From the News

Dated: April 26, 1918

Lacey Amy writes in the London Daily Mail:

It came to me only yesterday - the hardest blow of the war. A “returned postal packet,” and inside a letter of my own sent him several weeks ago. On its face was the soulless stamp “Deceased”.

Six years ago we met, John Shiwak and I, in the most detached part of the Empire - the hyperborean places were [sic] icebergs are born, where seal grunt along the shores, where cod run blindly into the nets of adventurous fishermen gone north in a midsummer eight weeks of perilous, comfortless, uncertain industry.

Far “down” the desolate coast of Labrador, a thousand miles north of my Newfoundland starting point, I came on him in a trifling settlement that hugged, shivering and unsteady, about a long white building, a trading post of the Hudson's Bay Company - the merest collection of windowless boards that housed human beings only in the less harrowing summertime.

For John Shiwak was an Eskimo.

Just one week I knew him and then we separated never to meet again. But in that week I came to know him better than from a year's acquaintance with less simple souls, and his record to his glorious end proves how well I did know him.

There, with the bitterness of ten months of the year drives the two straggling thousand human beings of half as many miles of coast-line to the less grim, less bleak interior, John Shiwak had awakened to the bigness of life. He had taught himself to read and write. Every winter he trailed the hunters lonely round back within sound of the Grand Falls, which only a score have seen - often alone for months in weather that never emerged from zero.

And every summer, when the ice broke in June, there came out to me in Canada his winters diary, written wearily by the light of candle, hemmed in by a hundred miles of fathomless, manless snow. And no fiction of fact of skilled writer spoke so from the heart. He was a natural poet, a natural artist, a natural narrator. In a thumb-nail dash of words he carried one straight into the clutch of the soundless Arctic.

And then came war. And even to that newsless, comfortless coast it carried its message of Empire. John wrote me that he would be a “soljer”. I dismissed it as one of his many vain ambitions against which his race would raise an impossible barrier. And months later came his note from Scotland, where he was in training.

I followed him to England, but before we could meet he was in France. When last summer, he obtained sudden leave, I was in Devon. A simple note of regret rests now like a tear on my heart.

But I have heard from him every week. He was never at home in his new career: something about it he did not quite understand. Laterally the loneliness of the life bleeds from his lines. For he made no friends, in his silent, waiting way. His hunting companion was killed, and the great bereavement of it was like a strong man's sob. He was cold out there, even he, the Labrador hunter. But the heavy cardigan and gloves I sent did not reach him in time.

In his last letter was a great longing for home - his Eskimo father whom he had left at 10 years to carve his own fortune, his two dusky sisters who were to him like creatures from an angel world, the doctor from whom he worked in Labrador in the summer time, his old hunter friends. “There will be no letters from them until the ice breaks again.” he moaned. But the ice of a new world had broken for John.

He had earned his long rest. Out there in lonesome Sniper's Land he lay, day after day; and the cunning that made him a hunter of fox, and marten, and otter and bear, and wolf brought to him better game.

And all he ever asked was “When will the war be over?” Only then would he return to his huskies and traps where few men dare a life of ice for a living almost as cold.

John Shiwak - Eskimo - Patriot.