Ungava by R. M. Ballantyne (the best e book reader txt) 📕

three additional coils, and were finally riveted for ever. During his sojourn in America, he had happened to dwell in places where the fishing, though good, was not of a very exciting nature; and he had not seen a salmon since the day he left home, so that it is not matter for wonder that his stride was rapid and his eye bright while he hurried towards the pool, as before mentioned.

He who has never left the beaten tracks of men, or trod the unknown wilderness, can have but a faint conception of the feelings of a true angler as he stands by the brink of a dark pool which has hitherto reflected only the antlers of the wild deer—whose dimpling eddies and flecks of foam have been disturbed by no fisher since the world began, except the polar bear. Besides the pleasurable emotions of strong hope, there is the additional charm of uncertainty as to what will rise, and of certainty that if there be anything piscatine beneath these fascinating ripples it undoubtedly will rise—and bite too! Then there is the peculiar satisfaction of catching now and then a drop of spray from, and hearing the thunder of, a cataract, whose free, surging bound is not yet shackled by the tourist’s sentimental description; and the novelty of beholding one’s image reflected in a liquid mirror whose geographical position is not yet stereotyped on the charts of man. Alas for these maps and charts! Despite the wishes of scientific geographers and the ignorance of unscientific explorers, we think them far too complete already; and we can conceive few things more dreadful or crushing to the enterprising and romantic spirits of the world than the arrival of that time (if it ever shall arrive) when it shall be said that terra incognita exists no longer—when every one of those fairy-like isles of the southern seas, and all the hidden wonders of the polar regions, shall be put down, in cold blood, on black and white, exposed profanely on the schoolroom walls, and drummed into the thick heads of wretched little boys who don’t want to learn, by the unsympathising hands of dominies who, it may be, care but little whether they do or not!

But to return. While Frank stood on the rocks, attaching to the line a salmon-fly which he had selected with much consideration from his book, he raised his eyes once or twice to take a rapid glance at his position and the capabilities of the place. About fifty yards further up the river the stream curled round the base of a large rock, and gushed into a pool which was encircled on all sides by an overhanging wall, except where the waters issued forth in a burst of foam. Their force, however, was materially broken by another curve, round which they had to sweep ere they reached this exit, so that when they rushed into the larger pool below they calmed down at once, and on reaching the point where Frank stood, assumed that oily, gurgling surface, dimpled all over with laughing eddies, that suggests irresistibly the idea of fish not only being there, as a matter of course, but being there expressly and solely for the purpose of being caught! A little further down, the river took a slight bend, and immediately after, recurring to its straight course, it dashed down, for a distance of fifty yards, in a tumultuous rapid, which swept into sudden placidity a few hundred yards below. Having taken all this in at a glance, Frank dropped the fly into the water and raised his rod to make a cast. In this act he almost broke the rod, to his amazement; for, instead of whipping the fly lightly out of the water, he dragged a trout of a pound weight violently up on the bank.

“Bravo!” cried Stanley, laughing heartily at his friend’s stare of mingled wonder and amazement,—“bravo, Frank! I’m no fisher myself, but I’ve always understood that fish required a little play before being landed. However, you have convinced me of my ignorance. I see that the proper way is to toss them over your head! A salmon must be rather troublesome to toss, but no doubt, with your strong arms, you’ll manage it easily, hey?”

“Why, what an appetite they must have!” replied Frank, answering his friend’s badinage with a smile. “If the little fellows begin thus, what will not the big ones do?”

As he spoke, he disengaged the fish and threw it down, and made the next cast so rapidly, that if another trout was waiting to play him a similar trick, it must have been grievously disappointed. The line swept lightly through the air, and the fly fell gently on the stream, where it had not quivered more than two seconds when the water gurgled around it. The next moment Frank’s rod bent like a hoop, and the line flew through the rings with whirring rapidity, filling these lonely solitudes for the first time with the pleasant “music of the reel.” Almost before Frank had time to take a step in a downward direction, fifty yards were run out, the waters were suddenly cleft, and a salmon sprang like a bar of burnished silver twice its own height into the air. With a sounding splash it returned to its native element; but scarcely had its fins touched the water, when it darted towards the bank. Being brought up suddenly here, it turned at a tangent, and flashed across the pool again, causing the reel to spin with renewed velocity. Here the fish paused for a second, as if to collect its thoughts, and then coming, apparently, to a summary determination as to what it meant to do, it began steadily to ascend the stream, not, indeed, so rapidly as it had descended, but sufficiently so to give Frank some trouble, by means of rapidly winding up, to keep the line tight. Having bored doggedly towards the head of the rapid, the fish stopped and began to shake its head passionately, as if indignant at being foiled in its energetic attempts to escape. After a little time, it lay sulkily down at the bottom of the pool, where it defied its persecutor to move it an inch.

“What’s to be done now?” asked Stanley, who stood ready to gaff the fish when brought near to the bank.

“We must rouse him up,” said Frank, as he slowly wound up the line. “Just take up a stone and throw it at him.”

Stanley looked surprised, for he imagined that such a proceeding would frighten the fish and cause it to snap the line; but seeing that Frank was in earnest, he did as he was directed. No sooner had the stone sunk than the startled fish once more dashed across the river; then taking a downward course, it sped like an arrow to the brink of the rough water below. To have allowed the salmon to go down the rapid would have been to lose it, so Frank arrested the spinning of his reel and held on. For a second or two the rod bent almost in a circle, and the line became fearfully rigid.

“You’ll break it, Frank,” cried Stanley, in some anxiety.

“It can’t be helped,” said Frank, compressing his lips; “he must not go down there. The tackle is new; I think it will hold him.”

Fortunately the tackle proved to be very good. The fish was arrested, and after one or two short runs, which showed that its vigour was abated, it was drawn carefully towards the rocks. As it drew near it rolled over on its side once or twice—an evident sign of being much exhausted.

“Now, Stanley, be careful,” said Frank, as his friend stepped cautiously towards the fish and extended the gaff. “I’ve seen many a fine salmon escape owing to careless gaffing. Don’t be in a hurry. Be sure of your distance before you strike, and do it quickly. Now, then—there—give it him! Hurrah!” he shouted, as Stanley passed the iron hook neatly into the side of the fish, and lifted it high and dry on the rocks.

The cheer to which Frank gave vent, on this successful termination to the struggle, was re-echoed heartily by several of the men, who, on passing the spot with their loads, had paused and become deeply interested spectators of the sport.

“Powerful big fish, sir,” said Bryan, throwing down his pack and taking up the salmon by the gills. “Twinty pounds at laste, av it’s an ounce.”

“Scarcely that, Bryan,” said Stanley; “but it’s not much less, I believe.”

“Ah! oui, ’tis ver’ pritty. Ver’ superb for supper,” remarked La Roche.

The little Frenchman was right in saying that it was pretty. Unlike the ordinary salmon, it was marked with spots like a trout, its head was small and its shoulders plump, while its silvery purity was exceedingly dazzling and beautiful.

“’Tis a Hearne-salmon,” said Massan, approaching the group. “I’ve seed lots o’ them on the coast to the south’ard o’ this, an’ I’ve no doubt we’ll find plenty o’ them at Ungava.”

While the men were discussing the merits of the fish, Frank had hooked another, which, although quite as large, gave him much less trouble to land; and before the men had finished carrying the canoes and goods over the portage, he had taken three fish out of the same pool. Wishing, however, to try for a larger one nearer the sea, he proceeded to take a cast below the rapid.

Meanwhile, La Roche, whose activity had enabled him to carry over his portion of the cargo long before his comrades, came to the pool which Frank had just left, and seating himself on a large stone, drew forth his tobacco-pouch. With a comical leer at the water which had so recently been deprived of its denizens, he proceeded leisurely to fill a pipe.

It is impossible to foresee, and difficult to account for, the actions of an impulsive human being. La Roche sat down to smoke his pipe, but instead of smoking it, he started to his feet and whirled it into the river. This apparently insane action was followed by several others, which, as they were successively performed, gradually unfolded the drift of his intentions. Drawing the knife which hung at his girdle, he went into the bushes, whence he quickly returned, dragging after him a large branch. From this he stripped the leaves and twigs. Fumbling in his pocket for some time, he drew forth a piece of stout cord, about four yards long, with a cod-hook attached to the end of it. This line had been constructed some weeks before when the canoes were wind-bound at a part of the coast where La Roche, desirous of replenishing the kettle, had made an unsuccessful attempt at sea-fishing. Fastening this line to the end of his extemporised rod, La Roche proceeded to dress his hook. This he accomplished by means of the feather of a duck which Frank shot the day before, and a tag from his scarlet worsted belt; and, when finished, it had more the appearance of some hideous reptile than a gay fly. However, La Roche surveyed it for a moment or two with an expression of deep satisfaction, and then, hurrying to the brink of the water, made a violent heave.

“Oh! cent milles tonnerres!” he exclaimed angrily, as the enormous hook caught in the leg of his trousers. The large and clumsy barb was deeply imbedded, so there was no help for it but to use the knife. The second throw was more successful, and the hook alighted in the water with a splash that ought to have sent all the fish in the pool away in consternation. Instead of this, however, no sooner did the reptile trail upon the stream than a trout dashed at it in such violent haste that it nearly missed it altogether. As it was, it hooked itself very slightly, and the excitable Frenchman settled the matter by giving the