MY TOUGHEST TRIP

For a good many years I was a member of the Arctic Patrols of the old Royal Northwest Mounted Police—now called Royal Canadian Mounted Police—and naturally had my share of the duties assigned that force. Since resigning from the force and taking up my abode in a city I have been greatly amused at fiction writers and movie producers’ ideas of the work of the Mounties; according to those fellows we spent the most of our time hunting desperate gunmen and rescuing beautiful damsels in distress. On the toughest trip I ever made I rescued a female, young but not beautiful—an Eskimo baby, in fact. I will briefly record how it was brought about.

Most of the trouble which the Mounties have to straighten out in the Arctic is occasioned by clashes between the white men, who go in to trade for the furs which milady of civilization deems necessary, and the natives. But a great deal of our work was straightening up inter-tribal sex tangles among the Eskimos.

In one such case, to decide which of two natives really owned a certain native girl, we brought both the men and the woman to our post at Tree River. Perhaps I had better explain that owing to the fact that the Eskimos destroy girl babies during years when food is scarce, there is a great shortage of marriageable girls among these nomads of the North. Consequently competition for wives is keen, often resulting in killings.

Anyway, after thinking and talking over this particular case for some time, we found out that neither of the two men really owned this girl; they had, in fact, stolen her from her rightful husband, belonging to another tribe. The upshot of it was the males were sentenced to do two years’ chores apiece at the post, while I was detailed to return the woman to her lawful husband.

One bright June morning, I loaded up our sailboat with grub for a six-weeks’ journey, and taking the girl, I set out.

For two weeks I sailed, making slow progress owing to contrary winds. Then a storm overtook us. I did my best, but it wasn’t good enough—the storm won and we were washed ashore with the boat.

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.

Building up the fire, I quickly warmed thoroughly two of the softest blankets. As tenderly as possible I placed the baby in the center of them and covered it up. It still kept up a plaintive wailing. Of course it was hungry.

From my stores I got some evaporated milk. It did not take long to mix a cupful. In my medicine kit I had an eyedropper. I perforated its rubber cap, then filled the phial with warm milk. The baby soon had it emptied; then she fell asleep.

Gazing at the sleeping infant, I envied her calm, for my own mind was in a turmoil. Then I remembered that perhaps the first duty of a Mountie is to protect life. I determined to save the baby somehow.

Leaving her sleeping, I composed the corpse of her mother; then, with furs and blankets, I made a sort of nest on the kyak behind the seat. Carefully I carried the infant and stowed her away, then I launched the craft.

The next three days and nights I shall never forget; every two or three hours the youngster became hungry and I had to light a fire and mix warm milk. Years of living in the North with men had made me independent of women, but I would have given a year’s pay to have had a woman to aid me then! I was fearful lest I handle the tiny mite too roughly. I wanted to keep it warm, yet I was afraid of suffocating it.

Fortunately, during those three days and nights the sea remained fairly calm and the craft rode well. In between times of pulling ashore to light a fire to warm milk, I paddled hard. On the evening of the third day I reached the tribe to which I had been taking Nuttinook. As eager natives hurried down to the shore to greet me, I almost hugged them.

Rapidly, with signs and speech, I made them understand. One of them led me into a gloomy snow hut. In one corner I espied a native woman with a babe at her breast. When I crawled out again, she had two babes to feed, but she accepted the extra one cheerfully. Outside, to the wonder of the watching natives, I turned a few handsprings in the snow. I have never enjoyed such a sense of relief at duty done!

Then I had to impart the sad news to the husband of Nuttinook: we had saved his squaw only for her to die in childbirth. A few days later he and some of his fellows escorted me back to the island to fetch the young mother’s body.

Two weeks later I returned safely to Tree River, none the worse for my patrol. But I shall always regard that as my toughest trip because of the unusual responsibility of looking after a newborn babe.

Several years later Ayunio, the husband of Nuttinook, made a trip to the post to tell me his little girl was fine and healthy. He also tried to present me with many fine Arctic fox furs. Unfortunately the regulations would not allow me to accept them.

And this describes but one of the duties of men of the Arctic Patrols of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. A trifle different from most of the stuff written about the Mounties, I know—none the less it is true.