“I’ve got it at last, father! You know I’ve been trying to wheedle old Makitok into letting me open his mysterious bundle. Well, I prevailed on him to let me do it this afternoon. After unrolling bundle after bundle, I came at last to the centre, and found that it contained nothing whatever but this book, wrapped up in an old cotton pocket-handkerchief. The book is very old, father. See, 1611 on the first page. I did not take time to glance at more than that, but brought it straight away to you.”
“Hand it over, Benjy,” said the Captain eagerly. “This accounts for the mysterious ‘buk’ that we’ve heard so much about.”
He received the little book with a look of tender curiosity and opened it carefully, while Leo, Alf, and his son looked on over his shoulder.
“1611, sure enough,” he said, “though not very legible. The characters are queer, too. Try, Alf, what you can make of it.”
Alf took the book. As he did so old Makitok entered, somewhat anxious as to what they were doing with his treasure. Being quieted by the Captain with a draught of cold tea, and made to sit down, the examination of the book proceeded.
“It is much worn, and in places is almost illegible, as might be expected,” said Alf. “Let me see. ‘Coast of Labrador, (something illegible here), 1611. This day the mutineers took possess ... (can’t make out what follows), and put Captain Hudson, with his son, myself, the carpenter, and five sick men into the dinghy, casting us, (blank), with some, (blank), and one cask of water. I begin this diary to-day. It may never be seen by man, but if it does fall into the hands of any one who can read it, he will do a service to ... by conveying ... England.—John Mackintosh, seaman.’
“Can it be possible?” said Alf, looking up from the relic with an expression of deep solemnity, “that we have found a record of that great Arctic explorer, the unfortunate Henry Hudson?”
“It seems like it, Alf; read on,” said Leo, eagerly.
We will not further trouble the reader with Alf’s laboured deciphering of this curious and ancient notebook, which was not only stained and worn, but in many places rudely torn, as if its owner had seen much hard service. We will merely run over a few of the chief points which it cleared up. Unfortunately, it threw no additional light on the fate of poor Hudson. Many of the first pages of the book which no doubt treated of that, had been destroyed and the legible portion began in the middle of a record of travelling with a sledge-party of Eskimos to the north of parallel 85 degrees 20 minutes—a higher northern latitude, it will be observed, than had been reached by any subsequent explorer except Captain Vane. No mention being made of English comrades, the presumption remained that they had all been killed or had died—at all events that Mackintosh had been separated from them, and was the only survivor of the party travelling with the Eskimos.
Further on the journal, which was meagre in detail, and kept in the dry form of a log-book, spoke of having reached a far northern settlement. Reference was also made to a wife and family, leading to the conclusion that the seaman had permanently cast in his lot with the savages, and given up all hope of returning to his native land.