Wrecked but not Ruined

Chapter Seven

A Sad Discovery

A wreck on a rocky shore is at all times a dreary sight, but especially so when the shore is that of an uninhabited land, and when the rocks as well as the wreck are fringed with snow-wreaths and cumbered with ice.

Some such thoughts probably filled the mind of the trapper when, on the afternoon of the day whose dawn we have mentioned, he stood beside the wreck of what had once been a full-rigged ship and gazed intently on the scene of desolation.

Life and death were powerfully suggested to him. Many a time had he seen such a craft breasting the waves of the broad Saint Lawrence, when every dip of the bow, every bend of the taper masts, every rattle of the ropes, and every mellow shout of the seamen, told of vigorous life and energy; and now, the broken masts and yards tipped and fringed with snow-wreaths, the shattered stern, out of which the cargo had been evidently washed long ago, the decks crushed down with snow, the bulged sides, the bottom pierced by rocks, the bowsprit burst to shivers by the opposing cliff, the pendant and motionless cordage, even the slight ripple of the sleeping sea, which deepened rather than broke the prevailing silence, all told eloquently of death,—death, perchance to passengers and crew, at all events to sanguine hopes and prospects. Nevertheless there was much life connected with that death-like scene, as the sequel of our tale will show.

The trapper, although fond of moralising, was not prone to indulge in sentiment when circumstances called him to action. He had come suddenly in sight of the wreck on turning the point of the frowning cliff where the gallant ship had met her doom, and stood only for a few seconds to gaze sadly on the scene.

Hastening forward he proceeded at once to make a thorough survey of the vessel.

First he went to the stern to ascertain, if possible, her name. The greater part of the stern had, as we have said, been torn away; but, after careful search, he discovered a piece of wood on which he could plainly trace portions of the letters B and E and T. The remainder of the word, whatever it was, had been completely erased.

Bellew did not at first climb on board the ship, because from her general aspect he knew full well that there could be no survivor in her, besides, through the yawning stern he could see nearly the whole of the interior.

His next step was to search the neighbourhood for tracks, in order to see whether or not the wreck had been lately visited by human beings. This search resulted in discoveries which perplexed him greatly, for not only did he find numerous footprints which crossed each other in various directions, but he knew from their appearance that these had been recently made, and that they were those of white men as well as red; some of them showing the prints of shoes, while others displayed the marks of moccasins.

Had Bellew discovered one or two tracks made by men of the forest like himself, his knowledge of wood-craft would have enabled him at once to decide which way they had come and whither they had gone; but, with at least a dozen meandering tracks radiating from the ship in all directions, as well towards the sea as the land, he felt himself puzzled. He knew well enough that they were too fresh to be those of the wrecked crew, unless indeed the crew had remained by the ship; but in that case there would have been evidences of an encampment of some sort, such as fittings-up on board, or huts on shore. He followed the tracks that led to the sea and found that they terminated abruptly, as if those who had made them had plunged into the water and drowned themselves. Before following up those that went landward he returned to the ship and clambered on board, but found nothing to reward him for his pains. The sea had swept the hold fore and aft so completely that nothing whatever was left.

These investigations did not take up much time. The trapper, after one or two circuits, found the spot where the footsteps became disentangled from the maze of individual tracks, and led, not along the shore as he had supposed they would, but up into a narrow gorge; and now he learned that the tracks of what appeared a multitude of people had been made by the running to and fro of not more than a dozen men, six of whom were natives. Thinking it probable that the party could not be far distant, for the gorge up which they had proceeded seemed of very limited extent, the trapper pushed forward with increasing expectation, not unmingled with anxiety.

Turning the point of a projecting cliff he came suddenly on a sight that filled him with sadness. It was the mouldering remains of a human being—one who had been a seaman, to judge from the garments which covered him. One glance sufficed to show the trapper that his services there were not required. He also observed that the fresh tracks which he had been following circled round the body of the seaman and then led straight on.

Following these, Bellew soon came to an open circular space at the head of the gorge, where the appearance of smoke, rising from among the trees, arrested his attention. In a few minutes he had reached the spot whence it issued, and there to his surprise found Mr Bob Smart with five of his men and several Indians standing in solemn silence round something on the ground that appeared to rivet their attention. Some of the men looked up as Bellew approached and nodded to him, for the trapper was well-known in the district; they also moved aside and let him pass.

“What’s wrong, Mr Smart?” he asked, on coming up.

The fur-trader pointed to the ground, on which lay a group of men, who, at a first glance, appeared to be dying. One in particular, a youth, seemed to be in the very last stage of exhaustion. Smart had just risen from his side after administering a cup of hot tea, when the trapper appeared.

“I fear he won’t last long,” said Smart, turning to Bellew, with a shake of his head.

“What have you been givin’ him?” asked Bellew, stooping and feeling his pulse.

“Just a cup of tea,” replied Smart; “I have unfortunately nothing better. We only heard of the wreck yesterday, and came down in our boat in such haste that we forgot spirits. Besides, I counted on bringing whoever I should find up to the fort without delay, but although we may move most of these poor fellows, I doubt much that we daren’t move him.”

This was said in a whisper, for the poor fellows referred to, although unable to rise, lay listening eagerly to every word that was spoken. There were six of them—one a negro—all terribly emaciated, and more or less badly frost-bitten. They formed the remnant of a crew of twenty-five, many of whom, after suffering dreadfully from hunger and frost-bites, had wandered away into the woods, and in a half delirious state, had perished.

“You have hot water, I see,” said the trapper, hastily unfastening his pack, “fetch some.”

Bob Smart promptly and gladly obeyed, for he saw that Bellew was a man of action, and appeared to know what to do.

“You’re right, Mr Smart,” said Bellew, as he poured a little of the contents of a bottle into the tin pannikin that had served him for a tea-cup the night before, “this poor lad couldn’t stand moving just now. Fortunately I’ve brought some spirits with me. It will start fresh life in him if he’s not too far gone already. Here, sir,” he continued, in a louder tone, “let me put this to your lips.”

The youth opened a pair of brilliant black eyes and gazed earnestly at the speaker, then smiled faintly and sipped the offered beverage.

As might have been expected, he at once revived a little under its influence.

“There, that’s enough just now; it don’t do to take much at a time. I’ll give ’ee somethin’ else in a minute,” said Bellew, as he went from one to another and administered a teaspoonful or two to each.

They were very grateful, and said so in words more or less emphatic. One of them, indeed, who appeared to have once been a jovial seaman, intimated that he would be glad to take as many more teaspoonfuls of “that same” as Bellew chose to administer! but the trapper, paying no attention to the suggestion, proceeded to open his store of provisions and to concoct, in his tin tea-kettle, a species of thin soup. While this was simmering, he began to remove the blankets with which Bob Smart had covered the unfortunate men.

“Don’t you think,” said Bob, “that it would be well to leave their wraps alone till we get them up to the fort? They’re badly bitten, and I know little about dressing sores. By the time we get there Mr Redding will probably have returned from Partridge Bay, and he’s more than half a a doctor, I believe.”

“Nevertheless I’ll have a look,” said Bellew, with a smile, “for I’m a bit of a doctor myself in such matters,—about a quarter of one, if I may say so.”

Without further parley the trapper laid bare their sores, and truly the sad sight fully justified Smart’s remark that the poor fellows were badly bitten. One of them, the seaman above referred to, whom his comrades styled Ned, had only lost the ends of one or two toes and the forefinger of his left hand, but some of the others had been so severely frost-bitten in their feet that all the toes were rotting off; the negro in particular had lost his left foot, while the heel-bone of the other was exposed to the extent of nearly an inch, and all the toes were gone. (We describe here, from memory, what we have actually seen.)

In perfect silence, but with a despatch that would have done credit to hospital training, the trapper removed the dead flesh, dressed the sores, applied poultices of certain herbs gathered in the woods, and bandaged them up. This done, he served out the thin soup, with another small allowance of spirits and hot water, after which, with the able assistance of Bob Smart and his men, he wrapped them up in their blankets and made arrangements for having them conveyed to the boat which had been pulled into a convenient creek further down the shore than the wreck.

Strange to say, the youth who appeared to be dying was the least injured by frost-bites of the party, his fingers and face being untouched, and only a portion of the skin of his feet damaged; but this was explained by the seaman, Ned, who, on hearing Bellew’s expression of surprise, said, with a touch of feeling:—

“It’s not the frost as damaged him, sir, it’s the water an’ the rocks. W’en we was wrecked, sir,—now three weeks ago, or thereby,—we’d ableeged to send a hawser ashore, an’ not one of us could swim, from the cap’n to the cabin-boy, so Mister McLeod he wolunteered to—”

“Mister who?” demanded Bellew hastily.

“Mister McLeod.”

“What was your ship’s name?”

“The Betsy, sir.”

“From what port?”

“Plymouth.”

“Ho ho! well, go on.”

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, sir, Mister McLeod, who’s as bold as a lion, he wolunteered to swim ashore wi’ a line, an’ swim he did, though the sea was rollin’ in on the cliffs like the Falls o’ Niagery,—which I’m told lie somewhere in these latitudes,—leastwise they’re putt down in all the charts so. We tried for to dissuade him at first, but when the starn o’ the ship was tore away, and the cargo began to wash out, we all saw that it was neck or nothin’, so we let him go. For a time he swam like a good ’un, but when he’d bin dashed agin’ the cliffs two or three times an’ washed back again among the wreck of spars, cargo, and riggin’, we thought it was all over with all of us. Hows’ever we wasn’t forsooken at the eleventh hour, for a wave all of a sudden washed him high and dry on a ledge of rock, an’ he stood up and waved his hand and then fell down in a swound. Then we thought again it was all up with us, for every wave went roarin’ up to young Mister McLeod, as if it wor mad to lose him, and one or two of ’em even sent the foam washin’ in about his legs. Well, sir, the last one that did that seemed to bring him to, for as it washed over his face he jumped up and held on to the rocks like a limpet. Then he got a little higher on the cliff, and when we saw he was looking out to us we made signs to him that a hawser was made fast to the line, an’ all ready. He understood us an’ began to haul away on the line, but we could see that he had bin badly hurt from the way he stopped from time to time to git breath, and rested his head on a big rock that rose at his side like a great capstan. Hows’ever, he got the hawser ashore at last, an’ made it fast round the big rock, an’ so by means of that, an’ the blessin’ o’ Providence, we all got ashore. P’r’aps,” added Ned thoughtfully, “it might have bin as well if some of us hadn’t—hows’ever, we wasn’t to know that at the time, you understand, sir.”

It must not be supposed that Ned said all this in the hearty tones that were peculiar to his former self. The poor fellow could only utter it sentence by sentence in a weak voice, which was strengthened occasionally by a sip from “that same” beverage which had first awakened his admiration. Meanwhile the object of his remarks had fallen asleep.

“Now, Mister Smart,” said Bellew, taking the fur-trader aside, “from all that I have heard and seen it is clear to me that this wreck is the vessel in which the McLeods of Jenkins Creek had shipped their property from England, and that this youth is Roderick, the youngest son of the family. I’ve bin helping the McLeods of late with their noo saw-mill, and I’ve heard the father talking sometimes with his sons about the Betsy of Plymouth and their brother Roderick.”

At another time Bob Smart would not have been at all sorry to hear that the interloping McLeods had lost all their property, but now he was filled with pity, and asked Jonas Bellew with much anxiety what he thought was best to be done.

“The best thing to do,” said Bellew, “is to carry these men to the boat and have them up to the Cliff Fort without delay.”

“We’ll set about it at once. You’ll go with us, I suppose.”

“No, I’ll remain behind and take care of young McLeod. In his present state it would likely cost him his life to move him.”

“Then I’ll leave some of my men with you.”

“Not needful,” replied the trapper, “you know I’m used to bein’ alone an’ managin’ things for myself. After you get them up you may send down a couple of men with some provisions and their hatchets. For to-night I can make the poor fellow all snug with the tarpaulin of your boat.”

In accordance with these plans the shipwrecked men were sent up to the Cliff Fort. Roderick McLeod was sheltered under a tarpaulin tent and carefully tended by Bellew, and one of Smart’s most active Indians was despatched with a pencil-note to Jenkins Creek.

It was this note which interrupted the conversation between Reginald Redding and the elder McLeod at a somewhat critical moment, and this note, as the reader may easily believe, threw the whole establishment into sudden consternation.

Chapter Eight

Shifting Winds

Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.

Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.

It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.

There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.

At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but as the dawn of day approached they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of François Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!

“Father,” said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, “that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”

“True, true, Flo,” returned her father, “I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven’t, so there’s no use in pretending to it. This,” he added bitterly, “seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying.”

Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.

At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.

As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.

“Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?” asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.

“About la tête of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart.”

“What like a place is it?” asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.

“Oh! one place mos bootiful,” replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; “de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense.”

At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod’s brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.

“Did you happen to hear the name of the place?” asked McLeod.

“Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so.”

“The scoundrel!” muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.

Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.

After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, “To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Flora, “you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—”

“Oh yes, I did,” interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, “I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It’s not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can’t stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind.”

McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.

Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.

The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader’s apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!

Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—

“You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort.”

“Monsieur?” exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.

“Jump ashore,” repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. “Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him.”

The Canadian felt that McLeod’s look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, “de Macklodds!”

Chapter Nine

Surmisings, Disagreements, Vexations, and Botherations

Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod’s message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod’s behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.