Kasba (White Partridge): A Story of Hudson Bay

by George R. Ray

Sitting on the edge of the bunk, feeling dull and miserable, he was conscious of a raging, overpowering thirst, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he laid restraining hands on himself and drank only enough of the already greatly depleted liquor to discover, as he told himself, if what remained was the real stuff. But this potation not only proved its genuineness, but also greatly revived him, or, in his own expressive language, “it made him feel a bit more perky.”

After putting the bottle aside with the scrupulous carefulness of a miser secreting gold, he sank into a chair and sat in drowsy contemplation for a few minutes. Then, casting a disconsolate eye around him, his gaze encountered Roy’s liquor chest with its neat fastenings and lock. Immediately a fancied procession of the black bottles danced before his burning eyes. The thought that most likely a considerable quantity of whiskey lay in the snug-looking box and within easy reach brought him upright in his chair with a jerk and he sat gazing at it as if fascinated. Then, withdrawing his eyes with an effort, he sprang suddenly to his feet and, catching up his coat and hat, rushed from the room, clutching his snowshoes as he ran.

Once outside and away from the dangerous fascinations of the locked chest Broom paused and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He stood irresolute for a moment, then, with an air of grim determination, turned in the direction of his traps, plodding onwards with leaden footsteps, weary and breakfastless.

Like one in a dream he stumbled on his way. A burning fire seemed to be consuming his vitals; flashes of heat and cold passed over him; his hands became moist, and he felt utterly fatigued. He was walking mechanically now and his nether limbs seemed to move like pendulums, forcing him to continue the function of walking, to drag his weary body along without any effort of will or possibility of staying their movements.

On his return he could discover no sign of Sahanderry’s presence and for this he was devoutly thankful; for he felt too jaded, too dejected, to encounter the gaze of his watchful enemy. On nearing the Fort, he had endeavored to recover his old careless “bon-aire” expression, but he was conscious that the effort had been a miserable failure, and, therefore, the Indian’s absence proved both a relief and a boon.

Throwing aside his outdoor apparel he sank into a chair where he sat profusely perspiring like a man prostrated by weakness. He braced himself in his seat to resist the temptation that he knew would come. Sinking back, he gripped the sides of his chair with the tenacity of one in a delirium and forced his gaze into a far corner of the room.

Finding it impossible to keep his eyes fixed on any one spot, he cast about him for something to occupy his mind. He could not go outside, for the weather was too intensely cold to allow anyone to sit down, and he felt too ill and weary to walk about any more. His breakfast stood upon the table, where it had been placed by Sahanderry many hours before, but it remained untasted, for he could not eat. He had no desire for food, but the appetite for strong liquor was almost mastering him. He knew the feeling and dreaded it. In his desperation he reached for a book that protruded from under the pillow in his bunk, then again sinking back in his chair, he endeavored to read. But the print danced before his eyes, the large capital letters grouped themselves together and stood leering at him. Suddenly in place of the dancing printed type he saw a smooth wooden box, the lid fastened with a strong lock; for unconsciously the book had dropped from his hands and he was again staring at Roy’s spirit chest. After this he seemed to lose all consciousness of things around him, his whole attention was riveted on the object of his gaze. Presently he stiffened himself as to resist some powerful shock; probably the last spark of manhood was making vigorous struggles to extricate him from so pitiful a position. Beads of perspiration stood on his brow, and he fell to trembling like a man with the palsy. To his heated imagination the lid of the box slid slightly back and a long thin hand protruded itself and was beckoning him on. Then, as the hand still beckoned, several black bottles slipped out also and began a grotesque dance upon the lid, while others thrust forth their heads to laugh, grimly, and make horrible grimaces at him. Suddenly Broom started to his feet. He passed a trembling hand across his eyes and then, with a sigh of abject helplessness, staggered forward to fall on his knees before the fascinating chest which he now eagerly scanned. With a cry more animal than human, he began to take off its hinges with his pocket knife, for apart from the strong lock, Roy had attempted no precautions to make the box secure.

A slight snapping of the fire caused Broom to stop in his frenzied labors and to glare around the room like a hunted animal. But, apparently satisfied that no one was there, he returned to his task, working at the hinges with the cunning of a man bordering on delirium tremens. In a few moments the screws were out and the lid thrown back from the rear, the hasp and staple acting as a hinge. Then with a snarl of disappointment the wretched man sprang to his feet, for with the exception of one bottle the box was empty. In his heated imagination he had pictured it filled to the top with rows of shining bottles and now he stood for a moment glaring around him like a wild beast defrauded of its prey, and well was it for Sahanderry that he did not appear upon the scene at that moment. Then uttering a little chuckle Broom dropped on his knees and clutched ravenously at the one bottle, which he fondled and caressed with a foolish cooing noise horrible to hear; while the hands of the bewildered wretch were now shaking so as to threaten destruction to the bottle’s contents. With the cunning of a madman Broom perceived this, and rising to his feet, and mastering his agitation with a strong effort, he began to draw the cork with the aid of two pocket-knives. “Experience makes perfect,” and Broom had become dexterous in the art of cork drawing. So this cork was soon extracted and the neck of the bottle hastily glued to his trembling lips. He took several long pulls before placing it upon the table, then, in a dazed and mechanical way, he replaced the hinges upon the box by returning the screws to their places. He now stood slowly swaying from side to side, his face wearing a curious expression like one slowly returning to consciousness. Grasping the bottle with both hands, he took another deep draught, then fell upon his bed panting and exhausted, as if from some supreme exertion. After a few minutes of restlessness he fell asleep.

When Sahanderry peeped into the room a little later, he found Broom sleeping tranquilly. The Indian glanced from the sailor to the bottle on the table, and believing it to be one of those given him by Roy, smiled contemptuously, while his idea of the sailor’s drinking capabilities underwent a quick change.

Next morning Sahanderry was vastly surprised to find the sailor in the same position. He was sleeping heavily, as his deep breathing and nasal accompaniment testified, and his prolonged slumber aroused the Indian’s suspicion. Stepping lightly across to the chest he carefully scrutinized the lock, but found no evidence of its having been tampered with. What then had produced Broom’s long sleep? Sahanderry lifted the bottle from the table and held it up to the light. It was still a quarter full. This was astounding. Despite the Indian’s obtuseness he was sharp enough to perceive that Broom must have procured other liquor. But from where? And how? Sahanderry shrugged his shoulders, and spreading out his hands in a deprecating gesture he washed them of the whole business.