“No doubt Mozwa has forgotten, or it may be that he iss away to seek for his frund Nazinred among the Eskimos. No metter. We will camp here, whatever, for the night. I think on the other side o’ that point will be a goot campin’ ground.”
He pointed in the direction indicated, and there was just daylight enough left to enable Mowat to steer into a narrow creek.
There is something calming, if not almost solemnising, in the quietude with which a boat glides ashore, on a dark night, under the overhanging trees of a wilderness lake. The oars are necessarily stopped, and the voices hushed, while the bowman, standing erect, with a long pole in hand, tries to penetrate the thick mysterious darkness that seems to be the very gate of Erebus. Bartong stood ready to thrust the head of the boat off any rocks that might suddenly appear in their course, or give the order to “back all” should the water become too shallow. But no obstacles presented themselves, and the boat forged slowly ahead until it lay alongside a ledge of rock or natural jetty. Then the spell was broken as the men leaped ashore and began to unload the things that were required for the night’s bivouac.
Still, the voices were moderated, for it is not easy to shake off the tranquillising effect of such a scene at such an hour, and it was not till the camp-fire was lighted, and the kettles were on, and the pipes going full blast, that the cheering effect of light chased the depressing influence of darkness away.
Then, indeed, MacSweenie, dropping the rôle of leader, assumed that of bon camarade; and Mowat, descending from the dignity of steersman, enlarged upon his experiences in other days; and Bartong, still retaining his dignity however, relaxed his anxious frown and listened with an air of intelligent appreciation that charmed every speaker, and induced the belief that he could cap every anecdote and story if he only chose to open his mouth; while the men divided their sympathies between the narratives, the tobacco-pipes, and the music of the frying-pan and bubbling kettle.
Then, too, the darkness into which they had penetrated fled away,—not indeed entirely, but forsaking the bright spot thus created in the wilderness, it encircled the camp as with a wall of ebony.
It was not long, however, ere appetites were appeased, and the voyagers sought repose; for men who have to work hard all day at a healthy occupation are not addicted to late hours—at least not in the wildernesses of the nor’-west. Ere long every man was rolled in his blanket, stretched out with his feet to the fire and his head on his coat, while the blaze sank low, until at last the red embers alone remained to render darkness visible.
Among the last to seek repose were the leader of the expedition, the interpreter, and the bowman. Having the cares of state on their shoulders, these three naturally drew together for a little consultation after the others had retired.
“What iss your opeenion, Bartong?” asked MacSweenie, pushing down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of a very blunt and much charred forefinger; “do you think the savitches will come here at all?”
“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t,” answered the guide, with a caution worthy of the Scottish portion of his blood. “We niver know what Injins is goin’ to do till they do it.”