And so we were all made glad and the conical peak had a name.
Pete told me that we should have to cut the ridge to the south of Corncob Hill, taking a rather wide detour to reach the place. A chain of lakes would help us, but some long portages were necessary and it would require several days’ hard work. This we did not mind now. We were only anxious to dip our paddles into the waters of the big lake. At last Michikamau, which I had so longed to see through two summers of hardship in the Labrador wilds, was near, and I could hope to be rewarded with a look at it within the week.
But with the joy of it there was also a sadness, for I must part from three of my loyal companions. The condition of our commissariat and the cold weather that was beginning to be felt made it imperative that the men be sent back from the big lake.
The possibility of this contingency had been foreseen by me before leaving New York, and I had mentioned it at that time. Easton had asked me then, if the situation would permit of it, to consider him as a candidate to go through with me to Ungava. When the matter had been suggested at the last camp on the Nascaupee River he had again earnestly solicited me to choose him as my companion, and upon several subsequent occasions had mentioned it. Richards was the logical man for me to choose, for he had had experience in rapids, and could also render me valuable assistance in the scientific work that the others were not fitted for. He was exceedingly anxious to continue the journey, but his university duties demanded his presence in New York in the winter, and I had promised his people that he should return home in the autumn. This made it out of the question to keep him with me, and it was a great disappointment to both of us. That I might feel better assured of the safety of the returning men, I decided to send Pete back with them to act as their guide. Stanton, too, wished to go on, but Easton had spoken first, so I decided to give him the opportunity to go with me to Ungava, as my sole companion.
That night, after the others had gone to bed, we two sat late by the camp fire and talked the matter over. “It’s a dangerous undertaking, Easton,” I said, “and I want you to understand thoroughly what you’re going into. Before we reach the George River Post we shall have over four hundred miles of territory to traverse. We may have trouble in locating the George River, and when we do find it there will be heavy rapids to face, and its whole course will be filled with perils. If any accident happens to either of us we shall be in a bad fix. For that reason it’s always particularly dangerous for less than three men to travel in a country like this. Then there’s the winter trip with dogs. Every year natives are caught in storms, and some of them perish. We shall be exposed to the perils and hardships of one of the longest dog trips ever made in a single season, and we shall be traveling the whole winter. I want you to understand this.”
“I do understand it,” he answered, “and I’m ready for it. I want to go on.”
And so it was finally settled.
It was not easy for me to tell the men that the time had come when we must part, for I realized how hard it would be for them to turn back. The next morning after breakfast, I asked them to remain by the fire and light their pipes. Then I told them. Richards’ eyes filled with tears. Stanton at first said he would not turn back without me, but finally agreed with me that it was best he should. Pete urged me to let him go on. Later he stole quietly into the tent, where I was alone writing, and without a word sat opposite me, looking very woe-begone. After awhile he spoke: “To-day I feel very sad. I forget to smoke. My pipe go out and I do not light it. I think all time of you. Very lonely, me. Very bad to leave you.”
Here he nearly broke down, and for a little while he could not speak. When he could control himself he continued:
“Seems like I take four men in bush, lose two. Very bad, that. Don’t know how I see your sisters. I go home well. They ask me, ’Where my brother?’ I don’t know. I say nothing. Maybe you die in rapids. Maybe you starve. I don’t know. I say nothing. Your sisters cry.” Then his tone changed from brokenhearted dejection to one of eager pleading: