Part 43 (1/2)
CHAPTER I.
In the far-off Northland it is winter again,--the winter of 1919-20.
Trigger Island is bright and clean with the furbis.h.i.+ngs of summer. It is January,--January without its coat of white,--January as green as the tender gourd.
There are a dozen graves or more on Cape Sunrise; Betty Cruise no longer lies alone out on the windswept point. Crudely chiseled on the rough headstones are names that have not been mentioned in this chronicle, still not the less enduring. One name is there, however, chipped in a great black slab from the face of Split Mountain, that will never be forgotten as long as Trigger Island exists: it is that of Captain Weatherby Trigger.
The master of the Doraine died aboard-s.h.i.+p in the second winter. After his death the s.h.i.+p was abandoned. Mr. Codge and the half-dozen old mariners who had made their home in the dismal hulk came ash.o.r.e.
Grim and ugly and as silent as the grave, save for the winds that moan through her portholes and corridors, she lies rusting in sun and storm, a gloomy presence that fills the soul with awe. Even the birds of the air shun her barren decks; less fastidious bats have taken up their abode in the heart of her, and spiders great and small are at work on a sickly shroud.
Twenty months have pa.s.sed. Christmas and New Year's day have twice been celebrated and another Easter Sunday has found its way into the faithful journal of Peter Snipe, and with them two amazing Fourths of July when there was coasting on the long slopes and winter sports on the plains.
There has been one bountiful harvest and seed has been sown for yet another. The full length of the sunny plain is under cultivation. The bins in the granaries are well-filled with the treasures of the soil; the gardens have increased and flourished; the warehouse is stacked with fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, honey, and row upon row of preserves! Great earthen jars, modeled with all the severity of the primitive cave-dweller, serve as receptacles. The grist-mill on Leap Frog River is busy from dawn till dusk; the forge rings with the music of hammer and anvil; a saw-mill in the heart of Dismal Forest hums its whining tune all day long. A noisy, determined engine, fas.h.i.+oned by mechanics out of material taken from the engine and boiler room of the Doraine provides the motive power for the saws and the means to produce ponderous, far-reaching blasts on the transferred ”fog-horn.”
New and more commodious huts have gone up, roads have been blazed through the forests, a logging ferry plies between the opposite sh.o.r.es of Mott Haven, and a s.h.i.+p is on the ways above the landing ”stage.”
At the top of Split Mountain stands a lofty wireless tower. For months it has been spitting vain messages to the four winds. Out of the great silences at rare intervals come faint flickers of radio calls, jumbled, indistinct, undecipherable,--but, for all that, definite pulse beats of a far-off life.
Trigger Island went mad with joy when the first of these aerial mutterings was reported down from the mountain-top. ”Only a question of time now,” they cried in their delirium. But weeks went by before another sound was heard. Now the report of feeble, long-separated manifestations, like vague spirit-rappings, no longer caused excitement or enthusiasm,--only a rueful shaking of heads.
Lieutenant Platt's station at the top of the mountain is a rude, elementary affair, notwithstanding the many weary, puzzling, disheartening months spent in its construction. The damaged, almost useless dynamo from the Doraine had to be repaired and conveyed to the crest of the eminence; what seemed to be fruitless ages were consumed in devising an engine with power sufficient to produce even the feeble results that followed. And when the task of installing the plant was completed, the effective radius was far short of a hundred miles.
Constant efforts were being made to develop greater sending power, but the means at hand were inadequate, the material un.o.btainable.
The firing of the Doraine's gun had long since been discontinued. The supply of sh.e.l.ls being greatly reduced, Lieutenant Platt decided to waste no more of them, but to wait for some visible evidence that a vessel was within signalling distance: a shadowy plume of smoke on the far horizon or the white tip of a sail peeping over the rim of the world.
Frugality is the watchword. The days of plenty are sternly guarded so that their substance may not be squandered; always there is the thought of the lean year that may come, the year when the harvests fail and famine stalks naked through the land.
The first law, therefore, is thrift. Not thrift in its common, accepted sense, based on the self-denial of the individual, but a systematic shoulder-to-shoulder stand for the general welfare of the community.
There is no such thing as waste on Trigger Island. The grim spectre of want and privation treads softly behind every mortal there, and there is none who treats its invisible presence with disdain. Even the wood-ashes from stoves and fireplaces are carefully h.o.a.rded in hoppers, for the alkaline solution obtained by treating them with water is lye. This lye is being used chiefly in the production of a soap not unlike that made by thrifty farmers' wives in the Argentine, experimentation with the pulpy fruit of a tree belonging to the variety known as Sapindus marginatus bringing about rather astonis.h.i.+ng results.
For many months of the year the people wear sandals on their bare feet.
Only those who toil in the forests don the uncouth boots turned out by the firm of cobblers known as Block & Nicklestick. Shoes, boots and slippers of another day are zealously guarded by their owners, in antic.i.p.ation of still another day,--the day of deliverance. ”Waste not, want not,” is the motto of Trigger Island.
The second winter brought a double catastrophe, and for days thereafter deepest gloom prevailed. Even the stout-hearted Percival drooped under the weight of it.
Fire wiped out the work of months in the s.p.a.ce of a few bleak, bitter hours. The st.u.r.dy little s.h.i.+p that was so well along toward completion was destroyed.
Months of faithful, patient, dogged toil had resulted in the construction of a stout hull which stood proudly on the ways to be admired and glorified by the eager, confident supporters of the determined little band of builders. Six weeks more would have seen the vessel off the ways and floating gaily on the surface of the snug little basin, ready for the final touches, the provisioning and the ultimate departure of the hardy company that was to take her out into the open stretches in quest of the helping hand. For weeks a devoted, one-minded community had been preparing food, raiment and comforts for the men who were to go forth in the new Doraine. The masts and spars were in place, the forecastle and cabin were almost ready for occupancy, the galley was nearing completion,--and then came swift, relentless disaster.
The night was cold and windy. Down at the water's edge, almost under the bulging side of the s.h.i.+p, two men had their quarters at one end of the low, rambling carpenter shop. At the other end was located the forge.
The very thing they were there to guard against happened on this miserable night. Fire broke out in the forge.
The man on watch had fallen asleep. His name was Smiley. It is mentioned here for the only time in this narrative.
Shortly before midnight, his companion was awakened by the smell of smoke. He scrambled out of his blankets on the floor,--and cursed the man who still slept in his chair beside the smoke-befogged lantern on the end of a carpenter's bench. Flames were creeping along the wooden part.i.tion separating the forge from the shop. Half a mile away three hundred men were sleeping,--but half a mile is half a mile. Before the watchmen could sound the alarm, after their first courageous efforts to subdue the blaze, the building was a roaring ma.s.s of flames and a gleeful wind had carried tongues of fire to the side of the vessel where they licked shapeless black patterns at first and then swiftly turned them to red.