The Wilderness Castaways

Dillon Wallace

The Wilderness Castaways

CHAPTER I

GETTING ACQUAINTED

“DAN RUDD,” roared Captain Zachariah Bluntt, “if I has to tell you again to keep that mouth organ below decks, I’ll wring your neck! Yes, wring your neck! By the imps of the sea, I will!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Dan Rudd, a robust, sunny-faced sailor lad of sixteen, quickly slipping the offending harmonica, upon which he had been playing a lively air, into his pocket.

Captain Bluntt, impatiently pacing the deck, was plainly in ill humor. His great red beard, standing out like a lion’s mane, bristled ominously, and his shaggy eyebrows were drawn down in an unpleasant scowl.

It was two o’clock on a mid-July afternoon, the last case of provisions had been lowered into the hold, the last lighter-load of coal stowed into the bunkers, steam was up, and the staunch little Newfoundland steamer North Star, riding at anchor in Sydney harbor, had been ready to sail for three hours, and for three hours Captain Bluntt had been impatiently awaiting orders to get under way.

Two clean-cut, smooth-shaven, alert young men of thirty or thereabouts were standing at the port rail aft. Their sun-tanned faces marked them as men accustomed to out-of-door life, and their sinewy, muscular frames and keen but good-humored eyes proclaimed health and genial dispositions. They were intently, and with visible impatience, watching a wharf from which a boat was putting off. As the little craft shot out into the open one of them raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, studied it for a moment, and announced:

“There he is at last! Here, take a look through the glass, Ainsworth,” and he passed the binoculars to his friend.

“Yes, that’s he,” said Ainsworth, after a moment’s observation, “and, Remington, he’s sitting back smoking a cigarette as unconcernedly as if he hadn’t kept us waiting half a day for him.”

“I’ll tell the skipper, and ease his mind,” suggested Remington, and striding forward he called out cheerily:

“All right, Captain Bluntt, Master Densmore is coming. You may put out as soon as you please when he’s aboard.”

“Very vexing! Very vexing, Mr. Remington!” exclaimed Captain Bluntt. “Fair wind, fair tide, and losing advantage of it, sir! All right, sir, all right. We’ll weigh anchor at once, sir.”

In a moment sailors were working at the windlass, anchor chains were clanking, and the men singing in rhythmic unison as they swung up and down at the crank handles. Then the engines began to pulsate.

The North Star had been chartered by the two young men—George Remington and Henry Ainsworth—for a summer’s voyage to Hudson Bay. Both were enthusiastic sportsmen, and Remington, who had once before visited the region, had promised Ainsworth some exciting polar bear and walrus hunting, as well as excellent sport fishing the coastal streams for salmon and trout.

Paul Densmore, the only son of John Densmore, a multimillionaire ship owner and a friend of Remington’s, had been invited by Remington to accompany them as his guest. When Remington and Ainsworth went aboard the North Star upon the morning our story begins, Paul had remained ashore in Sydney to make some purchases in the town, promising to follow them within the hour. Captain Bluntt had been instructed to make ready for departure accordingly. But Paul had failed to keep his promise, and with hours of idle waiting for the appearance of the delinquent youth Captain Bluntt had worked himself into the high state of ill humor in which we find him.

“The Captain was just at the point of blowing up,” laughed Remington when he rejoined Ainsworth, “but he’ll be all right presently. He’s a very impatient old fellow.”

“He’s had good reason to be impatient,” said Ainsworth. “I can safely prophesy more breakers ahead. Judging from the little I’ve seen of that boy, Remington, you’ll be heartily sorry you brought him before we get back to New York.”

“I’m heartily sorry already,” admitted Remington, “but I couldn’t help it. Densmore is one of the best fellows in the world. He pulled me out of a tight place once when I was caught in the market, and when he asked me the other day if it would be an imposition upon friendship if he asked me to invite Paul, there was nothing to do but invite the youngster to come.”

“Oh, don’t think for a moment I’m finding fault with you, old man,” Ainsworth hastened to explain. “I see your position, and I’d have done the same under the circumstances, but it’s a pity nevertheless that we have to put up with him.”

“Yes, it is a pity,” agreed Remington. “That boy has no sense of responsibility. Never keeps an appointment or a promise. I never saw any one quite so lacking in consideration of others—selfish—selfish—that’s the word.”

“Why did his father ever let him grow into such a cad, anyway? What he needs is a good sound thrashing every day for a month. That would cure him.”

“Fact is, I don’t think Densmore ever knew much about him until recently. Too many irons in the fire to give much thought to his family. This steamship company’s his pet scheme just now, but he’s the head of half a dozen other big things, and even when he’s home his mind is all taken up with business. He left the boy’s training to the mother, and it’s the old story of an only child. She’s coddled and indulged and pampered him till she’s spoiled him. He failed in the final tests at school this year—he attends a select boys’ school uptown somewhere—and the head master wrote Densmore that there was no use sending him back unless he took more interest in the work, adding something to the effect that he seemed strangely void of ambition, never obeyed rules unless convenient, and was a disturbing element in the school. I think that brought Densmore to his senses about his son’s condition.”

“And he shoved the boy off on us for the summer,” said Ainsworth ill-naturedly.

“Oh, no, not for the purpose of getting rid of him,” Remington hastened to explain. “Densmore’s all right. He wouldn’t intentionally cause us inconvenience. He had two reasons for asking me to bring him. He learned Paul was addicted to cigarettes, and he wanted to get him away somewhere where cigarettes aren’t to be had. He thought, too, that good, wholesome exercise in the open, and a complete change of environment, might give him a new view of life and awaken his ambition. The boy’s mother has never permitted him to take part in what she calls rough games—baseball, football and real boys’ sports—and she’d never let him go camping with other fellows, though he’s begged to go. Afraid he’d get hurt. It took a lot of argument on Densmore’s part to get her permission to let him come with us.”

“One of those young hopefuls, isn’t he, that thinks his father is rich and there’s no use of his ever doing anything but spend money?” suggested Ainsworth. “From the little I’ve seen of him, he’ll spend it, all right, too.”

At that moment the boat hove alongside, and a tall, sallow-faced lad, perhaps seventeen years of age, a cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth, tossed a bill to the boatman, languidly rose to his feet, caught the rope ladder lying over the ship’s side, and with difficulty climbed to the deck.

“Glad to see you, Paul,” greeted Remington. “We were getting a bit worried about you. You’re late.”

“Oh, I didn’t think there was any rush,” said Paul indifferently. “Stopped for luncheon at the hotel. Horrible stuff they serve there. It really isn’t fit to eat.”

“I’m afraid your appetite isn’t very good, Paul,” suggested Remington. “Wait till you get your lungs full of salt air, and rough it a bit; you’ll think anything is good then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Paul remarked indifferently, as he lounged back upon a chair, drew a fresh cigarette from a silver case, lighted it, flicked some ashes from his white flannel trousers and casually surveyed the deck. “What a rum old ship this is!” he continued. “I thought we were going to have a comfortable yacht.”

“The North Star isn’t much to look at,” admitted Remington, “but she’s the best sort of a ship for our trip. No ordinary yacht would do. We’re going to rough it good and plenty, you know.”

“That so? What kind of roughing it?”

“Hunting, fishing, camping, and that sort of thing. I hope we’ll have some good bear hunting before we get back.”

“Bear hunting!” Paul was interested at once. “What kind of bears shall we run across? Grizzlies?”

“No,” laughed Remington, “Polar bears.”

“Polar bear hunting! Cricky, but that’ll be great!” Paul sat up excitedly. “Where’re we going, Mr. Remington? I didn’t pay much attention to what Father said about it. I thought it was just an ordinary yachting trip.”

“You didn’t seem to have much interest in it, coming over on the train,” said Remington, and as he explained the region, the prospective hunting and fishing, and the adventure, Paul forgot his cigarette.

“That’s just the kind of trip I’ve wanted to take all my life,” he exclaimed. “May I shoot too?”

“Yes, I’ve a rifle and a shotgun among my things for you.”

“May I see them? I’ve always been just crazy for a gun!”

“Wait a moment.”

Remington went below and presently returned with a modern high-power rifle and a beautiful double-barreled shotgun. Paul’s eyes sparkled with delight and he listened with close attention while Remington explained their manipulation, with due caution as to their handling. Then he exclaimed:

“Good old Dad! He is a good scout to let me come with you! Ever so many thanks, Mr. Remington. Where are the cartridges?”

“They’re with mine. I’ll get them for you when you need them. You may as well take the guns down to your stateroom, though, when you go.”

“I guess I’ll go now, and unpack my things.”

“Very well. The steward will show you your room. You’ll find everything there. Abner,” turning to a bareheaded young sailor clad in blue flannel shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and trousers tucked into the tops of high sealskin boots, who was standing near the companionway, “this is Master Densmore. Will you show him to his room? Abner is the steward, Paul.”

“Yes, sir; this way, sir,” answered Abner, respectfully.

“He seems interested,” remarked Ainsworth when Paul had gone below. “I’m inclined to think he’s a pretty good fellow at heart after all. Just spoiled.”

“That’s so,” agreed Remington.

A moment later Paul reappeared from the companionway, and asked:

“Where are my trunks, Mr. Remington? The steward took me to a room he insists is mine, but my trunks aren’t there; just some canvas bags. Guess he’s trying to put me in the wrong room.”

“I left your trunks ashore, Paul.”

“Ashore! Why, all my things are in them! I can’t go without them! I’ve no clothes with me!”

“The canvas bags contain all the clothes you’ll need. Look through them and see what you think of the outfit. Your father selected them.”

“But my cigarettes! I packed them in one of the trunks!”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without them. You’ll find you can shoot straighter if you don’t smoke. Cigarettes knock a fellow’s nerves all out, you know.”

“This is rum!” exclaimed the angry lad. “No cigarettes! Well, I’ll go down and see the stuff.”

“You’d better put on one of the warm suits you’ll find in your bags, Paul,” suggested Remington. “We’re getting out to sea, and it’ll be chilly on deck.”

Paul vouchsafed no reply, but he profited by the advice, and donned a complete new outfit of clothing suited to his surroundings.

“Look like a dago laborer, don’t I?” he asked Remington, whom he met at his stateroom door half an hour later.

“You look comfortably dressed,” was the reply. “You see I’ve adopted similar clothes.”

“You do look funny,” laughed Paul, “and that’s the way I feel. Mother would have a fit if she saw me now,” glancing down at his flannel shirt and heavy trousers and shoes. “Mr. Remington,” he continued, hesitatingly, “I—I want to apologize for what I said about the trunks and cigarettes. I can get on without cigarettes if they’d spoil my shooting.”

“That’s all right, Paul. They certainly would spoil your shooting.”

Captain Bluntt was in excellent humor when he took his place at the head of the supper table.

“So you’re the young rascal,” he said to Paul, “who kept us waiting at Sydney.”

“Oh, I guess there wasn’t any great rush,” answered Paul, somewhat nettled. “We’re on a pleasure trip, and not trying to break a record.”

Captain Bluntt looked at him curiously for a moment under his shaggy eyebrows.

“Not much of a sailor, I guess, youngster. Well, you’ll learn something before you gets home. Got a wonderful lot to learn, too.”

Paul flushed angrily, and retorted impudently and boastfully:

“Oh, I don’t know. This isn’t my first yachting trip. I know a thing or two about sailing. Captains of yachts don’t usually tell the guests what they’re to do.”

“Yacht, eh?” And Captain Bluntt laughed good-naturedly. “Well, well, don’t get grumpy. No offence meant. No doubt you’re a great sailor; you look it. Yes, you look it!” Turning from Paul as from a child whose presence he had quite forgotten, he remarked:

“She’s off in fine style, Mr. Remington, fine style! And we’ll make a rare fine run, sir, if the weather holds. Yes, sir, if the weather holds!”

“Is there much ice reported off the Labrador coast?”

“We’ll meet some ice, sir; bay ice. No trouble with that, sir. Plenty of bergs! Wonderful crop of bergs, sir!”

They had finished eating, and Captain Bluntt was striking a match to light one of Remington’s cigars which he had accepted, when strains of music floated down to them. He paused with lighted match in mid air, an ear cocked to one side, his red beard bristling.

“By the imps of the sea!” he blurted. “There’s that Dan Rudd with his mouth organ, and I told him to keep un below! The rascal! Wring his neck! Yes, sir, I’ll wring his neck!” and he sprang up as though bent upon carrying his threat into immediate execution.

“I rather like it,” remarked Ainsworth. “May he play for us, Captain?”

“If you likes un, sir, if you likes un. But I don’t call un playin’, sir; I calls un just pipin’ a racket!”

“We would like to hear him,” said Remington. “Suppose we go above.”

On deck they found Dan working away with all his will at his harmonica, keeping time with one foot, while a sailor danced a breakdown, and other sailors clapped their hands and encouraged the dancer with:

“Go at un, Bill! Go at un, b’y! You’re a spry un, Bill!”

Then Dan glimpsed Captain Bluntt, slipped the harmonica into his pocket, and the dancing ceased.

“Oh, don’t stop playing—don’t mind us,” encouraged Remington. “We came to listen.”

“The skipper don’t like music, sir,” said Dan, looking regretfully after Captain Bluntt, who was disappearing in the chart house, leaving a cloud of smoke from his fragrant cigar in his wake.

“Captain Bluntt said you might play if you wished, so please do not stop.”

A little encouragement induced the dancer to resume his breakdown, and presently the fun was in full swing again. Another sailor took a turn, and then Dan suggested:

“Now Jack Griggs sing us ‘Th’ Minnie Dart.’”

“An’ you plays th’ tune,” assented Jack.

Dan struck up a lively tune and Jack began to bellow the song, which began:

“Th’ Minnie Dart were as fine a craftAs ever sailed th’ sea;She were eighty ton, an’ a fore an’ aft,An’ as smart as she could be,”

and closed with a weird description of the going down of the Minnie Dart with all her crew.

The music at an end, Remington and Ainsworth lounged aft to smoke and chat, while they enjoyed a perfect evening. A full moon had risen, transforming the gentle swell of the sea into molten silver, and to the right, in hazy distance, lay in faint outline the Newfoundland coast.

Paul strolled forward and soon became interested in watching the compass and the man at the wheel.

“What course are you sailing?” he asked.

The man made no reply.

“Let me try it. I can handle the wheel all right,” he continued, attempting to take the spokes.

At that moment Captain Bluntt observed him.

“By the imps of the sea!” he roared, striding forward and grasping Paul’s arm with a steel-like grip that made the youth wince as he vainly struggled to free himself. “Keep away from that wheelhouse or I’ll heave you overboard. By the imps of the sea I will! Heave you overboard! Heave you overboard!”

“I guess I can go where I want to,” answered Paul impudently, but none the less frightened.

Without releasing his grasp, or deigning to reply, the Captain half led, half dragged, Paul to Remington.

“This youngster must keep aft of the wheelhouse, sir! He was talking to the steersman, sir! Talking to him! I’ll not permit it, sir!”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Remington. “I’m sure he didn’t understand that he was doing wrong, and he won’t do it again.”

Captain Bluntt, mollified but still ruffled, returned to his duties, and Paul, almost in tears, lounged alone, amidships, sulking.

Dan had witnessed the disciplining of Paul, and in the hope of smoothing matters presently wandered over to the lad, who was still sulking and nursing his injured dignity.

“Th’ skipper’s wonderful gruff sometimes,” ventured Dan, “but he don’t mean nothin’. ’Tis sort o’ his way.”

“Mr. Remington hired this old tub, and I’m his guest, and I guess I can go where I want to on it.”

“’Tis an able craft, an’ no old tub,” resented Dan. “Th’ skipper is master at sea. ’Tis a rule of the sea.”

“He isn’t my master.”

“No, not that way. He’s just master o’ th’ ship. Your folks is payin’ th’ owners for th’ voyage, an’ they is payin’ th’ skipper t’ run th’ ship safe, an’ he has t’ make rules t’ run un safe or we’d be foulin’ reefs or gettin’ off our course.”

Paul deigned no reply, and after an awkward pause Dan inquired:

“What’s your name?”

“Paul Densmore.”

“Mine’s Dan Rudd. Dan’s short for Dan’l. It’s after Dan’l that was in th’ lion’s den, Dad says. Yours is from th’ Bible, too. I reckon you was named after th’ apostle Paul.”

“No, after my grandfather.”

“’Tis th’ same name, anyway. Dad reads out o’ th’ Bible nights when he’s home. We live in Ragged Cove, but Dad’s fishin’ down on th’ Labrador now with th’ Ready Hand.”

“The ‘Ready Hand?’ What’s that?”

“She’s a spry little schooner. Dad’s part owner. I been down with her twice.”

Dan told of fishing adventures on the Labrador. Paul described his home in New York, the great buildings, the subway and elevated railroads, the great transatlantic steamships—a thousand wonders in which Dan was intensely interested.

In the recital Paul soon forgot his injured dignity. He was glad of the companionship of a boy of his own age. No one, indeed, could long resist Dan’s good nature, and when the sailor lad finally said it was time to “turn in,” and they parted for the night, each was pleased with his new acquaintance—an acquaintanceship that was to ripen into life-long friendship. They little guessed that they were destined to be companions in many adventures, to share many hardships, to face dangers and even death together.

The North Star rounded Cape Charles the following evening, passed into the open Atlantic, and turned her prow northward. Innumerable icebergs, many of fantastic form and stupendous proportions, were visible from the deck, their blue-green pinnacles reflecting the rays of the setting sun in a glory of prismatic colors. On their port lay the low, storm-scoured rocks of Labrador’s dreary coast, its broken line marked by many stranded icebergs. Now and again a distant whale spouted great columns of water. The white sail of a fishing schooner, laboring northward, was visible upon the horizon. The scene, grim, rugged, but beautiful, appealed to Paul’s imagination as the most wonderful and entrancing he had ever beheld.

That night Paul was suddenly awakened from sound slumber by a tremendous shock. He sprang from his berth with the thought that the ship had struck a reef or iceberg and might be sinking. Terrified, he rushed to the companionway, where he was nearly thrown off his feet by another shock. At length he reached the deck. Spread everywhere around the ship he could see, in the shimmering moonlight, nothing but ice. From the crow’s nest, on the mizzenmast, came the call of the ice pilot: “Port! Starboard! Port! Starboard!”

The lad’s terror increased as he witnessed the changed condition of the sea. It seemed to him that the great mass of heavy ice which closed upon the ship on every side must inevitably crush the little vessel and send her to the bottom. As he ran forward, another and heavier shock than any that had preceded sent him sprawling upon the deck.

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST BEAR

PAUL had scarcely regained his feet when the gruff voice of Captain Bluntt exclaimed:

“Well! Well, lad! And what brings you out o’ your snug berth at this time o’ night?”

“What’s—what’s happened? Are we wrecked?” asked the frightened Paul.

“Wrecked? No, no, lad! Just a bit of ice—just a bit of ice. ’Tis all right, b’y. Go below and sleep. ’Tis wonderful raw above decks for them thin clothes you’re wearin’.”

Paul, dressed only in pajamas, his feet bare, was indeed shivering. Much relieved, he turned down the companionway, glad to tuck himself in his warm berth, presently to fall asleep to the distant, monotonous call of the ice pilot, “Port! Starboard! Port! Starboard!” and in spite of repeated shocks, as the vessel charged the ice, alternately backing and forging ahead at full speed in her attack upon the pack.

The ice was left behind them during the night, and when morning dawned a stiff northeast breeze, cold and damp, had sprung up, and a sea was rising. The ship began to roll disagreeably, and at midday Remington encountered Paul, deathly pale, unsteadily groping his way to his stateroom.

“What’s the matter, Paul?” he asked.

“I—I feel sick,” Paul answered.

The call had come for dinner, but Paul was not interested, and retired to his berth. The fog mist thickened, and all that afternoon and night the fog horn sounded at regular intervals, a warning to fishing craft of the vessel’s proximity.

For three days Paul, in the throes of seasickness, was unable to leave his berth, but on the morning of the fourth day he reappeared on deck, where his friends greeted him with good-natured jokes.

They were entering Hudson Straits. On their port, near at hand, lay the rocky, verdureless Button Islands, and far to the southward rose the rugged, barren peaks of the Torngaek Mountains in northeastern Labrador. To the northward in hazy outline Resolution Island marked the southern extremity of Baffin Land.

Here and there, spread over the sea, were small vagrant ice pans, messengers from the far Arctic, which gave evidence of the high latitude the ship had attained.

Now and again seals showed their heads above the water for a moment, quickly to disappear again. Sea gulls, their white wings gleaming in the sunlight, circled about, but nowhere was a sail or any indication of human life visible upon the wide horizon.

It was a new world to Paul, and different from anything he had ever imagined. The utter absence of vessels, the apparently uninhabited and uninhabitable land, the awful primitive grandeur of it all gave him a vague, indescribable sense of fear—such a feeling as one ascending for the first time in a balloon must experience upon peering over the rim of the basket at the receding earth. This sensation quickly gave place to one of exultation—the exultation of a wild animal loosed in its native haunts after long confinement. Paul became possessed of a desire to shout. His blood tingled through his veins. He drank the pure atmosphere in great draughts, and it stimulated him like wine. He felt almost that he could do anything—fly if he wished.

This was the first awakening in Paul of the primitive instinct which every human has inherited from prehistoric ancestors—an inborn love of the glorious freedom of the great wide wilderness where individual man stands supreme in his own right and where he may roam at will without restraint; where he feels that he is a person and not an atom; where he may meet nature face to face, and fearlessly match his human skill against her forces.