Kitabı oku: «The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure», sayfa 12
“I reckon they hav’n’t been shot at all their little lives before,” said Seth. “Now you just creep round behind while I keep their ’ttention occupied.”
One way or another, Seth had managed to “keep their ’ttention occupied,” and so venison had been the result, and plenty of it too.
It was near evening, the men had already shouldered their game and had begun the homeward march; McBain himself, with Allan and Rory, had also had enough of hunting for one day, and were preparing to follow. Ralph and Seth were invisible, so was their little companion the Skye terrier. No dog, I daresay, ever enjoyed sport more than did this little morsel of canine flesh and fury. Even before the adventure I am going to relate it had been the custom to take him out with the shooting party almost constantly, but after the adventure it was constantly, without any almost.
While they were yet wondering where Ralph and his companions were, bang went a rifle from the wooded gorge beneath them.
“They’ve got another of some kind,” said McBain.
“I expect,” said Allan, “it is a black tail, for if it were antelopes some of them would be already seeking the open, and Seth tells me the black tails prefer hiding when in danger.”
(The black-tailed or “mule” deer is one of the largest and most gracefully beautiful animals to be found in the hunting-grounds of the far west.)
A few minutes afterwards there came up out of that gorge a sound that made our heroes start, and stand to their rifles, while their hearts almost stood still with the dread of some terrible danger. It was not for themselves but for Ralph they feared. It was a deep, appalling, coughing roar, or bellow – the bellow of some mighty beast that has started up in anger. A minute more, and Ralph, breathless and bareheaded, with trailing rifle, rushed into the open, closely followed by an immense grizzly bear. He was on his hind legs, and in the very act of striking Ralph down with his terrible paw.
The danger was painfully imminent, and for either of his friends to fire was out of the question, so close together were bear and man. But lo! at that very moment, when it seemed as if no power on earth could save Ralph, the grizzly emitted a harsh and angry cry, and turned hastily round to face another assailant. This was no other than Spunkie, the Skye terrier, who had seized on Bruin by the heel. Oh! no mean assailant did the bear find him either. But do not imagine, pray, that this little dog meant to allow himself to be caught by the powerful brute he had tackled. No; and as soon as he had bitten Bruin he drew off far enough away to save his own tiny life. You see, in his very insignificance lay his strength. A dog of Oscar’s size would have been at once grappled and torn in pieces. Feint after feint did the terrier make of again rushing at the grizzly, but meanwhile Ralph had made good his escape, and next minute bullets rained on the grizzly, for Seth’s rang out from the thicket, and McBain’s and Rory’s and Allan’s from the open, so he sank to rise no more.
Ralph determined to learn a lesson from this little adventure; he made up his mind that he would never follow a wounded deer into a thick jungle without, at all events, previously reloading his rifle.
Chapter Eighteen
Rory Poet, Dreamer, and Merchant-Minstrel – Who Says Shore? – All among the Buffalo – “A Big Shoot” – Preparations for Winter
“Would you believe it, boys,” said McBain one morning, “that we have been here just two months to-morrow?”
They were seated at breakfast, and had you cast your eye over that table, reader, and seen the dainties and delicious dishes “seated” thereon, as Rory called it, you would hardly have believed you were in a far-off foreign land. Here were cold joints of venison, and pasties of game, and pies of pigeon, and the most delicious fish that ever smoked on a board, to say nothing of eggs of wild fowl and sea-birds, the very colours of which were so charming it seemed a sin to crack the shell. But how Seth basted those broiled fish, or what those fish were, only Seth himself knew. But Seth would be out in a boat in blue water, just as the first breakfast bugle went – and that was Peter and the pipes playing a pibroch – and in five minutes more he was back with the fish – Arctic salmon, our heroes called them, for want of a better name. The life was barely out of them ere they were split down the back, and nailed to a large hard wood board and done before the fire, but Seth himself served them ready to eat. It was a magic performance, and when amber tears from a slice of lemon were shed over it, lo! a dish fit for a king.
“How speedily time wings its flight!” said Ralph, looking wise; “and it never flies more quickly than when people are happy.”
“Not that there is anything very original in your remark, my grave old Ralph,” said Rory, smiling mischievously.
Ralph pinched Rory’s ear, and told him he was always the same – saucy.
“Steward,” continued Ralph, “send to Seth for another hot fish; but be sure to say it’s for the captain.”
“That’s right, Ralph,” said Irish Rory; “salmon and sentiment go well together.”
“You’re wonderfully bright this morning, Rory,” Allan put in.
“And it’s myself that’s glad I look it then, for I feel bright,” quoth Rory. “I feel it all over me, and sure if I’d wings I’d fly.”
“You didn’t want any wings to help you along,” remarked McBain, with his eyes bent on his plate, “last week when that Cinnamon bear went for you.”
“Be easy now,” says Rory; “bother the bear! Sure I feel all of a quiver when I think of him. He was Ralph’s grizzly’s father, I believe. I ought to have had my fiddle with me. You remember what Shakespeare says:
“‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,
A hungry Scotchman or a butcher’s dog.’”
“It wasn’t Shakespeare at all,” said Ralph.
“Och! no more it was. I remember now. It was the fellow who makes the matches; what’s his name?”
“Lucifer?” suggested Allan.
“No,” cried Rory; “I have it. It was Congreve. But sure I shot the beast right enough, and it was only his fun chasing me after he was dead.”
Poor Rory could laugh and make light of his adventure now, but it had been a narrow escape for him. There is no animal in the world more fierce than that dweller among rocks, the Cinnamon bear (Ursus ferox), but there is no heart more brave than an Irishman’s, and our light-hearted boy had followed one up and fired. Then, though desperately wounded, the monster gave chase. He had struck Rory down without wounding him. They were both found together, and both seemingly dead. Rory soon came round, and the bear’s skin was a beauty.
“What are you going to do with that skin, boy Rory?” asked McBain.
“Indeed, then,” replied boy Rory, “it’s a mat I’ll be after making of it for Bran’s mother.”
“Ah! you haven’t forgotten the poor old hound, then?” said Allan.
“I never forget a dog,” said Rory; “but won’t the old lady look famous lying on it before the fire of a winter’s evening!”
“We’ll have quite a cargo of furs,” said Allan.
“Yes,” McBain said, “and a priceless one too. They will more than pay for our trip north.”
“What a valuable old fellow that Seth is, to be sure!” Ralph remarked; “I really don’t know what we would have done without him.”
There was a pause, during which neither the captain nor Ralph, nor Allan was idle, as the music of their knives and forks could testify; but poetic Rory was leaning his chin upon his hand, and evidently his thoughts were far away.
“I say, boys,” he said, at last, “if I had lived in the days of yore – some hundreds of years ago, you know – do you know what I should have liked to have been?”
“No,” said Ralph; “something very bright, I’ll wager my gun. More coffee, steward.”
“I’d have been,” continued Rory, “a wandering merchant-minstrel.”
“A what!” cried Ralph, looking up from his plate.
“He means a packman,” said Allan.
“No,” said Ralph; “he means a hawker.”
“Oh! bother your hawkers and your packmen!” cried Rory; “sure, you send all the romance out of the soul of me! You serve me as the colleens served the piper, who was playing so neat and so pretty, till —
“A lass cut a hole in the bag
And the music flew up to the moon,
With a fa la la lay.”
“Well,” persisted Allan, “but tell us about your merchant-minstrel. If it isn’t a pack-merchant selling German concertinas, I don’t know what he can be.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you; but, troth,” said Rory, “neither of you deserve it for chaffing a poor boy as you chaff me. Listen, then. It is two hundred years ago and more, and a calm summer gloaming. In the great tartan parlour of Arrandoon Castle, whose windows overlook all the wild wide glen, are seated the wife of the chief McGregor of that golden age, and her lovely daughter Helen. The young girl is bending over her harp, playing one of the sweet sad airs of Scotland, while her mother sits before a tall frame quietly embroidering tapestry. And now the music ceases, and with a gentle sigh the fair musician moves to the window. There is the blue sky above, and the green waving birches on the braes, with distant glimpses of the bonnie loch, and there are sheep browsing among the purple. The wail of Peter’s pipes comes sounding up the glen – the Peter of two hundred years ago, you know – but no living soul is to be seen. Oh, yes! some one issues even now from the pine forest, and comes slowly up the winding road towards the castle. ‘Mother, mother!’ cries the girl, clapping her hands with joy, ‘here comes that dear old merchant-minstrel.’ And her mother puts away her work, and presently the Janet of a bygone age ushers me in, and I place my bundle of wares on the floor.”
“Your pack,” said Allan.
“My bundle of wares,” continued Rory, “and kneel beside it as I undo it. How eagerly they watch me, and how Helen’s bright eyes sparkle, as I spread my silks and my furs before her, and my glittering jewels rare! And how rejoiced I feel as I watch their happy faces; and sure I let them have everything they want, cheaper than anybody else would in all the wide world, because of their beautiful eyes. And then I tell them all the news of the outer world, and then – yes, then I take my fiddle, and for an hour and more I hold them enthralled.”
“What a romancist you’d make?” said Allan. “But stay!” cried Rory, waving his hand, “the two hundred years have rolled away, but I’m still the wandering merchant-minstrel. The Snowbird is lying once more, with sails all furled, in the old place in the loch; we’re home again, boys – home again, and I’ve had that big, big box that you’ve seen Ap making for me brought up to the castle; and your dear mother and sweet sister, Allan boy, are bending over me as I open it; and don’t their eyes sparkle as I spread before them the curios I’ve been collecting for months – my best skins and my stuffed birds, my ferns and my mosses, my collection of eggs and my ivory and precious stones!”
“So ho!” said Allan, “and that is what that mighty box is for, is it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Rory; “but don’t you like my picture?”
“Will you try this potted tongue?” said Ralph; “it’s delicious.”
“So are you, bedad,” quoth Rory, “with your chaff and your chaff.”
“Boys,” cried McBain, “it is sweet to dream of home sometimes; it is one of the greatest pleasures of a traveller’s life. But we’ve many more wild adventures to come through yet, ere the Snowbird sails up the loch. Who says shore?”
Shore! That was indeed a magic word. Allan and Rory jumped up at once. Ralph had some marmalade to finish, but he soon followed them. He found Seth fully equipped, and the bear-hound, as they called the Skye terrier, all alive and full of fun. The men, too, were ready. They were going off for a three days’ hunt on the rocky plains, miles and miles beyond the forest.
It was only one of many such they had enjoyed; and there is, in my opinion, no life in the world to compare for genuine enjoyment with that of the wild hunter, especially if he be lucky enough to find pastures new, as did our heroes. For the first few days of roughing it in forest and plain one feels a little strange, and often weary; but the free fresh air, the constant exercise, and the excitement, soon banish such feelings as these, and before you are a week out your muscles get hard, your skin gets brown, and your nerves are cords of steel; if on horseback, you fear not to ride anywhere; if on foot you will follow the lion to his lair, or the panther to his cave in the rocky hillside, and never think once of danger. It is a glorious life.
On hunting expeditions like that on which we find our friends starting to-day, they went out with no intention of sticking to any one kind of game. They made what they called “harlequin bags;” they were armed, prepared for anything, everything, fur or feather, fish or snake. They had fowling-pieces for the smaller game, express rifles for bigger, and bone-smashers for the wild buffalo of the plains. These latter they shot for their skins. The sport was at all times exciting, and, as our heroes were on foot, sometimes even dangerous, as when one day Stevenson, who had fired at and only wounded a sturdy bull, was chased by the infuriated animal and narrowly escaped with his life. Do these animals think the flashing and cracking of the rifles some kind of a thunderstorm, I wonder? I do not know, but certain it is that often, on a herd being fired into, it will take closer rank and stand in stupid bewilderment, instead of dashing away at once; and thus hundreds may be killed in an hour or two.
As an experienced trapper, old Seth had the whole management of these hunting expeditions.
He often made our heroes wonder at the amount of tact and wisdom he displayed, as a plainsman and wild hunter.
“I guess we’ll have moosie to-night,” he said, one evening. It was the first day they had fallen among buffalo.
“What kind, Seth?” asked McBain. They were seated round the camp fire, having just finished dinner.
“Wolves,” said Seth.
“Have you seen their tracks?” inquired McBain.
“Nary a track,” answered Seth. “They don’t make much, but they’ll come a hundred miles to feast off dead buffalo. They’ll be at the crangs (skinned carcasses) afore two hours more is over.”
And Seth was right; and night was made musical by their howling and growling, fighting and snarling.
On this particular day they had very fine sport indeed; bears principally – not grizzlies – and a few bison. This latter is usually a wild and wary animal, with ten times more sense under his horns than that “bucolic lout” the buffalo; but never having seen man before, they were, as Seth said, “a kind o’ off their guard.” About a dozen wolves followed them at a respectable distance whenever they got trail of a bison. When the hunters advanced the wolves advanced, when the hunters stopped they stopped, generally in a row, and licked their chops and yawned, and tried all they possibly could to look quite unconcerned.
“Never mind us,” they seemed to say. “Take your time; you’ll find the bison by-and-bye, and then we’ll have a bit, but don’t hurry on our account.”
Once or twice Ralph or Allan would take a pot-shot at one of them. This Seth declared was a waste of good powder and lead.
“’Cause,” he added, “their skins aren’t any mortal use for nothin’.”
Towards afternoon they approached a woody ravine, in which the stream they had been following lost itself in a world of green. In here went Master Spunkie first, and came quickly back, mad with excitement and joy. He wagged his tail so quickly you could hardly see it; then his tail seemed to wag him, and he quivered all over like a heather besom bewitched.
“I guess it’s b’ars,” said Seth, and in went Seth next, and then there was a most appalling roaring, that seemed to shake the hills.
“Hough-oa-ah-h!” They might roar as they liked, but Seth’s rifle was telling tales. Crack, crack, went both barrels, and soon after crack, crack, again. This was the signal for our heroes to file in. It was dark, and even cold among the pines – dark, ay, and dangerous. They found that the whole of the little glen, which was of no very great extent, formed the residence of a colony of black bears. They had not gone far before one sprang from under a spruce-tree full tilt at McBain. The brute seemed to repent of the action in the very act of springing, and well for the captain he did. He swerved aside, and was shot not two rifle lengths away. This little incident taught our heroes caution, and the great danger of rushing into spruce thickets, where a wild beast has all the odds against the hunter, being used to the dim light under the cool green boughs. The Skye was in his glory. He had become quite a little adept at leg-biting, and here was a splendid field for the display of his skill, and he certainly made the best of it, for over twenty skins were bagged in less than three hours.
The days were getting short, and even cold, so they had to go early to camp. The skins of the day would be stretched and cleaned, and well rubbed with a composition made by Seth’s own hands. Then they would, at the end of the big shoot, be taken on board and undergo further treatment before being carefully put away in the hold.
The camp-kettle was an invention of McBain’s. It was, indeed, a multum in parvo, for in it could be stored not only the saucepans and a frying-pan, but the plates, and knives and forks, and spoons, and even the saucers and salt. Seth was cook, and when I have told you that, it is a waste of ink to say that about dinner-time a wolf or two would generally drop round. They would not come too near, but would stand well down to leeward, sniffing all the fragrance they could, smacking their lips and licking their chops in the most comical way imaginable. This was what Rory called “dining on the cheap.” After dinner it was very pleasant, rolled in Highland plaids, to lounge around the camp fire for an hour or two before turning in. What wonderful stories of a trapper’s life Seth used to tell them, and with what rapt attention Rory used to listen to them.
“Wherein he spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth ’scapes,
On rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven.”
Perhaps the greatest charm about these yarns of Seth’s was their truthfulness. They were as far above your ordinary traveller’s tales as the moon in the sky is from the moon in the mill-dam – as substance from shadow.
When gloaming deepened into night, when the call of the wild drake resounded far beneath them, and the cry of the white owl fell on the ear, when the north star looked down on them with its bright, clear, kindly eye, then, spreading their blankets under the tents, and wrapping their plaids more closely around them, they committed themselves to Heaven’s protection, and sweetest dreamless slumber.
The few days succeeding a “big shoot” were nearly always spent in fishing. Strange to say, the fish in the river, of which there were abundance, could not be got to look at the flies our heroes had brought with them from home, so Seth came to the front again. He busked great gaudy flies, that the daintiest trout hadn’t the heart to resist.
It was autumn now, the leaves in the forest had first turned a dingier green, then the sunset of life stole over them. Rory had never seen such tinting before. You may be sure our dreamy boy couldn’t resist a temptation like this. He was painter as well as poet, and so he forgot to fish, forgot to shoot, forgot everything in his wanderings except the gorgeous scenery around him. He sketched and sketched, and stored his portfolio.
“How delighted she will be!” he often caught himself thinking, if not saying, when he succeeded with some happier effect than usual.
Autumn waned apace.
They went less often now to the distant shooting-grounds, but they went to the forest, McBain and all his merry men – at least, all that could be spared. They went to fell the trees and bring them home, for the captain had an idea, and this idea became a plan, and the plan was to build a house close to the shore near which lay the Snowbird– not a living-house, but a hall in which the men could take exercise, during the short and stormy days of the long Arctic winter that would very soon surround them. So every morning now a party went to the woods, with axe and adze, to fell and trim the pine-trees. The portion of the forest which was chosen stood high over a little green and bosky glen, adown which a streamlet ran, joining the great river about a mile below. One by one the trees were hurled down the steep sides of the glen, and dragged to the rivulet; they were then floated on to the river, and here formed into a raft, which could be guided seawards with long poles; the rest of the journey was easily accomplished by help of the cutter and gig. And so the work went cheerily on.
Old Ap was in his element now; his turn seemed to have come for enjoyment. He had rehabilitated himself in that wonderful old head-to-feet apron and his paper cap, and bustled about as lively as a superannuated cricket from “morning’s sun till dine,” giving orders here and orders there, and always humming a song, and never without his snuff-box.
The days grew shorter and shorter, winds moaned through the woods and brown leaves fell, and soon they sighed through leafless trees; then the birds of migration were found to have fled, even the buffaloes and the bisons went southwards after the sun, and the bears were no longer seen in the woods. But the building of the new hall went steadily on, and soon the roof was up and the flooring laid; and a fine strong structure it looked, though, as far as shape and architecture went, a stranger would have been puzzled to know what it was – whether church or market, mill or smithy. Never mind, there it was, and inside, at one end, there was a large fireplace built, big enough to accommodate a bull bison if he wanted roasting whole.
Ap was proud of his work, I can assure you, and after he had built a few forms for seats, he waxed still more ambitious, and commenced making chairs.
I am sorry to say a death occurred on board about this time: it was that of the yellowhammer, that had flown aboard after they had left Shetland. It was universally lamented, for though not much of a singer, it did what it could, and its little humble song could at any time recall to memory broomy braes and moorlands clad in golden-scented gorse.
The mornings were cold and sharp now, and in the long fore-nights the big lamp was lit in the snuggery, and a roaring fire in the stove was quite a treat.
On coming on deck one evening about sunset, this is what they saw on looking skywards. All around the horizon, for two spear-lengths high, was a slate-coloured haze; above this the mist was of a yellow hue, gradually merging into the blue of the open sky; and the sun was going down, looking like a great molten gong, his upper two-thirds a deep blood-red, the lower a lurid purple. The sea was waveless, yellow and glassy. A change was coming.
