It is not easy to conceive the state of alarm that prevailed in the settlement of the Norsemen when it came to be known that little Snorro and Olaf were lost. The terrible fact did not of course break on them all at once.
For some hours after the two adventurers had left home, Dame Gudrid went briskly about her household avocations, humming tunefully one of her native Icelandic airs, and thinking, no doubt, of Snorro. Astrid, assisted by Bertha, went about the dairy operations, gossiping of small matters in a pleasant way, and, among other things, providing Snorro’s allowance of milk. Thora busied herself in the preparation of Snorro’s little bed; and Freydissa, whose stern nature was always softened by the sight of the child, constructed, with elaborate care, a little coat for Snorro’s body. Thus Snorro’s interests were being tenderly cared for until the gradual descent of the sun induced the remark, that “Olaf must surely have taken a longer walk than usual that day.”
“I must go and meet them,” said Gudrid, becoming for the first time uneasy.
“Let me go with you,” said Bertha.
“Come, child,” returned Gudrid.
In passing the spot where the little bear had been cut up and skinned, they saw Hake standing with Biarne.
“Did you say that Olaf took the track of the woodcutters?” asked Gudrid.
“Ay, that was their road at starting,” answered Biarne. “Are they not later than usual?”
“A little. We go to meet them.”
“Tell Olaf that I have kept the bear’s claws for him,” said Biarne.
The two women proceeded a considerable distance along the woodcutters’ track, chatting, as they went, on various subjects, but, not meeting the children, they became alarmed and walked on in silence.
Suddenly Gudrid stopped.
“Bertha,” said she, “let us not waste time. If the dear children have strayed a little out of the right road, it is of the utmost importance to send men to search and shout for them before it begins to darken. Come, we will return.”
Being more alarmed than she liked to confess, even to herself, Gudrid at once walked rapidly homewards, and, on approaching the huts, quickened her pace to a run.
“Quick, Swend, Hake, Biarne!” she cried; “the children must have lost their way—haste you to search for them before the sun goes down. Shout as ye go. It will be ill to find them after dark, and if they have to spend the night in the woods, I fear me they will—”
“Don’t fear anything, Gudrid,” said Biarne kindly. “We will make all haste, and doubtless shall find them rambling in the thickets near at hand.—Go, Hake, find Karlsefin, and tell him that I will begin the search at once with Swend, while he gets together a few men.”
Cheered by Biarne’s hearty manner, Gudrid was a little comforted, and returned to the house to complete her preparation of Snorro’s supper, while Hake gave the alarm to Karlsefin, who, accompanied by Leif and a body of men, at once went off to scour the woods in every direction.
Of course they searched in vain, for their attention was at first directed to the woods near home, in which it was naturally enough supposed that Olaf might have lost his way in returning. Not finding them there, Karlsefin became thoroughly alive to the extreme urgency of the case, and the necessity for a thorough and extended plan of search.
“Come hither, Hake,” said he. “This may be a longer business than we thought for. Run back to the huts, call out all the men except the home-guards. Let them come prepared for a night in the woods, each man with a torch, and one meal in his pouch at least—”
“Besides portions for the twenty men already out,” suggested Hake.
“Right, right, lad, and tell them to meet me at the Pine Ridge.—Away! If ever thy legs rivalled the wind, let them do so now.”
Hake sprang off at a pace which appeared satisfactory even to the anxious father.
In half an hour Karlsefin was joined at the Pine Ridge by all the available strength of the colony, and there he organised and despatched parties in all directions, appointing the localities they were to traverse, the limits of their search, and the time and place for the next rendezvous. This last was to be on the identical ridge whence poor Olaf had taken his departure into the unknown land. Karlsefin knew well that it was his favourite haunt, and intended to search carefully up to it, never dreaming that the boy would go beyond it after the strict injunctions he had received not to do so, and the promises he had made.
“I’m not so sure as you seem to be that Olaf has not gone beyond the ridge,” observed Leif to Karlsefin, after the men had left them.
“Why not?” asked the latter. “He is a most trustworthy boy.”
“I know it—who should know it so well as his own father?” returned Leif; “but he is very young. I have known him give way to temptation once or twice before now. He may have done it again.”
“I trust not,” said Karlsefin; “but come, let us make direct for the ridge, while the others continue the search; we can soon ascertain whether he has wandered beyond it. I know his favourite tree. Doubtless his footsteps will guide us.”
Already it had begun to grow dark, so that when they reached the ridge it was necessary to kindle the torches before anything could be ascertained.
“Here are the footsteps,” cried Karlsefin, after a brief search.
Leif, who was searching in another direction, hurried towards his friend, torch in hand.
“See, there is Olaf’s footprint on that soft ground,” said Karlsefin, moving slowly along, with the torch held low, “but there is no sign of Snorro’s little feet. Olaf always carried him—yet—ah! here they are on this patch of sand, look. They had halted here—probably to rest; perhaps to change Snorro’s position. I’ve lost them again—no! here they are, but only Olaf’s. He must have lifted the child again, no doubt.”
“Look here,” cried Leif, who had again strayed a little from his friend. “Are not these footsteps descending the ridge?”
Karlsefin hastily examined them.
“They are,” he cried, “and then they go down towards the wood—ay, into it. Without doubt Olaf has broken his promise; but let us make sure.”
A careful investigation convinced both parents that the children had entered that part of the forest, and that therefore all search in any other direction was useless. Karlsefin immediately re-ascended the ridge, and, putting both hands to his mouth, gave the peculiar halloo which had been agreed upon as the signal that some of the searchers had either found the children or fallen upon their tracks.
“You’ll have to give them another shout,” said Leif.
Karlsefin did so, and immediately after a faint and very distant halloo came back in reply.
“That’s Biarne,” observed Karlsefin, as they stood listening intently. “Hist! there is another.”
A third and fourth halloo followed quickly, showing that the signal had been heard by all; and in a very short time the searchers came hurrying to the rendezvous, one after another.
“Have you found them?” was of course the first eager question of each, followed by a falling of the countenance when the reply “No” was given. But there was a rising of hope again when it was pointed out that they must certainly be in some part of the tract of dense woodland just in front of them. There were some there, however—and these were the most experienced woodsmen—who shook their heads mentally when they gazed at the vast wilderness, which, in the deepening gloom, looked intensely black, and the depths of which they knew must be as dark as Erebus at that hour. Still, no one expressed desponding feelings, but each spoke cheerfully and agreed at once to the proposed arrangement of continuing the search all night by torchlight.
When the plan of search had been arranged, and another rendezvous fixed, the various parties went out and searched the live-long night in every copse and dell, in every bush and brake, and on every ridge and knoll that seemed the least likely to have been selected by the lost little ones as a place of shelter. But the forest was wide. A party of ten times their number would have found it absolutely impossible to avoid passing many a dell and copse and height and hollow unawares. Thus it came to pass that although they were once or twice pretty near the cave where the children were sleeping, they did not find it. Moreover, the ground in places was very hard, so that, although they more than once discovered faint tracks, they invariably lost them again in a few minutes. They shouted lustily, too, as they went along, but to two such sleepers as Olaf and Snorro in their exhausted condition, their wildest shouts were but as the whisperings of a sick mosquito.
Gradually the searchers wandered farther and farther away from the spot, until they were out of sight and hearing.
We say sight and hearing, because, though the children were capable of neither at that time, there was in that wood an individual who was particularly sharp in regard to both. This was a scout of a party of natives who chanced to be travelling in that neighbourhood at the time. The man—who had a reddish-brown body partially clad in a deer-skin, glittering black eyes, and very stiff wiry black hair, besides uncommonly strong and long white teeth, in excellent order—chanced to have taken up his quarters for the night under a tree on the top of a knoll. When, in the course of his slumbers, he became aware of the fact that a body of men were going about the woods with flaring torches and shouting like maniacs, he awoke, not with a start, or any such ridiculous exclamation as “Ho!” “Ha!” or “Hist!” but with the mild operation of opening his saucer-like eyes until they were at their widest. No evil resulting from this cautious course of action, he ventured to raise his head an inch off the ground—which was his rather extensive pillow—then another inch and another, until he found himself resting on his elbow and craning his neck over a low bush. Being almost black, and quite noiseless, he might have been mistaken for a slowly-moving shadow.
Gradually he gained his knees, then his feet, and then, peering into space, he observed Biarne and Krake, with several others, ascending the knoll.
For the shadow to sink again to its knees, slope to its elbows, recline on its face, and glide into the heart of a thick bush and disappear, did not seem at all difficult or unnatural. At any rate that is what it did, and there it remained observing all that passed.
“Ho! hallo! Olaf! Snorro! hi-i-i!” shouted Biarne on reaching the summit of the knoll.
“Hooroo!” yelled Krake, in a tone that must have induced the shadow to take him for a half-brother.
“Nothing here,” said Biarne, holding up the torch and peering round in all directions.
“Nothing whatever,” responded Krake.
He little knew at the time that the shadow was displaying his teeth, and loosening in its sheath a long knife or dagger made of bone, which, from the spot where he lay, he could have launched with unerring certainty into the heart of any of those who stood before him. It is well for man that he sometimes does not know what might be!
After a brief inspection of the knoll, and another shout or two, they descended again into the brake and pushed on. The shadow rose and followed until he reached a height whence he could see that the torch-bearers had wandered far away to the westward. As the friends and relatives for whom he acted the part of scout were encamped away to the eastward, he returned to his tree and continued his nap till daybreak, when he arose and shook himself, yawned and scratched his head. Evidently he pondered the occurrences of the night, and felt convinced that if so many strange men went about looking for something with so much care and anxiety, it must undoubtedly, be something that was worth looking for. Acting on this idea he began to look.
Now, it must be well-known to most people that savages are rather smart fellows at making observations on things in general and drawing conclusions therefrom. The shouts led him to believe that lost human beings were being sought for. Daylight enabled him to see little feet which darkness had concealed from the Norsemen, whence he concluded that children were being sought for. Following out his clue, with that singular power of following a trail for which savages are noted, he came to the cave, and peered through the bushes with his great eyes, pounced upon the sleepers, and had his pug nose converted into a Roman—all as related in the last chapter.
Sometime after sunrise the various searching parties assembled at the place of rendezvous—fagged, dispirited, and hungry.
“Come,” said Karlsefin, who would not permit his feelings to influence his conduct, “we must not allow ourselves to despond at little more than the beginning of our search. We will breakfast here, lads, and then return to the ridge where we first saw their footsteps. Daylight will enable us to track them more easily. Thank God the weather is warm, and I daresay if they kept well under cover of the trees, the dear children may have got no harm from exposure. They have not been fasting very long, so—let us to work.”
Leif and Biarne both fell in with Karlsefin’s humour, and cheered the spirits of the men by their tone and example, so that when the hurried meal was finished they felt much refreshed, and ready to begin the work of another day.
It was past noon before they returned to the ridge and began the renewed search. Daylight now enabled them to trace the little footsteps with more certainty, and towards the afternoon they came to the cave where the children had slept.
“Here have they spent the night,” said Leif, with breathless interest, as he and Karlsefin examined every corner of the place.
“But they are gone,” returned the other, “and it behoves us to waste no time. Go, Biarne, let the men spread out—stay!—Is not this the foot of a man who wears a shoe somewhat different from ours?”
“’Tis a savage,” said Biarne, in a tone of great anxiety.
Karlsefin made no reply, and the party being now concentrated, they followed eagerly on, finding the prints of the feet quite plain in many places.
“Unquestionably they have been captured by a savage,” said Leif.
“Ay, and he must have taken Snorro on his shoulder, and made poor Olaf walk alongside,” observed Biarne.
Following the trail with the perseverance and certainty of blood-hounds, they at last came to the deserted encampment on the banks of the rivulet. That it had been forsaken only a short time before was apparent from the circumstance of the embers of the fires still smoking. They examined the place closely and found the little foot-marks of the children, which were quite distinguishable from those of the native children by the difference in the form of the shoes. Soon they came to marks on the bank of the stream which indicated unmistakeably that canoes had been launched there. And now, for the first time, the countenances of Leif and Karlsefin fell.
“You think there is no hope?” asked the latter.
“I won’t say that,” replied Leif; “but we know not what course they have taken, and we cannot follow them on foot.”
“True,” observed Karlsefin, in bitter despondency.
“The case is not so bad,” observed Heika, stepping forward at this point. “You know we have a number of canoes captured from the savages; some of us have become somewhat expert in the management of these. Let a few of us go back and fetch them hither on our shoulders, with provisions for a long journey, and we shall soon be in a position to give chase. They cannot have gone far yet, and we shall be sure to overtake them, for what we lack in experience shall be more than made up by the strength of our arms and wills.”
“Thou art a good counsellor, Heika,” said Karlsefin, with a sad smile; “I will follow that advice. Go thou and Hake back to the huts as fast as may be, and order the home-guard to make all needful preparation. Some of us will follow in thy steps more leisurely, and others will remain here to rest until you return with the canoes.”
Thus directed the brothers turned their powers of speed to good account, so that, when some of their comrades returned foot-sore and jaded for want of rest, they not only found that everything was ready for a start, but that a good meal had been prepared for them.
While these remained in the settlement to rest and protect it, the home-guards were ordered to get ready for immediate service. Before night had closed in, the brothers, with torches in their hands, headed a party of fresh men carrying three canoes and provisions on their shoulders. They reached the encampment again in the early morning, and by daybreak all was ready for a start. Karlsefin, Thorward, and Heika acted as steersmen; Krake, Tyrker, and Hake filled the important posts of bowmen. Besides these there were six men in each canoe, so that the entire party numbered twenty-four strong men, fully armed with bow and arrow, sword and shield, and provisioned for a lengthened voyage.
“Farewell, friends,” said Karlsefin to those who stood on the banks of the little stream. “It may be that we shall never return from this enterprise. You may rest assured that we will either rescue the children or perish in the attempt. Leif and Biarne have agreed to remain in charge of the settlement. They are good men and true, and well able to guide and advise you. Tell Gudrid that my last thoughts shall be of her—if I do not return. But I do not anticipate failure, for the God of the Christians is with us.—Farewell.”
“Farewell,” responded the Norsemen on the bank, waving their hands as the canoes shot out into the stream.
In a few minutes they reached the great river, and, turning upstream, were soon lost to view in the depths of the wide wilderness.
Chapter Nineteen.
New Experiences—Difficulties Encountered and Overcome—Thorward and Tyrker Make a Joint Effort, with Humbling Results.
It may be as well to remark here, that the Norsemen were not altogether ignorant of the course of the great river on which they had now embarked. During their sojourn in those regions they had, as we have said, sent out many exploring parties, and were pretty well acquainted with the nature of the country within fifty miles or so in all directions. These expeditions, however, had been conducted chiefly on land; only one of them by water.
That one consisted of a solitary canoe, manned by four men, of whom Heika was steersman, while Hake managed the bow-paddle, these having proved themselves of all the party the most apt to learn the use of the paddle and management of the canoe. During the fight with the savages, recorded in a previous chapter, the brothers had observed that the man who sat in the bow was of quite as much importance in regard to steering as he who sat in the stern; and when they afterwards ascended the river, and found it necessary to shoot hither and thither amongst the surges, cross-currents, and eddies of a rapid, they then discovered that simple steering at one end of their frail bark would not suffice, but that it was necessary to steer, as it were, at both ends. Sometimes, in order to avoid a stone, or a dangerous whirlpool, or a violent shoot, it became necessary to turn the canoe almost on its centre, as on a pivot, or at least within its own length; and in order to accomplish this, the steersman had to dip his paddle as far out to one side as possible, to draw the stern in that direction, while the bowman did the same on the opposite side, and drew the bow the other way—thus causing the light craft to spin round almost instantly. The two guiding men thus acted in unison, and it was only by thoroughly understanding each other, in all conceivable situations, that good and safe steering could be achieved.
The canoes which had been captured from the savages were frail barks in the most literal sense of these words. They were made of the bark of the birch-tree, a substance which, though tough, was very easily split insomuch that a single touch upon a stone was sufficient to cause a bad leak. Hence the utmost care was required in their navigation. But although thus easily damaged they were also easily repaired, the materials for reparation—or even, if necessary, reconstruction—being always at hand in the forest.
Now although Heika and his brother were, as we have said, remarkably expert, it does not follow that those were equally so who managed the other two canoes of the expedition. On the contrary, their experience in canoeing had hitherto been slight. Karlsefin and his bowman Krake were indeed tolerably expert, having practised a good deal with the Scottish brothers, but Thorward turned out to be an uncommonly bad canoe-man; nevertheless, with the self-confidence natural to a good seaman, and one who was expert with the oar, he scouted the idea that anything connected with fresh-water voyaging could prove difficult to him, and resolutely claimed and took his position as one of the steersmen of the expedition. His bowman, Tyrker, as ill luck would have it, turned out to be the worst man of them all in rough water, although he had shown himself sufficiently good on the smooth lake to induce the belief that he might do well enough.
But their various powers in this respect were not at first put to the test, because for a very long way the river was uninterrupted by rapids, and progress was therefore comparatively easy. The scenery through which they passed was rich and varied in the extreme. At one part the river ran between high banks, which were covered to the water’s edge with trees and bushes of different kinds, many of them being exceedingly brilliant in colour. At another part the banks were lower, with level spaces like lawns, and here and there little openings where rivulets joined the river, their beds affording far-reaching glimpses of woodland, in which deer might occasionally be seen gambolling. Elsewhere the river widened occasionally into something like a lake, with wooded islets on its calm surface, while everywhere the water, earth, and air teemed with animal life—fish, flesh, fowl, and insect. It was such a sight of God’s beautiful earth as may still be witnessed by those who, leaving the civilised world behind, plunge into the vast wildernesses that exist to this day in North America.
Beautiful though it was, however, the Norsemen had small leisure and not much capacity to admire it, being pre-occupied and oppressed by anxiety as to the fate of the children. Still, in spite of this, a burst of admiration would escape them ever and anon as they passed rapidly along.
The first night they came to the spot where the natives had encamped the night before, and all hands were very sanguine of overtaking them quickly. They went about the encampment examining everything, stirring up the embers of the fires, which were still hot, and searching for little footprints.
Hake’s unerring bow had supplied the party with fresh venison and some wild-geese. While they sat over the fires that night roasting steaks and enjoying marrow-bones, they discussed their prospects.
“They have got but a short start of us,” said Karlsefin, looking thoughtfully into the fire, before which he reclined on a couch of pine-branches, “and if we push on with vigour, giving ourselves only just sufficient repose to keep up our strength, we shall be sure to overtake them in a day or two.”
“It may be so,” said Thorward, with a doubtful shake of the head; “but you know, brother, that a stern chase is usually a long one.”
Thorward was one of those unfortunate men who get the credit of desiring to throw wet blankets and cold water upon everything, whereas, poor man, his only fault was a tendency to view things critically, so as to avoid the evil consequences of acting on the impulse of an over-sanguine temperament. Thorward was a safe adviser, but was not a pleasant one, to those who regard all objection as opposition, and who don’t like to look difficulties full in the face. However, there is no question that it would have been better for him, sometimes, if he had been gifted with the power of holding his tongue!
His friend Karlsefin, however, fully appreciated and understood him.
“True,” said he, with a quiet smile, “as you say, a stern chase is a long one; nevertheless we are not far astern, and that is what I count on for shortening the chase.”
“That is a just remark,” said Thorward gravely, applying a marrow-bone to his lips, and drinking the semi-liquid fat therefrom as if from a cup; “but I think you might make it (this is most excellent marrow!) a still shorter chase if you would take my advice.—Ho! Krake, hand me another marrow-bone. It seems to me that Vinland deer have a peculiar sweetness, which is not so obvious in those of Norway, though perchance it is hunger which gives the relish; and yet can I truly say that I have been hungered in Norway. However, I care not to investigate reasons too closely while I am engaged in the actual practice of consumption.”
Here he put another marrow-bone to his lips, and sucked out the contents with infinite gusto.
“And what may your advice be?” asked his friend, laughing.
“I’ll wager that Hake could tell you if his mouth were not too full,” replied Thorward, with a smile.
“Say, thou thrall, before refilling that capacious cavern, what had best be done in order to increase our speed?”
Hake checked a piece of wild-fowl on its passage to his mouth, and, after a moment’s consideration, replied that in his opinion lightening the load of the canoe was the best thing to be done.
“And say,” continued Thorward, beginning to (eat) a large drumstick, “how may that be done?”
“By leaving our provisions behind,” answered Hake.
“Ha! did not I say that he could tell you?” growled Thorward between his teeth, which were at that moment conflicting with the sinewy part of the drumstick.
“There is something in that,” remarked Karlsefin.
“Something in it!” exclaimed Thorward, resting for a moment from his labours in order to wash all down with a cataract of water; “why, there is everything in it. Who ever heard of a man running a race with a full stomach—much less winning it? If we would win we must voyage light; besides, what need is there to carry salt salmon and dried flesh with us when the woods are swarming with such as these, and when we have a man in our company who can bring down a magpie on the wing?”
“And that’s true, if anything ever was,” observed Krake, who had been too busy up to that point to do more than listen.
Hake nodded his approval of the sentiment, and Karlsefin said that he quite agreed with it, and would act upon the advice next day.
“Just take a very little salmon,” suggested Tyrker, with a sigh, “for fear this good fortune should perhaps come suddenly to an end.”
There was a general laugh at Tyrker’s caution, and Karlsefin said he was at liberty to fill his own pockets with salmon for his own use, if he chose.
“Sure it would be much better,” cried Krake, “to eat a week’s allowance all at once, and so save time and trouble.”
“If I had your stomach, Krake, I might try that,” retorted Tyrker, “but mine is not big enough.”
“Well, now,” returned Krake, “if you only continue to over-eat for a week or two, as you’re doing just now, you’ll find it big enough—and more!”
“We must sleep to-night, and not talk,” said Karlsefin gravely, for he saw that the dispute was likely to wax hot. “Come, get you all to rest. I will call you two hours hence.”
Every man of the expedition was sound asleep in a few minutes after that, with the exception of their leader, who was to keep the first half-hour watch—Thorward, Heika, and Hake being appointed to relieve him and each other in succession.
The moon was shining brightly when the two hours had elapsed. This was very fortunate, because they expected to arrive at the rapids ere long, and would require light to ascend them. Owing to recent heavy rains, however, the current was so strong that they did not reach the rapids till sunrise. Before starting, they had buried all their provisions in such a way that they might be dug up and used, if necessary, on their return.
“’Tis as well that we have daylight here,” observed Karlsefin, as he, Thorward, and Hake stood on a rocky part of the bank just below the rapids, and surveyed the place before making the attempt.
It might have been observed that Thorward’s face expressed some unusual symptoms of feeling, as he looked up the river, and saw there nothing but a turbulent mass of heaving surges dashing themselves wildly against sharp forbidding rocks, which at one moment were grinning like black teeth amidst the white foam, and the next were overwhelmed by the swelling billows.
“You don’t mean to say we have to go up that maelstrom?” he said, pointing to the river, and looking at Hake.
“I would there were any other road,” answered Hake, smiling, “but truly I know of none. The canoes are light, and might be carried by land to the still water above the rapids, but, as you see, the banks here are sheer up and down without foothold for a crow, and if we try to go round by the woods on either side, we shall have a march of ten miles through such a country that the canoes will be torn to pieces before the journey is completed.”
“Have you and Heika ever ascended that mad stream?” cried Thorward.
“Ay—twice.”
“Without overturning?”
“Yes—without overturning.”
Again Thorward bestowed on the river a long silent gaze, and his countenance wore an expression of blank surprise, which was so amusing that Karlsefin forgot for a moment the anxiety that oppressed him, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“Ye have little to laugh at,” said Thorward gravely. “It is all very well to talk of seamanship—and, truly, if you will give me a good boat with a stout pair of oars, and the roughest sea you ever saw, I will show you what I can do—but who ever heard of a man going afloat in an egg-shell on a monstrous kettle of boiling water?”
“Why, Hake says he has done it,” said Karlsefin.
“When I see him do it I will believe it,” replied Thorward doggedly.
“You will not, I suppose, object to follow, if I lead the way?” asked Hake.
“Go to, thrall! Dost think I am afraid?” said Thorward sternly; and then, as if he thought such talk trifling, turned on his heel with a light laugh, and was about to descend the bank of the river to the spot where the men stood in a group near the canoes, when Karlsefin called him back.
“Softly, not so fast, Thorward. Although no doubt we are valiant sailors—and woe betide the infatuated man who shall venture to deny it!—yet must we put our pride in our pouches for once, and accept instruction from Hake. After all, it is said that wise men may learn something from babes—if so, why may not sea-kings learn from thralls?—unless, indeed, we be not up to the mark of wise men.”
“I am all attention,” said Thorward.
“This, then,” said Hake, pointing to a large rock in the middle of the stream, “is the course you must pursue, if ye would reach the upper end of the rapid in a dry skin. See you yonder rock—the largest—where the foam breaks most fiercely, as if in wrath because it cannot overleap it? Well, that is our first resting-place. If you follow my finger closely, you will see, near the foot of the rapid, two smaller rocks, one below the other; they only show now and then as the surges rise and fall, but each has an eddy, or a tail of smooth water below it. Do you see them?”
“I see, I see,” cried Thorward, becoming interested in spite of himself; “but, truly, if thou callest that part of the river smooth and a ‘tail,’ I hope I may never fall into the clutches of the smooth animal to which that tail belongs.”
“It is smooth compared with the rest,” continued Hake, “and has a back-draught which will enable us to rest there a moment. You will observe that the stone above has also a tail, the end of which comes quite down to the head of the tail below. Well, then, you must make such a bold dash at the rapid that you shall reach the lower eddy. That gained, the men will rest a space and breathe, but not cease paddling altogether, else will you be carried down again. Then make a dash into the stream and paddle might and main till you reach the eddy above. You will thus have advanced about thirty yards, and be in a position to make a dash for the long eddy that extends from the big rock.”
“That is all very plain,” observed Thorward; “but does it not seem to you, Hake, that the best way to explain matters would be to go and ascend while we look on and learn a lesson through our eyes?”
“I am ready,” was the youth’s brief reply; for he was a little hurt by the seaman’s tone and manner.
“Thorward is right, Hake,” said Karlsefin. “Go, take your own canoe up. We will watch you from this spot, and follow if all goes well.”
The young Scot at once sprang down the bank, and in a few minutes his canoe with its six men, and Heika steering, shot out from the bank towards the rapid.
All tendency to jest forsook Thorward as he stood beside his friend on the cliff with compressed lips and frowning brow, gazing upon the cork-like vessel which danced upon the troubled waters. In a minute it was at the foot of the broken water. Then Heika’s voice rose above the roar of the stream, as he gave a shout and urged on his men. The canoe sprang into the boiling flood. It appeared to remain stationary, while the men struggled might and main.
“’Tis too strong for them!” cried Thorward, becoming excited.
“No; they advance!” said Karlsefin in a deep, earnest tone.
This was true, but their progress was very small. Gradually they overcame the power of the stream and shot into the first eddy, amid the cheers of their comrades on shore. Here they waited only a moment or two, and then made a dash for the second eddy. There was a shout of disappointment from the men, because they swept down so fast that it seemed as if all the distance gained had been lost; but suddenly the canoe was caught by the extreme tail of the eddy, the downward motion of its bow was stopped, it was turned straight upstream, and they paddled easily towards the second rock. Another brief pause was made here, and then a dash was made for the eddy below the large rock. This was more easily gained, but the turbulence of the water was so great that there was much more danger in crossing from one eddy to the other than there had been before.
Under the large rock they rested for a few minutes, and then, dashing out into the rapid, renewed the struggle. Thus, yard by yard, taking advantage of every available rock and eddy, they surmounted the difficulty and landed at the head of the rapids, where they waved their caps to their friends below.
“It’s Krake that wishes he was there!” observed that worthy, wiping the perspiration from his brow and drawing a long deep breath; for the mere sight of the struggle had excited him almost as much as if he had engaged in it.
“’Tis Krake that will soon be there if all goes well,” remarked Karlsefin, with a laugh, as he came forward and ordered his canoe to be pushed off. “I will be ready to follow, but you had better go first, Thorward. If anything befalls you I am here to aid.”
“Well, come along, lads,” cried Thorward. “Get into the bow, Tyrker, and see that you do your duty like a man. Much depends on you—more’s the pity!” He added the last words in a low voice, for Thorward, being a very self-reliant man, would like to have performed all the duties himself, had that been possible.
“Shove off!”
They shot from the bank and made for the rapid gallantly. Thorward’s shout quite eclipsed that of Heika on taking the rapid. Truly, if strength of lung could have done it, he might have taken his canoe up single-handed, for he roared like a bull of Bashan when Tyrker missed a stroke of his paddle, thereby letting the bow sweep round so that the canoe was carried back to the point whence it had started.
Tremendous was the roar uttered by Thorward when they faced the rapid the second time, and fierce was the struggle of the men when in it, and anxious was Tyrker to redeem his error—so anxious, in fact, that he missed another stroke and well-nigh fell overboard!
It is said that “Fortune favours the brave.” There was no lack of bravery in Tyrker—only lack of experience and coolness—and Fortune favoured him on this occasion. If he had not missed a stroke and fallen forward, his miscalculation of aqueous forces would have sent the canoe past the mark in the opposite direction from the last time; but the missed stroke was the best stroke of all, for it allowed the canoe to shoot into the first eddy, and converted a terrific roar of wrath from Thorward into a hearty cheer.
Resting a few moments, as Heika and his crew had done, they then addressed themselves to the second part of the rapid. Here Thorward steered so well that the canoe took the stream at the proper angle; but Tyrker, never having perceived what the right angle was, and strongly impressed with the belief that the bow was pointing too much up the river, made a sudden stroke on the wrong side! The canoe instantly flew not only to the tail of the eddy, but right across it into the wild surges beyond, where it was all but upset, first to one side then to the other, after which it spun round like a teetotum, and was carried with fearful violence towards one of those rocky ridges which we have described as being alternately covered and uncovered by the foam. On the crest of a bulging cascade they were fortunately borne right over this ridge, which next moment showed its black teeth, as if grinning at the dire mischief it might have done if it had only chosen to bite! Next instant the canoe overturned, and left the men to flounder to land, while it went careering down towards the gravelly shallows below.
Now Karlsefin had anticipated this, and was prepared for it. In the first place, he had caused the arms, etcetera, to be removed from Thorward’s canoe before it set out, saying that he would carry them up in his canoe, so that his friend’s might go light. Then, having his vessel ready and manned, he at once pushed out and intercepted the other canoe before it reached the gravelly shallows, where it would have been much damaged, if not dashed to pieces.
“That is bad luck,” observed Thorward, somewhat sulkily, as, after swimming ashore, he wrung the water from his garments.
“Not worse than might have been expected on a first trial,” said Karlsefin, laughing. “Besides, that rascal Tyrker deceived me. Had I known he was so bad, you should have had Krake.”
Poor Tyrker, very much crestfallen, kept carefully away from the party, and did not hear that remark.
“Now it is my turn,” continued Karlsefin. “If we get up safely I will send Heika down to take the bow of your canoe.”
Karlsefin, as we said, was somewhat more expert than most of the men in managing canoes, and Krake, besides having had more experience than many of his fellows, had once before visited and ascended this rapid. They therefore made the ascent almost as well as the Scots had done.
Arrived at the upper end, Hake and Heika were ordered to remove everything out of their canoe, and, with a full crew, to run down to the aid of their friends. Karlsefin himself went with them as one of the crew, so that he might take the steering paddle when Heika should resign it in order to act as Thorward’s bowman. Thus manned, the second attempt was crowned with success, and, not long afterwards the three canoes swept into a smooth reach of the river above the rapids, and proceeded on their way.
But a great deal of time had been lost in this way, and Karlsefin felt that it must be made up for by renewed diligence and protracted labour.
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