3, His Long Neck
Bent And Curled Like A Snake, Both Dropped Downward Several Feet
Then 3, 4 And 5 Left That Flock.
I suspect they were of another
family.
But, later, as we entered the river mouth we had a thrilling glimpse
of Swan life. Flock after flock came in view as we rounded the rush
beds; 12 flocks in all we saw, none had less than 5 in it, nearly
100 Swans in sight, at once, and all rose together with a mighty
flapping of strong, white wings, and the chorus of the insignificant
"too-too-tees" sailed farther southward, probably to make the great
Swan tryst on Hay River.
No doubt these were the same 12 flocks as those observed on the
previous days, but still it rejoiced my heart to see even that
many. I had feared that the species was far gone on the trail of
the Passenger Pigeon.
But this is anticipating. We were camped still on the island north
of the traverse, waiting for possible water. All day we watched In
vain, all night the surf kept booming, but at three in the morning
the wind dropped, at four it was obviously calmer. I called the
boys and we got away before six; dashing straight south in spite
of rolling seas we crossed the 15-mile stretch in 3 3/4 hours, and
turning westward reached Stony Island by noon. Thence southward
through ever calmer water our gallant boat went spinning, reeling
off the level miles up the river channel, and down again on its
south-west branch, in a glorious red sunset, covering in one day
the journeys of four during our outgoing, in the supposedly far
speedier York boat. Faster and faster we seemed to fly, for we had
the grand incentive that we must catch the steamer at any price
that night. Weeso now, for the first time, showed up strong; knowing
every yard of the way he took advantage of every swirl of the river;
in and out among the larger islands we darted, and when we should
have stopped for the night no man said "Stop", but harder we
paddled. We could smell the steamer smoke, we thought, and pictured
her captain eagerly scanning the offing for our flying canoe; it
was most inspiring and the Ann Seton jumped up to 6 miles an hour
for a time. So we went; the night came down, but far away were the
glittering lights of Fort Resolution, and the steamer that should
end our toil. How cheering. The skilly pilot and the lusty paddler
slacked not - 40 miles we had come that day - and when at last some
49, nearly 50, paddled miles brought us stiff and weary to the
landing it was only to learn that the steamer, notwithstanding
bargain set and agreed on, had gone south two days before.
CHAPTER XLI
GOING UP THE LOWER SLAVE
What we thought about the steamboat official who was responsible
for our dilemma we did not need to put into words; for every one
knew of the bargain and its breach:
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