luckily no bones were broken, and with some difficulty—for the vessel was pitching heavily—I groped my way through the darkness to the deck.
Here I beheld such a scene as I trust I may never see again. The mainmast had fallen, tearing a great gap in the bulwark, and crushing two sailors under its weight. Hiram Bunker and some of his men were rushing to and fro, shouting and yelling; others were gazing as though stupefied at the wreckage of shattered spars, flapping canvas, and twisted cordage. The ship was plunging fore and aft—a sure sign that she was not now aground. The mist had partly cleared, and the air was raw and cutting. A storm of wind and rain was raging, blowing from the starboard or seaward side. Several of the crew had followed me above, but most of them had evidently been busy on deck at the time of the disaster.
A single lamp was burning, and at first none observed my presence. All was seemingly confusion and panic, and the skipper’s orders were being tardily obeyed. I moved forward a little, and recognized Captain Rudstone holding to the snapped-off end of the mast.
“What has happened?” I demanded anxiously. “Are we in danger?”
“Little doubt of it, Mr. Carew,” he answered calmly. “The ship struck ona submerged rock—probably the side edge of it—and immediately sheered off into deep water. It was a hard blow to shatter the mast, which crushed two poor fellows to death in its fall.”
“What is the time?” I asked.
“Two o’clock in the morning, and we are close to the shore.”
“The vessel might have fared worse,” said I. “But is she leaking?”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” the captain replied. “The water is pouring in, and the ship is already beginning to settle.”
“God help us,” I cried, “if that is true!”
I wanted further confirmation, and I hurried away to seek the skipper. I found him close by, and as I hurried up to him he was joined by another man, a bearded sailor, who called out excitedly:
“There is four feet of water in the well, sir, and it is steadily increasing. We can’t keep afloat long.”
“Stick to the pumps, Lucas, and do what you can,” the skipper directed. “Get some food ready, men, and prepare to lower the boats,” he shouted loudly to the crew. Then he turned to me.
“’Tis is a bad business, Mr. Carew,” he said hoarsely. “It’s all up with my ship, and I’m a ruined man. But I’m going to save all hands, if it is possible. Where is Miss Hatherton?”
“In her cabin,” I replied.
I had not forgotten the girl, but I had felt reluctant to rouse her until I knew what danger threatened us. Now there was no time to lose, and I hastened to the companion way. At the foot of it, where there was some depth of water, I dimly perceived Flora wading toward me. She uttered a little cry of joy and clasped my arm.
“So you are up and dressed,” I exclaimed. “I was just coming for you.”
“I was awakened by the crash,” she replied, “and I prepared for the worst at once. Is the ship sinking, Denzil?”
“She will go down ultimately,” I answered; “but there is plenty of time for all hands to escape. Do not be alarmed.”
“I am not frightened,” she said bravely. “I know that I am safe with you.”
There was a tenderness in her voice that tempted me to some mad reply, but I checked the impulse. I bade her stay where she was while I went to my cabin for some articles of value. I was quickly back, and as soon as the companion was clear—the skipper and some of the crew were swarming down—I helped Flora up. We went forward to the bulwark, Captain Rudstone joining us, and there we waited for a quarter of an hour of suspense and anxiety.
In spite of the sucking of the pumps, the ship settled steadily, bows first, and rolled less and less to the waves. It was very dark, and the wind shrieked and whistled dismally; the rain fell unceasingly, soon drenching us from head to foot. The worst of it was that we had shortly to face a deadly peril. The boats were frail, the sea rough, and the storm-beaten coast of the bay was no great distance off. I had not the heart to tell Flora how slight was our chance of life, and I do not know if she suspected it. At all events, she was perfectly calm and collected.
The men were under control now, and there was little confusion. They promptly obeyed orders, and Hiram Bunker seemed to be everywhere at once. We could do nothing but look on, with a growing uneasiness, for which there was good cause. But at last all was in readiness, and none too soon, for the bows of the sinking ship were close to the water. It was from this quarter that the two boats—the longboat and the jolly-boat—were lowered.
The latter was the smaller, and it was quickly filled by Miss Hatherton, Captain Rudstone, Baptiste, and I, and four seamen. The first mate, who had a lantern lashed to his waist, let down some food and then followed us. The skipper and the rest of the crew occupied the long boat, which was lowered at the same time from the opposite side. Both craft were hurriedly thrust off by the aid of boathooks, and there we were on the open surface of Hudson Bay, exposed to the fury of the storm, and drifting away into the black maw of the night.
How narrow an escape we had made of it we were quickly to learn, for wehad gone no more than a hundred yards when I heard a bitter cry from Hiram Bunker, followed by shouts of “Look! Look!” I glanced back from the stern seat, and at that moment the Speedwell went to her doom. There was a sound of creaking planks, her bow dipped under and her stern rose high the air, and then the waves closed over the poop-deck and blotted out the swinging lantern.
We were beyond the reach of the vortex, and our men pulled hard away from the fatal spot. The sea grew rougher, and the rain poured in torrents; we were compelled to keep bailing the water out. The wind-lashed gap between the two boats widened swiftly, and in a short time the long boat was lost to sight in the darkness. Again and again we shouted at the top of our voices, but no reply came back. The wind shrieked, the billows roared and crashed, and the shadow of death seemed to be lowering on us from the black sky overhead.
“How are we going?” Captain Rudstone asked of the first mate, who was at one of the oars.
“Badly enough, sir,” the man replied. “It’s no use trying to keep off the shore, pull as hard as we may.”
“Is there no hope?” Flora asked of me in a whisper.
“Very little,” I replied hoarsely. “It is better to prepare for the worst.”
I put one arm round her, and she voluntarily snuggled closer to me. Thus we sat for twenty minutes or half an hour, expecting constantly to be capsized and flung into the sea. The storm still raged with undiminished violence, but it was growing a little lighter now, and as often as we rose to the top of the swell we could see the faint blur of the land far off. It was an ominous sight, for most of us knew what the shore of the bay was like in a tempest. Wind and tide were drifting us steadily nearer.
“Look! Look!” Captain Rudstone suddenly shouted. “Pull hard about, men! Quick, for your lives!”
But it was too late to avert the danger. I had scarcely glanced behind me, where I saw a mighty wave, yards high, rolling forward swiftly, when the jolly-boat was pitched far into the air. It hovered an instant onthe crest of the wall of water and then turned bottom up, shooting us all down the slope into a foamy trough.
I lost my grip of Flora—how I do not know—and was sucked deep below the surface. When by hard struggling I came to the top and looked about, I experienced a moment of sickening horror, for I could see nothing of the girl; but suddenly she rose within a few feet of me, her loosened hair streaming on the water, and by a desperate effort I reached and caught hold of her.
It was just then, as we were both at the mercy of the sea, that a strange and providential thing happened. A heavy spar, which had doubtless been washed from the sinking ship, floated alongside of us. I seized it firmly with one hand, while I supported Flora with the other. We were hurled up on a wave, and from the crest I saw the capsized jolly-boat some distance off. Two men were clinging to the keel, but I was unable to recognize them. The next instant the wind seemed to fall a little and shift to another quarter, bringing with it a gray fog that settled speedily and thickly on all sides of us. But I had caught a glimpse of the coast, and above the gale I could faintly hear the muffled pounding of the surf.
The spar drifted on for several minutes, now high in the air, now deep in the greenish hollow of the sea. Flora was perfectly conscious, and partly able to help herself. We were in such peril that I could offer her no words of comfort, and she seemed to understand the meaning of my ominous stillness.
“Are we going to be drowned?” she asked.
“We are in God’s hands, Flora,” I answered huskily. “The shore is very close, and we are drifting straight in. A tremendous surf is breaking and it will be a miracle if we live through it.”
“Then we will die together, Denzil,” the brave girl whispered; and as she looked up at me I read in her eyes the confession of her heart—the pure depth of a love that was all my own.
CHAPTER X.THE DAWN OF DAY.
Flora’s words, and the meaning glance that accompanied them, melted the resolve I had made but a few ours before. There was no reason, indeed, why I should keep silence at such a time. I believed that we were both in the jaws of death, with not the faintest chance of escape. To lift the cloud that was between us—to snatch what bliss was possible out of our last moments—would be a sweet and pardonable thing. So, while the spar bore us lightly amid the curling waves, I drew the girl more tightly to my breast with one arm, and pressed kisses on her lips and eyes, on the salty, dripping hair that clustered about her forehead.
“My darling, I love you!” I whispered passionately in her ear. “You must let me speak; I can hide it no longer. I lost my heart weeks ago, but honor held me silent.”
What more I said I do not recall, but I know that I poured forth all my burning, pent-up affection. When I had finished, Flora lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to my face and smiled; she put a trembling arm about my neck and kissed me.
“And I love you, Denzil,” she said softly. “Oh, I am so glad that I can tell you; it seems to take away the sting of death. I would have hidden the truth from you; I would have kept my promise and married Griffith Hawke. But now—now it is different. In death we belong to each other. You made me love you, Denzil—you were so kind, so good, so brave!”
“If we could only live, and be happy together!” I replied hoarsely.
“Hush! God knows best,” she whispered. “In life we must have been apart. Kiss me again, Denzil, and hold me tight. The end will not be long!”
I kissed her passionately, and drew her as close to me as I could with one arm, while with the other I took a firmer grip on the spar. I had my heart’s desire, but already it was turning to ashes. I could not reconcile myself to so cruel a fate. As I looked into Flora’s eyes, shining with the light of love, I felt a bitter resentment, a dull, aching stupor of despair.
We were both silent for a few moments, and then of a sudden a rising wind scattered the gray fog. From the top of the swell we had a glimpseof the low, rugged shore, less than half a mile distant. Monstrous waves were rolling toward it, and the angry bellowing of the surf was like continuous thunder.
“I am growing weaker,” Flora whispered, “and I am so cold. Don’t let me slip, Denzil.”
I assured her that I would not, but I doubted if I could keep my word. I, too, was beginning to succumb to the effects of the long struggle with the raging sea and the driving storm. I was almost exhausted, and chilled in every limb. I feared that before long we must both be washed from the spar.
But during the next minute it grew a little lighter, and I made a discovery that caused me a strange agitation. Over on the shore, and slightly to our right, a promontory of rock and bushes jutted out some distance. It was to leeward of the wind, which was blowing us perceptibly that way, while at the same time the waves swept us landward. I knew that if we should drift under the promontory, where doubtless the surf was less violent, there would be some faint hope of escape. I said nothing to Flora, however, for I thought it best to let her continue to believe the worst. She was much weaker now, and made no effort to speak; but the look in her half-closed eyes was more eloquent than words.
On and on we plunged, gaining speed every instant—now deep down between walls of glassy water, now tossed high on the curling swell. At intervals I sighted the shore—we were close upon it—and there was no longer any doubt that we should strike to leeward of the promontory. Faster and faster! The spar spun round and round dizzily. I gripped it with all my strength, supporting Flora’s half-insensible form with the other arm.
For a minute we were held in a watery trough, and then a huge wave, overtaking us from behind, lifted us high on its curling, hissing crest. I had a brief, flashing vision of a murky strip of sand and bushes washed by milky foam. It looked to be straight below me, and on the instant I let go of the spar. I strained Flora to my breast, and made a feeble attempt to swim. There was a roaring and singing in my ears, a blur of shadows before my eyes, and the next thing I remembered was a tremendous crash that I thought had shattered every bone in my body.
The instinct of life was so strong that I must have scrambled at once to my feet. I had been flung into a hillock of wet sand and grass, and with such force that the deep imprint of my body was visible. I looked about me, dizzy and stunned, and immediately saw Flora lying huddled in a thick clump of bushes a few feet to the left. I knew not if she was dead or alive, but as I staggered toward her I discovered a great foaming wave rolling up the beach. Rallying what strength I could, I seized the girl and dragged her back as far and as quickly as I was able. The wave broke with a crash, hurling its curled spray almost to our feet. I dropped my burden, and reeled over in a deathly faint. When I came to my senses—I could not have been unconscious more than a few minutes—the chilly gray dawn had driven away the shadows of the night. A bleak and disheartening prospect met my eyes in every direction. Straight in front the sea rolled to the horizon, still tossing and tumbling. Behind me, and to right and left, stretched a flat, dreary, marshy coast, scarred with rocks, thickets and evergreens.
It was a familiar enough scene to me—I had often visited the shores of Hudson Bay—and I gave it but a glance. Flora lay close beside me, her head and shoulders pillowed on a clump of weeds, and at the first I thought she was dead. But when I had risen to my knees with some pain and difficulty—I was as weak as a cat—I found that she was breathing. I set myself to restore her, and chafed her cold hands until the blood began to circulate freely. Then I poured a few drops of brandy between her lips—I fortunately had some in a small flask—and it was no sooner swallowed than she opened her lovely eyes. I could see that she was perfectly conscious, and that she knew me and remembered all; but when I lifted her gently in my arms she made a weak effort to draw back, and looked at me with a sort of horror.
“My darling, what is the matter?” I cried.
“Hush, Denzil, not that name,” she replied faintly. “Oh, why were we spared? You must forget all that I told you, even as I shall forget your words. It was only a dream—a dream that is dead. We can be nothing to each other.”
I knew in my heart that she was right, but the sight of her beauty, the memory of her confession, put me in a rebellious mood. I drank what was left of the brandy, and rose dizzily to my feet.
“I will not give you up,” I said in a dogged tone. “You love me, Flora,and you are mine. Providence saved us for a purpose—to make us happy.”
She shook her head sadly.
“Denzil, why will you make is so hard for me?” she replied. “I must keep my promise—you know that. Be brave, be honorable. Forget what has happened!”
The appeal shamed me, and I averted my eyes from her. In my wretchedness I felt tempted to throw myself into the sea.
“Where are the rest?” she asked in a different voice.
“I fear they are all drowned,” I answered gloomily. “Fate has been less kind to us.”
“Do you know where we are?” she continued.
“Not exactly,” I said, looking about, “but we can’t be a great distance from Fort York—and from Griffith Hawke.”
I was sorry for the cutting words as soon as they were spoken, and I would have made a fitting apology. But just then I heard voices, and two voyageurs, in the blue capotes of the Hudson Bay Company, came out of the timber about twenty yards off. They saw us at once and ran toward us with eager shouts.
CHAPTER XI.A COPY OF “THE TIMES.”
I was both glad and sorry for the interruption. In our forlorn condition we needed assistance badly enough, but I would have preferred to have Flora all to myself for some time longer. However, I made the best of it, and gave the voyageurs a warm greeting. They were from Fort York, and they told me that they and half a dozen more had been on a week’s hunting trip, and that they had spent the night in a sheltered spot near by. They added that when they were about starting for the fort, half an hour previously, two survivors of the wreck had straggled into theircamp.
This was pleasing news, but before I could glean any further information, the rest of the party made their appearance from the timber—three more voyageurs and three of the company’s Indian hunters. And with them, to my great delight, were Captain Rudstone and Baptiste. Both walked with difficulty and were sorely bruised. It seems they had come ashore clinging to the jolly-boat—the rest of the crew were drowned—and had been cast on a sandy part of the coast. They knew nothing of the other boat or its occupants, and there was reason to believe the worst.
“I fear they are all lost,” said Captain Rudstone. “The longboat was heavily weighted and it probably capsized soon after it left the ship. We four have had a truly marvelous escape, Mr. Carew. I judge that Miss Hatherton owes her life to you.”
“We came ashore together,” I answered.
“Mr. Carew is too modest,” Flora said quietly. “But for him I should have been drowned when the boat upset. I was helpless all the time, while he held me on the spar.”
The captain looked queerly from one to the other of us, and I was afraid he would say some awkward thing; but he merely shrugged his shoulders, and turned to another subject.
“We might be in a worse plight,” he remarked. “We are sound of limb, and Fort York is but six miles away. And I have saved Lord Selkirk’s dispatches, which is a matter to be thankful for.” He patted his breast as he spoke. “A drying at a good fire is all they will need,” he added.
After some discussion, it was decided that two of the voyageurs should remain behind for the present and search the coast on the chance of finding trace of the longboat and its crew. The rest of us started for the fort, but first a rude litter was constructed on which to carry Flora, who was too weak and bruised to walk so great a distance.
The captain, Baptiste, and I were not in much better condition, and we were heartily glad when, after a weary tramp of under three hours, we arrived at Fort York. This was and still is, the main trading-post of the Hudson Bay Company. It stood close to the bay and to the mouth ofthe Nelson River. It was larger than the other forts, but in every respect like them—a fortified palisade surrounding a huddled cluster of buildings, in which live a little colony of men, from the factor and his assistants down to the Indian employees.
Captain Rudstone and myself were well known at the fort—we had both been there before—and we received a cordial greeting from old friends. We were soon provided with dry clothes and a stiff glass of liquor, and then, little the worse for our hardships, we sat down to a plentiful breakfast. Baptiste had fared worse than either of us. It turned out that one of his ribs was broken, and he went straight to the hospital. The factor’s wife took charge of Flora, and I saw her no more that day. One thing sadly marred our spirits—we had no hope that Hiram Bunker or any of his crew had been saved, and the disaster cast a gloom on all in the fort. I may add here that the two voyageurs found the bodies of the kind-hearted American skipper and six of his men, and that they were buried the following day on a low bluff overlooking the scene of their death-struggles. Peace to their ashes!
I slept soundly until late in the afternoon, and when supper was over, and I had visited Baptiste in the hospital, Captain Rudstone and I spent a quiet evening with the factor. Over pipes and brandy we told him the story of the wreck, and of the circumstances that led to our hurried flight from Quebec. He agreed that we had acted wisely, and he had some remarks to make to the disadvantage of Cuthbert Mackenzie.
“He is a revengeful man,” he added, “and he will leave no stone unturned to settle with you for that night’s work. I have no doubt that the theft of Lord Selkirk’s despatches was his aim.”
“He did not get them,” the captain laughed.
“It would have been a most unfortunate thing if he had,” the factor replied gravely. “One of the letters in the packet was for him and he had already received it. Lord Selkirk is a shrewd and determined man, and I am glad to know that they understand the danger at the head office in London. My instructions are just what I have wished them to be, and I suppose the import of all the letters is about the same.”
“Very likely,” assented Captain Rudstone. “I am glad you are pleased. Trouble has been brewing this long time, and the crisis can’t be far off. By the by, have you had news from Quebec later than the date of oursailing?”
“Not a word. The last mail, which brought me some London papers, left Fort Garry at the close of June.”
The factor sighed. He was fond of the life of towns and he had been buried in the wilderness for ten years!
“Gentlemen, fill your glasses,” he added. “Here’s to the prosperity of the company!”
“May it continue forever!” supplemented the captain.
I drank the toast, and then inquired what was the state of the lower country.
“There have been no open hostilities as yet,” the factor replied, “but there are plenty of rumors—ugly rumors. And that reminds me, Mr. Carew, a half-breed brought me a message from Griffith Hawke two days ago.”
“I rather expected to find him here,” said I, trying to hide my eagerness at the opening of a subject which I had wished to come to.
“He has abandoned that intention,” the factor stated. “He is afraid to leave at present. The redskins have been impudent in his neighborhood of late, and he thinks their loyalty has been tampered with by the Northwest people. He begged me to send you and Miss Hatherton on to Fort Royal at the first opportunity after your arrival, and there happens to be one open now.”
“How is that?” I asked.
“My right-hand man, Gummidge—you met him at supper—has been transferred to Fort Garry,” the factor explained. “He is married, and he and his wife will go by way of the Churchill River and Fort Royal. Mrs Gummidge will be a companion to Miss Hatherton. They expect to start in a week, so as to cover as much ground as possible before the winter sets in.”
“The sooner the better,” said I.
“And what about the marriage?” Captain Rudstone inquired carelessly.
“There will be a priest here—one of the French fathers—in the course of a month,” said the factor, “and I will send him on to Fort Royal.”
I tried hard to appear unconcerned, for I saw that Captain Rudstone was watching me keenly.
“I trust I shall be present for the ceremony,” he remarked. “I go south by that route when I have finished with the business that brought me to the bay. I have three forts to visit hereabouts first.”
The factor sucked thoughtfully at his pipe.
“Hawke is a lucky man,” he said. “By gad, I envy him! Miss Hatherton is the prettiest bit of womanhood I ever clapped eyes on.”
“She is too young for Hawke,” said Captain Rudstone, with a sly glance in my direction.
“She will make him a good wife,” I replied aggressively.
“There is another who wishes to marry her,” he answered.
“What do you mean by that?” I cried.
“I refer to Cuthbert Mackenzie,” said the captain.
I gave him an angry look, for I knew he had been purposely drawing me on, and to hide my confusion I drank a glass of brandy and water. There was a pause, and then, to my relief, the factor turned the conversation on the prices of furs.
The next five days passed slowly and uneventfully. Baptiste came out of hospital, and was pronounced fit for travel. Flora was none the worse for her exposure and suffering; I saw very little of her, for she lived in the married men’s quarters and was looked after by the factor’s wife and Mrs. Gummidge. But when we found ourselves alone together, as happened several times, her guarded conversation gave me to understand that the past must be forgotten, and she showed plainly that she was deeply grateful to me for not bringing up the subject that was next my heart. And indeed I had no intention of doing so. I realized that the girl could not be mine, and that what had occurred between us, when we believed ourselves to be on the edge of the grave—was the more reasonwhy I should remain true to faith and honor. But my love for her was stronger and deeper-rooted than ever, and I still adhered to my resolution to take myself out of temptation’s way at the first opportunity—to begin a new life in the wilderness or the towns of Lower Canada. I would have evaded the journey with her to Fort Royal had it been possible to do so.
Captain Rudstone made no further mention of the girl, and during the time he remained at the fort we were on the best of terms, though I observed that he took no pains to seek my company, and that he often looked at me with the puzzled and uneasy expression which I had noted from the first. On the morning of the fourth day he left for a fort some miles to the eastward, and on the night before an incident happened which I must not forget to mention.
We were sitting in the factor’s room after supper—the captain and I—and he was reading an English paper that had come up with the last mail. Suddenly he uttered a sharp cry of surprise, and brought his tilted chair to the floor with a crash. When I inquired what was the matter he looked at me suspiciously, and made some inaudible reply. He tossed the paper on the table, gulped down a stiff brandy, and left the room.
As he did not return, I ventured to pick the paper up and examine it. It was a copy of the London Times, dated a year back. I scanned the page he had been reading, but could find nothing to account for his agitation. Where his hand had rumpled it was a brief paragraph stating that the Earl of Heathermere, of Heathermere Hall, in Surrey, was dead; that his two unmarried sons had died during the previous year—one by an accident while hunting; and that the title was now extinct, and the estate in Chancery. I read it with momentary interest, and then it passed from my mind. The notice of deaths was close by, and I concluded that it contained the name of one of the captain’s English friends. I remembered that he had resided in London for some time.
Early the next morning Captain Rudstone departed, expressing the hope that he would see me within a month or six weeks. Two days later—on the morning of the sixth day after the wreck of the Speedwell—I was on my way to Fort Royal. Our party numbered eight, as follows: Jim Gummidge and his wife, Miss Hatherton and myself, Baptiste, and three trusty voyageurs. Gummidge was a companionable fellow, and his wife was a hardy, fearless little woman of the woods.
Our course was to the west, across a seventy-mile stretch of waterway, formed of connecting lakes and streams, that would bring us to the Churchill River, at a point a few miles above Fort Royal—the Churchill, it may be said, empties into Hudson Bay more than a hundred miles to the northwest of Fort York. We traveled in one long, narrow canoe, which was light enough to be portaged without difficulty, and on the evening of the second day we were within thirty-five miles of our destination.
CHAPTER XII.A WARNING IN WOODCRAFT.
That night we pitched our camp on a wooded island in a small lake, erecting, as was the usual custom, a couple of lean-tos of bark and fir boughs. Gummidge owned the traveling outfit and the factor of Fort York had provided Baptiste and myself with what we needed in the way of weapons and ammunition. We were all well armed, for none journeyed otherwise through the wilderness in those days. But at this time, and from the part of the country we had to traverse, it seemed a most unlikely thing that we would run into any peril. However, neither Gummidge nor I were disposed to relax the ordinary precautions, and when we retired we set one of the voyageurs to watch.
This man—Moralle by name—awakened me about two o’clock in the morning by shaking my arm gently, and in a whisper begged me to come outside. I followed him from the lean-to across the island, which was no more than a dozen yards in diameter. The night was very dark, and it was impossible to make out the shore, though it was less than a quarter of a mile away. A deep silence brooded on land and water.
“What do you want with me?” I asked sharply.
“Pardon, sir,” replied Moralle, “but a little while ago, as I stood here, I heard a low splash. I crouched down to watch the better, and out yonder on the lake I saw the head and arms of a swimmer. Then a pebble crunched under my moccasins, and the man turned and made off as quietly as he came.”
“You have keen eyes,” said I. “Look, the water is black! A fish made a splash, and you imagined the rest.”
“I saw the swimmer, sir,” he persisted doggedly.
“You saw a moose or a caribou,” I suggested.
“Would a moose approach the island,” he asked, “with the scent of our camp fire blowing to his nostrils?”
This was true, and I could not deny it.
“Then you would have me believe,” said I, “that some enemy swam out from the mainland to spy upon us?”
“It was a man,” the voyageur answered, “and he was swimming this way.”
“I will finish your watch, Moralle,” said I. “Give me your musket, and go to bed. Be careful not to waken the others.”
He shuffled off without a word, and I was left to my lonely vigil. I had detected a smell of liquor in Moralle’s breath, and I was disposed to believe that his story had no more foundation than the splashing of a fish. At all events, while I paced the strip of beach for two hours, I saw or heard nothing alarming. There was now a glimmer of dawn in the east, so I wakened Baptiste, bidding him without explanation to take my place, and returned to the lean-to for a half-hour’s sleep.
It was broad daylight when Gummidge roused me. The fire was blazing and the voyageurs were preparing breakfast. Flora and Mr. Gummidge were kneeling on a flat stone, dipping their faces and hands into the crystal waters of the lake. The wooded shores rose around us in majestic solitude, and I scanned them in all directions without discovering any trace of human occupation. I made no mention of the incident of the night, attaching no importance to it; nor did Moralle have anything to say on the subject.
Sunrise found us embarked and already some distance down the lake. We were in the heart of the woods, and the wild beauty of the Great Lone Land cast its mystic spell upon all of us.
The morning was yet young when we passed from the lake into one of itsmany outlets. This was a narrow stream, navigable at first, but quickly becoming too shallow and rocky for our further progress. So we left the water, and there was now a portage of two miles over a level stretch of forest, at the end of which we would strike the Churchill River at a point twenty miles above Fort Royal.
We started off rapidly, Baptiste and the three other voyageurs leading the way with the canoe on their shoulders. The paddles and a part of the load were inside, and Gummidge and I carried the rest. The women had no burdens, and could easily keep pace with us.
“Have you passed this way before?” asked Gummidge.
“Only once,” I replied, “and that was some years ago.”
“The place reminds me of the enchanted forests one reads of in old fairy tales,” said Mrs. Gummidge.
“I wish we were out of it,” exclaimed Flora. “It has a sad and depressing influence on me.”
Something in her voice made me turn and look at her, and she quickly averted her eyes.
“What’s that?” cried Gummidge, an instant later. “Don’t you see? There it lies, shining.”
I darted past him to the left of the path and at the base of a tree I picked up a hunting knife sheathed in a case of tanned buckskin. We all stopped, and Lavigne, one of the voyageurs, left the canoe to his comrades and took the weapon from my hand. He examined it with keen and grave interest.
“It is just such a knife as the men of the Northwest Company carry,” he declared.
“Yes, you are right,” assented Gummidge; and I agreed with him.
For a minute or more Lavigne searched the ground in the vicinity, creeping here and there on all-fours. Then he rose to his feet with the air of one who has made an unpleasant discovery.
“Indians have passed this way within a few hours,” he announced, “and a white man was with them. They went toward the northwest.”
Gummidge and I were fairly good at woodcraft, but the marks in the grass baffled us. Yet we did not dream of doubting or questioning Lavigne’s assertion, for he was known to be a skilled and expert tracker. Redskins and a Northwest man together! It was a combination, in these times of evil rumor, that boded no good. I remembered Moralle’s tale of the swimmer, and I felt a sudden uneasiness.
“We must be careful,” said Gummidge. “This is a fine neighborhood for an ambuscade.”
I glanced at Flora, and by her pale and frightened face I saw she was thinking of the same thing that was in my own mind.
“Do you suppose he is near us, Denzil?” she asked, stepping close to my side.
“Impossible,” I replied. “Cuthbert Mackenzie is hundreds of miles away in Quebec. Do not be afraid. There is no danger, and the river is not far off.”
But my assuring words were from the lips only. At heart I felt that Mackenzie was just the sort of man to have followed us to the North—a thing he could easily have done by land in this time. Gummidge took as serious a view of the matter, though for different reasons, and he approved the precautions I suggested.
So when we started off again, our order of march was reversed and otherwise changed. Gummidge and I went ahead single file, with, our muskets ready for immediate use. The women came next, and then the canoe; we had put the luggage into it, and the voyageurs did not grumble at the extra load.
Less than a mile remained to be covered, and I was alert for attack with every foot of the way. But no Indian yells or musket-shots broke the stillness of the forest, and I was heartily glad when we emerged on the bank of the Churchill. Only twenty miles down stream to Fort Royal! No further thoughts of danger troubled us. Swiftly we embarked, and swung out on the rushing blue tide.
After the first five miles the scene changed a little. The rivernarrowed, and grew more swift. The hills receded right and left, and a strip of dense forest fringed the banks on either hand. A dull roar in the distance warned us that we were approaching well-known and dangerous falls, where it would be necessary to land and make a brief portage through the woods.
Closer and closer we swept, and louder and louder rang the thunder of the rapids. The voyageurs began to make in a little toward the left shore, and just then a musket cracked shrilly from the forest on that side. Gardapie, who was immediately in front of me, dropped his paddle, and leaped convulsively to his feet He clutched at his bleeding throat, gave a gurgling cry of agony, and pitched head first out of the canoe, nearly upsetting it as he slid off the gunwale.
CHAPTER XIII.THE AMBUSCADE.
The attack was so sudden and unlooked for, and took us at such a disadvantage, that it was a mercy the half of us were not killed by the enemy’s first straggling volley. For on the instant that Gardapie fell dead into the river two more shots rang out, and then a third and a fourth. A bullet whistled by my ear, and another flew so close to Baptiste that he dropped his paddle and threw himself flat, uttering a shrill “Nom de Dieu!” The women screamed, and Lavigne cried out with a curse that he had a ball in his right arm.
“Redskins!” I yelled. “Down—down for your lives!”
The canoe was luckily of a good depth, and we all crouched low and hugged the bottom. The firing had ceased as abruptly as it opened. Not a shot or a yell disturbed the quiet of the woods on either hand, and but for poor Gardapie’s vacant place, and the splash of blood where he had been kneeling, I might have thought that the whole thing was a hideous dream. We drifted on with the current for a moment, while the roar of the falls swelled louder. Our loaded muskets were in our grasp, but we dared not expose our heads above the gunwales.
I looked back toward the stern, and saw Moralle tying a bandage on Lavigne’s wounded arm. Gummidge was bareheaded, and he told me that a ball had carried his cap into the river.
“We’re not done with the red devils,” he added. “It’s a bad scrape, Carew. I’ve no doubt the Indians have been won over by the Northwest people, and hostilities have already begun.”
On that point I did not agree with him, but I was unwilling to speak what was in my mind while Flora was listening. We were between two perils, and I called out to Moralle for his opinion.
“If the redskins are in any force it will be impossible to land and make the portage,” I said. “We are within a quarter of a mile of the rapids now. What are the chances of running them safely?”
“I have taken a canoe through them twice,” replied Moralle, “and I could do it again. That is, provided I can paddle and look where I am going. Shall I try it, sir?”
“No, not yet; wait a little,” I answered.
“I don’t like this silence,” exclaimed Gummidge. “Why did the redskins stop firing so suddenly? Mark my word, Carew, there’s a piece of deviltry brewing. I’m afraid not one of us will—”
I stopped him by a gesture, and spoke a few comforting words to Flora; her face was very white, but beyond that she showed no trace of fear. Then I crept a little past Baptiste, and with the point of my knife I hurriedly made two small holes below the gunwales of the canoe, one on each side. I peeped through both in turn, and the curve of the bow gave me as clear a view ahead as I could have wished.
What I saw partly explained the meaning of the brief silence—scarcely more than a minute had elapsed since the musket volley. Here and there, in the leafy woods to right and left I caught a glimpse of dusky, swiftly moving bodies. We were close upon the falls, and but for the noise of the tumbling waters I could have heard the scurrying feet of our determined foes.
“What do you make out?” Gummidge whispered.
“The Indians are running ahead of us through the forest,” I replied. “They expect that we will try the portage, and then they will have us in a trap. Our only chance is to dash down the rapids.”
“It’s a mighty poor one,” murmured Gummidge; and as he spoke I heard an hysterical sob from his wife.
“We are not going quite straight,” I called to Moralle. “If we keep on this course we will hit the rocks. A few strokes to the left—”
“I’ll manage that, sir,” the plucky voyageur interrupted.
I glanced over my shoulder, and saw him rise to his knees and begin to paddle. He was not fired on, as I had expected would be the case, so Baptiste and I ventured to lift our heads. As we watched, we held our muskets ready for the shoulder.
The current was bearing us on swiftly. A short distance below, the river narrowed to a couple of hundred feet, and here stretched the line of half-sunken rocks that marked the beginning of the falls. In the very center was a break several yards wide, and straight for this the canoe was now driving. There was no sign of the enemy, and it was difficult to realize that such a deadly peril awaited us.
Bang went a musket, and a puff of bluish smoke curled from the forest on the left. The ball passed over Moralle’s head; he ceased paddling and dropped under cover. Baptiste did the same, but I kept my head up, looking for a chance to return the shot. My attention had just been attracted by a movement between the trees, when Gummidge cried, hoarsely:
“Keep down, Miss Hatherton! That was a mad thing to do!”
I turned around sharply as Gummidge released his hold of Flora, who, I judged, had been exposing herself recklessly. I was startled by her appearance. She looked at me with frightened eyes and parted lips, with a face the hue of ashes.
“Save me!” she gasped. “I saw him! I saw him!”
“Saw who?” I cried.
“Cuthbert Mackenzie! I am sure it was he, Denzil!” And she pointed tothe right.
I looked hard in that direction, scanning the woods right and left. By Heavens, the girl had not been mistaken. Through a rift in the foliage, nearly opposite the canoe, peered a swarthy, sinister countenance and I recognized the features of Cuthbert Mackenzie. I took aim at him, but before I could fire he was gone. My brain seemed in a whirl. I had found the clew—the fiendish clew—to the attack that threatened to cost us our lives. Bent on revenge, Mackenzie had traveled up country to intercept us on the way to the fort—to kill me, and to capture Flora. He had bribed the savages to help him, and he and his ruthless allies had been in the vicinity of our camp on the previous night.
Swiftly these things coursed through my mind. I tried to speak to Flora, but my tongue seemed to be held fast. I heard a shot—another and another. The bullets sang close to my ear.
“Down—down!” warned Gummidge.
“Keep low!” shouted Moralle and Lavigne in one breath.
My brain grew suddenly clear, but I did not heed the friendly advice. Three shots had missed me, and I knew that the canoe was jerking about too much with the current to admit of a sure aim the savages.
“Paddle on, Moralle!” I cried. “Faster—faster!”
Meanwhile I watched the right hank, hoping to get another chance at Cuthbert Mackenzie. Baptiste—brave fellow!—was on the alert with me but he was scanning the left shore, and a sudden exclamation from him drew my eyes in the same direction. Ten yards in front, on the edge of the timber, a redskin thrust his coppery face from the leaves. I fired as quickly and the savage vanished with a yell of pain.
We were almost upon the rapids, and half a minute more would see us plunged into the seething, foaming slide of angry waters. To right and left, where the jagged reef touched the forest, stood three or four painted redskins, with muskets to their shoulders. And some distance below the falls, where the water broadened and shallowed, I made out the feather-decked heads of more Indians. This was a dread and significant discovery, and I instantly perceived the trap that had been laid for us.
“Keep under cover!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
“Be ready to fight when we pass the rapids! The devils are waiting for us below, blocking the way! Don’t try to paddle, Moralle. The canoe is headed straight for the rift in the middle. It’s sure death if you show yourself.”