Kitabı oku: «The Protector», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXVII – THE END OF THE SEARCH
The two men made a hurried breakfast in the cold dawn and not long afterwards they were struggling through thick timber, when the light suddenly grew a little clearer. Carroll remarked upon the fact and Vane’s face hardened.
“We’re either coming to a swamp, or the track the fire has swept is close in front,” the latter said.
A thicket lay before him, but he smashed savagely through the midst of it, the undergrowth snapping and crackling about his limbs. Then there was a network of tangled branches to be crossed, and afterwards, reaching slightly clearer ground, he broke into a run. Three or four minutes later, he stopped, breathless and ragged, with his rent boots scarcely clinging to his feet; and Carroll, who came up with him, gazed eagerly about.
The living forest rose behind them, an almost unbroken wall, but ahead the trees ran up in detached and blackened spires. Their branches had vanished; every cluster of sombre-green needles and delicate spray had gone; the great rampikes, as they are called, looked like shafts of charcoal. About their feet lay crumbling masses of calcined wood which grew more and more numerous where there were open spaces farther on and then the bare, black columns ran on again, up the valley and the steep hill benches on either hand. It was a weird scene of desolation; impressive to the point of being appalling in its suggestiveness of widespread ruin.
For the space of a minute the men gazed at it; and then Vane, stretching out his hand, pointed to a snow-sheeted hill.
“That’s the peak Hartley mentioned,” he said in a voice which was strangely incisive. “Give me the axe.”
He took it from his comrade and, striding forward, attacked the nearest rampike. Twice the keen blade sank noiselessly overhead, scattering a black dust in the frosty air; and then there was a clear, ringing thud. After that, Vane smote on with a determined methodical swiftness, until Carroll grabbed his shoulder.
“Look out!” he cried. “It’s going.”
Vane stepped back a few paces; the trunk reeled and rushed downwards: there was a deafening crash, and they were enveloped in a cloud of gritty dust. Through the midst of it they dimly saw two more great trunks collapse; and then somewhere up the valley a series of thundering shocks, which both knew were not echoes, broke out. The sound jarred upon Carroll’s nerves, as the thud of the felled rampike had not done, but Vane picked up one of the chips and handed it to him.
“We have found Hartley’s spruce,” he said.
Carroll did not answer for a minute. After all, when defeat must be faced, there was very little to be said, though his companion’s expression troubled him. Its grim stolidity was portentous.
“I suppose,” he remarked at length, “nothing could be done with it?”
Vane pointed to the butt of the tree, which showed a space of clean wood surrounded by a blackened rim.
“You can’t make marketable pulp of charcoal, and the price would have to run pretty high before it would pay for ripping most of the log away to get at the residue,” he answered harshly.
“But there may be some unburned spruce farther on,” Carroll urged.
“It’s possible,” said Vane. “I’m going to find out.”
This was a logical determination; but, in spite of his recent suggestion, Carroll realised that he would have abandoned the search there and then, had the choice been left to him, in which he did not think he was singular. After all they had undergone, the shock of the disappointment was severe. He could have faced a failure to locate the spruce with some degree of philosophical calm; but to find it at last, useless, was very much worse. But he did not expect his companion to turn back yet: before he desisted, Vane would seek for and examine every unburned tree. What was more, Carroll, who thought the search could serve no purpose, would have to accompany him. Then the latter noticed that Vane was waiting for him to speak, and he decided that this was a situation which he had better endeavour to treat lightly.
“I think I’ll have a smoke,” he said. “I’m afraid any remarks I could make wouldn’t do justice to the occasion. Language has its limits.”
He sat down on the charred log and took out his pipe before he proceeded: “A brûlée’s not a nice place to wander about in when there’s any wind, and I’ve an idea there’s some coming, though it’s quiet now.”
Shut in, as they were, in the deep hollow with the towering snows above them, it was impressively still; and in conjunction with the sight of the black desolation the deep silence reacted upon Carroll’s nerves. He longed to escape from it, to make a noise, though this, if done unguardedly, might bring more of the rampikes thundering down. He could hear tiny flakes of charcoal falling from them, and though the fire had long gone out, a faint and curious crackling, as if the dead embers were stirring. He wondered if this were some effect of the frost; it struck him as disturbing and weird.
“We’ll work right round the brûlée,” said Vane. “Then I suppose we had better head back for Vancouver, though we’ll look at that cedar as we go down. Something might be made of it; I’m not sure we’ve thrown our time away.”
“You wouldn’t be sure of such a thing,” said Carroll. “It isn’t in you.”
Vane disregarded this. A new constructive policy was already springing up out of the wreck of his previous plans. “There’s a good mill site on the inlet, but as it’s a long way from the railroad we’ll have to determine whether it would be cheaper to tow the logs down or split them up on the spot,” he went on. “I’ll talk it over with Drayton; he’ll no doubt be useful, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t earn his share.”
“Do you believe the arrangement you made with Hartley applies to the cedar?”
“Of course,” said Vane. “I don’t know that the other parties could insist upon the original terms – we can discuss that later; but, though it may be modified, the arrangement stands.”
His companion considered the matter dispassionately, as an abstract proposition. Here was a man, who, in return for certain information respecting the whereabouts of a marketable commodity, had undertaken to find and share it with his informant. The commodity had proved to be valueless, but during the search for it he had incidentally discovered something else. Was he under any obligation to share the latter with his informant’s heirs?
Carroll decided that the question could only be answered in the negative; but he had no intention of disputing his comrade’s point of view. In the first place, this would probably only make Vane more determined or ruffle his temper; and in the second Carroll, who felt very dubious about the prospect of working the cedar profitably, was neither a covetous nor an ambitious person, which was, perhaps, on the whole, fortunate for him.
Vane, as his partner realised, was ambitious; but in place of aspiring after wealth or social prominence – the latter of which had, indeed, of late began to pall on him – his was a different aim; to rend the hidden minerals from the hills, to turn forests into dressed lumber, to make something grow. Dollars are often, though not always, made that way; but while he affected no contempt for them, in Vane’s case their acquisition was undoubtedly not the end. Fortunately, he was not altogether singular in this respect.
When he next spoke, there was, however, no hint of altruistic sentiment in his curt inquiry: “Are you going to sit there until you freeze?”
Carroll got up, and they spent the rest of the day plodding through the brûlée, with the result that when darkness fell Vane had abandoned all idea of working the spruce. Next morning, they set out for the inlet, and one afternoon during the journey they came upon several fallen logs lying athwart each other with their branches spread in a horrible tangle between. Vane proceeded to walk along one log, which was tilted up several yards above the ground, balancing himself carefully upon the rounded surface; and Carroll followed until the end of a broken branch, which he evidently had not noticed, caught in the leader’s clothes. Next moment there was a sharp snapping, and Vane plunged down into the tangle beneath, while Carroll stood still and laughed. It was not an uncommon accident.
Vane, however, did not reappear; nor was there any movement among the half-rotten boughs and withered sprays, and Carroll, moving forward hastily, looked down into the hole. He was disagreeably surprised to see his comrade lying, rather white in face, upon his side.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to chop me out,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “Get to work; I can’t move my leg.”
Moving farther along the log, Carroll dropped to the ground, which was less encumbered there, and spent the next quarter of an hour hewing a passage to his comrade. Then as he stood beside him, hot and panting, Vane looked up.
“It’s my lower leg; the left,” he said. “Bone’s broken; I felt it snap.”
Carroll turned from him for a moment in consternation. Looking out between the branches, he could see the lonely hills tower, pitilessly white, against the blue of the frosty sky, and the rigid firs running back as far as his vision reached upon their lower slopes. There was no touch of life in all the picture; everything was silent and motionless, and its desolation came near to appalling him. When he looked round again, Vane smiled wryly.
“If this had happened farther north, it would have been the end of me,” he said. “As it is, it’s awkward.”
The word struck Carroll as singularly inadequate, but he made an effort to gather his courage when his companion broke off with a groan of pain.
“It’s lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete’s leg at Bryant’s mill,” he said. “Can you wait a few minutes?”
Vane’s face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile. “It strikes me,” he answered, “I’ll have to wait a mighty long time.”
Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, but action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he could extemporise from slabs of stripped-off bark, and the next half-hour was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with suggestions – once he reviled his clumsiness – and sometimes he lay silent with his face awry and his lips tight set; but at length it was done, and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.
“I’ll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out,” he said. “Then I’ll make camp.”
He managed it with difficulty, pitched the tent above Vane, whom he covered with their blankets, and made a fire outside.
“Are you comfortable now?” he inquired.
Vane looked up at him with a somewhat ghastly grin. “I suppose I’m about as comfortable as could be expected. Anyhow, I’ve got to get used to the thing. Six weeks is the shortest limit, isn’t it?”
Carroll confessed that he did not know, and presently Vane resumed: “It’s lucky that the winters aren’t often very cold so near the coast.”
The temperature struck Carroll as low enough, but he made no answer. To his disgust, he could think of no cheering observation, for there was no doubt that the situation was serious. They were cut off from the sloop by leagues of tangled forest which a vigorous man would find it difficult to traverse, and it would be weeks before Vane could use his leg; no human assistance could be looked for, and they had only a small quantity of provisions left. Besides this, it would not be easy to keep the sufferer warm in rigorous weather.
“I’ll make supper. You’ll feel better afterwards,” he said at length.
“Then don’t be too liberal,” Vane warned him.
The latter fell into a restless doze after the meal, and it was dark when he opened his eyes again.
“I can’t sleep any more, and we may as well talk – there are things to be arranged,” he said. “In the first place, as soon as I feel a little easier, you’ll have to sail across to Comox and hire some men to pack me out. When you’ve sent them off, you’ll make for Vancouver, and get a timber licence and find out how matters are going on.”
“That,” said Carroll firmly, “is out of the question. Nairn can look after our mining interests – he’s a capable man – and if the thing’s too much for him they can go to smash. Besides, they won’t give you a timber licence without full particulars of area and limits, and we’ve blazed no boundaries. Anyhow, I’m staying right here.”
Vane began to protest, but Carroll raised his hand. “Argument’s not conducive to recovery. You’re on your back, unfortunately, and I’ll give way to you, as usual, as soon as you’re on your feet again, but not before.”
“I’d better point out that we’ll both be hungry by then. The provisions won’t last long.”
“Then I’ll look for a deer as soon as I think you can be left. And now we’ll try to talk of something more amusing.”
“Can you see anything humorous in the situation?”
“I can’t,” Carroll confessed. “Still, there may be something of that description which I haven’t noticed yet. By the way, the last time we were at Nairn’s, I happened to cross the room near where you and Miss Horsfield were sitting, and I heard her ask you to wait for something at Nanaimo or Comox. I thought it curious.”
“She told me to wait, so she could send me word to come back, if it was needful.”
“Ah!” said Carroll; “I won’t ask why she was willing to do so – it concerns you more than me – but I fancy that as regards your interests in the Clermont a warning from her would be worth as much as one from Nairn; that is, if she could be depended on.”
“Have you any doubt upon the subject?”
“Don’t get angry. Perhaps I’ve talked too much. We have to think of your injury.”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” Vane informed him. “But I dare say you’re right in one respect – as an amusing companion you’re a dead failure, and talking isn’t as easy as I imagined.”
He lay silent afterwards, and, though he had disclaimed any desire for sleep, worn by the march and pain, as he was, his eyes presently closed. Carroll, however, sat long awake, and afterwards admitted that he felt badly afraid. Deer are by no means numerous in some parts of the bush; they had not seen one during the journey; and though there was a little food left on board her, it was a long way to the sloop.
Once or twice, for no obvious reason, he drew aside the tent flap and looked out. The sky was cloudless and darkly blue, and a sickle moon gleamed in it, keen and clear with frost. Below, the hills were washed in silver, majestic, but utterly cheerless; and lower still the serrated tops of the rigid firs cut against the dreary whiteness. After each glimpse of them, Carroll drew his blanket tighter round him with a shiver. Very shortly, when the little flour and pork were gone and their few cartridges had been expended, he would be reduced to the condition of primitive man. Cut off from all other resources, he must then wrest what means of subsistence he could from the snowy wilderness by brute strength and cunning and such instruments as he could make with his unassisted hands, except that an axe of Pennsylvania steel was better than a stone one. Civilisation has its compensations, and Carroll longed for a few more of them that night.
On rising next morning, he found the frost keener, and he spent the day and a number of those that followed in growing anxiety, which was only temporarily lessened when he once succeeded in killing a deer. There was almost a dearth of animal life in the lonely valley. Sometimes at first, Vane was feverish; often he was irritable, and the recollection of the three or four weeks he spent with him afterwards haunted Carroll like a nightmare. At last, when he had spent several days in vain search for a deer and the provisions were almost exhausted, he and his companion held a council of emergency.
“There’s no use in arguing,” Vane declared. “You’ll rig me a shelter of green boughs outside the tent and close to the fire. I can move from the waist upwards, and if it’s necessary, drag myself with my hands. Then you can chop enough cord-wood to last a while, cook my share of the eatables, and leave me while you go down to the sloop. There’s half a bag of flour and a few other things I’d be uncommonly glad of on board her.”
Carroll expostulated; but it was evident that his companion was right, and next morning he started for the inlet, taking with him the smallest possible portion of their provisions. So long as he had enough to keep him from fainting on the way, it was all he required, because he could renew his stores on board the boat. The weather broke during the march; driving snow followed him down the valley, and by and by gave place to bitter rain. The withered underbush was saturated, the soil was soddened with melting snow, and after the first scanty meal or two he dare risk no delay. He felt himself flagging from insufficient food, and it was obvious that he must reach the sloop before he broke down. He had tobacco, but that failed to stay the gnawing pangs, and before the march was done he was on the verge of exhaustion; forcing himself onward, drenched, and grim of face; scarcely able to keep upon his bleeding feet.
It was falling dusk and blowing fresh when he limped down the beach and with a last effort launched the light dinghy and pulled off to the sloop. She rode rather deep in the water, but that did not trouble him. Most wooden craft leak more or less, and it was a considerable time since he had pumped her out. Clambering wearily on board, he made the dinghy fast; and then stood still a moment or two, looking about him with his hand on the cabin side. Thin flakes of snow drifted past him; the firs were rustling eerily ashore, and ragged wisps of cloud drove by low down above their tops. Little frothy ripples flecked the darkening water with streaks of white and splashed angrily against the bows of the craft. The prospect was oppressively dreary, and the worn-out man was glad that he was at last in shelter and could snatch a few hours’ rest.
Thrusting back the slide, he stepped below and lighted the lamp. The brightening glow showed him that the boat’s starboard side was wet high up, and, though there was a good deal of water in her, this puzzled him, until an explanation suggested itself. They had moored the craft carefully, but he supposed she must have dragged her anchor or kedge and swung in near enough the shore to ground towards low-tide. Then, as the tide left her, she would fall over on her starboard bilge, because they had lashed the heavy boom down on that side, and the water in her would cover the depressed portion of her interior. This reasoning was probably correct; but he did not foresee the result, until after lighting the stove and putting on the kettle, he opened the provision locker, which was to starboard. Then he saw with a shock of dismay that the stock of food they had counted on was ruined. The periodically submerged flour bag had rotted and burst, and most of its contents had run out into the water as the boat righted with the rising tide; the prepared cereals, purchased to save cooking, had turned to mouldy pulp; and the few other stores were in much the same condition. There were only two sound cans of beef, and a few ounces of unspoiled tea in a canister.
Carroll’s courage failed him as he realised it, but he felt that he must eat and sleep before he could grapple with the situation. He would allow himself a meal and a few hours’ rest; and crawling out while the kettle boiled, he shortened in the cable and plied the pump. Then he went below, and feasted on preserved beef and tea, gauging the size of each slice with anxious care, until he reluctantly laid the can aside. After that, he filled his pipe and, stretching out his aching limbs on the port locker, which was comparatively dry, soon sank into heavy sleep.
CHAPTER XXVIII – CARROLL SEEKS HELP
Carroll slept for several hours before he awakened and sat up on the locker, shivering. He had left the hatch slightly open, and a confused uproar reached him from outside – the wail of wind-tossed trees; the furious splash of ripples against the bows; and the drumming of the halliards upon the mast. There was no doubt that it was blowing hard; but the wind was off the land, and the sloop in shelter.
Filling his pipe, he set himself to think, and promptly decided that it would have been better had he gone down to the sloop in the beginning, before the provisions had been spoiled, instead of in the end. Reluctance to leave his helpless companion had mainly prevented him from doing this, but he had also been encouraged by the possibility of obtaining a deer now and then. It was clear that he had made a mistake in remaining, but it was not the first time he had done so, and the point was unimportant. The burning question was: What must he do now?
It would obviously be useless to go back with rations that would barely suffice for the march: Vane still had food enough to keep life in one man for a little while. On the other hand, it would not be a long sail to Comox with a strong northerly wind; and if the sloop would face the sea that was running he might return with assistance before his comrade’s scanty store was exhausted. Getting out the mildewed chart, he laid off his course, carefully trimmed and lighted the binnacle lamp, and going up on deck hauled in the kedge anchor. He could not break the main one out, though he worked savagely with a tackle, and deciding to slip it, he managed to lash three reefs in the mainsail and hoist it with the peak left down. Then he sat down to gather breath – for the work had been cruelly heavy – before he let the cable run and hoisted the jib.
She paid off when he put up his helm, and the black loom of trees ashore vanished. He thought he could find his way out of the inlet, but he only knew that he had done so when the angry ripples that splashed about the boat suddenly changed to confused tumbling combers. They foamed up in swift succession on her quarter, but he fancied she would withstand their onslaught, so long as he could prevent her from screwing up to windward when she lifted. It would need constant care, and if he failed, the next comber would, no doubt, break on board. His task was one that would have taxed the vigilance of a strong, well-fed man, and Carroll had already nearly reached the limit of his powers.
His case, however, was by no means an unusual one. The cost of the subjugation of the wilderness is the endurance of hunger and thirst, cold and crushing fatigue; and somebody pays to the uttermost farthing. Carroll, sitting drenched, strung up, and hungry, at the helm, was merely playing his part in the struggle, though he found it cruelly hard.
It was pitch dark, but he must gaze ahead and guess the track of the pursuing seas by the angle of the spouting white ridge abreast of the weather shrouds. He had a compass, but when his course did not coincide with safety it must be disregarded. The one essential thing was to keep the sloop on top, and to do so he had frequently to let her fall off dead before the mad white combers that leaped out of the dark. By and by, his arms began to ache from the strain of the tiller, and his wet fingers grew stiff and claw-like. The nervous strain was also telling, but that could not be helped; he must keep the craft before the sea or go down with her. There was one consolation – she was travelling at a furious speed.
At length, morning broke over a leaden sea that was seamed with white; and he glanced longing at the meat-can on the locker near his feet. He could reach it by stooping, though he dare not leave the helm, but he determined to wait until noon before he broke his fast again. It could not be very far to Comox, but the wind might drop. Then he began to wonder how he had escaped the perils of the night. He had come down what was really a wide and not quite straight sound passing several unlighted islands. Before starting, he had decided that he would run so long and then change his course a point or two, but he could not be sure that he had done so. He had a hazy recollection of seeing surf, and once a faint loom of land, but he supposed he had avoided it half-consciously or that chance had favoured him.
In the afternoon, the wind changed a little, backing to the north-west; the sky grew brighter, and he made out shadowy land over his starboard quarter. By and by he recognised it with a start. It was the high ridge north of Comox, and as he had run farther than he had expected, he must try to hoist the peak of the mainsail and haul her on the wind. There was danger in rounding her up, but it must be faced, though a sea foamed across her as he put down his helm. Another followed, but he scrambled forward and struggled desperately to hoist the downhanging gaff. The halliards were swollen; he could scarcely keep his footing on the deluged deck that slanted steeply under him. He thought he could have mastered the banging canvas had he been fresh; but, worn out as he was, drenched with spray, and buffeted by the shattered tops of the seas, the task was beyond his power. Giving it up, he staggered back, breathless and almost nerveless, to the helm.
He could not reach Comox, which lay to windward, with the sail half-set, but it was only seventy miles or thereabouts to Nanaimo and not very much farther to Vancouver. The breeze would be fair to either, and he could charter a launch or tug for the return journey. Letting her go before the sea again, he ate some canned meat ravenously, tearing it with one hand.
Shortly afterwards, a grey mass rose out of the water to port and he supposed it was Texada. There were mines on the island, and he might be able to engage a rescue party; but he reflected that he could not beat the sloop back to windward unless the breeze fell, which it showed no signs of doing. It would be more prudent to go on to Vancouver, where he would be sure of getting a steamer, but he closed with the long island a little, and dusk was falling when he made out a boat in the partial shelter of a bight. Standing in closer, he saw that there were two men in the craft, and driving down upon her he backed the jib and ran alongside.
There was a crash as he struck the boat, and an astonished and angry man clutched the sloop’s rail.
“Now what in the name of thunder?” he began, and stopped, struck by Carroll’s ragged appearance.
“Can you take this sloop to Vancouver?” the latter inquired.
“I could if it was worth while,” was the cautious answer. “It will be a mighty wet run.”
“Seven dollars a day, until you’re home again,” said Carroll. “A bonus if you can sail her with the whole reefed mainsail up – I won’t stick at a few dollars. Can your partner pull that boat ashore alone? If not, cast her adrift, I’ll buy her.”
“He’ll make the beach,” said the other, jumping on board. “Seven dollars sounds a square deal. I won’t put the screw on you.”
“Then help me hoist the peak,” Carroll bade him. “After that, you can take the helm; I’m played out.”
The man, who shouted something to his companion, seized the halliards; and the sloop drove on again furiously; with an increased spread of canvas, while Carroll stood holding on by the coaming while the boat dropped back.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he informed the new helmsman. “It’s twenty-four hours since I’ve had more than a bite or two of food, and some weeks since I had a decent meal.”
“You look like it,” the other informed him. “Been up against it somewhere?”
Carroll, who did not reply, crawled below and managed to light the stove and make a kettleful of tea. He drank a good deal of it, and nearly emptied the remaining small meat-can, which he presently held out for his companion’s inspection, standing beneath the hatch.
“There’s some tea left, but this is all there is to eat on board the craft,” he said. “You’re hired to take her to Vancouver – and you’d better get there as soon as you can.”
The bronzed helmsman nodded. “She won’t be long on the way if the mast holds up.”
“Have you seen any papers lately?” Carroll inquired. “I’ve been up in the bush and I’m interested in the Clermont mine. It looked as if there might be some changes in the company’s prospects when I went away.”
“I noticed a bit about it in the Colonist a while back,” was the answer. “They sold out to another concern, or amalgamated with it; I don’t remember which.”
Carroll was not astonished. The news, which implied that he must be prepared to face a more or less serious financial reverse struck him as a fitting climax to his misadventures.
“It’s pretty much what I expected, and I’m going to sleep,” he said. “I don’t want to be wakened before it’s necessary.”
He crawled below, and he had hardly stretched himself out upon the locker before his eyes closed. When he opened them, feeling more like his usual self, he saw that the sun was above the horizon, and recognised by the boat’s motion that the wind had fallen. Going out, he found her driving through the water under her whole mainsail and the helmsman sitting stolidly at the tiller. The man stretched out a hand and pointed to the hazy hills to port.
“We’ll fetch the Narrows some time before noon,” he said. “If you’ll take the helm, I guess we’ll halve that meat for breakfast.”
His prediction proved correct, for Carroll reached his hotel about midday, and hastily changing his clothes, set off to call on Nairn. He had not recovered his mental equipoise, and in spite of his long, sound sleep, he was still badly jaded physically. On arriving at the house, he was shown into a room where Mrs. Nairn and her husband were sitting with Evelyn, waiting for the midday meal. The elder lady rose with a start of astonishment when he walked in.
“Man,” she said, “what’s wrong? Ye’re looking like a ghost.”
It was not an inapt description. Carroll’s face was worn and haggard, and his clothes hung slack on him.
“I’ve been feeling rather unsubstantial of late, as the result of a restricted diet,” he answered with a smile, and sat down in the nearest chair, while Nairn regarded him with carefully suppressed curiosity.
