Chapter VIII: Part 8

Of course it was quite out of the question for either the father or the mother to go with her, for that would more than double the expense and could not be afforded. There was no certainty as to how much would be coming to them after Bob's share of the furs were sold. This could not be estimated even approximately for they had not so much as seen the pelts yet. Richard, grown somewhat pessimistic with the years of ill fortune, even doubted if, after Bob's debt to Mr. MacDonald was paid, there would be sufficient left to reimburse Douglas for the money he had agreed to advance to meet Emily's expenses. "But then," he said, "I suppose 'twill work out somehow."

At last the great storm came that opened the rivers and smashed the bay ice into bits, and when the fury of the wind was spent and the rain ceased the sun came out with a new warmth that bespoke the summer close at hand. The tide carried the splintered ice to the open sea, wild geese honked overhead in their northern flight, seals played in the open water, and the loon's weird laugh broke the wilderness silence. The world was awakening from its long slumber, and summer was at hand.

Tom Black kept his word, and when the ice was gone brought Bessie over in his boat to stay with Emily until she should go to the hospital. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when they arrived and Bessie brought a good share of the sunshine into the cabin with her.

"Oh, Bessie!" cried Emily, as her friend burst into the room. "I were thinkin' you'd not be comin', Bessie! Oh, 'tis fine t' have you come!"

Tom remained the night, and he and Bessie cheered up the Grays, for it had been a lonely, monotonous period since their last visit, and never a caller save Douglas had they had.

Time, the great healer of sorrow, had somewhat mitigated the shock of Bob's disappearance, and had reconciled them to some extent to his loss. But now the sore was opened again when, one day, a grave was dug in the spruce woods behind the cabin, and the coffin, which had been resting upon the scaffold since January, was taken down and reverently lowered into the earth by Richard and Douglas. Mrs. Gray, though still firm in the intuitive belief that her boy lived, wept piteously when the earth clattered down upon the box and hid it forever from view.

"I knows 'tis not Bob," she sobbed, "but where is my lad? What has become o' my brave lad?"

Bessie, with wet eyes, comforted her with soothing words and gentle caresses.

Richard and Douglas did their work silently, both certain beyond a doubt that it was Bob they had laid to rest.

Nothing was said to Emily of the burial. That would have done her no good and they did not wish to give her the pain that it would have caused.

The days were rapidly lengthening, and the sun coming boldly nearer the earth was tempering and mellowing the atmosphere, and every pleasant afternoon a couch was made for Emily out of doors, where she could bask in the sunshine, and breathe the air charged with the perfume of the spruce and balsam forest above, and drink in the wild beauties of the wilderness about her.

Here she lay, alone, one day late in June while her mother and Bessie washed the dinner dishes before Bessie came out to join her, and her father and Douglas, who had come over to dinner, smoked their pipes and chatted in the house. She was listening to the joyous song of a robin, that had just returned from its far-off southland pilgrimage, and was thinking as she listened of the long, long journey that she was soon to take. Her heart was sad, for it was a sore trial to be separated all the summer from her father and mother and never see them once.

She looked down the bight out towards the broader waters of the bay, for that was the way she was to go. Suddenly as she looked a boat turned the point into the bight. It was a strange boat and she could not see who was in it, but it held her attention as it approached, for a visitor was quite unusual at this time of the year. Presently the single occupant stood up in the boat, to get a better view of the cabin.

"Bob! _Bob!_ BOB!" shouted Emily, quite wild and beside herself. "Mother! Father! Bob is coming! _Bob_ is coming!"

Those in the house rushed out in alarm, for they thought the child had gone quite mad, but when they reached her they, too, seemed to lose their reason. Mrs. Gray ran wildly to the sandy shore where the boat would land, extending her arms towards it and fairly screaming,

"My lad! Oh, my lad!"

Bessie was at her heels and Richard and Douglas followed.

When Bob stepped ashore his mother clasped him to her arms and wept over him and fondled him, and he, taller by an inch than when he left her, bronzed and weather-beaten and ragged, drew her close to him and hugged her again and again, and stroked her hair, and cried too, while Richard and Douglas stood by, blowing their noses on their red bandana handkerchiefs and trying to took very self-composed.

When his mother let him go Bob greeted the others, forgetting himself so far as to kiss Bessie, who blushed and did not resent his boldness.

Emily simply would not let him go. She held him tight to her, and called him her "big, brave brother," and said many times:

"I were knowin' you'd come back to us, Bob. I were just _knowin'_ you'd come back."

An hour passed in a babble of talk and exchange of explanations almost before they were aware, and then Mrs. Gray suddenly realized that Bob had had no dinner.

"Now un must be rare hungry, Bob," she explained. "Richard, carry Emily in with un now, an' we'll have a cup o' tea wi' Bob, while he has his dinner."

"Let me carry un," said Bob, gathering Emily into his arms.

In the house they were all so busy talking and laughing, while Mrs. Gray prepared the meal for Bob, that no one noticed a boat pull into the bight and three men land upon the beach below the cabin; and so, just as they were about to sit down to the table, they were taken completely by surprise when the door opened and in walked Dick Blake, Ed Matheson and Bill Campbell.

The three stopped short in open-mouthed astonishment.

"'Tis Bob's ghost!" finally exclaimed Ed.

They were soon convinced, however, that Bob's hand grasp was much more real than that of any ghost, and the greetings that followed were uproarious.

Nearly the whole afternoon they sat around the table while Bob told the story of his adventures. A comparison of experiences made it quite certain that the remains they had supposed to have been Bob's were the remains of Micmac John and the mystery of the half-breed's failure to return to the tilt for the pelts he had stolen was therefore cleared up.

"An' th' Nascaupees," said Bob, "be not fearsome murderous folk as we was thinkin' un, but like other folks, an' un took rare fine care o' me. I'm thinkin' they'd not be hurtin' white folks an' white folk don't hurt _they_."

Finally the men sat back from the table for a smoke and chat while the dishes were being cleared away by Mrs. Gray and Bessie.

"Now I were sure thinkin' Bob were a ghost," said Ed, as he lighted his pipe with a brand from the stove, "and 'twere scarin' me a bit. I never seen but one ghost in my life and that were----"

"We're not wantin' t' hear that ghost yarn, Ed," broke in Dick, and Ed forgot his story in the good-natured laughter that followed.

The home-coming was all that Bob had hoped and desired it to be and the arrival of his three friends from the trail made it complete. His heart was full that evening when he stepped out of doors to watch the setting sun. As he gazed at the spruce-clad hills that hid the great, wild north from which he had so lately come, the afterglow blazed up with all its wondrous colour, glorifying the world and lighting the heavens and the water and the hills beyond with the radiance and beauty of a northern sunset. The spirit of it was in Bob's soul, and he said to himself,

"'Tis wonderful fine t' be livin', an' 'tis a wonderful fine world t' live in, though 'twere seemin' hard sometimes, in the winter. An' th' comin' home has more than paid for th' trouble I were havin' gettin' here."

XXVII

THE CRUISE TO ST. JOHNS

When Bob and the two Eskimos sailed the _Maid of the North_ up the bay from Fort Pelican it was found advisable to run the schooner to an anchorage at Kenemish where she could lie with less exposure to the wind than at Wolf Bight. The moment she was made snug and safe Bob went ashore to Douglas Campbell's cabin, where he learned that his old friend had gone to Wolf Bight early that morning to spend the day.

The lad's impatience to reach home would brook no waiting, and so, leaving Netseksoak and Aluktook in charge of the vessel, he proceeded alone in a small boat, reaching there as we have seen early in the afternoon.

What to do with the schooner now that she had brought him safely to his destination was a problem that Bob had not been able to solve. The vessel was not his, and it was plainly his duty to find her owner and deliver the schooner to him, but how to go about it he did not know. That evening when the candles were lighted and all were gathered around the stove, he put the question to the others.

"I'm not knowin' now who th' schooner belongs to," said he, "an' I'm not knowin' how t' find th' owner, I'm wonderin' what t' do with un."

"Tis some trader owns un I'm thinkin'," Mrs. Gray suggested.

"'Tis sure some trader," agreed Bob, "and the's a rare lot o' fur aboard she an' the's enough trader's goods t' stock a Post. Mr. Forbes were tellin' me I should be gettin' salvage for bringin' she t' port safe."

"Aye," confirmed Douglas, "you should be gettin' salvage. 'Tis th' law o' th' sea an' but right. We'll ha' t' be lookin' t' th' salvage for un lad."

"But how'll we be gettin' un now?" Bob asked, much puzzled. "An' how'll we be findin' th' owner?"

"Th' owner," explained Douglas, "will be doin' th' findin' hisself I'm thinkin'. But t' get th' salvage th' schooner'll ha' t' be took t' St. Johns. Now I'm not knowin' but I could pilot she over. 'Tis a many a long year since I were there but I'm thinkin' I could manage un, and we'll make up a crew an' sail she over."

"We'll be needin' five t' handle she right," said Bob. "'Twere wonderful hard gettin' on wi' just me an' th' two huskies. We'll sure need five."

"Aye, 'twill need five of us," assented Douglas, "I'm thinkin' now Dick an' Ed an' Bill would like t' be makin' th' cruise an' seein' St. Johns, an' we has th' crew right here."

The three men were not only willing to go but delighted with the prospect of the journey. They had never in their lives been outside the bay and the voyage offered them an opportunity to see something of the great world of which they had heard so much.

"I'll be wantin' t' go home first," said Dick, "an' so will Ed, but we'll be t' Kenemish an' ready t' start in three days."

"'Twill be a fine way t' take th' maid t' th' mail boat so th' doctor can take she with un," suggested Richard.

"An' father an' mother an' Bessie can go t' th' mail boat with us," spoke up Emily, from her couch. "Oh, 'twill be fine t' have you all go t' th' mail boat with me!"

And so this arrangement was made and carried out. On the appointed day every one was aboard the _Maid of the North_, and with light hearts the voyage was begun.

Two days later they reached Fort Pelican, when Netseksoak and Aluktook went ashore to await the arrival of the ship that was to take them to their far northern home, and Bob said good-bye to the two faithful friends with whom he had braved so many dangers and suffered so many hardships.

The following morning the mail boat steamed in, and Emily was transferred to her in charge of the doctor, who greeted her kindly and promised,

"You'll be going home a new girl in the fall, and your father and mother won't know you."

Nevertheless the parting from her friends was very hard for Emily, and the mother and child, and Bessie too, shed a good many tears, though the fact that she was to see Bob in a little while in St. Johns comforted Emily somewhat.

When the mail boat was finally gone, Richard Gray, with his wife and Bessie, turned homeward in their dory, which had been brought down in tow of the _Maid of the North_, and the schooner spread her sails to the breeze and passed to the southward.

With some delays caused by bad weather, three weeks elapsed before the _Maid of the North_ one day, late in July, sailed through the narrows past the towering cliffs of Signal Hill, and anchored in the land-locked harbour of St. Johns.

In the interim the mail boat had made another voyage to the north, and brought back with her Captain Hanks and his crew, who had worked their way to Indian Harbour in their open boat to await the steamer there. Of course Skipper Sam had heard that Bob was coming with the _Maid of the North_, and when the schooner finally reached her anchorage he was on the lookout for her, and at once came aboard with much blustering, to demand her immediate delivery. He believed he had some unsophisticated livyeres to deal with, whom he could easily browbeat out of their rights. What was his surprise, then, when Douglas stepped forward, and said very authoritatively:

"Bide a bit, now, skipper. When 'tis decided how much salvage you pays th' lad, an' after you pays un, you'll be havin' th' schooner an' her cargo, an' not till then."

Bob's first thought upon going ashore was of Emily, and he went immediately to the hospital to see her. The operation had been performed nearly two weeks previously and she was recovering rapidly. When he was admitted to the ward, and she glimpsed him as he entered the door, her delight was almost beyond bounds.

"Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed, when he kissed her. "Tis fine t' see un, Bob--'tis _so_ fine. An' now I'll be gettin' well wonderful quick."

And she did. She was discharged from the hospital quite cured a month later. At first she was a little weak, but youth and a naturally strong constitution were in her favour, and she regained her strength with remarkable rapidity.

Finally a settlement was arranged with Captain Hanks. The furs on board the _Maid of the North_ were appraised at market value, and when Bob received his salvage he found himself possessed of fifteen thousand dollars.

He reimbursed Douglas the amount advanced for Emily's hospital expenses, but the kind old trapper would not accept another cent, though the lad wished to pay him for his services in piloting the vessel to St. Johns.

"Put un in th' bank. You'll be needin' un some day t' start un in life. Hold on t' un," was the good advice that Douglas gave, and accordingly the money was deposited in the bank.

Bob's share of the furs that he had trapped himself he very generously insisted upon giving to Dick and Ed and Bill. They were diffident about accepting them at first, saying:

"We were doin' nothin' for un."

But Bob pressed the furs upon them, and finally they accepted them. The silver fox which he wept over that cold December evening sold for four hundred and fifty dollars, and the one Dick found frozen in the trap by the deer's antlers for three hundred dollars.

Neither did Bob forget Netseksoak and Aluktook. Money would have been quite useless to the Eskimos as he well knew, so he sent them rifles and many things which they could use and would value.

Laden with gifts for the home folks, and satiated with looking at the shops and great buildings and wonders of St. Johns, they were a very happy party when at last the mail boat steamed northward with them.

Bob Gray was very proud of his little chum when, one beautiful September day, his boat ground its prow upon the sands at Wolf Bight, and with all the strength and vigour of youth she bounded ashore and ran to meet the expectant and happy parents.

As, with full hearts, the reunited family of Richard Gray walked up the path to the cabin, Bob said reverently:

"Th' Lard has ways o' doin' things that seem strange an' wonderful hard sometimes when He's doin' un; but He always does un right, an' a rare lot better'n _we_ could plan."

XXVIII

IN AFTER YEARS

During the twenty years that have elapsed since the incidents transpired that are here recorded, the mission doctors and the mission hospitals have come to The Labrador to give back life and health to the unfortunate sick and injured folk of the coast, who in the old days would have been doomed to die or to go through life helpless cripples or invalids for the lack of medical or surgical care, as would have been the case with little Emily but for the efforts of her noble brother. New people, too, have come into Eskimo Bay, though on the whole few changes have taken place and most of the characters met with in the preceding pages still live.

Douglas Campbell in the fullness of years has passed away. But he is not forgotten, and in the spring-time loving hands gather the wild flowers, which grow so sparsely there, and scatter them upon the mossy mound that marks his resting place.

Ed Matheson to this day tells the story of the adventures of Ungava Bob--as Bob Gray has thenceforth been called--not forgetting to embellish the tale with flights of fancy; and of course Dick Blake warns the listeners that these imaginative variations are "just some o' Ed's yarns," and Bob laughs at them good-naturedly.

It may be asked to what use Bob put his newly acquired wealth, and the reader's big sister should this book fall into her hands, will surely wish to know whether Bob and Bessie married, and what became of Manikawan. But these are matters that belong to another story that perhaps some day it may seem worth while to tell.

For the present, adieu to Ungava Bob.