<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br/> <small>OLSON!</small></SPAN></h2>
<p>
<span>H</span>e returned last night, the eleventh of February, in a blaze of glory!
Ah, the wonder of it and of all he brought. Rockwell and I sat at our
cards just before supper-time. The day, a calm one, a fair one, had
passed and Olson again had not come. We were downcast. Every possible
cause for his continued absence had been reviewed in my mind. To wait
longer was not to be endured. And so we sat with far-off thoughts and
toyed with the silly cards. Suddenly the long, clear sound of a boat’s
horn reached us from the night outdoors. We ran and peered into the
darkness. At last we saw a black spot moving far out on the water. Oh
God! it was entering the cove. In what a frenzy of excitement we
hurried down the beach! Nearer they come and nearer, men’s voices, the
little cabin light, and the vessel gliding toward us; they’re abreast
of us, they drop anchor. “Olson, Olson,” I shout, “Olson, is that
you?” “He’s aboard,” is answered,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183">[Pg 183]</SPAN></span> “How are you, and how’s the little
boy?” We see them loading a dory from the vessel’s deck,—and now they
row it to the shore. It’s good to see a fine young fisherman and shake
his hand. Again and once again the loads are ferried in and carried up
the long and slippery low-tide beach. Rockwell has lighted Olson’s
lamp, he sweeps his cabin, and starts the fire in the stove. At the
last load I slip aboard the vessel. I am “<em>wanted</em>.” There stands
Olson swaying gigantic on the deck above us as we bump the side. A
bear’s greeting! Olson is radiant, radiant and mellow with the joy of
homecoming and the warmth of tasted spirits. The skipper I know, yes!
the good Englishman, Hogg, who had us once to dinner at his camp. Down
in the cabin in the heat and fumes of a cooking feast we tip the
friendly bottle.</p>
<p>Ah! tell me not, abstainer, of any glories you have known. One night,
one midnight out on the black waters of a Newfoundland harbor, the
million stars above, and on the wretched vessel’s deck the hoard of
half-drunk, soul-starved men saying their passionate farewells,—on
the dull plain of their life a flash of lightning revealing an
abyss;—this night on the still, dark cove of Resurrection Bay, rimmed
with wild mountains and the wilderness, strong men about you, mad,
loosened speech and winged, prophetic vision,—God! but sane daylight
seeing seems to touch but the white, hard surface of where life is
hidden.</p>
<p>From the hot cabin I climbed the boat’s ladder, up, up onto the
world’s heights. Ah, how the cold, clean wind from the wide spaces
then swept my soul, and how close about my head the dome of heaven and
the stars! This is no earth-ship but the deck of a meteor vessel that
I tread, the moon ship of the ancient northern gods.</p>
<p>I row ashore for Rockwell, stow the goods higher on the beach, and we
return aboard for supper. Over Rockwell the skipper makes a great
fuss, says he’s a famous oarsman and could beat his daddy, a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184">[Pg 184]</SPAN></span> fine,
big, strong boy. Warm hearted skipper!—and he reaches again for the
bottle and I drink. It’s <em>vinegar</em>! Profuse apologies, and the right
one is found.</p>
<p>We eat, we stuff!—and then the three of us, Rockwell laden with
presents of fruit, say good-night and row ashore. Poor, tired Olson
has little strength to move the heavy loads from the beach. No matter,
I struggle alone and finally stow them in his cabin, a great pile.
Then a cup of coffee with the old man, a little furious talk about the
war,—fury at a world that could mess things so,—and home to bed
where already Rockwell slept.</p>
<p>This morning the icy bath. Then without breakfast we began upon our
mail. What a wonderful Christmas at last! The bed was piled high with
presents, the table high with letters. We sorted and gloated like
hungry tigers that in the ecstasy of possession merely lick their
food. All through the morning and deep into the afternoon I read the
mail. Unwashed dishes stood about, for meals we but ate what was at
hand. (Here follows in the journal a list two pages long of presents,
of books—what a shelf of them!—woolen clothes and sheepskin
slippers, music for the flute, plum-pudding, candy, chocolate,
cigarettes,—and ever so much more.) And that being about seven times
as much as we’ve ever had before is all. Ah, in the wilderness you
love your friends and they too think of you. Better than all, though,
are the letters; such friendly letters never were before.</p>
<h3>Friday, February fourteenth.</h3>
<p>The days go like the wind. So warm to-day and yesterday! We live
out-of-doors. Now as I write the door stands open and the soft, moist,
spring air enters to dispel the fumes of turpentine. I primed eight
canvases to-day, six of which I had also stretched. This afternoon I
painted at the northern end of the beach almost be<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_187">[Pg 187]</SPAN></span>neath a frozen
waterfall, an emerald of huge size and wonderful form.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i210" class="border" src="images/i210.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="468" alt="" /> <p class="caption">PELAGIC REVERIE</p> </div>
<p>Rockwell is in high spirits. I think the augmentation of our diet
brought by Olson’s return will do him a lot of good. We had cut down
on our use of milk to a can in two or three days. Now we may live on
fish which Olson has in such quantities that we’re to help ourselves.
Olson has insisted on my accepting a fifty-pound sack of flour for my
services during his six weeks’ absence, and I expect to find it hard
to be allowed to return the cereals that I am borrowing. What a
contrast this free-handed country to the mean spirit of Newfoundland!</p>
<h3>Monday, February seventeenth.</h3>
<p>Three days! and what has happened? I guess that on the first of them I
stretched and painted canvas. On the second all day I painted
out-of-doors, it was quite summer-like and the sun shone through
diamond-dripping trees. And to-day I have written from early morning
before breakfast until now, eleven at night. I have decided to go to
Seward in a few days. It has become necessary to go back to New York
very soon. I told Rockwell of this to-day and his eyes have scarcely
been dry since. He has reasoned with me and inquired into every detail
of the situation. He doesn’t <em>want</em> to go to New York nor even to live
in the country in the East. There’ll be no ocean near nor any warm
pond for bathing. And not even the thought that elsewhere he’d have
playmates weighs against his love for this spot.</p>
<p>You should see Sir Lancelot now. His clothes are outgrown and outworn.
They hang in tatters about him. His trousers are burst from the knee
to the hip, his overalls that cover them are rags. His shirt is
buttonless but for two in front. From above tattered elbows his
sleeves hang in ribbons. His hair is long and shaggy; where it hung
over his eyes I have cut it off short. <em>But</em>, his fair cheeks are as
pink as roses, his eyes are beautiful and blue, his lips are red, and
his<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_188">[Pg 188]</SPAN></span> face glows always with expression. So we don’t care a rap for the
rest—only Rockwell does! One day after he had regarded for a long
time a certain unfortunate photograph of himself in which he looked
like an idiot, he said, “Father, I’d like to dress up some day and put
on my best clothes and brush my hair,—because I want to see if I
really look like I do in this picture.” Rockwell loves to look well
and it’s a real treat for him to dress up. So, that being the case and
his tidy nature being so well assured I don’t trouble a bit to adorn
him. He cleans his teeth regularly and likes to do it. Mornings we get
up together and go through a set of Dr. Sargent’s exercises, do them
with great energy. Then we go naked out-of-doors. The period of
chattering teeth is past. No matter what the weather is we go calmly
out into it, lie down in the drift, look up into the sky, and then
scrub ourselves with snow. It’s the finest bath in the world.</p>
<p>It rains to-day—or snows. The snow lies three feet deep on the level.
At our windows it is above the sills. In Seward,—have I written this
before?—it lies so deep that one can’t see across the street. The
snow is the deepest, and that last cold snap the coldest, of any
winter remembered or recorded. The cold was very many degrees below
zero. So we <em>have</em> experienced a true winter. We’re so glad to know
it.</p>
<h3>Tuesday, February eighteenth.</h3>
<p>Such mild weather! With the fire nearly out it’s hot indoors to-night.
A little snow, a little rain, but altogether a pleasant day. It’s
always pleasant when I paint well. To-day I redeemed two straying
pictures and they’re among the elect now. To-night a steamer entered
from the westward, the <em>Curaçao</em>, long expected. She must have been
here two or three days ago and since then been to Seldovia. With
incredible slowness she crept over the water. What old hulks they do
put onto this Alaska service.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_189">[Pg 189]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i214" class="border" src="images/i214.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="462" alt="" /> <p class="caption">PRISON BARS</p> </div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_191">[Pg 191]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Rockwell’s mothering of all things exceeded reason to-day. He put two
sticks of wood on the fire after I had intended it to go out. I
removed them, blazing merrily. “Don’t” cried Rockwell seriously,
“you’ll hurt the fire’s feelings.”</p>
<p>Rockwell cleared off the boat to-day. Next we must dig her out.
To-morrow the engine must be put in order. We must find a hole in the
gasoline tank and solder it and then coax it into starting. It is on
such jobs that whole precious days are wasted.</p>
<p>Rockwell loves every foot of this spot of land. To-night he spoke of
the beauties of the lake, its steep wooded shores, clean and pebbly,
and the one low, clear, and level spot where we approached the water.
He had planned to live this summer the day long on the shores of the
lake, naked, playing in and out of the water or paddling some craft
about. I thought of putting up a tent in some mossy dell along the
shore and letting Rockwell sleep there nights alone and learn early
the wonders of a hermit’s life. And none of it is to be!</p>
<h3>Wednesday, February nineteenth.</h3>
<p>It rains and storms. But to-day we repaired the engine and we’re ready
to start for Seward when it clears. Above every other thought now is
the sad realization that our days on this beloved island are nearing
an end. What is it that endears it so to a man near forty and a little
boy of nine? We have such widely different outlooks upon life. It may
be that Alaska stands midway between us, and that I, turning backward
from the crowded world that I have known and learned to fear, meet
Rockwell in his <em>forward</em> march from nothing—to this. If that be so
we have met only for a moment for such perfect sympathy. His love will
pass on from this and mine will grow dissatisfied and wander still.
But I think it’s otherwise. It seems that we have both together by
chance turned out of the beaten, crowded way and come to stand face to
face with that infinite and unfathomable thing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_192">[Pg 192]</SPAN></span> which is the
wilderness; and here we have found OURSELVES—for the wilderness is
nothing else. It is a kind of living mirror that gives back as its own
all and only all that the imagination of a man brings to it. It <em>is</em>
that which we believe it to be. So here we have stood, we two, and if
we have not shuddered at the emptiness of the abyss and fled from its
loneliness, it is because of the wealth of our own souls that filled
the void with imagery, warmed it, and gave it speech and
understanding. This vast, wild land we have made a child’s world and a
man’s.</p>
<p>I know nothing in all life more beautiful than the perfect belief of
Rockwell in his Paradise here. Unopposed, his romance has kindled
every object on the homestead; so that now for hours he can steal
about in the forest, on the beach, along the lake,—in absolute
contentment, for it is wonderland itself. The “King’s road,” the
“Giant’s path” where stand the gummy “ten-pound butter tree” and all
the giants with whom Sir Lancelot must joust, the magpie’s grave
marked with a cross, the otter’s cave, the marvelous frozen stream;
those strange wild people, the Treaps, who visit these shores
occasionally to hunt the white man for his skin as the white man has
hunted their dear animals; rain-bears and wild-cat-eaters—appalling
animals that inhabit the dark woods but are good friends to Rockwell.
Every log and rotten stump, the gnarled trees, with or without
“butter,” every mound and path, the rocks, the streams, each is a
being in itself; and with those most living goats, and the brilliant
magpies, the pretty, little, dingy sparrows, the glorious and virtuous
porcupines, the black, black crows, the great and noble eagle, the
rare spider and the rarer fly, and the wonderful, strong, sleek otters
that leap in sport through the snow and coast down-hill, they make a
world of romance that has thrilled one little boy to the very bottom
of his soul. To live here, to accumulate about him more and more
animals and shelter them from harm, to live forever <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_195">[Pg 195]</SPAN></span>or, if he must,
grow old, and <em>very</em> old; here marry—not a Seward girl but one more
beautiful—or an Indian!—here raise a great family—and here die.
That now is the ideal of little Rockwell. And if we, his family, all
of us, would count we must come here to him where with patriarchal
magnificence and dignity he will care for us.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i218" class="border" src="images/i218.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="460" alt="" /> <p class="caption">RUNNING WATER</p> </div>
<h3>Thursday, February twentieth.</h3>
<p>All day out-of-doors, both of us. In the morning Rockwell and I
journeyed around the point between the two coves of the island. It’s a
rocky promontory with a great jumble of bowlders at its base that one
must scramble over. These are generally wet and slippery and not much
fun. However we went well around and I set up my canvas and painted
while Rockwell crawled about in caves and crevasses playing some sort
of wild beast. The wind rose as I finished and made it difficult to
convey my wet canvas without damaging it. And in the afternoon again I
painted on two pictures out-of-doors. That’s to be my work now till
the time I go. To-morrow if the day is right we start for Seward. Our
boat is dug out of the snow, our goods are packed, the engine chafes
at the throttle. I am tired to-night and it is bedtime.</p>
<h3>Sunday, February twenty-third.</h3>
<p>Friday was calm. We left the island at about eleven—after the usual
hours fussing with the engine. At Hogg’s camp we called in for
something to bale with, for the boat, being leaky, had taken in a lot
of water. No one at home—so I stole a bowl from the shed and we
proceeded. By then the sun shone upon us and we could observe, what we
later confirmed at Seward, that the sun shines at the head of the bay
while the island, <em>our</em> island, is shrouded in clouds. Quite different
conditions prevail in the two localities. With us it is warmer and
much wetter. The recorded rainfall for Seward, that some time<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_196">[Pg 196]</SPAN></span> ago
seemed incredibly small, does not fit Fox Island at all. Olson’s
records for last summer show prevailing rainy weather—and Seward
rejoiced in unprecedented sunshine! And during these three days in
Seward now, days wonderfully fair, thick clouds have always been over
Fox Island. And even the wind blows there when Seward’s waters are
calm.</p>
<p>And so on Friday we reached Seward with flying colors, stowed our boat
up high, put the engine into Olson’s cabin, and walked again the
streets of civilization. Here everyone is friendly. The first night
Rockwell dined out at one house and slept at another with a lot of
children. What must they have thought of his underclothes! I went
supperless—writing letters instead. And then flute music at the
postmaster’s. Next day very early the steamer came and the day passed
for me in the wild excitement of receiving mail.</p>
<h3>Wednesday, February twenty-sixth.</h3>
<p>Yesterday we came home! We left Seward with only a light load aboard.
It blew briskly in the bay from the north. Before we reached Caine’s
Head there was a splendid, white-crested chop racing along with us.
Midway across it was about all the engine could have stood. The
propeller is not set at enough depth in our boat and in yesterday’s
sea it was most of the time out of water, racing at a furious pace.
Then the boat would naturally lose steerage way and we’d swing far out
of our course. But it was great sport. Into it we could have made no
headway; <em>before</em> it nothing could stop us. And the engine kept right
on going!—only as usual it was continually falling apart. On Friday
the flywheel came loose six times, the muffler four, and the valve
spring fell off and stayed off. Coming back all went well till we were
in the roughest sea; then the muffler came loose. Not wanting to stop
the engine in that sea I spent half the time on my knees holding the
tiller in one hand and the muffler nut with a pair <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_199">[Pg 199]</SPAN></span>of pliers in the
other. Rockwell bailed most of the time. The boat leaks like a sieve.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i222" class="border" src="images/i222.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="474" alt="" /> <p class="caption">IMMANENCE</p> </div>
<p>And how fine to get home again! Only an hour and we were again seated
at dinner in our warm cabin. Rockwell said it was hard for him to
remember whether Mr. Olson or we had just been to Seward. I brought
Olson a battery box and batteries as a present. He was much pleased.
But particularly his mail pleased him. I saw him soon after our
arrival seated with his spectacles on studying his letters. He rarely
gets any. This time came a post-card and letter from Rockwell’s
mother.</p>
<p>The day passed and evening came. Then appeared entering our cove a
cabined gasoline boat. Two young fellows came ashore and we all
chatted in Olson’s cabin. One had his wife aboard. They claimed to be
hunting a stray boat,—but Olson whispered to me later, dramatically,
that they were doubtless out dragging somewhere for a cache of
whiskey. Lots of whiskey has been sunk in the bay. Marks were taken at
the time to determine its location and now the owners as need arises
fish up what they want. It’s just like the buried treasure of the days
of piracy. Doubtless there are now many charts extant with the
position of liquid treasure marked upon them.</p>
<p>To-day has been again overcast but beautifully mild. It is really a
wonderful climate. Rockwell makes the most of these last days. He went
this morning to the ridge’s top east of us, and this afternoon high up
on the mountain side. He now wants to stay here and become a wild man.
There is no question in my mind about his entire willingness, his
desire, to be left here when I go.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_200">[Pg 200]</SPAN></span></p>
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