Suzanne

UNCLE JONAS had missed the fish. For the first time within the memory of many neighbors in Deep-Water Creek, Uncle Jonas’s schooner had ‘come back from t’ Larbador, clean.’

Under ordinary circumstances even the catastrophe of one family’s being unable to purchase supplies for the winter would not have been a matter of deep concern to the inhabitants of the Creek. For they were accustomed to having ‘to make things do’, and no one ever heard a real Livyere from the Atlantic seaboard ‘squealing’ because it had ‘pleased t’ Lord they should n’t be able to reach to fats after Easter.’

But this case was somewhat different: Uncle Jonas’s hospitality was an institution. It was as much a matter of course as the ice in the harbor. Every benighted traveler; every desolate family following the komatic track, because they had no longer any food in the larder at home; even every starving dog-team whose lord and master could no longer find them a morsel to put in their stomachs, knew which way to turn when they caught sight of the blue smoke of the cottages above the cliffs that made the harbor of DeepWater Creek. Uncle Jonas’s had ever been a veritable city of refuge for many miles of coast both north and south. No one, good, bad or indifferent, had ever been known to knock at Uncle Jonas’s door without getting, whatever the time of day, the cheery invitation ‘to sit right in and have a cup o’ hot tea.’

But though this unaffected love out of a pure heart had ever proved to the man’s own soul the truest of God’s blessings, it had not been purchased without cost. For Uncle Jonas enjoyed yet another blessing straight from God’s hands, and that was a quiverful of children — possessions of which a millionaire might have well been proud. His four stalwart boys were already able to help with the trap-net, and though the youngest could scarcely yet row ‘cross-handed,’ that is, handle two oars at once, all four were rated in the crew of the Saucy Lass when Uncle Jonas cleared in the spring of the year for the annual voyage ‘Northward Ho.’ His five lasses also, having come early in the sequence, had been invaluable, first in helping in the home and in the garden and with the rapidly following babies — while the eldest had twice sailed as cook in the schooner before the boys had been of an age to leave home. She was eighteen now, and although as bonnie a lass as the country-side could produce, with her clear rosy cheeks and the curly shock of black hair she had inherited from her mother, she was still living at home. There are no industries in the Creek at which young women can earn money to help out on expenses. When the men bring home a ‘full fare,’ however, they are able to earn quite a bit at washing, cleaning, and spreading the fish, and so helping to get it earlier to the market and secure a better price. This year even that occupation was denied them.

It is not unnatural that the families in these out-of-the-world places should cling together with even more than the tenacity we are accustomed to in the more crowded centres. For everything outside is like one vast unknown land, and ghosts of the dangers that lurk there unseen haunt the fancies of our home-loving fisher-folk. Indeed, who shall blame them for the sensitiveness of their imagination, seeing that the contempt of familiarity has so often proved the path to ruin among our own.

However, with Uncle Jonas’s failure to secure a ‘fare of fish,’ a crisis of unusual portent faced the Creek. If he had no fish under salt, there were certainly others in the same situation, and there could be little doubt that there would be more mouths than the supplies attainable before navigation closed could be expected to fill. No wonder that a certain amount of gloom lurked in this usually happy little cove.

Reluctantly, as Virginius of old, Uncle Jonas realized that only one course was open to him. His eldest girl, Suzanne, would have to go out to service. It was neither a pleasant nor an easy task finally to bring the matter to an issue, and it was only after many tearful farewells that at last, with her home-made seaman’s chest filled with all the little tokens of love her family and friends could ‘reach to,’ Suzanne finally embarked on the last schooner from the harbor that was going south. Thus she fared forth into the wide and unknown world beyond the dearly loved though rugged cluster of rocks that closes the harbor in, and that is not inappropriately known as Break-Heart Point.

The letters that reach Deep-Water Creek in winter are few and far between. True, twice during the long months of frozen water, toiling dogteams bring what we please to call the winter mails. But they are unsafe and uncertain at best. Many prefer to consider no news good news rather than risk anxious weeks because they have trusted to what has so often caused entirely unnecessary worry.

One letter, however, did come through. It brought the joyful news that Suzanne had found a home with a fine Christian planter, whose wife promised well to be a second mother to her, the maid that helps being as much one of the family as those she ministers to, in our unsophisticated country.

No letter was ever received from Suzanne again — only a brief line from the planter to tell Uncle Jonas the sad news that his own young wife had died during her first confinement just before Christmas, — consequently Suzanne had been thus out and about a good deal during the spring. Eventually she had sailed north for the summer, having shipped as cook on a Labrador schooner entirely against his will. She insisted that she had filled a similar position twice before.

I was cruising late that year in our mission hospital-boat with the most northern fleet of vessels. We had been threading our way through a veritable archipelago of uncharted islands, seeking a place to bring up for the night where we might be in the neighborhood of other vessels and so get the chance to do some medical or surgical work for the fishermen. Suddenly the watch reported a small schooner with flag at half-mast, and a six-oared seine skiff, with a spudger (or sign) up, crossing the ship’s run to intercept us.

It was only necessary to slow down and throw their bowman a line, soon to have the seine master on board. ‘Skipper’s compliments, Doctor,’ he said as he gripped my hand. ‘We’ve a girl very bad on board. We wants you to come alongside if so be you can manage it.’

We needed no second invitation: the opportunity to serve is the daily quest of our vessel. So while our new friends returned to relieve their skipper’s mind and prepare for our arrival, we moored for the night, and got ready such accessories as we deemed, from the information derived from our visitors, that the case called for.

The circumstances and details that among so many others impressed this case vividly on my memory do not bear retelling here. Ushered into the schooner’s small and dark after-cabin, which had been abandoned by the kindly men for her entire use, by the light of a tiny kerosene lamp, I found a young girl lying in the dark bunk built into the side of the ship. Her bloodless face, hollow eyes, parched lips, and fevered cheeks surrounded by a tangled mass of endless jet-black wavy hair, loomed up as soon as my eyes got accustomed to the semi-darkness. She was peering directly into my face with the hungry look of a wild animal at bay.

Her only companion, a child of fifteen, was crouching at the foot of the bunk, and adding to the pathos of the moment by her pitiful wailing, that seemed to beat time to the sounds of the lapping waves against the planking of the vessel’s quarter.

It was the old story — a trusting girl, a false lover, a betrayal, and a wild unreasoning flight to anywhere, anywhere that seemed to offer, however vaguely, still a temporary postponement of the inevitable harvest of shame and sorrow and suffering. Hither, hundreds of miles from home, this mere child had fled, hoping that possibly death, with its false offer of mercy through oblivion, might spare her seeing the grief of those who loved her. For well she knew the inevitable consequences when the sorrowful tale should reach the peaceful hamlet by the sea, from which she had but so recently set out.

This was no time for philosophy, however. Every minute was precious. For it was a case in which one had to work single-handed.

The baby had been born four days and was dead. Every member of the crew was a stranger to the girl, and anyhow, even with all the sympathy and kindliness so universal in our men of the sea, they had been far too fearful that they might do injury, to touch even a rag of the poor coverings that fairly littered the bed. For they had contributed generously of whatever they had, that might possibly be useful.

An hour later my patient, wrapped up like a mummy in clean linen and blankets, was tenderly carried on deck, and ferried over in the ship’s jolly boat to the mission steamer. The boat that served us at that time, was, indeed, so small that she allowed no special provision for patients. Aside from my own cabin and the saloon, there were no spare accommodations below decks. On the settle of the saloon, which was the more airy and convenient for moving about in, we built up a bunk, which should prevent at least the risk of a serious fall in a seaway. As soon as the first rays of dawn permitted we weighed anchor and ran for a Moravian mission station, where we hoped we could induce a married woman with some knowledge that might be useful to us in our dilemma, to come south as far as our most northern little hospital.

It was not until next day, however, that we anchored once more in the quiet waters of Okkak Bay under the great cliffs that flank the harbor. At this little station, for over one hundred years the self-sacrificing missionaries of the Moravian church have been doing their best to uplift the Eskimos of the bleak north coast. One might have supposed that a mother with children of her own would hesitate even in such a dilemma to venture forth in so small a vessel as ours. For the troubles of the sea are by no means confined to the sensitive organizations of those who live in civilization. But this mother looked upon the opportunity as only one more gift of Him whose service had called her from the homeland nearly twenty years before. So without hesitation, as if it were an ordinary daily duty, she set about preparing for the trip. Her husband agreed to accompany us, that he might see her home when her services should be no more needed.

The evening was by no means idle. To afford even a chance of saving my patient an operation became necessary, and the help from the station and the quiet of the harbor made it possible and wisest not to risk the delay that would be inevitable before we could reach hospital if the weather should be boisterous.

Things went well. Before night the patient’s pulse had fallen, and the watchers in turn reported a much better rest. When morning came the girl herself felt that she could face another stage of the journey. To run out to sea and make the necessary crossing and run in on a parallel of latitude to the hospital, would be our quickest way. But such a course with the wind on the land made the heaving and rolling dangerous. By keeping the inside runs, we got smooth water, but could not move during the darkness. A brilliant aurora favored us the next night and we pushed on until about midnight, when its sudden disappearance left us in such absolute darkness that we again were compelled to anchor at once.

The girl’s improving pulse and temperature and the steady diminution of physical symptoms that had caused us much grave anxiety during these first two days gave me a light heart. Every time I visited the patient I expected to recognize the corresponding assurance in her face that she was really on the road to recovery, but every time I looked in vain. It became such a puzzle to me at last that to cheer her I assured her that she would soon be up and about, so that when the mail steamer should come to hospital we should be able to send her back to her own home once more, as well as ever.

I had watched her carefully to see whether the thought of an early return to her loved ones would not act as a stimulus, an encouragement to bring into play the force of her will, which to my mind is a most important factor on the road to recovery. It needed no Sherlock Holmes to tell me I had failed. She just lay there looking at me, with that far-away look in her large black eyes, as of some terrified fawn that is too frightened to fly, though fearful of impending danger.

I thought perhaps the loving encouragement of the woman who had ventured on the trip solely that for the Christ’s sake she might be of service to a sister in distress, might help me in the dilemma. I explained to her exactly the need, and begged her to do her best to effect that which I seemed utterly unable to attain. Tenderly and prayerfully she tried, but only once more to meet with failure.

In the dusk, just before we weighed anchor, a trap-boat crew going to their nets caught sight of our riding light, and came aboard with a man who had a badly poisoned hand. They had not expected us to be going south so soon, and were delighted beyond measure to be able to obtain relief and dressings. When they learned that we were running south with a sick girl for hospital they at once inquired who it could be, and, much to my delight, claimed acquaintance and expressed a willingness to wait. I went down to prepare her for their visit, in the hope that they might be able to cheer her. I had hoped that so irresistible a reminder of the love of home might help her to cry, and so relieve the tension of soul that was killing her. But once again it was simply to count failure. I could find no way to get her consent to see them, and I had sorrowfully to convey that information to the kindly fellows on deck.

It was no longer possible to avoid recognizing the inevitable. I tried a final appeal to her to live for her parents’ sake; her only reply at once was, ‘I want to die, Doctor, I can never go home again.’

The end came sooner than I had anticipated. She began to fail so rapidly and so obviously that I decided to abandon the attempt to reach the hospital, and finally anchored in the still waters of a lovely inlet to await the last chapter of the tragedy.

We had not long to wait. It was a scene I shall never forget. Overhead the sun had all day long been pouring down out of a perfect sky. It spoke eloquently of life and the presumption of its permanence. Beneath, in their exquisite blue, the deep waters of the fjord were so still that the last thing in one’s mind was any realization that storm and danger lurked in them and on them.

The bold relief of the massive granite cliffs, flanked here and there with jet-black columns of out-cropping trap dykes, gave an entire sense of security and of endurance. A majestic iceberg, carried in by the tides, lay only a few hundred yards away. The deep greens and blues in the great crevasses that relieved its dazzling whiteness made one forget for the moment that even so immense a mass of matter was, like ourselves and all the rest, merely a thing of a day. Beyond that was silence — not even a single fishing craft lay within several miles of us. Nothing disturbed the sense of rest and security. The sun sank behind the hills. The tide was returning to the great ocean whence it had come. It seemed to me after all not an unfitting setting for the passing of a soul out on that tide, which is ever carrying on its bosom all humanity into the great unknown beyond, and which was bearing out with it the visitor from the Arctic which it had brought us in the morning, as we rendered the last service within our power to the poor girl whom we had so hoped to save.

Wrapped in a simple flag, covered with a monument of unhewn boulders, we left her on the lonely headland looking out over the great Atlantic, to wait till the day when the graves shall give up their dead. A simple wooden cross indicated the reason for this interruption in the journey. That emblem of our highest life was placed there to signify that that which is wrong in this life shall eventually be put right in that which lies beyond.

The cross piece bore the legend: —

SUZANNE

Jesus said, neither do I condemn thee!

In a letter to her parents we did our best to comfort them, as we did not think the tragic sequence of events which led to the poor girl’s death ought to be laid to her charge.

Two years passed away. Meantime many troubles were poured into my ears, and the memory of the pitiful little story of Suzanne had almost faded from my mind.

Once again we were on the Labrador coast. Guided by the twinkling decklights of fishing schooners ‘ putting away’ the day’s catch after dark, we had anchored among them for the night, in the roadstead near some high cliffs behind whose shelter they were working. We had announced our arrival with two blasts of our fog whistle — a signal known now to most of the fishermen. The usual crowd of visitors that resort to our little vessel for news, or medicine, or other reasons, had come and gone. All was silent on deck, and we were just ‘stowing away’ for the night, when the sound of yet another boat alongside brought me up again.

As I came out of the companion, a single white-haired fisherman was climbing over the side with his painter in his hand. He was evidently well on in years, though the feeble ray of our riding light scarcely did more than reveal the darkness.

‘Anything I can do for you, friend?’ I inquired, as he finished tying his boat fast and turned around as if uncertain what to do next.

‘No, not much. Thank ye all the same,’he replied. And then hesitatingly, ‘I jest wants to see t’ doctor.’

‘I’m the doctor, friend. What do you need from me?’

‘Be you t’ doctor what tended a girl ’bout two years agone on t’ schooner Shining Light, down north? The baby were born dead on board.’

‘If you mean a girl called Suzanne, yes: I tended her, and buried her.’

Without another word the old man reverently took off his well-worn sou’wester hat, and stood bareheaded before me. I remember in the weird setting of the night that his long white hair and gentle manner suggested the visit of some departed saint. I waited for him to speak, not knowing exactly what he wanted, though it was plain he had something of moment on his mind.

‘Do you’se think there be any hope us’ll see her again, Doctor?’ he ventured at length. ‘I’d dearly love to tell the old woman what you think.’

‘No, friend, I don’t think it, I know it. I’m certain of it, as certain as that I see you now before me. But better than that, she knew too before she left us.’

‘What makes you say that, Doctor? I’d give all I have, glad enough, to be able to think that.’

‘Well, friend, her face told me so. She was afraid to go back to DeepWater Creek, but you too would have known that she had no fear of entering the harbor to which you and I are also bound. The peace of God which the Master promised to give us was hers.’

The old man said no more. But I saw, even by the feeble glow of our swinging lamp, a bright sparkle on both of his rugged cheeks. He took my hand in both of his. The silent pressure, the wordless good-bye, will remain with me till my last call also comes.

As the sound of his retreating oars gradually disappeared into the night, I found myself still standing in the hatchway, thinking that surely for the humblest service done in His name, the Master gives, here and now, the reward which is above all else worth while.