I am not a writer, so cannot describe an Arctic gale, or the mountainous waves, and all that. But I can state that when the storm abated and the sea calmed down, we were left stranded on an island, neither ourselves, boat nor stores harmed, but fully a quarter of a mile from the water’s edge.
Things looked pretty serious for me; alone, I could not possibly drag that heavy boat down to the water. I sat down by the fire and tried to figure out what to do. Far into the night I sat, while the girl tossed restlessly in her furs; but I did not pay much attention to her. Finally I rolled up in my own blankets and slept.
Awakening at dawn, I walked down to the water’s edge to collect driftwood for a fire—although it was summertime the ice-filled waters chilled the wind which swept shorewards. Slowly I tramped along, picking up a piece of wood here, a piece there; then I ran into a piece of pure luck, although it told a mute tale of tragedy. Rolling and flopping on the beach I spied an upturned native canoe—a kyak. Caught far from land, its owner had no doubt perished.
Eagerly I dropped my load, and lugged the frail craft from the water. It was undamaged. Again picking up the firewood, I hastened back to tell the girl, Nuttinook, of our good fortune. She smiled rather wanly, I thought, but assented to the plan I outlined as we ate breakfast, that I take the boat, which would carry only one, and go for help.
Eagerly I bolted my food, then set about making a snug camp for the girl. That finished, I packed a two-weeks’ supply of food in the kyak and constructed a rough two-bladed paddle. By this time it was almost dark, so I decided to wait until morning before starting. Contentedly I rolled into my blankets; gone were my fears of being marooned and starving to death when our grub had run out. But I had not reckoned with another factor.
Distances in the Arctic are so great that it takes months to make a patrol, arrests if necessary, and then to return natives to their own people. The trouble which had led up to my escorting this girl home had been no exception; eight or nine months had elapsed since the girl had been stolen from her rightful husband, so perhaps what occurred was only natural after all, especially in the Arctic where life is elemental in the extreme.
At daybreak I instinctively awoke, feeling somewhat stiff from sleeping on the damp ground, but refreshed. I soon had a fire going, then stepped over to wake the girl. She did not respond to my gentle shaking, but something moved slightly beneath the furs; then a thin wail trembled out in the raw air.
I stood frozen in my tracks! I have mushed hundreds of weary miles, sometimes with “bad men,” often half starved and frozen in patches. But never have I experienced the cold chill of dread that wail awakened!
Gently I turned back the robes. It was as I feared—the girl had given birth to a child. Perhaps injured internally during the buffeting we had received in the gale, the effort had proved too much for her; she was dead.
But the youngster— That little beggar was far from dead! It was up to me to do something. Never before or since have I felt so helpless, but somehow I must keep that little atom alive until I struck a native camp. That was the one thought that hammered into my benumbed brain.