Part 15 (1/2)

La Salle took the heavy piece, and was about to discharge it to leeward, when, from the very air above their heads, a voice seemed to call on them by name, ”La Salle, Charley, Peter, ahoy!”

La Salle dropped the b.u.t.t of his gun, and listened. Again the voice sounded apparently nearer than before. ”Charley, Peter, ahoy!”

”That voice ole man Lund. I know it; but what for sposum voice there?

Then track go that way. Ole man lose way, spose.”

”Perhaps he has fallen in, Peter. Come, let's go.”

And catching a rope near him, and forgetting to lay down the c.u.mbrous gun, Charley ran towards the incessant and evidently-agonized cries, Peter following with an axe and a light fish-spear.

Scarcely had the runners gone a hundred yards before they stopped in dismay. At their feet the ice-field ended abruptly, and scarce a hundred yards away rose a wall of red sandstone, on whose summit stood Lund, peering down into the whirl of snow-flakes. His quick eye espied them, and he shouted his last advice.

”Launch your boat at once; don't wait. Keep under the lee. Don't try to save anything but your lives. Keep the wind at your backs in rowing, and mind the set of the tide eastward.”

”Ay, ay! I understand. We're waiting for the boys!” shouted La Salle.

”I can't hear a word,” called out Lund across the rapidly-increasing s.p.a.ce.

”Give me that spear, Peter,” said La Salle.

And snapping off the tiny barbs, he drew from his pocket a pencil, and wrote as follows on the slender rod of white maple:--

”We know our danger, but have no oars; for the boys have not returned. Unless they do so soon, shall stick to the ice until the weather clears. Look for us along the coast if the storm lasts.

”Love to all. LA SALLE.”

Holding up the rod to be seen by Lund, he placed it in the muzzle of his piece, and motioned to the captain to watch its flight. The pilot stepped behind a tree, and La Salle aimed at the face of a large snow-drift near him. The report echoed amid the broken ledges, the long white arrow sped through the air, and stuck in the snow close to the tree. Lund picked it up, and bent over it a moment; then bowed his head, as if a.s.suring them of his approval of its contents.

Already the floe had moved into rough water, and the short waves raised by the increasing gale began to throw their spray far up on the ice. The snow-squall gathered fury, and La Salle, waving his hand, pointed heavenward, while Peter, knowing but too well the danger of their position, sank on his knees, and began the simple prayers of his faith.

Lund saw them fade from view into the sleety veil that hid the waste of waters, and groaning in spirit, turned homeward.

”In half an hour no boat on the island can reach them, even if men could be found to face certain death in a snow-storm out on the open Gulf.”

Peter rose to his feet, apparently almost hopeless.

”Good by, Saint Peter's! Good by, Trois Lieues' Creek! Good by, Lund!

Poor Peter no more shootum wild goose here.”

”Come, Peter, don't give it up so,” said La Salle. ”We must find the boys and get their oars and boat, and then well try and see what we can do to get ash.o.r.e.”

Peter's eyes brightened a little, and walking around the edge of the floe, they came, in the course of twenty minutes, to the boys, snugly seated under their inverted boat, in a hollow of a large berg, which, until that day, had never floated with the tide.

”Come, boys, this won't do. We're adrift, and getting well out into the Gulf. Turn over your boat, put everything into her, and let's try what we can do with the big boat.”

In desperate haste the four took down the light craft, threw in the oars and guns, and dashed across the quarter of a mile which lay between them and the windward side of the ice. In about five minutes they reached the large boat; but all saw at a glance that little less than a miracle was needed to carry them safe ash.o.r.e.

The snow was falling thick and fast, the wind driving it in eddying clouds, and amid it could be seen at times the white caps of the increasing surges as they broke on the edge of the floe. It was evident that it would be madness to attempt to leave their present position; yet all stood silent a moment, as if unwilling to be the first to confess the painful truth.